Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Grunkle Ford! Do you have any sick ink like Grunkle Stan?”

Ford chuckled, looking up from where he was mending his spare pair of broken glasses (Mabel had borrowed them the week prior for Pig Lawyer and…yeah. He didn’t want to think about it too hard). Mabel was working on her newest creation: an updated scrapbook with pictures she’d found around the cabin to try and jog Stan’s memory even more than just their stories could.

“Am I to presume that ‘sick’ in this context means something good?”

“Yeah!” Mabel nodded enthusiastically, sending a spray of glitter and hair clips into the air as she did. Good thing Ford was planning on vacuuming today anyways. “He has a few pretty cool ones. Though he doesn’t talk about them much. Or at least, he didn’t. Maybe now the memories about them are happier!”

Ford hummed. He hadn’t known that Stanley had tattoos, but then again, it had been so many years since he had shared a bedroom with his twin, let alone seen him without a shirt or pants. Now that he thought about it, he could almost see some ink peeking out from behind Stanley’s wifebeaters when he wore them, though he so rarely was seen off of the recliner when he was wearing them that he couldn’t be sure.

“To answer you, I do have tattoos, but none that you can see with human eyes.” Though now that he thought about it, he could probably invent a light that could translate the audio wave tattoo humming underneath his forearm into something visible to humans in this dimension. He hummed quietly to himself and made a mental note to work on it when he had time, especially when Mabel let out a long disappointed noise upon learning that she couldn’t ogle his tattoos the way she could Stan’s.

That should have been that, but Ford found himself curious about Stan’s tattoos. A little because he was curious if Stan remembered what they all meant or if those were more memories waiting to be unlocked, and a little because he seemed to hoard every new fact he learned about his twin brother like it was something precious, like a dragon hoarded gold. He drank in every new facet of Stan’s history, especially the ones that he would have known if he and Stan had been in each other’s lives for the past forty years. Things he was supposed to know about his twin brother.

So Ford brought it up the only way he knew how: with very little finesse, and no subtlety whatsoever.

“Oh, uh, Sixer,” Stanley’s laugh was stiff at Ford’s casual request to see his tattoo, and he sidestepped Ford’s hands with a deftness Ford hadn’t known he had. “I don’t really think we need to–”

“Nonsense! I’m supposed to know all of your embarrassing choices!” Ford chuckled, twisting to get a look at the tattoo with a flick of Stan’s shirt sleeve, and that time Stan didn’t move quickly enough and Ford was able to catch a glimpse at the entire thing.

He immediately let go of the fabric as if it had burned him, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Stanley’s laugh was wooden. Hollow. Something that stretched between them like a fraying tether.

“Heh. Yeah, quite the ink, huh? Heh. Always thought about getting laser removal, you know what they say about making bad choices when you’re younger…” Stan trailed off, face contorting from its forced relaxed to concern. “Uh, Ford? You okay? You look a little pale.”

“Am I okay?” Ford pushed a hand through his hair, the other one still firmly clamped over his mouth. He didn’t know if he was about to vomit or scream, but either one wouldn't have been very conducive. “The kids,” he finally choked out, “told me it was a tattoo.”

“Yeah, Sixer. That’s basically what it is. A faded old tattoo.”

“It’s a fucking brand, Stanley!” Ford clapped his hand back over his mouth, retching softly. Nothing came out, but the horror of it all was washing over him in a torrent of emotions. “You can’t…you can’t just-! I, oh god.” Ford retched again, a little more violently, and suddenly he was being held up by his arms, being led to the couch. He could hear murmuring around him but the buzzing in his head was too loud to understand it.

Stan’s voice was saying something then, close to him, and he was able to tune in through sheer force of will. “Mind breathing with me? You gotta take some breaths, Ford. You’re hyperventilating.”

Ford sucked in a breath around another gag, feeling better for a second before remembering that his brother had been burned so badly that the memory of their fight was seared into his skin forever. Ford had encountered many permanent injuries and marks while traveling the multiverse, but this was something that he had caused to the person who he wasn’t supposed to hurt, ever. This was his brother, who had been dragged through the mud, greeted with a brand instead of a brotherly hug, and then had spent thirty years of his life trying to bring the cause of said brand back into his life. “You alright?”

When Ford managed to catch his breath and the darkness creeping around the corners of his vision faded away, he noticed that Stan had pressed himself flush against Ford, linking their hands. Ford’s gaze traveled from their twined fingers up Stan’s arm, eyes finally stopping on the edge of the brand, which was barely visible from under the tank. “I should be the one asking if you’re alright.” His voice was shaky and hoarse.

“Of course I am. It was decades ago.”

Ford twisted, leaving their linked hands be but lifting his other one to the mark, going slowly to allow Stan to pull away. As usual, his brother sat patiently, much too tolerant of whatever Ford was focused on. He could remember countless times when Stan would be holding a new sandcrab or had pointed out an interesting freckle and had sat with an uncharacteristic stillness while Ford poked and prodded at it, an exasperated but tolerant grin on his face as he waited for the verdict.

Ford used two fingers to hold the strap of the tank top back, the other four softly brushing across the scorched skin. It was puckered and twisted from where it had healed badly, the lines of the brand soaking into each other. It could have been a faded tattoo if not for the raised scarring that marred the skin beneath and around it. “It had to have been infected to scar this extensively,” he murmured.

Stan shrugged, taking Ford’s hand along with the motion. “Wasn’t my main concern at the time.” Of course not. Because he had been worried about getting Ford back. “Besides, I can’t remember it real well.”

“Probably for the best.” Whether it was the memory gun or just too lost to time, he would thank the universe for little miracles. “I’m…I’m so sorry, Stanley. This was my fault. God, this was my fault.”

A shrug from Stan jostled both of them. “I wasn’t completely blameless. It happens. Besides, the kids think it’s cool.”

Ford smiled a little manically. “You know, I always thought that if one of us got a tattoo, the other would too. So that we could still be identical.”

It was a great joke between them, mostly because – despite popular opinion – he and Stan weren’t identical twins. They looked a hell of a lot like each other, but Ford’s extra finger and cleft chin spoke to their differences more than their similarities. They hadn’t been able to fool anyone by their switching since they were really young, their differences only becoming more pronounced as they aged.

Stan, kinder than he had to be, laughed at the long-running joke, shifting so that Ford finally let go of his top. Ford let his hand fall back to his lap, and Stan squeezed his trapped hand. “I don’t think we’ll be fooling anyone, Sixer.”

Unlike the first few times when Stan used the old nickname, Ford found himself unreactive. He couldn’t even remember why it used to set him off so badly – Stan sounded nothing like Bill when he said it. Stan’s tone was full of so much warmth you could bake cookies within that one word, their familiar smell comforting.

Ford bumped his shoulder against Stan’s. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You managed it for quite some time.” There was a small furrow in Stan’s brow at that, a sign that he was trying to remember something, and Ford just let his head fall onto Stan’s shoulder as his brother worked through the gap, ready to answer any questions or listen. He gripped tight to Stan’s hand. How he spent so long forgetting the way it felt in his, he would never know.

It fit perfectly.

Chapter Text

It's been a surprisingly peaceful end to a high-energy day, and Ford is grateful for the moment of tranquility. Not too long ago, they finished wrestling with a giant sea creature with both tentacles and legs that seemed overly fond of suckling on their mast. A fascinating behavior for a species that otherwise spends its time in the deep ocean? Yes. A major inconvenience when it came to trying to keep their boat upright and in one piece? Definitely.

It had taken a lot of coaxing, a bit of salt, and about three days' worth of Stan's fresh catches to lure the beast down, and afterwards they had spent a few hours making patch repairs to the things that had broken during the hug attack. But it was likely going to be dark soon, so once they finished the most pressing repairs, they decided to decompress for the rest of the night, leaving the deck a little more cluttered than usual but still functional. Ford is sitting near the helm, working on their logbook entry for the day, and Stan is slumped in his fold-out fishing chair to the side, rod and line tied to the rails as he snores away. Ford sends him a fond look and hurries to finish his logbook entry so he can nudge his brother awake and convince him that the bed would be a more comfortable sleeping spot.

Ford's a little distracted with a doodle of the creature in the margins of the book when he hears a loud yelp from the side of the boat, and he shoots upwards, logbook discarded into his chair. Stan. He rounds the helm and hurries towards where his brother's empty chair is, and sees Stan thrashing on the ground next to the chair, tangled in one of their nets that had come untied during the struggle today and they had left on deck for later.

It's already much darker out than Ford remembers it being, but the little lights along the side of the boat illuminate an idea of what happened: Stan likely fell out of his chair and into the net. But it doesn't explain why he's still struggling with the net.

"Stan," Ford says, wishing he had a flashlight to see better. "Are you alright?"

His blood freezes when Stan honest-to-god whimpers, and he's quick to kneel down and find his brother's arm. "Stan, what's wrong?"

"Get off!" Stan's words are slightly slurred and much too soft for how intense his tone is, and Ford recoils as if burned.

"Stanley, wh--"

"Get off! Get 'em off! Not- no, I don't! No!"

 "Stanley," Ford whispers, looking around for something that might help. Would Stanley's fishing supplies have a flashlight in them? He turns to the chair and digs through the tackle box to no avail, and promptly abandons the effort when Stan cries out again, his thrashing increasing.

"Come on," Ford grabs ahold of the net and begins to drag Stan and the mess of netting towards the nearest light, one of the ones near the doorway to the cabin. He's not sure if Stan is hurt, so he's careful as he does it, but he goes as fast as he can, panic clouding his vision. The movement obviously upsets him, because his movements grow more aggressive.

"Let me go!" He yells, and it's then that Ford finally realizes that he's having some sort of flashback episode. They don't happen often, but Stan will get that distant look in his eyes when he's remembering something, and once in a while the vacant look will take a sharp edge to it as he relives a memory. They're usually bad ones, memories that leave him panting for breath or white-faced and terrified, but sometimes they're quiet and easily breathed through, Stan blinking out of them with a wistful expression on his face.

This one is obviously the former.

"Please, Stanley, let me get this off of you," Ford tugs at the netting, but Stan is somewhere else, somewhere more violent, and his limbs are being thrown every which way as he fights an invisible attacker and howls into the darkness of the ocean. Ford backs up, helpless.

"I don't belong here, please, please let me out! Please, stop, please! I won't! I won't, I promise, please!" 

Ford clamps a hand over his mouth, suppressing his own shout of frustration at how useless he feels. Dammit! At the moment, it doesn't look like the netting is caught anywhere where it can cut off circulation or cause further harm, so he just chews his lip and thinks through his options as he word vomits platitudes at his brother, hoping he might hear them and wake up from the memory. He can forcefully try to wake Stan, likely with a cup of water to the face, or more yelling. Or he can wait it out, which feels worse than doing something unsavory. He can hold Stan down best he can and remove the netting, though he doesn't think that will go over well. Another minute and a half of Stan crying out and rolling around has him abruptly turning into the cabin for a cup of water. Screw waiting, Stan is in pain now.

Ford returns to the deck with two cups of water, and apologizes silently to Stanley before splashing it into his face. Stan splutters, blinking rapidly as he takes in his surroundings. Ford can see the confusion on his face as he wars with the past and present, looking here and there every other blink. He takes advantage of the momentary lapse, kneeling quickly so that he's on the same level as his brother.

"Stanley, are you with me? It's Ford. We're on a boat in the Pacific, you're sixty-seven, you're safe," Ford says, as slowly and clearly as he can. 

Stan looks at him and blinks a few more times, though it's a comfort that he can actually see Ford now. 

"This's Stan'war?" He slurs out, eyes wandering to their surroundings, and Ford nods frantically.

"Yes. Yes, Stanley, we're on the Stan o' War II, and you just had some sort of flashback. Are you alright? Would you like some water?" He holds out the second, untouched glass. Stanley takes it carefully, sipping it with trembling lips and hands.

"Would you like to go into the cabin?" Ford asks, and at Stanley's exhausted nod he helps his brother to his feet, leaving the empty water glass for now and assisting as they shuffle into the cabin and out of the chilly night air. Stan is damp now from the thrown water and his own sweat, and his breathing is heavy against Ford's side. It's all much better than his hoarse, desperate screams.

“Let’s settle you here for now, that okay?” Stanley nods numbly again as Ford leads him into a chair in their tiny kitchenette, only seeming half-there, and Ford swallows another wave of panic. Not for the first time, he wishes there was someone else on this damn boat with them. He feels so ill-equipped for all of this: Stan’s episodes, the silence afterwards, the comfort that he is so terrible at providing afterwards. But at the same time, he’s grateful it’s only the two of them. They’ve never appreciated having anyone else encroaching on what’s theirs, and this moment belongs to no one but the two of them. The Pines boys were always selfish in that way, and age hasn’t changed that. 

Ford busies himself with grabbing Stan a fresh shirt, helping his brother silently change into it. He balls up the wet shirt and sets it down on the counter next to where he stands, unsure of how to talk to Stan about what just happened. “Are you okay?” He asks, and Stan swallows, nodding again. “Do you mind if I go clean up out there? I’ll be right back.” Stan shrugs, and Ford takes that as permission. “I’ll be right back.” 

It’s quick work, reeling in Stan’s lines and setting them aside, closing up his tackle box and folding the chair into its flat state before storing everything near the helm. He pushes the net closer to the ship wall, making a mental note to return to it tomorrow. Then he stoops to grab the abandoned water cup. He gazes out at the ocean, procrastinating, for less than a minute before his tether to Stanley pulls him back in, and he hurries to his twin, afraid of leaving him alone for too long. The sea is quiet, in that strangely deafening way it has. He hopes it stays that way for the rest of the night. 

Stanley could be a wax statue for all that he’s moved since Ford left, except the water cup is empty. Ford takes it and refills it, then fills the one from the deck for himself. He sets them both on the table and sits, ready to wait this out as long as it takes. He lasts about three minutes in silence before he pulls the logbook back out and scratches a few words and times into it. The entries are almost complete, at this point Ford just needs to get the wind direction and speed from their instruments and- “Ford?” His head snaps up, all thoughts of the logbook gone. He closes the book and slides it to the side, his entire focus on Stanley. He still looks slightly far away, his gaze not meeting Ford’s. 

“Yes, Stanley?”

"Did-? Did I get tangled in that net?" Stan frowns as he tries to remember. At Ford's nod, he huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, might be a groan. "Yeah. Restraints aren't my strong suit."

“Are they anyone’s?” Ford chuckles a little, and Stan smiles a bit at that. 

He leans back in the chair, not quite tilting it on two legs but far enough that he can stare at the ceiling. "I did a jolt in a facility, back somewhere in my early twenties."

"Stan…" You don't have to, Ford starts, but can't bring himself to finish. He knows so little of Stan's life after the age of 17 and before 60, and he selfishly wants as much information as he can get.

It doesn't seem to matter this time, because Stanley keeps going, with or without encouragement. "They called it an institution, though I was so drugged out of my mind that I don't remember the name. Don't really remember the state, either. Or maybe it's the memory loss." He laughs, a terribly self-conscious sound, and Ford stops himself from rounding the table and wrapping him in a hug. Stan will reach out if he wants physical touch: he usually doesn't when he's trying to remember. He once said it gets in the way of his memories, like being split between the present and the past. 

“Funny, how I was in there for drug use. They did the same thing to me, just with the drugs that they decided were good. It kept me out of jail. But…” He shakes his head. “I’d rather have done the time.”

“Stanley, oh my god. And they…they kept you restrained?” 

Stan snorts, the sound out of place in the sincerity of their conversation. “They restrained anyone who wasn’t their idea of a perfect patient. I don’t think they knew what else to do with us. Strapped us to beds when we kept running around, to chairs when we wouldn’t take our meds, to those terrible jackets when we moved around too much.”

“How long were you there?” Ford’s voice is hushed. He feels like an intruder, but he greedily laps up every single fact. 

“Two months? Three? It wasn’t the most…straightfoward time of my life.” 

“Stan.” 

Stanley finally looks at him, a little exasperated smile on his face. “Ford.” The smile grows when he sees whatever expression is on Ford’s face. “Stop lookin’ at me like that. It was a long time ago. Maybe a few years after I left Glass Shard.” 

“A year!? You were a child, and they thought that the best plan was to put you in a mental institution?” 

“I was almost twenty. An adult.”

“A child!” 

Stan shrugs. “A teenager, but technically an adult. I was almost twenty, and I was so coked up I could hardly see straight. They were well within their rights to throw me in a cell for the shit I was up to. Petty theft, operating vehicles under the influence, all that shit. But they decided that I was a kid and sent me to rehab instead. Except their idea of rehab in Oklahoma was an asylum.” 

Ford wets his lips. “So. When you were saying, uh, that you didn’t belong there…?” 

Stan blinks, abruptly spacing out again, before he inhales sharply. “Yeah. I was…pretty out of it. Thought they had stolen me and were keeping me. Not the brightest spot in my past.”

He shakes his head, as if banishing the memory. “”But it’s over. Nothing to think about anymore. It was a long time ago.” 

“Stanley.” 

The scraping of the chair legs on the floor is a sound with surprising finality. “Stanford.” 

Ford sights. “Alright. But I’m always here, you know? If you need to talk about it.”

“Yeah, Sixer.” His back is to Ford, now, but Ford can hear the emotion in his words. “I know.”

“And thank you. For trusting me with your memories.”

“Yeah.” 

Chapter Text

A gun to the face is supposed to make you pause. It's supposed to give you a spike of panic and adrenaline, maybe fear, maybe anger. Your life might momentarily flash before your eyes. Maybe you'd send a prayer up to someone, if that was your sort of thing.

For Stan, none of these things happen. Instead, a gun in his face feels like nothing but relief.

“Get the fuck outta here,” the guy tilts both his head and the gun towards the door of the motel room, and Stan doesn't have to be asked twice. He gathers his things in two quick, jerking motions, then is out the door. The guy he had been sharing the room with whimpers as Stan leaves him alone with the gun wielder, but Stan doesn't have it in him to feel pity. He doesn't have it in him to feel much of anything anymore.

The cash in his pants pocket is plenty to get him a cab back to the apartment, but he sees no reason to blow it on unnecessary purchases when he can just as easily walk there. Besides, he now has an unexpectedly free night. Might as well enjoy it.

The walk is familiar, though there are more street lights out than he’s used to. Does no one call that in these days anymore? Where the hell are the linemen? At least the night is mild, much warmer than it should be for November.

“Stan?”

Who the fuck is calling him that name?

He whirls around, one fist raised and the other clutching his pocket in case it’s someone trying to rob him, and sees an old man. A john. “I’m off the clock,” he says. “Go bother someone else.”

“Stanley, it’s me,” the man takes a step towards him, and Stan jerks back.

“I mean it! Stay the fuck away. I’m sure there are plenty of other chickens for you to pick up. How the hell do you know my name, anyways?”

“Stanley, it’s me, it’s Ford.” The man keeps speaking, but Stan can only feel panic. What the fuck is this guy talking about? Is Stan hallucinating? He doesn’t think he’s taken many drugs tonight, just a pill or two from his client to loosen up. He sticks his hand into his pocket to check what drugs he still might have on him, and feels his stomach drop as he realizes it’s empty, no bags or cash at all.

He takes a few more steps away from the strange man, breathing getting harder as he sticks his hands in his front and back pants pockets, then his sweater. He finds a wallet, but there are no baggies in there either. “Where the fuck are they?” He looks around the ground, in case they slipped out, but he can’t see anything.

“Where’s who?”

“Not who!” He does a spin, but it doesn’t help. The dark streets waver in and out as he blinks, going from asphalt to gravel back to asphalt. What the fuck is wrong with him? Did he really take all the drugs on him? No wonder he’s hallucinating.

“Stanley, you’re not hallucinating. You’re in Oregon. Gravity Falls. With me, your brother. Please, Stan. Count your fingers. Count mine. Take my hand.”

Stan blinks a few more times, staring down at his wrinkled hands. Wrinkled…hands.

He looks up to see Ford standing with his shoulders hunched, hands outstretched. They’re on one of the backroads that leads to the Mystery Shack. “Ford?” The moon gives a lot of light, illuminating the worry on his brother’s face. “Why are we outside?”

The relief in Ford’s expression is palpable. “You’re back,” he breathes out.

Stan nods, trying to remember the last thing they were doing. It’s July, warm and late. Dinner at the diner, and then a movie… “Where are the kids?” He asks, panic lacing his voice for a whole different reason.

“They’re still at the theater. The movie isn’t over. I followed you when you didn’t come back from the bathroom, and you had already wandered outside.”

He sighs in relief. “Good.” They don’t need to see this. Their Grunkle when he loses his mind.

“It’s alright, Stanley. You know that, right? You’re still regaining an entire life's worth of memories. Lapses are normal. Or at least, McGucket seems to think they are.”

Ford is too nice to him. He nods anyways, because he doesn’t want to start an argument or feel any more of Ford’s pity than he needs to. “Yeah. Just…didn’t want them to see all of this. I thought…”

“You thought that I was trying to solicit you.” Ford’s voice is carefully even, and so is his expression. Crafted to be perfectly judgement free. Stan chuckles a little, though the sound is bitter.

“Yeah.” He takes his hands out of his pockets. “I was twenty. I…took work where I could find it.” He snorts. “I was so coked out it didn’t matter to me. At least I told myself it didn’t.”

“Is that what you were looking for?” Ford asks gently.

“My stash? Yeah. I was worried that I took it all and was hallucinating you.”

Ford smiles, but Stan can see how much his words are bothering his brother. Ford has the tendency to feel guilt for things that are long in the past. Things Stan has long forgiven himself and anyone else for. How can he still be mad about them when he has such a beautiful life now? One that he only dreamed could be possible?

“Do you want to finish the movie? Or I can just have Soos bring them home. I left the car keys with him just in case.”

Stan ponders it for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t even remember what movie we were watching.”

“Dinosaurs,” Ford answers sagely, and Stan laughs.

“We’re already a quarter of the way home. Mind finishing the walk with me? It’s what I was trying to do in the memory, anyhow. And hey, have I ever told you about the time I lost an arm-wrestling competition during a drag show and had to lipsynch onstage as a punishment?”

“Oh, this I have to hear.”

Chapter Text

Stan runs his fingers along the pictures on the page, a frown on his face. It's a quiet night between them on the Stan o’ War II, and Ford decided to pull out his old collection of pictures, all carefully arranged in a scrapbook. Mabel had gifted it to him after their first trip down the pacific coast, apparently gathered from Shermie's old collection from Ma. Stan's currently paused on a page that has pictures from when Stan and Ford were young, pictures that are few and far between due to their parents’ frugality.

“What is it?” Ford asks when Stan doesn't move on, a crinkle of consternation still between his eyebrows.

“Why am I not wearing my glasses in any of these?” Stan turns the page, flipping through their old pictures. Ford isn’t sure what Stan means. He almost never wore glasses when they were kids, except for when the two of them were pretending to be the other. He stands and rounds the table, leaning over Stan to see the scrapbook for himself.

“You didn’t have glasses when we were kids. You got them sometime between the portal and Bill.”

Stan shakes his head slowly. “No, that doesn’t really make sense. I’ve always had bad eyes.”

Ford laughs a little. “Stan, that’s me. I’ve had bad eyes. You had perfect vision.” But as he says it, Stan turns the page again and there’s a picture of the two of them, no older than ten, and they both have glasses on. He stops Stan’s hand from turning the page again, leaning in. He slides the picture out of the protective plastic covering, turning it over. In their mother’s careful cursive is written: “Stanley and Stanford in their new glasses. They take after their father. 3/4/64.”

Ford and Stan look at the words together for a moment before Ford blinks down at his brother. “You…you really needed glasses throughout our childhood?”

Stan nods a little haltingly. “I remember needing them. The board was always hard to see.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything!?” Ford doesn’t mean to shout, but he’s kind of freaking out a little.

Stan shrugs. “I was always fine. I learned how to deal with it.”

“Were you fine!? Obviously you couldn’t see the chalkboard. What about our worksheets? Or people’s faces? Oh my god, is that why you always called people the wrong name?”

Stan shrugs. “Dunno, can’t remember.”

Ford leans back, staring at the ceiling for a moment as he collects himself. “Why didn’t you wear your glasses?”

“Think I broke ‘em. Pa didn’t want to replace them, so I never did. And I couldn’t really afford ‘em on the road, so I didn't get ‘em.”

“Pa didn’t want…of course he didn’t.” The laugh that bursts from Ford’s mouth is slightly hysterical. “What the fuck was wrong with him? Not even giving a child glasses?”

“That’s a bit unfair. He was right that I wasn’t very careful with the things they-”

“That doesn’t matter!” Ford interrupts, rather loudly. “That shouldn’t matter at all! You were a kid, and he bought me replacement glasses when I needed them!”

Stan nods. “Right, cuz you were the one who was going to go to college. You need to be able to see for that.”

Ford waves his arms in the air, frustrated and nowhere to channel it. “It’s not about need! You should have been able to have glasses no matter what! It’s messed up that he refused to get them for you!”

Stan is quiet. “I guess so.”

This isn’t going anywhere. “Think about it like this. What if Dipper needed glasses?”

Stan frowns. “Then he’d get some.”

“Right,” Ford nods, “his parents would buy him some. But what if they refused to?”

“But he needs them,” Stan argues. “Why wouldn’t they get him glasses?”

Ford pauses. “Exactly.”

“No,” Stan argues, “this is Dipper we’re talking about.”

“And why were you any less worthy of being able to see?” Ford might as well have slapped his brother across the face for the look he gets for that question. “You were younger than he is.”

“But Dipper…he needs them for reading, and school.”

“So did you.”

“Dipper's smarter than I ever was. And being able to see is something he needs to be able to do well in school.”

“How do you think you might have done in school yourself if you had been able to see better?”

At that, Stan pauses for a moment, and Ford takes the opportunity to plow ahead.

“Stan, you taught yourself physics. Calculus. Engineering. All by yourself, all in the span of a few decades alongside holding a fulltime job. I can promise you that school wouldn't have been impossible if you had been given the basic tools, such as having the ability to see. You're a visual learner. Imagine how easy math would have been if you could see the teacher walk you through an example problem.” He places a hand on Stan's shoulder. “You were just as deserving. You still are.”

“Oh. Oh,” Stan says, and a tear rolls down his cheek before he can catch it, though he's quick to make sure no others follow suit.

Ford carefully doesn't comment on it, just walks over to the counter, returns with a coffee pot, and refills Stan's mug, placing his hand back on Stan's shoulder as he stands next to his chair.

“I'm sorry Pa and Ma never treated you like they should have.”

“Ma was fine. It was fine. I had a good childhood.”

Ford snorts, which makes Stan laugh a little too. Ford knows what Stan is talking about, though. He can see the long days on the beach searching for shells and crouching in caves and trading pennies for saltwater taffy at the docks like it was only a few years ago. He knows that that's what Stan sees, too. But Ford also sees the parent teacher conferences where Ma only went to his and not Stan's and Pa's unbalanced punishments and Crampelter's jeers that cut deeper than a 12-year-old's words should have.

“We, objectively, did not have a good childhood. You especially,” Ford says between chuckles, and Stan shrugs good-naturedly.

“You might have me there. You know, now that I think about it…. I remember after you were sucked into the portal I held your glasses up, and I…well, I missed you. So I stood in front of the mirror and put them on to try and see you.”

He shrugs again, more self-depracating this time. His tone is terrifyingly honest, another trait that Ford envies him for. If Ford ever tried to do the same, it probably wouldn't sound half as sincere. “And there you were. And I could really see you, too. So I didn't take ‘em off.”

“Same prescription?”

Stan grins. “Same prescription.”

His crooked smile looks exactly as Ford has always remembered it, so like Stan used to do to him, Ford pulls Stan into him by hooking his elbow around his brother's neck into a comfortable one-armed hug. He rests his chin on Stan's head, his chest to Stan's back.

He's glad for the things that have changed, glad for the proof of their growth. But still, he's also glad for the things that are the same, like the way that he and Stan still fit together as they always have.