Chapter Text
Stan had struggled with depression since he was a teenager, though in 1960-something depression was called ‘laziness’. Never one to appear weak, he had forced himself out of bed when the weight in his head and heart made it seem impossible. He brushed off all of Ford’s concerns about him because he thought he just needed to try harder to be happy.
He was trying so hard to be happy he had no energy left to try in school.
Stan didn’t see a future for himself outside of travelling the world with Ford. And honestly? That was all he needed.
So when Ford found a new dream, one that he could accomplish without Stan, he panicked. He had no happiness without Ford, no reason to keep going without Ford.
After he got kicked out, his reason to get out of bed became making millions. He threw himself into one-night stands, drinking, drugs, adrenaline-pumping heists, and shady deals. He chased the thrill because when it was gone, that hollow emptiness reappeared, along with the voice that had been there since he was small and dubbed ‘the stupid twin’.
Everyone would be better off if you’d never been born.
Protecting Ford from bullies was the only worthwhile thing you ever did.
You destroyed his hopes and dreams all because you couldn’t try harder to be happy, and you thought he would defend you?
Go jump off a fucking cliff.
One night in grade 11, while Ford was at an after-school club, he hadn’t been able to take the relentless bullying of his own brain anymore. The thoughts were too loud.
In an act of desperation, he had stumbled out of his bunk, grabbed the pocketknife on the ground, yanked his shirt up, and dragged it across the side of his stomach.
The peace that washed over him was so relieving he’d started silently sobbing on the ground, his face split in a wide, relieved smile. Finally, he’d found a way to force himself to be okay. And it had the dual purpose of punishing himself for being such a waste of space!
He couldn’t always keep a shirt on, though, so over the course of the next 41 years, he only did it when the thoughts got far too overwhelming.
He always carried a pocketknife with him. When he woke up in his car and didn’t see the point in carrying on his worthless life, he cut.
Make millions, make something of yourself, prove you never needed anyone.
When he woke up with nerd notes scattered all around and a giant hunk of metal he had no clue how to operate staring at him, and he felt crushed by the immense amount of guilt and fear plaguing him, he cut.
Get him back.
You need to save him.
Do the first worthwhile thing in your life.
When Gideon had the shack, his 30 years of work, his only hope for getting his brother out of that hellhole, and the kids had to go home, he cut.
Keep going, there has to be a way to get it back.
Keep going, for the kids.
Keep going, for Ford.
Keep going, for Soos.
Keep going, for Wendy.
Keep going.
When Ford came back, he surprisingly didn’t feel that hollow emptiness or crushing despair like normal. His anger outweighed his sadness, fueling his desire to keep going instead. Now that he knew Ford was safe, his happiness felt… real.
He’d spent 40 years convincing himself he didn’t need Ford, so Ford’s rejection stung, but didn’t change much. Besides, back then he hadn’t had anyone except Ford. Now he had the kids, Soos, and even that gremlin Wendy. The emptiness was still there, as ever-present as the bottomless pit, but his anger seemed to fill most of it up, which left room for his endless love to float on top.
And now, Ford had forgiven him, and apologized for his own mistakes and how he’d hurt Stan. Ford had offered to reignite their childhood dream, proof that despite gaining other interests and goals, Ford had wanted to travel with him all along. The town saw him as a hero, and he had done something truly worthwhile; protecting his weird mosaic of a family. And after 40 years, Stan could finally retire and leave the Mystery Shack in the capable(ish) hands of Soos. His happiness was real. At least, when his adrenaline was pumping. Or when he was talking to someone he loved. So then…
Why am I still not happy when I’m alone?
Stan grunted in frustration on the deck of the Stan O’ War II, running a hand through his messy gray hair before remembering he was trying to break Ford of that habit, he couldn’t be out here doing it too. So he switched to rubbing his face, shoving his glasses up slightly as he rubbed his tired eyes.
The stars were beautiful, the salty spray pleasantly cool, and he’d had a lovely call with Dipper and Mabel a few hours prior. He’d been brimming with joy.
And then Ford had retreated into his journals, falling asleep on the pages. Stan had chuckled and set down the net he’d been mending, grabbed a sparkly blanket decorated with smiling fish (courtesy of Mabel) and draped it over his snoring brother, gently removing his glasses so he didn’t wake up with a headache.
He had wanted to bask in the contentment a bit more, so he’d meandered out onto the deck, taking a deep, cheerful breath.
But as he let his thoughts do their thing, the bottomless pit had become more and more noticeable, and he’d slumped further and further over the rail, until he was where he was now. Head in his hands, utterly hopeless.
Just feel better.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
Think about Dipper, how brave and spunky he is.
How much you hurt him over the summer with your relentless teasing, pretty sure I had him questioning if I even loved him.
He’d be better off if I didn’t- NO, he wouldn’t.
Think about Mabel, how creative and kind she is.
I made her choose between betraying her brother and trusting me, and she chose me. I don’t deserve that, I don’t deserve her, I’ll just keep hurting her.
I wreck everything I touch.
What a loser, a waste of space, a pointless wreck I am.
The thoughts went on and on, his breathing got shallower until he was hardly taking in any air.
A realisation struck him, and he knew what he had to do. The only thing that would make him normal and functional. That would make him the truly happy man he needed to be, that he wanted to be.
He patted his pockets, before realizing he’d left his knife next to the net he’d been mending. He turned on his heel and grabbed the handle, slightly desperate for the relief he knew he’d soon feel. He opened the door as quietly as he could, opting to leave it open for the few seconds it took him to stride to the table, grab his knife, and hurry back out onto the deck.
He was so focused on his mission he didn’t notice the empty desk, or the light flicked on under the bathroom door. He didn’t hear the bathroom door open or see Ford’s eyes catch on the soft closing of the door that lead to the deck.
Ford smiled, grabbed the blanket off the chair, and went to join his brother.
Stan yanked his shirt up on the way back to the rail, flicked open the knife with practiced ease, and leaned against the rail, letting the metal bite into his skin through the sweater he wore.
He was just about to drag the knife across his gut when Ford appeared.
”Figured you could use some compa-“ Ford stopped dead in his tracks as he took in Stan, who had frozen in shock, knife still held against his side. Ford furrowed his brow in confusion, “Stan, what are you doing?” Fear laced his words as he noticed the metal glinting in the moonlight.
Nothin’, nothing, Ford, it’s fine.
Say it out loud.
SAY IT OUT LOUD.
Stan’s brain was screaming, but nothing came out. His mouth was slightly agape, no air was going in or out, he felt like he might never move again.
Ford’s heart started beating faster, he let the blanket fall to the deck. He took a few cautious steps forward, speeding up when Stan made no move to bolt or stop him.
“Stanley, may I have the knife?” His normally sure voice shook slightly along with the hand he held out. Stan’s mouth closed, and he moved the knife away so he could drop the part of his shirt he’d been holding onto.
But he didn’t let go of the knife.
”Stan,” Ford swallowed, his scientific brain connecting the dots as fast as they could, taking into account the very uniform marks he’d been able to make out in the light coming from the open doorway behind him.
No, no, no, no-
Stan’s brain supplied unhelpfuly, his hands beginning to shake, his knuckles clenching the pocket knife so tight they must be white.
”Stan,” Ford tried again, struggling to put his findings into a cohesive question. “Have you been… harming yourself?” Stan’s body gave out. He sunk to the floor, letting the pocketknife roll from his grasp. Ford shot down, putting his six-fingered hands on Stan’s shoulders that weren’t trembling from the cold.
”You weren’t supposed to know.” Stan croaked, eyes fixed firmly on Ford’s chest instead of his heartbroken eyes. “Don’t be mad.” Stan forced his voice to not betray how small he felt inside.
Ford felt his eyes well up as he observed his brother’s crushed demeanour, so unlike the man who had gotten off the call with the kids mere hours earlier.
”Oh, Stanley,” Ford choked, “why on earth would I be mad?” Stan looked up at him finally, trying to come across as irritated but only really succeeding in looking confused. “‘Cuz I’ve got everything I ever wanted, and I’m still treatin’ my skin like it’s the tape they wrap packages in.” His voice slightly raised to hide how hard it was to force air into his lungs, to hide the pit inside of him, to hide the pressure building in his throat and behind his eyes that he hadn’t shared with anyone in all these 40-something years.
Ford’s expression portrayed no anger. Only concern, and love.
”Stan…” the socially inept man struggled for the best thing to say as he watched his brother search his face for any hint of irritation.
He changed tactics, asking himself what he would want if Stan had found him like this. He barely had to think about it.
”Do you need help?” He murmured, fingers squeezing Stan’s shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting way.
Stan blinked in surprise, opening his mouth to assure that he was fine. But a conversation they’d had before setting out made him stop.
No more lies, alright, Sixer?
Agreed, Stanley. No more lies.
I promised.
Just say you’re fine. You are, you’re fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
Say it.
SAY IT.
He lowered and shook his head, failing at concealing the choked sound that wormed its way out of his throat. He wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing tightly.
“Stanley? Did I say something wrong?” Ford asked, bending to try and look in Stan’s eyes again.
Stan shook his head again. Ford let out a relieved breath.
”Okay, good, that’s good.” His relief was replaced by the concern when Stan stayed hunched over, still trembling.
”Do…. Do you need help?” He asked again tentatively, gently using a hand to tilt Stan’s chin up. He froze at the steady stream of tears making their way down Stan’s face.
Don’t say it.
…
No more lies.
“Yes.” Stan forced out his throat.
He expected Ford to get angry, to ask what he could possibly have to feel down about. To ask what he could possibly be resorting to cutting himself over. To yell at him for not just laying down his stupid pride and insecurities and asking for help.
But maybe that was just what he was saying to himself, because out of all the emotions that passed over Ford’s face, anger was not one of them.
”Okay.” Ford gave him a small, sad smile that sent a fresh wave of tears down Stan’s face. “How can I help?” He asked, tilting his head slightly, like an owl, not a hint of judgement for Stan’s tears in his voice or on his face.
Just love.
Stan broke.
He collapsed in on himself, arms still wrapped tightly as though he could hold himself together with physical strength, heaving wet sobs he usually reserved for when he was in the Stanley mobile late at night. These tears weren’t ever meant for anyone else to see.
Maybe he’d just needed someone to ask.
After a brief pause of shock that his normally boisterous brother was breaking down on the deck of their boat in a way Ford hadn’t seen since they were very small, Ford jumped into protective brother mode.
He wrapped Stan up in a hug and pulled him close, resting his chin over Stan’s shaking shoulder.
”I’m here, Stanley. I’m not angry, I’m not going anywhere, thank you for opening up. I’m so proud of you.” He murmured, his heart beating painfully as he imagined how much distress his brother must be in to bear his feelings out to someone like this.
I’m so glad he brought me back.
Ford thought with conviction.
Pride and gratefulness manifested as tears that leaked out of Ford eyes as he held Stanley close, gently rubbing his brother’s back, running six of his fingers through his hair. Doing something with his hair always helped Ford calm down, he figured his twin might appreciate it in the same way.
At last, Stan’s sobs quieted enough to allow him to speak, he head still buried in Ford’s shoulder. “Sorry I go- got your shirt all wet.” He hiccuped. Ford chuckled wetly, “don’t worry, if we can’t get the snot out, I have enough of these turtlenecks to last us through another apocalypse.” Stan barked a laugh, the familiar sound sending relief coursing through Ford.
I hope I can make him laugh like that every day for the rest of our lives.
”Shall we move to the room? It’s quite late.” Ford offered, moving apart from Stan slightly. Stan nodded, and broke off the hug completely, hurriedly wiping his face. Both men groaned as they stood, chuckling at their old-man knees.
Neither spoke as they made their way back inside, or as they changed into their pyjamas. Stan had finally upgraded his sleepwear wardrobe, and now both boys sported black tops (though Ford still insisted on a turtleneck instead of Stan’s t-shirt) and flannel bottoms that Wendy had been quite proud of.
Not wanting to push Stan, Ford went about like it was any other evening. Until the sight of the fish blanket he’d remembered to bring back inside made him remember the knife. He’d been so relieved that Stan had opened up he’d forgotten that Stan had clearly been about to harm himself.
No point feeling bad for forgetting, just focus on helping.
Ford took a deep breath and cleared his throat, causing Stan to look over from where he was pulling back the covers of his twin bed. “Stanley-“ Ford started, but was cut off by a dramatic groan from Stan.
”Look, Poindexter, I just don’t have it in my for another heart-to-heart tonight. I feel better, ya did great. Just… can we talk about this in the morning?” Stan let some pleading creep into his request. Ford deflated a bit, they were both rather tired.
”Yes, of course we can wait, Stanley. I just… can I ask you one last question? I don’t- don’t think I’ll be able to sleep unless I ask it now.” Stan grunted in acknowledgment, returning his focus to clambering into bed.
Ford fidgeted with his fingers behind his back, remaining standing so he could rock back and forth on the balls of his feet.
”You- you’re not…” Ford huffed in frustration at himself.
You can do it, you can utilize the fucking English language, Stanford Pines.
“You’ll come to me if you want to cut yourself at any other point in the night, right?” He asked in a rush, eyes boring into Stan’s, which had snapped up to him from where he now lay on his side.
A beat, where Stan pondered his response. He’d also forgotten that part of their interaction, in the embarrassment (but mostly relief) over the tears he’d shed into Ford’s embrace.
I don’t think I will, don’t need to anymore.
Don’t wanna explain it all to him, though. Feeling is exhausting, just wanna sleep.
Would I, though? Would I go to him?
He gazed at his twin, who had been gone for so long, who blamed himself for so much, who had been hurt by so many people… and knew he couldn’t do it to him. Not now that he knew what Stan was doing.
For Ford, I’d do anything.
Even talk about my stupid, shitty feelings.
He smiled up at Ford, not his Mr. Mystery grin, but his genuine Stan Pines smile that had remained the same even after all those years apart.
“O’ course, Ford. Every time, from now on. ‘Kay, Poindexter?” Ford’s shoulders sagged as he let out a deep breath. “Thank you, Stanley.” He smiled back gratefully, flicking off the light switch and climbing into his own bed on the other side of their tiny shared room.
”G’night, Ford.”
”Goodnight, I love you, Stanley.”
”Heh, love you too, ya old sap.”