Chapter Text
Stanley chose to sacrifice his own memories to defeat Bill. The cost was fragmented memory and mental confusion. When everyone worked hard to help him regain his memories, he unexpectedly cooperated, as if finding some comfort in the warmth of family. But one hour later, Stanley scratched his head, paused as if trying to recall something, and suddenly asked Mabel:
“Why did I destroy Stanford’s perpetual motion machine?”
The moment he said this, the whole room froze. At this time everyone was gathered in the bedroom playing a family game. Mabel was about to throw her second die — she had already lost three rounds in a row, clearly in a slump. Hearing those words, Stanford choked on Mabel’s homemade strawberry juice, spraying out a few glittery sugar shards as he coughed. Uncharacteristically, Mabel didn’t talk back or shout; she only tugged at her fluffy collar awkwardly. Dipper remembered Stanford’s fists, Stanley’s aggrieved explanations, and the long cold war between them. Like Mabel, he lowered his head in silence.
Dipper turned his gaze toward Stanford, silently begging for help.
When a child asks for help, an adult should say:
“Kids, go play outside. I need to talk to my brother.”
But presumably, the day after tomorrow Mabel would deliver a sharp reminder — clearly, the impression of the uncles’ cold war and reconciliation was already carved into everyone’s memory. As Wendy once said:
“I just remember that whenever Stanford appeared, Stan’s sour face would gather even more storm clouds until it became a full-on thunderstorm.”
So the kids’ doubt was completely reasonable.
Of course, Stanford hadn’t thought that deeply. He was content to maintain the proper, “textbook” brotherly greetings in front of the kids. But Stanley was still lost in thought, reviewing his own life with an omniscient eye. Stanford thought all that was in the past — in a few days the boat would be finished and then — dreams, companionship, sunset light, adventurous journeys, science… right?
Even though Stanley was the one with the most say in this matter, Stanford didn’t answer immediately; glitter still clung to the corner of his mouth. Dipper knew his plea for help might not go smoothly — at this moment Stanford, like them, was staring at Stanley in blank confusion.
“Six-fingered perpetual motion machine…” Stanley switched to another way of calling it, immersed in his thoughts, already speaking like he was muttering to himself. He mumbled, picked up the wooden figurine, and tossed the dice. “Right? It made no sense. Sixer still kept in touch after college. Why was I mad?”
Mabel listened to this rare display of vulnerability — so unlike Stan the uncle — and was about to lighten the mood with a playful remark, but was cut off by Stanford, who sat beside Stanley.
“Hm…” Stanford thought for a while, wanting to answer carefully for the brother who had just recovered his memories: “It was because—”
“I think… I wanted to stay with you?”
Stanley won the quick-answer round. His smile said it all. He knew well that everything Stanford would spend the next hour explaining could really be summed up in that one sentence. But since it was about Stanley, Stanford was always willing to spend an extra hour. As Soos once said — though he later added:
“I rarely see Mr. Pines, but Wendy told me that guy spends half his time complaining about his brother — wow, their relationship must be great.”
That was before the fight.
Stanford’s expression flickered between panic and delight. As Dipper awkwardly opened his mouth, Stanford took another sip of Mabel’s special juice and instantly regained composure. He reflexively wanted to adjust his glasses, preparing his wording — but couldn’t bear missing Stanley’s expression, so he kept still and let him speak.
“I felt useless without you.” Stanley calmly rolled the dice. “But back then I just smashed the table in anger, and the perpetual motion machine broke — what a joke.” He added, “And when you brought out the saltwater taffy, I almost felt relieved, but…”
Stanley turned his gaze to Stanford.
Meanwhile, Dipper mouthed to Mabel, “We should go,” but Mabel misread it as “We should drink,” and happily handed him more juice, pulling him into a hug as they watched this touching brotherly confession unfold.
“You never meant to break it, and you never tried to stop me from going to college.” At that moment, Stanford spoke like a true older brother, delivering comfort instead of blame. “The thing that tore us apart… was just an accident. It showed how fragile our bond really was when struck by something huge.” His tone was firm.
But now, Stanford placed his distinctive six-fingered hand on Stanley’s shoulder and smiled. Stanley smiled too.
Mabel was just about to cheer for the touching moment when Dipper cleverly covered her mouth.
“So…” Stanley’s gentle demeanor lasted only a few seconds before his usual slyness returned — the same skill his brother had in hiding his true feelings:
“Why didn’t you call Mom?”
Stanford’s face collapsed instantly — like someone who signed a contract only to learn he’d been scammed out of four thousand dollars.
“You know, Sixer,” Stanley leaned back like a casino boss, “my life was a mess back then. Mom called a few times asking if I needed anything, and that’s when I thought of you.” He deliberately skipped the tragic details — principle. “She told me you hadn’t contacted her, so she called me.”
“Stanley.” Stanford was at a loss for words, though the scholar in him always maintained the instinct to debate.
“At the time I was cramming like crazy, surviving on junk food. I just wanted to graduate quickly — but how can a brain work without nutrients?”
“So you didn’t call her,” Stanley stared wide-eyed, the earlier bittersweet mood gone,
“and you didn’t call me either?” He grew more energetic the more he said it.
“Well — you didn’t either,” Sixer shot back, older brothers always staying one step ahead.
“And I was obsessed with studying the paranormal — figuring out how to collect as many strange creatures as possible, research them, and document everything.” He omitted his youthful dream — publishing his findings and someday sitting among the great scholars. Stanley would only mock him endlessly for it.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny.”
Stanley cheered upside-down. But he had no intention of discussing university funds or old wounds. “Well… I was running from debt, living in a cheap apartment, sleeping with a baseball bat by the bed.” He changed the topic mid-sentence. “Wow — rough times.” But these new details caught Stanford’s attention — words like “debt,” “cheap apartment,” “self-defense.”
“Grunkle Stan, you lived like that for years?” Dipper frowned, voicing the concern that broke the silence — not resentment but worry, even anger.
“You never tried asking for help? Or getting a job?” Dipper pressed.
“Yeah! Grunkle Stan, think about your stomach — and your head! They were in danger!” Mabel added.
“Alright kids, welcome to adulthood.” Stanley turned toward them. His casino-boss aura vanished; he looked only like an elderly man craving human contact. He didn’t notice Stanford frowning in growing worry — nor that his brother cared more than expected.
“Answering Dipper first — okay…” Stanley drew circles in the air as he tried to explain. “Well… when I was in prison, I made a few acquaintances — Mabel, don’t panic, I’m not done — I won’t explain why I went in; that part was too dark. Long story short, I bought my way out. Those inmates weren’t friends, but we got along okay. When they heard I paid to get out, they were furious, shouting betrayal. They were the only people I could talk to. That was the end of my prison days.”
Faced with these two untainted souls, he found it easy to speak of darkness. Most people would, in front of children like this.
Stanley continued: “As for asking Mom and Dad… forget it. Sixer? … also forget it. And work? I committed too many money-related crimes. A lot of states banned me entirely, so I used fake IDs. Back then I was no different from any ex-convict — free, but unable to live a decent life.”
“Oh… Grunkle Stan…” Dipper’s face crumpled with heartbreaking pain; Mabel’s did too. They rushed in and hugged Stan’s neck tightly, burying their faces into his shoulder, their burning cheeks pressed against him.
Stanley held them gently, smiling — not in pain, but in warmth. The look of someone truly cared for, melting the darkness within him.
Stanford, however, stood frozen like a statue, witnessing it all. It happened too fast; the content hit him like a crashing wave. It felt like a seagull had slapped a greasy fry across his face, screeched mockingly, and flown away — leaving only humiliation and anger.
“Alright, about Mabel—” Stanley patted her back. Her emotions rippled softly. “This belly — it was life circumstances, not overeating. Honestly, this body type is often hard to slim down — Mabel, why are you laughing? — Back then I couldn’t even afford real meals. I stole food, dug through trash cans. Totally unhealthy. As for my head — there were several bounties on me. Not official, all private grudges, but still.” He ruffled Dipper’s hair under the cap.
“So — now I have money, I have all of you — life is much better.” Warmth pushed the words from his chest.
Mabel lifted her head and sniffed. Dipper watched Stan with a caring smile. The heartwarming scene moved everyone. But Stanford didn’t smile. More negative facts about his brother piled up. Before adjusting his expression, Stanford abruptly broke the moment:
“So,” he said coldly, “all of this happened to you, and you’re only telling me now?”
The words held anger and disbelief — not enough to shatter the mood but enough to make everyone stare at him. Mabel tilted her head, baffled why Grunkle Ford reacted this way.
Dipper felt a wave of awkwardness, like waking from a dream. He quickly stepped back from the hug and stood stiffly.
He realized the mood was collapsing. While Stanford stared at Stanley, Dipper grabbed Mabel’s hand and rushed to the door like deserters. Only her complaint echoed faintly:
“Hey! Dipper! I wasn’t done hugging!”
When the warmth left his arms, Stanley finally looked at Stanford in confusion. The innocence made Stanford’s heart jolt — this time with anger.
Stanford tried to calm himself, but facing Stanley made peace impossible. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Yes — yes —” Stanford murmured, “you could’ve called me back then, couldn’t you?”
“To be honest,” Stanley couldn’t believe he was instinctively defending himself, provoking his brother’s anger. He immediately regretted being so honest in front of the kids — especially in front of Stanford. He tried to look casual. “If you had picked up, you’d probably have yelled. I’d have felt humiliated,” he said bluntly.
“I guarantee you — no matter how angry I was — I would never let my brother die.” Stanford said seriously.
“You didn’t trust me. And I was doing fine.”
“I would’ve mailed you money. Cleaned up a place for you to move in. We would’ve talked things out.”
“Uh, Sixer.” Stanley seemed to hear a faint ringing, sensing urgent worry beneath Stanford’s calm — tension only he could detect.
Even though his memories weren’t fully restored, Stanley could feel deep inside that Stanford was subconsciously classified as extremely dangerous. He had one or two seconds to defuse this anger. But another voice snapped back:
No — you should piss him off, then pretend nothing happened. Then eat ice cream for days!
That was a bastardly move — but oh god, I want to do it.
Not now though.
“Listen, okay?” Stanley weakened his tone, trying to prevent the imminent rant while he himself said nothing back. “Telling you wouldn’t have helped, Sixer.” Soft voice. Heavy words. “’Hey, your great brother is broke, in jail, and being hunted’? What would that do besides make you think I’m a complete failure?”
“I would never say that,” Stanford retorted, eyes widening. “As I said — I saw your TV ads. You looked sharp, energetic — but you’re telling me you were broke and starving?”
“What!? — wait—” Stanley made a “cease fire” gesture. “Sixer, so — you’re telling me you saw me in that goofy costume, reading those stupid lines… AND you memorized my hotline number!?” He squealed like an audience member who had caught a magician cheating, his voice cracked with frantic embarrassment. “Damn it, Sixer, you never planned to call me!”
“And I wasn’t that starving,” Stanley folded his arms angrily.
“You still have lots of old injuries.” Sixer pinched his brow again, tone soft but edged. “The smartest choice back then would’ve been to come to me… I would’ve helped you drop those childish ideas.” His words began to slip into a non-English muttering.
“Stanley, recount the events,” Stanford insisted. “I need to reassess your condition and compile a full medical report. I’m worried the memory gun’s aftereffects may continue—”
“Oh give me a break.” Stanley snarled, face twisted. He now listened only to the voice saying:
Yell at him. Then eat ice cream.
His blood pressure rose.
Stanley stood, calmly dusting himself off, resisting the urge to make a certain hand gesture — but since he was still recovering his memories, he didn’t want to negotiate further with this scientist.
“What did you even eat?” Stanford clearly meant trash. “Actual leftovers?”
“Sometimes I ate tree bark.” Stanley refused to elaborate, but seeing Stanford still in the same red sweater with the same insistent expression, he rolled his eyes internally, wondering why he even answered — it was just a feeling! “Uh — sometimes when luck was bad, I just went hungry and slept in the car.”
Stanford’s brows didn’t loosen. He stared at Stanley’s stomach, doubting none of it.
“…And the loan sharks?”
“Couldn’t pay, so I ran.” Stanley said matter-of-factly. “They sent guys way taller than me to bang on my door, so I used a baseball bat.” He even gestured the height difference.
“Alright.” Stanford had heard enough negative vocabulary today — most of it from his brother. “Then why didn’t you call me? Yes, I was biased — Stanley, I’m serious — the failure wasn’t you.”
“I already was one.” Stanley shrugged. “And you didn’t need me then.”
Stanley thought again of Muse, Bill, the journals. But in the end, everything dissolved like a raindrop, and beyond the curtain of rain was their boat. The sky beyond the horizon was bluer than any blue. The roar of water sounded like a forest campfire — only comfort. So he shook his head:
“We needed each other.”
“I bet you didn’t give the kids money. And the recordings weren’t to scare me, right?” Stanley hid his awkwardness with an old joke. Seeing Stanford’s serious face, a warm rush filled him — excitement, joy.
“I’m not like you—” Stanford shrugged and smiled. Stanley rolled his eyes.
“Yeah yeah — nerd.” Stanley punched his chest. Stanford pretended to wince. The old routine from childhood to high school. All rain eventually becomes wine; a lonely ship eventually echoes with cheerful crew.
“We need each other, genius.”