Archive of Our Own

Stanley Pines knew he had a past, even if he couldn't remember the specific details. Or the broad details. Or almost any details that didn't have a photo to go with them. That's the kinda stuff that getting shot in the face with a memory eraser gun will do to a man.

In the last several months, the more recent past had been coming back to him in waves.

The first name he'd managed to remember was Waddles. That damn pig, chewing on his leg, making a mess, putting a smile on the face of the sweetest little girl Stan had ever met. The first thing he thought when he met Mabel for the second time was "I have no idea who this small glittery child is, but I do know I would kill for her." It was Mabel—who's sugar intake likely made her literally the sweetest girl—and her dedication to documenting their summer in Gravity Falls that brought Stan back from the memory-less void he'd been zapped into.

Dipper, as sweaty and nervous as Mabel was sweet and enthusiastic, had the sci-fi nonsense know-how to figure out how to continue jogging Stan's memory (along with Ford, of course). Dumb as he was, the kid was also pretty darn smart. Between photos and stories told by his family, Stan was able to put a lot of pieces together. At least the pieces that involved Ford or the younger Pines twins.

Tomorrow, there would be a Pines family reunion. Well, a reunion of all the Pines that Stan really cared about. He and Ford had docked at a town on Oregon's coast. It was overcast and windy, unseasonably cold for early June. Soos was on his way from Gravity Falls, running weirdly late considering how excited he'd been when Stan called to let him know of their arrival.

That was fine, though. He could sit in silence with Ford for an hour or two. They'd done plenty of sitting in silence at sea.

Of course, when they were at sea, they weren't stuck staring at a beach that looked earily similar to the one they'd grown up going to.

Glass Shard Beach was thousands of miles and a few decades away, but Jersey wasn't all that different from Oregon when it came down to gray sand and cold ocean winds. But maybe Stan's memory was what was gray and cold, making every beach feel the same as the one his brother told so many stories about.

There were some things about that beach that Stan could remember on his own. Like how once, he fled there in the middle of the night when an argument with his father turned violent. Could've been more than once. Most memories of his father were of fights. He preferred the memories his brother shared with him.

"There was a plank of wood in that cave we found," Ford had told Stan while doodling on scrap paper. "We would use it to measure our heights. You always insisted that you were taller than me, as if half an inch made that much of a difference. I'm fairly certain you cheated on more than one occasion."

Ford's tone had been annoyed, but he smiled as he spoke.

"Ha!" Stan had responded. "Sounds like something I would do."

Thinking of it now brought another memory to Stan's mind: Dipper and Mabel getting into a heated competition over who was the superior twin. If he was remembering correctly, there had been cheating involved in their little competition too. It made him wonder…

"You think those kids have gotten any taller?"

"You haven't seen your brother in over ten years. It's okay. He's family. He won't bite."

Stan had never heard of Gravity Falls, Oregon. But who in their right minds would know about a place like Gravity Falls?

He drove through the night and then through another night. Hours upon hours of time to think of what to say to his brother. He cycled through anger, indifference, forgiveness. He wondered what Ford would look like now. Had he aged as rapidly as Stan or had a cushy academic life been kinder to the lines on his face? Had he grown his hair out? Would he have a beard? A mustache? Could he have gotten any taller since Stan had last seen him?

Ten years can't help but change a person.

At a gas station in Nowhere, California, Stan found himself fixed on his own reflection in the dingy bathroom mirror. He could trace the scars across his body to various close encounters with death. He could see his father's frownlines pushing into his cheeks, creasing the center of his forehead. He could see Ford's eyes looking back at him. Somewhere in that mirror was a man named Stanley Pines. Or [insert name] or [insert other name] or [insert other name] or whatever the fuck he'd call himself next.

"Just a few more hours," he muttered, shaking his head. He splashed his face with cold water of questionable metal content.

He downed a coffee, inhaled a cigarette or two, and got back to his one faithful companion—the road.

Stanford didn't know much about his twin brother's past in between their separation in the 80s to their less-than-warm reunion nearly one year ago. Since then, Ford and Stan had taken to the open seas on the Stan O War II, a seemingly shabby vessel that had been, in Mabel's words, "tricked out" with other worldly materials to make it a perfectly safe means of ocean travel. Of course, Stanford's definition of perfectly safe may differ from the Coast Guard's. Stanley had suggested an enhancement for the motor that would provide an efficient means of escape.

"Running from the cops is what I do best," Stan had said.

Ostensibly, Ford and Stan had gone in search of—what else?—mysteries and weirdness that could be found off shore. And Ford had been dutifully documenting their findings; if there was anything Stanford Pines could do, it was document findings. Stranger than the weirdness that had been discovered, though, was that Ford found himself more in awe of Stan than any omnipus or siren.

"You know, this feels sorta familiar," Stan said once while Ford was helping redress a wound on his arm.

"Are you remembering something new?" Ford paused mid-disinfectant application. "What is it?"

"Yeah, I think I got stabbed here before." Stanley scratched the scruff on his chin. "No, wait, I think I got shot. Eh, what's the difference? It was probably both."

Ford looked at his brother, the chuckling recollection of being shot and/or stabbed running circles in his mind. For all his intellect, he could never learn how to properly talk to people. Stan was becoming an exception to this issue, but there were still moments when Ford was left speechless. So, he resumed the process of bandaging the new wound, one that had been caused by a carelessly placed glass jar and not a gun or a knife.

It's not that Ford hadn't experienced his own fair share of violence. One does not spend three decades traversing the multiverse in search of a way to destroy the demon that took control of and ruined one's life without encountering a bit of violence.

"Don't look so green, Sixer," Stanley said. "When did ya get so squeamish?"

Ford sighed and rolled his eyes. "I am not squeamish, Stanley. I'm merely concerned for your well-being."

"There's nothing here a band-aid and some alcohol can't fix."

The gash on Stan's arm certainly required more than a band-aid, but he'd always had a propensity to minimize the degree of his injuries. Ford used to admire how tough his twin brother was for brushing off fights with kids twice his size, always managing to get back up no matter how brutal the beating had been. That admiration had rapidly morphed into anxiety during their time at sea.

"That's what Dad would say, anyways." Stan took a swig of Pitt Cola.

Ford frowned as his brother. "Excuse me?"

"Y'know, that time he threw a bottle at my head?"

Ford did not know.

"Eh, maybe I'm misremembering," Stan said, tapping his fist against his temple. "My memory ain't exactly crystal clear."

Perhaps Ford should have asked more about that memory. In the moment, he told himself it wouldn't be helpful to pry and try to force Stan to remember something, especially something that had to do with their father. Looking back with a more honest perspective, he could admit that the real reason he didn't ask was his own discomfort.

As they sat on a bench overlooking the gray beach, Ford felt all the questions he'd avoided pressing into the back of his mind. What do you remember about our parents? What happened after you got kicked out? How much aren't you telling me?

"You think those kids have gotten any taller?" Stan broke the silence.

"Huh?" Ford shook his head and returned his focus to the present. "Oh, probably. Teenagers tend to do that."

"Heh, yeah. I bet five bucks Mabel is taller than Dipper."

The two of them had made a sort of game of passing a couple of five dollar bills back and forth over various bets. They were usually about the weather or how many ghosts they would find at the site of a long forgotten shipwreck.

"I like those odds," Ford said. "Do you think Dipper is growing facial hair yet?"

"Don't you remember the single mustache hair Mabel included in her last letter?" Stan laughed. "Ha! I'm sure the kid has a full Castro stache by now."

Ford wasn't entirely certain as to what a 'Castro stache' was meant to be, but the context clues sufficed. "I hope you wouldn't put money on that," he said. "For all we know, that could've been one of Waddles' nose hair."

Stan's laugh was perhaps heartier than the joke warranted, but it was a welcome sound, warm like a jacket on this chill day.

Bill had surely driven Ford to insanity, as inviting Stanley to his lab in Gravity Falls was something only a crazy person would do. But, considering the circumstances, Ford could not even trust himself with the journals. Besides, if there was one talent Stanley Pines had, it was running away. Based on those television advertisements,

In the days following the mailing of the postcard, Ford spent hours pacing the cabin. Perhaps he should have stowed away his more delicate inventions and instruments to keep them out of harms way, but he could hardly get himself to eat or drink. In the wake of his revelations regarding Bill's true intention, Ford's sleep schedule had gone from sporadic to non-existant. He couldn't risk sleeping, so he paced.

How many days passed between the postcard and Stan's arrival? Ford couldn't be certain. It could have been hours or months.

"Who is it? Have you come to steal my eyes!?"

Alone, so desperately alone, Ford found himself questioning whether or not he had been right to dispose of Bill's company. Fearing that this questioning would lead him to do something foolish, he wrote reminders for himself, ink screams of TRUST NO ONE.

Trust no one. Trust no one.

Least of all himself.

So, when Ford answered the door to find his own face on the other side, he kept his finger on the crossbow's trigger. Surely this was just another one of Bill's tricks! A trap—what wouldn't Bill do to get back on Ford's good side? All those appeals to Ford's ego? What better method could there be than for the demon to show up in a body that looked like his?

But that voice? That didn't sound like his own.

"Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome."

Stan watched Ford grimace as Soos stepped out of the car in full Mr. Mystery attire, including, for some reason, the eye patch.

"You know, you really shouldn't wear that thing while driving," Stan glanced at Soos from the passenger seat. "Really messes with your depth perception. And wearing that whole get-up makes you look like a freak out here."

"If wearing the uniform for the greatest job in the world hinders my sight, so be it," Soos said.

"Aaand I regret saying anything," Stan mumbled. "Just, take the patch off while driving, kid."

"And mess with the perfection of the Mr. Mystery suit? Heheh, I don't think so, dude."

Stan kept his grip on the handle for the entire drive.

As they approached the Mystery Shack, Soos started looking as nervous as Stan felt with the new Mr. Mystery half-blind behind the wheel.

"Okay, Mr. Pineses—Misters Pines?—you gotta close your eyes now!" Soos told them.

"And why the heck would we do that?" Ford asked. "We're almost there, are we not?"

"Uh, yeah, but…I gotta do something, you know," his voice dropped to a whisper. "Illegal."

"Soos," Stan said. "You could not find two people who care less about you making an illegal U-turn or whatever the heck it is you're talking about."

"Trust me, dudes." Soos laughed nervously. "It could get pretty ugly out here. Wouldn't want to sully your return home with crimes, right? Heh heh?"

"You're not gonna let this go, are you?" Stan crossed his arms and closed his eyes. "You are keeping your eyes open, aren't you, Soos? Soos?"

The car swerved and then jerked to a halt. "Of course, sir!" Soos said. "Just, uh, keep yours closed a little more, okay? A little more…a little more…" He kept repeating that phrase as he got out of the car and came around to open Stan and Fords doors. "—Now open them!"

"SURPRISE!"

It took hours for him to leave the basement. Days for him to leave the house. His and Ford's years of pent up anger had come out swinging, neither of them pulling punches. But there was one thing his brother had shouted that Stan couldn't get out of his mind.

"You ruined your own life!"

Stan couldn't understand what this trans portal dimension-inator was, couldn't understand why Ford was so paranoid and desperate to get rid of that damn journal, couldn't understand what had possessed Ford to summon him to the middle of nowhere just to send him as far away as possible.

But Stan could understand that he was a fuck-up. He fucked up Ford's life, his parents' lives, his own life. What do you call someone who can't help but fuck everything up for everyone around him? A fuck-up.

He had driven for days, through the desert and mountains and snow, until finding himself in front of a large cabin in the woods. He'd assumed that whatever his brother wanted must have been serious enough to break 10 years of radio silence, but he'd hoped there would be some brotherly warmth or whatever along with it.

What an idiot he was. What an idiot he'd always been.

But nothing made him feel more stupid than trying to decipher Ford's journal. Didn't help that it was only one third of the notes. No matter how hard he tried, Stan couldn't get the portal to work.

WELCOME HOME GRUNKLES!

The people of Gravity Falls had once again gathered in front of the Mystery Shack. Ford recognized many of the faces, though he struggled to associate names with most of them.

The banner stretched over the Mystery Shack entrance was covered in glitter, rainbows, and hearts—the only way it could've screamed MABEL PINES any louder was if Mabel Pines herself had been falling from the roof of the shack with her grappling hook. Which she was. Ford and Stan both lunged forward to catch her, but the length of the rope stopped just short of the ground. Mabel hopped the rest of the way down and ran to them.

"GRUNKLE STAN!" She jumped and threw her arms around Stan's neck

"Hey, kiddo!" He hugged her back and grinned, but Ford couldn't help but notice that Stan's smile failed to reach his eyes. Despite everything, he knew how to read his brother's facial expressions and he could tell something was wrong.

Dipper ran from the front porch to join them, hugging each of his great uncles before putting his arm around Mabel's shoulders.

"Now what's all this for?" Stan put his hands on his hips.

"Well," Dipper started. "You threw an amazing party for us last summer…"

"So we're returning the favor!" Mabel threw another handful of confetti into the air. "Pines Party! Wait, let me go get Waddles."

Before Ford had even processed everything she had said, Mabel was running up to the porch to get her pig. Dipper turned to Ford.

"Oh, man, Great Uncle Ford!" He pulled out a blue notebook with a silver pine tree embossed on the cover. "We have so much to talk about! I think the gnomes have found—"

Mabel returned with Waddles and swung her arm around Dipper's shoulders (and she was indeed, Ford noted, the taller twin). "We'll have time for gnome conspiracies later, bro-bro! This is party time!" She pressed a button on her sweater, activating blinking lights and rave music for her to start her mobile dance party.

As Ford glanced around the crowd in search of Fiddleford McGucket, he spotted Stan speaking with Wendy Corduroy, once again smiling in a way that concerned him. Perhaps after so much time at sea, Stan was simply getting used to the idea of being around so many people. Odd that Stan would be having more trouble with socialization than Ford, but understandable nonetheless. Still, Ford made a mental note to bring this up with his brother later.

"I am very interested in whatever gnome conspiracies you've uncovered," Ford said to Dipper. "And we'll have all summer to investigate it together."

Dipper beamed and made that excited squealing noise Ford had almost gotten used to the summer prior.

"Summer of Pines twins!" Mabel exlaimed. She pulled out a large confetti canon and fired it.

Ford watched his brother's body stiffen.

Without a target to receive it, Ford's anger dissipated. It would've been simpler to be angry. Rage can motivate. Spite had often pushed him to higher achievement. But there was nothing to be achieved here. His life, his work, his legacy was ruined.

He'd spent a decade attempting to leave his past behind, especially his brother. But once again, his brother had ruined his life. And it was Stanley's fault. It had to be Stanley's fault. Stanford didn't push himself into the portal. And sure, it had appeared that Stanley had, at the last second, attempted to pull Ford back, but he was too late.

Ford spent his waking hours traversing the unfamiliar scapes of strange dimensions. When he managed to find a relatively non-deadly place to rest, his dreams refused to lend him peace.

He dreamed sometimes of Fiddleford, of the horror in his face after he breached the portal. He, of course, dreamed of Bill. Even once he had that metal plate installed in his head, the memories of his time with the demon provided more than enough fodder for his nightmares.

But on occasion, in the darkest, most desolate nights of his travels, Ford would dream of Glass Shard Beach, the Stan O' War, and his twin brother. He would wake up feeling as though he were in that bunkbed, resting below the one person upon whom he knew he could rely.

The realization of his true whereabouts would be almost worse than his nightmares of Bill.

Perhaps he had been too harsh with Stan…no, he had certainly been too harsh. It was a moment of desperation, but that didn't mean he'd needed to react that way. Who had thrown the first punch? Was the request truly so insensitive? Had he made too grave a mistake for Stanley to forgive him? Was the science fair fiasco actually a result of Stan's sabotage? Had Ford wasted decades of his life being angry at the one person who truly knew him?

No matter. He had dimensions to discover and a demon to annihilate. There was no one else he could rely on, certainly not his good-for-nothing twin.

The world around Stan went blurry. His ears rang, all the sounds simultaneously heightened and muffled beyond being distinguishable. He heard someone—his brother? Dipper?—saying his name. Colored pieces of glittery paper swarmed in a blizzard around him. His throat tightened.

Times up, Stanley.

Before he knew what was happening, he was running inside the shack. He sprinted through the gift shop at a speed he didn't know he was still capable of, nearly slamming into the vending machine as he went to punch in the combination.

As he got into the elevator, his vision darkened at the edge. Was he having a heart attack? What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he breathe?

As it turned out, Gravity Falls, Oregon was full of people ready and willing to believe just about anything Stan could taxidermy together. Was it really a scam if people got what they were paying for? They wanted to see a rock that was shaped like a face, and they got to see a rock that was shaped like a face.

Finally, Stanley was making enough money to keep himself fed and the house lit. He still couldn't make heads or tails of the gibberish in Ford's writing, but at least he had a place to stay while he figured it out. Maybe there was some fragment of his brain that shared a fraction of Ford's intelligence, and if he could get himself to access that fragment, maybe he could get the portal working again—just enough to get Ford back through.

It was nearly spring when he heard the pounding at the front door of the cabin.

He dragged himself out of bed, figuring it was those miscreant teenagers ding-dong ditching him as a prank. The pounding was incessant. Thinking a good scare might prevent them from bothering him again, he grabbed the crossbow Ford had greeted him with over a month ago and shuffled to the door.

"Get the hell off—"

But when he opened the door, he didn't find teenagers fleeing into the woods.

The shock of seeing Rico knocked him off guard. One of Rico's "tax collectors" grabbed him by the collar and yanked him out of the house. He kicked the crossbow out of Stan's hands and shoved him to the ground, grabbing his arm and pinning him down.

"Time's up, Stanley." Rico looked down at him, his snearing face shadowed by the light reflecting off the snow. "You really thought you could hide from me?"

"W-What are you—OW! What the FU—"

Rico's guy twisted Stan's arm and dug his knee into his spine.

"Keep your mouth shut for once, will you?" Rico spat. "You listen to me and listen good—I always get what belongs to me. You think running off to Bumfuck Nowhere will get you off the hook?" He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, striking a match and lighting up. "I know all about how you came up here to hide out with your brother. Ain't that sweet." He shook his head, chuckling out clouds of smoke. "Real cute, Pines. But it's time for you to learn how this world works."

The henchman pressed down harder. Stan struggled to breathe as the pressure constricted his lungs. Rico knelt and blew smoke in Stan's face. Then he removed the cigarette from his mouth and jabbed the lit end into Stan's shoulder.

Stan hissed and grit his teeth, biting back his cry of pain. He'd been burned by bigger cigars before.

"Either I get my money or you get your face in the obits. Got it, Pines?"

Everything within Stan wanted to fight back, but he didn't stand a chance against two armed men. The cigarette was still burning into him, the knee still pinning him to the porch. He nodded.

Rico dropped the extinguished cigarette and stood upright. "Good. You have one week. Damon, would you give Mr. Pines here a taste of what's coming if I don't get my cash?"

Damon the henchman grunted. Rico crushed the cigarette under his boot and strode into the melting snow and ice. His goon gave Stan a few steel-toed kicks to the stomach before stepping on his face like Rico had stepped on the cigarette.

Once the two men were gone, Stan stayed on the ground. He didn't know how many minutes or hours had passed by the time he went back inside.

This sci-fi attraction shtick had been making enough money to keep the lights on and himself fed, but not nearly enough to repay the debts he owed Rico. That left him with one option.

"Grunkle Stan!" Dipper and Mabel called for Ford's brother as he escaped into the Mystery Shack. Mabel dropped the canon and started to head toward that same door, but Ford laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Hold on, Mabel," he said. "Let me go check on him first."

"B-But I—" Tears welled in her eyes. "It's my fault! I made him upset!"

Ford got on one knee and put his hands on her shoulders. "It's not your fault, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I-I always m-mess things up," she said. "I just wanted you two to have a party like the one you threw for me and Dipper but now—I just mess everything up!"

Ford felt his heart sink as the most kindhearted girl in the world blamed herself for something she had no control over. He ran his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the tears that had fallen. "Oh, Mabel. The party is wonderful. I think Stanley just needs some…time to adjust. To being home, and all."

Dipper put his hand on Mabel's back and she turned and hugged her twin. She cried into his shoulder.

"Grunkle Ford," he said softly. "You should go find Grunkle Stan. I'll stay with Mabel."

Ford nodded and stood, turning towards the old cabin. He had a feeling he knew where he would find his brother.

It wasn't hard for Stan to put the pieces in place. Who wouldn't believe a poor drunk scam artist would end up dead in a ditch?

All it took was his old car, a few empty beer bottles, a lighter, and a tip to the cops, and Stanley Pines was dead.

Once the deed was done, Stan knew he had to fully commit to being Stanford. He dug through his brother clothes until he found a box that contained their father's old suit, the one he would wear to funerals and bar mitzvahs. Stan cleaned himself up, creating as much distance between himself and, well, himself as he could. He hung Ford's college degree in view of the front door.

As promised, Rico and his goon showed up to the shack again in a week's time. Stan answered the door with his best Ford impression.

"I don't know who you are," he said. "But my brother is dead, so I would appreciate it if you left my property before I call the police."

He showed Rico the newspaper as proof. STAN PINES DEAD.

Rico scoffed, but he left without making any further demands. He probably had better things to do than attempting to make good on a dead man's debt.

Stanley had a portal to rebuild and all the time in the world to do it.

Stan slid to the floor of the lab, breaths heaving in and out. His hands shook as he clutched the fabric over his heart. He came down here for the quiet this basement afforded, not considering what else it might provide.

While the rest of the shack had been cleaned up in the wake of Weirdmaggeddon, the basement had been left in disarray. Pages of notes from the failed plan to defeat Bill, hunks of metal and dangling electrical wires, the remains of the "trans-dimensional gateway" that Stan had become more than familiar with. It was all scattered around the cavernous room.

Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can.

But he could almost see the portal as it had been. Powered up, glowing with awful light. He could almost hear the fear and rage in his family's voices.

He's lying! Shut it down, NOW!

You ruined your own life!

Grunkle Stan, I don't even know if you're my grunkle…

Stanley! Stanley, HELP ME!

Stan buried his face in his hands. He didn't cry often, certainly didn't let himself show that weakness in front of others, but he couldn't stop himself now.

He used to spend entire nights down here, piecing together Ford's calculations, trying to put the portal together without the other journals. He had no idea whether or not the portal would ever work again and, even if it did, whether or not Ford was still alive on the other side. More than once, he'd become keenly aware that if he died in that basement, there would be no one to find him, no one to care that he was gone.

Worse than that was the realization that nobody did care. His mother may not have hated him, but if it had come down between him and Ford? One was a ticket out of a shithole apartment to a better life, and the other one was Stanley.

Now, one elevator ride away, there was a whole party of people who cared that he'd come back. That he'd come home. People who thought of him as a hero. And now he was hiding from them.

For what? He'd been nothing but a useless con artist for most of his life. How long would he be able to play the part of lovable grunkle before those kids realized just how much of a fuck-up he was and always had been?

"Stanley? Are you down here?"

Ford's voice echoed in the cavernous basement. Stan wiped the tears off his face and tried to think of a lie an explanation.

"There you are!" Ford stepped through the doorway and knelt beside his brother. "What are you doing down here?"

Keeping his face turned away, Stan shrugged. A weak attempt at deflection.

"Something is bothering you," Ford said. "Are you going to tell me what it is or are you going to pretend it's nothing and hope it goes away?"

"Hah." Stan fixed his gaze on the floor, not an ounce of humor in his laugh. "You got me."

"Of course I got you. I've always got you, Stanley."

He sighed. "If only that was true…" he murmured, not realizing what he was saying until it was out of his mouth.

Ford didn't respond right away. "I suppose that's fair," he said. "Is that what this is about?"

Stan shrugged again. "Nah, I'm probably just land-sick. Not used to being around so many people."

"Is that all?"

"They all act like I'm some kind of hero." Stan stared at the wreckage of the portal. "The one good thing I did was get my brain fried. Maybe it woulda been better for it to stay fried."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ford said. "Do you have any idea how relieved I was when you started remembering our names? How relieved we all were?"

"Yeah, well, maybe there's some shit that shoulda stayed wiped. Not everything is Waddles and Summerween."

"Ah. I see."

"I'm fine, sixer. I just…need a minute."

"Stanley—"

"Would you leave me alone!?" Stan snapped. "I don't want you or anyone else to have to deal with my bullshit, okay? So give me and my good-for-nothing brain some space!"

Ford's face fell, his eyebrows furrowing. "You want me to leave?"

"What part of leave me alone needs more explaining?" The words were bitter in Stan's mouth but he couldn't shut himself up. "That's one thing you've always been good at, right? Leaving."

"No," Ford said. "No. I won't leave you down here. Not again."

"I can't do this anymore! I'm not what you think I am." He crossed his arms and looked away. "I'm no hero, Stanford."

What a fool Ford had been. What an absolute fool.

The decades he'd spent telling himself that Stanley was nothing more than a selfish grifter, a con-artist and a fraud, all that time, Stanford had been the selfish one. So desperate for academic validation, for praise from the scientific community, that he had abandoned the one person who knew him beyond any of that.

He'd pushed away Stanley, and then Fiddleford, and what had it got him? Three decades of isolation.

He thought his life would've been perfect if Stanley had just listened to him and taken the journal and never seen him again. He'd been to a dimension that lent credence to this theory.

But now? Kneeling on the ground in front of his brother? Searching his twin's eyes for any hint of recognition? He would throw away every word of research if it meant getting Stanley back.

After all, that's what Stanley had done for him. In the 30 years Ford had spent travelling the multiverse and making discoveries beyond his wildest imagination, his brother had been poring over tomes of quantum physics, piecing the mechanism of the portal back together, dedicating his life to bring Ford home.

It was Ford's own selfishness that had resulted in Stan's sacrifice.

"You're our hero, Stanley."

"I'm sorry for making you come down here," Stan said. "You should go back up to the party. Those kids clearly put a lot of work into it and I don't want it ruined 'cuz of me." He sighed, mumbling the next phrase like he didn't fully intend for Stanford to be the audience. "They'd prob'ly be better off without me."

"Now that's just crazy talk." Ford reached for the wallet in his pocket. It was full of pictures, and he always had it on hand for when Stan had memory lapses, though this seemed to be more a lapse in judgment than memory. "Those kids adore you, Stanley." He pulled out the photo of Mabel and Dipper hugging Stan from either side. "It's not about some big party."

Stan took the photo from his brother, holding it carefully at the edges as if damaging the photo would damage his memory. "They're older now," he said. "How long are they gonna see me as their fun grunkle?"

"You're more than a fun grunkle," Ford said. "Family is about more than that. You should know that better than anyone."

"Hah! I spent most my life running away from family. Why should I get to have that now?"

Ford's face fell. Was having a guilt complex just a Pines family trait? He sighed, sifting through the photos until he found one of him and Stan as kids, faded and desaturated. "That's a damn lie, Stanley," he said. "You spent most of your life trying to find your family. Trying to find me.

"By the time you managed to open the portal, I'd given up on ever returning home. I wasn't certain I'd have any home to which I could return. I'd driven away everyone I'd ever cared about. All I wanted to do was defeat Bill beause I thought that was the only thing left for me in the multiverse. I thought my distance from you would protect me, but all it did was hurt me. I wasted so much time being angry with you, but deep down, I missed my brother. After the memory gun? After nearly losing you again? There's no way in this dimension or any other that I'm going to let that happen now."

Tears formed in Stanley's eyes, thought he attempted to maintain his scowl. "There's stuff you don't know about me. Stuff I wish I didn't have to remember."

"That goes both ways, Stanley. But perhaps we should be more focused on creating new memories than on rehashing the old ones?"

Stan smiled slightly at the photo in his hands. "Yeah, poindexter. Perhaps."

Ford put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Well, do—"

A whisper from the other side of the door stopped him mid-sentence.

"Can you see them? Are they hugging yet?"

"Mabel, shush! They'll—"

"Hear you?" Stan finished Dipper's sentence.

Dipper muttered something under his breath and then slinked out from behind the doorway. "Hey, Grunkle Stan. Hey, Grunkle Ford," he said. He looked as sweaty and nervous as usual, glancing back at Mabel as she crossed the threshold behind him. "We, uh, may have overheard more than none of that conversation."

"Figures," Stan chuckled. "Nosy kids."

"Guilty." Dipper put his hands up.

"Grunkle Stan, I'm sorry for setting off that cannon and for throwing a big party without asking if that's what you wanted and for using your Pitt Cola cans for grappling hook target practice," Mabel blurted out in one breath.

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, kiddo!" Stan sat up and waved Mabel over.

She pulled her hair over her shoulder, nervously running her fingers through it, and stepped closer to where Stan and Ford were seated. "I didn't mean to upset you," she whispered.

"Let me talk for a second, okay, Mabel?"

She nodded, her eyes watering again.

"That party is just about the nicest thing anybody's ever done for me," her grunkle said. "I'm sorry for making you feel like you did something bad. My brain's just a little wonky, you know?

"It's okay," she said. "I…I think my brain might be a little wonky, too."

Stan reached out and ruffled her hair. "Well, good! 'Cuz I can't be the only wonky one around here."

The tension held in Ford's shoulders dissipated as the smile returned to Stan's face. Mabel hugged Stan, even tighter than she had when they'd first greeted each other. "I love you, Grunkle Stan," she said. "And you really are my hero."

"I was gonna say the same thing about you, pumpkin."

When Mabel asked Stan if he wanted to go back up, he wanted to say yes immediately. "I think I need another minute or two, kiddo," he said instead. "You three should go back up. I'll be there soon."

Ford gave him a look like he wasn't entirely convinced by Stan's claim. Stan nodded, hoping that would be reassuring enough. Ford got to his feet, said something to Mabel a Ducktective marathon, and the two of them headed for the door. Dipper stayed behind.

"Something bugging you, kid?" Stan asked. "Besides those freaky mosquitos, I mean."

Dipper scratched the back of his neck like it had been bitten by those freaky mosquitos. "Well, um, I'm not sure how to say this but…what you said a second ago, about wanting to forget some sh—stuff. I sort of get it, I think.' He glanced at the door the other twins had just gone through. "Don't get me wrong, last summer was amazing—but also…traumatizing. Haha."

"Wasn't all gnomes and mini golf, huh?"

His nephew shuddered. "Nope. Definitely not. But anyways—" he cleared his throat. "—I guess I just wanted to say that I know remembering stuff isn't always easy. But, I mean, at least for me, talking about it helps. Mabel was there for most of what happened, but there's other stuff, like the whole being possessed by Bill thing that she doesn't totally understand. But she's a good listener. And it seems like Great Uncle Ford is, too."

"Heh, you're probably right." Stan felt himself smile. This kid had gone through too much for his own good, and here he was trying to comfort an old man. And here that old man was learning from him. "We should probably get back to that party, huh?"

"Probably," Dipper agreed as Stan stood up. "Also, for what it's worth, I'm really glad that you're here. And that we get to spend another summer with you and Great Uncle Ford."

"Me too, kiddo," Stan said. "Me too."