Chapter Text
Twin brothers Stanley and Stanford Pines were born with wings.
On its own this wasn’t terribly shocking--unexpected and rare certainly--but they were hardly the first, a minority of monster blood that slipped into family lines from time to time, from a cause that still wasn’t fully understood. And it wasn’t until later that they saw and fully understood the subtle cues from their parents faces (the frazzled stress lines in their mother’s face, and the sharp countenance of their father’s unsmiling gaze), expressions that were only the smallest precursor to what came next.
Not Stanley, nor any of his family, knew for the longest time what kind of monster blood ran through his veins. His wings were all sunburst reds and oranges that impressed the eyes, but were unrecognizable and then eventually brushed off when no answer to their origin could be found. The boy didn’t mind--at first--and thought of flying appealed more than some special ability or pedigree, but his brother was something else entirely.
Stanford was all extras and additions, from his six-fingered hands to his tufted tawny tail to his raw talent and brains that were ultimately all too fitting for a Griffon. And history showed that they always went far in life, no matter who they started out as. And Stanford hung over history books and soaked that knowledge up like a sponge, thinking that no matter how many jibes cut into him from the “normal” children, he was going to be better one day.
The younger twin by contrast, didn’t want to think about what it meant to him--chose not to think about it, wanted to avoid Filbrick’s distance that felt more like a thin sheet of tolerance and his brother’s budding supremacy.
(Because the history books said as much, didn’t they? Griffons were special, and important. Stanford said that, and his brother was a poor liar.)
Instead he dragged Stanford out to the beach and showed him how he learned to hide his wings under his clothes by folding them almost flat against his back, pulling his brother’s glasses from his face with a laugh, “Check it out, we’ll look the same!” Nevermind that Stanley could have just put on his own pair to match, but that would have been admitting defeat in his eyes.
“Stanley!” Hands fumbled for the specs, grabbing insistently at his brother’s arm, “No we won’t! What about my tail?”
Stanley met his gaze and laughed again carelessly, “Just stuff it down your pants, dummy!” His statement was met with a punch in the shoulder and a proclamation of his grossness, finally dissolving into giggles. They promised journeys of adventure, flying away somewhere like an unstoppable team, ready to take on the world some day. He couldn’t help the way his laughter tapered off almost nervously, unable to ignore the nameless worry in the back of his mind.
(He didn’t tell Stanford. His brother didn’t need to shoulder his twin’s doubts, his seed of inadequacy.)
The feeling didn’t go away when they got older, not when Stanford won more awards and small moments of approval from a father hadn’t wanted kids in the first place, and Stanley clung to his physical strength in a desperate attempt to make up for lost ground. It didn’t bridge the gap between them, but at the very least, he wasn’t getting beat up so one-sidedly anymore. He might not be a Griffon--marked to be great from birth--but at least he wasn’t the most pathetic kid in school anymore.
Or maybe that was a lie.
Stanley was always good at lying, and when he wasn’t lying to his family--or himself--he could even stand to be a little proud of it. He was a performer with brilliant red wings, who could dazzle the girls for a minute or two before he scared them off with his mouth; who deceived strangers for money to spend on presents, assorted sciencey things his brother’s limited allowance couldn’t afford.
He didn’t aim very high.
The twins knew full well Filbrick favored Shermie, his “normal” child, more or less tolerated Stanford for what he represented and could bring to their family, and Stanley fell by the wayside. It didn’t help that the man was one of those that saw their monster blood as something unnatural and unpleasant, what he saw as yet another drawback towards being a father. Their mother could barely deal with them, always with taut nerves when there wasn’t a receiver pressed against her ear. Only running away to the beach was escape enough to relieve the tension, learning to fly and dreaming of the day he could finally have that adventure free of expectations. And as long as Stanford was there, he could take the feeling of always being second place.
(Stanford never told him. About his lack of faith in such a future, or his own ambitions. Ignorance may be bliss, but the truth will always out.)
Stanley should have known it would all blow up in his face sooner or later. Should’ve known better when he saw that pamphlet in his brother’s hands and the giddy look of unrestrained excitement on his face. Mentioning their childhood adventures was a last-ditch attempt and it was already far too late for that, and he clamped down on his gloom and stared down at the folded scrap of blue paper Stanford held onto so tightly.
There were bronze griffon statues guarding the gates of West Coast Tech, and there were stars in his brother’s eyes.
(It would be the last time in decades that Stanley would ever see him happy.)
And then he broke it. Broke his Ma’s stretched thin nerves, his Dad’s limited patience, and Stanford’s smile. Being so utterly, dreadfully alone was the reward.
~~~
It was a given that everything became harder to deal with after that, food he’d taken for granted was as precious as the money he sought, and cold nights with little shelter were more than commonplace.
The down feathers helped, somewhat, but Stanley was becoming more and more reluctant to rely on them now, ashamed of what he had since birth (and couldn’t control any more than that). In the past the wings were a blessing of a sort; they were another thing he could share with his brother, even though in the end a Griffon was full of so many differences. And after everything that had fallen apart between them, those differences were all the more clear now...and they hurt. One of the few self-indulgent purchases he made was for a thick coat, not so much for the warmth and comfort it might bring, but how easy it was to hide his wings the way he did jokingly as preteen kid--when the action was innocent, before everything went to shit.
On better days he could even stand to be angry about everything that happened, and anger was on the whole more comforting that the other emotions, so Stanley held onto it whenever possible. Anger at his Dad for throwing him out with nothing, and even some towards Stanford for turning away when he needed him.
He thinks that maybe, between his failings and the way things had broken apart between them all, that he had never really deserved his Ma’s patience in him either. In spite of her obvious stress, she did the best she could by him, and Stanley couldn’t help but selfishly want it all back.
(Could a monster even expect that much?)
Stanley would support himself indefinitely that way if he could, continuing to move forward out of pure spite for the world around him, a walking mass of bitterness, loneliness, and desperation. But he needed more than schoolyard trickery to get by, had to up his game and do a bit more than dazzle them. A smile was the easiest emotion to get people to empty their pockets, even if it was as fake as the rest of him, it worked nonetheless. And he learned to sell and pander to what the public thought they needed.
(What he convinced them they needed.)
Stan Pines, con man on the rise.
But there was one approach Stan hadn’t once considered until one shrewd and prospective customer pointed out the exposed feathers of his wings and asked if he considered selling those. That monster feathers were actually valuable to the right people.
Oh.
He...he hadn’t thought about it.
And yet Stanley couldn’t help but remember years ago when he was nine and a clumsy attempt at flight went wrong, crashing him into a tree, losing a tooth and three feathers as a result. Though the damage to his wing was more important in his eyes. He ran to his brother then, clutching the red plumes too tightly in his fingers and asked if he could fix it. Stanford laughed at him, told him monster feathers grew back; as long as he left the primaries alone, he’d be perfectly fine in a few weeks. That seemed like forever when Stanley was a kid but now, so far from home and nothing concrete or significant to his name...it was actually frightening how much he was considering it.
Stanley put it off as long as he could, taking up as many odd jobs and opportunities for a con rather think about the option. Somehow, in spite of all the grief and lingering pain they’d caused him, the idea of selling his feathers still managed to make his stomach turn. Because he also knew what they’d end up as: accessories, decorations, things people would parade around to show off how impressive and stylish they were. More valuable in a stranger’s hands than his own apparently.
But no matter how hard he tried, Stanley never managed to keep up a profit for very long; he bled money faster than he made it. It was impossible to face his family like this.
So he gave in. Sat on the edge of a motel bed with a twisted loop of metal wire in his hands working up the will to use it, trying not to think too deeply on what he was doing. ‘They’re monster feathers, they’ll grow back. Just...just avoid the primaries. The rest’ll grow back…’ Stan took a deep breath and pulled one wing closer, and didn’t look.
The first loss was sloppy, the feather crumpling in the reflexively stressed clench of his hand.
The second broke off at the base, lingering before the useless plume was pulled away.
The third was easier but his hands had already started to go numb at that point.
Stanley stopped counting after the fourth.
By the time he finished, the floor was covered with heaps of bright crimson and his wings were so much smaller and colder (almost bare), and the lack of warmth made something inside his chest clench in pain. It took what seemed like ages for Stanley to regain his self-awareness, staring down at the mess he’d made all over the motel floor and laughed with what might have been a hint of hysteria coloring his voice, “Looks like a fuckin’ crime scene in here.”
The customer tip had definitely been correct; the feathers sold for a pretty penny. Enough to keep him afloat for a while, but not enough to live off of for very long, not when it took almost a month for the full set to grow back. And in the meantime, what was left of Stan’s wings were concealed under his coat; they hurt to look at and strangers didn’t need to see.
He promised himself he wouldn’t do it again.
Stanley Pines has always been a good liar.
~~~
Rico was the kind of guy whose meeting you regretted, like a nasty hangover or a fruitless attempt at dumpster diving, and he had been a time bomb waiting to go off since the first day Stanley met him. Columbia was a robbery gone sour and the government was more or less deaf to his verbal trickery and the remaining option was to wait them out in a long haul, which was far from the most pleasant idea in the world. He considered flying out only for a moment or two, eyeing the armed guards watching the perimeter, and thought better of it.
And unless he made some connections with his cellmates and found a way out...well, Stanley didn’t want to stick around long enough for his monster heritage to be outed and discovering what the fallout of that would be. The fact that they were recently plucked was the only reason they were small enough to be hidden under the jumpsuit, and that was just temporary.
(It didn’t help that his health always worsened whenever he inflicted that on himself, and the chill from the elements cut deeper than before; Stan saw it as a small price to pay to afford food.)
So Stan was on a time limit, but thankfully Jorge and Rico already had connections on the outside they could use to shorten their sentence, and it was his job to find a way to get in on that deal. It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, not when Jorge came within a hair’s breadth of shanking him on the second day while his buddy laughed about it at Stanley’s expense. Over the next few weeks, only no shortage of desperation and bouts of clever wordplay managed to save his chances.
Rico masterminded their prison break in the early hours of the morning meal, when a dull explosion rocked the building at the other end of the complex, and the inmates went mad from the commotion.
Whatever doubts Stan had about whether getting involved with them was the best idea faded when he stepped outside the complex. Now he just had to swap his identity again, cover his tracks, and sweep this whole mess under the carpet where it belonged.
But, loose ends weren’t so easily tied up.
Despite his part as a last-minute addition (mostly as a distraction), Rico offered to toss him extra jobs when he needed work, and hell if it wasn’t tempting. But...men like Rico never offered anything for free, especially not when they hadn’t really needed him. Stanley was desperate, and his former cellmate knew that full well, more than he realized at the time.
Stanley did his best to keep his distance, only taking jobs on the fringes of the man’s connections, or when he had no other choice. Somehow even plucking himself seemed preferable--despite how it made him sick to his stomach, both literally and figuratively--and gave them a wide berth.
(It wasn’t enough.)
~~~
What was supposed to be a simple delivery took a turn for worse when Stanley stomped into the silent warehouse that was supposed to be his meeting place, only to have the doors slammed shut behind him. That was never a good sign.
Adrenaline crashing into him like a freight train, instincts cultivated from years on the streets compelled him to turn and launch his fist into the dark shape rapidly approaching from the left, only to tackled from behind by another. Fight or flight impulses took over in an instant, and Stan was all too eager to let ‘em have it. As a hand pressed clumsily at his back and what was hidden there, he jabbed his elbow backwards into a nose sharply, sneering in smug satisfaction at the sound of cartilage crunching under force. “Sonuvabitch--!” The curse was abruptly cut off by the heel of his flailing boot, wrestling free of his attackers’ grip and dodging away.
The dim light filtering through the filthy windows was enough for Stan to get a clearer glimpse of what he was up against, gritting his teeth in frustration at how frustratingly outnumbered he was. His hand was digging the worn switchblade from his pocket when a hand tightened into his wrist and he was tumbling again, trying to shake off the grip with less of the success from before--spitting a stream of expletives and trying to angle his trapped hand where he could stab at whoever was behind him. “Ah, fuck!” Stan felt the twist of his wrist and hands wrestling his knife from his fingers and swung his head backwards--tried to rattle them, but the other man was fast enough to pull away in time.
The move unbalanced him enough to send his knees slamming painfully into the concrete floor, breath expelling his lungs in harsh gasp as the rough fight came to a premature end. He wasn’t even surprised to hear Rico’s sharp voice belting out orders in Spanish somewhere behind him, and even had to roll his eyes in frustration; the man should know by now that Stan could understand most of what he was saying just fine.
(But the reason for the betrayal was more important than the betrayal itself; they were never really friends.)
It was mention of his coat and the pressure of his own knife sawing through the worn fabric that had him alert and thrashing again, but it did nothing to stop the cloth from being prized away and for full, bright red feathers to come bursting free from their confinement. In between pluckings, the wings were full and vibrant, cutting a sharp contrast to his mangled coat and dirty undershirt.
They were, to most normal people, breathtaking. Almost a decade’s worth of poor health and hardship hadn’t withered his wings--in fact they seemed, paradoxically, more brilliant than ever.
Stan almost got free then--the abruptly freed wings clipping his captors across limbs and faces--about to take flight and hurl himself through the skylight if that’s what it took to escape, but was cut short by a heavy weight across his back and something coarse and restraining (rope, of course it was rope) trapped his arms and wings in place more harshly than his coat ever did. But when a particularly hard jerk on his bindings cause him to reflexively release a noise of pain, Rico stepped up to the culprit and punched the man hard across the face.
Though the words were spoken low, Stan still heard them clear as day.
“Damage the merchandise Antonio, and you’ll be breathing out of a tube by the end of the day.”
Merchan--! No.
(Monster feathers sold well to the right people. Apparently, that didn’t stop at just feathers.)
“Rico, you fucking rat! You sold me out?!” White hot anger spurred him into action, and the rest of the men were hard-pressed to keep him from launching over and tearing Rico apart, bound arms or no. And really, he hadn’t expected much morals from the man, but this was way over the line.
(Which one of them was really the monster here?)
The sour man crossed the distance between and yanked Stan’s head up by the hair so he could glare straight into his face, dropping the Spanish to spit words at him in a guttural growl, “As far as I’m concerned, Pines, I did you a favor.”
What?
“You think I don’t know how desperate you are? I had a hunch on what you were and tracked down one of your former customers for your little ‘side-business.’ Whaddya know it, he’s not fully satisfied with his purchase; turns out he doesn’t just want a bag of feathers, but the source of them. He’s offered to make me quite a wealthy man in exchange,” Stan’s face paled, feeling sick to his stomach. For a moment, he thought they were going to cut them off completely, but this...this was worse. He tried to keep his identity a secret from the people he sold to, but if he slipped up somewhere, it might explain why Rico found out and bothered to keep a lead on him for so long. Even so the man continued, his lips pulling up in a sneer, “Don’t look so upset, Mr. Pines, the guy has more money than he knows what to do with. Maybe he’ll even keep his bird in a golden cage.”
The ropes groaned in strain as the red wings rattled beneath them, but the noise was lost underneath the so-called “bird’s” anger, kicking his feet and hurling all the worst insults he could think of. Rico wasn’t concerned in the slightest, stepping away and addressing his lackeys without lowering his voice, “Load ‘em up, we got a long drive ahead of us.”
They dragged the struggling monster behind the building to a waiting car and stuffed him forcefully into the trunk, the dull light of an overcast sky disappearing with a crack.
(Stanley felt overheated in that small space, like he was burning, fighting off rising panic.)
Keep going, don’t give up. Not here.
It took hours to loosen his bonds enough to get to the catch, blunt nails and teeth tearing at the interior fabric and lining before he could reach the tangled wiring, the lock. Stan lost blood, and a tooth, in the process. Another hour passed, roughly jimmying it open amid the rattling of the car. When the shaking of the vehicle finally stopped, the oblivious captors piling out of the car and into a cheap motel for the night, Stan popped the trunk and dragged his cramped body out into the chilly night air. Closing the trunk with a snap, he leaned on the cooled metal and tried to work some circulation back into his limbs. He didn’t linger there long, pushing off the car and disappearing into the night, flying like he hadn’t in many years.
(Stanley didn’t stop fleeing until he’d put over a state between them, until his panic settled, until the fire churning in his gut finally calmed.)
~~~
‘Please Come.’
Those were the only words written--shakily--on a postcard addressed to one Stanley Pines, from some backwoods town in the middle of nowhere named Gravity Falls. He didn’t get mail very often (real, honest-to-god mail that wasn’t a bill or a thinly veiled threat) and reacted instinctively with a bat raised high at the first knock at his door, until the postman did his job and went on his way. And really, what kind of message was that? Only two words, no explanation, and an ultimatum leaving no room for argument.
But the actual message was of little value compared to the name of the sender.
Stanford Pines, the brother he hadn’t even seen in ten years.
There was the part of him that wanted to hold on to old bitterness, to be angry at the lack of contact, and isolation that permeated all those years. Anger kept Stan going for a long time when he had nothing else; it wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to simply let it all go, in spite of how many problems his temper caused him. But those feelings were practically drowned out by the desire for reconciliation, to finally have a family again, to have an end in sight for wandering and pain.
So he went, dropping his half-started travel plans, and made a beeline for Oregon with nothing more than a patched up coat and a peso to his name. He had to sell his feathers again in order to afford the trip--triple checking to make sure he wasn’t tracked--but this time would be last he ever resorted to it. Stan was serious about that promise for the first time; he wouldn’t go back to his family, let alone his brother, without leaving that in the past for good.
So Stan went, in the dead of winter, when the biting cold cut clear through his patched jacket and the remainder of his feathers.
Stanford lived in the woods, sequestered away behind wire fencing, keep out signs, and boarded up windows. The lights were out and the shack was silent, foreboding, and Stan felt his jaw tensing at the sight. A creepy hermit’s hut didn’t fit a shining star like Ford, a man who--for good or otherwise--drew attention to himself no matter where he went.
(Stanford Pines couldn’t fade into the background, couldn’t be overlooked, because he was too special, too important. And the older he got, the more aware of it he became.)
Neither was it fitting for Ford to be shoving a crossbow in his face the moment he opened the door, and Stan could practically feel his hopes withering. The brief moment he spared to comfort him was not enough, and Ford’s comment on how he still felt the need to hide his wings only stung. That and Ford just felt so...wrong.
There was something flighty and fragile in his movements, the darting eyes and wild flicks of his tail, mixed with a tangible layer of paranoia that he recognized, if not understood. Stan could hardly pay attention to the technobabble on dimensional travel and other worlds, his eyes drifting to the dark bags under his brother’s eyes (when had he last slept?) and the ragged, unkempt mass of his wings gone untended to for who knows how long.
(Ten years alone should have killed those protective instincts. Why were they still there?)
Ford was talking about mistakes and threats (and why would he have a would-be doomsday device in his basement in the first place), and how he turned to Stanley and--
--and then he put that stupid book in his hands, told him to leave, and Stan’s senses went completely haywire.
They had fought before, but never like this, and it took Ford’s boot pressing him into fiery heat to regain most of his senses. The brand seared into his shoulder blade, just at the base of his right wing, and the whole limb instantly went limp in response. But even as the heat tore an agonized scream from his throat, another flame was building in his heart, spreading down his limbs with a pain that was more than just physical. Short of breath, collapsing to the floor with a hand clutching at his burning chest, Stan thought--for that horrifying moment--that he was dying.
His brother pulled away from him, holding his journal and stuttered something that he couldn’t hear over the pounding in his heart. He didn’t finish before Stan had planted his fist into his face.
But when he shoved Ford another time, just to drive the point home, he started floating into the air instead of to the ground. And it was then that they fully realized that the Portal was active, spewing pale blue light and drawing in anything close to it. Then Stanford’s russet brown wings flared out in an attempt to get away, and for a moment, it looked like he would succeed.
Then his tail drifted too close to the glowing circle and disappeared into it, straightening taut under the pull with an accompanying howl of pain, and his movements became much more frenzied.
“Stanley, do something!”
What was he supposed to do? He didn’t understand the machine enough to know how to turn it off in time, and Stanford didn’t know his right wing was limp from a deep, throbbing pain, and both practically stripped bare; if it weren’t for his coat, it would be dragging across the floor. He could no more fly up to grab him than an ordinary human could. Stanley stood there, frozen with panic and indecision, until the book he’d tried to destroy was flung into his hands.
There was an explosion of light and then Stanford was...gone.
Everything was broken again.
~~~