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In a strange case of role reversal, Stanley is reading a book when Ford interrupts him.
Now, it’s not one of the nerd books that his brother picks up for fun, obviously, because now that he’s no longer obligated to read science and math volumes, he makes an effort to avoid them entirely.
No, he picked it up on shore, wandering aimlessly around some dusty bookshop that Ford had gotten lost in. There had been a slanted old shelf piled with the things, marked down in price—trashy romance books, the kind Stan used to tear the covers off of and pretend he wasn’t reading in his car at night when he was in his twenties.
He’d checked out before Ford had made his way back to him at the front of the store, and stashed it in his puffer coat ‘til they’d made it back to the boat—and just to be sure, he’d snagged the lone volume written in Spanish. He may as well use the advantages he has, right?
Now, a bit of embarrassment dissipated, he sits on the worn-in couch in the galley, flipping pages at a moderate rate and getting invested in the steamy romance between Alex and Marcielo. Actually, he thinks, the plot is similar to his most popular The Duchess Approves fanfiction—another clandestine hobby—and, if the volume had come out a few decades later, he might think that they ripped him off.
He’s half paying attention, half mulling over this possibility when he notices the shadow of his brother looming over the book in his hands, staring at him silently.
It’s not all that abnormal—well, not for Ford, anyway. He has a tendency to forget that you typically have to speak to start a conversation, and not just stare ominously at a person until they telepathically understand that you want to communicate.
Luckily, Stan has something close enough to that ability without being incredibly invasive (and reminiscent of past experiences): basic social intuition.
Wait, he thinks, he’s staring at my book.
Stan snaps it shut, immediately sliding it under his arm, then pressing that arm to his side. Perfect. Not suspicious at all.
“What?” He demands, furrowing his brow. “I wasn’t doing anything weird! Shut up!” Damn. You are getting worse at lying by the day. Better brush up on that.
“I—I didn’t accuse you of anything,” Ford replies stiffly, and suddenly, Stan can’t help but notice that he seems tense, or ill at ease. His posture is even more ramrod straight than usual, his expression is strained, and he’s visibly trying not to fidget with his hands.
Stan raises an eyebrow suspiciously. “Good.” Ford does not relax. “Okay, so, what d’ya want?”
His brother clears his throat pointedly. “Um. I would like to speak with you about something.” He gives in to the urge to fidget, twisting his fingers together nervously. “Something very serious.”
Stan stiffens a bit, caught off guard. “Oh. What’s—”
“But clearly you’re…busy, at the moment, and now isn’t exactly an ideal time,” Ford adds rapidly. “So—so, in order for this to go as smoothly and painlessly as possible, I think it would be best if we spoke about it tomorrow. Maybe, um, in the afternoon.”
Stan makes a face. “What? Why not now? I told you, I’m not busy!”
Ford pretends to look at his watch. “Well, perhaps not, but it is getting a bit late, so—”
“It’s eight-thirty,” Stan replies, a tad concerned now. “You hardly sleep, how’s that—”
“I just—I just wanted to give you time to prepare! I wouldn’t want to have you react inappropriately, after all!” His twin nods quickly, visibly nervous, so Stan decides to back off a bit.
“Um. Okay, Ford. Sure. Whatever. I’ll make sure to react to whatever surprising information you’re gonna give me like I’ve heard it a hundred times already.”
“That would be excellent!” His brother replies in earnest, then turns on his heel, and strides away before Stan can stop him, disappearing into their bedroom.
Initially, Stan leans back on the couch, chuckling and shaking his head. Ford can be inscrutable this way sometimes—it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. He’s simultaneously oddly formal, incredibly anxious, and utterly unfamiliar with Earthly social conventions. In short, sometimes he does weird shit.
Usually, Stan doesn’t mind. Maybe he’s going to tell me he discovered a new species of moth, he thinks. Ford would think that was important and groundbreaking, right?
Imagine he’s got some kinda rare disease, only a few days to live, and he wasted a whole one putting off a hard conversation, he jokes to himself. Sounds like something he would do.
Or…he thinks, or, what if…
Suddenly, he finds himself unable to produce any further jokes or light-hearted examples.
What if he really is sick? He could have found something, he runs all kinds of tests all the time—I tell him not to run them on me, but I’m pretty sure he’s lying when he tells me he won’t. Wait, what if I’m sick? I can’t be sick! We’ve only been out here six months! I haven’t even seen the kids again, yet! Soos and Melody get married next summer! What if me or Ford wasn’t here to see it? What if both of us weren’t? What if one of us was alone?
He’s begun to chew on his nail, stressed.
I can’t be alone again. It can’t be that, right? Well, if not, what could it be? Did something happen to Dipper or Mabel? To McGucket? How would he have heard about it and not me? I’ve been checking my phone—do I need to look at the stupid thing more?
He fishes through his pants pockets and pulls out the device, powering it on and scrolling through his notifications. There are pictures and videos from Mabel—some kind of shadow-puppet show involving a hand wearing a squareish red hat—and computer repair instructions from Fiddleford—turn it off and then back on again—but, beyond that, nothing of importance whatsoever, especially not on any chains including both him and Ford, or in the news in general.
So, what the fuck, then? Is it something that only he and I are supposed to know about? Or, like, something that he wants to tell me before he tells anyone else?
What if it’s something about us, like, how we’ve been getting along? He wouldn’t message anyone about that, he would be nervous to have that kind of conversation, right?
Then, he thinks of what Ford said in specific.
…as smoothly and painlessly as possible…
…give you time to prepare…
…wouldn’t want you to react inappropriately…
…something very serious…
Then, it hits him like a ton of bricks. Oh my god. He’s going to kick me out, isn’t he?
Suddenly, it makes perfect sense. Obviously, Ford would be nervous to come to him, to prepare this confrontation—look at what had happened last time they fought! They nearly ended the world! And before that, Ford had gone into the portal, and as kids, the science project—of course he would approach that with caution, of course he wouldn’t want Stan to ‘react inappropriately,’ to destroy something or nearly kill them both again—
What if, when he’d said he was ‘giving him time to prepare,’ he meant time to pack his shit, to make a new plan, and get ready to get the fuck out?
What am I thinking? Stan asks himself. Of course that’s what it means! Why else would he be so stiff and nervous, so standoffish, try to get away from me so quickly, to avoid any questions? Matter of fact, he’s been acting weird all day! When I asked him if he wanted to go fishing with me earlier, he said yes and didn’t complain once! He didn’t even bring a book or anything!
Holy shit. It’s like when you’re about to put your dog down, so you feed them a chocolate cupcake or something before the appointment! Make them happy one last time before it’s wraps!
What could this even be about? It’s not like we had a fight this week or anything! Stan doesn’t even notice that he’s gotten up from the couch, begun to pace nervously. Except…except, now that I think about it, he did seem kind of annoyed by my singing last time we went out on an expedition—I can’t help it! I don’t like silence! God forbid I try to fill the dead air a little! And—oh, shit, and—he hasn’t liked much of my cooking this week! The other day, when I made scrambled eggs? He practically grimaced on the third bite!
Fuck, he thinks, fuck! There’s no other explanation, is there? He’s done with me! Tomorrow afternoon—tomorrow afternoon, he’ll tell me to pack my shit and get out! Oh, God. What am I going to do?
His hands are tangled in his hair, and as he paces a loop around the galley, he catches a stray glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, past the kitchen sink. He looks nervous, pale, strung-out—he stops in his tracks, sucking in air, pulling out his phone once more.
9:30. Have I seriously spent an hour thinking about all of this?? Suddenly, he almost wants to laugh aloud. I’m being ridiculous, right? I mean, come on. Ford wouldn’t kick me out over some eggs and an annoying habit, right? We’re back! The Pines Twins! Stanley and Stanford! We saved the world through the power of sibling-ship or whatever! We could easily withstand some simple stuff like that! I should just brush my teeth, get ready for bed, put it all out of my mind. I’m sure he was just being dramatic, like usual. Probably nothing to worry about—no, definitely nothing to worry about. Ford would kill me if he knew I was thinking about this again. Classic Stanley—making mountains out of molehills, jumping to the worst possible conclusion in every situation, right?
Only, as he washes his face, brushes his teeth, and changes into pajamas, the question keeps ringing in his ears: right? Right? Right? He wouldn’t do that, right?
As he lies down, staring up at Ford’s bunk, his confidence flicks off with the automatic lights in the room.
Oh, who am I kidding? Of course he would! Bastard’s done it before—or threatened to! He was ready to kick me out of the Shack at the end of the summer! I mean, seriously, over my cooking, over a little singing? God forbid one of us has a sense of humor! Why wouldn’t he just have the balls to tell me, huh? Why push it off? He’s seriously going to take my dream away after only a few months, and he couldn’t even admit it on the spot? He had to schedule a conversation? What am I gonna tell the kids? And to think, he’s sleeping peacefully right now, not a care in the multiverse!
Stan’s fists and teeth are clenched, suddenly, rage burning in his chest like a hungry flame. After everything I did for him! Thirty years of work, spending my entire night trying to bring him back from whatever hell-dimension he was in that week! Ten years of missing him, before that! After I sacrificed everything, after I could have forgotten the kids entirely, all our memories, forgotten Soos and Wendy, forgotten him—after he erased my mind to clean up his mess!!!
I should—I should knock his lights out! What is he, crazy? I helped build this damn boat! My income paid for it, just like I paid for everything, for three decades! If—If anyone should have to leave, it should be him! He wants to separate us? He should be the one to go!
You know what? I ought to wake him up right now, tell him I’ve figured out his little plan, that I won’t let him do this to me!
He sits up, throwing the covers off of his legs, preparing to climb the ladder up to the top bunk, to shake the damn bed until Ford wakes up—
Come on, Stanley. Is this really all that surprising?
—except, a conniving voice in his head interrupts him at the last second.
I mean, it was only a matter of time. You’re a complete failure in every possible way, and you’re surprised he’s done with you? I would’ve bet he’d drop you off somewhere months ago.
What? No. That’s not true! I did plenty—I do plenty! I’m useful! I can be useful!
Really? The voice taunts. What skills do you have that qualify you to assist Ford, huh? Clearly not cooking!
I help him! Stan insists. I clean, too, I navigate! I help him with the research, sometimes! I—I make him laugh! When he has bad days, I—
Really? Are jokes all you have? You really are just a carnival barker, aren’t you? What, are you gonna pull out a clown nose?
No, no! I mean—I can be better! I can earn my keep, I can do more! I can take up less resources, less space, I can figure out how to do more! There are repairs that need to get done, I can fix the computer, I—I don’t cost much, already—
It still won’t be enough. You’re just not smart enough, Stanley. Any old grunt could do what you do. Ford could do it easily. You can’t help where it matters. Fundamentally, you’re useless. At least you used to be good at hitting things, at protecting him. Look at him now, look at you. He can protect himself.
Stan’s breathing has picked up, a bit, and he rolls onto his side, trying to muffle the sound with a hand.
Stop, he pleads with the voice, Stop, stop, you’re wrong. Ford loves me. He wants me here. This is our dream.
The assertions feel hollow, empty words his brother ordered him to remember before he fucked up everything, let it all fall apart.
Come on, Stan. You and I both know that’s not true. You’re a tool—a broken one. And you’re being sent to the scrapyard. It’s about damn time.
Stan draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself as if to shield from an oncoming blow.
Useless. I’m useless, and he knows it. I’m nothing more than a nuisance. He’ll be glad to be rid of me, just like Pa was, just like everyone is, all the time. Life improves when you get rid of Stan Pines. It’s just how it works.
I’m an idiot for thinking this could last. I’m an idiot for thinking I was decent at something other than lying, cheating, or riding off of Ford’s coattails.
That’s all I’m good for. Nothing more. I shouldn’t have fooled myself. I thought I wouldn’t get my hopes up ever again, after Ford came back and things weren’t fixed—and here I am.
What am I supposed to do, when he tells me to go? Do I have it in me to start another hustle? Live like I used to again? Would the kids even want to come see me anymore, if he wasn’t here?
I wouldn’t have anyone. Soos is starting his own life, the kids like Ford better anyway, he could take care of them better, and I just…I wouldn’t exist again. I would be nothing again. I would lose everyone. I’m going to lose everyone.
What would be the point of going on, after that?
He stares up at the ceiling for a long while, trying to find the will to live.
Nothing comes to him.
There won’t be a point, after tomorrow. After he kicks me out.
A bone-deep exhaustion settles into him, a sadness so potent he can only close his eyes against it, unable to even cry. It washes over him in waves, and he bobs like a corpse in the water, letting it drown him.
I may as well sleep, he thinks, I can pack tomorrow, before he tells me, get out of his hair. I’ll be gone quickly, I’ll take care of it in a way where nobody will find out, just like I planned to when I was supposed to leave the Shack. Disappear without a trace.
I’ve done it before.
Stan turns onto his side, squeezing his lifeless eyes shut, and willing himself into a fitful, miserable slumber.
When the alarm clock goes off the next morning, there’s a moment where it’s just another day—a new adventure at sea with his brother and best friend.
Then, Stan remembers. Today isn’t just any other day—it’s the last day.
He chooses to spend the greater part of it lying in bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling.
Stan hears Ford bustling about the room, dressing, preparing for the day, but he can’t muster up the energy to say anything to him, keeping his eyes shut, his face buried in the blankets. He feels Ford’s eyes on him for a long while, and there’s a small cough, as if to remind Stan of his presence, to try to get his attention, but Stan does not respond, and Ford’s footsteps leave the bedroom after that.
It’s late morning, around noon, when Stanley sits up, leans over the edge of his bed, and pulls out the packed duffel-bag he has stashed beneath it. A few rolls of money, a pack of cigarettes, a couple sets of clothing, his car keys, the size-changing flashlight, and the shrunken-down version of his car, ready to be grown and used as a getaway vehicle. A black gun-case sits heavily at the bottom. Stan inventories it, zips it shut, and then just sits there with it in his lap for a while, staring at the wall, where a picture of their family is tacked up.
Goodbye, he thinks. Goodbye. It was so great, while it lasted. I should have known nothing good stays that way when I’m around.
Maybe I should write a letter to the kids, he thinks, give them some kind of explanation, even if it’s bullshit.
He’s mentally planning the contents of the letter for several minutes, and is just about to stand up to grab a pen and paper when Ford pokes his head in the bedroom door.
“Stanley.” His voice is unsteady. “Will you come into the kitchen, please? I need to speak with you.”
Too late, Stan laments. It’s already time.
He nods wordlessly, drags himself up, and plods into the galley after his twin.
“Have a seat, please,” Ford requests stiffly.
Stan sits, just staring silently, bracing himself.
“There’s something I feel you should know,” Ford starts, “And I want to start by apologizing that I didn’t tell you before.”
“S’okay,” Stan murmurs absently, looking around the galley, wanting to memorize every inch of it.
“Well, er, thank you.” Ford clears his throat. “I know that this may be difficult for you, considering our childhood, and our father—”
That’s one way of putting it, Stan thinks, nodding.
“—but I want you to just remember that I’m your brother. I’m still the same person, even with, um, the introduction to this piece of information.”
Whether or not we have a relationship, you mean.
Ford pauses. “Do you promise you’ll do that?”
Stan nods again, replying tiredly, “Yeah, Ford. I won’t make a scene.”
“Alright.” A shaky breath. “So. Here goes. I wanted to tell you—” His brother’s hands tremble against the table. “—I wanted to tell you, Stanley, that I’m a homosexual.” He takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping a bit. “I’m gay, Lee.”
Stan just stares at him blankly, for a long moment. He’s waiting for the second blow to hit, for Ford to continue, for the and, more importantly…
But his brother only folds his hands, looking at Stanley expectantly, his face flushed and nervous.
“I know, I know,” Ford adds quickly, “There’s a certain way we were taught to think about this as children, and it may be difficult to unlearn those perspectives, but I sincerely hope, after everything we’ve been through, that you—”
“Wait.” Stan blinks. “Wait. This—” His voice trembles. “—This is what you wanted to talk about? The serious thing that I needed t-to prepare for?”
Ford nods, fidgeting in his seat. “You seem…shocked. I know it may come as a surprise, I know it might—might—”
Stan doesn’t hear what he says beyond that—he’s too busy folding over in a crazed, relieved, ridiculous sort of laughter. It’s nearly uncontrollable—his sides hurt, and he feels his eyes starting to well up a bit.
Oh my god, he thinks, Holy fuck. I am the biggest idiot in the multiverse.
He’s not going to kick me out. He was never going to kick me out.
What the hell was I thinking?
He can’t stop the laughter, the way the tears begin to stream down his face, how he braces himself against his thighs to keep from losing his breath—but when he manages to glance upwards, Ford looks close to a far more anxious, upset kind of tears.
Shit. Oh, shit. This is serious for him. He was actually worried about—about telling me—Stan tries to prevent the giggles from taking over again.
“I—” Ford sputters. “What could possibly be funny about this? Stanley, really! I expected you would treat this as legitimate, considering—”
Stan holds up a hand, stopping him and catching his own breath. “I—hah—I know you’re gay, Six.” He wipes at his eyes, trying to control his sudden, unhinged mirth.
“You do?” Ford asks. “Well, why didn’t you ever raise the subject with me?” He sees Stan’s chuckles still subsiding, and huffs in irritation, “Is this a joke to you, Stan?”
Stan coughs. “No, no—it’s not! It’s just—I read your journal, Sixer! The missing pages, at the end of the summer? I mean, nobody writes about their lab partner like that unless they’re, y’know—”
“Stanley!” Ford cries, “Really! How could you have known and never mentioned—”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal!” Stan exclaims, shrugging. “I mean, so what, you’ve kissed a few dudes?! We’ve all done it, Poindexter, you ain’t special! Like, I get Pa was an asshole about it when we were kids, but, really, I saw the way you used to look at that Tesla poster—”
“Wait, no—I mean, I was only admiring his scientific genius!” Ford sputters.
“Oh, bullshit! You were admiring his—”
“Quit it, Lee, it’s not funny!” Ford’s voice is petulant, whiny, embarrassed. “A-And what do you mean, ‘we’ve all done it?!’ Have you—”
Stan rolls his eyes, laughing exasperatedly once more. “My God, yes, Poindexter, I’ve fucked guys! Alert the media, why don’t you? That’s obviously what I meant! I told you I got around back in the day, didn’t I?”
“Don’t be crass,” His brother chides, “I didn’t think that meant—”
“I was literally reading a gay romance yesterday. I still haven’t finished it!”
“I don’t speak Spanish!” Ford defends.
“There were two men kissing on the cover!”
“You were hiding it!”
“Hiding that I was reading, not that I was reading that!”
“Okay, but the effect was—” Ford stops abruptly in the middle of his sentence. “Hold on—what did you think I was going to ask you about, when I prepared you for this yesterday?”
Stan shifts sheepishly in his seat, all of a sudden, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Oh. That.”
He considers being honest, for a moment, and then makes the split-second decision to obfuscate the truth. “I mean, I dunno, something that I haven’t been aware of for forty-some odd years?”
His twin inspects his face, forming a skeptical expression as he does.
“Like what?” He presses. “What were you thinking about?”
Stan tries to force himself to maintain eye contact, to look relaxed and normal. “Shit, Poindexter, it could have been anything! I mean, you were kind of vague and intimidating, y’know? I guess I just tried not to think about it,” he shrugs.
But Ford’s already caught a whiff of deception. “Why are you lying?” He asks, confused. “I can tell you’re lying, Stanley, which means…which means you must have thought it was something very bad.” He draws back, a moment, gnawing at a fingernail. “I knew it was awkward,” he berates himself, “I knew I should have just said, but I was too scared—”
“No, I mean it, it was fine!” Stan exclaims. “You know me, I’m not really the type to worry—”
“Another lie!” Ford narrows his eyebrows. “I hate when you do this, Stanley! I really don’t like it! Can you just tell me, for Christ’s sake? It’s not going to—”
Stan feels the room closing in on him, feels it getting hard to breathe. Fuck. I just saved myself from this, and now he’s really going to do it. Idiot. Why would I lie? I know he hates that!
Well, he’ll be even madder if he knows I was thinking about that again. What is this, the third time? It upsets him, I know it does. I don’t want to give him more reasons—
Well, look at what I’m doing right now! I’m not exactly helping my case to stay, you know, doing something I know he’ll get upset about—
Wow, I am a class-A idiot, huh? Was almost home free, and then I fucked it up! That’s all I can do, apparently, fuck things up! Shit, I had better find a way to fix this, lie better, cover it up better—
“—Stanley? Stanley! Are you alright?” Ford’s voice breaks through.
Stan’s breath hitches. “Yeah, yeah, ‘M fine, just fine—”
Great job, wow. Stellar performance, really.
“No you’re not, stop saying that!”
“Ford—”
“Just tell me what I did, Lee. Please!”
“You didn’t do anything!”
“Yes I did! You’re freaking out! You were in bed all day today!”
“Stanford. I’m serious, don’t—”
“What would it have been,” Ford says quickly, more to himself than to Stanley, now. “What would you have thought, that you wouldn’t want to admit, if I told you we were discussing something important the next day, something you might react to, something you needed to prepare for—fuck, why would I say that?” He buries his face in his hands.
“It’s okay! Just leave it—”
“No! If you won’t tell me, I’ll figure it—” Suddenly, his head snaps up, his eyes shining with recognition. “Oh.”
Stan’s stomach drops through the floor. He looks down, his face red.
“Stanley,” Ford starts, in that pitying way of his, with the same guilt he always starts with—
“I’m sorry,” Stan murmurs. “I’m sorry, okay? It just happened.”
“Again?” Ford asks, his voice a wounded mix of agitation and potent guilt. “That’s three times, now, Lee, that we’ve had this same misunderstanding in six months!”
“I’m sorry,” Stan repeats, “It just happened, okay? I just thought, what would he be preparing me for like this, and naturally, it just seemed like—like—”
“Like I was going to kick you out,” Ford finishes softly, his face the picture of remorse.
“I just thought, you know, I’ve screwed up a few times this week, and—”
Ford looks genuinely puzzled. “What? No, you haven’t! You haven’t done anything, what makes you think—”
“I dunno!” Stan cries, exasperated. “I dunno, everything? I mean, I fuck everything up! I can’t cook, I bother you on expeditions, I just—I don’t do enough, I don’t work hard enough, I don’t help with the research, I—I—I mean, I would understand, I would get it, if you—”
“Stop.” Ford insists, his voice bordering on angry. “Stanley, stop. I will not permit you to say those things about yourself any longer. I—I won’t tolerate it, especially because they’re not true!”
Stan feels chastised, like a scolded child. He’s unsure of what to say, stunned into silence, scared to speak again lest Ford get more upset.
How do I calm him down? How do I fix this? How do I rewind two minutes, undo this conversation? Do we still have the Time-Tape?
After a moment of consideration, Stan only manages, sheepishly:
“You didn’t like my eggs.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could un-say them. He doesn’t want to seem childish, seem petty, make Ford consider his every little action and how they affect him. It’s selfish, it’s—it’s exactly like him to be bothered about something so utterly irrelevant.
Ford looks at him incredulously. “You think I would kick you out over eggs?!” He seems at a genuine loss, distressed over learning this information. “I-I don’t like the texture sometimes! It’s not—It’s not your fault, Stanley! It’s just me!”
“Sorry, that was stupid—”
“No.” Ford shakes his head. “No, Stan. Your self-esteem is a serious problem. I—I cannot have you thinking you are going to lose your home over fucking breakfast!” His brother looks so stressed, and Stan wishes an enormous pit would open up in the floor and swallow him whole.
“What are we going to do about this, Lee?” Ford is pleading, genuinely desperate for a solution. “I know I’ve messed up in the past, I know, but—but what can I do to convince you that I want you to stay? That I need you here, that I need you in my life?” He starts to tear up a bit. “Please, help me! I want to fix this, I don’t want you to think—I want you to know that you’re staying. That nothing—nothing could make me—” He presses his mouth shut, trying to prevent his voice from breaking.
Stan feels like shit. He wants to sprint from the galley, and lock himself in the bathroom until Ford promises he’ll drop the subject forever. He wants to fake a heart attack, jump off the side of the boat, something—
“We need to do something about this, Stanley.” Ford gives him no route to escape. “I know this is my fault,” he continues, “I know I haven’t made you feel secure in the past, but it really is different now, and I just—I just can’t bear you thinking that I would change my mind on a dime like that.” Another guilty little sigh. “I mean, I understand why you might think that, considering everything—I know I’ve fucked up, okay? I just want…I just want you to understand that it’s different, now.”
“‘S not your fault,” Stan mutters. “It’s mine, it’s Pa’s, it’s—look, Ford, you ain’t the only one who’s taught me that nothing good ever lasts forever, okay? And ninety percent of the people who’ve taught me that haven’t been seventeen-year-old kids whose best friend and twin brother just royally screwed up their life.”
“It wasn’t just when I was seventeen,” Ford replies. “It was every day, every day I didn’t call. It was when you first came to Gravity Falls, it was when I came out of that portal, it was every day after—please, Lee. I think there’s sufficient evidence of that.”
“But all of that was because of stuff I did. It wasn’t for no reason! I mean, I had all that shit coming, right?”
“No! You did not—” Ford sighs. “I won’t rehash this with you again, Stanley. What’s important is that you have this fear, and it’s associated with me, and it keeps causing these misunderstandings. You were in bed all day, you seemed sad at the start of our conversation, and you were hardly listening. Clearly, when you get into these spirals, they affect you. So, it’s psychological. How do we break this fear, this association?” His voice is clinical, for a moment, then softens again. “How can I make you feel safe?”
Safe? What does safe even feel like? Stan asks himself. For so long, everything has always been precarious, held in a delicate balance, able to be snatched from him in an instant. It’s become simply a part of life—and more often than not, what’s good has gone.
He thinks of brief marriages and relationships, of his first real boyfriend, who’d seemed so perfect until he’d given him two black eyes and three cracked ribs. He thinks of old bosses, shady gigs that had been offered as one thing and become something else. He thinks of prison, of portals, of hopeful reunions. Good things always go. That’s just the way of the world.
Could it ever not be?
“I don’t know,” Stan whispers hoarsely. “I honestly don’t know.”
Ford looks crushed. Stan squeezes his eyes shut, trying to avoid looking at his brother’s face, at that open, childlike hurt he can’t erase.
It’s that young Ford he sees in this older Ford’s face that makes things doubly difficult—the Ford he would see after other kids hurled insults at them back in Glass Shard Beach, after their father said something particularly hurtful, after one of the many persistent rejections and exclusions that marked their childhood. That earnest feeling behind his eyes, the kind of feeling that Ford does—potent, wholehearted, difficult to hide. It’s a wonder that thirty years in hell—that Bill—hasn’t erased that earnestness completely. It’s a wonder that Stan is still afforded it, after four decades of mistakes.
He sighs. “But I do know that it’s not your fault.” Stan shakes his head. “I think the closest thing I ever felt to being safe was with you as a kid, y’know? Before any of the bullshit, before adults and the world made things hard—what Dipper and Mabel have now. ‘S part of why they got to me so much, right? I guess that was the only time that I can remember. I felt safe, after bad things would happen, after Pa or the shitheads from back home, because you were there, and you weren’t going anywhere. You were a guarantee, back then.”
“Until I ruined it,” Ford laments.
“Nah, I don’t think you did. I mean, I spent forty years trying to get back there, didn’t I? I guess with everything that happened with the science fair and stuff, I didn’t think I deserved to go back to being safe, to fix things between us, but Moses, I wanted to. And when I came to Gravity Falls, it was too late, or it was the wrong time, whatever—we were both too far gone.” Stan runs a hand through his hair, agitated by the very thought.
“But I couldn’t deal with that—that idea that the only person who had ever been safe, could possibly be safe, was gone forever. So I had to—I had to make it possible, again. A-And once I did, by the time I finally did, possible had lost its meaning. It meant guaranteed, that I would bring you back and things would be fixed, that I wouldn’t have to answer for all the shit I did—what I did before, and what I had been doing since you’d left. Taking your name, your house, all of that.”
“But, still, I shouldn’t have—”
“Sure,” Stan allows, heading off another guilty ramble, “We both made mistakes. And there had been so many, that when you came back, and things were still fucked up, that I thought, shit, maybe we’ll never be able to have what we used to again. What Dipper and Mabel have. So, I guess that possibility felt gone, and I had gotten so used to the way things were—all built on a lie, fragile, full of secrets—that I just accepted things would always be like that, or realized that I’d subconsciously accepted that a long time ago. Which, y’know, made it easier to…do what I did, in the pyramid. Felt like it was only a matter of time before it would happen some way or another.”
Ford looks crestfallen. “Stanley…”
“But then, I came back, and everything came back, and I guess I didn’t know how to feel about it. I still don’t. It’s like, oh, here’s another chance, here’s a real chance, and nobody’s ever—the fuckin’ universe or whatever has never said that before and meant it.”
He chuckles humorlessly. “Oh, here you go, Stanley, here’s a mouse-trap: here’s literally everything you ever wanted, here’s the chance of a lifetime, a chance at safety, with the only person who’s ever really been safe—don’t look behind you, don’t worry, the trap definitely won’t snap shut while you’re eating the fucking cheese, the worm won’t turn, things will finally be exactly as you want them, and nothing will be wrong!”
He shrugs, smiling sadly. “I guess I just have a hard time buying that, after everything. I mean, come on, Ford. I don’t deserve it.”
Ford sits back, for a moment, staring at him analytically, his expression unreadable, then says: “Well, if you don’t deserve it, I certainly deserve it even less.”
“That’s not true,” Stan cuts in.
“Well, if according to the laws of the universe,” Ford shoots back, “everyone should get what they deserve for the actions they’ve taken, then perhaps neither of us should be here at all! I mean, I would argue that you should, but I certainly shouldn’t! I’ve made all kinds of mistakes! My whole life is a series of screw-ups, and I’ve hurt nearly everyone who’s ever been close to me!”
“Me too,” Stanley murmurs.
He waves a hand in the air. “But that doesn’t make any of this any less real! It doesn’t make it all go away, it doesn’t change the fact that despite everything that I’ve done, or that we’ve done, whatever, that we’re both really here, that this opportunity is genuine, that I’ve changed, or come to terms with how I’ve always felt, and that I would never, ever want you to leave!”
Ford sucks in a breath. “Just because it seems implausible, or impossible, doesn’t mean it’s not happening! I mean, we’ve seen far stranger, weirder, more impossible things than a happy ending, right?” He laughs. “A massive, extradimensional pyramid can descend from the sky and release an army of demons, but you can’t go fishing with your damn brother? You can’t be happy? I mean, come on, Stanley! You’re more imaginative than that!”
There’s a moment of meaningful silence before Ford asks again, “Is it all so impossible? I’m not a professional con artist, Lee. I couldn’t run a scam this long! Come on, you know me better than anyone else ever has—even a demon designed to infiltrate people’s minds! Surely, you would be able to tell if I were being insincere!” Ford points at himself, as if inviting Stanley to inspect his body language, then presses on eagerly. “Besides, it’s already in you somewhere, isn’t it? If you were safe with me once, if you believed that things would really be alright once, then you can do it again!”
That earnestness is so painfully present, that hope so painfully present, that Stan feels his chest constrict.
“A-And I won’t stop until you do! I’ll tell you every day, multiple times a day if I have to, that you’re alright, now, that I need you here, that we’re safe! I’ll buy a poster board!”
“That’s ridiculous, Six, you shouldn’t have to—”
“I want to! I want you to feel at home! Why else do you think I invited you out here?”
He makes a fierce sort of eye contact, and Stan returns his gaze sheepishly, because it feels mandatory. “Stanley Pines,” Ford asserts, “I want you here! I will never not want you here!” His voice softens a bit. “I love you. You’re my brother, and you are my best friend—one of my only true friends ever. I don’t know what I would do if you weren’t around, and I have no intentions of getting rid of you, even if you make scrambled eggs for breakfast every day for the rest of eternity, alright? So—so eliminate that mental pathway,” he orders. “Or just…just tell me if your mind goes there, and I’ll remind you of all of this again—remind you that what I’m saying now will always be true. Don’t spiral about it, don’t drive yourself crazy about it—say something, because I can and will tell you you’re wrong!” A cheeky grin. “I’ve never had a problem doing that, have I?”
Stan can’t refute him when he’s like this—headstrong and confident and one thousand percent honest in that patently Ford-ish way. He can’t call it a lie, can’t turn it down or ignore it, because it’s presented with that mix of scientific assuredness and earnest feeling. His brother’s words, he realizes, are real. They’re safe.
And, for now, in this very moment, he believes them. Maybe in a month or twenty-four hours, his mind will trick him into doubting them again—but when that time comes, maybe he’ll actually have the confidence to say it. And maybe, six times or ten times or fifteen times after that, the message will really, truly stick.
“No, you have not,” he breathes, reassured. “Okay, you bastard, fine. Fine. I’ll do what I can.”
He feels a bit out-of-breath, hit in the chest with the reality, the truth of his life. “A-and, you know, you’re also my best friend, for the record. Only one I’ve ever had. So, obviously I, uh, love you too.” He grins. “Even if you decided to bang the world’s scrawniest beanpole from Tennessee—”
Ford’s face immediately goes brick-red. “Shut up!” He buries his face in his hands, speaking through the gaps in his fingers. “He’s handsome, you know! And he’s very smart!”
“—even if you decided to bang the guy who plays the spoons and the banjo and spent thirty years of his life living with raccoons—”
“I shouldn’t have told you this,” Ford groans, “You have so much space to mock me, I should have lived a lie forever—”
“—even if,” Stan charges forward, “You were shacked up in an underground bunker with a guy I once saw chew through dinosaur skin with four teeth—” He cackles, then catches his breath, smiling, “—I would still love you, Six. You’re my brother. So, you know…no matter what.”
Ford rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “Well, thank you, I suppose.” Suddenly, he sits up straighter, eyes gleaming.
“Now, I think you owe me your dating history, you hypocrite!”
Stan leans back in his chair, smirking. “Fine,” he shoots back. “But it’s your funeral!”
He rubs his hands together, the way he always does when he prepares to tell a lengthy story. “How much time do you have?”
“Forever,” Ford asserts warmly in response. “You can take forever.”
Stan decides he’ll do just that.