Work Text:
The boat has no name; it needs none.
Stan feels nothing for it, so he doesn’t name it or pretend to give it meaning it doesn’t have. It would be an insult to steal the name from his youth and unfitting besides. Stan wouldn’t take the original alone and Ford threw it away; the Stan-O-War might has well have died.
He’s just going through the motions.
The days bleed together on the ocean into a haze of time he doesn’t try to measure, and distractions are hard to come by. Schemes come and go, but they don’t have the same motivation and determination behind them. Stan’s counting coins but he doesn’t know why he’s doing it anymore, except that conning is what comes natural to him and it’s the only thing he’s known for so long.
The fact of the matter is, he could go home anytime he wanted to.
No one could stop him. Dad’s gone into retirement. Ma wouldn’t turn him away. Stanford was...busy. Who would object? Who would be able, or willing, to stand up to him now after everything that happened?
Apathy, his oldest friend, won out.
Stan dropped anchor and turned in for the night. He had a client to meet in the morning.
~~~
“You related to that Stanford Pines?”
Stan’s fingers tightened into a white-knuckled grip around the latest shipment of contraband, teeth biting through his lip to keep himself from snapping back. He’s focusing on the rough texture of the crates in his hands, the way the low-quality wood splinters subtly around his fingers. Just set the package in the hold, take his money, and leave. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to talk about this.
Stan’s employer plows onward, oblivious--or pretending to be just to screw with him, “Gotta be, you look just like him, not to mention the name…. I know a brother when I see one.” Stan almost drops the crate at that, but manages to set it down just a little louder than necessary; a warning if he cared enough to listen to it.
The smuggler keeps talking though, his face thoughtful, lingering on what little of Stan’s face that wasn’t downcast to avoid eye contact. “What? Don’t tell me...you haven’t thought of getting your rich, scientist brother to help you? He’s rolling in money now, isn’t he…” A brief, malicious look crosses the man’s face, a precursor to the man’s guards jumping him, which Stan sees coming and immediately cuts off.
“I wouldn’t bother if I were you. Stanford won’t give a shit and you’ll lose your middle man. Waste of both of our time.” He doesn’t know if he even believes those words, but the disgust and cold anger is thick in his voice, and they sound real regardless.
The client pulls back, surprised, “Oh? And how are you so certain?”
“Why the fuck do you think I’m working for you in the first place?” The sneer lingers, and no more threats are made. Stan sails away that day, just a little bit wealthier but a mood worsened for it. He wants to go somewhere where no one’s heard of Stanford Pines.
~~~
Sometimes, Stan stays up all night, sitting on the deck with a red-bound book in his hands and contemplates doing something rash or self-destructive.
Ford had told him to take the journal far away to hide it, and technically, Stan has not actually done that (nor does he actually plan to). The book stays under lock and key, in a chest under his bunk, out of sight and out of mind. On good days he forgets it’s even there. On really good days (when he’s drunk enough not to know) Stan forgets why he’s even sailing in the first place.
There’s always the other hand though. On bad days, he almost tosses the journal into the waves, an action he knows full well he’ll regret later. On the worst days Stan’s holding the book to his chest, planting a boot on the railing of the vessel and thinking about jumping overboard with it, taking the accursed thing into the deep, ‘somewhere where no one would find it.’
He hates the journal, wants to destroy it, but doesn’t.
Because in spite of everything, he still can’t hate his brother. Maybe it would hurt less it he did, if he cut him loose for good and started a life far away without his twin’s shadow hanging over him, but Stan knows himself, knows how stubborn his feelings are.
The red book goes back into its chest and a tarp is draped upon it as well.
Out of sight, out of mind.
~~~
Years after that one cold night in Gravity Falls is when the long awaited turning point finally comes, in the form two new members of the family. Sherman Pines is soon to be a grandfather, and he rushed to meet his children in California, spreading the word to what family he could reach. Another pair of twins were being born into the Pines family line. As expected, the announcement comes with its own share of mixed feelings, and long forgotten pasts are dug back up in the process.
Ford heard about it late, after another long, sleepless night of work in the lab, documenting the hatching of a clutch of Parrot-ox chicks. He woke to Fiddleford pulling his notes out of his hands and forcing a phone into his face, telling him to “talk to your family or so help me God I will lock you out of the building.”
So he did, and well, he called for a spontaneous vacation “for personal reasons” and packed for a trip south to California.
The drive was spent in thoughtful silence; it had been a long time since he’d spoken to Sherman, and he wondered if they’d even recognize each other.
The hospital was overlooking the seafront, and Ford paused to watch the waves, his eyes alighting on a ramshackle boat moored at the port. It was an eyesore, but that wasn’t what made him uncomfortable. There was a churning pain in his gut that he couldn’t explain.
It wasn’t until he stepped into the hospital room that he knew the reason.
Between Sherman and his son and exhausted daughter-in-law, a familiar figure stood in a heavy black coat, cradling two newborn children. The brother long gone for about eighteen years, Stanley Pines. His shaggy hair--going grey so much faster than Ford’s own--was tied back out of the way, and his left eye was covered by an eyepatch (whether it was genuine, Ford wasn’t sure he wanted to know). And Ford’s thoughts flew briefly to the barely floating boat outside, knowing without asking, who it belonged to. If anything, Stanley looked even rougher around the edges than he had since the last time his brother had seen him.
And yet, there was a tenderness in his features as he stared down at the children in his arms, a special brand of kindness that Ford couldn’t remember the last time he had seen on Stan’s face (if he ever had). Stan was murmuring things to them, whispered words through a dry voice and lips gone chapped from salt air, “You two be good to each other, okay?”
“Stanley?” Ford’s whispered shock shattered the peaceful moment in an instant. Stan’s face registered panic for a moment before it faded into something harsh and flinty, and he carefully passed the twins into his nephew’s arms before his newly rigid stance could disturb them. Expecting harsh words, a rant or an accusation, Ford didn’t receive a single word in response, only an abrupt and painful shove as Stan pushed passed him to get out.
He didn’t know whether or not to follow, to ask...anything he supposed. Would he only make things worse? Did Ford still know his brother? He was afraid to ask, afraid of that cold, stony gaze where a fiery spirit had once been.
Fortunately (or was it unfortunate), the choice was taken out of his hands when Sherman clapped a hand on his shoulder and told him to “stay put” before going after Stanley.
Slowly, Ford sank into the only empty chair in the room, staring at the pure, untainted life that the newborns had between them and pressed his face into his hands. His brother would be fine, he’d told himself. Stan wasn’t fine, and from all the unsaid words his eyes had conveyed, hadn’t been for a long time.
(Maybe he never was.)
--
Stan was breathing hard as he leaned against the wall in a silent hallway, a hand clutching at his heart as the rapid beat gradually slowed to a more natural rhythm, driven into this state with nothing but one word and a glimpse of his brother. God, how fucked up was he.
How could he be so stupid? Of course Stanford would show up, he had to have been contacted sooner or later--why couldn’t it have been later! Stan just wanted to see the kids, just once, before he disappeared again. And they were amazing, small and perfect, and devoid of the scars the older twins had inflicted upon each other time after time. He wanted them to grow up free from that burden, support when they needed it and when they didn’t. Stan had truly relaxed in that room for the first time in decades, but then Stanford walked in and his safety net crumbled into pieces.
He had to get out.
Get away.
Back to the boat.
No, the sea, forget the boat.
He didn’t get the chance before the pounding of feet alerted him that someone had chased after him, and was visibly relieved to find that it was Shermie. But then again, Sherman Pines had always been the calm, responsible one that neither of the twin brothers could manage; Stan must have looked as bad as he felt for him to chase him down like that. “Sorry, I’ll be outta your hair in a second, thanks for letting me see ‘em--”
“Stanley, I don’t want you gone. Whatever would give you that idea?” The words made Stan catch his breath, his hand dropping from his chest slowly, “You don’t even have a permanent address as far as I can tell, yet you showed up early. If anything, I should be thanking you for coming.” He doesn’t answer, unable to process this even, honest tone. Shermie breathes a slow sigh before continuing, “I hate to ask but, did...did Stanford do something to upset you?”
“No, of course not.”
It’s obvious Shermie doesn’t believe his snappish lie, but he doesn’t push. “I won’t ask what happened, but I want you to know that I’m here,” He passes Stan a card from his firm, with an address and phone number scrawled on the back. Stan thinks he might be shaking. “My son saw how you handled the children; we think that you should visit, for the holidays?” His voice is tentative, an attempt to not push too hard, or ask too much.
But it’s just what Stan needs. He slips the card into his coat pocket, and there’s a small hope budding as he accepts.