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“Ford! Dinner!”
Ford’s stomach growls. He is hungry. But the idea of food sounds entirely unappetizing. It’s the last thing he wants to do, really.
But Stanley cooked for him. And he already used the excuse of being too full last night.
So, he goes to the kitchen, sits at the booth, and tries to regulate his breathing. It’s just food. That’s all it is. Stan made it for him, it’s safe. There’s nothing wrong with it, he knows that.
“Eat up,” Stan says lightly, sliding a plate in front of him.
Burgers.
Oily, thick, burgers and fries.
He feels sick.
It’s not right.
He feels really sick.
He stares at it for a moment.
He’s in the corner of a cave. He’s holding a newly dead, bird-like creature.
He shakes his head. He shouldn’t think about that. This isn’t that. This is a burger his brother made for him. It isn’t– it isn’t that. It’s not the same red, it’s not bleeding, it isn’t still watching him.
It’s raw, bloody, still twitching. He hasn’t eaten in days. Weeks. He isn’t sure. It’s his first kill in weeks. He’s tested the meat. It’s safe. There’s a .0002 margin of error on his reader, but, most likely, it won’t make him sick. Like the last time. And the last time, and the last, and the last, and the last. His options are death, or blood and bone.
He doesn’t want to. He never wants to. Especially when it’s watching. But he can never bring himself to take out its eyes. It feels wrong.
He has to eat. He has to survive. Don’t think about it– that’s the trick. You can’t think about it.
You just have to eat it.
He fights the urge to throw the plate across the room.
“Ford?”
His head snaps up. “Yes? Sorry, did you say something?”
“Just askin’ if everything is okay. You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m just– just– it’s still hot. I’m waiting for it to cool down.”
Stan gives him a quizzical look. “Ford, we’ve been sittin’ here like, ten minutes.”
Ford blinks.
“You sure everything is okay?”
“I–” he hesitates. “I'm not feeling well. I’m going to go lay down. For the night. To sleep.” He stands, hurriedly.
“Wait, Ford–”
“Goodnight.”
He closes the bedroom door and rests his back against it. He feels sick. He didn’t eat it, shouldn’t that feeling go away? His stomach is turning, and he could swear his throat is closing up. He’s being ridiculous. Childish. This is the exact behavior that his father would scold him for, growing up. Being overly picky. Food is a privilege, not a right.
He should be thankful, really, that Stanley cooks for him. That he has food in the first place.
His stomach churns uncomfortably. The nausea is overwhelming. He doesn’t want to get sick again. He hates it. He hates it every time it happens– the way his stomach rolls over and up into his throat, the way he can see the creature he killed, all of them, all at once. He knows what he had to do to survive, and sometimes he wishes he could just forget.
That very thought is what sends him right up to his feet and running for the toilet.
He wishes he could forget?
How selfish can he possibly be?
Stanley didn’t get a choice. Stanley had to forget.
He forces himself to remember, now, in great detail. Stan doesn’t have that privilege.
The feathers are the most nauseating, to him.
He vomits up what little he’s eaten today into the toilet.
The bone, at least, he can pretend is something familiar, something human.
His stomach is rolling.
The eyes stare at him as he devours the rest of the body. It knows what he’s doing, what he’s done. Part of him would rather starve. Most of him would. But he has a mission, and for that, he must stay alive.
“Ford!!”
A hand is suddenly rubbing his back as he continues retching. He knows who it is. He leans into the touch, momentarily soothed, until he begins to heave again. It hurts. His whole body hurts.
His brother doesn’t say anything else until he’s done and fully cleared out. Instinctively, he collapses forward into Stan’s strong, ever-present arms, and tries his very hardest not to cry. Something about Stan, being held by Stan, dissolves all of his defenses and safeguards. Stan is the only person he’s ever let himself cry in front of, the only person he thinks will ever see him cry.
To his credit, Stan is silent. Ford knows his brother, knows he’s probably worried beyond belief– this is the fourth night in a row Ford’s gotten sick, whether he ate dinner or not. It happens often, but he’s usually able to control it a bit better. Four nights in a row. Stan is far from oblivious– in fact, he’s one of the most intelligent people that Ford knows. He knows something is wrong. He’s itching to say something about it.
But Ford doesn’t think he could explain it if he tried, right now. Maybe ever.
He’s just being childish. That’s all it is.
But he’s so tired. And his stomach hurts.
How is it possible that he’s both hungry and sickly full at the same time?
Stan places a gentle hand against his twin’s forehead. Searching for fever.
“You don’t feel warm,” he muses. “Stomach just upset again?”
The way he says again. Ford’s stomach rolls. Still, he nods miserably.
“That’s like, the fourth time this week.”
I know.
“Can we– I mean– I’m worried, Six. There somethin’ I should know about?”
Ford shakes his head. He just wants to go to sleep.
“Look. I don’t wanna push you, but I just– somethin’ is wrong. M’ not stupid, I can see that–”
Ford whines softly. Stan is right. That’s the problem.
Stan sighs heavily, and resumes rubbing Ford’s back. “Okay. We can talk about it when you’re feelin’ a little better, okay?”
“M’ sorry,” Ford murmurs, face pressed closed against his brother’s chest.
“Don’t– it’s fine, Ford. I’m not upset.”
Ford can only find the strength to hum as Stan pulls them both to their feet. Ford presses his face into the crook of his brother’s neck, affectionate and angry and exhausted and sick all at once. Stan wraps an arm around him and leads him into the bedroom, where he pulls Ford into the lower bunk with him before Ford can even attempt to get up the ladder. He doesn’t mind at all, save for the searing guilt curdling in his chest. He’s worrying his brother. That’s the last thing he wants to do.
But he can’t find it in him to explain. So he rests his head on his twin’s chest and snakes an arm around him, listening to the steady, soft rumble of his breathing. Stan’s very presence is safe, strong. He keeps Ford anchored to reality.
He should’ve grabbed a nutrition pill before they settled in. That, at least, could’ve eased the headache and the hunger. But he can’t do that now– then Stan would see them, and he’d know–
He’d know that Ford isn’t fully human. Not really. He’s more animal, predator, machine.
He really misses jelly beans.
When he wakes, he’s alone in bed. He hears noise, movement, from the kitchen, and calls out, instinctively,
“Lee?”
A head peaks through the doorway.
“I’ll be in in a sec.”
God, he sounds angry. He has a right to be. He slaves over a stove just for Ford to act like he’s being served slop.
Ford sits up against the headboard as Stan enters, carrying a plate, which he hands to him, then perches beside him.
“Toast. No butter or anythin.’ Figured it’d be easier.”
It’s certainly not easy. But it’s more doable than a lot of things he could’ve been served. He takes a small bite. Bland. In the best possible way.
“Thank you, Lee.”
Stan smiles, then clears his throat.
“So, listen, I’m just gonna say some shit, okay? And just– just lemme get it all out.” Stan fidgets, awkwardly avoiding eye contact. “I did some readin’ last night, and I read about– I saw that sometimes, like, if someone wants to lose weight or somethin’, they won’t eat, or they’ll– make themselves throw up.”
“Stanley, that’s not–”
“Please lemme finish,” Stan interrupts. Ford nods.
“I don’t know if that’s what this is, but– I just need you to tell me what’s goin’ on. I won’t be mad, I promise, I just– you have to eat, Ford. I know you think I don’t notice, but I see that you sometimes get dizzy when you stand up too fast, or that you don’t really eat unless I make you somethin’, or that you get sick after almost everything, and I–” his voice breaks slightly. “I just wanna help. Please tell me what’s goin’ on.”
Shit. Stan is near tears. Ford made his brother tear up. All because he couldn’t choke down a burger. He feels sick again, but it’s far, far worse. This isn’t the type of sick you can treat, the type of sick that can go away. He prefers the vomiting to this.
“It’s– it’s hard to explain,” he mumbles, pathetically.
“Cuz if it’s just to lose weight, it’s– we can get a treadmill, Six! We can work out, we can fuckin’– eat more salads! But you can’t not eat, I mean if you starve, you– I don’t… want you to–” he clears his throat and swipes rather obviously at his face. “Yeah. You know.”
“I’m just…” You can’t tell him what you had to do. If he knows– you can’t tell him what you became, out there. You can’t. He’ll be disgusted. “It’s– nothing. I just have… a sensitive stomach.”
“We’re beyond sensitive, here, Ford!! You’re not eating, and– I mean, I didn’t wanna say anything, but you think I haven’t seen that you’ve lost weight while we’ve been out here?” He finally lets the tears fall. “I don’t want to, but– maybe we should see some sorta doctor about it, or somethin’.”
“What?! I don’t need-”
“I-If you won’t talk to me about it, you still have to–”
“Lee, I just–”
“Stop tryin’ to–”
“I can’t!!” He bursts out. “I can’t– I went so long without real, edible, human food, when I was travelling, a-and I had to–” his breaths come quick and fast, and he feels the words rushing out of him similar to the vomit from last night. “The things I had to eat, just thinking about it, I-I get–” he swallows down more nausea. “It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.” Sniffling, he inches over and reaches down into the bottom nightstand drawer, and places the bottle of nutrition pills in Stan’s hand. “After a while, I-I found these. They’re a dietary supplement, and they were the only thing I could eat, out there, without the risk of getting deathly ill.”
Stan stares at the pills like they’ve personally offended him.
“I went so long without human food, Lee. So long without anything but these, and I thought– I thought it would be easy. I tried to just– eat normally, again, a-and I want to. But my stomach just– it isn’t used to it. Every time I– every time I pick up something it just feels like… what I had to eat before I discovered the pills. It was– I was an animal.”
The words hang in the air for a moment.
Ford sniffles and swipes quickly at his eyes with his free hand, and all but throws the plate of toast onto the nightstand. He already feels full.
After a few more seconds of silence, he can’t take being in the room anymore. He feels like he’s suffocating.
He stands, but Stan’s words are proven right– he’s dizzy, for a moment. He reaches out to the bedpost and steadies himself.
“Ford?”
“I need a moment.”
He forces himself to walk into the kitchen, and washes his hands thoroughly at the sink.
He never wanted to kill in the first place. All he wanted to do was figure out why Gravity Falls is–
It doesn’t matter now. He killed. He hunted. He became an animal, while he was out there. He’s a weird mix, now– not completely human, not completely animal. He doesn’t know what he is.
And now he’s crying.
How ridiculous.
“Ford.”
Ford turns. His brother is there, and he suddenly feels warmer.
“You’re not disgusting. Don’t say that about yourself.”
Ford rolls his eyes.
“No. No rollin’ your eyes. You’re not disgusting, and you’re not an animal.”
“You weren’t there. How the hell would you know?”
Stan suddenly looks hurt. He blinks. “I–”
“Damnit, no, I didn’t mean– I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just– whatever you’re imagining, it’s worse.”
“You–” Stan sighs, leaning his back against the counter. “You had to survive, Ford.”
“I could’ve-”
“What? What could you have done? Starved? Me, personally, I’m glad you didn’t.” Stan inhales shakily. “And it’s my fault you were even out there at all–”
“Don’t.” Ford’s voice breaks. “Lee, you know I don’t blame you for that.”
“Then you can’t blame yourself for anythin’ you had to do while you were out there,” Stan insists. “Listen, I can’t know exactly what happened out there. And you don’t have to tell me. But, Ford, you know that I wouldn’t judge you for somethin’ you had to do to survive. I mean, christ, you know some of the shit I had to do while I was out on the road, some of it was real disgusting–”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No, s’ not. But it’s close enough. You’d never call me disgusting for something I did back then, would you?”
“No!!”
“Then you can’t call yourself that.” Stan shrugs. “Just– you know. Logically.”
Ford doesn’t really have a good comeback for that, so he opts to stare at the floor. But Stan isn’t done.
“Why– why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I was handling it. That’s what the supplements are for.”
“Yeah, and they’ve been workin’ out real well for you, huh?”
“It’s not easy,” Ford growls.
“Then let me help.” Stan approaches and takes his twin’s freshly washed hands. “You should’a told me. I can help.”
“I’m– just not used to… asking for help,” Ford admits pathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“S’ okay.” He offers forgiveness so generously, and Ford doesn’t feel like he deserves an ounce of it. “I’m not upset. Just let me help now. Christ, I’ve been makin’ you– a whole buncha fried shit. We can start easier. We’ll go grocery shopping tomorrow.”
“No.” Ford shakes his head. “No, I’m not making you alter your entire diet simply because I can’t choke down a mere–”
“Yes, you are. Uh– we are. Because I’m doin’ it. We’ll start small. Salads, soup, toast.”
Stan’s tone is so final. And laced with fondness.
“I’m sorry,” Ford mutters, squeezing his hands. “I didn’t want for this to… I’m sorry.”
Suddenly, Stanley pulls him into a warm, bone-crushing hug.
“Don’t say you’re sorry, idiot, just let me help you, okay? ‘Sides, I could probably use a couple more salads in my diet.”
Ford chuckles, but it’s dangerously close to a sob, so he buries his face into the crook of his twin’s neck and nods furiously, arms tight around Stan’s middle. He still feels sorry. But something tells him Stan wouldn’t want that.
After a few minutes of hugging– sue him, he went almost thirty years without getting to hug his brother– he pulls back slightly, sniffling.
“You know what food I still have no problems with?”
Stan raises his eyebrows in question.
“Coffee.”
“Christ, what am I gonna do with you?” Stan laments, pushing him gently. “That shit’s not food!”
“Close enough.” Ford immediately pulls out the coffee grounds for a new pot.
“Guess I’ll make an exception this time. If you take a few more bites of that toast.”
Ford smiles.
“Alright. I can do that.”