#stan squared

Hey guys! Here’s chapter 2, beta’d by aimless-novelist!

Warnings: Drug mention, angst, police brutality, incest (obviously), really sad Stan

This was not what Stan had expected. At all. The moment the ties were in place, both men fell back on the couch, eyes wide open and darting back and forth at things only they could see. It was like the old slot machines that Stan had loved, back in the days when he was just starting out. Thousands of memories, thoughts, emotions, dreams, and fears flashed before them. The images were intermingled; some were easy to place as far as who belonged to what, others not so much. A glimpse here of a six-fingered hand, a glimpse there of someone grabbing a wad of bills… They flowed without reason, out of order and jumbled. Slowly, the images stopped spinning and twisting, settling down on one of the few memories that Stanley certainly did NOT want his brother to see.

He struggled a moment, willing his body to work, for his arms to raise up and rip the tie off, but it didn’t work. He was stuck in this moment, this horrible, low moment, unable to move. He tried to reach out to Ford, to call his name, tell him to look away, something, anything that would save him from reliving this humiliation again, or at least sparing his brother the experience. Nothing. He could feel Ford’s presence and knew he was there, but every effort in communicating with him was like passing his hands through smoke. He was there, but just out of reach.

Ford was laying in the driver’s seat of Stan’s car. It was reclined as far back as it could go, and his eyes were focused on an image of him and his brother in front of the Stan-O-War, taped to the underside of the sun visor above him. His whole body hurt and he could feel the crusty scabs covering his knuckles where his hands lay crossed over his stomach. The memory of the fight that had led to his current state washed over his consciousness. Ford had been shorted on his deal, and the guy wouldn’t see reason… But this wasn’t Ford, this was Stan. He was reliving a memory of Stan’s. He blinked, trying to look around for his brother, but his head continued to lay forward on the headrest of the seat, his eyes staring morosely up at the old photograph. Ford focused, looking inward, trying to find wherever his brother was in the mindscape that the ties had created between them, but it was no use. He was definitely there, and panicking quite a bit, but Ford couldn’t communicate with him. Ford - no, Stan - sighed, one hand reaching into the pocket on his hoodie, the other reaching down to the floor, gripping the handle to raise the seat. The next few minutes were a flurry of action; digging around in the armrest compartment for an old, blackened spoon, opening a small bag of white powder, melting it in the spoon, his hands shaking while the small flame of the lighter flickered… No. No, no, no, this was not happening. Stan never did this, this was wrong, the ties had malfunctioned, something was very, very wrong.

This was bad. Horribly, terribly, no-good bad. Stan hated this part of himself, this horrible thing that he had become. He only ever did horse as a last resort, on the nights where everything was just too much, on nights where booze wasn’t enough, Johns were too much, and he felt like he had nothing left to lose. This particular night had definitely been one of the worst. He’d had no luck with work that day, one of his deals had fallen through, his dealer had shorted him because of it… And he couldn’t stop looking at that damn picture. It was torture. Even on these days, the ones where nothing was worth it, he thought of Ford. That wasn’t new or special though, not a damn day went by where Ford didn’t cross his mind in one way or another. But on these nights, it just hurt. A deep, physical pain in his chest, like a weight pushing down on him that he couldn’t shake, making it difficult to even draw the next breath.

Stan’s body reached down and undid his belt, wrapping it around his bicep and pulling taut. A minute or so passed, and the needle found its way to the vein. Seconds later, he ripped open the car door, needle still in his arm, and retched into the street. He gulped down air, his mouth dry and the acrid taste of bile burning his lungs. He slammed the door shut, ripping out the needle and throwing it clumsily to the other side of the car, his hand finding the reclining lever of the seat and pulling too hard, his body too high to stop his slamming descent. And then the real high hit him, and his eyes locked onto the old photograph again. He was floating - no, flying - in the bright summer wind, arms stretched out to either side. He smiled down to Ford, who was commanding the helm of the Stan-O-War. His brother grinned back, quickly turning the wheel and running to cut the sail west to compensate for the sudden gust. Stan laughed, his whole body filling with the sensation. He flew lower, dropping down onto the deck, and ran over to Ford, grabbing his waist and swinging him around. He pulled him close, giving him a deep kiss. “Love you, Ford. Always.” The dream Ford smiled back, “You too, Stan. You are not allowed to park here.” Stan drew back, confused. “Huh?”

A loud banging on the side of the car jolted Stan/Ford back into Stan’s body. Everything was in slow motion. “Detroit City Police! Open the door!” His hand swam into vision, reaching to the handle and drawing it open. “Hands above your head, on the ground, NOW!” He tried, he really did, but he just couldn’t function in his state. His foot slipped in his own sick and he toppled out of the car. He blinked once, his senses overwhelmed by the stench of himself, the cold concrete beneath his cheek, the small wet snowflakes landing on his nose and hair. The last thing he saw was the bully club quickly descending toward his face.

Stan and Ford gasped in unison, both jolting up from the couch. Stan immediately removed the tie, hot tears falling down his face as he ripped out the wires from the tie, not caring about the deep cuts they left in his hands. Deep, harsh sobs escaped his tightly clenched lips as he muttered, “I‘m sorry, Ford, s-stupid idea, shouldnt’a messed with your stuff, ruined it, like always, j-just forget it, please, god, just forget this, please…” He flung the tie away, attempting to stand on unsteady feet, tripping and falling to the deck of the porch when his inebriated body couldn’t assist in a speedy escape. He lay there, totally defeated, curling into a tight ball.

Ford sat paralyzed on the couch, unsure of what had just happened or what to do. His breathing was just as ragged as his brothers, his own cheeks wet and his face flushed. Stan had done hard drugs… Had dreamed of that, had done so much, been through so much… And now he was sobbing. Literally at Ford’s feet, begging for him to just forget. But Ford couldn’t forget. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. But he had to. For Stanley. Because as hard as this was for him, as angry as he was, as sad and confused and remorseful as he was, that was Stan’s memory. That had happened to his brother, not him. He willed himself to take a deep breath, to wipe the tears from his cheeks, to do something. But nothing happened. It was like a sick mockery of the dreamscape, knowing what he wanted, but being unable to make his body comply.

They stayed there for – well, Ford wasn’t sure for how long. It could have been hours, it could have been just a heartbeat. Just one old man sitting on a couch, stock still, tears trailing silently down his face, a black tie clutched against his chest which barely rose and fell. And his brother, curled into a ball, sobbing harshly, clinging to his boots at the ground. Two people who couldn’t be more broken or further apart from one another, unsure how to reconcile the past, unsure how to be together.

Stan and Ford share a beer and try to fix their broken bro bond. Smart Stan™ and Dick Ford™ at their best.

((Sorry I keep starting new fics instead of working on old ones guys… I’ll get better, I promise!))

Ford poured over his fourth journal, clicking his pen while trying to make sense of what he just wrote. He blinked once, trying to refocus his eyes, but they refused. Sighing, he looked at the clock. 1am. He continued clicking his pen frustratedly, willing his mind to sharpen and finish the closing code for the portal. It was tedious work; harder even than the original blue prints that had brought the damned machine into existence in the first place. It was so important, though, so crucially vital that he get this right. One wrong calculation, one tired or overzealous overlook would cause residual rift energy. And that would create yet another headache he would have to fix.

After his fifth attempt to continue, he clicked his pen shut a final time. He stood, cracking his back and sulked over to his research wall. His eyes followed morosely over every creature, anomaly, or  artifact locked inside. For what was probably the millionth time in his life, he cursed his insatiable desire to understand and follow the unusual, unknown, the weird. As he walked, six fingers trailed over the letters and numbers that labeled each locked box. Experiment 79b, 21, 34q, 52, they went on. Some successful, leading to new knowledge, things that had made it into his journals. Others broken, unfinished, left to rot. Finally, he reached Experiment A. It was a smaller box than the others, only about an four inches wide by two inches tall. He grimaced then, remembering the dark origins of that box. It didn’t matter now. None of it mattered. Carefully, he flipped through the keys on his keychain, finding the matching one and turning it open.

A musky stench rose to his nose as the drawer hidden in the box slid open. Of course the cheap plastic had deteriorated; he wasn’t sure what he had expected. Carefully, he lifted the gnarled 100 proof whisky bottle out of the drawer. No liquid remained; this box had never been air tight like some, and alcohol evaporated at a rate of - No. Right now, he didn’t want to look at this scientifically. He pulled the drawer all the way out, turning back to his work bench. He pushed the journal aside; the code would have to wait until he was cognisant enough to tackle it fully.  For a moment, he wished the whisky was still there. It would certainly help shut his brain off for a little while, if not help him actually get some decent sleep.

Adjustment to this dimension was going… difficult, to say the least. Each day he discovered new things that he had to relearn, adapt to. And each new task, each new challenge felt like an ominous mountain, draining him completely when he finally reached the summit. He closed his eyes, rubbing them gently underneath his cracked glasses. He had to look. He couldn’t just throw the box away without knowing. He pulled his hands from his face, running them through his greasy hair once before peering down into the box.

There at the bottom of the box, a smudged square of paper lay. Slowly, he pried it loose. Only portions of the photo remained, a bit of Stans hair and part of his grin, his shoulder where Ford’s six-fingered hand rested, half of Ford’s bespectacled, shadowed face. His mind filled in the gaps, retrieving the bittersweet memory of when it had been taken.

…

“Look Ford! The sunset is so cool right now! Let’s take grab a photo, yeah?”

Stan reached into his backpack, pulling out a polaroid camera and began to twist the film.

“Where the heck did you get-! You know what? Nevermind, I don’t want to know”

“Weellll let’s just say there was a five-finger discount downstairs this morning.” Stan replied, wiggling his eyebrows at his brother.

“You took that from the shop?! Stan, what were you thinking? What if Pop finds out and-”

“Lay off, Poindexter. Pop doesn’t take stock or whatever ‘til Friday. ‘Sides, I’m just borrowing it, I’ll give it back when I’m done!” Stan beamed, holding the spooled camera up. “Now let’s take it before it gets too dark!”

He grabbed Ford, pulling him close and slinging his arm around his shoulders, turning them so they were framed from the back by the sunset. “Say Cheese bro!”

“Stan -the lighting!-  We won’t be able to see our fac-”

*Click* The camera spat out the polaroid, Stan grabbing it excitedly, waving it back and forth. “Oh man this is so cool! We gotta take some of the Stan’O’War!” He declared, holding the picture closer so he could view it in the dimming light.

“Aw, man! You can hardly see our faces!” He declared, walking dejectedly toward the closest trashcan. “Hold up, let me see!” Ford ran to grab the photo from Stan’s grasp, nearly tearing it to save it from the trash.

“S’not that bad.” He said. “Mind it I keep it?”

“Sure bro!” Stan replied, putting the camera back in his bag. “Hey, wanna go take night-pictures at the Stan’O’War? We could pretend we’re being attacked under the cover of darkness by other pirates! Oh man, we could even put th-”

Ford cut him off with a look. “Stan. We couldn’t even see our faces at sunset. How are we gonna get pictures of the ship at night?”

Stan’s face fell a little at that. “Oh yeah. Guess you’re right. ‘Sides pop’d prolly be super ticked at us if we stayed out after dark again. Or at least at me.” He turned downheartedly away from the beach.

Ford reached out quickly, grabbing his shoulder. “Bro, it’s Tuesday. If dad really doesn’t take inventory until the end of the week, we can just come back tomorrow!”

Stan’s face lit up at that. “Can we still pretend we’re being attacked?”

“You betcha!” They grinned at each other then, a pure, innocent, and unbridled thing passing between them, and turned to race home before the night set in.

…

Ford closed his eyes, savoring the nostalgia for a moment before tucking the photograph into the left breast pocket of his trench coat. Making up his mind, he trudged to the elevator, jamming the ‘up’ button. He silently cursed the elevator for a moment, wishing it could go faster. After pushing the secret door back into place, Ford headed toward the kitchen when he heard the tell-tale crack of a beer opening out on the porch. He switched directions, walking silently toward the gift shop door, which hung wide open.

Stan set on the couch, starting on his third beer, staring out at the stars. 30 years. Thirty fucking long-ass years he had waited. He had lied and worked, bled, begged, and toiled. Each night, laying in bed and dreaming about this day. The day Ford came back. The day he saved his brother. Thousands of outcomes, conversations, possibilities that he had fantasized over for decades, just to get himself out of bed in the morning. And where did it get him? A punch in the face and a world of pain. Hell, even though he had sent them off to bed seemingly alright, he was near certain that Dipper and Mabel felt different about him now. And that nearly cut as deep as Ford’s reaction to coming back.

Lost in his thoughts, Stan didn’t notice when Ford crept silently onto the porch, leaning on the doorframe. He stared at Stan for a moment, frowning slightly at the broken look on his face. Was he still upset about having to close the Mystery Shack?

“Got any more juice?” Ford asked, finally pushing off the doorframe to move closer to his brother. Stan stood sharply, his hands balling into fists. Seeing Ford, he plopped back down onto the couch, clutching his chest. “Jesus Ford! Tryin’ ta give this old man a heartattack? You were quiet as a freakin mouse! And don’t say ‘juice’, what are you, from the 80’s?” Stan frowned a bit at his own joke. “Call it like it is, it’s how they do these days. And all I got’s this lukewarm beer, take it or leave it.” He grabbed one from the case on the floor, tossing it in haphazardly in Ford’s general direction without looking.

He should have seen it coming; Stan always did this when they were kids, throwing him things, knowing that Ford was too slow and uncoordinated to catch them. But 30 years running for your life in the multiverse had a way of honing reflexes. He dove, landing on the porch with a loud thud, bottle in hand.

“What the hell, Sixer!” Stan half-whispered, half-yelled. “You tryin’ to wake the kids now too?”

Ford stood coolly, dusting his coat off and popping the beer in his hand.

“Well Stanley, if you hadn’t thrown the beer, in the wrong direction I might add, I wouldn’t have had had to dive for it.” Stan glared at his brother for a moment, huffing and turning away.

“Whatever Ford. You got what you wanted, why don’t you just get back to your precious lab or sleep or whatever. It’s no hair off my back.”  He chuckled a little, as if referencing an inside joke.

Ford paused a moment, and considered doing just that. He weighed his options; just one beer wouldn’t really help him sleep, but staying here with his brother had the overwhelming potential to lead to… Things. Things that Ford was in no way prepared to tackle without even been back for a full month in this dimension. But as he looked at Stan, who, to his credit, was doing his best to look unaffected by all this, he saw right through him. Even after all these years, Stan was still horrible at hiding his emotions. Ford could see the frown on his face, the worry in his eyes. Making up his mind, he took the final steps separating him from his twin.

“Mind if I sit?” He ventured, moving to do so before he got an answer.

“Well I guess not, Sixer, take a load off!” Stan sneered, pushing the case of beer with his foot so his brother could reach it. “Here help yourself! After all, like you said, this is your house, I’m just a visitor! Here, let me ask to sit on your couch. ” He went to stand sarcastically, but pain flitted across his face and he dropped down quickly. “Damn back…” He muttered, rubbing at it distractedly with his hand not occupied by a beer.

They were quiet for several minutes after that, an awkward, thick presence between them, broken only by the occasional swigs of beer. Ford hated it, hated this, what they had become. Absently, he rubbed at his chest where the picture lay hidden, drumming his fingers along the now near-empty beer that sat on his knee.

Neither of them knew how to break the silence, neither entirely sure that they wanted to. Sure, Ford wanted to talk to his brother, but how to do so without starting a fight? Surely this unintentional stalemate was better than yelling at each other. Stan sighed heavily, and Ford turned to the noise in slight dread. He never could let things lie.

“Look Ford, I didn’t work my ass off for 30 years to get you back just so we could sit here in silence like the two emotionally-constipated old men that we’ve become. I can hardly see you through this freakin mountain of baggage between us. So spill. Tell me what cogs are turning in that so-called genius brain of yours.”

It was the most that Ford had heard from his brother since he got back, besides the recounting of their backstory for the kids. He was floored. Stan, the mature one, who would have thought? But he was right, they needed to talk about so many things. In that instant, a thousand memories, emotions, fears, and hopes flashed in Ford’s mind. What to say? Where to start? He didn’t know. He sighed, taking the last swig of his beer and grabbed another before turning to Stan.

“Stanley-” Ford began haltingly, eyes darting away for a moment then refocusing on this twin, “It’s not like we can just sit down and in one huge conversation and cover everything that’s happened! We’ve been apart for over 30 years in different dimensions, and 10 prior to that in this dimension! And on top of all that, there are things I don’t want to- I’m not ready to share. Things I may never want to. You have to know that going in- You can’t pressure me. And I’ll try not to pressure you, but how are we… where do we even begin?” Ford looked down then, picking at the label of his bottle, for one of the few times in his life at a total loss for words.

“I think I have an idea” Stan halted, reaching around his left side where Ford couldn’t see. To Ford’s utter shock, he pulled out the mind-control tie. It was different now, modified. The fabrication was sloppy, wires sticking out every which way, bits of metal and blinking lights running all the way over the knot and around the collar. For a moment, anger flashed through Ford. Did Stan have any idea how long that damn tie had taken for him to complete? How much money it had earned him to continue his research? But it was almost immediately replaced with strange mix trepidation and awe.

“Did you… invent something, Stanely?”

“Hey now, Mr. Science, don’t get all impressed. I just modified your Reagen-mindy tie thing. I realised when the kids were using it on me that I could kind of get pieces of what they were thinking. I mean, I didn’t notice right away, I woulda grounded the little ankle-biters from here to Timbuktu if I did. Still woulda lost that election though…” He broke off for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Ford was good on his word, doing his best not to press his brother for details, but damn, it was hard! Since when did Stan have the capacity to invent things?

“Anyhow, It got me to thinking that if I moved a few wires around, I could change the jewels in the controller tie to equal the jewels in my Lucky- I mean, the Reagan tie, then the electro-whatevers that pass between them would cancel out instead of overpower one another. That way, I mean, hopefully, I haven’t really tried it, whenever two different people wear ‘em, they can re-”

“ad each other’s minds.” Ford finished. His mind immediately went into overdrive, though somewhat deterred by lack of sleep and partial inebriation. “Stanley, do you know what you’ve done? By adjusting the joules of the input from one tie to match that of the output of the other tie, you created an alternating current of bio-electrical int-”

“Yeah, yeah, like I said, can it Mr. Science. It’s just a theory. Your head could explode if I did it wrong.”

“Stan, if what you’re saying is true, then you’ve got to know that’s not possible. At most it could make both wearers disoriented, or lose a few memories here and there.” Ford deadpanned.

“Only one way to find out, then.” Stan placed his beer on the ground, reaching around to grab the other tie from behind him, and handed it to Ford. Ford glanced it over quickly, making sure that Stan had actually done as he had said.

“You sure this’ll work, poindexter?” Stan questioned, looking apprehensively at the two ties before them.

“Hey, you made them. Are you sure?”

“As I’ll ever be, I guess.” He looked up from the red and blue wire-covered tie in his hands to the black one in his brothers. He moved to hold the tie over his head. “Together?”

Ford grinned a little, poising the tie above his head.

“Together.”

Part 2 here

Not this again.

The icy air of the lab surged around him, sending strands of hair whipping across his face. Sparks shot from the swirling blackness within the Portal, casting dark shadows over everything they touched. Stan stood on the yellow and black caution line, reaching for his brother as far as he could, grasping at nothing but air. He watched in terror as Stanford disappeared into the Portal. His last words rang in his ears as they always did “Stanley! Do something Stanley!”

“FORD!” he woke up screaming, bolting off the desk where he had fallen asleep. Realizing where he was, he sat back down wearily, suddenly aware of the aches in his body. He was drenched in a cold sweat, and every movement hurt. As the adrenaline rush dissipated, he also felt the tell-tale sign of his sinuses closing.

Of course he caught a summer cold. Stan reached for a kleenex and blew his nose disheartenedly. Should he really be that surprised? Hardly eating, working for 10+ hours a day as Mr. Mystery, and staying up late at night to work on the Portal had to take a toll on his old body. He reclined in the shabby office chair, rubbing his arms where goosebumps had risen. Well he wasn’t going to get any work done like this. He stood, closing the journal on the desk and gently placed his hand over the insignia on the front. It didn’t fit; Ford had always had bigger hands, and Stan was obviously missing a finger, but it was a ritual he held every night. The thin metal plating sent a chill running up his arm, causing him to pull back his hand.

“You’re right Sixer,” he sighed. “Time for me to hit the hay.” He stood then, pushing with both hands on the desk to steady himself, and half-limped over to a cot tucked away in a corner of the lab. He didn’t feel like hiking all the way up the stairs to his room tonight. He collapsed as soon as he reached the bed, half-heartedly tossing the old army blanket over himself. He was asleep almost instantaneously.

Stan was laying in his bed in Glass Shard, his comforter pulled up to his chin and a thermometer sticking out of his mouth. He knew it had been a dumb decision to sneak out and string up the pirate flag on the Stan O’ War last night. But he had worked so hard on that flag! Saving bits of string, old t shirts, and even one of his pop’s old work shirts (Filbrick had a rather unfortunate taste for homemade chili in the wintertime. He wasn’t a particularly cautious eater, either.) had taken so long! “Borrowing” the needle from his mother’s sewing kit besides, Stan had probably broken about 10 different rules just to get the thing completed. What was one more to see it himself before showing it to Ford? But he had paid dearly: Filbrick had caught him on his way back home, dripping wet from the late December rain, and had grounded him for a solid month. And on top of all that, a cold. Just perfect.

The door to the twin’s room opened and shut, and Stan pushed himself up, smiling as best he could when he saw it was his brother, holding a steaming mug of something. “Bro, didja see it? Whatja think, huh? Pretty neat work, if I do say so myself.” He spat out the thermometer and put it on his bedside table, readjusting himself to sit up fully in bed.

“Stan it’s perfect! How in the world did you even pull that off? It looks hand-made!” Ford was beaming ear to ear, and plopped down on Stan’s bed, offering him the cup.

“Here, it’s for you. I stole some of Ma’s chili. Spices tend to help clear nasal passages and you could use the extra protein. Hey, did you know that when you are sick, your body produces extra white blood cells so it can fig-” Stan cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Thanks for the chili, bro, but I already have a headache from this cold. I don’t need another one brought on by all your science mumbo-gumbo.”

Ford nodded, looking a little put out that he wouldn’t be able to finish his mini biology lecture. Oh well. He guessed there were some things Stan would never care about as much as he did. He smiled when Stan took a sloppy sip of the chili. “‘’S good!” he slurred, accidentally spitting some back onto Ford.

“Oh-ho, gross Stan!” Ford whined, rubbing the specks of chili off his face. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” Stan swallowed. “Ford you sound like Ma.” 

“Don’t say that either!” They shared a little laugh, and Stan took another gulp of the chili.

“So. Did you really make the flag yourself? Since when can you sew?”

“Hey poindexter, there’s stuff I can do that you don’t know about! And yeah, I did. Saved up scraps here and there, took one of Ma’s needles to sew it. Do you really like it?”

“Stan, it’s great. You did a wonderful job. Also, you have chili on your face.” 

Ford reached over and wiped his thumb across Stan’s bottom lip, absently bringing the digit back to his face and sucking it clean. It happened so fast that if he had blinked, Stan would have missed it. He had no idea why such a small action from his brother caused his stomach to flip and his chest to clench for a moment. This kind of thing kept happening around Ford; little things like that made Stan feel… weird. But in a good way. He did his best to write it off as just another Pine’s Twins quirk, but the more it happened the harder that became.

He blushed, realizing he had been staring at Ford for a good 30 seconds or so. Ford didn’t seem to notice. After cleaning his thumb, he had turned his head, eyes roaming over the posters and diagrams covering the wall of his half of the room, lips moving every now and then, as if lost in thought. His brows were knit together, and his hands were steepled in his lap. The entire image was just… beautiful. And there it was again, that same weird feeling. Just then Ford turned back to look at Stan, noticing his blush. His frown deepened and suddenly the weird feeling in Stan’s gut was gone.

“Stan, your fever must be spiking! It’s probably my fault for giving you that chili. Stupid, stupid! Here, give me that!” He nearly yanked the chili from Stan’s hands. Stan frowned, missing the warmth of the cup and the warmth of that weird feeling.  

“I’d take your temperature, but the chili has thrown that option out the window. Just get some rest ok? I’ll try to sneak you up something else later.” He leaned in and gave his brother a quick, one armed hug, and left the room.

Stan laid back down and couldn’t help the small smile that passed over his face. The feeling was back, and it was just soft and comforting enough to lull him back into a peaceful sleep.

((Fun fact: this ficlet used the word chili ten times. -_-’))