… Aaand half because of that, half because of shitty family stuff, I’m super anxious right now. Just wanted to let those who are following the story know I am not dropping it, but updates will be a lot more spaced out than previously thought. I’ve outlined everything and it will probably be around 10k when done, maybe less.
In the meantime, please feel free to send me any questions/comments/suggestions about this story or any of my other writings or just the Stans in general.
Thank you all for hanging in there, sorry I can’t produce faster…
I will not be able to post tonight as I am only halfway done with the next chapter and have work at 6am tomorrow, but I just wanted to say:
THANK YOU! :D
I really appreciate all the likes/reblogs/tags on this story, I’m really, really pumped about it myself and I’m so happy you guys are too! The next chapter will be sad (and so will the next) but some good stuff is coming too! So stay tuned, strap in for more pain, and thanks again for reading/ liking the fic!
I can’t comment in stream cause im on mobile but thank you for doing those >.> lol I feel embarrassed cause they’re both mine but omg I love your writing and 420stan AU so much .
Oh my goodness, thank you so much! I’m so sorry they’ve been spotty lately, life stuff has been kicking my butt. But I’m so glad you like them and your presence is super appreciated when I’m writing! Thank you for the prompts and thanks for reading all my sin
Oh my goodness guys, thank you sooo much for all the requests! I have quite a few in my inbox right now, and please feel free to keep sending them, but because I’m almost a week behind on updating LaNEitM, I’m going to hard-core focus on that for now. The next part should be around 2-3k or so, and hopefully posted in the next 24 hours. As soon as that’s done, I’ll pick back up on prompts! And yes, you filthy sinners, every hilarious and smutty promt will get a glorious drabble. ;)
Here’s those drabbles I promised, anon! Sorry they took longer than I thought, I’ve been working on LaNEitM a lot this week so these kinda took a backseat. So here, have two cute drabbles, one sad as hell one, a badly hidden pot pun, and a couple shitty 80’s-esque cutscenes because I can’t write sex in less than 2k, lol. Anywho, enjoy!
AND PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY KEEP THOSE REQUESTS COMING FOLKS.
Three drabbles beneath the cut, original request here.
Keep Trying
(teen stan shotgunning with ford in the stan o'war- established relationship, they’re 16 here.)
“Hey, Ford, can we try somethin’?” Stan asked as Ford coughed out his hit. He took the joint from Ford’s hand, passing him the water jug they had hauled with them to the Stan’O’War that morning. It was a cool fall day in Glass Shard Beach, and Ma Pines had gone off to a Psychic convention in New Jersey, and the boy’s father was off smooshing some big banker friend of his in an attempt to pull out another loan for the pawn shop.
Finally calming down from his coughing spell, Ford choked out, “Sure, what exactly did you have in mind?” Stan squirmed on the blanket in the cabin of the small ship, searching for the right way to present his idea to his brother. He took his hit and passed the joint to Ford before beginning.
“Welll ya see I saw this thing the other day… Ya know that bar on the far side of town next to the docks? Was’it called, uh Tempert or somethin’?”
Ford coughed again, quickly handing the blunt to Stan and gulping down more water before stammering, “Tempest? Stan, what the hell were you doing over by the-the-” He stuttered to a stop before whispering out the next word, “gay bar? Pop would skin you alive if he knew you were even over there!” Stan sighed out his hit and passed back to Ford, annoyed at his twin’s overprotectiveness.
“Cool it, Sixer, I was just on a jog after boxing practice and I took a wrong turn, ok? I know I’m no poindexter like you,” He reached out to poke Ford’s forehead, “But I’m not a dumbass, alright?”
“Stan! Language!” Ford looked around furtively, as if one of their parents would materialize out of the hazy air. Stan chuckled, setting the dead roach in the ashtray and gently punching his brother’s arm, “Ford, relax, you’re gettin’ a lil bit paranoid over there. We’re in the Stan’O’War, in the hidden cove, and it’s low tide. We’re beached, no one’s gonna find us here, alright?” He grinned over at him, hoping that his off-hand air would spread to his tensed twin. Fortunately, it seemed to work, and Stan watched as Ford’s shoulders visibly dropped, his entire boy laying back onto the blanket lazily.
“You’re right Stan. I’m sorry. You know how I get.” He sighed, closing his eyes and bobbing his head to the faint music streaming from the 8 track player. Stan followed suit, deciding to let the matter go and simply enjoy this time with his brother. They lay listening to the song on the soft blanket, Stan fisting it every once in awhile to revel in the sensation of the woven cotton, imagining the slow roll of waves beneath them. When the song ended, Ford sat up suddenly, peering down at Stanley.
“Oh yeah, I’m sorry, what was it you wanted to try again?”
Stan looked away as he felt heat rising in his cheeks. He sat up, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “Well, like I said, I was jogging outside Tempert-”
“Tempest.” Ford corrected. “Go on.” His eyes, while bloodshot and a little glazed, were attentive, and Stan was lost for a moment, staring into the pools of his blown pupils. He shook his head, forcing himself to look away before continuing.
“Right. Tempest. Anyway, I saw these guys smoking in the alleyway, and they called out to see if I wanted a toke. I was a little nervous, ‘course, cause I mean, other than all the hell to pay if I was seen over there, some of the guys were huge. Like, twice the size of me.” He paused, expecting Ford to cut in to reprimand his reckless behavior like he normally did, but Ford was staring on, rapt with attention. Stan cleared his throat, continuing.
“A-anyway, I just kept walkin’, and after a minute they kept talkin’ but before I lost sight of them I saw…” He trailed off, unsure for a moment how to continue. It was weird, right? Ford wouldn’t want to do that, would probably think it was ‘unsanitary’ or ‘unhygienic’. Ford blinked, taking a moment in his state to realise that his brother’s story was yet unfinished. “Keep going.” He asked, his voice dropping to a low, husky rasp that drove Stan wild. He did his best to ignore the heat pooling in his stomach as he quickly finished the story, explaining how it worked and what it was called. Ford sat back, running a hand through his hair before reaching over to grab another blunt and the zippo they had nicked from the pawn shop. He crawled back over to Stan, who gulped as Ford straddled his hips, unlit blunt hanging from his lips.
“So you’re saying you want me to take a hit, and instead of exhaling into the air, you want me to kiss you and blow the smoke into your lungs?” His eyes were lidded and Stan could see the buldge forming in his pants. Stan gulped before responding
“…Yes?” He looked into Ford’s eyes again and saw how blown his pupils had become, the dark orbs allowing only a thin ring of chocolatey-brown iris to show.
“Stanley, that is irrefutably the most fucking hot thing you have ever asked me.” Without another word, Ford flipped open the zippo and lit the new joint, inhaling as much as he could before threading his free hand into Stan’s short brown hair and pulling Stan’s face to his own.
For a moment, Stan was almost too shocked to move, tendrils of smoke leaking from their loose press of lips. Then his mind went into overdrive, and he grasped Ford’s back, fisting his shirt in his hands, inhaling as deeply as the position could allow. Ford pulled back, staring expectantly at Stan’s face. Stan grinned a bit before slowly letting out the breath, Ford’s smoke exiting his lungs in a rush.
“Fuck.” Stan cursed emphatically he finished, “Ford, jesus, that was so- so sexy, christ, where the hell did you-” But Stan never got to finish that thought, as Ford tapped out the joint safely in the ashtray before attacking his brother in a lustful ardor.
…
Stan and Ford lay naked and panting on the floor of the cabin, Stan reaching out to grab the previously forgotten joint to relight it and passed it to Ford. He took the offered light gratefully, pulling deep and exhaling slowly. They lay in silence for a beat then:
“Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s keep trying new stuff.”
Stan laughed a giddy, full-bodied laugh.
“Yeah Sixer. Let’s keep trying.”
This I Can Do
(mullet!stan smoking in bed after getting fucking POUNDED by ford- previous relationship in their teens, set about a week after they meet again after the 10 year separation)
“Sta-an-ley!” Ford keened loudly as he came with a final thrust, his whole body shaking for a moment before collapsing on top of Stan. Stan hummed and stroked Ford’s back lazily as they both panted and waited for their heartbeats to return to normal, doing their best to ignore the sticky residue of Stan’s orgasam stuck between them. Ford turned his head and gently kissed Stan’s neck once before slowly pulling out and they both groaned from the loss.
Ford rolled to the side to lay on his back next to his twin with a soft smile on his face. He snaked a hand down the bed to intertwine his six fingers in Stan’s five. They laid like that for another minute or so, still panting as the sweat on their bodies slowly cooled. Stan shivered, and reluctantly released Ford’s hand to grab a fist-full of tissues from the nightstand. He handed Ford half of them while he cleaned himself up as best he could, tossing away the used tissues in the general direction of the trash can. He missed. Ah well, he’d pick them up in the morning. Or later, whenever the mood struck him.
Stan let out a slow breath, willing himself to sit up. Finally, he grabbed the comforter from the floor where it had carelessly been kicked away and tossed it over both of them, leaning over to kiss Ford deeply. Ford reacted in kind, grasping his forearm and threading his free hand through Stan’s long brown hair. Stan grinned as he pulled away, “That good, huh sixer?” Ford flustered for a moment, heat somehow rising in his wrinkled cheeks.
“This was… always has been good with you, Stan.” He looked up into Stan’s eyes nervously before turning away. Stan nearly called his bluff with a quick retort but he bit down on the words before they could leave his mouth. It was rare that Ford was genuine. He liked it. So instead he kissed him again, with less heat this time, just a gentle glide of lips and tongues. He pulled back again, placing a last chaste kiss on Ford’s lips. “Same with you, Ford.” He made sure to make eye contact, letting Ford know that the words were not in jest.
He released his brother, grabbing a pillow from the floor and tossing it against the headboard. Ignoring the blooming pain in his lower back, he pushed himself into a sitting position and opened the drawer on the nightstand, pulling out a packed bowl and a book of matches.
He lit one, cornering the bowl as he inhaled deeply. His hand drifted down to rest on the comforter as he exhaled slowly, blowing slow, fat ‘O’s in the air. He turned to Ford, holding out the pipe.
“Want a hit?” Ford stared dubiously at the paraphernalia, and after a brief internal debate, he sat up and grasped the offered bowl, lighting a match of his own and taking a long hit. He coughed as he exhaled, and Stan graciously offered him the glass of water that he always kept on his nightstand for dry mouth.
They continued smoking in relative silence, communicating only to ask, “My turn?” or “Matches?” As they neared the middle of the bowl, Ford took another long hit, coughing once and passing again to Stan. He sat back, watching his brother inhale the lit cherry slowly, his eyes drawn to the way his lips tantalizingly pursed around the mouth of the pipe, the bob of his adam’s apple as he inhaled, the drop of his bare chest as he exhaled. Stan lazily handed the pipe back, stretching to pop his back, the pain previous pain dimmed into a soft, pulsing burn. As Ford took his pull, Stan turned to watch him, uttering, “Kinda like old times, huh?”
Ford hummed as he exhaled, remembering the stolen weekends when their parents hadn’t been home back in Glass Shard. Those were some of his fondest memories of the town, entire days spent high out of their skulls, fucking like bunnies, eating like pigs, and laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.
The memories hurt less now than they had before Stan had showed up in Gravity Falls, the pain of the lost relationship somehow easier to stomach now that he sat in bed with Stan, repeating a version of those same bittersweet actions.
They finished the bowl in silence, Stan setting it off to the side after cashing it. They stared off at the opposite wall, lost in their own thoughts for quite some time before Ford cleared his throat.
“So. We, ah, can we do this again, maybe?” Ford ventured, looking off to the side again to pointedly avoid eye contact in an attempt to steal himself to the potential negative answer. Stan reached out a heavy arm, gently cupping Ford’s face and turning it toward his own.
“ ‘Course Ford. Whatever you want. ‘Cause I don’ know about you, but I missed you like crazy for the last ten years. I’m… I’m really glad you even agreed to this. I kinda thought it was a one-time thing. But, yeah. I’d like it a lot if we could just, ya know.” He leaned forward, guiding Ford’s lips to his own in a slow closed mouth kiss. “So long as you want that.”
Ford smiled a bittersweet smile.
“I’m still… I’ve still got some things to think through Stan. We’ve still got more than our fair share of baggage to work on. There’s things I’m not ready to forgive, and I know it’s more than likely you feel the same. But this?” He reached forward to place a chaste kiss against Stan’s own lips.
“This I can do.”
Never Forgotten
(stan hotboxing the lab- HERE COMES THE ANGST TRAIN TOOT TOOT, can be read as gen)
Stan had disabled the alarms in the basement pretty much the day he had moved into Ford’s house. He’d had half an Oz on him the day of The Incident, and had smoked himself cannatonic that night in the lab, staring at the broken portal and hitting dysfunctional buttons here and there in a desperate hope that something would magically bring Ford back. It hadn’t worked, of course.
So the next day when he was relatively sober, he began reading. And reading. And reading. The first four or five years in that house, every waking second not spent on making money from the Murder Hut was spent reading books about Theoretical Physics, Universal String Theory, Multidimensional Plasmatic Trans-whatever. The list went on. That time, relative to now, was probably the best. Even when his material was frustrating or seemed impossible to grasp, he still had hope that with enough effort and research that things would work out.
Then, after literal years of study and effort and re-reading Ford’s journal so many times he had memorised the thing, it clicked. He still remembers the moment sitting at the small work desk, the Journal propped up on the wall and a book on String Theory in his lap. He was doodling absently in the margins of his notebook, pausing every so often to hit a small pipe. He watched distractedly as he doodled an old singer sewing machine, of all things, just like the one his ma used to make their clothes when they were little.
Then the realisation had hit, like a mac truck with a ton of bricks.
The symbols, which had never been explained in the journals were not pointless flair or decoration. They were needles. Needles that held the distinct ability to sew together the very fabric of the universe, the all-elusive Strings that he had been reading about for years but never grasped. But as he understood, he balked at the comparative genius of his brother.
Stan always knew that Ford was smart. A genius, in every right of the word. But this? This was mind-blowing. Ford hadn’t just created this portal. He had created his own branch of science to do so. He had single-handedly discovered clumps of space-time strings in the same sense that astronomers discovered constellations of stars. The portal wasn’t just a plasma warp to a specific dimension.
It was a sewing machine that could recreate the opening to any dimension, any alternate universe so long as the tailor had the correct pattern.
And the Pattern that he needed to get Ford back was in another journal.
Stan had throw the journal across the lab that night, rage filled his heart as tears streamed down his face. He had understood! He’d cracked the damn code, he actually fucking got how it worked, and it was pointless, just fucking pointless.
So he had tried harder.
Stan had looked everywhere in the entire house twice, turning every piece of furniture, prying up floorboards, looking in every cabinet and every box, drawer, desk. Nothing. Two fucking years of searching, and he had nothing to show for it, except the pointless knowledge of how to work the portal. That he didn’t have fuel for. That he didn’t have coordinates for. It pained him in indescribable ways, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, like being stranded in the middle of the ocean without a drop of water to drink.
And he didn’t find the journal. Not even a hint or clue or mention of it anywhere, in any of Ford’s things or notes.
And he was tired. Too damn tired of all this hope.
All this effort.
All this loss.
Every day that he failed finding the journal, it was like loosing Ford all over again. Because he knew, deep down, that Ford was gone. Wherever he went, the probability of him being alive was so, so heartbreakingly low. The universe was infinite, Stan understood that now more intimately than he cared to. And with infinite possibilities came an infinite number of horrific fates his tortured mind could cook up for his twin. He could have simply warped into empty space, dying instantly. Or to a planet that didn’t have enough oxygen in its atmosphere for his body to fully function, causing him to die a slow and painful death. He could be stuck in the dead space between dimensions, fated to be the plaything of otherworldly creatures more lost and powerful than him. Or he could have discovered a universe where Stan never existed and simply chose to stay there.
Stan tried not to the think about the last option too often. It didn’t work near as much as he wished.
He grabbed two joints and headed down to the lab for the night, settling down at the desk chair with the closed notebook on one side and his own, simple spiral-bound next to it, filled with his own notes, calculations, and musings. He bowed his head a moment before spinning away from the pointless tombs, beginning an old ritual he had picked up when he ran with Rico: to give an offering to the fallen. It was common, apparently, in gangs that functioned as ‘families’. A way to mourn the lost and honor them, even after they are gone.
He lit the first joint, leaning back in the chair and staring morosely up at the ceiling.
He dropped it ceremoniously to the concrete floor after exhaling the single, deep draw, and stomped it out with his boot before turning back to the desk to light the other. He leaned back again, staring at the dead joint on the floor for a moment. What was it Rico always said after making an offering again? Oh yeah.
“For our fallen. Gone, but never forgotten.” He uttered quietly, the silent smoke rising from his joint the only witness to his mournful concession.
Description: Stan gets really drunk for the first time and thinks about Ford. Based on the AU that you see color for the first time when you meet your soulmate, but altered: you experience color over time as you learn to love.
Warnings: angst, incest, depressing 60s songs, alcohol, drinking, Stan is hurt and I’m sorry
It was a cold autumn night in Glass Shard, the hash ocean winds whipping the dead leaves into the air and sending mist-laden, humid air throughout the small Jersey town. He had exactly twelve dollars and fifty-nine cents to his name as he trudged into the seven-eleven just past midnight to pick up a 12 pack of the cheapest. He left two dollars and fifty cents poorer, chased out the door by the stinging remarks of the night clerk. The moment he got back to the El Diablo he fires it up, ignoring the bitter cold in his bones as he cranked the engine and began to drive.
He cracks the first can and downs it before he gets back to the beach he’s been crashing on less than 5 miles away. He throws the old car into park and cuts the headlights, ignoring the blaring ‘empty’ light on the dash; he’d run her for five more minutes to warm up and shut her down for the night. He figured he’d have just enough to get back to that same damn seven-eleven in the morning.
He wouldn’t.
He cracks the second can and turns on the radio.
“Oh yeah, I’ll tell you somethin’, I think you’ll understand~”
He chugs the rest of the second beer and starts in on the third.
“When I’ll, say that something, I wanna hold your hand~”
He’s halfway done with the pack by the time the Beatles finally fade out.
“What a dream I had, pressed in organdy~”
He’s chugging through them and gets through two more before he breaks and his eyes begin to water.
“When I awoke and found you warm and near~”
He doesn’t think about Ford’s warm body, so soft and comforting in the morning light.
“I kissed your honey hair with my grateful tears~”
Or about how beautiful he looked as they laughed and wrestled and kissed as the sun crept through their window and fell on Ford like an angel straight out of heaven.
“Oh, I love you girl. Oh, I lo-”
Stan frowned and pressed the power button for the radio. He tapped it lightly on the side (It did this sometimes, he had found just the right angle to hit so it would pop back on). Nothing happened. It slowly registered in his drunken mind that cold air was beginning to seep in around his ankles through the poorly insulated doors.
So he sat back. And he chugged his beer. And pulled his only other coat from the back seat and slipped it on, telling himself it would help.
He kept drinking.
It wasn’t until the last can that he noticed it. Just a flash of difference as he raised the can to his lips.
The label on the can was coloured.
It was a color of depth; somehow it seemed colder than the can itself. It was bright yet dark at the same time, and he found himself pulling the can closer to his face. He blinked, hard, trying to rid the sight before him and return his world to the simple, monotonous grey-scale that he knew.
The color was still there.
He chugged the can.
He finished them all, tossing the last crumpled can onto the heap in the floor of the passengers seat and tumbled out of the car to take a piss. He walked past the sand dunes and unzipped, trying to keep most of his mess off of his clothes. He partially succeeded. He fixed himself up as best he could and went to turn around, but paused. His jeans were coloured. Blue. Jeans were blue. Pabst Blue Ribbon was blue. And so was- He looked up and immediately turned away and retched.
When he was done, he spat and wiped his mouth, walking down toward the icy waterline and sat in the dry sand just above the tide line.
The ocean was blue. The horizon was dark, almost blackish in shade, slowly giving way to the lighter, softer blues where the moonlight reflected off of the water. He sat and watched the pale waves roll onto the grey beach, feeling as if every crest and break drove daggers into his heart.
The night sky was also blue. It was both a darker and lighter color than the ocean; the now-stark contrast of the stars revealing the true vastness of the sky. No wonder Ford was so obsessed with space.
Ford.
His gut seized and he nearly vomited again, but was able to hold it down, instead closing his eyes and laid back, forcing himself to think about literally anything else.
Don’t think about his smile, and the way it lit up his face so big and was so contagious Stan always felt himself grinning in return. Stan wondered if Ford had blue eyes.
Don’t think about those stolen nights in the El Diablo, the ones where the petting was more than heavy and the windows fogged up so bad they had to sit and giggle for several minutes after while the defrost chased away the evidence of their lovemaking. Stan glanced back at the El Diablo. It was not blue.
Don’t think about the Stan O’ War, and the first time Ford said those three little words, whispered like a precious secret against his skin, hidden from the shore by the taunt fabric of the sail.
The ocean was blue.
Maybe Ford could have seen it.
Maybe not.
Stan opened his eyes and stared at the midnight sky, finally allowing his tears to fall. Leave it to him to finally see, to have his ‘colour moment’, and it not be with him. No, instead it had to be with a shitty 12 pack of cheap beer on a broken down beach.
Everything about this was fucked up. The fact that he hadn’t seen color with Ford: fucked up. The fact that he still allowed himself to fall in love with him, his own brother!, without seeing color with him: fucked up. The fact that he was still hurt by the bastard’s actions even now, months later: fucked up.
But more than that, than all of that was the color blue.
That blue had to be the color of the label of this godforsaken beer. And the color of his jeans and the ocean. And that the color meant that Stan, somehow, some way, intrinsically loved beer more than he ever did Ford. That he got to experience something new and exciting and life changing not because he cared so much for a person, but for a thing.
He found his colour from getting drunk for the first time. Not from his first kiss, not from his first ‘I love you’, not from his first time having sex. But from fucking beer.
He passed out on the beach that night, and the last thought that passed through his mind was his sheer, unabashed hatred of the damn color blue.
Finally finished this request for @stancestsincave :D Really fun to do, especially the colors. Also since I’ve had this done for a couple days but no power/wifi to post it I ended up making a little bonus of Stan and Ford shotgunning under the cut :P
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.
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. -_-’))
