As much as I love the angst that it would bring if Ford would still kick Stan out of the Shack if they didn’t have to do the “erasing your memories” plan, I still want Stanley and Ford to get that hug.
Here are some of my favorite Stangst stories that I’ve read, re-read, and collected over the past few years. Some are old ‘classics’ while some are new or still updating. They’re listed in alphabetical order by title for easier searching.
The list will be updated periodically as I find great new stuff. Newly added stories are labeled with a ++
***Please read any tags/warnings before reading, as some of these stories may deal with upsetting topics and situations***
5/23/2022 Update: Added 2 Short Stories and also 2 Epic Length ones below the cut. Also verified that all the stories in the short section are still below 10k words as of today’s date.
This is based of the fan art and fic of the lovely @mintartem who gave me permission for this! Please check them out :)
This isn’t my best work and not quite what I imagined but I think part 2 will have more of my strengths!
Warnings: strangulation, light language
The basement was cold, and out of everything that was happening, you’d think Stanley would have had better things to be aware of.
Stanley should have been aware of the blinding light of the orb containing some sort of galaxy. Stanley should have been aware from the red-hot fury just radiating from his brother, both physically and mentally, and he was, he was!
It was just that the basement was cold. So, so, cold.
Ford’s screaming swam in and around his ears, like the waves had around that trunk, so many years ago.
The shockingly bright glow from the galaxy-decorated orb still sent waves of light around the room, like the reflections of light from the lake ripples. It laid somewhere behind Ford, having rolled before settling to a halt, space somehow angry and riled up inside it.
Ford’s figure advancing towards him, face starting to tinge pink from shouting, casted a horrible shadow over Stanley. Nothing he wasn’t used to.
“Do you have any single inkling of what you could have done?” Ford’s hair was unruly from sleep, his eyes bloodshot from what had to have been exhaustion and not hatred.
You did what, you knucklehead?
Filbrick’s eyes were unreachable, something so cold they’d freeze you to death unless protected by the saving grace of sunglasses. Not like Ford’s. Not like Ford.
Stanley took a step back with every step Stanford took towards him, keeping the safe distance (how sad was it he had to use the safe distance with his brother, that he had to think about how far away to keep from him as if he were a gangster trying to kill him) but aware of the ever-closer wall.
“Sixer, Ford, you’re kidding me, I didn’t–” Every word he tried to splutter out was drowned (like him in that trunk) and ignored (like him in the Pines household) and it only served to darken that red glint in Stanford’s eyes.
“You!” Stanford’s finger shot towards him, shaking and unsteady. “You have never respected my science. You never respected me! All my life, I’ve had to deal with your jokes and your degradation and-”
Degradation?
Stanley’s feet, wrapped in his warm slippers, froze to ice (cold cold basement’s cold cold floor, cold air drafting against his skin) and he stopped in his tracks. Stanford kept going.
Dumber, sweatier version of him, scraping barnacles off of docks and god-for nothing but racing drugs around border to border and brother of the genius and that clown and
“You’ve never been degraded in your life!”
You think you’ve got problems?
Stanley raised his own voice at him, waving an arm wildly around. “You got everything you wanted, lots of money, science stuff, damn it, Stanford, you–”
“I never got what I really wanted!” Stanford’s palms, so muscular and rough, pushed against his chest, and it was all Stanley could do to stumble without falling on his ass and feeling Ford’s foot on his chest as his shoulder burned in agony (hot in the cold, cold basement).
“I wanted somebody to understand me, somebody on my LEVEL! Who didn’t call me some sort of nerd machine whenever I brought up my interests! Who’d promise me the world and make me feel special! For God’s sake, I wanted to be acknowledged for what I was and instead, instead I was stuck with you!”
His fingers curled into a fist, red hot anger building in every muscle, old joints roaring to pounce. “Listen here, you entitled–”
Twelve fingers dug into his shoulders, ramming him into the wall that was so much closer than expected. The impact sent spikes of pain all throughout his neck and shoulders.
“You used me!” The cry was wild, unhinged, like a trapped animal. “You used me for your own personal gain!”
“THE SCIENCE PROJECT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” Stanley screwed his eyes shut and howled the words into his brother’s too-close face, but he felt himself pushed further into the wall. His feet itched to lash out and kick him in the crotch, the stomach, any soft area.
But he was small and Fil – no. No, this is Ford, his brother, he can’t hurt his brother. They just needed to roughhouse to let out steam –
“Bullshit!” Ford spat back, his wide eyes and flushed face way too close for comfort. “I just wanted to be my own person, my own happy person, and that was ripped away from me because ooh,” his voice dripped with sarcasm, “wherever we go, we go together!”
Pain tore across Stan’s body as if he’d been slapped, leaving him winded and breathless.
Ford hadn’t just said that. He hadn’t used that promise, those words, that sacred promise, against him.
No.
“You were my best friend.”
Well, I guess you’d better come visit me on the other side of the country.
Stanley’s twin, his better half. All he had and all he wanted.
“And you were the half of me I couldn’t get rid of! I wanted to be my own person and you just wanted to be around me all the time, to be me–“
The dust in the freezing basement was getting in Stanley’s eyes, causing allergies and shit and he could feel the liquid welling up in his eyes, half-angry and half-shocked.
He didn’t mean to wake Ford up and drop his snowglobe or whatever and he didn’t want to have his half-asleep enraged brother yelling at him like this, ripping apart any shred of self-respect or self-esteem Stanley managed to keep throughout the ages.
Years of fighting off thugs in dark alleyways coursed through Stanley’s veins and his fist swung towards his brother’s chin in a solid upper hook, returning the favor that still ached on his own jaw.
Twelve fingers wrapped themselves around his throat, cutting off his precious airway.
His eyes bulged, color fleeing from his cheeks. His fist unraveled and instead clawed and scratched at Ford’s grip.
Ford’s strength pushed him higher against the wall. Stanley felt his heels lift away from the bottom of his slippers.
He only had the little breath from before the chokehold, formulating to barely more than a croak. “Ford…” He searched his brother’s face for any hint of mercy that someone who cared could provide, that a bully or father or drug lord could never. “I can’t – “ breathe.
He needed to breathe.
“This is what I always feel around you!”
The words whirled around. Black spots danced, unclear and fuzzy and sometimes grey or green, but the angry light in Ford’s eyes glowed sharp and clear, twin lighthouses in whatever sea Stanley had dragged them both to drown in.
Hot tears flooded in Stanley’s eyes. His lips moved, but he had no oxygen to spare into speech.
He kicked out as a last resort, but he willingly missed hitting his brother. He’d caused enough damage. He might have broken whatever glowy ball he dropped. He ruined Ford’s life, that nerdy little boy on the bottom bunk…
His brother started screaming at him the moment he’d popped up from his desk. Maybe he was grumpy.
Stanley’s eyes slid shut, maybe from his own will, maybe not. finally rolling streams of tears down his face. Maybe his brother was still dreaming.
Ford, wake up.
The noose of fingers around his neck vanished, and sweet, ice-cold but fresh air flooded Stan’s body.
Without anything holding him up he stumbled forward, and with the dizziness having sucked all the energy out of his lungs it was all he could do to collapse forward onto his knees and then hands, choking and gasping and coughing as if he hadn’t just been trying to get air in, and now he was coughing it out?
His back was on fire, and so was his brand, and he could feel the trunk walls around him, and suddenly Pa grabbed his shirt, and, and…
A shuddering gasp reached his awareness. He lifted his head.
Ford had backed away, hands now covering his mouth, widened eyes, darkened by shadows underneath, no longer hysteric.
“Stan,” he croaked once those twelve fingers returned to his sides, trembling. From emotion or exertion?
Stanley’s shoulders shook with wheezy laughter as he stayed down, every inhale rasping painfully in his throat around the doubtlessly bruising skin. Twelve-fingered bruise to match the six-fingered bruise on his face to match the brand on his shoulder.
“Stanley, I’m–”
“You said I looked like Dad,” rasped Stanley, pathetic attempts at laughter both breathless and humorless. He lifted his head to stare at his twin. “But you’re the one acting like him.” His cheeks glistened with moisture.
Ford’s mouth opened and closed, visibly trembling. “I… I’m…”
Stanley forced himself to his feet, pretending he wasn’t swaying and that the room wasn’t spinning and that his throat didn’t still feel choked, fleeing to the elevator.
Ford didn’t follow.
This is a great story! It temporarily sedated my stangst needs. This deserves more notes than it currently has. Can’t wait for part two, if there is one. If there isn’t, oh well. It’s a great read.
Everyone agreed they couldn’t stay at the manor any longer than they absolutely had to. Reunions and explanations had to wait. Getting away from the scene of the crime had to come first.
Thankfully, in the chaos of startled guests and confused investigation, slinking out unnoticed was not a difficult feat.
Stan had the tapestry folded up and hidden safely in one of the several hidden inner pockets he’d added to most of his clothes. They had what they’d come for, now all that was left was making a clean getaway from the port, and figuring out what the hell made some moth-eaten old wall decoration so important that three independent parties all wanted to get it. Three, including…
Including Ford.
Stan looked back at Ford, walking at the very back of the group a few feet behind everyone else and looking all around himself. His gaze was flitting erratically every which way. But he’d at least calmed down enough to follow them out.
The nervousness was just barely visible under the façade of calm and collected steely resolve. Stan was almost surprised—if infinitely relieved—that he could still tell what feelings Ford was hiding under the surface. It had been so long. He’d never thought he’d see him again, but now he was there, walking back to the ship with them.
It was a strange melancholy feeling. The confused mix of emotions from earlier had run its course. He saw the ship docked in port, and all he felt was a profound homesickness that it wasn’t The Mystery. He would have loved to show off his actual ship to his brother after so many years.
The kids had reached the gangplank first, but been reluctantly stopped by Pacifica before they could move to board the ship. She looked at Mabel and Dipper with an expression of conflicted sadness.
“So… You’re leaving already?” Pacifica asked.
Mabel and Dipper shared a glance, before nodding in unison.
“It’s been a really fun night, despite everything.” Mabel said sympathetically. She meant it too, even with the ghost and the fighting and the shocking revelation as to whom exactly her new friend was. She’d gotten to dress up and attend the kind of party she’d only been able to dream of back when they lived with their grandfather. “But…”
“But we can’t stay.” Dipper finished for her.
“Why not?” Pacifica said suddenly, crossing her hands over her chest and looking back towards the manor. “I could… I could make my parents hire you. You can get a room in the manor, isn’t that better than living on a dingy boat with people constantly after you?”
“Ship.” Dipper corrected automatically, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
Just a month ago he and Mabel had been homeless stowaways with nowhere to go and nothing but each other. A month ago, he would have absolutely jumped at the chance of an honest job and a comfortable room on a safe shore. But now…
“Thanks, but… I think we’re exactly where we need to be.” Dipper smiled at her apologetically.
“Yeah!” Mabel slung an arm over his shoulders. “Besides, grunkle Stan needs us.”
Pacifica slumped, nodding glumly and taking a step back.
The rest of the crew boarded as she watched silently. Even Ford followed after, albeit with some hesitation. Pacifica chewed her lip and wrung a piece of her skirt tightly in her hands, until suddenly she blurted out:
“Let me come too!”
The people closest to the gangplank—Stan, Wendy, Dipper and Mabel—looked at her in unison. She crushed the fabric of her skirt even tighter between her hands, wavering on the spot.
Then, she let the fabric go, squared her shoulders, and marched up on deck.
“I’m enlisting in your ship-” She pointed at a very confused Stan with a scowl. “So- so you better deal with it!”
“I can say no to recruits, ya know.” He looked at her sceptically, leaning back against the railing. He let his face fall into a stern mask.
“Yeah, well if those two are good enough for this floating tub then so am I!” She stood her ground.
“You’re acting awfully entitled for someone with no nautical skills.” Stan narrowed his eyes at her. “That attitude ain’t helping yer case. Believe it or not, table manners and horse riding aren’t useful skills on the ocean.”
“But-”
“You won’t last ten seconds scrubbing decks and hoisting sails in a ballgown. Go back home, kid.”
“ Please .” Her voice cracked, and he stopped. She no longer stood straight and confident, she was folded in on herself, looking between Dipper, Mabel, and Stan with pleading eyes.
“If I go home, my parents will-… I- I don’t want to go back. Please , they’ll be furious.” She drew a shaky breath. “You’re the first people to actually treat me like people . I mean, I got more genuine praise for helping peel potatoes yesterday than I’ve gotten from dad in- in ever !”
“Look, I know they’re-” Stan barely had time to start talking.
“ Please .” She begged. “Please don’t send me back.”
Stan hesitated. Pacifica was an entitled aristocrat brat. But her father was not a good man, and something in him just knew that-
Seventeen years old, watching Filbrick throw him to the wolves, nowhere to go, no one to turn to.
Stan snatched a hammock from the arms of a crewmember carrying fresh supplies and tossed it to the child. She yelped as she was buried in canvas.
“Pull yer own weight. Don’t expect special treatment.” He snapped as she extracted herself from underneath the fabric.
She stared at the hammock in her arms, the metaphorical extended hand, and the implicit new place for her to stay.
“Y-Yes sir!” She hugged the fabric close to her chest, nodding breathlessly.
“Yes ‘Captain' . Go find Susan and ask where to hang that, you can help in the galley.”
Further in on deck, Fiddleford had just walked out from the ship with a bundle of rolled up mechanical sketches in his hands. While the others had spent the evening at the party he’d been left with some much needed time to work on upgrades for the ship. When The Mystery went under, so did an alarming amount of his hard work. But as much as it hurt him to lose all that progress, there was no better cure than to start over. He’d rebuild. Bigger, better, and with maybe just a tad more destructive potential. They were in the thick of it now, after all.
There were some design ideas he needed to talk to Stan about. Fiddleford knew his craft, but if he wanted ship specifics there was no one better to ask. He approached the other man—still dressed in formal clothes with his gray hair tied back—from behind and drowsily tapped his shoulder.
Stan’s shoulders shot up, he inhaled sharply and twisted around to face Fiddleford with his hands up as if ready to defend himself. Fiddleford was startled back by the abrupt movement, before the realization hit him like a cold wave.
That wasn’t Stan.
Ford stared at the man who’d managed to sneak up behind him while he was distracted trying to build up the nerve to confront Stan. He couldn’t keep losing focus like this, he needed to stay alert and ready for any threat. He was relatively confident Stan wasn’t going to do anything to him, but he couldn’t turn his back to the crew. Who knew what kind of immoral lowlifes his brother might have recruited? Stan had always had a knack for falling in with the wrong crowd. He needed to be ready to defend himself.
The bearded man was lanky, but hunched over enough that Ford still stood taller. A pair of odd green tinted glasses rested on his remarkably long nose. The surprised eyes behind the lenses were light blue, alert and intelligent.
He dropped the papers he was carrying in his arms, and as they fluttered down to the wooden deck Ford saw that they were blueprints. The neat, hauntingly familiar, signature in the corner caught his eye, and Ford’s arms fell from their defensive posture.
“F-… Fiddleford?” His voice was faint and fragile, like it could shatter and fall into the sea at any moment.
Fiddleford didn’t reply. He took Ford’s arms in a vice grip and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.
Ford tensed up, but didn’t try to get away. It was Fiddleford . Fiddleford wouldn’t hurt him.
He’d barely finished that thought, before his friend pulled back and punched him square in the jaw.
“ Thirty years, Stanferd! ” He cried. “Thirty darn years! Why on God’s green earth didn’ cha come back!?”
Ford pressed the palm of his hand to his throbbing jaw, responding numbly. “I thought you were dead.”
He'd thought Fiddleford was dead, that practically everyone he’d known in Gravity Falls was gone. Bill had attacked, and hundreds had died. They were dead, Bill said so. They were dead, and it was Ford’s fault, because he led Bill to them.
“So!?” Fiddleford yelled at him in disbelief, and Ford winced. “Ah thought you were dead!”
“I’m sorry, Fiddleford, I just… I couldn’t go back.”
“ Why ?” He countered. Exhausted. Pleading.
Why? Because Ford was to blame. It was that simple. Because he was scared. Because he was a coward, who couldn’t face what he’d done.
Because death followed him, and he couldn’t risk bringing it back.
“It was my fault. If I hadn’t-”
“Will ya quit it with t’ martyr complex already?” Fiddleford scolded him. He grabbed his upper arms again, shaking him lightly. “None of what he did was your fault.”
Fiddleford was wrong, Ford was telling the truth. But he didn’t have it in him to argue. Maybe it was cowardice again, but he didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to watch those kind empathetic eyes fill with hate. Instead he just nodded meekly, and removed the hand from his arm.
He'd thought Fiddleford was dead.
He’d thought Stan was dead too.
Filbrick had told everyone Stan had gone after Ford and died trying. Apparently, he really had gone after Ford—or more accurately Bill, in revenge for Ford—but he was still alive. Had Pa known that? Did Ma know, or did he keep the truth from her as well? Why? Because the truth might hurt their reputation?
The truth.
Stan was a pirate Captain . Justifying it as some necessary evil, he’d gone down the exact same path as Bill. Ford couldn’t even trust Stan anymore. He had to talk to him, set things straight.
“Stanley!”
Ford walked away from Fiddleford without another word. For a second he looked upset, before sighing deeply and kneeling down to pick up his scattered blueprints again. He supposed some things would never change.
“Stanley, we need to talk.” Ford declared sternly, walking across deck to where his brother stood speaking to the children.
There were children on board, what was he thinking?
Holding a hand out to halt Ford, Stan spoke.
“We need to get underway first. I know there’s a lot of shit to explain, but wait until I’ve gotten them raising the anchor and dropping the sails.” He said. “If Pyronica and Kryptos—the two from the party, they’re Bill’s first and second mate—were at the manor then The Isosceles can’t be far behind. It’s better we get a head start, and lead Bill away from the island.”
Ford reluctantly agreed that Stan’s thinking was reasonable, and let him walk off to oversee the crew. With that Ford was left standing alone with the children, watching the deck buzz to life with activity. Seagull-Stan—that was going to get confusing, he really should have picked a less idiotically sentimental name—surveyed the scene from high in the rigging. Keeping watch for potential threats to his human.
“Sooo…” The little girl he’d met before scooted up beside him. “Um, sorry for biting you. My name’s Mabel.”
Ford nodded once at her. “And I assume this is the twin brother you told me about?”
“Told him about?” The boy turned to look at his sister questioningly.
“Yeah, he was kind of stowing away in the cargo hold since the fight with Bill.” Mabel laughed nervously. The boy looked incredulous, but somehow not surprised. “Anyways, this is Dipper.”
“Greetings.” Ford replied simply.
Dipper stared at his hands. Ford tried not to acknowledge it, people always stared. But the scrutiny really wasn’t what he needed right now.
“So… You’re Ford.” Dipper said, more a statement than a question. “You’re Stan’s twin.”
“Yes.”
“I guess that makes you our uncle too, then.” The boy nodded to himself, slotting that piece of information neatly into place. At first, Ford was too distracted to realize the implications of what he’d said. But then the realization came to him and his attention snapped back to the children.
“ Uncle ?” He said in disbelief. “Stanley is-…?”
“No! No, no no, he’s our great uncle!” Mabel was quick to clarify.
“Oh thank God.” Ford muttered, leaning back against the taffrail. “So, Sherman, then?”
“Yeah.” Mabel answered. “He’s our grandpa.”
“Then why are you here ?”
The three went quiet. Around themselves the space filled with the noise of people hurrying every which way untying ropes and pulling chains and checking rudders. All without ever once acknowledging them. The children shared a glance that looked hauntingly familiar from his own childhood, a sibling bond so close that words weren’t necessary.
“Grandpa died last winter.” Dipper said sadly as the two children stepped closer to each other for comfort. “Mom and dad have been gone a long time.”
Ford’s heart sank. He’d never really thought he’d see Sherman again. Family was something he’s consciously given up when he went after Bill. But to hear that not only had his older brother passed away, but he’d also had at least one child who’d lived and died without Ford ever knowing… It stung.
“Ah, I see.” Ford said. “So that’s how you ended up with Stanley then.”
What was Stan thinking, dragging children into this mess? Mabel and Dipper didn’t look like they could be older than eleven or so, and here they were, chasing a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill them horrifically and running from the law. Was there really no other guardian Sherman could have found for them? Was there really nobody more responsible than Stan ?
Come to think of it, how had Sherman even known Stan was still alive?
“Are you two okay?” Ford asked the children. “Is he treating you well?”
“Yes.” Mabel said resolutely, like she was getting tired of answering the same question. “I told you already, this is our family, they’re good people. We trust Stan.”
“Family and good don’t have to be synonyms.”
“Well they are here.” Dipper shot back defensively. “Look man, you want to know how we ended up here?”
The boy looked at Ford with a fierce expression, and he found himself nodding.
“After grandpa died, we were in a rough place.” Dipper explained, crossing his arms and glaring at Ford.“ Orphans are supposed to be looked after by the parish, but surprise, surprise, they didn’t want us. We ran away and snuck onboard a trading ship docked in our port, just sort of hoping it’d take us someplace better. But they found us.”
Mabel put a hand on Dipper’s shoulder and took a step past him towards Ford.
“They kidnapped me.” She continued, looking ahead with determination. “And left Dipper all alone on an island.”
“That was the island I found this on.” Dipper took something out from the now rumpled formal jacket he was still wearing. Ford made a small gasp, as he recognised the red leather and brass details of his own research journal.
“Stan and the others saved me. They didn’t know who I was, they had nothing to gain from it. They just did it because it would have been wrong to leave me. They helped me save Mabel from those merchants too.” Dipper hugged the journal to his chest. “I know you probably have a hard time trusting them after what you went through. I didn’t trust them at first either. I-I mean, I was honestly kind of a jerk. But they saved us. So don’t go after grunkle Stan when you never came to help us either.”
Ford hardly heard what the boy was saying. All his mind was completely consumed by the sight of that old journal, and the thought that his idiot brother had let children read it. That Stan had somehow thought it was a good idea to let two small children read a first hand account of exactly the kind of ordeal that awaited them all should this endeavour to find Bill end up for the worse.
He felt furious, but mixed with that fury, was a gross sticky feeling of shame clinging to his entire person. Those memories had been buried for a reason. His most intimate thoughts, his most painful and vulnerable moments had been laid bare in front of what little family he hadn’t even known he had.
Nauseous fear was fluttering around his head. There was no way these children would ever see him as anything short of pathetic after reading all of that.
Dipper finished his speech, before drawing back suddenly. His stern expression and impassioned voice faltered, he looked at Ford with worry.
“I-… I’m sorry, t-that was harsh! Are you okay, you look really-”
“I’m fine.” Ford said through his teeth. He pushed himself away from the taffrail he’d suddenly found himself steadying against. He didn’t have to make even more of a spectacle of himself in front of them.
Dipper pressed the book close to his chest. Mabel came forward slightly with a hand reaching out, but Ford ignored it. After a moment, Dipper suddenly relinquished his hold and instead offered the journal forth.
“Here. It’s yours, so, if you want it back…”
Ford considered, but he didn’t even want to touch that damnable book. The damage was already done anyway.
“Keep it.” He said after a few steadying breaths. “It’s just bad memories.”
The younger twins shared another glance, but didn’t press the subject. Dipper returned the book to his jacket, secretly relieved to have been allowed to keep it. The research was fascinating, even if he still struggled to read most of it. Even if the tale it told was an unhappy one, it left him feeling nothing short of awe for the man before them who’d persevered through all of it.
Mabel and Dipper continued to talk, with Ford only occasionally contributing to the conversation. Once the ship was out on open water, Stan reappeared.
He placed one hand on each of the two childrens’ shoulders, smiling at them as they turned to look.
“Great job tonight kids, I couldn’t be prouder.” His voice was warm, and they beamed at him. “Still, all this junk kept us up way later than usual. I’m beat, and so should you be.”
“Well, you are an old man.” Mabel replied, and Stan ruffled her hair.
“Yeah, whatever. The 'old men’ need to talk, so run off ta bed ya gremlins.”
The kids did as they were asked, walking back into the ship after brief 'good-nights’. The two men were left behind alone in their little corner of the mostly abandoned deck.
As soon as the kids were out of sight, Stan’s easy smile fell. His shoulder slumped and he went to lean over the taffrail, staring out across the pitch black ocean.
“Thirty fucking years, Ford?” Stan looked back at him, eyes sincere and teeth chattering faintly against each other. His shoulders were trembling, and his hands held the railing so tightly his knuckles were turning white.
“Fiddleford has already scolded me, thank you.” Ford replied, taking position next to his own twin. Through the black, he could just barely see their faces reflecting back up at them from the dark water. He would almost rather sink through the deck and down into the depths than have this conversation, but it needed to be done.
“The children told me how you met them.” He jumped to the first at least somewhat non-confrontational topic he could think of. He had to build up his resolve before asking the really uncomfortable questions. “I take it the merchants they stowed away with are no longer amongst the living?”
Stan looked at him, wrinkling his nose like Ford’s statement was distasteful. Even though he’d done his best to keep his tone level, and his choice of words neutral. Just because it was an accusation didn’t mean it had to sound like one.
“For your information, yes they are.” Stan said. “Reason we’re one lifeboat short is cause we didn't leave 'em to drown after The Isosceles attacked them.”
“Humph.”
“Ford, what the hell is up with you? We don’t see eachother for forty years and when I finally have you back you act like I’m not worth the time of day!”
“Well, I’m sorry.” Ford huffed, his grip on the railing becoming equally forceful. “Excuse me if I’m having some difficulty in looking past the fact that you decided the best way to fight Bill was to become Bill.”
Stan just blinked at him without comprehending, before his face went red. His hands left the taffrail and he turned on Ford with clenched fists and a furious expression.
“How the FUCK am I Bill!? I spent thirty years trying to kill him for the sake of your ungrateful ass!”
“He who fights monsters, Stanley.” Ford muttered back at him. “You tried to combat a pirate by becoming a pirate.”
“No, okay, you know what? Fuck that.” Stan breathed heavily. “Do you have any idea why I did that? 'Honorable ships’ and 'honourable people’ are all shams, I spent ten years practically a slave for those people just to have a roof over my head and something to eat. We had crewmates whipped for backtalk and die from the food. There were six year olds getting their hands blown off carrying gunpowder, just so the Captain could win some meaningless title from a king he’d never meet. I tried to do things the 'good way’ and that achieved jack!”
Stan stopped, breathing hard just to steady himself, before slumping back again and running a hand across his suddenly very old looking face.
“The rules were all made for and by the people on the top. Nobody came to help us when Gravity Falls was burned to the ground. Nobody gave a shit about taking down a monster like Bill. Nothing got done until I stopped playing by the rules.”
Ford was stunned briefly. He wasn’t scared of Stan, even with them having changed so much, he’d never be scared of him. But seeing him so worked up, shouting and fuming, it was… Disquieting.
“Have you ever killed someone?” Ford asked sternly. Stan looked back over the top of his hand and twisted the piercing question back around.
“Have you ?”
Ford found himself unwilling to answer, falling silent again. Stan stood back up straight after another few moments of silence.
“We’re thieves , not monsters. We do as little harm as possible.” When Ford didn’t answer this time either, Stan tried to take his arm but Ford pulled away from the touch. “Let me show you something.”
With a bit of reluctance, Ford followed Stan across the deck to a chest resting by the base of the mast. He undid the locks and opened it. It was full of neatly folded flags.
“These are our old signal flags, Soos managed to save them when our ship sank fighting Bill.” Stan selected a red flag folded in the corner and pulled it out. He shook it, and a cloud of dust formed thick enough that it made Ford sneeze.
“ This , is a no quarter flag.” Stan pressed the blood red fabric into Ford’s hand. “There’s only one person I plan on raising that for, and it’s Bill. Because Bill hurt you . He hurt Fiddleford, he hurt Soos, he hurt Wendy… He hurt my family . That’s what I’ve been trying to avenge for thirty years.”
“Ford…” Stan’s voice shook with emotion. “Where were you?”
Ford looked at the thin red fabric hanging innocently in his grip, moving slightly with the warm seabreeze.
“There’s something wrong with Bill.” Ford stated simply. “And I mean beyond the obvious.”
“Like what?”
“You can’t be dumb enough to seriously think Bill still looks that young by coincidence.” Ford looked at him tiredly. Stan shrugged.
“Some people age well.”
“Maybe.” Ford admitted. That was the easy explanation, but he swore there was more to it. He’d seen Bill thirty years ago, and he’d seen Bill just days ago. He looked far too similar, like he’d been completely untouched by the passage of time, but there was definitely something that had changed. Something was different, but it had been so long that Ford couldn’t tell for sure. It was like returning to your childhood home and being absolutely certain the walls had been a different colour, or that your bed had been on the other side of the room, but with nothing indicating anything had changed. There was nothing to go on but memories, and memories were unreliable.
Especially traumatic ones.
“I’ve been travelling all over the world, trying to find anything at all that might explain what’s going on. Whether it’s natural or not. I’ve been everywhere, in libraries and archives and temples in all the corners of the world. But still… Nothing. No answers.”
“You could have come back before you set off. We could have helped.”
“I tried to go back. I sailed all the way home to Glass Shard Harbor. You weren’t there .” His heart sank at the admission, scratching old wounds back open. The part of him that was old and jaded felt resentful. Betrayed.
The part that remained from before everything broke quietly inside, scared and pleading: 'Why weren’t you there?' .
“Why didn’t you go back to Gravity Falls, then?”
Ford didn’t want to go into that again, trying to explain to Fiddleford had been painful enough. He knew it was his fault, he didn’t need everyone knowing it.
“Gravity Falls was destroyed.” He replied instead.
“I repaired it.”
Without thinking, Ford slammed the red flag down against the chest lid. Anger flared up in him.
“You corrupted it.”
Stan had found Ford’s safe place, his refuge, the first home he’d had aside from his twin. And he’d destroyed it. Not in the same way Bill had, but in another way. Stan had twisted the sanctity of what Ford loved, and turned it into a safe haven for everything that hurt.
“You corrupt everything .” Ford snapped. “You corrupted Gravity Falls, and now you’re turning our only remaining relatives into something twisted too.”
Stan stepped back at the sudden outburst, looking stricken, before his face turned back to anger.
“I saved them! I’m protecting them.”
“If you’re so concerned with looking out for them, why did you let them read my journal !?” He wasn’t sure which slight hurt the most, which wound felt the most raw, but that one was definitely the most personal. “They’re children! The things I wrote in that— they shouldn't have to know.”
“There’s a difference between protecting and patronising! Also, Dipper doesn’t know Latin worth shit.”
“He’ll learn, he’s the studious type.”
“By then he’ll be old enough to know.” Stan insisted, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that that wasn’t his call to make. He dug through his coat again, pulling out neatly folded sheets of paper and offering them to Ford. “'Sides, I tore out the worst pages.”
Ford snatched the pages from Stan’s hand, crumpling the parchment and throwing it over the side of the ship furiously. It didn’t do much to relieve the anger.
“I never meant for that book to be found. I buried it for a reason.”
“And Dipper dug it up like the good little grave robber he is. He did offer to give you it back.”
“Whatever!” Ford finally landed on, shouting breathlessly before the energy left him, and he repeated bitterly. “Whatever.”
Ford looked at his twin. It was terrifying how after thirty years, they somehow looked both so different but so alike. Ford continued speaking.
“This life you’ve dragged them into is at best going to end with them killed in some naval battle, and at worst hung at the gallows.” He tried not to dwell to long on the mental image the dire warning conjured. Tried not to feel sick at the fact that in the nightmare scenario, Stan was right there beside them.
Everything was changed, and everything was continuing to change, and somehow, Stan being back just made those changes so much more real. Everything had changed, and Ford had absolutely no say in it. He’d been powerless to stop the world he’d felt safe in from turning on him with claws and teeth. He’d been powerless.
He was so tired of feeling powerless.
Someone had to take the blame. He needed to grab and hold onto the shreds of control that remained, even if it meant ripping them away from someone else, because without them to hang onto like a lifeline he was going to drown.
“Listen.” Ford said. “This is no way for two children to live. As soon as this is all over… As soon as Bill is finally dead… Mabel and Dipper are going to come with me, and I’ll move them back to the mainland where they can be safe .”
Without another word, Ford pushed past Stan and walked into the ship.
Headcanon that Jimmy Snakes took Stanley’s virginity.
Stan definately considered Jimmy to be his ‘first time’. I mean the guy was a total gentleman, the went to dinner, had a couple drinks. Heck, the guy even popped on a real hotel room and wouldn’t let Stan pay a dime! And he was kind, too. Kowledgeable, and understanding, explaining every action he took and asking every few minutes if Stan was ok. It was clear this was not Jimmy’s first rodeo. So yeah, Stan considers Jimmy his first time. It sure as hell is easier to remember those starched hotel sheets than those cold alley cobblestones. Less painful to remember Jimmy kissing him and calling him beautiful than to relive the gun bruising his ribs and the cursing rolling off the other guy’s lips as he… But that didn’t-doesn’t count. That wasn’t real. Not like Jimmy. Jimmy took Stan’s virginity. And Stan would fight anybody tooth and nail who said otherwise.
This is a companion to my other work in the same AU, Hello Blue.
Stancest:1.6K
Description:The furnace goes out at Pines Pawn and Ford thinks about Stan. 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, Ford is basically an icicle, also he is very sad, I’m sorry
The first color that Stanford saw was green.
It was winter in Glass Shard, and the ancient furnace powering Pine’s Pawn had finally given out. He remembers watching the snowflakes land one by one, sticking to the cold glass of their- his tiny bedroom window, slowly covering the view of the gray, slushy street outside.
Inside the room, Stanford was miserable. Despite the four sweaters, three pajama bottoms, mittens, and hat atop his head, even buried down underneath two thick winter blankets, Ford’s slim frame still shook from the chill. Though he knew it was medically impossible, he was near certain that his sensationless toes and fingers were beginning to contract gangrene.
He turned over and curled into a tight ball, pulling the blanket over his head to capture the heat of his previously-visible breath. Idly, he lamented to himself the loss of his personal space heater- Stanley. Stanley always seemed to emanate heat somehow; sticking to jeans and a scant white tshirt even in the dead of Jersey winter. But Ford had always hated the cold; piling on layer after layer in a desperate attempt to preserve what little heat he had to work with in the first place.
He supposed it was just another unfortunate side effect of his abnormality.
Still, he did miss the tenderness of Stan’s touch, the way he would draw Ford’s back flush to his bare chest under a pile of warm winter blankets, trailing little lines of kisses up and down his shoulder almost as a lover would.
Ford scoffed to himself, throwing the blankets off his head in exasperation of their ineffectiveness at heating him. Fuming on the memory of Stan, he dragged himself down from the top of the bunk bed, ripping the blankets from his bed and tossing them on top of Stan’s. He crept back underneath them, pulling them around himself and doing his damnedest to ignore the way his body seemed to instinctively warm in this location. He certainly didn’t turn his head further into Stan’s old pillow and relish the remains of his lingering scent. He huffed, frustrated at his own weakness and glared at the blank wall.
Lover. As if he could even use that term. Stan had hardly even been a brother toward the end. After all, what kind of brother would sabotage Ford’s chance to finally, finally get out this dingy, backwater town and be somebody? To overcome his… his freakishness and overshadow it with his sheer genius? But no. Stan didn’t want that. Stan never wanted Ford to grow up and possibly overshadow him. He didn’t want Ford to get that precious education that would allow him to break free of this shell of a man that he was becoming. Stan wanted him to stay the way he was; smart, but not too smart. Funny, but not funnier than him. And vaguely aesthetically pleasing, after all twins and whatnot, but without holding a candle to Stan’s beauty…
Stan used to call him that. Beautiful. He didn’t see it; couldn’t see it. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could see something even remotely worthwhile in his physical body. Which is why he coveted his intellect so closely; why he pushed himself to know and ask and understand more than anyone else. Maybe with enough intelligence someone would see something good in him.
But Stan had never needed any of that.
He was so casual about his affection, so flippant at times, that Ford imagined that anyone else might have taken offense to it. Stan very rarely complimented directly on any of his accomplishments; he was never happy for Ford when he did well on a project or came home with straight A’s. Hell, he wasn’t even excited for him the first time that Ford found out he might be able to go to West Coast Tech. He never cared about the important things; the things that mattered to Ford. But he had cared about him in other ways.
Stan always called him beautiful after they made love.
He always took time out of each day to pay attention to Ford’s hands; gently rubbing from the base of his palm all the way up his fingertips, tugging them apart as if in rapt fascination with the way the joints and ligaments beneath the skin flowed. He would brush against his shoulder as they walked down the hall at school, just to show him that he was there. He held Ford’s face in his hands as they kissed, rubbing soft circles along his jaw, kissed softly down Ford’s neck before he was far enough down… He was always careful to mark Ford because he knew how much his older brother liked it, keeping the hickeys and bitemarks just out of sight, because ‘C’mon Stan, people can’t see that…’
He didn’t even realize that he was crying until the tears began to roll down his still chilled cheeks. He tried to stop, but the memories began rolling in. Every soft touch, quiet exchange, and compassionate conversation he had ever had with Stan filled his mind.
He cried until he simply couldn’t anymore; until his stomach hurt from the sobs wracking his frame, his face covered in ice-cold tears, Stan’s old pillow beneath his head drenched. Carefully, he turned it over, hoping, praying that somehow he hadn’t ruined the scent that clung to the old pillow. He had. Ford sighed and stretched out to lay flat on his back and froze as something caught his eye.
Staring back at him, carefully taped to the underside of his bed just out of sight from anyone standing up, was the sign they made years ago for Fort Stan. His eyes briefly traced over the silly, childish scrawl of the sign, a sad smile tugging at his lips at his own signature and skipping over his own deformed and freakish handprint to focus on Stans.
Stan’s handprint and name seemed to call to him, drawing his eyes in magnetically. Carefully, he snuck one of his hands out of the cacophony of blankets to reach up and trace it. It looked… different. Something about it had changed, had heightened his senses. He frowned a bit, blinking hard and staring back at the old sign. The moment the revelation hit him, the air whooshed out of his lungs as if he had been socked right in the gut.
Color! He could see a color! Suddenly the heat of mystery began to pump through his veins, and he pushed the blankets off of himself. Frantically he looked around the room, his eyes picking up on the colour in one of the blankets, one of the planets of his ‘Explore!’ poster, the strange stuffed monster head of Stan’s he found himself unable to part with.
But what was it?! What did all of these things have in common? He vaguely remembered an old argument with Stan about the color of the monster head, both of them speculating. Stan had sworn it was blue, but Ford figured it was orange. But which was it? Blue? Orange? He had to know! He desperately grabbed an illustrated encyclopedia off his bookshelf, plopping down in his desk chair and flipping through the images hoping to spot something with the color. But every image glared back at him the same black and white tone he had always known. It took him nearly ten minutes to register the fact. Ah. Not a colored encyclopedia then.
Half of his sleep deprived mind reminded him of the hour and he wondered for a moment if he should give in and rest. But he couldn’t! He had a mystery to solve, he would never be able to sleep without knowing about his new experience in the world! He looked about again to take inventory of his belongings, and his eyes fell on the orchid proudly perched on the corner of his desk. His mother had given it to him for christmas, claiming that he needed something other than his constantly growing pile of laundry that was alive in his room.
The leaves of the orchid were colored. Green. The thought drifted across his mind. Plants were green.
He stood quickly, pumping a fist in the air.
Green! Plants were definitely, without a doubt, green! They needed to be so in order for photosynthesis to function properly. With a light smile on his lips, Stanford trailed one of his fingers over the delicate leaves of the plant. Color. It was amazing, everything that people talked it up to be. To experience a love so profound and legitimate that you began to experience the world in a new way. It was incredible, one of his favorite aspects of human biology.
He basked in successfully solving the mystery of the new color again, turning around with a hand in the air as the words ‘High six!’ died on his lips.
The heat of discovery seemed to instantly drop away and the cold seeped back in.
Love. He had felt real and honest love. That’s what it took for chromo-sectional perception. A deep and authentic sensation of affection.
He had loved Stanley. He had really, really loved Stanley.
And he had lost him.
Ford threw himself back down with a moan, cocooning his once again frozen form in his blankets and forced his swirling mind to still. The guilt was nearly overwhelming, the deep, raw and biting loss even more so. But it was already 3am and he had school tomorrow. He needed to compartmentalize. He would think about Green tomorrow. He would think about Stan tomorrow. He’d… figure it out. Somehow. But for now, right now, he needed sleep. He shut his eyes tightly, wiping away the evidence of his earlier tears, and willed it to come.
Eventually he did fall into a fitful rest, his dreams filled with the strange and painful imaginations of what spring would look like this year: bright buds and bursting blossoms and the beckoning of beginning new things- all without Stanley.
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.
TW: themes of self-hate, depression and past self harm/suicidal thoughts, past sexual harassment and non-consensual drugging, panic attacks, cPTSD, and some minor codependency issues.
This comic was supposed to be for the second week of Stanuary lmao!!
Oh well. Finally finished it and I’m putting it here
