Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He knew something was wrong the moment he woke up.

At first, it started with a pounding headache - that was fine; it was nothing he wasn't used to. Countless head traumas, nights of binge drinking, days without eating, and more recently - not that he'd ever admit it  - having the outdated prescriptions on his glasses made sure that Stanley was well acquainted with the throbbing pain. Honestly, at this point, he'd be more worried if he didn't have a headache at least once during the day. 

Since the headache wasn't the thing that tipped him off, something had to have told him something wasn't right. That honor would have to be given to the nausea that hit him in waves any time he decided to do so much as shift in his bed. Every subtle move of his head caused his stomach to lurch and squeeze so uncomfortably that he was worried he'd have to clamber out of his bed and pray to any beings listening that he managed to make it over to Ford's trash can in time.

With an irritated groan, he peeled his eyes to peer over at the little digital-clock-slash-nightlight in the shape of a pig Mabel insisted they bring with them.

3:28 AM.

What the hell was he doing awake at this time? It was too early to do anything, and from the quiet - but also too loud, he thought grouchily as his head throbbed - snores coming from above him, it wasn't Ford's doing either. His brother wasn't having a nightmare, kicking and crying out against some unseen force, and Stan sure as shit didn't - so what could have prompted him to wake up?

His stomach rolled again, this time bringing up a warm feeling from the pit of his stomach with it. Oh no. He knew that feeling - knew it way too well to know it was nothing good. That warm feeling clawed its way up his throat as he hastily threw his pair of slippers on and got out of bed, shuffling towards the bathroom as quietly as he could, caring only slightly at the creaks of the floorboards. 

The more he moved, the more he realized how bitter the room was. It was cold enough to make him shiver, so he rubbed his hands up and down his biceps in hopes of warming himself up. Really, he was shocked he couldn't see his breath in front of him as he huffed out, annoyed at the biting chill that caused nearly every one of his old joints to ache and scream in protest.

As his mouth started to fill with an alarming amount of saliva - he resigned himself to the fact that he'd have to endure the cold for a bit more.

Lady Luck was undoubtedly by himself as he threw himself into the bathroom, slamming the door shut with perhaps too much force. It rattled slightly from how hard he closed it and let out a bang loud enough that a pained groan was torn from a surprisingly dry throat. His knees ached as he dropped himself onto the tile, and before he knew it, that warm feeling was back with a vengeance, and his stomach seized, causing him to nearly throw himself face-first into the bowl.

At first, it was a violent gag, a retch that brought nothing up. Stan's stomach was churning more and started to hurt with the feeling of needing to vomit. Another near-painful gag tore through his body before finally, with the third go, he managed to expel his dinner. His eyes watered with the force behind it, and he gripped the toilet seat tightly to hold himself upright. His head pounded from the too-bright light above him and the way his body jerked, and the smell certainly wasn't helping.

When there was a lull in his heaves, a moment of respite in which he could settle into a more comfortable position, he gladly took it. Stan wiped the long dribble of spit that hung down from his mouth away with the back of his hand and spit in a vain attempt to get rid of the disgusting feeling in his mouth. He then leaned his entire weight against the bowl, draping his arm across the seat - not before reaching up to flush away the mess first - and rested his cheek against his bicep, closing his eyes to block out the light as best he could. Really, Stan didn't care how unhygienic it was to basically be cuddling his toilet; he just needed a moment to recover himself.

Apparently, the moment was a bit longer than he expected it to be.

At some point, in trying to regulate his breathing, Stan had started to drift off. He'd only realized this because he'd jumped up with a startled hiss as a sharp knocking came from the other side of the door. There was only one person it could have been knocking, and quite frankly, Stan didn't feel like dealing with him right now. 

Yeah, he loved his brother more than life itself - he'd punch that stupid triangle fuck in the face and take being completely wiped from the world again if that meant he could show even a tenth of the love he felt for Ford - but ever since Weirdmageddon, he'd been almost overbearing with Stan. He loved that Ford seemed to care and worry about him just as openly as he had done when they were kids, but that was almost fifty years ago. 

Maybe it was a result of having to live on his own for so long, but Stan had gotten used to dealing with things by himself. On the streets, he only had himself and his instincts to rely on, and those instincts told him that any sort of weakness shown would be the end of him. They had been right and carried him through those tumultuous ten years and even those thirty more after he had shoved Ford through the portal.

The point is, for most of Stan's life, he was alone, and he had to take care of himself.

So to have someone care for him, someone who he once swore hated him and would never want to speak with him again, was just...weird. It seemed every other word out of his brother's mouth that wasn't some nerd shit was about him. When he wasn't scribbling away in his sea journal or laser focused and skipping around about a weird fish he spotted, he was always trying to make sure Stan was taken care of. Stanley, have you taken your blood pressure medications? Stanley, is your back bothering you again? Stanley, have you wiped your fucking ass today? - okay, so maybe Ford didn't say that last one, but it sure as hell felt like it with the way he had been hovering over the past few days.

Come to think of it - he wasn't this bad when they first started the trip.

When the two of them set out on the Stan'o'War II, it was definitely awkward to start. They had made up by then, but there were still some old tensions lingering between them, some old, unresolved guilt and anger - and not to mention Stan struggling after regaining some of his more, ah, unpleasant memories from the years no one could help him with. That caused more than a fight or two between them when he refused to talk about them, but after one particularly ugly scrap where Ford had almost gone overboard, they realized that they should probably sit down and completely hash things out before completely isolating themselves in the middle of the arctic.

It was a long and arduous talk and there was definitely some dust around that got in their eyes - a fact they both agreed with - but by the end of the night, they were on the path to being as thick as thieves again. Really, it was all Stan had ever wanted in his life, all that kept him going for a long while, but he knew that guilt from essentially killing his brother was still eating away at Ford. Hell, the portal incident still ate him up - so he was confident in his assumptions - and so once Ford started to hover around him the past few nights, that's what he chalked it up to.

Now, as he shivered, glaring at the door as if it had personally offended him, he realized there might have been another reason.

A stupid reason that was absolutely one million percent, wrong.

"Stanley?" Ford's voice called through the door, the rough tone indicating that he had just woken up. "Are you alright in there?"

A shuddering breath, "yeah, 'm all good in here." His already gruff voice was noticeably hoarser, and his throat burned as he forced the words out. In an attempt to dissuade the worry he knew was starting to creep up on his brother, he cleared his throat and tried again, adding a bit of his showman's touch to the words. "Just had to use the bathroom." His attempt to lighten his voice a little and sound better than he felt worked only slightly - and maybe it would have fooled someone like Mabel or even Soos, but Stan knew it was hopeless against his own twin.

He could practically hear his brother's frown; " Are you sure? You've been in there for a while now."

A glance down into the bowl - which, thank Moses, he had the sense to flush before nodding off - and he wondered just how long he'd been in the bathroom. It couldn't have been more than a handful of minutes, and he prayed that Ford didn't hear everything. That would simply be embarrassing. 

He opened his mouth to reassure Ford, ready to tell him some joke about them being old men and all, when that familiar feeling overwhelmed him again. His poor stomach ached, and he couldn't help the loud retch that was torn from his already abused throat. Stan's eyes watered with the force and the burn from the bile, and he had to fight back the urge to sob because, damn it, it hurt. A shake rolled through his body, and he vaguely registered the sound of the door opening and the feeling of a six-fingered hand rubbing small soothing circles on his back.

His stomach spasmed, and he was honestly shocked he hadn't thrown up his remaining kidney with how violent it was. Ford never ceased his movements, tacking on comforting whispers that would have Stan mortified if he was more aware of them. Once it seemed like he was done trying to force every single one of his organs up and out of his mouth, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He used his hand to wipe away the tears that had slipped down his face and leaned back to rest on his heels despite his old joints' protests.

"If you weren't feeling well, you could have told me Stanley."

There was genuine concern in Ford's voice; his brother was more awake and alert than when he was standing outside the door. This is precisely what he wanted to avoid because Ford didn't need to be bothered with something as asinine as this. So what, Stan woke up with a little stomach ache? It was nothing that Ford needed to lose his precious sleep over - and by Moses did he know his nerd of a brother required sleep. "I'm fine, probably something I ate."

Ford's brow pinched tightly, and his frown deepened at Stan's words. The hand rubbing his back earlier slid up to touch the base of his neck for a moment, feeling too warm skin. Then, that same hand was pressed to Stan's forehead, much to his brother's chagrin. "You're burning up," a tsk as his hand was pushed away, but he allowed it. "I think you're sick, Stan."

A snort sounded from the man on the floor, and he shook his head despite the way black dots peppered his vision, and his head pounded from the movement. "No, 'm not sick, Sixer, just," a slight frown as he tried to think of an excuse, "hungover s'all? If it makes you feel better, think I got it all out now." It was as weak as he felt currently, and he knew there was no way in hell Ford would ever believe that. 

Ford rolled his eyes, glanced warily at the toilet that made him feel slightly queasy, and carefully helped Stan to his feet. "Hungover? Really?" Stan was a phenomenal liar even on his worst days, but there were two exceptions to that. When he tried lying to Ford, and when he was sick, and based on how absolutely ridiculous of a lie he tried to weave, Ford knew for a fact that his brother was sick.

"Yeah, definitely." 

The elder twin simply hummed and helped him back into the cabin, very clearly taking note of everything that was up with Stan. How he shook and shivered despite feeling like a furnace, how his eyes seemed unfocused and how he seemed to lean so heavily on Ford that the scientist had to practically drag him back into his bunk. "Stay here, I'm going to get you something."

A hiss of pain and slight relief fell from Stan as he settled into his bed. His old bones ached, making him wonder once more how long he had spent on the floor to make his body felt like this. At Ford's words, he answered back, wincing at how raspy his voice sounded, "don't worry 'bout it Poindexter. Just need to sleep it off is all, then I'll be right as rain."

He didn't need to burden Ford any more than he already was because that's really what made him feel like shit. When Ford stopped what he was doing, stopped caring for himself to look over Stan because he did something stupid like worry about his useless twin. If there was one thing that he was certain about, it was that he hated dragging Ford down in any sense, and okay, so maybe that meant hiding some injuries here and there despite their agreement not to, but he swears it was all in good faith. This was supposed to be their dream, and he had stolen so many of Ford's dreams from him already, but he wasn't about to continue the trend of ruining the good in Ford's life.

Truthfully, if it were the rare times he was being honest with himself, Stan did it because he didn't know if he could continue on if he was cast aside again.

They were both old now, well past their primes - or well, Stan was, at least, cursing his diet of Pitt Cola and Stancakes - and he could no longer call himself the brawn to Ford's brain. Ford had claimed both of those titles now, and that left Stan floundering for something to make himself seem useful enough to keep around. That seemed to fall back on all the mundane things like cooking and basic repairs - all the domestic little acts that, really, Stan found he didn't hate. He was done causing trouble for his brother - well, not entirely; he had to have some fun while Ford looked at dirt or whatever he did - and it wasn't right to make Ford drop his precious hours of sleep to deal with something as stupid as a tummy ache.

Ford returned with a bottle held in his hand, kneeling next to Stan's side and helping him sit up a bit. 

When had he laid down?

Blinking away the sleep that started to creep back up on him, Stan watched as Ford read over a bottle of cold medicine. His hand covered the label - knowing that bastard it was probably on purpose - but Stan knew it was that disgusting stuff that made him nearly prefer the taste of vomit, the stuff marketed as tasting like berries or honey, but everyone and their mothers knew tasted like utter shit. His brother hummed quietly as he poured out the recommended dose and held it out expectantly.

Maybe it was the totally not fever or the fact he knew what utter horror awaited him if he were to down that deceptively honey-colored medicine, but Stan scrunched his nose and scoffed. He felt like a petulant child - and he was sure he looked it as he crossed his arms and turned his head away from his brother. "I don't need it."

Right, this was something Ford had forgotten in his years apart from his brother.

Stan was an absolute nightmare when he was sick.

It was one thing getting him to take his heart and blood pressure medications - that had required some tactful tears and thinly veiled begging from the younger twins to which his baby brother always caved - but to get him to take any other medicine? It was always a fight - sometimes literally when they were younger. 

There was one time from their childhood he could remember when Sherman had to pin Stan down and actually force the medicine into his twin's mouth. From the way Stan kicked and screamed, it seemed like he was getting murdered, but he'd been running on day four of a nasty flu, and Ma had to call in the big guns to get the task done.

The look he was flashed so desperately reminded him of that night, and Ford quirked a brow, praying it wouldn't have to fall to that again. He knew he could pin Stan - especially in the state Stan was in - and it wasn't hard to make another person swallow a liquid, but Ford didn't know if he wanted to deal with a sulky and sick Stan who had a reason to try and ignore him. "Take the medicine, Stan."

"No."

"Stanley. It'll make you feel better."

The little cup in Ford's extended hand received a grumble and pointed glare: " No. I don't need it. I already said 'm not sick."

Ford stared at him - "Right, you're hungover on what, Pitt? Last I checked, that's all you drank yesterday, and there isn't any alcohol in it."

Stan looked up and met his brother's gaze, "that you know of, maybe I had a Pitt Hard?"

They kept their gazes locked and Stan knew he lost when Ford raised a brow, "we drank together Stanley. I grabbed the same exact drinks you had. In fact, I can go get the cans if you're adamant about it."

Stan flexed his jaw and curled his lip in distaste, "alright, maybe I'm not hungover, but I'm not sick, so you can take that medicine elsewhere."

"Take the medicine before I have to make you, and you know I will." Ford wouldn't deny it was a slightly frustrating situation, and despite his best attempts to remain level-headed, he knew it leaked into his words from how Stan's gaze hardened.

Another round of their staring contest played out, and neither wavered. It felt like a stare-off in those spaghetti westerns Ford loved, and he realized that this was going nowhere. Ford knew what he had to do as he switched gears to an underhanded tactic. "Please Lee," the way his brother's face softened slightly at his childhood nickname, knew he had him hook, line, and sinker. Can you take this for me?"

He watched as his brother warily shifted his gaze back down to the medicine, and Ford knew he was winning the battle now.

Stan knew too - and he hated how easily Ford could play him like a fiddle. Over forty years apart from each other and Ford still knew how to get Stan to listen to him, to do whatever he wanted. He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, tightening his hand into his comforter, hoping that this was just a bizarre dream and the medicine would be gone when he woke up. As he peeled his eyes open, he saw Ford sitting there, hand still extended and a line of worry woven through his features.

"Fine, fuck," Stan grumbled, snatching the cup from his brother, "I'll take the damn medicine even though I'm not sick." His words were definitely petulant now - and he quietly psyched himself up for the horrors that awaited him. After a quiet countdown and a voice that sounded suspiciously like Pa telling him to 'man the hell up and stop being a wuss,' Stan tossed back the vile liquid.

As soon as the taste hit him, he recoiled physically, face screwed up as if he had just sucked on a lemon. He shoved the little cup into Ford's chest and coughed, eyes watering as the disgusting, not berry-flavored battery acid burned its way through his body. Instead of radioactive fuel, he should have used that shit to fuel the portal.

Ford's laughter told him he said that thought aloud, and he sulked as his brother patted his leg. Much to his shock, the elder twin poured another dosage out and raised it in a mock toast before knocking it back like a shot.

Stan watched as Ford flinched back, arm coming up to cover his mouth as he coughed into it. Ford jerked his head to the side, and he glared at the bottle in his hand like it had personally offended him - because, let's be honest, it had, and it offended the both of them. "The hell, Ford? Why'd you take a shot?"

His brother stood up and brushed his legs off, and shooed Stan, much to the younger's confusion. "Not sure if you remember Stanley, but we always got sick together when we were younger. Even if we were apart from each other for a bit, we always wound up falling ill at the same time." A hum, "just taking precautions, I guess. Now move."

Stan shuffled over like he was told to, watching his brother with confusion. That confusion evolved into bewilderment as Ford kicked his slippers off and slid into bed with him. "Uh, Sixer," he looked his brother over, wondering if he was the sick one, "what the hell are you doing?"

He got a chuckle in response, "we used to do this all the time when we were little. Old habits die hard."

Then, like a tidal wave, his head throbbed, and he hissed in pain, but unlike the skull-splitting pain from when he woke, this was the pain that came with getting a memory back. Stan raised a hand to rub at his temple, and Ford carefully turned over to look at him, "memory acting up, give me a sec Ford."

A quiet groan sounded from the bed above him as Stan threw open the bedroom door. He tossed his bookbag onto the floor, a small frown on his face when he saw Ford's head peek over the railing, eyes bloodshot and nose redder than Stan's favorite hoodie. His brother had gotten a pretty nasty cold, and despite his protests that he was fine, he was made to stay home and rest.

"Did you get my homework?"

Typical Poindexter, worried more about his homework than getting better. Stan waved him off with a grin, "course I did nerd, you asked me to." Ford gave him a relieved smile, and Stan felt pride well up in his chest at it. He'd done good; he'd made Ford smile and happy even though he was sure his brother felt terrible, and that made Stan feel like the best brother in the world.

It didn't take long for Stan to shrug his jacket off and kick his shoes into the corner, and before Ford could ask him to hand him his math work, he was already climbing the ladder onto the top bunk. "C'mon, Ford, let's nap."

Ford shuffled so Stan could have room to lay down and nodded, rubbing his eye with one hand and clutching the little lamb toy he would typically be embarrassed about having with the other. They got comfortable on the bed, and Ford muttered a quiet 'thank you' as he readjusted his pillow.

Stan wrapped an arm around Ford and pulled him down into a hug, resting his chin on Ford's head, smiling when he heard his brother's wheezing breathing slow down into even breaths. He knew Pa would be upset about this - both Ford having that toy he told his son to get rid of and the fact that Stan was up in his bunk cuddling him again - but he didn't care. This was their own little get better ritual, and not even Pa's wrath could stop them.

He blinked as the memory clicked back into place, and he chuckled to himself, looking over at his brother, who was gazing at him inquisitively. "Just something from our childhood," he answered the unasked question, "you really were more worried about your grades than your health, huh?" 

Ford chuckled and nodded, pulling Stan into a hug similar to the one from his new memory. He rested his chin on Stan's head - an unknowing mirror from the one his brother just remembered, "let's get some sleep, Lee." It was more cramped on the bed than when they were nine, but they made it work.

A content hum left Stan as he nodded the best he could. It was nice, and as he closed his eyes, he could nearly picture them back in their youth, blissfully unaware of the horrors they'd have to face in the future. He started to fade into a pleasant sleep, and he figured it wouldn't be all that bad to admit he might actually be sick.

Chapter Text

Ford prided himself on many things. He has 12 degrees, successfully built a trans-universal gateway, survived in multiple hostile dimensions across the span of thirty years, and managed to live out his childhood dream even when he thought those fantasies were long gone and impossible. However, the most significant thing he could take pride in was the fact that he had a family who loved him. After all those years away from his home dimension, he came home and still had family eagerly awaiting his return. Family he hadn't even known about.

It wasn't all sunshine and rainbows - he had been less than friendly when he had come through that portal. He was angry and bitter and, quite frankly, overwhelmed. For thirty years, he had to fight tooth and nail to survive. Every passing day was a gamble on his life - trying to figure out which foods were edible for humans and running from hostile creatures or bounty hunters who found him. Life wasn't easy and on more than one occasion he nearly gave up - but he had to keep going. Ford couldn't give up because he knew there was a demon trying to destroy what was once his home world, and he used that and his hatred as a motivator.

Hate was easy to scrounge up, hate was good fuel for a fire. He hated Bill, he hated how easily and readily he fell to some slight praise, he hated that he was stuck in this maddening game of life or death. And most of all - he hated Stanley. With each new dimension he hopped in, he had reminded himself that it was his brother's fault he was here. He was hunted and starving because of Stanley, and each bad new experience was his fault, and he should hate him. That would be the proper emotional response here, and he stuck to it because anger and spite were perfectly good reasons to keep going. 

And in the beginning, it was easy to keep that hate Stanley. 

But the funny thing about being stuck in worlds away from home, running and fending for his life, living with that 'trust no one' mentality?

The funny thing was that he was truly alone, which meant only he had only his thoughts for company, and as much as he didn't want to think about it, he found himself thinking about what he was bound to miss being away from his home.

Who would take care of his house? Would Stanley tell anyone about what happened? Would his brothers go off and have kids of their own? Was there any chance of Fiddleford figuring out what happened and launching the most insane rescue mission possible? Would people figure it out and read his warnings, then decide to drop it because let's face it - Ford wasn't worth the end of the world.

Sure, he had a genius mind, but there was bound to be another genius who could reach beyond what even Ford knew, and the world would move on without him. This was a fact he grew to accept, and once he got over the childish hope of ever returning home, it became a lot easier to keep up with his fast paced life.

So when he was yanked out of the portal unexpectedly by Stanley, of all people - he was a little more than shocked.

He should have been happy to see his twin standing there, Ford should have been proud of Stanley for managing to figure out his journals and teaching himself all the complicated sciences and math required to operate his life's work. In the future, he was - but not at that moment.

He'd been in fight or flight mode when he was pulled back, in the middle of a battle with his greatest demons, and unfortunately, for longer than he could remember, the switch had been stuck in fight whenever Stanley was involved. Ugly and dark emotions were tossed around and stinging words were said, and later his grandniece - god he had missed so much of his life here - had sat him down and tried to talk to him. She tried to speak to him, to get through to him and see what was wrong, and when she couldn't, she tried to get her brother to talk to him. Ford was far from an idiot - he knew she sent Dipper his way because she thought that the young boy could get through based on their similarities, but Ford wanted nothing to do with this dimension at that time. A funny thought after thirty years of only wanting this place back.

It took Stanley essentially killing himself and Ford having to be the one to pull the trigger for Ford to pull his head out of his ass.

For all intents and purposes, Stanley had died. His mind was utterly gone, and there wasn't a trace of him left. He didn't remember anything - not his family, not even his name. Stanley Pines was dead, and there was a man who was a husk left in his wake.

Except - Ford should have known that the impossible could happen; they were living in Gravity Falls, after all.

Against all odds, Stanley had started to remember things. Waddles, Soos, the twins - hell, he even remembered his stupid soap operas by the end of that night. With each memory he managed to trudge up, Ford's world slowly pieced itself back together. Stanley wasn't dead, and Ford wasn't the reason, and with that heavy weight lifted off his chest, he felt like he could breathe again. However, once that fear and sorrow were gone - his complicated cocktail of emotions started to ebb back into his life.

Mabel decided it was her chance to sit him down and talk again; this time, he listened to her as she spoke. She told him that he was allowed to be hurt, to be upset and angry, and that he didn't have to forgive Stanley right away for the past, but that at the end of the day, to remember that he was there for Ford should he need him. They were wise words from a child and were words he did his best to take to heart.

It took some compartmentalizing and reevaluating of his emotions to come to terms with everything he was told. Shaking off a couple decades-long grudge—which, truthfully, was only held for so long because it was familiar in the unknown void he was in—took time. He had successfully convinced himself that he had wholeheartedly despised Stanley and that there was nothing his brother could do to fix it, and it was a harsh reality check when those false walls and emotions came crashing down around him.

So, while Stanley recovered who he was - Ford took the time to work on himself and his own emotions. His mind may have been warped and twisted, and there was definitely trauma there that would have to be addressed and potentially talked about, but he found that loving his brother came as naturally as breathing. Sure, there was definitely some lingering resentment from both of their sides as they adjusted to being around each other, but things eased, and he'd be damned to lose his little brother again - especially over something as trivial as another fight.

Time wasn't on their side anymore - and it wasn't like they had another fifty years under their belt despite what Stanley believed. Their years were limited with each other, and it was a solemn thought that hurt to think about, but they were determined to make up for all those experiences and memories that were lost to the hungry jaws of time. They were going to catch up with each other, and there was no demon or otherworldly creature in any dimension that would stop them.

And he realized, despite with age and different traumatic experiences, some things never change. 

Stanley still tapped his two index fingers together when he was nervous, and Ford habitually clicked his pen in thought. Both of them still loved the open seas and campy pop songs—and most glaringly right now, Ford still had a sweet tooth that got them into trouble.

It was just supposed to be a simple supply stop - their supplies were getting a bit too low for comfort and they knew they had to restock - but it had been a while since they stopped to smell the roses. Instead of getting what they needed and getting back out on the seas, they took their time perusing the city and its shops - laughing at the painfully obvious tourist traps that made the Mystery Shack seem tame, enjoying the solid ground beneath their feet. To their good fortune, this particular city appeared to have a pier carnival like the one they had grown up with - and they glanced at each other, clearly thinking the same thing.

They were going to have fun on the boardwalk for old time's sake.

Mostly, that just meant walking around, trying their hand at some of the obviously rigged games and laughing at each other when they lost, and somehow, Stanley wrangling him into getting their faces painted. Something about how Mabel would love a picture of them like this, and they could send it to her for her 'Grunkle-Book' she was making. Ford had stopped paying attention to what his brother was saying after the words 'Mabel would love this' left his mouth - content to let the woman running the booth draw rather garish butterfly wings and unicorns on his face.

It took everything in him not to laugh when Stan rose from the chair after him, sporting a matching look. Logically, they looked the same right now, with only slight differences, but the brother instinct told him that his twin looked like a clown and that he should let him know.

Before he could share his opinions, though, something caught his attention. Two booths down from the painter sat an unassuming food stall, but the banner hanging from the side said all Ford needed to know. "Stanley, what on earth is a 'deep-fried Oreo'?"

Stan looked up from where he was trying to open his phone's camera and turned to follow his brother's gaze, "hm?" As soon as it landed on the poster, he shrugged and went back to trying to figure out where the damn camera app was - stupid newfangled 'smartphones.' "It's what it says on the box there, Ford. It's an Oreo that is dipped in batter and deep-fried. Kinda like funnel cake."

Ford stared at the booth for a little longer and turned back to watch his brother's struggle. "That can't possibly be good." He leaned over to peer at Stan's phone, watching as he seemed to swipe back and forth between the same page.

It would have been funny - if Ford had more of an idea of what was happening. 

His brows furrowed at the same time Stan's did when they passed the icon for 'Farm Building Simulator' for the fourth time.

With a grumble, Stan shut his phone off and slipped it back into his pants pocket. He'll figure out that damned app later, for right now, he had to help his woefully socially unaware brother out. "Nah, they're delicious - but a bit too sweet for me." He didn't miss the way Ford's furrowed brow lifted and a look almost like a puppy hearing the word 'treat' spread across his face when the word 'sweet' was dropped. Stan shook his head with a chuckle, already resigning himself to spending his money on the overpriced carnival food.

Ford watched as Stan set off in the direction of the stall, beckoning him to follow with a nod of his head. By the time he caught up with his brother - because Moses Stan could move fast through a crowd - his brother was already forking over the money for two servings of the treat with a hum. Ford dared a glance at the prices and scrunched his nose up - opening his mouth to say something like 'you didn't need to' when he was interrupted by a small paper tray shoved into his chest.

With an owlish blink, Ford took the food offered and quietly thanked his brother for his generosity—to which he got a gruff 's'not a problem.'

Hesitantly, he picked up one of the warm treats and inspected it, treating it as if it were some newly discovered plant in some far-off world. It smelled sweet, and he could definitely see where Stan drew the comparison of funnel cake. The powdered sugar sprinkled over the top stuck to his fingers as he took a bite, chewing for a moment before his eyes widened in delight.

He popped the rest of the snack into his mouth, relishing in the sweet taste with a happy noise. A smile spread across his face as he picked up a second one, wasting no time in biting it. They were the perfect sweetness with the chocolate and powdered sugar topping - maybe too sweet according to some - but it hit the cravings he didn't know he had right on the head. "Oh, these are delicious." The treats may not be on the same level as his beloved jellybeans, but oh sweet Moses, it was a close battle."What other snacks have I missed out on?" 

Ford turned just in time to see Stan lowering his phone with a grin, clearly having discovered how to access his camera. It was a good photo opportunity, one that a certain scrapbooking girl would love to have. There were stars in Ford's eyes as he tasted the cookies for the first time, a wide smile on his face that was only highlighted by the colorful lights and setting sun. Oh yeah - Stan was going to win the Best Photographer Grunkle award for sure.

Though by the time Stan shoved his phone away and picked up his first Oreo, Ford was already on his fourth. Stan blinked - not quite expecting his brother to shovel away the sweet treat as fast as he was. He looked down at his tray and counted to see how many they had started with, and he counted eight - Ford had eaten half of his snack in the time Stan managed to take a photo and put his phone down. 

He nudged his brother's shoulder with his own, making the elder twin pause his chewing. "Calm down there, Sixer. You're going to make yourself sick."

Ford pinched his brows together and finished eating, shaking his head with a lopsided grin, "I know my limitations, Stanley."

That only drew a slight frown and a shrug from Stan as he popped his first Oreo into his mouth, "alright if you say so."

The two of them continued to wander around the boardwalk for a little longer, Ford having stuffed away his and the remainder of Stan's portion in record time. Every now and then, they'd stop and stare out at the ocean or play a game - and more often than Stan expected - they would stop by different food stands to get various treats.

Cotton candy, chocolate-dipped bananas, more deep-fried foods like cheesecake - and for some reason pickles - and, of course, all-important jellybeans. It seemed the further they walked and the longer they spent here, the more Ford decided to eat. Which, thinking about it, wasn't that big of a shock. When they were little, the two of them were absolute nightmares when it came to eating. Stan was the messiest eater Glass Shard Beach had ever seen, and Ford?

Well, Ford used to be able to put an all-you-can-eat buffet out of business.

Nobody expected it from him - after all, he was a rather scrawny kid, and that's what made it fun. Stan used to set up bets about it, weasel people out of the nickels and dollars, and he and Ford would laugh their way into the night. That's probably why Ford was so confident in his ability to pack away everything he ate today - but apparently, unlike their nervous ticks and love for BABBA, Ford's body had changed.

It could have been from the countless battles of starvation in the portal causing his stomach to shrink, or perhaps his body simply aged past the point of being able to gorge itself on candy and snacks, but Ford had to fight back a sudden bout of nausea as his stomach protested its treatment.

He slowed his pace down greatly, one hand clutching the half-empty bag of jellybeans and the other forming a fist to press lightly against his stomach. His face scrunched slightly, and he warred with his body to swallow at least his mouthful. The urge to gag was strong as he forced down the half-chewed candy and looked over to meet his brother's 'I told you so' gaze. "Stan-"

That's all it took for his brother to break out into a grin and cross his arms across his chest. "Lemme guess, got a stomach ache, Poindexter?"

A forlorn look passed over Ford's features, definitely feeling the repercussions of overeating. "Perhaps," and his miserable look twisted into a frustrated one as Stan started to laugh rather obnoxiously. It looked like he was two seconds away from slapping his knee and pointing at Ford, and Ford felt his face heat up in embarrassment. "Stop laughing, it isn't that funny."

Way to go, Ford - that'll get him to stop laughing.

As he suspected, Stan guffawed for a bit longer before theatrically wiping a fake tear away from his eye, "hoo boy, are you sure? Cause from where I'm standin', it's hilarious." Once he was done laughing at his older brother's misfortune, he straightened his jacket and gave another noncommittal shrug. "Alright, Mr. 'I know my limits, Stan,' let's just keep walkin' for a bit - that should make you feel better."

There was the dangerous feeling of bile resting in the back of his throat, and Ford didn't want to risk embarrassing himself even further. Instead of responding verbally, he gave a curt nod and resumed his walk. 

Stan took the opportunity to match his pace, raising his arms to rest behind his head. Every now and then, he stole a glance at his brother, an occasional chuckle leaving him at the twisted-up look of concentration he found. "Y'know, if you feel like you're going to puke or something, find a trash can or a bush or something." It wasn't helpful advice, but he tried to prevent this earlier; now, he could only wait it out and see what happened.

Thankfully, the walk was helping, and Ford felt comfortable enough to finally open his mouth to speak, "really?" It was as unimpressed sounding as he could muster before a chuckle escaped him, "Well, and here I was, ready to aim for your shoes." He gestured down to Stan's boots, snapping his fingers as if his plans were foiled by the simple advice.

Stan rolled his eyes and shoved Ford's shoulder gently, careful not to topple the man over. "Keep up with that attitude, and I will hide your stash of Mabel Juice."

The threat caused Ford to splutter as he shook his head, "I do not-"

His denial was cut off in the form of Stan giving him a cocky, all-knowing grin. "In the fridge, behind the milk, with my Pitt Cola boxes angled so that I wouldn't see it." He emphasized each word with a raised finger as he spoke, watching in delight as Ford realized he had been caught. It wasn't often that Stan could have Ford on the ropes like this, and he delighted in every chance he could get to poke his usually so well-put-together brother.

"How did you—" he caught himself as he started before cutting himself off. Yes, he may have been caught, but Stanford Filbrick Pines was as stubborn as a mule, and he would not be laughed at so quickly. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at his brother. " That is not Mabel Juice. It is simply," a brief pause was all it took to destroy his rebuttal, but he carried on with a rather unsure-sounding, "iced coffee?"

To his credit, Stan did back off. He still had that stupid, smug grin on his painted face and Ford could tell that he wanted to say something else, but he simply waved off the notion of it being iced coffee with a hand. The battle was already over, Ford having lost from the start, but he tried once more to save his Lisa Frank-esque face with a weak "it is coffee though." 

"Sure thing, Sixer, whatever you say."

They continued to walk in companionable silence afterward, Ford having accepted his defeat with a hum. It wasn't his fault that he was the only one who seemed to appreciate - and stomach - Mabel's unearthly concoction. Sure, it was ninety percent sugar and held so much edible glitter that it started to settle at the bottom instead of being mixed in, but it was good. 

The moon was hung high in the sky now, and the warm air from the morning picked up a chill - not like either of the men had noticed. Stan watched from the corner of his eye as Ford seemed to contemplate something - and he was certain that if his brother had a pen, he'd be clicking it incessantly.

"How did you know?"

Ah - so that's what it was. That's what was eating away at Ford, and Stan snorted, stopping to fully turn and face his brother. "Ford, you're well aware I keep stock of what's in the kitchen, right?" Ford stopped as well and listened to what he was being told. That smug grin from earlier came back ten-fold, "I tend to notice when all our sugar vanishes in one night, and there's suddenly glitter all over the fridge. Plus, I was awake when Mabel gave you the recipe the other night." At least Ford had the decency to seem embarrassed at that.

"Oh."

"Yeah - and yet, I'm the one missing most of my teeth here." Stan neglected to bring up the fact that teeth were missing because of more traumatic experiences than consuming enough sugar to give an elephant a heart attack. No need to bring the light mood down with his stories - that could wait for another, more serious time. A time when they weren't as colorful as Mabel's scrapbooks and down what felt like a thousand dollars in carnival food alone. "Feelin' better yet?"

Ford paused and assessed the way he felt. His stomach still felt uncomfortably full, and he wasn't certain he could run should he need to, but that painful nausea from earlier was gone. The idea of food still made him queasy, but for the most part, Stan's idea had worked. He offered his brother a smile at the revelation and nodded, "yes, mostly."

His brother smiled back, "good." Then, he turned on his heel and started to make his way back towards the Stan'o'War II. The boardwalk was closing, and there was no reason to stay here any longer, "but I meant what I said; I'm still hiding your Mabel Juice when we get back. Don't need ya gettin' sick again."

Ford blinked in shock before following after with a scoff, "you will not." He folded his arms, crinkling the plastic bag of jellybeans he still had a death grip on.

Stan laughed and shot him a challenging look, "watch me."

Chapter Text

It's official, Stanley Caryn Pines was going to die by the end of the week.

Okay, maybe he's being dramatic here, but seriously, who could blame him? Of all the weeks, months, or even years to get some random sickness - it just had to be when his exams were coming up. Not just any exams, though, it had to happen during finals week. He worked his ass off all year, making sure his grades were up, and now he was going to have to miss one of the biggest things of his academic career all because of some stupid cold. 

It wasn't even that bad! He tried to go to class - got all the way into the building and even into his seat - but his professor was a hard ass who took his lessons incredibly seriously. Mr. Bickford taught his class with an iron grip and didn't appreciate even the slightest interruptions, which had once included a student breathing too loudly while he was lecturing. Safe to say, Stan didn't last too long with his stifled coughs and hidden sniffles.

Mr. Bickford pulled him to the side and tore into him like a hawk with an unsuspecting rabbit for attending class in such a state. To his credit, Stan tried to defend himself. He explained that he simply wanted to be prepared for the finals tomorrow and that he knew the review and prep were going on today, but his teacher was hearing none of it. Mr. Bickford ushered him out of the classroom door with a frown, telling him not to come back until he had a clean bill of health, and that he wouldn't tolerate Stan coughing on the back of the student in front of him and spreading whatever he may have had.

At the very least though, Mr. Bickford did seem to be genuinely concerned. His normally stern look had softened slightly as he wished him a speedy recovery and affirming that he knew Stan would be able to pass the exams easily should he feel well enough to attend tomorrow, but Stan didn't feel like he could pass them. He wasn't Ford, who was naturally a genius that could pick up and remember complex topics in his sleep. Stan had to study and focus during class, and missing such a crucial day was going to really set him back and screw up his plans - but there was no room for argument here; not with this particular teacher.

Not wanting to take up any more of his professor's time - because the way the older man glanced at the watch on his wrist with that familiar frown told Stan he was already wasting too much time - the student nodded in defeatedly. He walked back over to where his seat was, snagged his bag and left with nothing more than a sniffle and a wave to a few of his friends who watched with concerned looks. It stung to be sent out of class like he was some kindergartener who acted up, but he knew better than to argue.

He wandered the campus for a bit - scowling every time he sniffled because it just reminded him of the scolding he received - before deciding to go back to his room. It wasn't ideal, but if he couldn't study in class, he might as well try to study in his dorm. Besides, when Ford got back from his loser classes - seriously, who willingly studied fifth-dimension calculus?  - Stan knew he could always throw a question or two his way if he needed help.

As soon as he was in the safety of his dorm, he dumped his bag next to his desk and toed his shoes off at the foot of his bed. A contemplative gaze lingered on the patchwork quilt on top of his bed before he shook his head. No, he thought with a slight frown. As tempting as a nap seemed, he knew he couldn't. He had to study to pass, and despite being told he excelled in and was one of the top ranked students in his class, Stan knew it had to have been dumb luck. It just had to be because there was no way someone as stupid as him, who only got into Backupsmore thanks to a scholarship for punching things, was a 'natural' and 'incredibly intelligent when it came to numbers', especially not business math and law.

With a chest-rattling cough that twisted into a frustrated growl towards the end, he plopped himself down into his rickety wooden chair and flicked on his radio. Some song crackled to life and filled the room with its repetitive beats and occasional static breaking into it, and even though he didn't know the words, he found himself humming along to it. Unlike Ford who preferred to study in silence, Stan had to have something going on around him - even if it was just the sound of someone writing next to him.

With the noise situation taken care of, he turned his attention to the next task; getting his books. Admittedly, it took some finesse to grab his bag - having to lean off to the side and pray to whatever higher powers were listening that his chair didn't tip over with his weight - but against all odds, he succeeded. He fished around his hard-earned prize, pulling out his textbook and various notebooks, slamming them all down on his desk and setting his bag down by his feet. With the force of the textbook being dropped on the desk, Stan noticed that the little woodpecker toy Ford insisted on getting him had been rattled and was now swaying back and forth pitifully.

Stan tilted his head curiously, then decided to reach over and flick it, making it properly rock forward. 

He watched it as it moved for a few moments, ignoring the tickle in the back of his throat before he turned his attention back to the books before him. Focus Stan, he told himself as he picked up a pen, cracking open the books with a sigh. Unfortunately, staring at a wooden bird wouldn't help him pass his class and he knew that.

Thankfully, those higher powers from before must have been taking pity on him, because his studying went better than he expected it to.

Usually, when he was trying to study alone, his mind would wander. Some days were better than others, of course - but most of the time, it felt damn near impossible to focus. Sometimes he'd have to read the same paragraph over and over to grasp what was being said, other times it'd just be impossible to sit there for extended periods of time. Ford had told him that what he felt was supposed to be normal, that Stan had something like 'hyperkinetic disorder' or some bullshit thing he didn't quite listen to - but Stan didn't believe him. Stan was more inclined to believe what his Pa had drilled into his head for eighteen years; that he was just a stupid kid who didn't care enough to pay attention in class.

Come to think of it, why did he agree with anything Pa said anymore?

He stopped jotting down and correcting his notes when that thought hit him. It wasn't like Pa was the greatest, and being away from him made Stan realize just how shit of a person he was. There was no reason for him to accept anything Filbrick said, and yet - to this day - Stan still did. After a second of introspection, he supposed he cared and did it because some part of him, some small part that was shoved deep down inside of him and locked away behind multiple doors, wanted his father's approval. That for once in his life - even though Stan forever deny this childish hope - he wanted to hear his Pa say, 'I'm proud of you, Stanley.' Just once. Was that too much to ask?

For Filbrick, it was.

Stan glared at the scribbled notes, shaking his head to dispel that train of thought. He didn't need nor did he want shit from that man. All he needed from Filbrick was inheritance money - and he wasn't even sure he'd get that. His father was rather clear about his displeasure when it came to his youngest - all barbed words and raised hands - and Stan wouldn't put it past him to write his own son out of the will for no good reason. He knew Ma would fight it, but he also knew Filbrick would get his way in the end.

He scoffed, which turned into a phlegm-filled cough, and returned to work, pressing his pen down hard enough to tear the paper slightly. He'd make it without Filbrick in his life, a fact Stan knew for certain because he had his brother by his side. The two of them were going to make big names for themselves and make millions, and Stan would make sure his father wept when he realized that he wasn't going to get a single fucking penny from either of them.

With his determination sparked again, he threw himself back into his readings, bobbing his head and tapping his foot to whatever rock song was playing now. Yeah, he'd have to stop occasionally to blow his nose or clear his throat, but for the most part, he was feeling fine. Mr. Bickford was just being his usual dramatic self and probably over-reacted to seasonal allergies or whatever.

Yeah that was definitely it - and just because his chest rattled and wheezed when he coughed or inhaled didn't mean shit.

He kept at his studies for a while; but after a particularly hard sneeze that had his ears ringing and a dull throb begin behind his eyes, he decided it was a good enough time to take a break. Stan wasn't like his brother who could sit there for ten hours at a time, working through overly complicated equations and reading textbooks he was confident even the professors didn't understand. No, Stan was a normal person who had to take breaks and give himself and his mind a rest from time to time; and he wouldn't lie, his bed was beckoning him like a siren's call right now.

A small nap couldn't hurt, he thought as he stood up and pushed his chair in, not bothering to close his books or turn off the radio. A quick nap never killed anyone, and he hadn't gotten much sleep the past few days - so really, there was no harm in it. It would only be until Ford got home and then they could help each other study because both of liked to cram before finals. That's what he told himself as he threw himself face-first on his bed, folding his arms under his face and tilting his head so he could breathe a little easier. He wasn't sure when he had gotten so tired, but his body felt like lead as soon as he found a position that was 'good enough', he found himself closing his eyes and giving into the pull of sleep.

--

He blinked awake some time later, a rather painful cough forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut again. He then curled in on himself, pulling his blanket tighter around him.

Wait, blanket?

He opened his eyes against his body's wishes, and took in his surroundings; cataloging everything that changed. The radio that was previously on was now quiet and his desk lamp was shut off. His blanket was pulled up and over his body, and his hair was taken out of the ponytail he usually kept it in. From across the room was the soft sound of scribbling and the slightly blurry figure of someone poised at the desk. Ford, his mind supplied as he snuggled deeper into the warmth provided to him.

Instead of feeling better after his nap, Stan seemed to feel worse. His chest felt like there was an elephant sitting on it and that dull throb behind his eyes had evolved into a sharp, stabbing sensation throughout his head. Each of his breaths was accompanied by either a wheeze or a squeak, and woefully, he conceded that Mr. Bickford might have had a point in sending him out of class earlier.

"Ford," he croaked out, debating on what to say. What time is it? How long have I been out? All incredibly valid questions to ask right now, but he instead settled on; "you're a super genius, right? Whip me up something strong to help me feel better." The sound of writing paused, and he swore he heard his bastard of a brother laugh at him. Okay, well, it was more of a light chuckle, probably one of surprise, but this was not a 'funny ha-ha' moment. It was a genuine request, and Ford really should learn to be more sympathetic to his younger brother's plight.

The writing picked back up, "I'm studying engineering and physics, not medicine." 

It was said matter-of-factly and in such a Stanford way that Stan couldn't help chuckling. As it had done before, it devolved into a hacking fit that was definitely nastier than it had been before. The writing paused for a split second at the noise before carrying back on. "So what? You're gonna be a doctor in the future; you can figure it out."

Ford turned in his seat to stare at his brother - who seemed so much smaller when he was tucked in on himself and hugging the blanket to himself as if it were the cure to whatever chest cold he had gotten. He reluctantly shut his own books, accepting the fact that his own studying wasn't going to go anywhere now, not when Stan was awake and not feeling well. "True, but I'm not going to be a medical doctor, Stanley." 

Stan rolled his eyes, "don't care, a doctor is still a doctor."

That response drew a louder chuckle than before from Ford,  "there's a distinct difference between having a doctorate in medicine and a Ph.D in physics." He was going to start listing the differences and explaining them to his brother, but after a moment of careful thought, Ford decided against it. He doubted Stan would want to have a lecture within minutes of waking up feeling as sick as he was sounding. 

Apparently, though, he wasn't too sick to stop making remarks. 

"And? Both are nerd degrees, and you're a mega nerd, so I'm sure you can figure it out," Stan said with a cheeky smile on his paler than usual face.

Stan's words were said with enough conviction that for a moment, Ford worried Stan actually believed that Ford could manufacture a medicine to cure his ailment. When he realized his brother was merely joking, Ford rolled his eyes affectionately, "oh yeah?" He tsked and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and his head between his hands, "like studying business law is any less of a 'nerd degree'. You're as big a nerd as I am, Lee."

Stan, honest to god, pouted at that and pulled his blanket cocoon tighter, "hey, don't insult my degree." He sniffled and rubbed his now runny nose on the slightly scratchy fabric, ignoring how Ford's amused look shifted into unabashed disgust. "At least I don't have to do calculus."

Staring at his brother and the way he just desecrated the edge of his blanket, Ford realized Stan was perhaps a bit sicker than he initially thought. He straightened his posture and held his hands up in mock surrender, "fine, I'll concede for now." They both knew the debate was going to pick back up in the future, but Ford shifted his focus onto a more pressing matter, "you're obviously not feeling well, so tell me, what's bothering you?"

Stan hummed in thought, a quiet hiss as he shuffled around on his mattress. "Nothin' much, chest hurts, head hurts, can't breathe through my nose." As if to accentuate his point, he tried to inhale through his nose, cringing at the pressure and the definitely disgusting noise accompanying it. 

Ford chewed his bottom lip and dared ask one of the stupidest questions he had ever asked in his nearly twenty years of life: "Have you taken cold medicine yet?" He already knew the answer, but he hoped that he was wrong.

The deafening silence that followed gave him all the answers he needed.

Before Ford could get another word in and before chide Stan for avoiding the helpful-but-rancid over-the-counter medicine they had, Stan cut him off with a flat "Stanford, I would rather die."

Ford responded with a heavy sigh, patting his thighs as he stood. So this is how they were going to have to do it, that's alright, he was more than well versed in dealing with this side of his twin. "You already know what I'm about to say. Either take the cold medicine, or I'll drag you out to the nearest clinic you'll have to deal being seen by a doctor." He shuffled over to their small closet as he spoke, reaching up to dig out the plastic tub they had hidden away, already knowing his brother's choice.

There were enough medications in the tub Ford fished out to keep a small village alive for ten years. Hell, he was confident in saying that the two of them probably held the cure to things like rabies because there was just that many different medicines. It was all thanks to their mother, who made sure they were well prepared when they went off on their own. Each time one of them fell ill and found the proper medicine, they made sure to call her and thank her for having the foresight to pack so many different things. 

Huh - maybe she was psychic after all.

Stan grumbled to himself as Ford searched for the bottle, debating on what would be the lesser of two evils. It was a long and arduous internal debate, - who was he trying to fool, there wasn't a debate at all. Stan hated doctors almost as much as he hated Crampelter and his stupid looking face, and Ford knew that. Bastard. Stan sighed and reached a hand out towards his brother, "...pass me the damn medicine." His displeasure was laced throughout his words and woven into his frown.

"That's what I thought," Ford said with a touch arrogance as he slapped the bottle into his brother's hand. He watched as Stan pulled the bottle into the bundle of blankets and unscrewed the top, raising it up to sniff it with a disgruntled look on his face. Then, his brother quietly murmured 'bottom's up' and squeezed his eyes shut before raising the bottle to his lips and drinking more than he probably should have. Ford had to stifle a laugh with the back of his hand at the noise Stan made after the taste hit him - something that he can only describe as a cat who tasted mayonnaise for the first time.

Don't ask him how he knew what that sounded like.

He took the bottle back when Stan shoved it at him, setting it on his desk before tugging his coat off the back of his chair. "I'll be back, I'm going to get you some soup." Ford clicked his lamp off, watching as Stan made himself more comfortable on his bed, snuggling into his pillow with a quiet "mhm" and waving him away.

Ford left with a knowing smile on his face, certain the trip would be for nothing because by the time he got back with the food, Stan would be out like a light.

Chapter Text

"Great. My first birthday out of the portal, and I get a cold for it."

His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and his throat was drier than the Sahara. His body trembled despite the summer heat and joints he didn't even know could ache hurt. Safe to say - Ford felt downright miserable right now, and the last time he could recall feeling like this was when he had foolishly eaten the nobrum fruit in dimension Ximera. He had been sick and halluciating for what felt like ages before eventually collapsing for two whole nights. That was not a fun experience and it was one he only slightly wished upon Crampelter.

But, it was the fact that it was his birthday that made the 'yucky feelings' - as Mabel so eloquently called them - that much more intense and served to push him further down in the dumps.

But could he really be blamed? Ford had been looking forward to this day for months. They made sure that everything was planned perfectly - he and Stanley would be back in Gravity Falls before the summer started, and the kids would return to spend their break with them again. It'd be early enough in the year that they'd all be together when their birthday arrived, and the four of them - along with a few others that they considered family - would celebrate with the first legitimate birthday party Ford would have in years.

Well - the first party either of them would have since he learned Stan hadn't bothered to celebrate since he had gotten kicked out.

The closer the event got, the more excited they found themselves getting. Days started to fly by and the two of them started to get antsy. As much as they loved sailing the oceans and documenting previously unknown anomolies, the two sentimental old men wanted nothing more than to see their great-niece and nephew again.

It served them both right to get their hopes up and think everything would be all peaches and roses. They were Stanford and Stanley Pines; and nothing ever went to plan when it involved them. Of course wanting to sit back with a sea-themed cake that held enough candles to be a fire hazard and relish in the love from their family was too much to ask for. There had to be a catch.

And that catch just happened to be a summer cold.

"Stop being melodramatic, Sixer," Stan grumbled," 'sides, you ain't the only one who's sick here." He was sitting in his favorite yellow recliner with a crocheted blanket pulled so tightly around him that Ford worried Stan would accidentally break the yarn and unravel it. His voice was just as hoarse as Ford's - if not  worse - and he shuddered as a chill wracked his body.

Right, they were both sick. It wasn't just Ford.

He couldn't help the petulant glare as he raised his cup of hot chocolate to his lips - not an ideal drink for the middle of June, but he wasn't feeling well, and he was upset about his ruined plans, and damn it , he wanted something sweet. "I am not being melodramatic." He gently blew on the steaming drink before taking a sip. It warmed his stomach and settled uneasily, but it was precisely what he wanted. 

Stan rolled his eyes and then stuck a hand out so Mabel could place his own cup of cocoa in it, "uh, yeah, you are." He made direct eye contact with his twin as he took a sip of his drink, ignoring the way the roof of his mouth burnt.

Maybe it was the illness getting to him, or perhaps it was the fact that he knew he was in the wrong, but Ford squared his shoulders and shook his head. "No." It was indignant and juvenile and said with just enough pettiness that it stunned Stan into silence. Then, he watched with glee as his brother bristled and several emotions passed over his face. Stan opened and snapped his jaw shut a few times and then growled in displeasure. 

Mabel stopped in the doorway at the noise and Dipper—who was reorganizing the various tchotchkes and trinkets they brought back—paused with a confused look on his face. Wendy whistled lowly and brought a maganize up to cover her face - which caused Melody to stifle a couple of chuckles and Soos took his fez off to hide his smile with a shake of his head.

Stan narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip around the mug in his hand, "what do you mean no?" His words were tight and incredulous, a fact everyone picked up on. The easy mood from earlier was vanishing as an argument was clearly brewing between them.

An argument over something that shouldn't be as serious as it apparently was. 

Mabel, who had gloves pulled over her hands and a bedazzled mask stuck to her face, turned back around and waggled a finger at them. "Nope, stop it, no arguing." She stepped back into the room and watched as tensions seemed to rise with each passing breath. "It's Grunkle Recovery time then we'll have cake and watch Ducktective, remember?" Her voice carried through the room, and if it were any normal day or scenario, everyone would have listened to her.

Unfortunately for her, this was not a normal day. 

Ford set his cup down and proceeded to cross his arms across his chest, completly ignoring Mabel's request. "What I mean is no. Surely even you can understand that." He sniffled - which severely lessened the impact his terse tone held - and stared at Stan, almost daring him to try and challenge him.

And like a rat seeing cheese, Stan took the bait.

His hackles raised at his brother's words, and if he gripped the ceramic any tighter, he was certain it'd shatter. "Even me?" a pause before he felt a bolt on anger rush through him, "even me? What's that supposed to mean?" A searing pain ran through his skull and caused him to hiss in pain through his teeth. "You know damn well you can't just say 'no' because you're losing an argument and expect to win Stanford!" This was ridiculous - easily the stupidest fight they've had in a long time.  

Sensing his brother's rising agitation, Ford pressed on, "I can, and I will." Five sets of eyes locked on to him as he opened his mouth to continue on, "who's going to stop me? The no police? " It was an excellent rebuttal, truly one crafted by one of the most brilliant minds the world - no, the  multiverse - has ever seen. Surely he had Stan on the ropes now with this.

"Mabel, I don't think they heard you," Dipper whispered, setting down the wooden carving of the Loch Ness monster. He looked back and forth between his grunkles and his sister, watching as she adjusted the mask on her face. There was a look in her eyes that told Dipper that she was about to do something, and he was about to protest and ask her to stand down, but after another bout of childish jabs and barbs were thrown, he decided to let it happen.

How this devolved into an actual, legitimate argument between two of the most brilliant minds Dipper had ever seen was a mystery.

"Just admit it! You were being dramatic and now you're being childish!"

"Me? Childish? I'm the older twin here."

"That doesn't mean shi-"

Having enough of the arguing, Mabel stomped over and stood herself on the coffee table in front of them. She placed her hands on her hips which silenced the fight, "Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford! I thought I told you to stop arguing!" Their attention snapped to her as if she were a drill sergeant, and she tapped her foot, ignoring how she stepped on the carefully crafted birthday card beneath her. "Do I need to break out the get-along sweater again?"

The Wrath of Mabel was serious, and people learned to listen when she threatened to whip out a sweater, because if there was one thing other than sweaters and making happy memories she was serious about, it was making sure her favorite people got along with each other. And with the way her grunkles were glaring at each other moments before over something as silly as the word 'no,' that meant she was failing her job.

Dipper, feeling a bit more confident now that his grunkles weren't on the verge of an actual boxing match, joined his sister on the table. He watched as two sets of weary eyes flicked over to him, and he crossed his arms. Melody motioned for Soos and Wendy to follow her as she stepped out of the room, allowing for the two sets of twins to have their time to talk. Mentally, he made a note to thank her later - right now, they had a more pressing topic to deal with.

Mabel looked between the two men expectantly, taking note of how they at least had the decency to seem embarrassed. "I know you guys are sick and icky and gross feeling," a grumble left both sitting parties, "but you shouldn't be fighting! It's your birthday!" A lopsided frown appeared on her face, and she nudged Dipper, who, after a moment, mimicked her expression. "We wanted to make sure everything was all good for you two because we love you guys. Like, Melody helped Dipper and I make a cake, and we made sure there was glitter and balloons and everything a party needs." To prove her point, she picked up one of the tails from the 'pin the tail on the gryphon' game she had made.

Seeing what his sister was trying to do, Dipper nodded in agreement, very pointedly sagging his shoulders with a sigh, "yeah. Mabel and I wanted to make this day super special because it's the first time all of us could celebrate it with you." He looked past the brim of his hat, making eye contact with both his grunkles, "but if you guys aren't feeling well, we can do this some other time?" For good measure, he scuffed his sneaker on the table and glanced at Mabel for her approval.

The room was silent again, the only noise being a strained cough from Ford before Stan sighed loudly. "No, no - no need to go that far." He ignored Ford's questioning glance and carried on with a wave of his free hand, "Ford and I just get cranky when we're sick." An indignant squawk sounded from off his to his side, and he heard Ford take a sharp breath, clearly ready to protest, before Stan cut him off, "we're both sorry for ruinin' your hard work kiddos. You guys worked super hard for this day to be perfect and we're not gonna let a little sniffle and sibling rivalry ruin it, right Ford?"

Ford paused, assessing what was going on and what would be the right response. Just because he had spent a little over a year outside the portal didn't mean he was suddenly a master of social situations. Some things still confused him, and he had to learn other things over again - and maybe he was a bit grouchy being sick after bragging about his immune system to Stan -  but he nodded. "Yeah, we're sorry. We didn't mean to make your guys upset." A pause and he looked at one of the many balloons surrounding his feet, "if Stanley is feeling well enough, I'm ready to continue the party?"

Yeah - the both of them felt like absolute shit right now, and Stan wanted nothing more than to nap and get over this stupid summer cold - but he couldn't deny his niece and nephew this. "Alright, kiddos. Go on and get the others; we're better now." The kids' faces lit up and wide smiles replaced those kicked puppy looks, and Stan felt a similar smile take place on his ugly mug. Up until now, this day was nothing but a painful memory for Stan. A reminder of all his failures and how lonely he had felt over the years, and it would take some time to learn to love it again, but he knew he had to start some time.

His grip loosened on the mug as he made himself more comfortable in his recliner, "y'know, I think that hot chocolate is just what we needed to feel better." Ford hummed in agreement, and the two of them took a sip of their only-slightly-hot chocolate in sync.

Pleased with the development, Mabel hopped down from the table and helped Dipper down, walking towards the kitchen to get their guests. As soon as she was out of earshot of the birthday boys, she nudged her twin with a conspiratorial grin, "see DipDop, that's how you do it. Use your cuteness while you have it."

Dipper laughed, "should I worry that you're thinking this cunningly now?"

Mabel folded her arms behind her head and hummed, "I don't know, should you be worried?"

Chapter Text

If he had a time wish, he'd use it to make sure he never explored that damned cave. That was the biggest mistake he'd ever made in his near-sixty years of living. The end of the world was his fault, all because he said that incantation and made a deal with his muse. Oh, but he wasn't just a muse - he was Bill, the All-Knowing and All-Seeing, a demon he'd allowed to trick and possess him for so long, a monster who used him as an instrument and played him like a damned fool.

He was the harbinger of the end, an unwitting mule in Bill's grand scheme of things.

And it was her who had saved everything, saw through the smoke and mirrors and sacrificed more than anyone to keep her family safe.

Mabel had wiped herself from existence to fix his mistakes, and only after the fact did Dipper realize he wasn't the only one who suffered those thirty years.

But things got better - Stanley and Stanford, his grandnephews who he'd paid so little mind to when he first stepped through the portal, managed to restore her mind and her memories. Piece by piece, they brought Mabel back from the absolute destruction of her being. Not him, not the genius who held more PhDs than fingers on his hands, not her twin brother who she spent half her life trying to get back, not the brother who once promised he'd be by her side until they died. No, it wasn't him because he floundered and let his guilt consume him.

He did nothing but sit back and stare in awe as the love she felt for her family resurrected her. Like the phoenix he'd once written about in his journals, Mabel was born again and rose from the ashes that had been the destruction of her life. 

She scooped the twins up into her arms and sobbed as she remembered them. The hug expanded when their handy woman—Selena, if Dipper remembered correctly—was pulled in, and shortly after her, Boyish Dan was as well. The warmth and love were palpable in the room, and, not for the first time, Dipper stood off to the side, unsure of his place in this world. Was he allowed to join in as well?

Probably not—this may have been his house at some point, but Mabel made it herhome. She had taken the cold and drab place he resided in and filled it with warmth, making herown family and memories here. He was nothing but callous when he was pulled back into his realm, and he wouldn't blame Mabel for kicking him to the side like he had done so long ago.

A wrinkled hand grabbing his sweater and yanking him into the hug with a 'come here bro-bro' shot every single doubt he had down and stomped on it. Because after all those years, after everything they'd been put through and what he had done to her - Mabel still loved him. It was enough of a thought to have him openly sob, and the other people in the room slipped away, realizing the older twins needed to talk.

And talk they did.

They sat there for hours, mending some of the smaller rifts and hurt festering between them. He told her what he could remember from their childhood, and she filled him in on the summer memories she could bring up. Even though it was tense, they soon fell into a long-forgotten peace.

Over time and many seriously overdue conversations, Dipper and Mabel were back to where they had been over forty years ago, acting as an unstoppable duo. They were a well-oiled machine, and Dipper was happy for the first time in what felt like eons.

With surprising ease, he settled into a life he never thought he could have. He helped Mabel run her eccentric art shop, converting one of her exhibit rooms into a small museum that catered to those interested in the strange and unknown. As the shack was repaired and rebuilt, they made sure that it was expanded to include extra rooms. Mabel needed one after giving Dipper his old room back, and the extra space would be good because - and this was news to him - the boys were going to move permanently to Gravity Falls to live with them.

According to Mabel, she'd overheard some of Stanley and Stanford's hushed conversations about Filbrick and being scared to return once the summer was over, and when she confronted them, Stanford spilled the beans. His sister - as fiercely protective as ever - called Filbrick that same night and chewed him out; and then it snowballed, which ended with a custody swap and threats of having Filbrick thrown behind bars if he dared talk to anyone in the house.

Dipper was only told when everything was finalized because, apparently, Mabel knew Dipper would haul himself over to Glass Shard Beach and give Filbrick a piece of his mind, which would then result in her having to break him out of prison and hide something from the boys.

Which was entirely ridiculous; Dipper would never do something so rash. Never.

...

Okay, yeah, she was right. He would have done something that rash - but could anyone really blame him? No - they couldn't, and if they did, he'd have a few words and maybe some incredibly thinly veiled threats to throw their way, but that's beside the point.

All that mattered now was that he had a life he was content to live and a purpose; he would make up for the time he missed with his sister and nephews and fix the mistakes he made back in the eighties.

He'd made many strides in the goal, reconciling with Candy - who he was shocked and heartbroken to hear about her fall into Old Woman Chiu after his disappearance, repairing what damage he could and closing the rifts that lingered around the city, and finally, the thing he'd been honestly been a bit heartbroken to do. Tear down and hide every single piece of that damned portal he built.

It was his life's work, his magnum opus, and it was already pretty destroyed by the time he'd gotten to it - but it still hurt to both look at and dismantle.Thanks to this stupid portal, he'd missed so much of his life, burned so many bridges, made so many mistakes . Logically, it was impossible for anything to come through it, and the state it was in rendered it absolutely irreparable, but Dipper wanted - no needed - to make sure that there wasn't even a sliver of a chance that it could be remotely fixed.

By the time he was finished with it, he'd make sure even the damned copper in the wires he used were nothing but ash and bad memories.

And that's precisely what he was doing when he heard one of his nephews stomping into his lab.

He stopped the torch he was using, extinguishing the flame and lifting the welding mask he had covering his face when the door slammed open. Without having to look over his shoulder, he knew it was the younger of the two, Stanley. Stanford took care when he was in the lab - treating it as if even the slightest rattle would shatter the inventions and beakers.

"Grunkle Dipper, Grunkle Dipper! Come quick, please!" Distress painted the young boy's words, and his voice cracked as he ran over to his uncle, grabbing his coat sleeve and tugging. His eyes were wet, and desperation coursed through his being as he nearly tore a hole into Dipper's trusty trench coat.

"Woah!" Dipper said, placing a hand over Stan's hand, turning to face the boy. The look of anguish on the kid's face had a bolt of concern shoot through him as he slid off the stool and crouched in front of him. He placed his hands on Stan's shoulders to steady him, "calm down, breathe, Stanley."

Stan jerked away and grabbed Dipper's coat again to tug, "I can't."  He was nearly impossible to understand at this point, trying desperately to get Dipper to follow him. Tears stung his eyes and he didn't care that he was being weak in front of his impossibly cool grunkle, "It's Ford!"

That concern from earlier mutated into a cold chill, and he cleared his throat, voice turning into his clinical one. "Stanley, what's happened? I need to know what happened."

The change in tone seemed to work as intended, as Stan took a shuddering breath, giving one more weak attempt to pull the scientist. "He-" Those tears started falling, and he watched Dipper's face shift into downright worry. Still - Stan needed to answer the adult; Ford needed him to pull through. "I-I woke up because I thought I heard crying a-and he was crying, and I thought he h-had a nightmare but then said he couldn't breathe! I didn't-" a sniffle and his throat felt impossibly tight, "I didn't know what to d-do, so I got you."

Dipper's eyes widened, and that cold chill of fear turned all-encompassing as he shot up, "he can't breathe? " A glance was spared towards his young nephew as he squeaked out a tearful 'no,' and Dipper hurried over towards the entrance, skipping steps as he went up. Maybe I should prioritize the elevator, he thought ruefully as he ran faster than he had in years.

--

Sure enough, as he tossed open the bedroom door, there was Stanford, propped up against the wall with tears in his eyes. He clutched his blanket in his hands, trembling and whining every time he took a breath, and Dipper felt his heart bothstop and kick into overdrive . "Stanford! What's wrong?"

The child looked at him and gasped, shaking his head, "Grunkle Dipper, I can't; it hurts." The whine that left his lips sounded like a wounded animal, and Ford felt like he was dying. The pain consumed him, and he felt as if he was being crushed by some unseen force. This had to be what it felt like to die, there was no other explanation the young braniac could think of.

Dipper knelt by his bedside and checked him over, looking over any signs of bleeding or other wounds. "Speak to me, my boy; what hurts?" There were no external wounds, but that didn't mean anything was wrong. From the way his nephew pitifully tried to pull in oxygen, cutting himself short with winces and pained cries, he could only assume it was something internal.

God, what happened to Ford?

Through tear-blurred eyes, he watched Dipper raise a hand to wipe his sweat-matted bangs away and press his lips to his forehead, checking for a fever. "Chest, " Ford wheezed out, "my ribs a-and my back, and my lungs."

Stan entered the room, shaking and clearly trying his best to stop himself from sobbing as he looked at his twin. With another tug on Dipper's coat, he turned his terrified gaze towards the adult, "Grunkle Dipper, will he be okay?" His will he live? went unasked.

Dipper's tense features softened as he nodded, brushing one of Stan's tears away with a hand, "of course Stanley." He turned his attention back to his other nephew and carefully picked him up, apologizing quietly as Ford cried out in pain, "c'mon Stanford, we're going to bring you to the hospital. Stanley, go and tell Mabel."

There was no time to waste and no room for argument in his words, and Stan nodded, bolting out of the room to slam open his sister's door. Careful not to jostle the child in his arms more than necessary, he made his way outside and into his car.

--

As he threw Mabel's door open with far too much force than necessary, Stan couldn't find it in himself to care that he heard something - probably a glass unicorn - fall and shatter. A glass unicorn could be replaced, and Ford could not , so his aunt would have to forgive him. "Graunty Mabel," he cried as he ran over to her bedside, reaching out to jostle her.

All he got in response was a quiet snore, and Stan felt his panic grow exponentially. He knew she slept like the dead - a horrifying comparison he didn't want to have right now - and he prayed to Moses that he'd be able to wake her up without extreme measures. Stan was not against dumping a glass of water on Mabel to wake her up at this very moment.

He gripped her shoulder and shook her with all the strength he could muster: " Graunty Mabel , please!" The tears were still streaming down his face, staining his cheeks and shirt, and he sobbed, "Please wake up." His tone was begging, and his heart clenched, and thankfully , Mabel seemed to stir.

She snorted and swatted his hand away, "hm?" Her hand pushed her eye mask into her gray hair, and she squinted to stare at who woke her up. Upon seeing Stan's panicked and tear-stained features, her heart flipped as she sat up, opening her arms to offer him a hug, "what's wrong pumpkin, did you have another nigh-"

Taking his chance, Stan grabbed one of her outstretched arms and yanked her to her feet, "we need to go. Grunkle Dipper is taking Ford to the hospital." With her arm still in his grasp, he pulled her towards the door, clearly intending for them to leave as is.

Mabel stumbled and gently pulled her arm back, "what? Stanley, what happened?" Her traces of sleep were wiped away as she whipped around to grab her glasses and slippers. Her tone was serious as she grabbed her coat from the hook on her door, listening as Stan stumbled his way through the same explanation her brother got.

Fear squeezed her heart in a vice-like grip, and like Dipper had done coming up the stairs - Mabel skipped some of the stairs going down. Stan was already out of the door, tugging on the door to her ol' faithful, trying fruitlessly to open the locked car.

They were already halfway to the hospital, going perhaps a bit over the speed limit, when Mabel realized that in her adrenaline-fueled rush, Stanley didn't even bother to put on shoes . The young boy anxiously bit his nails—a habit she tried to get him to break—and clearly forced his fear-ridden features into something more confident. Despite his shoulders shaking, he kept his chin up, and Mabel's heart broke as she realized he was trying to put on a brave face for her .

--

Mabel blew into the emergency room like a tempest, dragging all attention to her. Behind her, Stan stumbled in, nearly tripping over her too-large slippers that Mabel made him wear. The look on her face said she meant business as she stormed over towards the receptionist, placing her hand on her desk and using the other to tuck Stan against her leg. "Stanford Pines, has he been seen yet? If so, where is he."

The woman behind the desk blinked in shock and, frustratingly, carried on with the usual process. Identification was given over, and questions answered, and Mabel could feel her irritation mounting; her nephew was somewhere in this damned hospital, and here she was, with his trembling brother, having to explain for the tenth time she was his aunt.

(It was the first time, but Mabel was never a paragon of patience.)

Finally , after what felt like another thirty years, she was directed towards a room where she could hear her brother talking to someone. The curtain was pulled back, and the nurse who escorted her cleared their throat to catch everyone's attention before gesturing to Mabel and Stan - who were frozen to the spot staring at Ford.

Then, as quick as lightning, Stan bolted from behind Mabel and into the room, actually tripping and slamming into the ground, pushing away the hands that tried to help him up as he clambered into the bed next to his brother. "Ford!" His voice wavered, and tears threatened to spill as the doctor and nurse spluttered in surprise. Stan was careful to avoid the machines and wires attached to his brother and took up the space next to Ford with a sniffle, "you're going to live, right?" Tear-filled eyes turned to the doctor, who looked like they were tossing around reprimanding Stan before asking him to get down and allowing the child to stay, "You're going to save him, right? Right?"

The doctor nodded slowly, deciding to let the boy sit next to his brother: "Of course. I was just discussing the next step with your great-uncle." They cleared their throat and gestured to the IV and heart monitor attached to Ford's left side: "Please, be careful to avoid jostling him."

Stan nodded and turned back to Ford - content to let the adults talk.Ford no longer seemed to be in pain, probably given some sort of pain medicine, and there was a wobbly smile on his face. Fear was tucked away under the smile - Stan picked up on that much - but for the most part, he seemed like he was breathing fine. "Sixer, a-are you feeling better?"

Ford sighed quietly and nodded, "yeah, I'm okay, knucklehead." He shifted as well as he could to the side to allow his brother more room, his nose scrunching as he had to move the arm with the needle stuck in it. "You know the doctors will take care of me," he said, not missing the way his brother's face twisted, seeming to remember he was in the hospital.

A clearly uncomfortable look passed over Stan's face, "I dunno, doctors?"  It was whispered, and he looked over to the three adults, making sure the doctor didn't hear him. When he was sure he wasn't heard, he looked back at Ford, "doctors are icky."

That managed to gain a chuckle from Ford, "doctors aren't that bad, Stan." At the disbelieving stare he got in return, Ford carried on, "I mean, I'm not in pain anymore? They gave me morphine, and now I can breathe easier. Without doctors I would still be feeling bad." That seemed to make his little brother relax some but didn't the distrust still lingered.

"Alright, Six, but you know I don-"

He was cut off by the doctor stepping over to them, shuffling around a few papers on a clipboard, and Uncle Dipper's stern voice cutting through their conversation. "Stanley," Mabel stood off to the side, and Dipper approached Stan, clearly preparing for something like an argument to break out, "you need to get off the bed now; the doctor needs to explain some things to Stanford."

Mabel smacked Dipper's arm and tugged him back, earning a squawk from the man as she took his place. "Dipdop, learn some tact." Then she turned her attention towards the young boy, who looked at the doctor and his uncle with visible discontent. "Pumpkin, I know you want to keep Ford safe, but right now, you need to let the doctors take care of him."

"But-"

She shushed him with a smile, "I know you don't like doctors, but I promise you, your brother will be okay." Stan wrinkled his nose at that, but Mabel pressed on and waved her hand towards the person who was waiting patiently for the young boy to move from the bed, "it's the doctor's job to help him, and they can't do that if you're glued to your brother's side."

Stan chewed his lip, hesitantly looked at the admittedly kind-looking doctor, and then to his brother - who held a weary but encouraging smile. "Okay," he said, nodding hesitantly, "fine. Whatever." From across the room, Mabel let out a quiet sigh and once more swapped places with Dipper, "Ford, you better be okay and not, like, growing another set of ribs or something."

Surprisingly, Dipper scooped Stan up and held him as if he weighed nothing and wasn't almost a teen. An indignant noise left Stan as he tried to squirm out of Dipper's grasp, "Grunkle Dipper, put me down." It was embarrassing - he didn't need to be coddled as if he couldn't stand the sight of his brother in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and clearly afraid.

(Stan couldn't , and if his hands shook as he pushed at his uncle's shoulder, no, they didn't. What're you, a cop?)

The doctor turned their attention towards Ford, offering a comforting smile. Stan stilled in Dipper's grasp as what was going to happen to Ford was explained. At first, Stan only picked up on the stupid medical jargon. Blah blah blah gallbladder, blah blah cholecystectomy. None of those words made sense to the boy, but the second the word 'surgery' fell from the doctor's lips, he realized why Dipper was holding him.

Arms tightened around him, keeping him pinned to Dipper's chest, and Stan squirmed. "Surgery, " he shrieked. Everyone looked at Stan as he felt tears well in his eyes, and he fought against Dipper's hold, "he is dying! You all lied to me!" Once more, he was hushed by Dipper, and against his will, he was carried out of the room and back into the - thankfully - empty waiting room.

Stan needed to get away, and so he did one of the only things he could think of - and sunk his teeth into Dipper's neck.

With a shout of pain, Dipper dropped the young boy and clutched his injury, looking at Stan in disbelief. "Stanley Caryn Pines," he hissed, pulling his hand back to make sure no blood was drawn. No severe damage was done, but Dipper was not happy with his nephew.

A flurry of emotions ran through Stan as he looked at the doors they just came from before he twisted on his heel to run out of the hospital.

The receptionist looked on in concern but didn't do anything as Dipper waved her off, muttering he's got it. He readjusted his coat and left, scanning the parking lot for any sign of a disgruntledten-year-old. "Stanley!" Dipper cupped his hands over his mouth, ignoring the throb in his neck, "Stanley, get over here now!"

As he expected, no response.

Dipper grumbled and wandered out further, occasionally calling for his nephew. Each call got a bit more worried as with each one Stan wasn't responding to. His pace picked up, looking up and down the rows of cars, pushing his panic aside to make room for logic. Stan couldn't have gone far, and his nephew was scrappy. If someone tried to nab him, he'd fight, and there were cameras around that would pick it up - not to mention Dipper would hear it.

He tried to think about if the situations were swapped, where he'd go if he had run away from his guardian. After a moment, the answer struck him, and he whipped around to run toward his and Mabel's cars. Stan probably went somewhere familiar, somewhere safe, and sure enough, the closer he got, he heard the sound of crying.

Curled in on himself, sitting in the passenger seat of Mabel's Cadillac, was the trembling form of one Stanley Pines.

His legs were pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, and his face was buried into his knees. Even from the distance he was at, Dipper could hear the desperate cries and gasps, and his heart hurt. He knew that Ford was going to be alright, that it was a simple gallbladder removal, but apparently Stan didn't know that.

Dipper opened the car door and cleared his throat, "Stanley?"

Stan jerked at his name, head whipping up so fast that Dipper was shocked the boy didn't get whiplash. "Grunkle Dipper!"  Immediately, he scrambled in his seat to make himself more presentable, furiously wiping his face with the back of his hand, "what are-" he cleared his throat and forced himself to sound gruff, "What do you want?"

Dipper - staring unamused at his nephew - simply raised his eyebrow.

Like a flower in the winter, Stan withered and shrunk back into himself. His eyes were downcast, and he fought the urge to pull his knees back up onto the seat, watching as a teardrop landed on the cream-colored seat. "'M sorry," he mumbled.

The twinge of anger Dipper felt from before - and wasn't that an ugly thing to realize he felt in regards to his nephew - vanished with a heavy sigh. His knees hurt as he lowered himself into a crouch, "Stanley, look at me." He got no response and carefully reached over to rest a hand on Stan's shoulder, "Sta-"

Then, all of a sudden, his arms were full of a sobbing Stan.

Being unprepared for the sudden shift, Dipper fell onto the hard ground with a hiss. The impact jolted his old bones and caused them to ache and Stan was burying his face into the side of his neck that he had just sunk his teeth in. Ignoring these pains, Dipper hesitantly wrapped his arms around the boy and awkwardly patted his back. "What's wrong?"

Stan gasped like a drowning man and pressed further into his uncle's embrace, "F-Ford's dying."  It was a desperate cry, sounding like his whole heart and world were torn apart. His nails dug into Dipper's jacket, and he could feel himself begin to hyperventilate, "only dying people need surgery." His words were muffled, and the hand that was awkwardly rubbing his back went up to cradle his head.

Dipper carefully carded his fingers through Stan's hair, shushing him quietly. It would be a fair assessment to say that he didn't know what to do in times like this, but surprisingly, it'd an incorrect one. He wasn't completely out of his element, after all Mabel was his sister, and his old assistant - Candy - had her fair share of emotional moments. It took him a moment to catch up to what was happening, but he adjusted quickly to the situation, and contrary to popular belief, he could understand emotions.

And he knew his nephew was terrified right now.

Even if he wanted to explain that Ford was going through a procedure that thousands of people went through every day, Stan wouldn't listen to it. He was young and scared for his brother, and Dipper knew he just had to wait to explain it. He rocked side to side and murmured hopefully soothing words to Stan, trying to get him to follow his breathing so that he wouldn't pass out.

After a couple of minutes, Stan's sobs died down into a sniffle, and his grip loosened on the coat, and Dipper took his chance. With a hum, he kept running his fingers through Stan's hair, "he's not dying, Stan. Ford's going to be alright."

Stan pulled his head back and stared at his uncle, "but you don't know that!"

Dipper shook his head, "It's a common procedure, and I promise you he's in good hands." He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to think of a way to explain it to a hysterical child because that's what Stan was. A child. As much as the twins wanted to say they were 'practically teens, which meant they were basically adults and shouldn't have bedtimes,' that didn't change their actual ages.

Then it struck him, "Stan - did I ever tell you about when my appendix burst?"

At that, Stan pulled a face - one torn of horror and interest - "wait, like, popped?"

Dipper chuckled and shuffled so that he was sitting a little more comfortably on the hard ground, preparing himself to tell a story.

--

Finally, after what seemed like the fortieth story, Stan seemed to calm down. He was no longer shaking like a leaf and on the edge of throwing up, and instead clinging to Dipper like the older man was his lifeline. It was evident that the kid was tired - even Waddles could piece that together - and Dipper grunted as he tried to stand up without toppling over.

Damn, he was getting old.

There was a quiet whine when they moved and Stan lifted his head - blinking blearily at his uncle, who apologized quietly. Seemingly satisfied with the words, his head fell back onto Dipper's shoulder, and he snuggled further into the embrace.

By the time he plopped down in the significantly more comfortable waiting room chairs, Stan's breathing evened out, and the boy was out like a light. Mabel looked over at the two of them, the worry that had been etched into her features smoothing out at the sight. Dipper nodded down to him, "he was terrified . You'd think he was the one going under the knife."

Mabel chuckled and reached over to brush Stan's hair back with her hand, a soft look on her face, "Ford was no better when you two left. As soon as Stan was out of the room, he nearly made himself sick with worry." Her brow pinched, and she looked at her brother before gently elbowing him, "reminds me of the time I broke my arm, and you freaked out more than I did."

Dipper laughed soundlessly, "Yeah, I remember." A reminiscing smile wormed its way on his face: " I don't know how you weren't panicking more. A bone was literally sticking out of your skin, and you just looked at it and went, 'yeah, that's not good'." At the time, it was horrific, and for a good while after that, Dipper had nightmares, but it spoke volumes about how they could look back on it now and laugh .

She shrugged as she looked down at the scarred arm. "Shock at the time, then I guess I just didn't want to freak you out more. You already looked like you were going to pass out, and I knew it wouldn't be good if we both lost our marbles," Mabel grinned, "as soon as mom took you away, god did I freak out. Got it all out in the car ride with dad and at the hospital."

The two elders settled into the chairs, making themselves more comfortable. Dipper hummed and looked up at the clock on the wall, "It'll take some time; why don't you take Stan and go home, get some actual rest? I'll give you a call when he's out."

His sister hesitated momentarily before nodding, looking down at herself and the state of dress she was in, "Yeah, alright, Dips, I'll try." She carefully picked Stan up, hushing him when he whined and started to wake up, "you better call me the moment he's allowed to have visitors."

All she got in response was a hand waving her away and a nod, and she supposed that was good enough.

--

"Sixer! You're alive!"

Ford nodded, risking a chuckle that had him wincing. For a moment, he worried Stan would throw himself on the bed next to him, but his brother seemed to understand that that would be a bad idea and simply approached the side of the bed. "Told ya I'd survive knucklehead."

Stan scuffed his sneaker on the floor, "well, I was just worried. You scared me; I thought you were dying , man! Not cool." He pouted and risked glancing up to Ford, who simply jabbed a thumb into his chest and sucked in a sharp breath when he shifted.

"It'll take more than a stupid gallbladder to take out Six Shooter!"

Chapter Text

Fine! I can make it on my own. I don't need you, I don't need anyone! I'll make millions, and you'll rue the day you turned your back on me!

What a fucking joke that turned out to be.

Him? Make millions and rub his achievements in his family's faces? Yeah, right. He was only good for dragging them down, but at least now , they didn't have to worry about that. By the end of the night, he was probably going to be just another John Doe in the morgue, and that'd be for the best.

Hell, no one would care either way. Why would they? He was just another grifter, a homeless person with no family and not a damned penny to his name. There was no one on the planet that would mourn him, and he was certain of that fact.

Well, maybe Ma would care. She always seemed to care for him, and it might break her heart to learn the bastard she pushed out wound up in a body bag in some state he couldn't remember. Sherman might feel a twinge of something , but Stan wasn't too sure about that. He hadn't seen his eldest brother since he shipped off to Vietnam, and that was who knows how long ago, so gauging his reaction to Stan's death was near impossible.

If he allowed himself to feel some foolish, naive hope, Stan could almost say Ford would care, even just a bit. Unlikely, really, but he didn't want to think about his own twin not caring if he died. It hurt to know Pa would simply go on without so much as shifting his newspaper, but to think Ford wouldn't care, that would be what would kill him.

Not this stupid head wound he had because he was too stupid to realize he shouldn't press his luck.

With a hiss of pain, Stan pushed himself off the concrete, keeping one hand on the brick wall behind him and the other pressed against his temple. The world spun with this small movement, and he fought to keep himself upright. He wasn't going to go back down - not there, at least. If he was going to die, it wasn't going to be in a puddle of vomit, blood, and tears - hidden away behind some dumpster.

Stan had some class, thank you very little.

How did it even get to this point? What did he do to deserve the beating he had gotten? His head hurt, and it felt like railroad spikes were being driven through his skull as he tried to think - and with a rueful laugh, he remembered how he wound up here.

All he wanted to do was eat.

He was starving and tried to nick the wallet of some passerby so he could buy some cheap food at the nearest diner, but he was caught and dragged into this alley and beaten within an inch of his pathetic life. Some hospitality, he grumbled as he slowly stumbled his way underneath the flickering streetlight. Moses , it hurt, and he pulled his hand away from his head, staring at the alarming amount of blood coating his tattered glove. Or, well, it should have been horrifying to him, but Stan didn't fucking care at this point.

Four years, he'd been on the run and fending for himself, and he was tired. Moses was he tired of it.

He'd done everything he could to survive - not live, but survive . Pickpocketing, turning tricks, dealing, robbery and so many more things he didn't want to think about - all of it just to barely scrape by, and he was done with it. This wasn't the life he was supposed to live, and yet here he was, beat to shit in the middle of the night in some state he didn't remember, praying that the blood loss would claim him.

Who was he in this state? Hal? Stetson? Regular old Stan? He didn't know, he couldn't fucking remember, and any time he tried to think, his head screamed in protest. The world tilted with each step he took, and to anyone across the street, he probably seemed like just another drunk, stumbling his way back to whatever shelter would take him in.

If only they knew.

Would they help him?

Probably not, Stan wasn't worth the breath or time to save.

Another spike of pain shot through him as his foot caught on a crack and he fell to the ground. His ears were ringing, and he felt bile rise in his throat at the nauseating pain. Fuck, his head hurt. It had to be concussed; there was no way it wasn't. Tears welled back in his eyes, and he couldn't bother wiping them away.

What a wuss, his father's grating voice said in the back of his mind. A man shouldn't cry, get up and take it like a man, Stanley. He was a boy when Pa first told him that; he was a child when Pa raised his hand and taught him that he had to be tough to be useful. That being tough was the only thing he had going for him, and if he couldn't take a punch, then there was no place for him in the world.

A sob tore through him, and everything hurt. How was he going to be tough now when he knew definitively that the world had no greater plans for him? He always knew he was destined for nothingness - the opposite of Stanford, who would achieve greatness - but to have it shown so viscerally, beaten into him so thoroughly, shattered any will he had left.

There would be no happy ending for him - he wasn't going to die old and fat and surrounded by his loved ones. That was a rich man's dream, and he was anything but that. He was going to die on the sidewalk, bleeding out because he'd gotten a bit too daring in wanting to survive. His parents would probably find out when the cops took his body for prints or dental records - they wouldn't be shocked.

Would they bury him?

Would anyone show?

He heaved, nothing but bile coming out, mixing with his tears. No one would show up - he didn't have anyone left. He'd be lucky if someone in his family even bothered to confirm the identity of his body. Moses he was pathetic.

On shaky legs, he pushed himself up and leaned against whatever car was next to him, staining the sky-blue Mustang with blood and whatever else was on him. His eyes were screwed shut, and he held his tattered jacket to himself like it was a lifeline, trying his best to catch his breath. What are you doing , he thought woefully, just give in already. Stop fighting it.

And as tempting as the thought - he just had to keep going. He was a man, and he made a man's promise to make millions to shove in his father's face, and as farfetched as the idea was, that's what was keeping him going. Pa would expect him to give up and welcome death. Pa expected him to wind up in some gutter as a mangled and twisted corpse, and he wasn't going to give in to that bastard's expectations.

In some fucked sense, Pa was the only reason he was still alive.

That was a thought he shoved to the back of his mind, burying it beneath the trauma he'd experienced over the past handful of years.

A hand placed on his shoulder sent panic shooting through his body. He reflexively swung, stumbling with the movement. His eyes snapped open, and he growled, preparing himself for a fight like a cornered animal.

The woman in front of him simply held her hands up placatingly, looking at him with concern. Her mouth was moving, and she was clearly saying something, but Stan couldn't hear her. All he heard was the damned ringing that wasn't stopping, and she seemed to realize that when her mouth twisted into a firm frown.

Then she took a cautious step towards him, and Stan took a step back, chest heaving in distrust.

She sighed and shook her head, disappearing back into her house. Her door was left open, and Stan was left more confused than when he woke up; why the hell would she just leave her door unlocked and open like that? Didn't she know there were unsavory people in this shit-ass town? No matter, it wasn't his concern nor was it his problem. If she got robbed by someone with less morals than Stan, it'd be her own damned fault.

He grumbled, taking a few careful steps forward, only to be stopped when the woman reappeared back in front of him with something held in her hands. This time, she had shut her door and stood firm in front of him, a challenging look on her face as she gestured towards the first aid kit in her hand. She looked like she meant business and something in the back of his mind bid him to at least accept this help.

Survival instinct he chalked it up to as he brushed her off, ignoring the voice, but she was surprisingly insistent. She didn't touch him to stop him, but she kept pace, walking backwards in front of him until he stopped - and somehow, Stan found himself with his head wrapped, in the passenger seat of her Mustang, on the way to the hospital where she apparently worked. Their drive was silent, and when she dropped him off at the doors, she gave him a once-over before deeming him worthy of getting out.

Before he left, she grabbed his arm, and that same look of concern was etched on her face, and there was a vague feeling of familiarity as he stared at the way her brows pinched. She had a look of deliberation on her face before she shook her head and passed him a twenty, leaving with an 'I'm serious, get that wound checked, Stanley' and a paper with her address and number on it, telling her to call her if he needed help.

Only when she was gone, and he was stumbling away from the hospital, did he realize that she knew who he was, and he was left floundering as he tried to remember who she was.

Chapter Text

Ford had returned from a late-night research run, exhausted and ready for a hot shower and well-deserved rest. Tonight had been one of the rare nights where he could safely study the migration patterns of the black hounds in the woods - and the expedition took a lot more out of him than he was expecting. By the time he was back home, his feet were sore and swollen in his boots, his back ached, and if he were going to be honest with himself, his knees weren't the same as when he first tracked the hounds over thirty years ago.

But all of his dreams of a peaceful night were ruined when he returned to find his room absolutely ransacked. 

His dresser drawers were opened, and his clothes were thrown about and strewn across the floor, and it was clear something was searched for. At first, he worried they were robbed - but considering he had passed Stan when he got home and his brother was doing nothing but relaxing on the couch, that couldn't have been the case. If their house was broken into, Stan would have called him back early from his trip and had the intruder begging and pleading for the police to come by to stop the ass beating they were getting.

That was a fact he was confident of.

He had taken the gun off his hip and cautiously surveyed the room, shoulders tense as years of fight-or-flight kicked in. Just because he determined it wasn't a person who broke in didn't mean something wasn't what broke in. A supernatural creature could have just as well caused this mess, and he had to be on his toes and ready for a fight if it was still in the room.

Twice, he swept the room, and once he was sure there was nothing lingering in the corners, he sighed and re-holstered his weapon. Whatever had done the damage was apparently long gone, and Ford was left to deal with the mess himself.

Despite the exhaustion eating away at him, he began to clean, picking up bit by bit of his clothing and shoving them in the proper places. They were bound to wind up wrinkled from how he was treating them, but he just didn't have it in him to care at the moment. So long as they were back where they belonged, he was fine; after all his laundry could wait to be folded when he had his morning coffee.

When he shoved the last piece of clothing away, he realized something that had him ripping open his top dresser drawer and his heart dropping into his stomach.

Sure enough, as he rummaged through the clothing there, he came to the conclusion he had lost a sweater. 

As quickly as he cleaned his room, he had trashed it - searching for the lost piece of his wardrobe. Clothes were yanked out of where he stuffed them, and, at some point, he even began moving furniture around to see if he had missed it the first time he cleaned. His heart crawled out of his stomach and into his throat the longer he searched, and reluctantly, after who knows how long of looking, he called it quits, throwing the t-shirt he held onto the ground with more force than necessary.

It was an extreme reaction, yes, but let him explain why he had frantically torn his freshly cleaned room apart trying to find a simple garment. 

What he had lost wasn't one of the typical maroon turtlenecks he wore, no, losing one of those wouldn't be this heartbreaking. He owned so many of those turtlenecks that he doubted he would have noticed if a handful had gone missing. What had him panicking was the fact that this particular sweater was special. It held so much more sentimental value than every other piece of clothing in his closet combined, and he was not ashamed of letting the blatant panic consume him when he realized it was gone.

His missing sweater was knitted from surprisingly soft red yarn and adorned with multiple shooting stars and question marks and pine trees. On the chest was a bright white circle with 'Grunkle 1' stitched into it and a six-finger hand sewn underneath the words, and every time he wore it, he could feel the sheer amount of love stuffed into it.

Of course the love could be felt - Mabel had worked tirelessly last summer to make it for him. She'd spent countless hours working on it - and a matching one for Stan - so that they could 'always have a piece of her and Dipper and Gravity Falls when they set sail again,' and Ford felt like the worst great-uncle in the world because he gone and lost his.

(Well, if it was some weird sentimental robbery, it wasn't technically his fault, but Ford didn't stop to think about that.)

He searched fruitlessly through upturned baskets and opened drawers one more time, hoping he just overlooked it, before settling on his bed with a murmured curse, kicking a pile of laundry that sat in front of him lamely. No matter where he looked, he just couldn't seem to find it and he had to come to terms with the loss. His beloved sweater was well and truly gone, vanished from the earth realm, stolen by some forsaken creature that truly had no heart.

...

It was probably those damned gnomes again, targeting him for setting up anti-gnome trash cans. It wasn't his fault - he had warned them beforehand that if he saw them rooting around the shack again he'd do it, and they ignored him so he followed through with his word.

Or, a worse thought he didn't want to entertain, they were trying to use it to lure Mabel back into the woods in an attempt to make her their queen again.

...

Oh, Jeff had better hope neither option was the case because Ford was not above punting the next gnome or two he saw.

He dragged one of his hands down his face with a sigh - looking at the mess he had made for himself in exasperation. For the second time this night, he found himself picking his clothes up and stuffing them where they would fit. Then - a thought struck him. Someone had been awake when he returned, and that someone might have some answers or clues for him.

Once he was finished cleaning, Ford quietly made his way back downstairs, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he entered the living room where, confident his brother was still there based on the fact that he could hear some movie playing. Sure enough, as soon as he was in the room he saw the back of his brother's head, and he cleared his throat to get Stan's attention. "Hey, Stanley, have you seen my grunkle sweater? I can't seem to find it anywhere."

Of all the things to happen after - he wasn't expecting to be shushed, his brother staring harshly at him as if he had just broken one of the many souvenir mugs they had collected on their travels. Before he could ask what the problem was, Stan held a finger up to his lips and simply gestured to his right side, where Ford could barely make out the figure of Mabel curled up against Stan with Waddles on her lap.

"Quiet, Stanford," Stan grumbled under his breath, "she just went back to sleep."

Ford glanced at the clock on the wall, grimacing at how late it was, before looking back at the pair on the couch, "is she alright?"

A sigh left Stan as he clicked the remote, muting The Duchess Returns - a thrilling sequel to The Duchess Approves, "nah, she's sick - came down lookin' like she caught the plague or something, talkin' about how she's never going to swim in a public pool again or something." He laughed, but there wasn't much humor behind it as he dropped the remote on his lap, carefully brushing back Mabel's sweat-stuck bangs, "worried me half to death."

Mabel shuffled in her sleep, a low whine leaving her. For a moment, Ford worried she was waking back up - but then he spotted it - his sweater. She had it on, the hem pulled over her knees, looking as if she was sleeping in 'sweater town' as she called it. It was clear she had been the one that tore through his room like a hurricane in search of his sweater to use for comfort, and that realization had his heart swelling with raw affection.

He rounded the couch and lowered himself in front of her sleeping figure, leaning forward to press a kiss to her warm forehead, a soft smile on his face. Stan snickered above him, mumbling something about how the kids had Ford wrapped around their pinky fingers, and Ford tactfully chose to ignore him; instead relishing in the fact that his niece loved him despite everything she had gone through because of him.

With a quiet groan, he pushed himself back up and approached the empty recliner, dropping into it with a sigh. The room was mostly silent after, the only sounds being Mabel's soft snores and the occasional snort from Waddles.

The quiet carried on for a few minutes before Stan picked the remote back up and unmuted the T.V., wanting to get back to his movie. The sounds of horses and crying filled the room, and for a moment, Stan worried what Ford would think of him watching things like this. It wasn't exactly what someone would expect from Stan - a far cry from the 'tough guy action movies' he boldly claimed to watch, but surprisingly - Ford didn't say anything to him about it, staring at the screen with only mild disinterest painting his face.

However, as the movie went on, Ford seemed to become more and more enthralled with the drama.

The door slammed open, and everyone gasped, turning to face whoever dared interrupt the party. Standing at the top of the stairs, soaked head to toe from the pouring rain with his normally well-coiffed hair plastered to his face, was none other than...

Duke Reginald!

"My dear Eloise," he said, making his way down the stairs towards the crowd, which parted to let him through. "I must apologize to you. I was foolish and naive to choose Lady Caroline over you. Please, I beg of you to consider giving a fool like me a second chance." He bowed at his waist, glancing up at a woman who held her hands in front of her mouth, tears in her eyes as he spoke.

She looked around the room at everyone, then at the man she had been dancing with. Lord Augustus had been nothing but sweet to her this entire time, comforting her when she was heartbroken by the man before her—but she was torn. Her heart screamed out in anguish as she realized she was going to have to pick between the men.

"Eloise, I promise I won't break your heart again," Reginald said with a slight begging tone after sensing her hesitation and -

"Don't fall for his tricks again - Reginald is a liar!"

"You're stronger than this, Eloise, stand up for yourself!"

Both of the men in the room nearly shouted into the room, Ford's hands clutching at the armrests of the chair and Stan squeezing the blanket around him so tight he worried he was going to punch holes into the fabric. Their jaws were tense and they were on the edge of their seats - Ford literally with how he scooched himself forward and raised himself up - and both groaned loudly when Eloise left Augustus to go back to Reginald for some reason.

Ford threw himself back into the chair and shook his head, looking over at Stan and wildly gesturing to the screen in front of them. "Why on earth would she choose him! He proved he was nothing but a," he struggled to find the proper word, shaking his hands in front of him in a vaugely-strangling way, "a rapscallion! He had his chance at the debutante ball when the Duchess presented her and he blatantly turned his back on it!"

Stan nodded and waved a hand in front of him, "it's like when Count Lionel tried to get the Duchess back at her wedding in the first movie - but worse." At least at the end of that movie, the Duchess proved she was a woman who didn't need to follow her mother's rules and paved her way in life, finding a husband who respected her free-spirited and independent ways. "I hope the next movie has Elosie leaving Reginald at the altar. Moses, I hope that's what happens."

A disappointed sigh left Ford and he nodded, "same. Reginald does not deserve her, and he needs to be reminded that she had suitors from across the globe competing for her hand." He settled further into the recliner, popping the footrest up as the third movie started, "if she actually marries that man, I'm not watching the rest of the movie."

There was a hum of agreement from Stan before the absurdity of the night hit them.

Here they were, two gruff and tough men who fought krakens and sailed the seas, getting upset over some movie on the Black and White Period Piece Old Lady Boring Movie channel. The realization caused them both to start out with quiet chuckles before it devolved into full-on belly laughter as they glanced at each other. Never in either of their lifetimes would they have expected to watch period dramas together and enjoy them, but here they were at damn near three in the morning, getting ready to watch another movie.

Their laughter woke Waddles up, who snorted at them in distaste before hopping down, trotting off to go and find somewhere quieter to sleep. This, in turn, caused Mabel to shift and groan, her eyes blinking open, "Grunkle Stan? Is everything alright?" Her voice was rough and scratchy, and the sound caused the laughter to die down.

Ford bit his lip to keep himself quiet, and Stan, still silently chuckling, shuffled Mabel so that she was leaning more solidly against him. "Yeah, everything's alright pumpkin," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, "me and Ford were just laughing at something. Sorry for waking ya."

Mabel glanced over at Ford, burying herself more into the forgotten missing sweater, "I'm sorry about the mess in your room, Grunkle Ford." She coughed into the neck of his sweater and grimaced as it caused her throat to hurt, "I just wanted a big sweater."

He waved her apology off with a smile and a shake of his head, "it's alright my dear, nothing I can't fix."

She hummed and let her eyes close, snuggling further into the warmth that Stan offered, draping his arm across her shoulders and sighing, "I love you guys."

Stan rubbed her arm with a smile on his face, "we love you too pumpkin, now go back to sleep, it's late." Mabel was already two steps ahead, it seemed because as soon as the weight of Stan's arm settled, she was out like a light.

Once they were certain she was asleep, both Stan and Ford stared at each other and fought not to break out into laughter again. There were smiles on their faces as they resettled back into their spots, content to sit in the living room and watch The Duchess Remains - the exciting third part of The Duchess Approves. 

Honestly, who named these movies? They were a mouthful to say - but by Moses they were addicting.

Around halfway through this movie, Stan noticed that Ford had started to doze off. His arms were folded across his chest, and occasionally, his head would slowly loll to the side before snapping back up. It was definitely amusing to see his normally stoic and serious brother fight against sleep to finish watching girl movies of all things, but Stan merely muted the television again, which prompted his brother to turn to him in confusion. "Ford, go to sleep."

"Stanley, I'm fine," Ford yawned, his hand coming up to rub his eye beneath his glasses. "I'll go to bed after this, I need to see it through."

"Uh huh," Stan said, simply staring at the other, "you know, we can always finish this tomorrow, right?"

"We already got this far, might as well finish it."

"You're literally falling asleep watching it, Sixer. You're not even going to see the ending at this rate."

"Have faith in my ability to make myself stay awake, Stan." 

The sound of footsteps shuffling into the room and a loud, congested sniffle broke both of the men from their conversation. Two sets of eyes slid over towards where Dipper now stood, swaying slightly as he shivered. Much like Mabel - it appeared he had raided one of his uncles' closets - having Stan's brown jacket tugged tightly around him.

Ford watched as Stan simply lifted his free arm up, and Dipper shuffled over towards the couch, sparing a tired glance at Ford as he passed him. Then, he was plopping himself down and leaning against his uncle, much like Mabel was. Stan muttered under his breath about the kids attaching themselves to him like parasites, all the while gently massaging Dipper's scalp the best he could.

In what seemed like record time, Dipper was slack-jawed and snoring almost as loudly as Mabel was.

"Damn kids, don't they know I got a reputation to uphold," Stan huffed, trying to hide away the blatant affection that bled into his words. No matter how much he fought it though, his face softened and an undeniably tender smile wormed its way onto his face.

Not being able to resist himself, Ford grinned, "old age has really made you a big ol' softie, huh?"

Stan immediately shot him a mean side-eye, lifting his arm off of Dipper to grab at one of his slippers, chucking it at Ford the best he could without disturbing the slumber pre-teens, "can it Poindexter." 

"Never."

Chapter Text

"Stanley - don't move."

"Huh?"

"It's watching."

Stan - despite being told not to - slowly turned around and followed Ford's gaze. His movement earned him a glare mixed with exasperation and worry, but Stan couldn't find it in himself to care about it right now.

Because he had seen what Ford had noticed.

Up in the branches of a dead tree was something humanoid. At first, it would be easy to mistake it as just another person, someone who enjoyed sitting in trees and watching people - but the longer Stan stared, the more he could make out and the more he was unsettled by it.

For starters, its flesh was pulled so taut over its body that every bone it had poked out, and there was the very real fear of watching its skin rip if it shifted. Then, the gangly arms would easily scrape the ground if it stood up, long gnarled and yellowed nails curled at the end that dug into the tree with ease. What he thought at first were just shadows obscuring it turned out to be its pallid and gray skin, and even from this distance, he could spot thick black veins over its body.

But the worst - by far - was its face.

It had too many eyes to ever pass as a human - all pupil-less and the same disgusting yellow as its nails - and a gaping maw filled to the back of its throat with razor-sharp teeth. Chunks of its flesh had been torn off, and shreds of its skin hung down its face in ribbons. A liquid dripped from its mouth, and occasionally Stan could see what he thought was a tongue lick over the tops of its teeth.

The creature was absolutely horrific looking.

Its head cracked side to side in a birdlike manner as it watched them from where it was perched, and it seemed to track every little move they made with wide, unblinking eyes. The way their chests moved as they breathed, the twitching of Ford's fingers as he tried to creep his hand towards his gun - even the little of Stan's hair that poked out from his beanie being ruffled by the biting breeze seemed to be cataloged by this thing.

"Stanford," Stan spoke low and carefully, watching as the dozens of eyes snapped to him, "what do we do."

The predatory gaze shifted towards the seasoned monster-hunter as Ford swallowed, "move slowly and get your knuckles. I'm not sure what this is." His hand was getting closer to his gun - and thankfully, after a quick glance, he noticed Stan was inching his hands into his pockets for his weapon as well - but Ford knew the creature could see them. Whether it knew what they were doing was a different story, and Ford prayed that it wasn't intelligent enough to register them as a threat.

As soon as Stan's hand started to enter his pocket, the creature moved.

It contorted itself, unnaturally twisting and moving faster than they expected. One moment, it was crouched in the tree; the next, it was falling on the ground, pushing itself up on its spindly arms and charging at them. In the blink of an eye, it was in front of them, and the putrid stench of decay and sweat overwhelmed them.

Ford reacted first - tearing his gun from the holster and aiming it at the monster. With practiced precision and control, he shot at the thing, nearly gagging as the flesh in its chest sizzled and popped - making the smell that much worse. The thing cried out in pain and turned its furious gaze on the scientist, claws digging into the ground to steady itself.

It moved, hurling itself at Ford with a howl, taking another hit from Ford's gun, which seemed to only make it angrier and more violent. There was a feral bloodlust in its eyes as it pounced on him, snapping its jaw at Ford's arms with the clear intent to sever the limbs.

A struggle ensued, Ford having dropped his gun in favor of digging his hand into the creature's head to hold its jaws open. The needle-like teeth pierced into his palms, and it hurt, but he was not going to meet his end, not here and certainly not like this. He had too many things to live for now, too many aspirations to achieve, and more memories to make with his family.

The nails started to dig past his trench coat and cut into his flesh, and that cold and slimy liquid oozed from its mouth and down onto his face. Moses his hands hurt, and he could slowly feel himself losing the battle to keep those jaws away from his limbs and neck.

"Get off of my brother, you emaciated fuck!"

One moment, Ford was staring into the jaundiced eyes of his inevitable death - the next, he was looking at the stars through the tree. That oppressive weight on his chest was gone, and the fetid stench of rot vanished, and he could breathe. Greedily, Ford sucked in oxygen, hand coming up to wipe away the disgustingly sticky saliva that had dripped onto him. It didn't do much good - merely smearing it across his cheek and mixing it with blood - but he had more problems to worry about as the sounds of a struggle broke out.

Stanley.

Ford reached to grab his gun, whipping around just in time to watch the creature overpower Stan. It dug its nails into his shoulders and leaned down to his brother's face, snapping his jaws shut and ripping its head back with a sickening squelch. A strangled cry broke out into the night, startling the birds and drowning out the growling from the monster for a split second. Stan swung the best he could at his attacker, not really able to get a good angle from his position - but it didn't matter.

Before it could go in for another bite, its head had all but exploded.

The creature slumped forward and swayed to the side, falling off of Stan and landing on the snow-covered ground lifelessly. Ford scrambled to his feet, ignoring the stinging in his palms as he pushed himself up. His pain didn't matter - not right now - he had to get to his brother.

" Stan! " he cried out, dropping to his knees next to his brother's prone form. Stan was curled on his side, one hand wrapped around his torso and the other tucked between his face and the ground. Blood seeped through his fingers and stained the snow beneath him, and Ford's breath caught in his throat at the sight. "Stanley?"

His hands trembled terribly as he carefully grabbed Stan's shoulder, rolling him onto his back.

Ford almost wished he didn't.

Stan's face cheek had been completely torn open, and there was a sickening amount of blood pouring from the wound. It looked like he had been mauled by a starving dog, and hysterically, Ford thought that comparison was spot on. His heart was in his throat, and he had to force himself to get up from the ground where Stan was shivering.

Even though he wanted to scream, wanted to kick the monster's corpse and burn down where it came from - Ford knew he couldn't. He had to keep his mind clear and focused for Stan's sake. His twin needed him, and damn it, he was going to make sure he was there for him this time.

Ford grabbed their forgotten packs to fish out their medical kits, stealing glances at Stan, who was eerily quiet for someone with that horrific of a wound. If he were any less composed, he'd worry that his brother was dead - but occasionally, Stan would groan and take in a ragged, gasping breath. With the kits in hand, he clambered back over and dropped the bags next to Stan's head, kneeling into the blood-soaked snow. On what felt like autopilot, he opened a bottle of water, "close your eyes, Stan. I'm going to clean your wounds."

There was a slightly panicked edge in Stan's eyes, but to his credit, he slid them shut without a fight. Thank Moses, Ford thought, because if there was one thing he didn't want to do right now - it was fighting with Stan over medical treatment.

He tipped the bottle and let the liquid fall, giving a sympathetic wince as Stan hissed and jerked. Some of the blood washed away, running down the side of Stan's face in rivulets, and what remained was quickly wiped away and covered with gauze. Stan whined quietly when Ford applied pressure but gave no trouble, allowing him to try and staunch the bleeding.

Ford didn't know how long it took for the bleeding to slow down, but it was too long in his opinion. As soon as the bleeding slowed to a sluggish oozing that no longer seemed like a threat to Stan's life or Ford's sanity - he let the pressure up with a shaky sigh. Distantly, he could feel that panic welling back up, but he kept working.

Butterfly stitches were set where they could, and a fresh set of bandages were applied. Only then did Ford allow himself to feel again. He stared down at his brother's face - who was staring back wide-eyed and silent - and Ford deemed that what he did was not nearly enough to deal with a wound like that. He flexed his jaw and rubbed his face with a bloodied hand. What Stanley needed wasn't available in a traveling medical kit, and they had to get up and move in case more of those things were lurking nearby.

A hand settling on his knee startled him out of the thoughts he didn't realize he was pulled into.

"I'm fine, survived worse."

Stan's quiet, mumbled reassurance broke Ford's resolve.

"Worse? Worse?! " Disbelief painted his words as he stared bewildered at the injured man, "Stanley, your face was literally ripped open!"

With a grunt and a wince, Stan pushed himself up into a sitting position, "don't matter, had worse." It hurt to talk, and he really didn't want to pop the stitches off, but Ford looked like he was about to launch into his head, and Stan didn't want that.

"Please, stop talking; you'll only exacerbate the wounds."

Ah shit, it seemed he was a bit slow on the draw there.

In a way he hoped was comforting, Stan placed a hand on Ford's arm and shook his head, "I'm okay though, I have been through worse." His face ached, and he was light-headed, but he needed to push past it for his brother's sake. He was the tough one - the one who was supposed to act as a pillar of strength and not let trivial things such as pain hinder him.

Ford shook his head and looked at his brother, "so you've said, but please cooperate Stan. We have to go." His joints ached from the cold, and that anxiety and fear he pushed back started to ebb its way back into his mind. What are we doing sitting here?

He shoved the medical kits back into the bag, not bothering to zip them back up, and pushed himself back up. His hands ached and stung, reminding him of his own wounds, but that can wait. They needed to move because sitting still wasn't safe. This place wasn't safe , and they were in danger.

His hands slipped into his hair, gripping his curls tightly between his six fingers.

"Sixer, look, I'm fine."

Stan sounded almost... exasperated with him, and Ford whipped his head to stare at him in shock. How on earth was he not as worried as Ford was right now? So many things could go wrong; the smell of blood could attract something, Stan's wounds could get infected, the creature could regenerate and attack again, Stan could turn into one of those things, and Moses why are they just standing here!

"You don't know that! You could be fine one second and not the next, because who knows what toxins the creature might have held in its saliva? In it's teeth?" Ford sucked in a breath and tugged his brother to his feet - watching in horror as Stan stumbled from the sudden shift.

Stan clutched Ford's arm to stop himself from falling and hissed, glaring at his brother, "Ford, get a hold of yourself, get outta that big head of yours, I'm fine. I'm not convulsing or seizing, see?" He let go of his brother's arm and took a step back - stretching his arms to the side in a 'look, you see' manner. Yeah, Ford was right, it hurt to talk, but his quick stitches could be damned - he was going to calm his brother down even if it killed him.

Then, a thought struck him, and he grumbled past the burning pain, resigning himself to a fate even his poor mother couldn't have predicted. "Can't believe I'm saying this, but would you feel better if I saw a doc?"

Ford blinked owlishly and then nodded furiously.

A pained grunt left Stan as he shouldered his pack, " let's get moving then. The closest doctor is Moses knows how far from here, and I don't want to sit in the cold much longer." Ford nodded again and followed as he set off, tracing their path from earlier. Moses , he couldn't believe he was willingly going to see a doctor.

The things he does for love.

--

Mabel's face was pressed against the screen before her brother yanked her back. She huffed and sat in her chair, crossing her arms and worrying her lip between her teeth: " But Grunkle Ford, is he okay now? Can we see him? We haven't seen him in forever. "

Dipper nodded next to her - a matching expression of concern on his face. "Yeah, Great Uncle Ford - I mean you can't expect us to not want to see him after hearing about everything." It had been a month since their last call when they learned of the attack, and a month they spent worrying even though they were told explicitly not to by both of their uncles.

They couldn't help it - their great-uncles were supposed to be invincible and untouchable, and to have to talk with cameras off because Stan didn't want to worry them with his stitches only reminded them that Stanford and Stanley weren't some superhumans.

Ford smiled and nodded, holding up a hand that bared some tiny new scars, "he's alright, I promise." He glanced above the laptop when Stan entered, two cans of soda in his hands, taking the offered one with a smile. "Perfect timing, knucklehead; the kids called and want to talk to you."

"Grunkle Stan!"

"Is Grunkle Stan there?"

Stan laughed heartily and plopped himself down on the bunk next to Ford, "yeah yeah, I'm here, still kicking." He popped open the soda and knocked it against Ford's in a mock toast, "it'll take more than a love bite to get rid of me." Though - given the nasty scar he was going to have once the healing process was over - calling it a love bite was a drastic lie.

Dipper was the one who launched himself at the camera this time, "oh my gosh, Grunkle Stan! That looks -"

A wave of Stan's hand cut him off, "badass? Manly? Totally radical?" With each word he listed, he popped a finger up.

"Totally painful."

"Horrific!"

Their words cut through his easy-going teasing like a hot knife through butter, and Stan shrugged, "should see the other guy." His words garnered no laughter and instead pinched brows and silence, and the closer he looked at them, the more he could see that the kids were worried , and oh no, that wouldn't fly with him.

He set his can on the floor and snagged the laptop from Ford - who protested briefly before giving up. Stan lifted it so the camera was closer to his scarring face and tilted it around to show off what happened. Once he was certain the kids got a good look, he set the computer down on his lap, "listen kids, this? I won't lie - hurt. It hurt a lot, and it wasn't very fun at the time, but I promise you I've been through worse."

Off to his side, Ford mumbled under his breath, but Stan powered on, "I said it as a joke earlier, but I meant it - it will take more than a bite to take me out, and you wanna know why? " When they nodded, Stan smiled the best he could, "it's because I got you two knuckleheads waiting for me to return to Gravity Falls and Ford watching my back." A pause, and then he lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, "and because Ford here is a big ol' worrywart who makes me eat almost too much spinach. I'm practically invincible at this point."

"I heard that, Stanley."

The younger twins relaxed slightly, worry still evident on their faces but much more at ease when they realized Stan was okay. He was not just putting on a front for them, but he was alright and joking and, most importantly , alive.

Mabel tapped her fingers on the desk, eager to move on to lighter topics because it's not every day they get to talk, and unfortunately they had to hang up shortly because of school. She watched as her uncles set the laptop down on the desk again before tossing an arm around Dipper's shoulders, "hey, did I tell you guys that Dipper has a girlfriend?"

"Mabel no!"

Chapter Text

Dipper thought that this was getting ridiculously out of hand. Don't get him wrong, he loved the fact that his family cared enough to worry about him, but he was quickly learning there was such a thing as too much love.

See, he had woken up with a horrid migraine, the kind that made him nauseous if he so much as looked to the side too quickly. It was a great start to his day - truly wonderful - and he was prepared to tough it out alone, but things never pan out the way he planned them. There always had to be some unexpected wrench in the plan or a weird twist he hadn't accounted for, and this migraine must have affected him worse than he expected because of all the things to miss and not plan for - forgetting Mabel was absolutely ridiculous.

For one, Mabel was his own twin. She had been his ride and die, his day one since, well, day one. They were as thick as thieves, and there was rarely one without the other. Where he went, she went, and vice versa, and of course, she would realize if he tried to stay in bed to sleep the day away. If anyone noticed his lack of presence - it was going to be her.

Second point for how absurd it was; Mabel's presence was much like her beloved glitter - shiny, bright, and absolutely everywhere. It was in the Polaroids pinned on the wall next to his door, bedazzled into the trapper hat that Wendy had given him, in how magically Pacifica's number somehow wound up in his phone and her contact in his Skype friends list. Even if those didn't ping on his migraine-numbed radar, the countless balls of yarn and sticker books littered his floor and desk should have at least reminded him that Mabel existed .

But alas, thinking of his sister and how her spontaneity was usually the wrench in his carefully laid and thought-out plans was not his immediate concern when he woke up with a splitting pain in his skull, and that's how he found himself in his current position.

Which was with two very concerned great uncles and a twin sister who took it upon herself to act as 'the best doctor he'd ever seen' watching over him like a hawk.

It started when he didn't show up for breakfast. At first, everyone thought it was a slow start to the day and waited patiently for Dipper to emerge, but as time crept on and his Stancakes grew cold, they realized something was up. Mabel had been - of course - the first one up the stairs to check on him. She pounded on his door and shouted at him to wake up, which had been - quite frankly - the most annoying sound he'd heard in a while, and that was saying something because he had talked to Gideon recently.

Then, before he could get a word out, she slammed his door open and raced over to yank his curtains open. Stan and Ford had entered next, scolding Mabel for not allowing her brother to open his door because 'what if he was changing' and some other reasonable concerns Dipper just didn't care to hear at this very time; because the racket - paired with the light that flooded his room - did absolutely nothing good for his poor aching head.

All it served to do was make the throbbing worse and have him shove a pillow over his face in a pitiful attempt to block out what light.

Which, said pillow, was promptly torn from his hands by two very glittery hands and tossed somewhere in his room, crashing into something which fell to the ground afterward.

Mabel, who was looking over her shoulder with a grimace as she surveyed the damage she had just caused, was greeted by a squinted glare when she looked back. A somewhat sheepish grin took over her face, braces glinting in the irritating sunlight as she tried to yank him up by his shoulders.

"Wake up, Dipdop! It's morning , and you're still sleeping?" That nearly apologetic look was instantly washed away as she jumped on the side of his bed, still attempting to pull him out, "we have so much to do today, remember? Laser tag with Soos, plaidypus boxing matches with Grunkle Stan and Wendy, and a water-balloon fight with Grunkle Ford and Stan before toasting marshmallows!"

From behind her, a quiet; 'water balloons? Did you know about these plans, Stan?' and a 'no, but plaidypus boxing sounds hilarious - think we can charge for it?' could be heard.

Both Dipper and Mabel ignored their uncles, and Dipper - in favor of trying to keep his head from splitting apart like the overly ripe watermelon it felt like - simply shoved Mabel back with his socked foot. "Not today, Mabel," he grumbled as he took his blanket - because now that he'd lost his only pillow, he had to resort to desperate measures - and pulled it above his eyes, trying to return to the peaceful darkness he had minutes ago.

Mabel fell to the ground with an 'oomph' and blinked in shock. It was quiet for a moment before she sprang back up and grabbed the edge of the blanket. " You can't ignore me, Dipper! You know that!" She tugged at it and managed to pull it halfway off of him before he yanked back with a hiss.

"Mabel stop it. I'm not in the mood," Dipper growled out, his eye twitching as he could feel the migraine pulse behind his eyes. The jerking from the battle of the blanket churned his stomach unpleasantly, and without really thinking, he let go of the soft fabric, watching in slight horror as Mabel stumbled backward and knocked into her uncles like a bowling ball.

Thankfully, she was righted, and everyone was still standing, but now there were three sets of concerned eyes on him.

Ford cleared his throat - the first to speak, "Dipper, are you feeling well?"

Then Stan - instead of speaking - merely walked over to his bed and placed the back of his hand against Dipper's forehead, brows furrowed as he checked for a fever.

Mabel was the last to recover from the shock, tugging on the hem of her sweater as she really studied him. Realization crossed over her face as Stan stepped back, stating he didn't have a fever, and she lowered her voice significantly, " oh, I think I know what's going on . Do you have another of those stupid headaches?"

Dipper nodded and winced at the motion.

Ford and Stan shared a look with each other, and Mabel grimaced, "sorry bro-bro, I didn't think about it." As she spoke, she bound over to where she had pulled the curtains open to slide them back shut, shrouding the room in darkness. The blackout curtains that he insisted he bring this summer were a blessing, and he thanked his past self for having the foresight to bring them in case his chronic migraines struck again.

Well, calling them chronic implied he had been experiencing them for a while, and that wasn't really the case.

They only started to hit him after their first summer in Gravity Falls - and he surmised it had to do with being possessed and having his mind rooted through by some dream demon and the subsequent armageddon he experienced but couldn't talk about because of the Never Mind All That act. As much as he wanted to forget it and put it past him, Dipper couldn't because that was a lot for a twelve-year-old to go through, and he supposed his body made up for the suppression and repression by presenting itself as migraines.

He took his pillow gratefully—which Mabel had offered him—and settled back into his bed, closing his eyes with a semi-relieved groan. "I'm gonna be okay, just," another pained hiss as he adjusted his position. "I got a migraine, that's all. Tell Soos I'm sorry about the laser tag."

Mabel waved it off with a quiet 'pshhh' and turned on her heel to push her uncles towards the door, "Soos won't mind - we can do it tomorrow hopefully." Then her head finally turned to the older men, "let's go Grunkle Stan and Ford; Dipdop needs his sleep if he wants to feel better; Doctor Mabel's orders."

And that interaction and those orders sparked something in the three of them.

Mabel had taken it upon herself to scrounge around Ford's lab - coming up into Dipper's room with a pair of Ford's old glasses on her face, a white lab coat that was far too big on her, and a stethoscope draped around her next. She had taken it upon herself to appoint herself as his 'doctor' for the day, even though they both knew there wasn't really anything he could do other than take some painkillers and sleep it off.

At first, Dipper was annoyed by this because it was excessive, and he just wanted to sleep, but to his surprise, Mabel did her best to keep quiet. She silently worked on her latest scrapbook or occasionally switched up to knit, crochet, or do whatever art she'd picked up on in the last month. The only time she'd make a noise was to check up on him and ask if he wanted or needed anything.

He tried to tell her to go and enjoy her day, but she shrugged and told him that 'as his definitely real doctor,' it was her duty to sit here and make sure he would be alright. And in that computer chair, she kept herself planted for hours.

But, it wasn't really her that was overdramatic and overbearing. Sure, she was over the top with the whole doctor get-up, and she did wind up popping the lenses of the glasses out to avoid her own headache, but she was actually the tame one in their life for once.

Because Stan and Ford treated him like he was dying.

Despite knowing both of them suffered from frequent migraines themselves, so they had to know how unserious the matter was, his uncles acted as if the world was ending for the second time. Like clockwork, every half an hour, one of them would crack the door open and poke their head in to check up on him.

Ford left things like bottles of water, sleeves of crackers, an old lamb toy (which Dipper would later learn was his great uncle's treasured toy when he was a child), and a pillow. Every. Single. Time. Which Dipper appreciated at first, but after the seventh pillow, it began to seem a little excessive.

Stan was better than Ford, but only slightly .

Instead of bombarding him with pillows and crackers, he would poke his head in and quietly inquire if Dipper was alive. Once he confirmed Dipper hadn't magically died in the span between his and Ford's visits, he'd leave and shut Dipper's door with a nod.

Then he'd pop his head back in, asking if Dipper needed anything.

And he'd do this repeatedly for about five minutes straight before finally leaving with a 'feel better kiddo ,' and that's how Dipper judged that Stan's 'patrol' was finally done.

If he were feeling better, he'd find the way they hovered kind of funny, honestly, but he wanted to sleep , and his door opening and closing so often and their concerned words didn't let him. Every time he was close to nodding off, the door would creak open, and he was torn back into the throbbing world of consciousness, forced to answer his concerned uncles or hear Mabel answer for him and repeat the cycle over again.

Truly the definition of insanity.

Stan had just finished his round of questions when Dipper pulled one of the many pillows he now had over his face and groaned loudly. Honestly, he didn't even know they had so many pillows in the house; there was a veritable mountain on his bed at this point . Really, he was shocked the couch cushions weren't left because surely Ford had to be running out of rooms to raid. "Hey, Mabel?"

Mabel stopped writing away in her journal and spun on the chair, glasses slipping down her face, "yeah, you need something bro-bro?"

Dipper nodded slightly, pulling the pillow down enough to peek at her. "Yeah, next time either of them comes up, can you please send them away? It's impossible to sleep with them hovering like this."

She nodded and pushed her glasses up with her middle and ring fingers, "you have my word; as your doctor, I prescribe you a quiet sleep." It was spoken with a laugh, but a definite determination was laced in there.

Sure enough, when the door began to creak open, Mabel launched herself off the chair and quickly pulled the door open herself, taking advantage of the shock to step out and push whoever it was back. She was met by twin looks of surprise as Ford and Stan were there this time, and it was perfect. Kill two birds with one stone - or shoo two twins with one conversation rather.

Tapping her foot on the ground, she crossed her arms. "Nope. You two get downstairs; my patient is resting."

Ford nodded, "we know - we just wanted to check in on him and make sure he's alright."

"You two did that enough already. He's trying to sleep now."

Stan crossed his arms and mirrored Mabel's actions, "can we at least tell him to have a good sleep?"

Mabel turned her gaze to her uncle and shook her head, "Nope! Like I said, he's resting already, and as his doctor, I am to make sure his rest is undisturbed."

Another set of crossed arms from Ford this time, and he shook his head, "Mabel dear, you don't have a doctoral degree, so you can't be a doctor."

She held a finger up and gave him a sly grin before tugging at the coat she had borrowed, gesturing to the lapel where ' Dr. Pines' was listed. "Actually, read it and weep, Mr. Pines, I am a doctor. I'm the one wearing the coat and my last name is Pines, so therefore, I must be a doctor." Then she put on a serious look, "and since I am the doctor in this scenario, I am telling you two it's the doctor's orders to leave my patient alone."

Stan gave Ford a look of amusement, "you monogrammed your lab coats?"

Ford scoffed and unfolded his arms to shove at Stan's shoulder - who cackled in response. There was a faint dusting of pink on the tips of his ears and across his nose as he shook his head, "that was a long time ago, Stanley." He cleared his throat, and to save face, he waved a hand in the air, "And don't act like you didn't do that too. There are multiple pairs of jean shorts with your initials embroidered on the back pockets still hidden in my closet."

That earned a dismissive wave of Stan's hand, "oh those old things? I forgot about them honestly," though the way he rubbed the back of his neck told them he was more embarrassed about it than he was letting on. "Those things last saw the sunlight back in the seventies or something, so it doesn't count - and to set the record straight, some of them were already there , Poindexter, so they're not just mine that are hidden."

Mabel watched with interest, making a note to ask if there were any old pictures for her Grunkle Book before snapping back into her doctor mode. Right, this was serious and she had a job to do - and so she pointed down the stairs, "you guys can argue about who's daisy dukes are who's, downstairs, and away from where my patient can hear you two."

They opened their mouths to protest once more before she shook her head, leaving no room for contest. She watched triumphantly as they sighed and nodded, both staring at the door momentarily before turning to head back down the stairs. Not even halfway down, their argument picked back up, but Mabel didn't stay to listen.

She crept back into Dipper's room and over to the chair she'd confiscated, sitting down with a sigh. From the bed, she heard Dipper stir, and when he peeked, she merely gave him a thumbs-up and a smile. He smiled back tiredly and mumbled a quiet thank you before settling down again - and Mabel considered it a job well done.

Chapter Text

This was the greatest day of Mabel's summer so far - then again, she said that about yesterday , and the day before, and the one before that. Come to think of it, how could she truly judge which one was the greatest until the end of her stay? Could she really pick just one day to be her favorite over the rest? Probably not - but she just knew this was going to be up on the list of her favorites because Grunkle Ford asked her to come along to help with his science and research.

Her!

Not Dipper or Grunkle Stan, but her!

Normally, she was the last person Grunkle Ford went to when it came to needing an assistant. Well, no, not the last actually; that title still went to Grunkle Stan. It wasn't anything malicious from Grunkle Ford's side - it was just that Grunkle Stan liked to complain a lot and claim that Grunkle Ford's research was 'too smart for him' and that he'd 'just mess things up' - which was ridiculous. Grunkle Stan knew way more than he let on, and she had caught him reading smart people books more than once - she saw him hide his George Orwell and Shakespeare behind random book jackets, he couldn't hide his secrets from her forever.

Grunkle Stan and his blatant self-deprecating remarks aside, this was a momentous day and she was going to make sure that it went perfectly .

She scooted her stool closer to the desk and rolled the sleeves of the too-large lab coat up to her elbows. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail and safety glasses perched on her nose, and of course, her look was completed with a pocket protector she'd bought just for this look.

Mabel felt she looked absolutely studious right now . The only things she was missing were a pile of papers containing her scientific findings and approximately thirteen coffee-stained mugs—all drained, with some mold in the older cups, which, while gross, was entirely necessary if she wanted to live the way her brother and uncle did.

Sure, she didn't have the coffee - because, unlike Dipper, coffee made her tired , which was a total rip-off - but she did have a book for this very occasion. With a grin, she reached inside the lab coat, pulled out a pink book, and slapped it on the desk in front of her.Mabel's grin brightened tenfold as she punched in a series of numbers on the keypad on the front and popped the book open.

From across the room, Ford raised a brow curiously and glanced over at Mabel, sniffling quietly. "Mabel dear, what is th-"

' I just wanna be part of your symphony!'

Ford was cut off as a rather obnoxiously loud chorus played from a speaker he failed to see earlier. His raised brow fell and pulled together as he pinched his face in confusion. As the slightly crackly music continued to play Ford's confusion only grew as Mable whipped out a sparkly pink-and-purple pen with an incredibly large pom. He had no idea where she managed to hide that and the journal on her person before Ford had given her his old coat.

As the music slowed and the voice faded out, Mable turned to look at him seriously. " Alright, Dr. Pines. What do we do first? Quantum physics? Interdimensional chess? Arithmetic?"

Her questions were met with a quiet chuckle that devolved into something akin to giggles as Ford simply drank in the absurdity of the past thirty seconds. He brought his hand up to cover his face as he laughed, not wanting to upset her if she took it the wrong way. His hand was then flipped to rub at the underside of his nose, sniffling once more. "Mabel may Iask what on earth that was?"

Mabel seemed to be scrutinizing him for a moment, tilting her head from side to side before tutting. "Grunkle Ford, it's my journal!" She said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, picking up the book and turning it around to show off the construction paper front with her signature shooting star drawn on the front. "If I am going to be your assistant, I need one because you have one, Dipper has one, and even though Grunkle Stan lies about it - he has one too." She had set the book down and snapped it shut before waving her hands around as she spoke. "So, it's my turn to make one!"

Another sniffle came from the man, and he nodded. He was unable to stifle the wide smile that crept up on his face and crinkled the corners of his eyes. He walked over to the desk and leaned down, rubbing his nose once more as he studied the cover. "Well, it's quite the journal. Very..." he paused, "you. "

When he glanced back at the teen, he found she was already staring at him. She studied his face before reaching up to press one of her hands to his cheek then she frowned, "Grunkle Ford, are you sick?"

He owlishly blinked at her and shook his head,"No, my dear, I'm not." Then he frowned and brought his hand up to feel at his forehead, knowing well enough that if he was feverish, he wouldn't feel it. "Why do you ask?"

Mabel poked her tongue out in thought then spun back around on the stool to open her journal again. The music played into the room again, but she quickly ignored it and began to scribble her observations on the lined paper. Occasionally, she'd peer at Ford from the corner of her eyes, "Well, for one, you keep sniffling, and your voice sounds like your nose really is stuffed."

Almost immediately, he waved her observations away with his hand, "it's just dusty in here." Ford ignored the urge to rub his nose again - the irritating itch could wait. He had to reassure her that he was well enough to continue with their research mission.

His dismissal prompted her bright and loud laughter and Ford could only tilt his head in confusion. "What's so funny?"

"Nothin' just," she leaned forward on her stool and gave him a conspiratorial grin, "you and Grunkle Stan both use the dust as a lie and think it'll work on me."

"But I'm not lying, it is just dusty here." His confusion was replaced with a frustrated grunt as he lost his battle and sniffled. It wasn't as if he was trying to counter his point , it was just that his nose was starting to run because of the dust. Yes, definitely that. His lab wasn't used that much in the past year, and there had to be more than a thin layer of dust in the room and that was causing his nose to itch and the pressure steadily creeping up behind his eyes.

Which, his point was swiftly disproven by Mabel as she sucked a breath in and blew it on the desk in front of her, kicking up no dust. For theatrics, she hopped off her chair, strolled over to a worn bookcase, and swiped her finger across the metal surface. She inspected it and then rubbed her fingers together, "you know, for it being so dusty down here, I'm not sniffling, and I have allergies."

The cocky confidence in her words caused a stern frown to take over his face. "Mabel, dear niece of mine, I'm not sick."

"Uh- huh ." Mabel grinned at him like she knew something he didn't."You know Grunkle Stan is the better liar between you two, right?"

Her sing-songy words only drew a pinched brow and crossed arms from the researcher. "I know that - but I don't see how that applies here because I am not lying currently." Of course he knew Stan was the better liar between them, that was about as evident as his six fingers, but that didn't mean he was terrible by default. Over the years he'd gotten better at spinning the truth and weaving his own webs of falsities, a necessary evil but one he accepted. He preferred the hard truth, but like his entire family, he was adaptable and fully capable of lying should the need arise.

And the need was certainly here—but it seemed that living with the best conman the States had ever seen for a year had turned Mabel into a lie detector on legs.

The teen crossed her arms and gave him a pointed look. "The tips of your ears turn red when you lie, " she said matter-of-factly, leaving no room for argument.

Ford balked at her, "What—" then he shook his head and raised a brow, "No, they don't. I don't have such obvious tells." He was confident in that, lying being in his blood thanks to his darling mother. Both she and Stan would have never let him live it down if his ears turned pink or anything else as damning.

Mabel grinned and hopped back on the stool, giving it a good spin, "if that's what you want to think." Then she stopped herself before she got dizzy. After a moment, she pointed at her uncle with her pen, "you know Grunkle Ford, it's not very alpha twin of you to lie about being sick."

Alpha twin? He scrutinized her, trying to decipher what on earth that term meant. Had it been something that cropped up while he and Stan were sailing the world? Something that became a trend when he was in the portal? It had to have been and he just waved it off as something he'd have to look up later, "I'm not lying, and I'm not sick."

Mabel listened to him sniffle again and she leaned back dangerously on her seat, "geez , you're just as bad as the other two. All machoism and 'I can't get sick - I eat spinach and nails for breakfast!'" She puffed her chest up and held her arms out by her sides to mimic having absurdly large muscles and deepened her voice. Then she dropped them to the side, "seriously Grunkle Ford, are you sick?"

They held a strong-willed staring contest, one for the ages truly, before Mabel pulled her secret weapon out. She pouted slightly and her hardened look turned into puppy dog eyes, "if you're sick you can tell me at least, right?"

And just like that, Ford's resolve crumbled like a sandcastle in a hurricane. He huffed, "Like I said before, I'm not sick currently—but that doesn't mean I'm not getting sick," he admitted. Then he held a hand up, silencing the girl before she could say anything, "which means right now I am healthy enough to work."

Mabel frowned at that and shook her head, "uh no, that's not how that works Grunkle Ford. If you're getting sick then that means you need to take it easy and eat as much vitamin C as you can fit in your hand." She paused and looked at the papers Ford had gathered and her journal, then turned her gaze back to her uncle, "besides, it's not like this will vanish if you take a break for a day or two, right? And I'm here the entire summer so there's no worry about missing time with me!"

Ford narrowed his eyes and readjusted his glasses, staying silent momentarily. Then with a sigh, he relented, "you make fine points that I can't argue. Though I did hope to do some work with you today."

She nodded triumphantly, standing up once more and giving a wide, brace-showing smile, "well I learned from the best on how to make a firm argument. C'mon," she said, pulling her goggles off and tossing them on the desk before grabbing her and Ford's journals, motioning him towards the door, "let's go raid Grunkle Stan's snack drawer and watch those nature conservation and restoration videos that Dipper got you hooked on. That way we can take notes on them in these bad boys," she waved the books, "and you can relax while feeling productive!"

The man followed her gestures with a quiet chuckle and a sniffle, "I like the sound of that dear, lead the way."

Chapter Text

How could he have let this happen? He was a renowned physician, a man of science and of medicine. He understood the human body better than anyone else in this blasted city - no, in the  country. He held degrees from the finest institutions, tutored the next generation of surgeons and doctors, and held accolades from the highest of powers - and yet he couldn't do this one thing.

Stanley had fallen ill, having caught influenza. Despite being the most bullheaded and stubborn man Stanford had ever known, he couldn't beat it. Like much of the population who caught it, Stanley had succumbed to the illness and just couldn't fight it. Of all the fights for his brother to lose, it was the one that mattered the most. Stanford had tried, Moses did he try, but even his own genius and skilled medicinal knowledge couldn't save his twin.

That had broken Stanford, losing his brother despite his best attempts and nearly running himself into his own early grave. He'd put all his years of learning, of practice and hands-on training to use, and it was still  no good. What good was his degrees and knowledge worth if he couldn't even help his brother beat a damned infection?  Nothing, that's what it was worth, not a damned cent .

It'd been months since Stanley's untimely demise - and Stanford still had not recovered from it. He'd shut himself off from the world, locked himself away in his manor and would only ever be seen by family or the few people he'd considered to be close friends. Eventually, he even started to turn  them away until he was the recluse everyone had claimed him to be.

His home had fallen into disarray, dust collected on every shelf and surface, food started to rot in his cellar, and he'd chased away all his staff and the people coming to him for help. It was an ugly period, a pit of despair he'd fallen into without any hopes of clawing his way out of. No one had expected him to recover from this, and quite frankly, Stanford himself didn't even expect to.

There was no hope for him - for without his brother, what was the point of living? His twin had been with him from the start, had been his first friend, his closest confidant. Where Stanford was the night, Stanley had been the day; Stanford the cold winter snow - Stanley the warm hearth awaiting inside a cozy home. They balanced each other out, kept each other in line, and now that Stanley was gone, there was no one to keep Stanford from spiraling.

Madness clawed its way through his mind, wrapped its thorny vines so tightly around his lungs and soul that he could barely breathe. It strangled him and squeezed the life from him, leaving him numb and hollow - as cold as his brother was now. All that ran through his mind was how he'd failed, how he had let his brother down and there was  nothing he could do for him now. Nothing ; he was as useless as his sixth finger now because Stanley was already gone and buried, and it wasn't like he could bring him back.

Wait.

Wait.

A light sparked in his brilliant, mad mind - a flicker of flame that burned brighter than the candles he had around. He was smart enough - it was a possibility. Highly unlikely, but nothing was impossible. If he had the right tools and the right setting, it could happen; all he needed to do was figure out the formulas and the procedures - and if there was one thing Stanford Filbrick Pines was good at - it was achieving the impossible through science.

He blew through his manor once this idea had dug its claws into him like a tempest, throwing open his long abandoned study. There was little care for the books and work he had sitting there, not even sparing a second glance as he shoved them to the floor with a swipe of his arm. Dust puffed up and swirled through the air when he slammed a fresh journal down, and he cracked open the book as he grabbed his glass pen and ink. Yes, he could do this - he just needed to  think. Think was his specialty. 

All night he worked, writing down his theories - and this carried on for  many more nights. He had a time limit to work with; decomposition was not his friend because the longer he took, the less likely he was to succeed. For weeks,  months,  he worked - it was like he was a man possessed. He wasn't sure where the ideas came from, where the equations and numbers manifested - but he knew they'd  work.

They'd have to.

It had been the spark he needed to emerge back into society because for as good as his thoughts were, he needed to be  out there to put them into practice. People had been shocked to see him come out, cleaned up and seemingly better. They'd all breathed a sigh of relief with his return, but it was evident something was wrong with him - that something had snapped and changed.

He'd heard the cries and the whispers in the town. Every  'poor Lord Pines, driven mad by grief', all the  'grief breaks even the strongest of wills it seems' and especially the  'may the Lord soothe his soul and be by his side' . All of it - every single murmured word and hushed whisper as he made the trips out of his manor. People had to assume he'd lost his hearing along with his mind to dare utter such nonsense so brazenly - but their opinions didn't matter.

Stanford had more important things to care about, and as the time for this drew nearer, he was getting  giddier—almost manic. People had started to fear him, and they avoided him in the streets. The whispers and rumors of his mind having died with his brother grew louder, but it was all white noise, background drivel from people who didn't understand the  magic that was about to happen.

Only one person saw that Stanford's brilliance had remained intact, that he wasn't insane. His longtime friend Fiddleford, who had been helping him along on his mission - all the way up until the very end. Fiddleford had been by his side, the last one driven away and the first one to come back, but now, as they stood in the cemetery with the rain pouring down on them in sheets - it was time for Fiddleford to turn his back too.

"I don't think we should be doin' this. Don't you think this is kind of wrong?"

Stanford tensed, glancing up at the man from where he was crouched in front of a tombstone. "Fiddleford, I did not invite you along to try to be my moral compass. I invited you because I assumed you would be on my side with this." His words were harsh, biting even - but Fiddleford didn't seem to be off-put by them, merely clenched the shovel's wooden handle in his hands tighter.

"But robbing graves? This is a bit much Stanford, even for you."

Stanford huffed, pushing himself off the ground, meeting Fiddleford's stern look. "If it's too much for you to handle, then  leave. I can do this on my own." Thunder roared in the background, mirroring the tension between the two longtime friends. It was a tempestuous thing, rising in intensity and reaching a peak neither of them could come back from.

Fiddleford shook his head and slammed the shovel into the ground, the metal tip digging into the wet earth, "I don't even know what you're digging these poor souls up for Stanford!" He pointed at Stanford accusingly, "you had asked me to accompany you to help you with your project, an' I did - but I  never thought I'd be  here doin'  this." Fiddleford gestured to the cemetery around them, the various tombstones illuminated by the moonlight and the piles of dirt upturned from their hours of work.

With a shake of his head, Stanford tilted his chin up almost arrogantly, "I  told you, I am doing this for the betterment of our people and the advancement of medicine. I've already gotten permission from the bishop for this before you bring that up." His words were a low hiss, anger steadily rising in his tone and weaving through each syllable, "I am a certified resurrectionist, I am allowed to do this, and you know this." Stanford returned the accusing point, going even further to jab Fiddleford in the chest with his index finger. "If your morals are too strong for this line of work, then pass me the shovel and go. You are dismissed."

All Stanford got in response was a shocked look, Fiddleford's eyes widening and jaw hanging open slightly. Lightning lit the sky behind them, painting both in momentary daylight before the thunder cracked and boomed. As it rolled into silence, Fiddleford's expression hardened, "Lord save your soul, Stanford Pines," he growled, knocking the shovel onto the ground, "I hope what discoveries you are hopin' to make is worth the depravity of this act."

Fiddleford didn't look back; he just spun on his heel and stalked off - the only sign he was even there were the shoe prints left in the mud. Stanford scoffed - and needing the last word in - he shouted over the pouring rain. "They will be." It was a petty response that garnered no reaction, but Stanford didn't care. If Fiddleford wanted to back out  hours before the most significant event of the millennia - so be it. He bent and grabbed the shovel, muttering curses under his breath as he turned to the final gravesite he needed. 

---

He had just finished the preparations, the biting cold of his cellar causing him to shake and shiver like the cadaver on the table before him. It'd been...unsettling to see Stanley in such a state. Partially decomposed, bits and pieces rotted away to the bone. It was like looking into the future, seeing what he'd eventually wind up as - but ever the man of science, Stanford pushed away the slight nausea and turned to his third journal - because two hadn't been enough to contain all his ideas.

Carefully, he read over the last few lines he'd written down, making sure he had  everything perfect for this moment. He'd used different parts of flesh from the other bodies he'd dug up to repair the damage time had wrought on his brother. Replaced the lungs and heart, the various organs, and regrettably - had even replaced Stanley's brain. That had given him a slight pause when he first did it, because would it still be his brother if he brought him back with a different mind?

But Stanford reasoned that it was not the mind that made his brother - it was the soul. So long as the  soul was right, it would be his brother - and with the final thing checked off his list, he was prepared to see if his tireless efforts would bring rewards or be fruitless. Stanford was prepared for the worst, but he had to see it through now. He'd come too far to quit.

He held the concoction he'd made, the slightly caustic-looking liquid, up in the air before pouring it into a vat. It splashed and hissed somewhat, the liquid in there already bubbling up - and he knew he couldn't fail now. The ingredients he had collected were far too rare and  strange for him to make even the most minor mistakes. One simple misstep, one wrong breath - and everything would be thrown off balance and irreparable.

Stanford walked around the table and pulled the cloth from his brother's reconstructed face, taking a moment to admire the work he'd done before he reached up and grabbed a long, thin piece of tubing. With a breath to steady his hands - because they'd been shaking from both the chill and sudden nerves - he carefully worked it down Stanley's throat.

Once it was in place, he stepped back and unclamped the end, letting the concoction flow freely. It was a bright yellow color,  too  bright if he were honest, almost unnatural - and he watched impassively as it emptied. It drained and dripped, and once the last drop was done, he carefully removed the tube and tucked it away. Hope started to claw through the anxiety as he waited - and waited.

Time passed with nothing, not a twitch or a sniffle from the body, and Stanford grew impatient, outraged even. All this time spent with nothing to show for it? It  had to work; it was  his idea, but - nothing changed. No sudden movements, just a body lying there as it had done for the past few months. 

With a growl of anger , of   despair , Stanford turned around and grabbed his journal to read it through again, starting with the first one and working his way through the third. He had to have made a mistake because there was no way or reason for it to have  failed as spec-

There was a gasp coming from behind him, something that sounded like a man who had just been saved from drowning. It was a wet, ragged sound that sent chills down Stanford's spine - because it was  not from him, and the only other being in the room was his brother. His long dead, corpse of a brother who, as Stanford spun around wildly, was now  sitting up.  

"By Moses," Standford whispered, eyes wide behind his glasses. "It worked?" His astonishment was apparent, and his voice had Stanley turning to face him—a mirror of shock on his face. Stanford couldn't believe what he saw; it was unreal, but his heart exploded with joy. Not only was he right, but Stanley was alive.  "It worked!"

Stanford - who was not usually an affectionate person, not since Stanley's death - crossed the distance in two short steps, pulling his brother in for a hug. The action startled Stanley, who tensed up and kept looking around the cellar wildly. His limbs felt useless like they weren't his own, and everything  hurt. "S-Stanford?" He croaked out, voice raspy and ragged with disuse, "Where am I? What happened? What's goin' on," he garbled out, trying to stand up.

A hand on his shoulder kept him seated on the cold metal table, not like his legs would cooperate anyway, and Stanley stared at Stanford, questions clear in his now-mismatched gaze. "Stay seated Stanley. I have much to tell you. First, welcome back."