Work Text:
“Stanley! Do something! Stanleyyy!”
Ford throws the journal in his direction as the great vortex of blue light pulls him in, his face more terrified than Stan’s ever seen it. His eyes are wide and fearful, his mouth contorting to let out a desperate scream just as the light begins to blur him, to tear him apart in Stan’s vision, to drag him away into space or hell or some other goddamn universe, far, far from his useless, awful, stubborn twi—
Stan bolts upright with a strangled yelp, then immediately flops back against the pillows. That goddamn dream again. It’s no longer novel, after all these years, but it horrifies him nightly nonetheless. If it’s not the portal, it’s Ford trapped inside that stupid perpetual motion machine. His twin’s teenage self pleads with Stan to get him out, running away from the swinging metal spheres. Every time he tries, Stan can only manage to break it—to trap him further, to ensure he’ll never make it out alive. A betrayed, crushed, angry expression wakes him, on those nights.
Taking a deep breath to slow his racing heart, Stan rolls over onto one side, reading the digital clock on the nightstand. He’s had the thing for years. He’d missed two nights in a row of portal work, getting caught up with the Shack and oversleeping. He’d felt so guilty that he’d asked Soos where to get a decent alarm, one that would be guaranteed to wake him. The kid had directed him to RadioShack, and he’d splurged.
3:05 AM. Huh. It’s only five minutes past the usual time, but evidently Stan had forgotten to set said fancy alarm before going to bed. Must’ve been distracted with Dipper and Mabel, he thinks. The kids are a handful, for sure. But he’s got his grubby mitts on all three journals because of them, so he can’t really bring himself to mind. Besides, the little gremlins have wormed their way into Stan’s heart somehow, despite his vow not to get attached. So, five minutes gone. He’ll put them in on the other end, maybe open the Shack slightly late. Nobody in this town wakes up early anyway.
Stan slides his feet into his slippers, cracking his back and neck. His head is pounding, for some reason. It’s like a hangover, which is ridiculous, because he’s given up drinking while the rugrats are around. He simply massages his temples and forces himself to stand up. Better get to work.
He shuffles out of his bedroom, closing the door behind him quietly, and creeps down the steps, careful to avoid the ones that creak. Except, when he gets to the bottom stair, there’s a massive crack through the center of it, along the wood-grain. Fuckin’ hell. Better get Soos on that. Honestly, Stan wonders if the kids have got him slacking. The whole place looks just a touch shabbier than usual. He rolls his eyes grumpily. What do I pay him for? It’s a rhetorical question. Stan would never even consider getting rid of Soos. In the ten years since he met the guy, he’s probably become the most loyal person Stan’s known for a very long time. Besides, he likes having him around. Ugh, he reprimands himself, Quit it with the sentiment.
He punches in the code to the vending machine, and the hydraulic door hisses open. He clomps down the stairs, presses the down button for the elevator, and steps inside. He folds his arms and watches it take him to the bowels of the lab, foot tapping against the floor. He’s anxious to get to it—Stan is closer than ever to bringing his brother back. He’s got the pieces, he’s just gotta put them together, now.
Allowing himself one more rare moment of sentimentality, Stan wonders, What will Ford think of Dipper and Mabel? Maybe I’ll be done in time for him to spend a few weeks with ‘em. I’m sure he and Dipper will be two peas in a pod. An’ Mabel’s charming. She’ll have him wrapped around her pinky finger in no time. He grins, thinking of his great-niece, then forces a frown. What is with him tonight, getting all sappy? Maybe he’s getting old. God forbid. The elevator doors slide open.
Suppressing a yawn, Stan ambles past the lab equipment and through the entryway to the portal room. He looks up to take the massive thing in, the project he’s poured thirty years of his life into.
Only a massive pile of rubble lies in its place.
For a moment, Stan just stares, mouth agape, at the wreckage of three decades of back-breaking work. Then, the room starts to go blurry. His knees hit the floor, pain shooting through them. He’s screaming, feeling the force of it tear at his throat. The yell is raw, deeply pained, broken.
What?! No. No, this can’t be happening. It can’t just be gone! Please. It can’t be. What happened to it? I was just down here last night, right? A bolt of pain shoots through his skull. Everything was fine then, I was going to—I was going to use the new journals, I was going to get him back!
I was so close to getting him back. Stan lets out a guttural wail, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks.
“God-fuckin’- DAMMIT!” He collapses completely, slumping over his knees, struggling for breath. “No, no, no! PLEASE!”
It was standing yesterday! Don’t say it’s all gone, don’t say I failed, I can’t have failed him, I can’t have left him there to die, PLEASE!
His hand comes up to claw at his throat. He feels it closing in, lungs collapsing, making it impossible to suck in oxygen. The world is imploding around him, Stan is convinced. Everything he’s built is crumbling down, has been shattered and ground to dust by the uncaring army boot of the universe. There’s an inescapable weight on his chest.
You failed. You’re a failure. You can’t do anything right, you couldn’t save him, you didn’t save him. You’re worthless, just like Dad said. You’re nothing without him, can’t do anything right—just a cheating, lying thief who's better off dead.
God, I wish I were dead. Please, please, just—just kill me, be merciful for once and kill me, whoever’s up there—
The sobs shake his entire body, and he buries his face in his hands, digging his fingernails into his scalp.
“I’m sorry, Ford,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I’m so fucking SORRY, please! Please, just come back. Come back, Sixer. I can’t do it again—I can’t do this again! FORD!” Stan’s voice crescendos as he begs, shamelessly wishing for death to come claim him as he is, hollow and empty and faithless. He slams a fist into the ground, hard. The pain is sharp, radiating up his entire hand. He doesn’t care.
His brother is gone, fighting for his life or rotting away dead in some distant galaxy, waiting for his twin to help him, to get him home. And he was almost there.
He’s pounding at the floor now, the sides of both hands cracking against the cold concrete, cries pushing out of his chest and into the chilled, still air. He feels like a child throwing a tantrum, screaming and hurling his fists at the ground—but what more is there to do?
“It’s gone,” he croaks, voice hoarse, “It’s all gone.”
Can he fix it? Is it even possible to fix ? Every element’s been torn to scraps, beyond repair. The money, the power, the resources, the time— can he ever save them up again? Will either twin even live to see it?
In his heart, he knows the answer is no. His brother will be gone forever, by the time he repairs this machine.
Stan is completely limp, cradling his hands close to him and letting the tears flow. His head pounds, a drumbeat echoing on the inside of his skull. He hasn’t cried like this in three decades, and the repressed emotion of all these years of work, of pushing down his feelings, of not thinking about that, breaks its way out in soul-deep wails that wrack his entire form. Gone. It’s all gone, it’s all gone, he’s gone, he’ll always be—
Hurried footfalls echo on concrete, approaching him rapidly. A worried call.
“Stanley?!!” His brother’s voice.
A bubbling sob. Great. I’ve completely cracked, now. Fallen off the deep end. Now I’m hearing voices again.
It had only happened once before, in the throes of infection, starvation and fever, two weeks after Ford had gone through. He’d been tossing and turning under the thin blanket on that godforsaken couch, desperately trying to keep pressure off of his shoulder and get a moment of sleep. Stan thought he’d heard him, then. When he’d looked around, though…the room was still cold and empty, beginning to gather dust. The next day, he’d gone into town. Hearing the voice had convinced him that it was overdue. He couldn’t let himself fall into this spiral, couldn’t lose his mind entirely. Not when there was a chance his twin was still alive.
Now, he’s not sure anything will pull him back from the brink. The world is splintering, giving out beneath him like a plank of rotted wood.
“Stan??” The footsteps come closer, and he can’t bear it any more.
“Stop it,” he rasps, “you’re not real! He’s not coming back, okay? Ford’s gonna die out there, and i-it’s all my fault!” He half-coughs, half-sobs, and sniffles. “So—so just go away!”
The voice sounds worried, hurting. “Stanley, what on Earth… oh!” More footfalls, and he feels a vague warmth next to him, crouching over his crumpled form.
Then, a large, warm, real hand lands on his shoulder. He gasps, his head snapping up from the ground, turning towards its source.
The face is older, eyes laden with heavy bags and lined with wrinkles. The hair is grey with a streak of silver. But it’s unmistakably, absolutely his brother.
Ford. When he sees Stan’s face, his own expression softens in sympathy. His twin’s bottom lip trembles.
“S-Sixer? Is that—how did you—how are you here?!”
Suddenly, Ford jolts forward, and two arms, so much stronger than he remembers, wrap around him. The embrace is tight enough to lift him slightly from the floor, and he finds himself returning it reflexively, gingerly encircling his brother’s torso as if he’s about to disappear.
He doesn’t. He’s solid, unmoving. Ford is right there. Stan clutches at him, drawing him closer, returning the hug in full force and burying his face into Ford’s shoulder. It feels correct, somehow. They’re still a perfect fit, after all these years.
“You brought me back, Lee,” his twin—oh Moses, his twin is here—murmurs gently, and Stanley begins to sob at the childhood nickname. “Y-you turned on the portal. It was so dangerous, b-but you did it, and now—”
“You’re here,” Stan cries, “you’re actually here!” His head is aching, but he doesn’t care. He only leans further into the hold.
Ford nods. “You don’t remember now, but you will. It was all you, Stanley. You saved me—then you saved the whole world. You saved our family.”
Memories, disconnected scenes start to flash through Stan’s mind. A swirling blue light, bringing, not taking. Two old men in front of a mirror. Elf costumes, mayoral elections. A rainbow gash in the sky, his brother a gold statue. A pyramid, a triangle, yellow then red then shattered to pieces. A beam of blue light, flames inside of his head. The throbbing at his temples crescendos, then dulls.
He’s shaking when he comes back, clinging to Ford like a buoy in the midst of a vast, rollicking sea. His hands ache, where they’ve curled into his coat. Stanley heaves in a breath.
“Oh God, Six. I’m back, I’m here, I thought—” He shakes his head into the crook of Ford’s neck, tears still trickling down his cheeks.
“Shhh, I know. It’s alright. You don’t have to worry. You did it, Lee. You’re done now. It’s over.”
Every ounce of tension floods from his body at once. The adrenaline leaves him in a great whoosh, and he finds himself boneless, completely held up by his brother. Weakly, he nods.
“Yeah,” He sniffs. “Yeah, it is.”
“That’s right.” Ford pats his back, relieved. “Now, shall we go upstairs where it’s warmer? It’s freezing down here.”
The icy air of the basement sweeps over him at once. During the summer months, it tends to be warm enough down here, but now, moving into the fall, it’s begun to take on a chill at night. And, of course, Stan remembers, his brother is always cold.
“Yeah, let’s go.” Hesitantly, he pulls back from the embrace, pushing himself up off of the floor and hissing suddenly as a sharp pain radiates through his ring and pinky fingers.
“Are you alright?” Ford inspects him in the low light, immediately worried.
“Yeah, just…bruised up my fingers a bit. Don’t think they’re broken, but…they hurt.” He admits it quickly, reddening a bit with embarrassment.
“Oh God! I’m so sorry, Lee—I’ll examine them when we get upstairs to make sure! Do you need help walking?” His brother is fretting in that newly-familiar way.
“I’m not an invalid, it’s my hands that—” His knees shake as he gets to his feet, and Ford just hums, throwing an arm around him. “Whatever.”
They step into the elevator, then make their way up the stairs slowly, Ford ushering him into the living room and down onto the couch. He flicks on the lamp, and sits next to him, gently picking up Stan’s hands.
“Does this hurt? Be honest,” He adds sternly, but with a teasing edge, then pokes at his fingers.
“A little,” Stan mutters, pain shooting through his hand and into his wrist.
“So, a lot. Can you move them?” Stan wiggles his fingers and winces.
After he finishes his thorough assessment, Ford straightens up. “Probably just a nasty bruise or minor fracture,” he declares. “I’ll wrap them up and get you some ice.” With that, he darts off into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with the first-aid-kit and two cups of tea.
“Decaf?” Stan asks, suspicious. He’s banned Ford from caffeine after nine, though his twin frequently tries to skirt this rule. It feels good to remember it, though. Domestic. He smiles to himself as Ford nods, and checks the tag on the tea-bag to verify his honesty.
“Good.”
Ford gingerly maneuvers Stan’s hands into his lap, splinting the two end fingers on each one together tightly, then kneading the bag of synthetic ice and passing it to him to rest them on. Carefully, Stan lifts his mug and sips the warm drink, throwing his brother a grateful look. Then, as he sets his hands on the bag, something strikes him. He goes cold.
“These should be healed by the time we go sailing, right?!” Worry seeps into his tone. He doesn’t want anything to spoil their trip—especially not right at the beginning!
Ford just laughs. “I expect so. And if not, well—we have the rest of our lives, don’t we? What’s an extra day or so of rest?” He pats his brother on the shoulder reassuringly.
Stan relaxes, and he nods in affirmation. “Y-yeah. The rest of our lives.” The words feel foreign in his mouth, after all of these years, but certainly not unpleasant. “Sounds good, Six.”
Ford grins. “Yes, it does.” He pauses, glancing at Stan, eyes glowing. “Now, since we’re both up—you’ll have to catch me up on some of the television I’ve missed!” He reaches for the remote. “What do you normally watch?”
Stan guffaws—a loud, rough, thing that only makes Ford smile wider—as a brilliant idea occurs to him. “I only watch the best program to ever grace the screen! Except, well, it’s not exactly new, but…I think you’ll like it.”
A beat. “And you’re not allowed to make fun of me for it!” He points a non-bandaged finger at his twin.
“Why would I do that?” Ford asks, tilting his head in confusion.
Stan rolls his eyes fondly, gesturing for his brother to turn on the TV set. “Oh, trust me, Sixer. You’ll see.”
They hardly even notice, one and one-half dramatic period pieces later, that the sun has begun to peek up from below the horizon.