Work Text:
Stanley Pines knew his twin brother like the back of his hand. Which is why when Stanford was acting less nerdy than usual, Stan instantly knew that something was wrong.
It was another slow, dragging school day for Stan. His mind drifted off again right when class started, thinking to his dreams of the sea and having adventures while fighting off ghosts and pirates and pirate ghosts. Inevitably, the teacher caught him dozing off and marched over to his desk. Stan braced himself for the sound of her hand slamming onto the desk as her shrill voice shouted his name-
"Stanford Pines!"
Stan's head snapped up. Stanford? Did she mix the two of them up? He didn't see how it was possible, right now the two of them couldn't be anymore different. Stan always had his eyes glazed over and staring out the window, while Ford always kept his hand raised in the air as he practically bounced up and down on his seat. Besides, Ford was the only nine year old nerdy enough to start wearing glasses.
Ford barely acknowledged the teacher practically fuming as she stood above him. His shoulders were slumped over and he fiddled with his thumbs behind his back.
"I know your no-good brother over there has a knack for spacing out," she continued. "But I expected more from you, young man."
Ford slowly nodded and hung his head. Stan was sure he heard Ford sniffle a bit. Come to think of it, he hadn't heard Ford say a word the entire class. He wasn't dozing off, for sure. Stan made sure that Ford wasn't reading under his blankets again last night. Today they were supposed to be discussing the stars in the sky, surely Ford would've loved every second of this lesson?
Stan followed him out of the classroom as the bell dismissed them for lunch. Ford hadn't spoken a word, even after Stan prodded him with questions and noogies.
"I have to go, Stan." Ford muttered, attempting to turn a corner. Stan grabbed him by the arm and turned Ford to face him. Ford struggled undef his grip. "Stan, I said I have to-"
"But where are ya goin, Sixer?" Stan asked, looking Ford straight in the eye. "At least lemme come with, ya ain't lookin' too hot."
Ford looked like he was about to burst into tears right then and there, but he said nothing. He twisted his arm around to shake free of Stan's grip then bolted straight into the hallway. Stan gave chase for a bit, listening to the echoes of footsteps down the hall, but eventually got tired of the chase. Ford knew these hallways too well, and knew how to lose Stan too easily. Stan huffed and made his way back to the cafeteria then, hoping that whatever was going on, Ford would talk to him about it later and everything would be okay.
Except that for the rest of the classes that day, Ford kept his head hung and his hands clasped behind his back.
Except that for the entire bus ride home, Ford still refused to say a word, his eyes struggling to hold back tears.
And when they were finally back in their room, Ford did nothing but sob into Stanley's shoulder as Stan tried to treat the scrapes on his knees. He held his twin then, promising to kick the butts of whoever was bullying Ford and stealing his lunch money. He promised that they could work on the Stan o' War for the rest of the day, buring their worries in dreams of adventures out on the sea.
Ford hadn't said a word about what happened then, about how Crampfelter and his cronies promised to leave him alone if he'd done their homework for them, about how Ford should've known better than to make deals with a bunch of shifty bullies, about how Ford felt like he was the biggest idiot in the world and he didn't deserve Stan's unconditional support.
He did, however, mention to Stan that he was the best person Ford had ever known. Stan almost didn't hear it, the words being caught in a jumble of muffled sobs against his shoulder, and he thought maybe he'd just imagined it. Regardless, he gave Ford a few good pats on the back and reminded him that they were a team, and he had Ford's back forever.
In that moment, he almost felt like nothing could hurt him ever again.
You really get to know a guy after spending the past 4 years of your life cramped into a tiny dorm room with him, your nights filled with the lighthearted tunes of his banjo and your shared laughter when you try to sing along.
You know a guy after he's done nothing but back you up in your endeavors and reassure you that you're still a genius, no matter what second-choice university you enter or all nighters you spend tearing your hair out.
Ford thinks that Fidds doesn't know him as well as he knows Fidds. He thinks this because of the nights they spend exchanging stories and laughs and staring at the low-hanging ceiling. He thinks about when Fiddleford tells him tales of practically his entire family tree, talking up every relative he's come to know and love. Ford never mentions his own family, never mentions the hurt he felt from the alleged betrayal of his own twin, doesn't even think about his father that acknowledges him as nothing more than a cash cow.
Which is why one stressful night when Ford was at an all time low about his thesis, he nearly breaks down at the sight of his family photo slipping out of one textbook. He'd forgotten that he used it as a bookmark. The emotions are a bit too overwhelming at this point. His shoulders shake as he holds his head in his hands, trying not to let his tears stain his notes. He shouldn't care this much, he'd never had his heart ache over them this much, he shouldn't miss them but he does and it aches and he's yelling-
And his roommate walks in and Ford's frozen. He always wanted to be alone when he's breaking down. He couldn't stand it when other people saw him break, especially the people he cared about.
If Fiddleford saw the picture thrown across the desk, he didn't acknowledge it. Ford expected him to ask what was going on any minute now. He buried his face in his six fingered hands, shaking his head wildly as if to signal don't make me talk I don't want to talk I don't want to say anything-
But Fidds knows him better than he thought, because he did nothing but wrap his arm around his shoulders.
"Y'know, Stanford, Mama always said there was no better cure for an achin' heart than a good ol' talk," he said. But Ford shook his head. Thoughts were racing too fast in his mind. Not now not ever no no no I'm going to bury these feelings six feet under where they can never find me-
"But if ya ain't feelin' up to it, I aint gonna force ya," he continued. "Yer always ready to listen ta me when I'm in a rough spot, pal. Don't think I wont hesitate ta do the same for you."
Ford leaned his head on Fidds' shoulder, nodding slightly. He wanted to say that he didn't feel he deserved it, but the more rational part of his brain told him to accept help when it was offered. That, and the cold beers Fidds layed on the desk.
"BOY, YOU MEATSACKS SURE ARE SENTIMENTAL, AREN'T YOU?"
Ford glared and summoned a rock at his fingertips. He yelled and threw it at Bill's eye, just barely missing. If a mouthless triangle could grin, Ford was sure he was doing so right now.
"A R O C K? REAL CREATIVE THERE, FORDSY, YOU REALLY GROW SMARTER EVERYDAY."
He grunted and put up a wall between him and Bill. He was too dazed, too panicked to think clearly right now. He'd fallen asleep again and Cipher wasn't letting him wake up. He shivered and curled into a ball on the ground- whatever the invisible floor was in the mindscape- and tried to even out his heavy breathing.
"WHAT'S WRONG, SIXER? I THOUGHT YOU DON'T TH I N K OF THESE GUYS ANYMORE?"
With the snap of his fingers, several doors opened up to reveal several doors replaying memories over and over. Memories of mindgames played with Bill. Memories of his time in college and building the portal with Fiddleford. Memories of his childhood, running around the shop with Ma and Pa. Memories of him and Stan, dreaming of the sea.
Ford chucked a bigger rock over the wall, not caring if it hit Bill or not. He couldn't think of them now, not when he was this weak, not when Bill was so close to destroying the world and Ford had to stop him. And yet his concern for them burned in his chest, overwhelming him as he curled tighter into a ball. Push the thoughts away, don't think about it, he thought to himself.
"I d-don't! I don't need them!" Ford shouted back. "I don't need anyone!"
Bill gave a laugh that sent shivers down Ford's spine. He sat atop the wall Ford put up- poorly made as it was- and crossed his arms.
"AWW, FORDSY, THAT REALLY HURTS! AND AFTER ALL WE'VE BEEN THROUGH!"
"And I definitely don't need YOU!" Ford shrieked, his hands covering his ears. He couldn't find the energy to chuck another rock this time. All he could do was shiver and listen to Bill's taunts, eyes shut tight as Bill spun the memories around closer to him. He tried to drown out their voices, ignore the memories of those he thought he loved.
"REALLY? AFTER ALL THE TIME I SPEND IN THIS MESS OF A MINDSCAPE, DON'T THINK I WOULDN'T KNOW HOW MUCH YOU THOUGHT OF US! LOOKS LIKE YOU NEED US MORE THAN WE NEED YOU!"
"Shut up!"
"FACE IT FORDSY, WITHOUT US, Y O U ' R E N O T H I N G ! "
Ford yelled as he shot awake, his chest heaving as he gripped the edges of his desk. If Bill was trying to slowly break him, it was definitely working. He slapped his own cheeks and muttered "No more sleeping," to himself.
As much as he hated to admit it though, Bill was right. He tried to pretend it was easier not to care. He spent years trying to push down his sentiment for his family and friends, burying it deep under his work, but as much as he tried to avoid it, the memories of their time together always came back to haunt him.
It gave him an idea, though. Bill was right. He needed help. In his shaky sleep-deprived state, he couldn't hide the journals alone. At least if he got someone trustworthy to toss them away for him, he could focus on dismantling the damn portal.
His fingers trembled as he rummaged through the drawers for postcards. His thoughts were rushing too fast for him to think of anything else to write but "PLEASE COME."
Ford stared at the ceiling, breaths shaky as he went over people he could possibly mail it to. Fiddleford? No, he'd gone insane, there's no way him and his insane cult could be trusted. But what other friends did Ford really have?
His eyes trailed over to a picture from his childhood, carefully placed on the edge of the desk. It was a bright, slightly tattered picture of two kids on a boat, with hope shining bright in their eyes.
Ford held his breath as he dialed up Ma for Stanley's address.
It's been days since Weirdmageddon, Stanford thought to himself. Get over it.
It was easier said than done. Everyone liked to think that the events of the past week hadn't affected them- Never mind all that!, and everything- but it didn't seem to apply to the Pines family.
Dipper had been a bit jumpier than usual, if that was possible, as if it was hard to believe that everything was back to "normal" and his family was safe. He was less around the forest and more around his family now, holding onto Mabel's hugs a little tighter and staying around the breakfast table a little longer. As tempting as it was to return to adventuring, he'd had enough weirdness for a while, and he found that the company of his family and friends was a lot cozier than the company of his mysteries. Besides, they were the only ones who really knew how to care for him during the long nights after he'd woken up screaming. Everyone now knew what that was like.
Mabel tried her best to accept everything that had happened in Weirdmageddon. The sooner you accept it, the easier it'll be to move on! she told herself. It was a little trick she learned from Dipper in Mabeland. Once she let herself cry it out, apologies made and forgiven, she set out to support everyone with steely determination. After their birthday party, she'd been spending all her time knitting sweaters, painting silly pictures and watching funny movies with her family. For her, a little help went a long way, and everybody appreciated it a lot.
Stan's path to recovery was rough and patchy, unearthing pretty bad memories of himself that sometimes he'd wished stayed hidden. But like the kids told him- you have to take the good with the bad- he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he'll never be perfect. But that didnt matter, so long as his family thinks of him as the World's Greatest Hero maybe he could live as being ol' screwup Stanley Pines. His family never let him think of anything less of himself than great, and maybe over time he could learn to accept that.
He wished he could say the same for his brother, though. Stan found him coming out of the basement less and less, only coming up to pal around with the kids or to eat. And even then he'd hardly had a bite, sometimes he wouldn't come up at all. It had only been a few days, sure, but Stan knew that this was a habit he needed to stop before it was too late. He saw the same look in Ford's eyes as he did when they were teens- the bloodshot, droopy look they held, deep black rings hung below. It made Stan feel sick. Everyone else had been trying their hardest to recover- it wasn't a perfect journey, nor was it easy- but Ford seemed to do the exact opposite. Hell, Stan wasn't sure he'd make it to see the boat they were planning to sail away on.
Stanford changed the combination to the vending machine a while back, for who knows what reason. It did nothing but frustrate Stan, because on the nights he was looking the worst he locked himself down there for hours on end, sometimes not even coming up 'til morning. Stan knew about Ford's nasty habit of hiding away his emotions and trying to face them alone. Some things never changed since they were kids. That didn't make it any better for him.
He quietly made his way down the basement steps one particularly bad night, when Ford had skipped out on dinner again. This time he'd forgotten to close the basement door properly, so Stan let himself in. He wasn't prepared for what he saw down there, however.
The portal room looked more like a rats nest than ever, if that was possible. Ford took it upon himself to take every piece of the portal and smash it to bits, broken sheets of metal and tangled wires littering the floor everywhere. Old artifacts of Bill lay in pieces everywhere, some slightly charred while others completely shattered.
What jarred Stan the most, though, were the empty bottles that lay around everywhere. It wasn't too much, but enough to make Stan's stomach turn. Oh, god, where did Ford even get these? Stan was sure he'd thrown his own stash out shortly after the kids moved in. Moreover, these were more than the cheap beers Stan allowed himself to take. These were downright pure bottles of vodka and tequila and whiskey and a whole mess of other things he couldn't imagine Ford even being able to afford. How did he let this slip past him?
He quickly ran back upstairs to grab a pitcher of water before running back down to find his brother. Ford was slumped over on a desk, a small, half empty bottle of beer still gripped tight in his hand. Stan was a little relieved that it wasn't a hard drink- maybe Ford was trying to wean himself down slowly- but he took the bottle and tossed it aside nonetheless.
Ford met his gaze then, his eyes still wet with tears and his face cherry red (from crying or from drinking, Stan couldn't tell). Stan barely got to register the look on Ford's face before he threw his arms around Stan's waist, babbling about apologies and screwups and being tricked by a goddamn cornchip.
He couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or his own overwhelming guilt that pushed him to do it, but Ford downright broke down then. He told Stan about being lied to and tricked and bruised and bloodied, about how he was so blinded by his pride that he felt the best way to deal with a problem was to push everyone away, how he was stupid to let Stan think he was the worthless one when Ford had been the one to doom the world and let everyone else clean up after him.
Stan said nothing the whole time, still a bit in shock that Ford was actually opening up instead of bottling everything up inside. He knew too well how bad that could be. He stood there for what felt like hours, listening to Ford's slurred babbles and keeping his arms wrapped around him tight, his thumbs rubbing on Ford's back in an attempt to comfort him.
And when Ford had run out of words, Stan offered him a small "Thank you for telling me," that left him speechless. He could barely hear Stan's words of comfort and forgiveness after that, those first words playing over and over in his head like a broken record. McGucket had been right after all, he could calm down better now that he talked it out instead of pushing it aside again.
Stan helped him to his feet and to a glass of water to get his head straight. Ford's words were lost in a flurry of Thank You's and I'm Sorry's and I Love You's. Stan lead him out of the basement then, where the kids were quietly waiting at the vending machine entrance.
If they smelled the liquor reeking off Ford's sweater, they didn't mention it. If they saw the rings under his eyes and tear stains on his cheeks, they said nothing. They only wrapped their arms around his chest when he bent down, smiled and ruffled his hair when he could finally look him in the eye.
The Pines all settled in the living room, where Mabel had set up a small blanket nest and had a Ducktective marathon running on TV. The rest of the night was spent laughing and telling stories and eating all too-sugary sweets.
And when eventually the rest of his family fell asleep there, Ford found himself staring up at the ceiling in the dark room, the TV still quietly going on in the background. He listened to the light snores of his niblings curled up against him, his brother's arm still wrapped around his shoulder. He'd forgotten how nice it felt to actually love and be loved back, after all these years.
He thought about them, about Fiddleford, and how much he cared about them all. He thought about how he was ready to forgive them for their mistakes and how they did the same for him. He thought about how he'd never want to push them aside again, about how they all cared about him and though it was hard and his own mind was screaming against the possibility, just in that small moment-
- he felt like nothing could hurt him ever again.