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agoldengalaxy · 9 hours ago

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Goodnight, Moon

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“Where…am I?” Ford’s breath caught in his throat. It was exactly as he had expected, then. Fiddleford had warned him that this might happen; temporary lapses in memory, an unfortunate long-term effect of the memory gun. “Don’t worry, Stanford,” he had said the last time they spoke. “He’s not alone. He’s got you ta’ help him remember.”

A still, calm ocean met the dark sky on the horizon, littered with stars that reflected in the water below. If Ford took off his glasses, it was easy to blur the line between the two completely, like perhaps they were sailing along a star-studded sky instead, with a mission to land on the moon itself.

Ford almost scoffed at his own thoughts as he stood on the deck of the Stan o’ War II, his elbows against the railing. This wasn’t a thought an accomplished man with twelve PhDs would have. It reminded him of storybooks he used to have as a young child, the storybooks Stan and his mother liked to listen to him read aloud every Friday night.

Then again, he thought, smiling a little to himself as he removed his glasses, watching the sprawling blue in front of him blur into one big mess, his PhDs weren’t really his focal point anymore. And, perhaps, it wasn’t so terrible to think like a child again. With Stan by his side, it was hard not to feel like they were still ten years old, declaring themselves the Kings of New Jersey and sailing along the water. The only difference now was that they were actually fighting real monsters, not the ones they made up in their heads.

Ford placed the glasses back on his nose, feeling a shiver run down his spine. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing here, but the late night chill was relentless. Despite the fact that he would have liked to stand out here and stargaze for hours, he released a small sigh and turned around, stepping quietly back into their cabin.

The door slid shut with a soft click behind him, and he glanced toward the small living area, a fond smile easing its way onto his lips. Stan was asleep, a mess of limbs too long to fit on that old couch, more or less covered by a small knit blanket, his snoring quiet and steady. He’d fallen asleep watching Cash Wheel, and Ford had made sure the blanket was at least over his torso and the TV had been turned off before stepping out for some fresh air.

A month after Weirdmaggedon, and it was still quite a relief to see his brother. Ford often found himself thinking things were too good to be true, that he didn’t deserve Stan’s loyalty after everything that had happened, that maybe one day he’d wake up and Stan would be gone.

He sighed softly, still smiling a little to himself. The thoughts were unfounded, as silly as the childish thoughts he had earlier. Stan wouldn’t leave, because that just wasn't who Stan was.

After one last look, Ford moved toward the kitchen, intent on getting some water before turning in for the night, himself. It was certainly still a strange feeling, he thought, as he watched the faucet fill the glass steadily. To be able to sleep whenever he wanted, without fear of being hurt, or fear of hurting others. He grimaced at the memory of waking up on the roof of his house with blood pooling from his right eye, or from the countless sleepless nights he spent on the run from interdimensional beings intent on his destruction.

He turned off the tap and picked up the glass. The past was the past.

He’d almost been too deep in his thoughts to notice that the snoring had stopped in the other room, or to hear quiet, unintelligible swear words. Suddenly, Ford’s bad memories disappeared. He took his undrunk glass and stepped out of the kitchen. “I told you that your neck would end up quite sore if you -”

Almost unable to control it, Ford froze in place, his unfinished sentence hanging in the air. Alarm bells in his mind screamed at him as he looked at Stan, standing rigidly in the middle of the room. His eyes were wide, staring back at Ford like a deer caught in headlights, and it was so unlike Stan that it sent a shiver down Ford’s back.

What really scared him was that this exact expression reminded him of that day, back in the woods.

For a moment, they only stared at each other, seemingly unsure of who would speak first. Ford knew it should be him, he knew he had to ask, but it suddenly felt impossible, like he’d somehow swallowed his own tongue and hadn’t realized it. The silence seemed to stretch out for eternity, until Stan balled up his fists at his sides nervously.

“Where…am I?”

Ford’s breath caught in his throat. It was exactly as he had expected, then. Fiddleford had warned him that this might happen; temporary lapses in memory, an unfortunate long-term effect of the memory gun. Don’t worry, Stanford, he had said the last time they spoke. He’s not alone. He’s got you ta’ help him remember.

A part of him wanted to cry, another part of him wanted to scream and throw his glass at the wall. Instead, he knew he had to be there for him above all else. He cleared his throat, placing the glass down on the counter, and took a step closer. “You’re on the Stan o’ War II,” he answered as calmly as he could through a trembling voice. “Do you remember who you are? Do you…remember who I am?”

Panic flashed along Stan’s face, and it took every fiber of Ford’s being to stay infinitely still, to be the calm in the storm. Panicking along with him wouldn’t solve anything, despite the fact that it felt like his chest might cave in on itself.

Suddenly, Stan blinked, his eyes shining in the dim light. “You’re…my brother,” he managed, his voice strange and rough, like he didn’t even recognize it. He cleared his throat. “I don’t, um…I don't remember anything else.”

Ford forced air through his lungs, nodding quietly. It was temporary. He just had to be there for him, like Fiddleford said he should. The fact that he remembered that much, at least, had to be a good sign. “That’s right. I am your brother.” He took another step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, gentle enough that he could pull away if he wanted to - but instead, he leaned into it. “My name is Stanford, and…you are Stanley.”

“Stanford…” he repeated, drawing out the name like he was trying to hear how it sounded in his own voice. “Wait, we’re both -”

“Yes,” Ford huffed a laugh at the absurdity of hearing the reaction they got whenever they introduced themselves to someone new, from Stan himself. “Our parents weren’t very creative.”

“Yeah, seems like it.” They stood there for a moment, and Stan shifted his weight uncomfortably. “So…uh…what’s this Stan o’ War II? Some sorta secret base or somethin’?”

Despite the situation, Ford smiled. It was still so much like Stan it almost hurt. Gently, he began guiding him toward the door to the cabin. “Come, I’ll show you.”

The door swung open, and they both stepped out onto the deck, the late night breeze immediately ruffling their clothes and hair, the darkness all-encompassing. Starlight reflected in Stan’s eyes as he stepped forward in some disbelief, looking out at the sprawling ocean.

“Heh. The stars look…real bright in the water,” Stan murmured, and Ford couldn’t help but wonder if the amnesia had given him the opportunity to read Ford’s mind.

For a few long, stretched-out seconds, the only sound was the gentle crash of waves and a few stray birds that had yet to turn in for the night. Ford tried his best not to stare at Stan, not to overwhelm him. He stared out at the horizon again, but didn’t blur the lines this time. He let the clear picture span out before him - beautiful in its own way.

“Ford…”

The sound of his name almost startled him, but when he turned, he was much more startled by what he saw. “Stanley! Are you alright?!” A tear was rolling down Stan’s cheek, and out of anything that might have panicked Ford before, this was the top of the list. His brother didn’t cry. He reached forward, placing one hand on Stan’s shoulder, the other on his opposite arm. “W-What is it? Are you hurt?”

Ungracefully, Stan sniffled, giving him a watery smile. “We…we’re really adventuring together? After all this time…”

Ford had always thought himself a tough nut to crack, but he could feel his chest grow tighter with the pressure. Breathing became much harder, as if he were standing atop a high mountain. The burning in his eyes was something he had nearly forgotten the feeling of, but here it was, and he couldn’t tell if he liked it or hated it. He returned the smile, but when it felt like he wouldn’t be able to keep it on his face, he pulled Stan close, hugging him tight.

“Yes, Stan,” he breathed, shaking with the effort of trying to keep his eyes from leaking. “We are.”

Hands slowly came up to return the hug, and they stood there for a long while. They stood there until the shaking was replaced with shivering, and Ford drew back from the embrace, looking at the face that was so like his own, yet so different all the same.

“Come. We will get sick if we linger out here any longer.”

Stan didn’t argue, and together they stepped back into the warm cabin, wordlessly heading toward the couch. Despite the revelation he’d had before, Stan looked rather worn-out. “My head is pounding.”

“I suppose that’s part of the long-term effects…” Concernedly, Ford headed toward the counter where he’d left his glass and grabbed it. When he turned back around, Stan was staring at a framed picture on the wall. Ford carefully walked back to the couch, sitting down and placing the glass in Stan’s hands himself before lifting his gaze to the photo, too. “Our family.”

The picture showcased one of their last days in Gravity Falls. In front of the Mystery Shack, Stan wore a huge grin and had his arm slung around Soos, whose eyes sparkled with happy tears as he proudly wore the fez, almost too big for his head. Next to Soos, Wendy covered her mouth, laughing at Dipper, who was clinging onto Stan’s back, grinning as he tried to fake choke-hold him. Next to Stan, Ford beamed proudly while Mabel hung off of his flexed arm, pure joy on her face.

Ford chanced a glance toward the real Stan after a moment, who was staring at it with a fond, wistful smile on his face. “I miss those knuckleheads.”

Leave it to the kids to make Stan start to remember again, he thought, nearly smiling to himself. They’d done it before, and they’d keep doing it, he supposed. “So do I,” he agreed. “Perhaps…we should pay them a visit soon.”

Stan’s smile grew a little as he turned his gaze down to the glass in his hands. “Gotta make sure Soos hasn’t burned down the shack, or Wendy hasn’t made off with our register.” He took a few large gulps, as if he hadn’t drank in days. Somewhat relieved, Ford watched him drain the whole glass, wondering if he’d even realized he was beginning to get memories back again, bit by bit. Once he’d finished, Ford took the glass from him, placing it on the coffee table in front of them. Stan’s brow furrowed. “What, you’re not gonna tell me to put that in the sink?”

“Well, I -”

“You fight me about putting things where they should go every day, Poindexter!” Stan scoffed, getting to his feet to snatch the glass back up again, marching it to the kitchen. Astounded, Ford watched him go. It was true - Stan could be a bit of a slob and left things out all the time, whether it be clothes, glasses, shoes, or fishing lures. The last thing Ford wanted was the Stan o’ War II to end up looking the way his house had looked when Stan had been in charge of it, so they argued often about putting things away.

Of all things to remember. Ford couldn’t help but chuckle a little to himself.

When Stan emerged from the kitchen again, he crossed his arms. “What?”

“Nothing, Stanley. Nothing.”

For a moment, it seemed like Stan was going to fight it, but then he shrugged and just took his place on the couch next to him again. “If ya say so.” He drummed his fingers on his knee, taking in their small cabin as if everything he looked at gave him a new memory.

While Stan looked around, Ford watched him, noticing the sagging in his shoulders, the slow blinking, the general restless movement. It was plain to see that his brother was exhausted from all the emotion, but the thought of suggesting he go to bed was out of the question. He couldn’t leave him now. He wouldn’t.

“Stanley…do you remember, when we were children, I would read you and Mom stories?”

Stan blinked at the question, slow recognition creeping onto his expression. “Oh, yeah. Mom said she liked hearing you read. She said you did good voices.” His brow furrowed. “Huh. I don’t remember ever hearing the endings.”

For once, the words ‘I don’t remember’ didn’t send a cold shiver down Ford’s spine, because he actually had an answer for that. “You’d usually fall asleep,” he said.

Stan’s cheeks flushed. “You remember that damn armchair! It was comfy!”

“Sure,” he chuckled. “Well, anyway…I was thinking about that earlier, actually. I don’t have any books, but I have plenty of stories from our childhood. Do you want to hear one?”

For a moment, Stan seemed to hesitate, then admitted defeat, leaning back against the couch with a huff and crossed arms. “Guess it beats the same things on TV. And I’m gonna hear the ending this time.”

Smiling, Ford leaned over to turn out the lamp, then leaned back against the couch too. “Very well. Hm…do you remember Crampelter?”

Stan’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, that slimy bastard who bullied us in grade school.”

“Right. He made fun of your demeanor and my polydactyly. For years, all we could do was get through each day. The teachers didn’t help us, and Mom was beside herself. Finally, Dad signed us up for boxing. I was terrible at it.” Stan smirked while he continued. “It was not for me. It took you a while, but eventually you got the hang of it, and we were told to ‘fight back’ if that bully came at us again.”

“Yeah, I remember. Wait, how exactly did we deal with him again?”

Ford grinned a little. “Ah, well…you ‘fought back’, as it were. During recess, you went inside to use the bathroom and he and his goons came over to torment me. They called me names, took my glasses, laughed at the special six-fingered gloves that Mom had knit for me. In my head, I knew I should do what Dad told us to. I knew I should just shove him back so he’d finally leave me alone. But…I was too scared. I couldn’t do it.” He shook his head, remembering how small he’d felt back then. “They were about to break my glasses when I heard your voice.”

Stan tilted his head, seemingly interested to hear what happened next. Perhaps this memory was too long gone.

“You marched right over, demanding that Crampelter return my glasses at once. I remember him laughing, taunting you, asking what you were going to do about it when you landed a swift punch to his groin. He dropped the glasses and I scrambled to pick them up while his friends stood in stunned silence. He seemed to be in too much shock and pain to do much else, other than give you a weak, high-pitched threat before waddling off in another direction. Later, I heard from one of the girls that he stood in the corner of the playground and cried.”

“Hah! Sucker got what he deserved!” Stan laughed, seemingly quite proud of himself.

Ford smiled, shaking his head. “Of course, that stunt suspended you for two days. Mom had a few choice words to say to the principal, but I know that she and Dad were pretty proud of you for standing up for me.”

Stan’s expression softened as he looked up at his brother, a slew of emotions betrayed behind his tired eyes for a quick second. “Yeah, well. Getting beat up is one thing. Letting them hurt my brother is out of the question.”

“Yes…I think you said something like that to the principal,” Ford responded, feeling oddly touched even all these years later. As Stan yawned, he continued. “Do you remember the day we found the original Stan o’ War?”

Through another yawn, Stan nodded. “I got a lotta splinters.”

Ford continued sharing stories, knowing that eventually, their childhood habits would return - and sure enough, before he could finish his third story about their junior prom, Stan’s head lolled onto his shoulder, sleeping completely soundly. Quietly, Ford trailed off, careful not to move too much, and placed the blanket over them both.

It reminded him of the week after Weirdmaggedon, spending nights together on the couch because Ford couldn’t bring himself to leave him, though it was different all the same. Things wouldn’t ever be perfect for them, he knew, as he gently pulled Stan’s glasses off to place them on the table, but they’d always have one constant now. Each other.

He took off his own glasses and relaxed into the couch, Stan’s warmth and soft breaths easily and quickly lulling him to sleep.

#gravity falls #stanford pines #stanley pines #stan twins #fiddleford mcgucket #man. fuck #I can't stop thinking about sea grunks #and just them taking care of each other #gah #my post #my writing #agoldengalaxy

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