#Stanley’s stronger than me because I would break down in tears every single time

[pe0pleall3rgy]

the family leaves little reminders around the shack in case stan has little lapses in his memory, like the portal room (probably turned ford's lab and his bedroom is where the wax figures used to be they just put furniture in there [he never sleeps there he just sleeps on the couch in the basement]) has a sticky note on the desk reading "Stanley, If you're about to work on the portal and find that it isn't there, don't panic! I am safe and sound, if it's nighttime you may find me in my study (the above floor), the very room you're standing in, or my bedroom, what was previously your wax museum. Otherwise, do call me and I'll come running! As of writing this, my contact name is "spare parts" in your cellular phone. -Your favorite anomaly, Stanford" (and he'd put a little doodle or something of a little six-fingered thumbs up) (he'd definitely call it a cellular phone do you know how much i can pull from pearl for this fucker)

and mabel has a family photo taped to the fridge (which i wanna think is really chaotic, stan wendy and mabel are making the dumbest faces possible, soos is the only one genuinely trying but he's doing a duck face which doesnt really work for ANY photos let alone family photos, ford isn't even facing the camera and dipper is actively tripping over his shoelace halfway on-frame because he was the one who set up the camera and had to run back to get in the picture) with a note saying good morning to him and that they all love him just to make sure he knows that (DAMN most of that was just about the photo mb)

soos has an adult adoption certificate framed in the gift shop (come on he definitely adopted him shut the fuck up im a sucker for found family)

dipper diligently copies every new picture and scrapbook page as mabel makes them and keeps a thick binder of them updated (its on stan's nightstand, with detailed notes on everything that's happened to them when mabel misses some parts)

i doubt it ever fully prevents stan from freaking out if he suddenly finds himself in a place he doesn't remember, but i like to think he feels very fond about looking through that scrapbook, memory-lapse or not (and maybe he goes around and looks through all those notes when he's feeling a little down because it makes him think about how much his family cares about him.. but he'll never tell)

-gf anon

AH. THEY CARE SO MUCH…. I’M NOT WELL…

I love the detail that they took the most chaotic photo imaginable and instead of doing a retake they were like “that’s fridge material right there” Pines family I love you.

Also Dipper and Mabel working together to make scrapbooks. Nobody talk to me.

[more-miserables]

I was trying to keep a steady-ish posting schedule but that hasn’t happened. I’m flakey as hell now I don’t have teachers and deadlines. I don’t know if any of you guys still remember or care about my pair of whumpees, but I was randomly inspired tonight. Hope you enjoy this anyway.

Tagging: @albino-whumpee @cubeswhump @liliability

Warnings for dehumanizing language, institutionalized slavery, boxboy universe, implications of past self-harm, implied and obvious abuse, implications of drugging, very brief implication of an eating disorder, panic attacks, lots of messed up stuff, you guys know.

Yates never seemed to get completely better after his illness. He stopped coughing, his fever went away, but he stayed very pale, and Ginger could hear how crackly his breathing was at night. His nerves didn’t seem to recover either. Yates’s hands shook now whenever Stanley gave him a task, and he became clumsy and jumpy, forever dropping things. Stanley stopped being so soft with him and started yelling, which just made things worse. Yates was a bundle of stress.

He cried bitterly every night, cradled in Ginger’s arms. “I’m a failure,” he sobbed. “I keep messing up. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“It’s not you, it’s never been you. You’re just tired, that’s all it is,” Ginger insisted over and over, but Yates couldn’t seem to hear him.

Seeing Yates looking so pale and miserable all the time made Ginger burn with fury. He didn’t care about the pain in his head now; he was frequently spitting in Ivy and Stanley’s food, arguing back, slamming doors, doing anything he could to draw their attention away from Yates. He was disciplined over and over, in new and creative ways, until he was black and blue all over, but it was worth it to keep Yates safe.

The first time he swore at Ivy he was chained up in the garden all night, completely naked. Ginger drew his bare knees up to his chest and held them tight, shivering. English winter nights could grow cold enough to kill, especially when a person had no protection; maybe that’s what Ivy wanted.

Maybe that’s what Ginger wanted too.

“Ginger?”

Ginger jumped, his head snapping up off his knees. Yates was standing beside him, pale and anxious, carrying a blanket.

“What’re you doing here? How’d you get out of the room?” Ginger asked.

“Window,” Yates whispered, cuddling up beside Ginger and wrapping the blanket around them both. “I couldn’t just leave you out here. Give me your hands, I’ll warm them.”

“You’ll get into trouble if they catch us,” Ginger said, linking his fingers with Yates’s.

“I couldn’t leave you,” Yates repeated firmly. He clasped Ginger’s freezing hands between his own, rubbing them hard.

Ginger smiled weakly. Maybe he didn’t want to die just yet.

It was hard to hang onto that feeling during the day, even so. Ivy found fault with everything he did now, and Stanley was equally brutal with Yates. Ginger’s headache was constant, but he refused to lie down and take it. He argued, yelled, swore and spat like a wildcat, allowing Yates to creep around relatively unnoticed.

Ivy had taken to standing in the kitchen while Ginger cooked, peering over his shoulder and critiquing every single thing he did, even the most basic things like pouring water. Each correction carried its own insult.

“Stir that syrup, it’s sticking to the bottom of the pan! Are you blind as well as stupid?”

“I thought icing cakes was your speciality? Seems you only specialise in failure.”

“You’re too heavy-handed with that whisking. I don’t know why we ever bought you. You’re such a disappointment.”

Ginger knew Ivy was just trying to wind him up - but it was working. He felt like he was boiling along with the syrup. It was so unfair to be stuck making wonderful desserts for two people who told him he was stupid and useless and disappointing - and he couldn’t even spit in the food with Ivy hovering.

Ginger held his tongue, presenting Ivy with the finished cake. It was baked beautifully despite Ivy’s complaints, with pin-neat icing flowers and swirls, the buttercream smooth as silk. It was perfect - but Ivy sniffed scornfully. She gripped the plate and slowly pushed it off the counter, watching it fall face down on the floor with a depressing splat.

“Make another one,” she commanded, then turned on her heel to walk away.

Ginger felt like someone had ignited a bomb in his chest. He burned all over with rage. Without thinking, he grabbed hold of the egg box, took one out and pelted it with all his force at Ivy. The egg hit her squarely in the back of her head, splattering yolk down her back and in her hair. The force of the blow sent her staggering forward with a scream. She peered over her shoulder, looking bewildered. For a second.

Ivy’s face flushed a deep red, and she rushed at Ginger, gripping fistfuls of his red hair and slamming him against the kitchen counter. “How dare you!” she screamed, shaking him so violently he felt she’d yank out clumps of his scalp too. “I won’t stand for this. You’ll learn if I have to beat you till you piss blood!”

“Get off me!” Ginger yelled back. He tried kicking out at Ivy, but he was weak and undernourished, and Ivy was a big, strong lady. He couldn’t wriggle free.

“Give me your hand!” Ivy commanded. Ginger didn’t, so she took hold of his left wrist herself, dragging him over to the cooker. “I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. You’ll be able to look at your hand every day after this and remember what happens to disobedient little pets.”

She swept the dirty saucepans away with a flick of her arm. The hob was still on, glowing bright red with heat. Ginger renewed his efforts to break free, but Ivy hung on grimly, battering him about the head with her free hand.

“Remember this,” she snapped, and pressed Ginger’s palm firmly against the hob.

The scream Ginger let out echoed through the whole house. It was barely human, like the howl of a dying animal in a trap. Ivy held his hand down for a good three seconds, though it felt like a lifetime to Ginger. He arched his fingertips, trying his hardest to escape the blinding heat, but Ivy had her hand pressing down on the back of his own, so Ginger’s palm couldn’t be spared.

When she finally let him go, Ginger collapsed in a heap on the floor, whimpering. He cradled the burned hand to his chest. It was bright red and already starting to blister. The kitchen was filled with a sickly sweet, burning smell, and he gulped in horror when he realised he was smelling his own cooked flesh. He couldn’t stop the tears this time, though he hated Ivy seeing how much she’d hurt him.

Ivy laughed heartlessly. “I told you so,” she said. She crouched down in front of him, her voice soft, menacing. “You’ll never win. You’ll learn to do as you’re told if it kills me - or if it kills you.” Then she stalked out the room, leaving Ginger sobbing on the floor.

Yates was horrified when he saw Ginger’s hand that night. He’d heard the scream, but Stanley hadn’t allowed him to go investigate. Ginger told him the whole story, whispering because his crying had left his voice raw and painful. He couldn’t remember how long he’d cried; it must’ve been hours. His hand was still so painful he couldn’t move it. His fingertips were mostly spared, though they were raw and red, but his palm was screaming and covered all over with throbbing blisters. He couldn’t even make a fist anymore.

“Ivy did this?” Ginger had never seen Yates look so angry. “That’s horrible! Oh, you must be hurting so badly. How could she?” He took hold of Ginger’s hand. “You poor thing... Here, I’ll help you. I’ll fix it.”

They sat up well into the night while Yates cleaned, treated and bandaged Ginger’s palm as best he could with the limited supplies. He didn’t have anything stronger than pharmacy painkillers and it barely touched Ginger’s agony. Before the burn was even properly dressed, Ginger had been begging Yates to stop for almost an hour. He was howling again, light-headed with pain.

“Stop, stop, please...” he moaned.

“I’m almost done, I promise,” Yates whispered. He saw Ginger starting to wobble and quickly pulled him close, right onto his own lap. Ginger was bigger and heavier so Yates must’ve been very squashed, but he didn’t complain. “Put your head on my shoulder. I don’t want you fainting. Your eyes keep losing focus.”

Ginger let his head fall on Yates’s shoulder with a thump, biting his shirt hard when the treatment continued and the pain returned with a vengeance. He managed not to faint, but the agony combined with his sobbing made him retch. He thumped Yates’s shoulder weakly with his good hand. “Le’ me up,” he gasped. “‘M gonna puke.”

“No, you stay there,” Yates said firmly. “I don’t care if you’re sick. Do whatever you need to. Vomit, bite my shirt, bite me if you need to. It’s alright.”

So Ginger stayed, and when he did bring up bile and spit all down Yates’s back and across their mattress, Yates didn’t even flinch. Ginger felt a soft hand rubbing up and down his back, a gentle voice shushing him when he groaned.

“I know, I’m sorry, but we need to make sure it’s treated properly,” Yates said, his own face crumpling whenever Ginger whimpered. “I’ll change your bandages every day, but it’s going to take a while before this heals. How’re you going to do any cooking and cleaning?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?” Ginger sighed wearily. “Never mind that now. I don’t even care about the mess. Let’s just get some sleep, please.”

The next day was exceptionally difficult for Ginger. He supposed that was what Ivy had wanted. His bandages were cumbersome and clumsy, and the pain was still so terrible he couldn’t put any weight on the afflicted hand. Ivy made sure to give him every possible job that required two hands, eventually resorting to ordering him to move heavy furniture across the room and back with no real purpose other than to cause him pain. Several times Ginger’s knees buckled from the agony, his vision becoming dark and fuzzy at the edges, but Ivy’s shrill voice would always drag him back to reality. He vomited again three times before noon.

Ivy elbowed Ginger out of the way when he prepared Stanley’s lunch tray, piling it with half a dozen plates, cups, cutlery, even a teapot. She smirked, handing it to Ginger. “Be careful, it’s heavy!” she said in a falsely bright voice. “Hold it with both hands.”

Ginger couldn’t. It wasn’t even about defiance anymore, he really truly couldn’t. He was almost sobbing with the pain already, shifting the majority of the tray’s weight to his right hand. He couldn’t take this anymore. He wanted to run far away, across fields and over pavements and through cities. He wanted to lock himself away with Yates and never see another person again. He wanted to cut his own hand off to stop the pain. He wanted so many things and none of them were allowed.

Stanley’s door was closed. Ginger tried nudging it with his foot, but it didn’t budge. He didn’t know how he was supposed to get the door open with just one working hand. He knocked, but Stanley just barked at him to come in already and stop hovering outside. Ginger sighed, juggling the tray and trying to hold it just for a second with his left hand as he grasped for the door handle with his right.

Sharp pain surged all the way up his left arm in an instant. He stumbled through the doorway with a yelp, dropping the tray with a terrible clatter. Food splashed all across the linoleum and crockery shattered into shards of glass like glittering stars. Stanley and Yates gawped as Ginger landed on his knees on the bedroom floor, crouched in the midst of the mess.

“You stupid, clumsy idiot!” Stanley roared, his face flushing scarlet. He grabbed his walking stick and raised it to swing.

“Oh please, sir! It’s not Ginger’s fault,” Yates gasped frantically. “He’s hurt his hand, sir. He shouldn’t really be working at all. Please don’t hit him! He’s being so brave and-”

“Shut up, will you! You’re getting far too mouthy. Ginger’s a bad influence. You shouldn’t question me, boy.” Stanley paused, walking stick still raised like he was about to conduct an orchestra. He suddenly smirked, holding it out to Yates. “Okay. I won’t hit him.”

Yates took the stick gingerly. “R-really, sir?”

“Am I not a man of my word? You, Ginger!” he barked.

Ginger raised his head, glaring through his curtain of red hair.

“Hold out your hand!”

Ginger did as he was told.

“No, not your right hand. The one with the wound,” Stanley said, still smiling. Ginger did so, far more reluctantly. Stanley turned to Yates. “I won’t hit him. So you’ll have to do it for me. That’s what you’ve been trained to do, correct? So whack him six times on that hand with my walking stick. And don’t you dare hold back or I’ll double the punishment.”

Yates stared at Stanley, mouth gaping. “But... but he’s so badly hurt, sir.”

“That’s no concern of mine. Get to it.” He paused. “At once!”

Yates glanced at Ginger, helpless and terrified. Ginger tried to smile at him. It’s okay, he mouthed. He wanted to comfort him, but Yates’s eyes filled with tears - bad tears, that’s what they’d been taught. He’d never seen Yates cry properly.

“No,” Yates said quietly, his voice wobbling. He put the stick back in its usual place by Stanley’s bed.

“What?” Stanley snapped. “What’re you waiting for? Do as you’re told, boy!”

“I won’t,” Yates said. He blinked, and two fat tears ran down his face. “I’m not going to hit him, especially when he’s hurt.”

Stanley trembled with rage. He grabbed his stick and aimed a swipe at Yates instead, and Ginger hurried to his feet to drag Yates out of reach. Stanley shakily swung his legs out of bed, leaning heavily on the stick, practically frothing at the mouth.

“You disobedient little swine!” he yelled, pointing mutinously at Yates. “You’re more loyal to him than me, the man who feeds and clothes you and lets you live under his roof. All Ginger ever does is hold you back! How dare you! You’re not to answer to Yates any longer. I don’t want you attached to my name. You’re not worthy of it. You’re nothing.”

Yates was sobbing in earnest. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t hurt Ginger like that. I’m still loyal, I promise, I can still be Yates, I-”

“Shut up!” Stanley screamed. He turned to Ginger, crimson in the face and breathing heavily. “And you! You were a mistake right from the start. You’re the cause of all this!”

“What the hell is going on up here? What’s all the noise?” Ivy demanded, rushing into the crowded bedroom too. “Oh for God’s sake, look at the mess on the floor! And what’s your idiot blubbering about, Stanley?”

Stanley wasn’t listening. “Get him out of here!” he boomed, pointing at Ginger. He sounded so fierce that Ivy did as she was told at once, grabbing a fistful of Ginger’s hair and yanking him out the door.

“You just wait!” Stanley continued, staggering out into the hall and yelling down the stairs as Ivy pulled Ginger away. He was exceptionally wobbly without his wheelchair, supporting himself on his stick and the wall. “I’ll turn you out of my house without a care. You’ll die like a dog in the gutter, you’ll see. I won’t have you two together anymore. You’re getting in the way of Yates’s work. You need to be separated!” He wavered precariously, eyes wild.

Ginger felt sudden panic, raw and sharp. “You can’t split us up! We’re a pair!” he yelled.

“I can do whatever I want with you. You’re mine,” Stanley said triumphantly. “And you’ll do as I say, and be out of here by-“

Stanley was cut off by a sudden cacophony of bumps and thumps, then eerie, still silence. Ivy, almost back at the kitchen with Ginger in tow, quickly hauled him back to the bottom of the stairs.

They stopped short. Stanley was lying crumpled in a heap on the floor, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, head twisted uncomfortably and staring at the ceiling. There were shallow, rasping gasps coming from low in his chest. His eyes swivelled round frantically, the only part of his body still able to move freely.

Ivy started screaming. Ginger’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t make a sound. He looked up - and saw Yates standing there at the top of the stairs, face ghostly pale, eyes wide, outstretched arms shaking, like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done.

There wasn’t time to think. They couldn’t let Ivy recover from the shock. Ginger dashed up the stairs, grabbed hold of Yates and rushed him down past Stanley’s crumpled body, along the corridor and out the door. They ran like rats despite the hard pavement cutting their bare feet. They ran even though they had no idea where to go next.

[mythomagically-delicious]

Siren Song

So on June 17th I realized I forgot to celebrate Stanley and Stanford’s birthday (June 15th) and that I would miss celebrating my first June 18th (Alex Hirsch’s birthday) as a fan of Gravity Falls in America. So I wrote out something in honor of the two days. 

Siren Song

Stan has never told Ford what he hears when they’ve heard the siren’s call. (They’ve both heard it. Ford set the course on autopilot with an unchangeable time lock, then time lock bonded himself and Stan to the rails of the ship, where they could not escape to be dashed against the rocks and eaten, but still hear the call. Ford thought it important they both experience the call together, and Stan has a hard time saying no to as tame a scheme as that from his brother).

Ford was gushing about his visions as soon as they were released from the spell and in safer waters. He went on and on about how they showed you truth about yourself even you may not realize. He talked about how they peer into passerby’s souls and lures them to their sands to die by singing what they long for most to come true. Sometimes (according to myths) by showing you alternate paths your life could have taken. Or sometimes just showing more and better than what a sailor already has. If you examine it you can discover your weaknesses post spell-state, and understand fundamentally who you are, what you’re made of. (As well as get to steady the siren in-depth!)

Ford talked for three hours about all this and more before he finally asked Stan what the sirens sang to him.

Stan looked at Ford for a moment (a hard, searching look that was gone so quick, Ford thought he’d imagined it) and answered, “Nothing much.”

Ford was dumbfounded momentarily, but he regained his voice quickly. “What?! Stanley, come on, tell me what they said! This is an amazing opportunity to study how they’re able to tailor their songs to multiple individuals, even ones similar as us. I’m surprised they didn’t confuse our frequencies, actually, for…” and Ford got sidetracked on the theoretical likelihood of only half of a set of twins surviving a siren attack because of the way their bewitching works. Stan ignored almost all of it and started mending some nets on board. He was great with knots.

When Ford finally circled the conversation back to Stanley, Stan was prepared to resist nonchalantly.

“Come on, Stanley, talk about it.”

“What, am I not allowed at least four secrets left, Ford? Besides, who has time to figure themselves out fully? I’m good just skating by the next few years already knowing just enough to be alright. It’s worked so far.”

Ford brought up several counterpoints that Stan shot down, sometimes with words, usually with grunts, shrugs, and pointed looks. Finally Ford got fed up with his lack of cooperation and stalked off to make is own notes and observations about the experience. [and scientific-related queries]

Stan took to the deck to start plotting their next course. He tried not to think about all he’d seen and heard from the sirens, but it was no use. The song stuck to him. Their words had changed and rippled and layered over each other until all he could make out were key phrases that were sung together.

The less he tried to think about it, the stronger the memories became until they overwhelmed him again, and his mind was cast back to the whole affair.

You have much to regret You would rather forget Your brother loves you not He left your bones to rot

The pain is all too much Your pain is all too much Your fire dies and ashes rise Your true form comes forth

Rise and see Rise and see A world where you and he were separate, and happy

And visions came of Stan having a better life where Ford wasn’t in it, from childhood through to high school. Never being bullied, never being second best. Always well-liked, a natural athlete, top boxer, good enough grades to go to college. Getting married, having kids, having grandkids. Having a huge family that loves Stanley—not being forgotten, hurt, abandoned and crushed by the world the way he was.

Stan had shook his head, tears falling at this vision, shouting, “No, no, I want my brother too!”

And the sirens heard and changed their tune…

Rise and see Rise and see A world where everything was as it should be…?

A new vision had swept over Stan and he was relieved to see Stanford there. It was the night before Stan got thrown out, Stan and Ford on the swing sets, talking and laughing. Ford making plans to go adventuring with Stan, not even mentioning the stupid school.

The brothers take on life together—Ford does go, but Stan goes with him. Eventually Ford gets famous for his tech and inventions. Stan is with him every step of the way. They adventure around the globe on a grant Ford had from the school. Eventually they settle back in California as a home base. Stan gets married, has kids. Ford is a good uncle, they tease his kids together. He has grandkids, and again as the brothers grow older they tease and confuse their family. Stan has everything.

But still he is shaking and raging against his bonds on the boat, crying “No, no, I don’t deserve it. That didn’t happen—Stan Pines is DEAD!” and again their song shifted…

Rise and see Rise and see Say goodbye to painful memories

Stan, soon after pushing Ford into the portal, branded and distraught, runs into town, starving and half mad. He runs into a man with a strange red cloak who promises he can help. Stan follows the voice blindly, ignoring all the warning signs he’d learned on the streets.

He is hit by the memory gun. He forgets everything.

Everything about “Stanford Pines”

(for how could what was left of Fiddleford’s mind differentiate between Stanley and Stanford?)

His wound is taken care of and they feed him, give him some money, and leave him in the shack. When Stanley wakes up, all he has are disappointing memories of a (friendless) terrible life, and schemes for making money boiling in his brain. He checks out his surroundings and decides to use the most of this opportunity by setting up a tourist trap with all the weird stuff in the abandoned house.

It makes big money, for years and years. Eventually his father tells him he was wrong to kick him out. (That was a GOOD DAY for Stan. Vindicating. He sent Filbrick packing). Stan didn’t work thirty years day and night to save Ford. He enjoyed his financial success. He made other goals. Got back in touch with Shermie, and got to be part of his nephew’s life—and later his great niece and nephews lives too.

It was everything Stan wanted—family, success, happiness. No guilt, no shame, nothing hanging over his name.

(And Ford died defeating Bill in the Nightmare Realm, torn to pieces as it collapsed at Bill’s death. Dimension 47’\ never even knew).

Stan still cried and struggled against his bonds, the song, their visions. So the sirens changed their tune one final time…

Rise and see Rise and see The world grows dim It’s you or him

Stan is sitting in his car. He’s 23. Crying silently, staring at two objects in his lap. One, the picture of him and Ford on the Stan O War. The other, a six-shooter he picked up at a local pawn shop using the ten finger discount.

He’s at one of the lowest moments of his life. He flips the picture over and writes down a couple short sentences on the back of the picture. Then he picks up the revolver, loads a single bullet, cocks the hammer, and—

ends it all.

Blood splatters the inside of the car, and all over the picture he kept. Written in mess script has this message: “I’m sorry brother. You’ll be better off in a world I’m not in. Sorry I couldn’t do this for you sooner. –Stanley Pines”

Ford gets the news and cries for two weeks straight. Stan watches as his family all reacts in different ways. Pa dies a few months later, and no one can prove it as related, but the guilt ate him away until he was nothing but bones. Ma raged and sobbed. She lived to see her great grandchildren born, though, and all the way to fifteen. Shermie punched a wall, said he should’ve found him and helped, the consequences be damned! Reb cried and Sam wasn’t old enough to know why.

Ford never got over it.

But he also never fell into Bill’s trap. He became a world-renowned scientist, along with Fiddleford McGucket, for their ground breaking work in anomalies. He grew closer with Shermie and involved in his brother’s kid’s life. When Mabel and Mason were born, he was there, and he cried. Gave them advice. Watched them for a couple of summers.

Ford did well for himself, lived to the old age of 94, and died of natural causes. But he never forgave himself for Stan’s death. He kept the bloody picture that was the last thing Stan had seen before he died.

Stan sobbed. But he stopped fighting the visions and songs. As they were about to pass outside of the siren’s reach, they called to Stan one last time…

Rise and see Rise and see Like a puppet with no strings Come and spend forever with me

And blue fire filled his vision as an insane laughter filled his mind. The siren’s song clashed over the laughter, repeating REGRET…FORGET…PAIN…FIRE…BROTHER…DIES…

RISE AND SEE RISE AND SEE

As the laughter got louder and Stan’s vision overwhelmed with blue fire, the sound of a gunshot going off over and over again—

everything was cut off.

All the normal sounds of the sea returned. Birds calling, ocean rocking the boat, slapping against the sides. Stan opened his eyes and stared at the deck beneath him. He was still tied to the railing. He saw the ship steer them out of the fog and on towards the nearest port.

Stan was exhausted. The emotional upheaval was enough to kill a guy. He looked over to Ford to make sure he was alright. His brother was grinning from ear to ear, ecstatic, eyes closed. Stan had sighed and let himself rest until the time locks opened and he could forget the ordeal with the sirens ever happened.

Except Ford wouldn’t stop pestering him. He’d approach it different ways, but Stan knew every trick in the book. He knew when he was being pumped for information.

Over time Ford gave up and moved on to other projects. Stan was relieved. He didn’t think he could live with how close he came to that fourth vision…and how much better things would’ve been for everyone…

Stan shoved the thought from his mind and resolved to throw wax in his ears and punch a siren first chance he got.

[stanuary]

Excerpt from "A Summer of Two Stans" (fanfic I write)

(submitted by @haloessence111)

Stanuary Week 2- Protect

(Link to whole fanfic: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11848163/1/A-Summer-of-Two-Stans)

This is my personal headcanon of how the twins got into boxing, since it was never really made clear in the show. It starts at Ford’s POV then goes into Stanley’s, and it has a lot of angst. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The evening was warm and humid, darkening ever so slightly as Stan and Ford walked out of the theater. Ford hadn’t much cared for the movie; there was absolutely no story and the scenery in it was unrealistically clean. But at least it had taken his mind off of… the person whose name he refused to think about. Not like Stanley was ever going to let him forget about her anytime soon.

 Ford checked his watch; 7:10, almost time for dinner. They had better be heading home.

 As they passed The Happy Cavity sweet shop, Stan stopped to look in the window. He licked his lips and turned to Ford.

 “Wait here a minute, I’ll be right back.” he said. “You want anything?”

 “Sure.” Ford replied, tossing his twin a quarter. “Just get me some jelly beans or something.”

 Stanley nodded and headed inside, leaving Ford alone outside. After several minutes of being bored with nothing to do, he walked over to the second hand bookstore a few doors down, browsing around the book stand in front of the shop. Propped on it’s side in the heap of novels, a beat up paperback entitled War of the Worlds caught his eye. Eagerly, he picked it up and began to read, squinting through the dim evening light. He had barely finished the first page when he felt a hard tap on his shoulder.

 Must be Stan… about time. He thought, smiling as he peered up over the top of the book. To his horror, his eyes did not meet with the familiar bright brown ones that belonged to his brother. Almost covered beneath a mop of yellow hair, a pair of watery gray eyes viewed down at him from nearly half a foot up.

 “Well, well, if it ain’t loser twin number one.” sneered Crampelter. “Long time, no see.”

***

Stanley sauntered through the candy aisles, searching for a bag of toffee peanuts. He had already picked out a package of jelly beans for Ford, so all that was left to buy was his snack. He knew that he should hurry up, as the shop was closing in only fifteen minutes. The movie he and his brother saw was okay, just one of those beach party flicks with no plot; but hey, it had cute girls in bikinis and and some dancy songs, so Stan was satisfied.

 He didn’t think he could say the same for Ford, though. His brother had always preferred the serious, action-adventure sort of thing, instead of just having a little mindless fun every now and then. Weirdo. Anyways, who wanted to listen to those boring, brainy types for two hours in a dark theater? Stand would fall asleep in about five minutes.

 Stan eventually found his toffee peanuts and purchased that and the jelly beans, then exited the shop. Trying his best to look casual, Stanley fervently searched the street for his twin. In between every store was an alleyway for the dumpsters and other related effects. It wasn’t too unusual at night to hear a racoon scuffling through the trash cans, or to see shady figures arguing in hushed tones. So when Stan passed between the bookstore and the grocer’s and saw a group of tall boys laughing, he didn’t think much of it. That is, until he heard a very familiar whimper.

 Peeking into the alley curiously, Stan ducked behind the green metal dumpster and crouched down, careful not to be seen or heard.

 “C’mon, fingers, try and hit me. Go ahead, I dare you.”

 “Get…offa…me!”

 A sneering cackle rang out, chilling Stan to the bone. Those.. those… buttheads were messing with his brother! Oooh, were they gonna get it…

 Disregarding any caution, Stan stepped out from behind the dumpster and ran at a bully with a black leather jacket, tackling him to the ground.

 “LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BIG JERKS!” shouted Stan, trying to punch every inch of the kid he had jumped on. This didn’t last long, as the boy was almost a head taller and much stronger. Quickly, he pinned Stan’s arm behind his back and slammed him against the hard brick wall. Stanley tried to squeeze out of the boy’s grasp, but to no avail.

 “Whaddaya know, the dumb one’s come to protect his nerdy brother. That’s cute.” said Crampelter, crossing his arms.

 Stanford was laid out on the cement, a short, heavy-looking boy sitting on top of his stomach. He tried to push the boy off, but he must’ve weighed too much, because the kid only laughed at his attempts.

 “Whaddya think, boys, should we have a little fun with ‘em?” said Pelter, to the agreement of his cronies. Both twins understood all too well what they meant, and tried even harder to wrestle out of each of their captor’s grip.

 Stan couldn’t budge, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ford wiggling out from under the chubby boy’s backside. Taking him by surprise, Stanford kicked the boy off, knocking him to the ground. He ran for his brother, attempting to pry him away from the leather-clad bully. Stanley wanted to tell him to watch out behind him, but Ford didn’t see Crampelter’s fist grab him until it was too late.

 “Now, just what do you think you’re doing, fingers?” sneered Pelter, lifting Ford up by the scruff of his collar. “Trying to be a hero? Well, tough luck, braveheart, ‘cause you just entered a world of pain.”

 Crampelter grinned, then punched Stanford right in the face. He cried out in pain, and his glasses clattered to the ground. The smaller crony laughed and stomped hard on the glasses until they smashed.

 Stan watched in frozen horror as the enormous blond boy continued to strike blow after blow on his trembling and moaning twin, cackling nastily after every clout. Pelter threw Ford down, sending him skidding out on the alley. He next seized Stanley, punching him three times in the stomach and once in the nose before Stan tried to punch back. Pelter simply took hold of his tiny fist and twisted it behind his back.

 “Say ‘uncle’, loser boy, and maybe I’ll let you go.” he jeered. Stan’s eyes watered with the pain, but he was determined not to crack.

 “I said, say uncle!” Pelter twisted harder, and Stanley felt his arm might break with the strain. Eventually, it became just too much, and Stan had to succumb.

 “Alright, alright! Uncle! Uncle-uncle-uncle! Lemme go already!”

 Crampelter laughed, hurling him down next to his twin, Stanley’s elbows scraping upon impact. His thin arms throbbed with discomfort, but he managed to sit up, shaking, tears streaking down his bruised cheeks. Ford was still face down on the ground, quivering; he too was crying softly, although much more audibly than Stan.

 “Aww, did I make the wimpy wittle babies cwy?” snorted Pelter, hands on his hips. Stanley’s face burned in humiliation.

 Crampelter jerked forward, snagging the front of Stanford’s collar once again. Ford lifted his swelling and tear-streaked face up to meet Pelter’s, looking absolutely terrified.

 “Listen close, wise guy,” hissed Crampelter, simpering cruelly. “I want ya to remember this the next time you feel like you’ll ever be anything but a wimpy, worthless little six-fingered freak who will never make a single friend. Ya understand?” said Pelter, shaking Ford until his teeth rattled.

 “I-I-I…” Tears flowed freely down Stanford’s face.

 Pelter grinned, then punched Ford right in the eye, knocking him again to the cold cement ground. Stanley watched in loathing as Pelter and his cronies ran off, laughing and shouting insults. He had half a mind to run after them, make them sorry they had ever messed with him or his twin. Low, echoing sobs snapped Stan out of his rage. Next to him, Ford attempted to stand up, but was trembling so violently that it was impossible to maintain balance; Stan had the feeling that it wasn’t from getting punched. Stanley managed to pull himself together. Taking a closer look at his brother’s face, he could see his eyes and cheeks swelling into purple and black bruises.

 “Come on, sixer, let’s go home and get some ice or something.” said Stan, standing up and reaching out a hand to help up twin. Ford took it, still shaking intensely.

 “Y-your nose is bleeding.” he said simply.

 It was? Stan touched the bottom of his nose, and sure enough, his hand came back wet with hot, sticky blood. He hadn’t even noticed.

 Suddenly a thought came into his head. “Ford, what about your glasses?” he asked, remembering that they had been broken.

 Ford’s eyes widened. “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap… Dad’s gonna kill me…” he moaned, slapping his forehead but quickly recoiling from the pain.

 Stan picked up the mangled frames and a few of the larger bits of glass. “It’s okay, Ford, we, uh, just need glue. Lots of it. And probably some tape or something, too… but we can fix them! They’ll be good as new in no time.”

 Ford shook his head sadly. “No, Stan, I don’t think they can be fixed. Some of the glass was crushed practically to dust, and I don’t think all the glue and tape in New Jersey could fix them.” He took the frames and put them on, as some cracked, but reasonably sized bits of lens were still in the frame. Stan didn’t want to say anything (as he knew that his twin was feeling bad enough), but the smashed glasses only made him look worse.

 “Come on, it’s getting dark. Ma’ll be wondering where we are.” The brothers walked out of the alley leaning on each other for support. Stan winced slightly at the pains in his stomach where Pelter had hit him, but knew that now was the time to just suck it up and deal with it.

 By the time that they had managed to get home, the sun was dipping into the horizon, the last bits of the day fading. The shop had closed and the front was locked, but a Ford kept a spare key in his jacket. As they walked upstairs, Stan could hear chattering and the clanking of shot glasses. It was poker night, and their father was hosting. Great. Just what they needed, a bunch of Dad’s drunk friends seeing them all roughed up. He and Ford exchanged knowing glances; they could not be seen.

 They quietly slipped off their shoes at the bottom of the stairs, tiptoeing upstairs in their sock feet, skipping the many squeaky steps. The poker game was in the dining room, and by some small miracle, their father had his back facing them, so Stan and Ford were able to sneak past him.

 Too bad the same thing couldn’t be said about their mother.

 She was in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee. When she saw her boys creeping past the open kitchen door, she gave a strangled shriek and nearly dropped the coffee pot.

 “What on earth…? Boys… oh my land…” She rushed to her sons and clutched them by their shoulders, examining their bruised and bloody faces. Realization swept over her, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

 “You got beaten up again, didn’t ya?” she said, barely audible.

 “Um, well, see-”

 “Didn’t ya?”

 The twins looked at each other, then their mother. Solemnly, Stan gave a few quick jerks of the head, feeling slightly ashamed now. He could see Ford staring down at his feet, eyes glimmering at the edges.

 She sighed walking back into the kitchen, the boys following her, and opened the cupboard above the sink. She pulled out their frequently used first-aid kit, containing peroxide, cotton balls, and plenty of bandages. As Ford looked the worst, he was the first to be treated, him climbing up on top of the counter. Their mother worked in silence, grimacing when she took off his glasses.

 “Oh, Stanford,” she said, disappointed. “This is the fifth pair since September!”

 Ford hung his head, looking guilty. Stan felt horrible; this was all his fault… if only he hadn’t left Ford alone outside that candy shop…

 Suddenly, the door to the dining room banged open, and a heavily muscled man with a white undershirt, red suspenders and a porkpie hat sauntered into the kitchen, holding an empty beer can and laughing at a joke someone told. He turned to the boy’s mother, who was just finishing rubbing peroxide over Ford’s cheeks.

 “Hey Louise, got any more whisk-” He stopped abruptly at the sight of the roughed up twins, staring at them for a bit, then chortled lightly.

 “Wha’ happened to you, kid? Loossse a fight?” he said to Stanley, who was sitting at the table and glaring at him.

 “Not now, Frankie. Go back to the game.” said ‘Louise’ rather coldly, continuing to patch up Stanford. Frankie ignored her and gawked at the twins, chuckling irregularly. Stan could smell his breath from a mile away; the man was obviously drunk.

 “Bet it wasss a big kid, eh? Didja fight back, squirt?” Frankie poked Stan in the forehead a few times. It took all his willpower not kick Frankie in the shins.

 “Betcha lost, dincha, kid? Was anyone makin’ bets? Heh, heh. They’d lose their money, the sssuckers. Heh, nice sneezer ya gots there. Hey, hey Filbrick! Hey Filbrick, your kid got in a fight! Commin’ see!”

 “What’re ya talking about, my kids ain’t even home!” called a gruff voice from behind the swinging door.

 “Yeah they is, ‘en this one’s got one heckuva shnozz…”

 The door opened, and their father walked in, accompanied by one or two of his poker buddies. He took one look at his sons and froze. Filbrick’s gaze shifted from Stan to Ford, and his mustache twitched. Fists clenched, he turned to his wife.

 “What the devil happened here?”

 She sighed. “Filbrick, please don’t lose your temper.”

 “I asked you, what happened here?”

 “I ain’t too sure myself. All I know is that they came home looking like this, dunno why, ‘en that they need to get cleaned up ‘fore it all gets infected. Please don’t lookit me like that, hon.”

 He grunted, glaring at his boys. Then, he wheeled around to face his friends, who were eyeballing the twins like they were an interesting exhibit at the zoo.

 “Game’s canceled. Take your money and go home. We’ll resume next week.”

 “Ah, what? Is this ‘cuz your brats got beat up or sompin’?” said a tall, wiry man with a limp cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “ ‘Snot our fault they look like they lost an argument with a wood chipper, Brick.”

 Filbrick didn’t answer, instead just glaring at the men fiercely. They got the message and left the kitchen, grumbling. Stan could hear them gathering their things as loudly as possible, then finally slamming the back door. Their father then turned to the twins. Stan felt very hot under the collar all of a sudden, the feeling he got whenever he was caught misbehaving. Was Dad going to ground them? Send them to their room? Stanley desperately hoped that he wasn’t getting a spanking. He hadn’t been belted in two years and preferred to keep it that way.

 “Explain to me,” he said, low and dangerous. “Why you two come home every other week looking like you got hired to be some neanderthal’s punching bag?”

 Neither of the boys answered. For years before, they had managed to hide the fact that they were outcasts at school, and that neither really had any other friends besides each other. It was easy, hiding the pain of the words shot at them, and if Dad ever witnessed someone teasing them, he never seemed to care much, just shrugging it off as ‘kids will be kids’. But ever since the bullies had taken to using the twins as a way to sharpen their knuckles, about a year or two ago, it had been steadily growing harder to conceal the abuse, especially with the costs of buying Ford new glasses every time they broke- which was often.

 Dad paced back and forth across the small kitchen, hands behind his back, mustache bristling. Stan began to sweat in anxiety; he hated it when his father acted like this, delaying their disciplinary fate. He suddenly became very interested in his feet, not daring to look at his father.

 “That’s it.”

  Stanley found the courage to look up and almost said something, but his mother got there first. “What’s it? What’re ya talking about, Filbrick?”

 “I’ve had enough. I don’t know how you kids keep ending up like this, but I don’t care, it ends now.”

 Stan was very confused. How did he expect it to end, just like that? His father often made steep demands, but this was nuts.

 “Honey, you ain’t making sense. Whaddaya mean, ‘it ends now’?”

 “I mean, it ends now. I’m sick of paying for new glasses and first-aid kits. If you boys can’t stay out of trouble, the least you’ll be able to do is learn to defend yourselves.”

 Now Stan was really puzzled. What did he think was going to happen, they’d just read up on Kung Fu or something and suddenly be unstoppable? (okay, maybe Ford could do that, but definitely not Stanley.)

 “And just how do you suggest we make that happen?” said Mom crossly, folding her arms in front of herself defensively.

 “Same way I learned it. Starting Monday, you two are learning to box, and I don’t care if it takes all summer to toughen you up. Heck, I don’t care if it takes ten years.”

 The color in their mother’s face drained away. “… Boys, go to your room.”

 “B-but Mom-”

 “Your room!”

The twins obeyed, scurrying off to their shared bedroom. Curiosity won them over, and they couldn’t help but listen at the door. Their parent’s voices were slightly muffled, but still within earshot.

 “Whaddaya thinking, Filbrick? They already come home hurt every other week, I don’t wanna have them get beat up every day!”

 “They won’t get beat up if they learn to defend themselves!”

 “They’re only children!”

 “They’re thirteen, Louise! That’s old enough to learn how to fight!”

 “But-”

 “End of discussion! If those little wimps don’t toughen up now, they’ll be weak for the rest of their lives!”

 She sighed. “Filbrick…”

“No, Louise. I’m putting my foot down. Those kids are going to learn to fight if it’s the last thing they do.”