#good thing that stan only resembles filbrick in appearance and not in personality

[thefallenangel2008]

Ok but the fact that between Stan and Ford it's Stan that canonically looks the most like their dad... I'm- I'm sorry, I just need a moment, I need a moment bro.

[detectivejigsawpines]

Twinpathy (Feelings)

And here’s part 2.

Caryn Pines had thought having one baby was difficult.

Compared to twin babies, though, Shermie had been a godsend.

Not to say that she didn’t love her little ones, though; pathological liar though she might have been, one thing Caryn was honest about was how much her children meant to her.

The frustrating thing was how...emotional they tended to get, at basically the same time.  If one of them started crying, it wouldn’t be long before the other one was wailing along in chorus.

Stanley had started it tonight, and had needed to be held and fed for twenty minutes before he was appeased.  Surprisingly, Ford hadn’t seemed interested in eating when she tried feeding him too, but he was quietly gurgling in his crib now, like all he’d needed was for his brother to be happy.  Caryn smiled at the adorable thought, and leaned down over Stanley, who was now lying in her lap for some special mommy-time, letting her hair cascade over his face as her fingers danced over his tiny bare feet.

“Tickle tickle!” she crooned, wiggling them over his toes.

Stanley squirmed, and let out a tiny baby laugh.

And Stanford laughed at the exact same time, from the other side of the room.

Caryn stared in bewilderment for a moment, before she repeated the action.  And it happened again; both babies let out high, gurgling laughs.

Caryn picked Stanley up, tucking him into the crook of her arm, and went to check on her other baby.

Stanford was lying in the crib, looking very much like he wanted to sit up and see what was going on out here; he smiled gummily when he saw his mother’s face appear above him.  She reached down and booped the end of his nose; he wrinkled it at her and giggled, and from her arm Stanley giggled too.

Caryn smiled again, with even more warmth, and carefully put Stanley on the other side of the crib.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” she reassured them.  She doubted Filbrick would understand, and besides, this was something special for just the two of them to have.

****************

Occasionally, there would be these incidents where Ford’s telephone would ring, and whoever it was would hang up after he answered.

They didn’t happen too often; just often enough for him to notice.  Sometimes there would be more than one a week, sometimes it would be months in between calls.

But after about four months of receiving them, Ford noticed something else: that after one of these calls, he always felt an odd burst of...well, melancholy seemed like the best description.  For no apparent reason, he would just feel so incredibly sad and crushed, like it hurt that whoever it was calling didn’t want to talk to him after all, and he would have to lose himself in his research until the feeling went away.

********

Stan placed the phone back in its cradle and groaned inwardly.

Stupid stupid STUPID!

Of all the people to waste his one phone call on, he had picked the one person he wanted to talk to more than anyone else in the world, but who would have absolutely nothing good to say to him.  And then he’d just hung up as soon as he heard his voice, again. Pathetic didn’t begin to describe it.

He’d even thought about what he wanted to say this time: Ford, it’s me.  Before you get mad, please listen.  I’ve been arrested, and I need your help.

But he couldn’t get the words out.

Who was he kidding-he was thinking, what, that after all this time Ford would be suddenly willing to jump into action and give him so much as the time of day?

Stanley quietly followed the guard to his cell, gave his new cellmate his best ‘however tough you think you are, I’m a lot tougher, buddy’ glare, and didn’t say a word for the rest of the night.

****************

It had all been a lie.

Bill was a monster, and Ford, in his arrogance, had refused to listen to his only other friend’s doubts and concerns and had nearly given his ‘Muse’ exactly what he needed to come here.  He’d been taken in by his flattery and promises that he would change the world-oh, the world would be changed all right, by becoming obliterated with chaos!

And unless he could do something to stop the portal from ever being made functional again, it would be all Ford’s fault.

********

In the weeks before that postcard arrived, Stan’s thoughts were even darker than usual.

He didn’t know why, but that night kept popping up in his head-his father hurling him into the street, the door slamming shut, the curtains closing in his face.

The bitter feeling that he’d been betrayed by the one person he’d always thought he could trust, and knowing that it was his own fault didn’t make it any better.

The only thing that made it go away was seeing the words “PLEASE COME.”

****************

Stan sat apart from the campfire and stewed.

When he made one horrible, stupid mistake, the world turned him into its chew toy and he lost everything.  He had to learn to fend for himself on the streets, and spent years either alone or surrounded by people who only cared about you as long as you gave them exactly what they wanted.

When Ford, the golden boy with the extra fingers and a brain the size of a small planet, made a horrible, stupid mistake, the world gasped in horror and immediately flocked to his rescue.

What Stan did didn’t matter, he was always the screw-up who got shuffled aside because in the long run, the universe or Fate or whatever the heck it was liked Ford better.

His mood wasn’t helped by the fact under his suit he felt... itchy everywhere, like ants were crawling under his skin.  Even though he’d sprayed himself with bug repellent like three times already.

Stan sat, with a crowd of people nearby but still totally alone.

Some things never changed.

********

In the Fearamid, Ford writhed as Bill filled him with electricity for the tenth-maybe eleventh?-time, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood.  He wished, again, that he could be allowed the mercy of losing consciousness. Or, if things got any worse, maybe something stronger.

****************

It helped if he didn’t think too hard; if he just let the name of whoever he was talking to flow naturally out of his subconscious, like it had the second the pig-Waddles-jumped on him and started licking him.

He’d lost track of how long they’d been looking at the scrapbook, and the two little gremlins-his family, Dipper and Mabel-were actually on the verge of falling asleep on either side of him-no, there they went now, little heads nestling against his shoulders and snuggling into his chest.

Soos had already fallen asleep, his big warm face pillowed on the armrest, and a small ribbon of drool already sliding down his cheek.

But as tired as he was, Stan couldn’t bring himself to join them yet; there was one other person he needed to talk to and identify.

The old guy who’d hugged him out in the forest...Stan didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that this had affected him more than the others in some ways.  When they’d first reached the shack, all of them looked upset, but he looked like he'd just lost his best friend. And it was almost like Stan could feel the pain himself.

He had some idea about what their relationship was; after all, he’d seen his photo in the scrapbook, seen how closely they resembled each other.  But he’d held off on asking any specific questions so far.

The old guy was quieter than the rest of the group as they worked to start refreshing his memory, just standing next to the chair in relative silence, twiddling his thumbs on and off and looking at the scrapbook over Stan’s shoulder.  The nervousness radiating off him now was making Stan edgy too, and instead of meeting his eyes like he’d meant to he found himself looking down at the guy’s hands, clenched together on the back of the chair so hard the knuckles were turning white.

Stan unwrapped his arm from around Mabel, and before he could think about what he was doing he poked the spot where the extra fingers were.

“Cool hands,” he said aloud.  “You probably make great shadow puppets.”

The old guy visibly clenched his teeth down on his lower lip.  “You always thought so.”

“I believe it, with those six fingers-”

Stan let out a small inadvertent gasp as the words stirred something to life in his memories.

Six.

Sixer.

A flood of images, some clearer than others, flashed before his mind’s eye.  And then, slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hand, palm up, fingers spread.

“High six?”

Sixer-not his real name, but it would do for now-just leaned down and wrapped his arms tightly around Stanley’s neck, kind of like he had when he’d first ‘woken up’ in the forest, except this time he knew to reciprocate.

“High six,” Sixer whispered against his hat.

And it didn’t matter whether the happiness both of them felt was shared or just self-generated.

****************

Yes, I admit it, the ending is a little schmaltzy.  But after the emotional wringer that’s been the last forty years of their lives, I feel like they’ve earned it.