#it will be posted in a couple days | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gravityskittles · 20 days ago

Text

Chapter 13: Family Matters

Stan watched Ford’s fingers tap across the tabletop. He could feel the fresh start to a migraine begin to dig in behind his eyes. Half blurred images kept surfacing and then disappearing before he had the chance to really focus on them. At this point he was almost certain he had ended up in that diner at least two more times during the years before Gravity Falls. He groaned slightly as another half remembered moment, this one involving a figure he couldn’t make out with the glint of a switchblade held in their hand, flickered into his consciousness for a moment before fading away again.

Ford looked up sharply from his journal.

“Stanley, we don’t have to finish going over this if it’s hurting you.”

Stan shook his head, “I’m fine Poindexter. Jus’ worried about the kids.”

He could feel that Ford wanted to argue. He could see it in the way his posture straightened, in the way his fingers stilled their blurred movement on the tabletop and the way his other hand tightened on the pen it was holding. He took a breath and Stan sighed.

Then both of them snapped around towards the doorway of the kitchen. Stan’s hands were moving towards his pockets for his knuckle dusters before he had even registered what the problem was, and a movement in the corner of his eye told him Ford’s blaster was primed and ready. Then Fiddleford zoomed into the kitchen, Pacifica right behind him, and screeched to a halt.

“Where’s the fire boys?” He looked cautious but not upset with them. Stan paused in the act of pulling out his brass knuckles and instead just shoved his hands further into his jacket pockets, trying to look nonchalant as he settled himself back into his chair. He watched as Ford sheepishly lowered his blaster and sank back into his own seat, fingers beginning to card through his hair anxiously.

Pacifica, who had ducked down behind Fiddleford’s chair as soon as she had registered what was happening, cautiously peered over his shoulder at them.

“Sorry kid,” Stan said gruffly, kicking Ford under the table, “just been a bit jumpy lately.”

Ford grimaced and mumbled out his own apology before tucking his blaster away again.

Fiddleford stared at them both for a minute then shook his head, mumbling something that sounded an awful lot like “what am I going to do with you two” before pulling further into the room and holding out his hand for a stack of papers that Pacifica was shuffling nervously.

After Stan had left Cassie’s diner, he had practically run all the way back home. He had given Ford the shorthand of events over the phone as he ran. Ford had then sent Pacifica and Fiddleford away to figure out where Deadwood was and what danger it might present to the younger twins. When Stan had arrived home Ford had made him go over the entire story twice, including the memory, in as much detail as he could remember. Stan had been surprised that Ford had believed him so quickly. Not about the diner or Cassie obviously, there was very little that surprised either of them anymore when it came to weirdness or anomalies. No, Stan had been surprised with how readily Ford had accepted that Stan trusted Cassie so implicitly. He had been prepared for an argument, prepared for Ford to tell him they couldn’t trust someone like that. Instead, Ford had just nodded and written down her warning in his journal. He had even asked Stan to repeat it several times to ensure he had gotten the wording right. It really said a lot about how much the two of them had grown over the past few years.

He knew that Ford probably only trusted her because she had saved Stan’s life in the past, but it really meant a lot that Ford had trusted him—hell that Ford had trusted his memory—enough to gamble the kids’ lives on. To be honest, it scared him a little. But he knew he was right on this one, and the expression on Fiddleford’s face cemented that for him.

“Well, I’d say Deadwood is certainly a good bet. Accordin’ to the twin’s current travels Pacifica here worked out a trajectory for where they’d be headin’ next. Seems like they should be passin’ through Deadwood sometime in the next few days.” He carefully spread out the paper he had taken from Pacifica onto the table.

It was a map of the US with a series of hand drawn lines on it that seemed to depict the twin’s cross-country journey. It had various photos from traffic cams taped to it along with small sketches of items presumably purchased via Mabel’s credit card.

“Pacifica, did you make this?”

She started fidgeting with the end of her braid and stared down at the floor. “Um well, Candy helped Mr. Mcgucket print out all the traffic cam photos, and Grenda has been keeping track of the credit card purchases but um...”

“Yep! She made it! She’s spent the last few days working on it and she spent this morning comparing different routes to Gravity Falls figurin’ out what their fastest route would be.”

Fiddleford gave her a soft pat on the shoulder, shoving her forward towards the map.

“She did a right good job of it too.”

Pacifica’s face flushed. “I’ve been scrapbooking stuff of Waddles for Mabel. I had some extra material laying around that’s all.”

Stan leaned forward over the map, hiding his smile. “Well, it looks fantastic kiddo. Seems like your path has them heading right through Deadwood.” He glanced up at Fiddleford. “Find anything interestin’ on the anomaly front, Fidds?”

The man grinned back at him, setting down the rest of the papers he was holding. “As a matter of fact, I did. Not too sure what’s causin’ it or nothin’. It may not be overly helpful, but Deadwood, South Dakota seems to have a suspicious number of wildfires. An’ at times of the year that don’t make a lick of sense.”

Stan winced, remembering the crackling of the flames rising around him as Cassie’s diner had faded away.

“That seems about right then. Ford, any idea of what might be causing that?”

Ford was staring at the map, with a slightly unfocused look in his eyes.

“Ford, you okay?”

He didn’t respond. Stan realized with a jolt that Ford hadn’t responded to anything since Fiddleford came into the room. He glanced up at Fidds. “Well, sounds like we should get packing then if we want to catch them in Deadwood.” He said, carefully pulling on his Mr. Mystery Smile. “We’ll probably wanna leave first thing in the morning.” Fidds caught his eye and nodded subtly, turning and ushering Pacifica back out of the kitchen.

Stan waited, listening to the sound of the wheelchair zooming away back into the depths of the house, before turning to face Ford again.

“Alright, earth to Sixer. What’s going on?”

Ford blinked and then shook his head roughly like he had water in his ears.

“I’m fine Stanley.” He said quietly, and began to busy himself folding up the map and neatening the stack of papers Fiddleford had printed out of the town’s fire history.

“Ford.” Stan ran back through the interaction trying to figure out what had happened. Then Ford stood up from the table, revealing the blaster strapped to his belt, and everything clicked. “You weren’t going to shoot them, Stanford.”

He said it casually, looking carefully at his brother out of the corner of his eye. He watched him stiffen in shock, and then collapse loosely back down onto the chair.

“I could have.” He said flatly.

“Nah. You’re an ask questions first kind of guy. Helps you determine exactly how painful someone’s death should be.” He said it lightly, part of it was a joke after all. But he also knew he wasn't wrong.

Thirty years of being basically hunted for sport through various dimensions had turned Ford into a carefully honed weapon. Stan hadn’t seen it often; Ford did an excellent job of hiding it under nerd glasses and anxiety, but he had seen it. In the last few years there had only been a handful of times, whenever they were backed into a corner with no way out, when something inside the familiar shape of his brother would sharpen and detach into something precise, deadly, and more than a little terrifying to witness. However, Stan would never tell him that. Aside from very specific circumstances, he knew it tore Ford up inside to hurt people, even people who really truly deserved it. The specific circumstances in question were the list of people from Stan’s past which Ford kept in his journal. Stan didn’t know exactly why he kept that list, and he had decided a long time ago that he was never going to ask.

Ford’s expression didn’t change. “I’m dangerous Stanley.”

“Sure you are. ‘Bout as dangerous as me when I haven’t had my coffee in the morning.”

“Stanley, this is serious!”

“I am being serious! C’mon Stanford, be reasonable. I reached for my weapon, same as you did. We’re both a bit jumpy these days. Fiddleford understood. There was no harm done.”

Ford glared at Stan, who was caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze. A clear mix of anger and beneath that a genuine, naked fear.

“Your weapon can’t disintegrate someone’s atomic structure, Stanley.” He took a deep shaky breath. “It doesn’t matter that Fiddleford understood, he shouldn’t have to understand. I scared Pacifica, I pointed a gun at a child Stanley! I could have killed her! I shouldn’t be around children, I’m not safe anymore!”

Stan’s heart lurched. “Ford, I’m not tryna’ downplay what happened. I recognize you coulda’ killed them, but you didn’t, and I know ya weren’t going to.” He sighed as he watched Ford open his mouth to argue. “Ford, we should talk about this later. It’s been a long day, neither of us have actually eaten anything other than coffee since about eight this morning. You go pack, I’ll make dinner.”

Ford stood up and began to walk unsteadily towards the living room, pausing as he went to squeeze Stan’s shoulder firmly. Stan took that to mean that things were as okay as they were going to get right now.

“Ford,” He didn’t turn around, feeling his brother pause, hovering in the doorway, “You’re always going to be safer for Dipper and Mabel than their parents ever were. Just remember that.”

Ford hesitated, as though about to say something, but then there was the sound of the front door slamming and when Stan turned to look, Ford was gone.

He sighed and closed his eyes, wincing slightly at the headache that was still steadily growing.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Stan?!” Hissed a familiar voice from the doorway.

He ignored this and instead turned towards the cabinets, rifling through them for various ingredients.

For a moment there was silence and then an explosive yell from behind him and the thunk of something heavy against the kitchen table.

“Don’t ignore me old man!”

Stan sighed again, it had been a long day, and he really was getting too old for this.

“Wendy,” He replied calmly, turning to face the girl whose hand was still gripping the handle of the axe she had just embedded into his kitchen table. “I’m gonna tell Soos to deduct that from your next paycheck.”

She took a step back, surprised at his nonchalance, and he took the opportunity to shove a bowl, whisk, and eggs into her hands.

“Here, whisk this.”

“What are you doing?!” She yelled at him. Stan winced and feigned tapping irritably on his hearing aid to cover up the actual stab of pain in his head.

“Making pancakes.” He turned away from her to dig around in the spice cabinet for glitter.

“Why?!”

“Because I’m hungry, Ford hasn’t eaten anything all day, and because I know I’ve taught you better ways to manage your anger than attacking my furniture with an axe.” He turned to face her again, this time allowing some annoyance to slip into his voice and leveling her with a stern glare. “Now, whisk.”

She slammed the bowl down and attempted to crack an egg into it. The first one missed the bowl entirely, smashing onto the counter instead in a spray of yolk and shell. The second one split on the edge of the bowl, dribbling in streaks down the side. The last one made it in in one piece, and Stan wordlessly passed her two replacement eggs. He watched as she began to whisk, at first splashing egg over the sides and at several points nearly toppling the entire bowl into the sink. But over time her movement became more controlled, and after a while he handed her the milk and began passing along dry ingredients to mix in as well.

By the time the pan was hot, and the mixture was ready, her breathing was under control again. As Stan was adding in a dash of glitter, she finally spoke, no longer yelling, although he could tell she was still angry. He didn’t blame her for that. He was angry too, he just didn’t have the freedom to show it right now.

“Why didn’t you guys tell me what happened?”

He ladled two pancakes into the pan and turned to face her. She looked good, he realized proudly. He hadn’t seen her since the end of last summer when she had been heading off to her year-long apprenticeship with the National Parks Service. He could see that in her time away she had clearly gained some muscle, and her face was flushed with freckles from how much time she was spending outside. His heart twinged painfully as his eyes rested on Dipper’s beat-up old hat which sat firmly on her head and he looked away again.

“Because we didn’t want to worry you.” He answered truthfully. “Ford and I were hoping to get them back before anyone else had to know what had happened. That way they could tell people what happened in their own time. How did you find out anyway?”

“I ran into Soos at the store earlier today. I’m home for a few weeks before I head back to the Cascades. He asked if I’d seen you and Ford yet, and I asked him what the hell the two of you were doing back here.”

“Damnit.” Stan flipped a pancake angrily, “I told the kid not to tell anyone anything.”

Wendy winced. “He uh-I really didn’t give him much of a choice. Don’t be too hard on him man.”

“Well. Ford and I are heading out tomorrow.” He ladled some more pancakes into the pan and slid the finished ones onto a plate. “We should have the kids back here safely in a few days. Assuming everything goes well.”

“Okay well I’m coming then.”

Ah. He’d been afraid of that.

“No, you aren’t.”

“Why, Stan?!” She threw up her hands in the air, defiant anger on her face once again.

“Because—”

“Because It’s a family thing? Well, I have news for you, man! I’m just as much their family as you are!”

“Because, I’m not having you jeopardize your apprenticeship on the off chance this takes longer than we think it will.” He glanced at her again. “This is something Ford and I have to do. Together. If it was just about it being a family thing, you and Soos would both be coming with us. Besides, even though I know you can handle yourself, I refuse to put more of you kids in danger when I don’t have to. You’ve been through enough.”

She gasped, and Stan grinned at her slyly. “And before you get all excited, if you ever repeat any of that to anyone, I’ll kill ya.” He paused, then laughed quietly. “No one would ever believe you anyway.”

“You’re an old bastard you know that?”

Stan smiled, flipping the pancakes idly. “I should hope so, I’ve worked hard to be one.”

…

Stan rolled over, looking across the room at the form of Ford on his bed. Dinner had been good., Fiddleford, Pacifica and Wendy had stayed for pancakes, and he had ended up making a second batch when Melody and Soos came over to check in on how everything was going. It had made him proud watching everyone at the table, Fiddleford doing a terrible job of explaining some math homework to Pacifica while Melody and Wendy watched on in amusement, occasionally throwing out helpful suggestions. Soos had been helping him flip pancakes while Stan pretended not to notice him miss on purpose every once in a while, letting the pancake fall to the floor where an eager Waddles sat waiting.

It should have been perfect. Except for the fact that he could feel the hole the twin’s’ absence left in the scene like a burning wound. And of course, the fact that Ford hadn’t appeared at all, instead slipping downstairs after everyone had left to grab a plate of cold pancakes and then vanish into their room again.

Stan had decided to give him space. He had learned over the last few years that Ford wouldn’t talk about things until he was ready. Stan just had to wait for him to be ready. But he didn’t come down while Stan was washing the dishes, or afterwards while he sat alone in the living room watching TV and waiting for the migraine medication he should have taken hours ago, to kick in. When Stan finally had gone up to bed their bags had been neatly packed in the center of the room, and Ford was pretending to be asleep.

He knew Ford wasn’t actually asleep. Spending years sleeping in the same room as each other had made him very good at recognizing Ford’s breathing patterns. It helped to know when his twin was having a nightmare, and when that nightmare was serious enough to warrant shaking Ford awake. It also helped to know when Ford couldn’t actually get back to sleep after a nightmare. He’d always tell Stan he could and pretend to roll over and go back to sleep, but his breathing never evened out quite right, and Stan would lie awake with him, hoping eventually Ford would decide to talk to him about it. Most nights though, Stan would fall asleep before that happened, and wake in the morning to Ford already up and several cups of coffee deep.

Stan had been lying here for an hour now and the itch under his skin was growing worse every passing second. He wanted a cigarette. To be honest what he actually wanted was a good strong drink, but he wasn’t that much of a hypocrite. A cigarette would have to do. He knew if he got up right now Ford would hear him, but he was quickly coming to the conclusion he didn’t actually care. If Ford wanted to stop him, he’d have to talk to him first.

Still, Stan made every effort to get out of bed silently. He knew the creaks in this house by heart and had made his way out of the room and most of the way down the stairs before he heard Ford stir. He ignored the sound, slipping into the kitchen and digging around behind the serving dishes for the pack of cigarettes he knew was still stashed back there. He pulled it out and headed for the porch.

His lighter clicked on at the same moment that the door opened. Ford stepped out carefully, scanning the empty yard, before joining Stan against the railing. Stan continued to light his cigarette and took a long drag off of it, breathing out slowly and watching the smoke swirl up into the cold night air.

The buzzing beneath his skin faded slowly as he took another drag. The smoke settled into his lungs with a warm familiarity and a sharp stab of guilt. He’d promised the kids he had quit. But then again, he had also promised the kids he would keep them safe, and look how well that had gone.

Stan hummed to himself bitterly. Still a fucking failure, even now. Even during what was supposed to be his happy ending.

“Do you want to talk about it, Stan?”

Stan smiled grimly; there it was.

“Nope.” He said gruffly.

“I think maybe we should talk about it.”

“I think we should talk ‘bout a lot of things Poindexter but—” he paused to take a drag, breathing out the smoke as he spoke, “a’ this point I’m not really sure how much good it’s gonna do us.”

“Look, Stanley.” Ford fumbled for a minute searching for what he wanted to say. “If this is about earlier, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply I wasn’t going to help you get Dipper and Mabel. I just. The things I had to do out there Stanley. It changed me in ways I’m still surprised by, and I’m just terrified of hurting you. Any of you.”

Stan just nodded along blankly. They had had this conversation before. The time Ford had blindly attacked him when he had woken him up after a nightmare that had his brother screaming in his sleep, he had had to fight for a week to get Ford to agree to sleep in the cabin again instead of at his desk with a locked door between him and Stan. The trouble was Ford never seemed interested in elaborating on exactly what had set him off, never seemed interested in letting Stan try to fix things.

“The things you had to do?” He said as calmly as he could. He kept staring out at the snow, tamping down the annoyance and anger he could feel starting to bubble up. They couldn’t afford to do this right now.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now, Stanley.”

“Mmmm.” He couldn’t keep the bite out of his words this time. “You never want to talk about it, Ford. That’s the problem.”

“Well at least I’m not the one blatantly lying to the kids.” Ford growled at him, reaching out and knocking the unfinished cigarette out of his hand into the snow.

The anger flared and Stan spun to face him, a voice in the back of his head chanted frantically that he was going too far, that he was going to push too much, that he was going to break something like he always broke something. But he had ignored the voice and pushed on anyway.

“Goddamit, Ford. You’re not the only one who had to ‘do things’ to get by. You’re not the only one who’s fuckin’ afraid here. An’ I’m not the only one who’s lying.” He shoved the rest of the cigarette carton roughly against Ford’s chest and slipped his hand into his brother’s coat pocket, ripping out the flask he knew was hiding inside. He slammed it down roughly on the railing and hissed “’m goin’ to bed, Ford.”

He knew he had pushed too far, he waited, shoulders tense as he shoved the door open, for the shout that he had been sure would follow. For the inevitable fight. But there was nothing, and when he glanced back, he saw Ford staring blankly out at the sky, flask clutched tightly in one hand.

He slammed the door shut behind him, ignoring the guilt that was slowly filling the space the anger had left behind, and went up to bed.

Sleep was a long time coming that night, and it wasn’t until hours later when he was finally drifting off that he realized Ford had never come back upstairs.

…

The day had been. Awkward.

Stan had driven for most of it. Glancing over at Ford every so often, who alternated between sleeping and scribbling idly in his journal. He played the most obnoxious music he could find, hoping to goad Ford into talking to him but nothing ever came of it. He eventually stopped for gas just shy of Montana and when he came back to the car, holding a perfectly legally obtained bag of jellybeans and a coffee, Ford was sitting patiently in the driver’s seat.

Stan saw this for what it was and handed over his own peace offering in return. Ford had nodded a silent thanks before pulling out of the parking lot. The next few hours had still been silent, but Stan found that the tension he felt had much more to do with Ford’s driving skills, rather than the fight they had had the night before. He knew they would still need to talk about it at some point. He just hoped that for once in his life he could manage it without breaking anything.

It was pitch dark out when Ford finally pulled into a motel parking lot. It certainly wasn’t the seediest place he had stayed—he’s not even sure they made places that seedy anymore—but it did make him feel vaguely uneasy for reasons he couldn’t identify. The motel was one of those travel lodges. With a u-shape of dusty, ground floor rooms, and rusted metal gutters. The half-lit neon sign read The Sobbing Stag Motel, and the vacancy light was flickering on and off in the weak light of the surrounding streetlamps.

Ford came back a few minutes later with a room key and they had started busying themselves with pulling out stuff from the car they would need. Stan pulled the half-eaten bag of jelly beans out of the center console and was just turning to lock the doors of the car when he saw something standing at the edge of the parking lot.

It was almost a horse. The legs were too thin, and as far as he could tell it didn’t appear to have a mane or tail of any kind. It was a pale, almost silvery white, and as it moved it made no sound. Stan watched in horrified fascination as it drew closer to him. Its eyes were blown wide like a jackrabbit’s, flickering with a panicked, hungry sort of fear that he recognized from decades old bathroom mirrors. He could see what looked like every bone in its body. Ribs and spine stark against the taut skin, and he realized with a jolt that it wasn’t breathing.

Stan looked around, wondering distantly if Ford had noticed the creature as well, when he realized that there were more of them. Pale shapes crowding at the edge of the parking lot, each pair of their wide, bloodshot eyes, fixed unblinkingly on him. He looked back at the one in front of him. It was much closer now.

“Hey, uh. Sixer?” He called weakly.

There was no reply. He didn’t dare look away from it again.Stan felt the cool metal of his car against his back and realized he had been unconsciously backing away from the advancing thing. Now, he had nowhere to go. It took another silent step towards him, and he closed his eyes, hoping wildly that when he opened them again the not-horse would be gone. He felt something cold brush across his face, felt the bag of jellybeans slip from his hand—and then, Stan Pines felt nothing at all.

#whereverwegoau #gravity falls #my writing #writing #stan and ford #cryptids #this is super late oops #also the chapter MASSIVELY got away from me so its split into two chapters #next one includes heavy heavy amounts of angst #it will be posted in a couple days

6 notes · View notes