#literally came out the torture dimension and killed viktor and then had to go to War

[mouthpoisons]

jayce ''id love you if you were a worm'' speech so beautiful but i raise you viktor returning the favour and giving jayce the love and attention he needs to help him process also having a bad leg now, reminding him not to overwork himself/reassuring him as he comes to terms with his new physical limits, reminding him that everything he said to viktor applies to Him Too and that he's also unconditionally loved/he isnt Damaged Goods either after everything he went through in act3, comforting him through his ptsd, helping him with pain management, convincing him to get a cane maybe

[rmjagonshi]

Whole Again - Chapter 2

Whole Again on AO3

Time was a blur. His legs ached by the time he thought to stop. He was still on the coast, still in town. He couldn’t have been running more than forty minutes. An hour at most. He was old. Even at a slow speed, running longer than it took to get from a hit to his car was tiring. And he was. His body felt loose and disjointed. His sides throbbed, punctuated with the occasional sharp pinch. His toes were numb, result of piss poor circulation. His head pulsed in time with his too rapid heartbeat. He felt dry. Dry and heated to the point of cracking. His mouth thought he had woken up from one hell of a bender.

What the HELL!? What the fuck is wrong with me!? Stan panted, hunching over to regain his balance. God damn. What was that? Stan’s mind reeled. Where had it come from? This sudden urge to maim and torture and fucking play with someone just to see what would happen was not an urge he was used to having anymore. Besides, he knew what would happen. He knew what the screams would sound like, how the organs would feel and how warm the blood would be. He knew, damn it! He didn’t need to do it. He didn’t want to. Fuck!

Had he always been like that? Had he been that violent as Stan? He wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear that answer.

He ran his free hand over his face, shoulders slumped and feet unsteady. His other hand loose and hanging onto the bag of steaks as an afterthought. It was too easy to slip into agenizing, hopeless despair. He had spent decades lost in that void, both figuratively and literally. Years lost on the road or stumbling through the forest looking for those damn journals. Centuries lost in a slowly collapsing dimension, wavering in and out of delight and regret at having killed his entire family and everyone he loved.  

His body went ridged, muscles wound tight with agitation. No. He wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to let this affect him. It was just an impulse. He had those, everyone did. The only difference now was he had different impulses. More violent ones. He shuddered and gritted his teeth, dentures pinching at his gums.

He should head back. He needed to pack up all the stuff he had delivered to the ship. He needed to make sure no one passed by and lifted anything.  Where was he? He had gone in a straight line, right? He didn’t remember making any turns.

He was in some residential area near the coast. The road had pulled away from the water’s edge and he could just faintly hear the splashing of the waves. He was on a bridge (a low one, barely ten feet) going over a gully leading down to the beach. The cement guard posts, made for stopping cars more than pedestrians, provided some semblance of reprieve. Everything hurt. He just needed a few minutes. He took off his red beanie and stuffed it in the pocket of his trench coat, running a hand through his hair. His hands felt tight, like the skin was too small. That’s when he realized he wasn’t sweating.

He needed to find some water.

Stan squinted at the buildings up the road from where he came, wishing not for the first time that he had been brave enough to get that cataract surgery. Anything not within two feet of his face was blurry and anything in the distance was just color. His glasses helped, but not much.

There is a bakery, 400 yards down the road, left side.

What? O Pan e Manteiga. Simple. Run by a Guy named Viktor. Makes great pita bread, oddly.

How did he know that? How do I know that?

He squeezed his eyes closed and started the slow trek to the storefront. He passed by a clothing store and a pawn shop on the way, a twang of nostalgia passing through his core.

It was there. O Pan e Manteiga. The Bread and Butter. Maybe he’d seen it and his subconscious took notice of it. I know lots of things! He shuddered. He wasn’t omnipotent. Not anymore. And not knowing everything kept things interesting.

Stan pushed the door open and winced at the tinging of the bell. A slender man about forty years old with salt and pepper hair greeted him in Gaelic. Stan didn’t respond, instead shuffling over to the counter clutching at his side that had started hurting again.  

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped and tried again.

“Auga?” He asked tentatively. Stan’s voice was weak and he realized how out of breath he was.

Viktor smiled faintly and pulled a bottle of water from a sliding door cooler behind the counter.

“Douscentos trinta e cinco” Viktor spoke slowly, realizing that Stan was a foreigner.

Stan squinted and shook his head in confusion. He understood, kind of, but his mind was foggy. “What?” Viktor sighed and mimed the numbers 235. Stan pulled out the envelope of bills Ford had handed him after leaving the bank earlier. He flipped through the bills numbly and handed over far too much than Viktor had asked for but he didn’t care. The guy needed it if his daughter wanted that yearbook. Damnit! Stop that!

He gulped down the water, draining the bottle in a few short seconds. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead and nose as his body adjusted to having necessary moisture. Bodily necessities sucked. Sweating was weird, even if he had done it for sixty years, it was still weird. All that water just in his body and eking out through tiny holes in his skin. Skin itself was kinda weird too. It was mushy and soft and was fun to poke at, especially Ford. Ford had always seemed bemused whenever Stan Bill took over his body and sat poking and prodding at his various appendages.

He finished the bottle with a final gulp. Panting, he turned his gaze back to Viktor who was holding out a plastic bag with another bottle of water and some sort of wrapped pastry.

“I don’t…what?” God his voice was rough. He must have really needed that water.

Viktor sighed again, shaking the bag slightly at Stan. “Kleina. You like.”

Stan took the bag slowly, dropping the empty bottle in the bag too. The Kleina was warm and appeared to be diamond shaped donut with a hole in the middle.

“Thank you” Stan was still a little breathless and his words came out as a harsh gasp. He felt his cheeks coloring. He reached for the envelope again, but Viktor waved him off as he turned to help another customer that had walked in behind Stan. Stan pulled the second bottle out and began drinking it much less desperately and left an extra bill on the counter on his way out. That should cover part of the yearbook cost at least….aw, fuck it!

Storefront would look better yellow. Or pink. Guy’d look better with pink hair too. Stan’s fingers itched to snap, but he resisted. This is stupid! I’m human now! Been human for damn near sixty years. No more powers. Think I’d be used to it by now. He’d never wanted them before, so why now?  He was just feeling nostalgic, that was all. Being on the ocean with Ford had brought up a shit ton of nostalgia and it brought this too. That’s all it was. He sipped his water and made his way back to the docks.

*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

His back ached by the time he had gotten the supplies loaded. Thankfully nothing had gone missing. He suspected the Harbor Master had been keeping an eye on things; the man had been walking back and forth in front of the Stan O’War often enough to catch Stan’s attention. Nice as it was it was still annoying because it meant he had to carry everything by hand rather than shrinking everything down and making one trip that didn’t throw his back out.

He was lounging on the galley booth nursing a Pitt Cola when he heard voices out front. Ford and some other male, both speaking Gaelic. He wanted to play dumb and pretend he didn’t understand. Let the syllables roll over him without their meaning sticking. But curiosity and the cat and all that. Actually, curiosity didn’t kill the cat, curiosity brought the cat people of Dimension Al/26 to his realm and he killed them. After he dressed them up in adorable little outfits and made them dance. Captain Puratrick the Fourth had cursed him with his last breath. Maybe that was why Lazy Susan’s cats hated him. He was cursed. Worked for him. Her voice reminded him of his aunt anyway. Creepy old trapezoid that she was.

Stan lifted himself off the seat of the booth and grumbled about being old. He let his mind shift and began listening to the conversation above.

“I’m still sure I can get a better range if I modify the receivers with reflective sheeting to concentrate the signal, but I need to know if you can supply the metal.” That would be Ford. Tongue flapping and voice rapid fire as he prattled on about improving their antenna. Stan knew it wouldn’t work. All it would do is scatter the signal even more with several receivers on their current antenna. Be better if he just ripped the whole thing out and put in a proper dish, but that would take weeks and more money than they both were comfortable spending.

Stan heard a low whistle and a regional exclamation of awe he didn’t quite understand. The hell did ‘codding’ mean?

“Jesus, an’ you came from America? You really are slaggin’ me. That’s ships pretty small ain’t it? Not even a sail. You got anyone else to keep you company?” Guy sounded more Irish than anything. Ford didn’t seem to take note of the flirtatious tone.  

“Just my twin Stanley.”

“OH, Twins, eh? Is ‘e as clean on as you are?” Nope, this was not happening.

“Umm……I don’t, I mean…the, um, the mainframe is in the top cabin if you wanted to take a look.” Great, Ford had finally caught on to this guy’s intent.    

Stan had been on his way up at the mystery man’s first comment. He exited the main cabin’s door in time to catch Ford blushing bright magenta holding his hands in front of him in defense.

“Ah, sorry, had you pegged for queer. Too bad, you’re just my type.” The Icelandic man (Irish, Stan was sure now) seemed to back down when he saw Stan hovering behind Ford. Stan put on a neutral to slightly annoyed expression and addressed Ford in English.

“Hey, back so soon? You missed putting supplies away. Who’s this clown?” He gestured to the new guy with an uptick of his chin.

Because the man really was dressed rather absurdly. Low cut white v-neck showing off his chest hair, cardigan thrown over his shoulders (he wasn’t even wearing it properly), chunky gold chain, green paperboy cap balanced on his head, 70’s porn ‘stache and…did this guy really have a fucking gold tooth?

His appearance ran like pins down Stan’s back; he instantly disliked the man, even without the knowledge that he was putting moves on Ford.

Damn kid was stealing his look! And flirting with his brother! AND getting a reaction. Time to nip this one in the bud.

“By the by, I picked up a package ‘o yer nappies. Expensive as hell out here, but if it’ll keep the mattresses clean.”

Ford’s face seemed to get even redder, deepening into near purple with humiliation. His eyes narrowed and he turned a scowl towards Stan that would have withered him some years ago.

“STANLEY!” Oh, he was pissed. “What are you on about now, you knucklehead?” Stan shifted his attention back and forth between Ford and porno guy, internally cheering when he saw a look of surprised disgust curl up and find a home under that poor excuse for a mustache. While an unfortunate fact of life, he figured incontinence was a major turn off if this guy was lookin’ to ride a silver fox.

The guy switched to English and Stan felt damn proud of himself pegging the Irish heritage when a thick accent came out. “Oy, sorry mate. Takin’ a look at yer set up, I don’t think there’s anything I can do. ‘Less you wanna get yerself a whole new rig. Ye’ best jus’ stick with what ya got. Sorry, other places ta be. Good luck, ya?” And with that, Irish prono ‘stache was hopping off the deck and hightailing it to the main dock.

Stan couldn’t help but grin; cat and proverbial canary and such, but the guy practically left trail of fire with how fast he ran. HA! He braved a glance back at Ford, who had been lackadaisically trying to call out to the guy, hand outstretched to stop him. He turned to Stan, lips pursed.  

“Damnit, Stanley, what the hell was that for?” Ford’s hands gesturing between them.

Stan frowned. Ford was naive when it came to social interactions, but he wasn’t that dense.

“Saving you from having to fend off potentially wandering hands later.” He’d thought it had been obvious. Ford apparently hadn’t gotten that.

“By implying that I’m incontinent? If anyone needs extra absorbency it’s you. And he was going to help me modify the antenna. Now where am I going to get highly polished sheet metal?” Stan decided to ignore Ford’s comment and simply address the main issue, which was that this guy was moving in on his terr, NO! Not going there. He was just looking out for Ford.

“Polishin’ sheet metal wasn’t what he was lookin’ to do.” And he did know. The guy wanted to do a heck of a lot more than just work on their antenna. He could see the guy’s fantasies of being dominated by Ford as clear as if he’d been watching a film. He would have been disappointed.  

“I could have handled it.” Sheepish and mild annoyance made Ford adorable. I need a lamb costume. Wonder if he would do the ‘Lambie, Lambie dance’ for me.

“Yeah, like you weren’t trippin’ over yer words and backin’ down like you were avoidin’ a fight.” Even in high school Ford had been all hands and confused tongue when talking to people he liked. Cathy Crenshaw being a prime example.  

“Stanley, I’ve been traveling the multiverse for thirty years, I can handle one guy. And who’s to say I wasn’t interested. You don’t know what I’m into?” Stan snorted. Yeah, he would have never expected Ford to be attracted to a yellow triangle, but there you go. Come to think of it, Ford had stammered and flushed when he had flirted with him, too. Not that he had intended to, he was just praising Ford on his calculations. And maybe implying that big brains were evidence of other big things. At the time, he had meant big heads, but Ford’s wide-eyed expression was funny, so he had let Ford think otherwise. 

“No, I don’t know, but I could see you were lookin’ fer a way out. I gave you one. ‘Sides, the guy was right. It’d only scatter the signal more.” Stan was done with this conversation, and he could tell Ford was on the last bit of his patience too. Ford arched an eyebrow incredulously, nose wrinkling in disbelief.  

“How would you know? I don’t remember you knowing anything about radio signals.”

Stan baulked. Shit…Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“I don’t tell you everything, Poindexter. ‘Sides, I had ta learn a lil’ somin somin ‘bout it. In the middle ‘o winter, havin’ a radio to let people know what’s up was damn useful. I’m gonna head down and start moving things. Got some steaks for dinner tonight. Picked up a donut at a shop down the way. Left it for you. Not sweet enough for me.” Stan waved a hand dismissively and started back down to the galley. He fully intended to spend the rest of the night avoiding any continuation of this conversation if he could help it. If that meant re-arranging stock, cooking dinner, and washing dishes, then he was glad to do it.  

He grumbled obscenities about where Irish Porn Star could shove it and about brothers who were too smart for their own good as he stomped down to the galley, back pain be damned. He snagged the bag of toffee peanuts from the table, tearing into the bag without thinking.  

“I thought they stopped making those God-awful things?” Ford had obviously followed him down and was emptying his pockets into a drawer by the stairwell. Stan glanced down at the bag in his hands, mouth open in mid-bite. Ummmm.  

“Oh, uh, found a store in town that sold them. Guy wouldn’t let me buy their whole stock. Same place I got you that donut.” He pushed the bag with the Kleina towards the other side of the table where Ford would undoubtedly sit.    

They had been in the bag that Viktor gave him,…right? Yeah, he’d asked for them. There had been a whole display. And if a bag of jellybeans appeared in the cupboard the next morning for Ford to find, well, those had been in the bag too.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The steaks had been exceptional (though he was sure they had been mutton rather than beef, but hey, good either way) and he and Ford had set up on the deck with folding chairs and a pack of beer between them. It was some domestic (Icelandic) beer that sat meaty and heavy in his mouth. But it had been cheap and tasted okay cold. Ford didn’t seem to mind it either, and he had never been much of a drinker.

“There are positives and negatives to being near civilization.” Ford’s voice was light and Stan hummed in curiosity. “This is the first night that we haven’t been able to see the stars clearly.” Ford took a sip from his bottle and leaned further back in his chair. Ford had always liked looking at the stars. Constellations and planets and the occasional light distortion of a distant galaxy. The telescope mounted on the roof of the cabin was proof enough, although that was mainly used for navigation.  

Stan grinned, “You want stars Poindexter, all you gotta do is look out on the water.” It was true. The various lights from the ships coming in and out of port twinkled and danced as their light reflected and refracted off the moisture in the air and the water’s surface. It reminded him of the clouds of fireflies that would creep out of the forest at night back in Gravity Falls.

Ford let out a soft chuckle and drained his beer before snagging another. They sat in silence and just took in the world around them. Quiet slaps of the water against the hull of the boat, gentle breath of the wind bringing in the smells of the ocean. He could almost feel the sand between his toes and the press of a wooden seat of a swing set. They used to do this, sit for hours, and not talk, watching the swirls of the mindscape float by, carrying pages of information and memories with them. Comfortable. Stan had always taken comfort in Ford’s presence. Even when he had annoyed the heck out of him and Ford was purposefully ignoring him, he still liked being near Ford. Making a point to sit next to him or float just beyond his peripheries.

At first it had just been a way to use Stanford. Get close and chummy to gain his trust and have the portal built. It was kind of pathetic how quickly he grew to enjoy Ford’s company. He used to find really stupid excuses to possess Ford’s body; he need to write something down, he missed a button, he was gonna slip in the shower, he hadn’t eaten that day, he’d been trying to…stay awake. 

Stan hated himself. All of himself. He had driven Ford to the brink of insanity, tormenting and teasing. Messing with his mind and memories in an effort to goad him into pleading, begging him to stop. It pleased him when Ford begged. He had wanted to pull Ford taut, pull him apart before giving him what he wanted. Eventually, Ford had stopped eating, stopped sleeping and he was losing control of his body. Stan remembered forcefully taking over just to get Ford to bathe and shove a sandwich down his throat before downing some sleeping pills. Yeah, Ford was a puppet. But he was Stan’s favorite puppet. 

He sighed. That was a long, long time ago. As much as he lamented it now, he couldn’t deny that he had enjoyed it at the time. Things were different now. He was a new man, a different man and as much as memories from back then nagged at his mind, this was what he wanted. This, right here. On a boat with his brother, looking for scientific and magical anomalies and finding treasure. And babes! Speaking of, Stanford had been turning something over in his mind. Stan wished he’d just spit it out already, he was ready for some action. He pointedly ignored that he knew what Ford was going to ask.        

Ford cleared his throat. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the scanner. I think there might be another anomaly up the coast a ways.” Stan harrumphed and chugged the last of his beer. “I heard today that Lokinhamradalur Valley up in the western fjords has had some issues with ghosts for several hundred years. The farmers up there have been complaining about spooked livestock, wilting crops and sand in the water pumps.” Ford scratched at his side of his face, glancing at Stan from the corner of his eye, desperately trying not so sound like Dipper discovering something new. Stan could feel his eyes rolling before he even thought to do so, and shook his head. What kind of brother would he be to deny Ford who seemed all but vibrating out of his seat with excitement.

“Alright, Nerd. We can go lookin’ for your spookums and ghosts and shit. But you’re cookin’ dinner tomarra’ and I get to decide what treasure we keep.” There really wasn’t any malice behind his words, but one had to keep up appearances.

The grin on Ford’s face could have lit up a room. His eyes practically glittering. What was a little side trip to check out some local folklore?  

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