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On a young Arctic morning in the fall-turning-winter of 2012, Ford cradled his coffee and mused that Stanley had always been a prolific liar.
Much of Ford's memories of home were muddled after decades away, but a few things remained. Their Pa was distilled to the shine of tinted shades, the taut line of his shoulders, the gruff sting of his silence. The image of their mother faded away around the imprint of her affectionate hand pinching Ford's cheek, the smell of cigarette smoke, the drone of her voice on the phone through the peeling wallpaper in their apartment, and the matching eyerolls Stan and Ford gave each other when she would spin a lie.
Ford and Stan grew up shrugging off little pointless untruths. The neighbor's kid didn't actually get arrested, he just got a stern talking-to from an officer; the doctor didn't flippantly cancel their appointment, Ma just forgot; Pa wasn't out shopping for birthday gifts for them, he was just working late in the pawn shop. Everything was blown up or misdirected if it was too shameful or not exciting enough. They loved their mother, but learned not to trust half of what left her mouth.
They could trust Pa, but only to be brutally honest. So in their youth they only trusted each other.
Which introduced difficulties when Stanley would tell lies of his own.
Stanley wasn't the pathological liar their Ma was, but he learned from her how to turn a convincing one. Dole it out like fact, say it like you mean it, and sprinkle a truth inside - or a desire. There had been rumors floating around of the neighbor's kid being seen with a police officer; the twins’ pediatrician did always seem to secretly hate them; they were desperate to believe that their Pa was spending his own time on them.
Rarely would Stan turn his lessons on Ford. Usually they were directed towards Pa, Ma, or other authority figures. “Yeah Pa, I won that fight fair and square,” he'd say, brass knuckles already tucked into his pillowcase upstairs. “No Ma, I don't need glasses,” because who wanted to spend more money on an unexpected twin that didn’t need to see the board anyways? And of course, he would spin colorful tales for their instructors to explain away missing assignments and late projects.
But he would always tell the truth to Ford when it mattered.
Or so Ford believed until that night when they were 17 and Stan didn’t tell him about the science fair project, and brushed it off when Ford found out, and at that point how could Ford trust anything he said from that point on? Or even before that?
All that to say, Stanley Pines learned from the best how to conjure up a lie in a single breath. After they had a falling out, the one person Ford had trusted was stricken from that list.
For decades Ford had assumed that he knew the anatomy of Stanley's lies - flippant things employed to duck out on responsibility.
In their fragile second chance, he was reconsidering.
It was true that he didn't know the truth behind every lie Stanley told in their youth, but upon reflection, when Stanley lied to family, it was to protect a vulnerable underbelly.
Were his bruises really always from Crampelter? Could he really see the board just fine in class? When he cast his most damning lie of omission by neglecting to mention the perpetual motion machine, was he protecting himself from what could only be his twin brother?
In the booth tucked beside the tiny kitchenette aboard the Stan O’ War II, Ford peered through cracked glasses at his brother's back, at the eggs sizzling in a pan on the stove. He watched the unfamiliar-familiar lines of his brother, older and grayer and jaded, and wondered if he ever knew him at all.
If not, he would like to fix that.
“How did you sleep?” Ford asked mildly, sipping his coffee from the mug nestled in cupped palms.
The sun was rising slowly over the ocean. A few weeks into their voyage had them laughing awkwardly, stumbling through mundane conversation, learning to fit around each other for the first time in decades.
“Peachy,” Stan replied easily, despite the fact that Ford heard him shift and turn in his bunk all night.
Yes, Ford would like to get to know his brother again, and for the first time. But he suspected that Stanley was… introducing difficulties.
Would it be counterproductive to confront the lie? Ford had let others go - the fib to cover Stan's forgetfulness in picking up more netting, the white lie that he wasn’t the one who finished off leftovers in the fridge, the way Stan cracked Ford's fishing rod and fixed it before he even told Ford it had happened.
It wasn't that Ford thought Weirdmageddon would fix everything. It served to break apart the old growth choking them and let new saplings shoot up. It was much needed to unseat their behavior from its well-worn cycle, but they were still discovering what it meant to occupy the same space again.
And that was why Ford didn't know how to approach it. Stanley was deceptively private as a child, understandably combative in their brief encounter as adults, and more prickly than ever as they neared sixty. If he could afford it, Ford had no desire to take an axe to that delicate new growth.
“Earth to Sixer.”
“Huh?” Ford blinked owlishly into his mug and looked up.
Stanley slid a plate under Ford's nose. “I was sayin’ breakfast's ready.”
“Oh! Thank you.”
Stan shrugged, set down his own plate, and they dug in.
“What was bouncin’ around in that big brain of yours?” Stan asked around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“Nothing important,” Ford said reflexively. Then he paused. If they really wanted to do right by this second chance, maybe they both needed to be honest. “Actually… Stan, are you sure you slept well?”
Stan grunted. “Yeah. Why?”
“You sounded restless. I heard you tossing.”
“I rolled around a bit, so what?”
As expected, the question slid off like water off a duck's back. “Stan, I -”
“Wait a minute.” Stan peered at him knowingly. “What were you doing up?”
Ah, shit. Ford raised his hands placatingly, fork lifting with them. “I-I was working on the prototype for that siren-call deflector!” A bit. For maybe part of that time. If nightmares prompted him awake in the first place, that was nobody's business.
So much for being honest.
At some point in the past thirty years, Stan had gotten more intimidating. Perhaps it was the authority with which he became used to carrying himself as a business owner and a boss. A trait Stan had grown into, a metamorphosis that Ford was denied viewing in real-time. Whatever the case, the doubtful glint in his eye actually made even battle-weary Ford nervous.
Then the look died and Stan just huffed. It was like a switch had flipped. “I keep tellin' ya, nerd, work can wait ‘til morning.”
Only after breakfast, when Ford was forearms-deep in the sink washing the dishes, did he realize Stan's misdirection. He groaned into the soap bubbles.
Some miles inland in Yukon, in the biting cold of the tundra winter, Ford checked the lightweight traps he had placed outside the lemming burrows. Disappointingly, all those he checked so far stood empty, snow brushed across their wiry frames and bait untouched.
Yes, disappointing, but not altogether surprising. This colony was proving elusive and cautious. All Ford wanted was to document and tag a creature he dubiously titled the lem-many: a single organism composed of an interconnected varied number of nearctic brown lemmings.
Stan had stayed behind at the boat, complaining about his back, but Ford knew he also just didn't care much for the uninteresting work of tagging a lemming. He'd assisted in laying out the traps yesterday with some good-natured grumbling about how ‘uncool’ the topic was.
Despite the lack of a specimen so far, Ford knew something had happened. The traps were created by Fiddleford to send off a strong signal when the weight plates were triggered, and one of them did indeed go off, and recently, too. So where…?
It wasn’t until the last trap that the cause for the signal became clear. There had been a creature in this one, but not anymore. Its wire was twisted and sheared open, tufts of gray fur strewn about the frame. Fresh, broad pawprints lightly indented the snow and led away from the mangled trap.
Pawprints with a six-legged gait.
The gently falling snow would cover them soon - Ford was right to come as soon as the trap triggered.
Intriguing.
Ford checked his gear. He had more than enough on him for a morning excursion. Mind made up, he readied himself and followed the trail before it could disappear.
Several hours later, Ford burst onto the deck of the boat with a sheaf of new notes, a lock of lem-many fur, a host of scratches, and a massive tail that had been shed by an equally massive six-legged arctic fox with very many to spare.
He entered the cabin with aplomb.
“Stanley, I'm back! I didn't find a lem-many, but I encountered something much more interesting -”
“Stanford?!”
Stanley stood in the middle of the cabin, fully dressed for the Yukon cold, cellphone open to a call screen. His boots were wet with melted snow, his cheeks red. From his tinny cellphone speaker, Fiddleford's voice piped up. “Is that him?”
“Yeah,” Stan replied into the mic. “Call off the calvary. Uh, sorry for the false alarm.”
“Don't you apologize! I'd rather help out for a fluke than be absent when somethin's gone pear-ways.”
After a brief goodbye, Stan dropped his phone carelessly atop a nearby storage compartment. He yanked off his hat and gloves.
“Uh…” Ford shuffled on his feet, fingers still tight around the fox tail. He had expected Stanley to be lounging, perhaps cooking or reading. “What's going on?”
“What's going on?” Stan bit out, not looking at him as he tore off his thick coat. “‘It'll just be a quick trip, Stan,’” he mimicked in Ford’s register. “‘Not even an hour, Stan. I'll be right back.’”
Ford wilted some. “True, I hadn't expected to be gone so long, but -”
“I went out there looking for you, and what did I find? A trap half-buried in snow that looked like a car ran it over!”
“I-”
“So I come back here and call up your hillbilly friend, because you weren't answering your phone -”
Ford paled. Shit. He had entirely forgotten about that thing. Why hadn't this dimension given in and unlocked the secrets of telepathic communication yet?!
“- and maybe he'd have some idea of how to track you -”
Red-hot anger pumped blood to Stan's face, but Ford noticed Stan wringing his hands, tugging at his fingers. Nervous tics.
“Stan, I - I would have been fine. I am fine! I can handle myself, there’s no need for -”
Stanley stopped. He turned to Ford with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Fuck's sake, Ford. I was worried about you, alright!”
“There’s no need,” Ford repeated dumbly.
A hand drew over Stan's face. “I'm not - look, you can have a change of plans or whatever. But I had no idea where you were. If some monster was sinking its claws into you, I wouldn't have known, and I was just a sitting duck over here while you could've been getting mauled -”
Ford laughed incredulously. “I haven't been mauled since -”
A stern look from Stan shut him up.
“Just… tell me next time, Sixer. Let me know where you're at. Maybe invite me along before you go jumping headfirst into trouble alone. You…” His shoulders fell, and he suddenly looked very tired. “You don't have to do that anymore.”
Right. Ford wasn't alone.
Until now, he hadn't thought deeply about what that meant, but looking at the pained furrow in Stanley's brow, he was beginning to realize.
Ford swallowed thickly. “Al-alright, Stanley. I apologize. I didn't mean to…” He jumped at Stanley's clap on his shoulder.
“Don't worry about it,” Stan said, face shuttering. It was frightening how quickly he folded away the worry and fear like it had never been there at all. The boy Ford knew as a child was a liar, but with emotions that exploded larger than life. This Stanley had sharpened in ways unforeseen. “Just cook dinner tonight and we're even.”
“I… absolutely.”
Stan nodded tightly, then glanced down at the rips in Ford's sleeve. He rolled up the hem even as Ford jerked away. The mask on his face barely shifted at the sight of the scratches from the anomalous Arctic fox, red lines smeared with blood welling up atop older scars.
“Alright, Poindexter. Let's fix you up.”
“I can do these myself, you don’t -” Again, Stan's look brooked no argument. Ford nodded. “I mean, yes. Okay.” He hadn't felt so chastised since his Ma discovered that he was trying to hide his abysmal P.E. grade in junior year. She was lithe and soft in ways much unlike her sons, and yet it was bittersweet how clearly Ford saw her now in Stan.
That night, Ford pulled out his forgotten phone and balked at the flurry of missed calls and messages. The texts were blunt and unrevealing. Brief missives like Where are you? and I'm coming after you. There was one voicemail, but Ford only got a few seconds in before he felt too sick to continue at the deep concern running under Stan's casually gruff admonishments.
Ford had cooked dinner, but he didn't think they were even at all.
He shifted in his bunk and looked across the way to Stanley's, eyes straining in the shadows to make out the shape of Stan curled up tight on himself, hard curve of his spine facing out.
Inexplicably, Ford's eyes grew warm with the threat of tears. A tangle of gratitude and frustration and relief throbbed in his throat. He pushed it down, scrubbed his face, and shut his eyes.
Stan had come for him after thirty years, and he would have come for him again.
Yes, Ford wasn't alone anymore. Perhaps he wasn't entirely alone before, either.
Ostensibly, the Stan O’ War II was a research vessel. It was certainly fitted for such work. Sound transmitters and receivers for active sonar, hydrological sampling equipment, and a host of semi-legal “after-market” additions Fiddleford and Stanford made for all sorts of other natural and supernatural dealings. They did affirm that the new sensors and tools wouldn't mar the vessel's sea-worthiness - there might just also be an ultra-light laser turret tucked away into the hull. Don't tell the boat surveyors.
Regardless of the technical and tactical equipment onboard, the Stan O’ War II had another purpose as well. Stanford considered it a very important one, perhaps even more important than the research: recreation.
There was a lot of time to make up for, after all, and a lot of opportunities afforded to them by the boat, since they could easily pick up and go. Ford spent decades thinking only of the eventual safety of the multiverse. Now he was beginning to appreciate the benefit of creating an itinerary for his own enjoyment.
That, and the enjoyment of his brother, of course.
There was much to see in Iceland other than the plentiful anomalies available for study. It was pleasant for Ford to plan out a relaxing day for once, instead of planning out sampling maps and inventory systems.
Stanley, no doubt glad for the break as well, drummed his hands on the dash of their rental car. He had only very begrudgingly allowed Ford to drive because this whole thing was Ford’s idea. A beanie mashed gray strands of his fledgling mullet against his head, atrocious golden and cerulean Hawaiian-print sweater peeking out cheerily from his open coat courtesy of one Mabel Pines.
Not one to leave people out, Mabel had knitted Ford a similar sweater in more muted tones of pink and orange. It was hideous and he adored it. He never pictured himself the type of person to match clothing with his brother past the age of five, but now pairing sweaters just made him smile.
All in all, the ride was peaceful, if one ignored a few rough turns and abrupt stops. For Ford’s first significant amount of time behind the wheel in three decades, it was going quite well.
Anticipation radiated off of Stanley from the passenger seat. Nearly a half-hour out from the city, he was getting antsy.
“I'm starting to think we're gonna do a full circuit and end up back in Húsavík,” Stan grumbled.
“Oh, hush. See that?” Ford pointed to a compound of red-roofed buildings slowly drawing closer on the left. “That’s where we're going.”
Stan peered through the windshield with a crack of a grin. “Can’t wait to see what you were so tight-lipped about, Sixer.”
The leather of the steering wheel creaked slightly under Ford's grip. His own “treat” from their stay in Húsavík would be the Whale Museum, waiting for them back in the city. He had found a soft spot for the incredible creatures long ago during a marine biology elective in college. Truthfully, his first pick would have been Draugasetrið, the Ghost Center over six hours away in Stokkseyri. However, he took command of this Iceland trip to surprise Stanley, and the moment he came across this particular spot while researching attractions, he knew where he would take his brother.
Hopefully Stan liked what Ford chose.
What if he didn't?
The choice had been made based on smatterings of memories and observations. Stanley had toiled over his El Diablo when they were teenagers with a reverent care, and it still sat in the lot of the Mystery Shack as reliable as ever due to Stan's continued maintenance. He had a knack for machines that Ford never shared, not with him nor with Fiddleford.
But that didn't necessarily translate to a broader interest. What if this was boring, and they did an hour-long round trip just to prove that Ford was a thoughtless brother?
Shit. He was passing the turn!
Jerking the wheel far to the left, the rental's tires squealed as the car swung into the mouth of the lot. Stanley shouted out a curse with one hand gripping the grab bar.
They rumbled to a very calm stop in a vacant space.
“Well, we're here!” Ford laughed nervously. “Apologies for the rough landing.”
“Eh, I've never even kept a rental in driving shape this long, so you're doin’ better than me.”
They filed in through the nondescript front door. The compound didn't seem like much on the outside, but Ford pushed down the worry.
He coughed. “So, this is the -”
“Whoa.”
“- Transportation Museum.”
Warm satisfaction bloomed in Ford’s chest as Stan's eyes grew wide.
In front of them a whole warehouse of vehicles unfurled, polished bodies shining under illuminating lights. Rare and elusive vans, old-school hot rods, a Delorean with vertical doorhinges, even looming tractors slumbering on massive tires.
Stan was off before they even paid for admission. Ford took care of it with a small smile, then languidly followed behind.
A simple, uncomplicated grin split Stan's face. Joy twinkled in his eyes. The vehicle he was examining with pleased hands on hips meant nothing to Ford.
“Ford, meet Ford,” Stan laughed. “This grandpa is even older than you!” He aborted a motion to slap the hood. Ford was sure that impulse control would disappear by the fifteen-minute mark, but he appreciated the attempt.
“1938.” Ford squinted at the placard. “Truly impressive condition for its age.”
“Heh, that's what the ladies say about me.” He punctuated the joke with a salacious wag of his eyebrows.
Ford gagged comically. “I take it back, we're leaving and completing a circle to Húsavík instead.”
“Too late! Did you know - hold on, hold on.” Something else caught Stan's eye. He strutted over to a flashy vehicle and beckoned Ford to follow. “Now this is a beaut’…”
A wellspring of knowledge fell from Stan's lips, and Ford simply let his brother's excitement wash over him. Some of it Ford recognized from old magazines their Pa used to keep around, but much of it was from steady interest over time, with anecdotal pinches from his own El Diablo upkeep and the occasional break-in to the Gleeful car lot.
“You seem to know quite a lot about old vehicles,” Ford said as they trawled the lines of cars. “Have you ever done anything with this knowledge?”
“Other than work on my baby? Nah. I tried teachin’ Soos about it once and the poor kid fell asleep. Kinda a shame, he tried real hard not to,” Stan laughed.
Somehow, Ford got the impression that no one in recent memory had ever listened to Stan for so long on this topic. He was happy to be the receptacle this afternoon - Axolotl knew the amount of rambling to which Stan was subjected from him, and it was nice to become acquainted with a rarer side of his brother. “Still. You could have been a mechanic,” Ford commented, watching the way Stanley wended his way through the exhibits with an appraising eye.
“Nope. Been there, done that. I prefer bleedin’ folks dry with cheap tchotchkes. You ever try to pull a fast one on some guy who knows just enough to spot the grift?” His look turned sour. “Turns out paying off angry customers gets a lot more expensive when the product is a car.”
They enjoyed a surprisingly peaceful hour in the museum, Ford following his brother like a personal tour guide, before Stan did what Pines do best: meddle.
“See, check this out. This engine - I dunno what they were thinking.” Without a care, Stanley lifted the hood on a car that almost shared a birthday with their father. He stuck his hands in amongst the mechanical guts.
Obediently, Ford peered in. “I admit, I don't know anything about car engines, but that certainly doesn't seem right.”
“Hey! Get your hands off that!” Someone shouted off to the left. A museum employee took long strides towards them.
“Whup. Time to go.” Stan yanked out his hands and unceremoniously dropped the hood with a clang.
“I'm sure if we behave ourselves, they'll let us stay,” Ford tried, though he could already hazily picture the arc of the next few minutes.
“No they won't, trust me.” Stan flashed a small piece of metal in his hand that wasn't there a second ago, then darted for the entrance.
Just as he thought. This couldn’t be a completely normal trip.
Ford sighed and dutifully ran after him.
“Stanley, what is that?!”
Behind them, Ford heard shouting as more people caught wind of the commotion.
“Souvenir!” Stan called back. As if reminded of something, he swiped a handful of keychains from the register on the way out.
Out in the lot, Ford slid across the hood of the rental and clambered into the driver's seat, Stan already landing roughly in the passenger's side.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Their heartbeats only settled when they were almost back to the city. Then their eyes met and the car was filled with raucous laughter.
“Did ya see the looks on their faces?” Stan guffawed.
Ford snickered. “You're deplorable.”
“Yeah, yeah. That was great! Maybe we can go back in like, ten years, once they've forgotten about this.” He brandished a small, shiny piece of machinery in his palm.
“What did you steal?”
“Just a doohickey off that engine, no biggie.”
“Stanley!”
“Hey, you're the one who decided to take me somewhere!”
Ford laughed so hard he almost cried.
“That I did,” he finally said, when he could get enough air. One last dangling thread of nerves teased at him. “So… was the surprise worth it?”
He expected more laughter and jabs, but none came. When he glanced over, Stan wore a soft smile, gazing out at the beautiful landscape beyond the windshield, then down at the small component he worried between his fingers. Then he clasped it between both hands and turned to Ford.
“You kidding, Ford? Super worth it. Thanks. I've never seen - I mean, you heard me yap, but yeah. Worth it.” Then his smile turned cheeky. He fished jangling car-model keychains out of his pocket. “Even got some souvenirs for the gremlins too!”
Ford rolled his eyes fondly.
Stanley undeniably changed over the past thirty years, and in the ten before that. But maybe, in some ways, Ford did still know him.
And like any good brother, he would enjoy trapping Stan in the Whale Museum for an hour to make them even.
“Stanford?”
Ford backed deeper into the gap underneath the desk in the small ship lab. He only drew in the cool, filtered air as much as he dared. Six fingers dug into the knit wool of his thick sweater.
The heavy door to the lab creaked further on its hinges.
Not now, Ford thought desperately.
“Ford?” Came the voice, closer, a bit softer. Heavy footsteps approached.
He burrowed in, but his back bumped the wall behind the desk.
Stanley's blurry face popped into view in the square created by the desk frame. Ford had forgone his glasses in his frantic effort to get away, rendering his brother a smear of muted tans, reds, and grays.
“Hey, Sixer, it's okay.”
Ford shook his head and shut his eyes with a shudder. He tried to banish the sensation of rope and chains around his wrists, the pain of blaster shots and electric shocks. Images of blood and ash flashed brightly behind his eyelids.
It would be fine, in the end. It always was. He just needed to hide away and get himself under control.
He bit the inside of his cheek and pressed his fingers hard into his arms, running them up and down, focusing on the sensation of the sweater’s stitches rubbing against his skin.
“Can I sit?”
Stanley's gravelly voice cut through the static for a moment. Ford had almost forgotten he was there.
He just nodded, and Stan settled down by the opening with a grunt, sitting to the side to give Ford an escape route. Closer now, Ford could see Stan's hair mussed from bed, his pajamas rumpled. Ford scratched at his sleeves and realized how cold the floor was beneath his own bare feet.
“Was it a nightmare?”
Shame curdled in Ford's gut. Nightmares were nothing new to him. If his suspicions were correct, they were nothing new to Stan as well. But Ford never wanted anyone to know about his. They were a vestige, residuals from things that were long over. Just his offal to bear, alone.
No longer, it seemed.
“Yes.” His voice scratched in his throat. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Stan shrugged. “You didn't.”
Ford huffed wryly. “And what were you doing up?” He said, echoing that morning a month before.
Stan didn't take the bait. “You didn't tell me,” he said evenly. “About the nightmares.”
“Of course I didn't.”
Everything was fuzzy, but he didn't miss the way Stan's mouth thinned as he paused. “Whatever. You don't have to tell me shit if you don't want to.”
Stan's tone was hard to read. Had it ever actually been easy, for Ford? Or had he just assumed? There was something there that Ford couldn't see, but his brother was an inscrutable brick wall, and Ford was too wrought to dig fingers into the brick right now.
Should Ford not emulate the behavior, the honesty, that he wanted to see? No, nevermind that sanctimonious framing; really, he was tired. He wanted to release his fingers and let the tension go. He wanted to trust again. He wanted to believe that he could.
Perhaps doing was believing.
He sighed shakily. Adrenaline was bleeding away and leaving exhaustion behind in the hollow. “I didn't want you to know.”
“Seriously, I get it. There's been a lot between us, I'd be surprised if you trusted me right away -”
“No, it's not - I didn't want you to know because I didn't think it would be safe. Not because of you, but because things usually… aren't.” He laughed wetly. “After spending decades alone, I suppose I became accustomed to operating as if I still am.” He pressed a hand to his mouth. Suddenly he burned with shame. Trusting was a bad idea, had always been a bad idea. “Nevermind. Ignore that.”
He looked up at his brother's sea of colors, blurred with stubborn tears. Why were they so close to the surface these days? He did not cry when Bill tortured him during the apocalypse. He did not cry when he was captured by international mercenaries, or when he had to flee from the poisonous gases of uninhabitable worlds, or when a scant few friends once turned on him for reward money. And yet here he was, under a desk in the Arctic, unable to see a thing, tearing up.
It had never been particularly useful for him to break down. He learned meditation techniques soon after he entered higher education to try and shorten the amount of time he would spend in panic or despair or fear - there was always something to do, after all. Something to prove. Everyone said he would be great, ergo, he would.
His Ma had pinched his cheeks and praised her little genius; his Pa had watched silently behind his shades as he added a new award to the trophy case.
The day after Stanley was kicked out, Ford went to school. He missed most of his subsequent graduations to get head-starts on more coursework. In the multiverse, his compartmentalizing paid off when one missed second of efficiency would be the border between life and death.
But Stan just sat there, listening. Waiting. He didn’t expect anything from Ford. He didn't dismiss Ford's words as frivolous, or his urge to hide under a desk of all things as unreasonable or weak. He wasn't about to take advantage of Ford's vulnerability and strike.
A sob escaped him, muffled against his hand.
“Shit,” Stan muttered. He shuffled closer. “Shit, Sixer, it's alright. It's safe. Let it out, okay?” His smear of an arm opened. “How about it, huh?”
Stanley, Ford had learned, enjoyed little touches - side hugs, knocks on the shoulder, a firm pat on the arm. Things that he and Stanley used to do in their youth. But the children were typically the only ones that could get a voluntary hug from him, if they needed it or initiated it. Was that by Stanley's preference, or was it something else? A distant, incongruent scrap of a thought swam by - maybe we should hug more.
The children were the typical recipients of Stan's limited affections, but right now, Ford felt every inch a child in need of the comfort Stanley offered.
Ford scooted forward, head scraping the underside of the desk before open air was above him once more. He collapsed against his brother's shoulder. Stan was solid and warm. He buried his face into Stan's sleep shirt, arms hooked around him, and sobbed.
“There ya go,” Stan murmured, the sound a rumble with Ford's ear against him. “You're safe.” And if Stan's voice shook, Ford certainly had no right to point it out. Stan pressed them close together, as if he was the one who needed the contact.
There, on the floor of the lab in the Stan O’ War II, in a new lease on life for them both, Ford shook and cried and felt for the first time in thirty years, maybe more, safe.
He could only hope Stanley felt safe too.
The business district of Belfast, Maine was quaint and walkable, none of its red brick buildings so tall that they would obstruct the puffs of gray clouds climbing across the sky. There were a few craft and hobby stores nearby that Ford fully intended to pillage for his niece and nephew. Dipper was getting deeper into bookbinding as of late, and Mabel insisted that she accepted any yarn that came her way like “a shepherd sheltering lost lambs”, whatever that meant.
But first, caffeine.
Stanley was by his side telling a very odd story as they walked to the nearest coffee shop. He threw his arms out as he talked, ever the showman. It seemed he was chock-full of strange and mildly-concerning exploits to share, which warmed Ford greatly as he could more often than not meet him toe-to-toe with a story of his own.
“Then I said to the guy, ‘Whaddya mean? I got the pugs right here!’ And a whole bunch of chihuahuas bust out the back of the truck.” Stan shook his head regretfully. “That was the last time I tried to outsource. Yeesh.”
Ford laughed heartily. “That outcome could have been avoided at almost every juncture.”
“Trust me, I know! I got cocky!”
“Haven't we all? I've reaped what I sowed plenty of times. When you're hunting down illegal weapon parts across the multiverse, there's bound to be some mistakes along the way.”
The bell above the coffee shop's door jingled with their entrance.
“Oh?” Stan raised an eyebrow in interest. “I'll order our drinks, you find us a table, and then you're gonna tell me all about it.”
Happily, Ford settled into a small wooden table sat snugly in the corner of the café. There was nothing but solid wall behind, and the store's entire floorplan could be seen from this vantage point. Other patrons talked amongst themselves. Ford was content to melt into the background against the wood-panelled wall.
Soon enough, Stan returned with two hot takeaway cups in hand. He dropped into the opposite chair with a sigh and passed Ford one of the cups. “Fancy store, figured I'd jazz up our orders a bit. Hope you don't mind.”
“Oh, I'm sure it's fine.” He smiled warmly. He took an immediate sip of his drink - tongue long ago having grown accustomed to his recklessness - and raised his eyebrows. Under the bitter beans and the creamy splash of milk was a hint of vanilla.
“Do you, uh, do you still like vanilla?” Stan fiddled with his cup and looked away.
Ford licked his lips and considered the aftertaste. If he were being honest, his likes changed decades ago. He used to prefer vanilla-flavored sweets in a past life. The beach hit him, bare feet on hot sand as he licked at a vanilla cone while Stanley tried to salvage the chocolate ice cream melting down his fingers. But then he grew up, and things shifted. Nowadays, he preferred nuttier or fruitier flavors. Not that vanilla was bad -
Uh-oh. He'd been quiet too long. Wariness had crept onto Stan's face.
“Shit, you don't, do you? Or did I misremember?”
“No, no! This is perfectly fine, Stanley. You didn't misremember. I loved vanilla when we were kids.”
“But we ain't kids anymore, huh?”
Ford took another considering sip and wracked his brain for something, anything that would ease the look on Stan's face. “It's not bad?”
Stan winced. “Sorry, Sixer. I'd get you something else, but these were highway robbery as-is.” He tried his own drink. “Shoulda been a café owner.”
“Stan, it's fine, really. What, um, what did you get?”
“Hazelnut. Kinda sucks, though. What's with all these hippies inventing new nuts to put into shit?”
“May I try?” Ford extended a hand.
“Knock yourself out.”
Wordlessly, Ford pushed his own cup across the table as he accepted Stan's in his hand. He took a sip and his eyes lit up. “Stanley, what are you talking about? This is delicious!”
Surprise smoothed Stan's wrinkled brow, then he smiled. “Yeah, maybe to a guy whose tastebuds were blown off in an intergalactic war!”
“You simply have no taste,” Ford stated. “Go ahead, try mine.”
They quickly agreed to swap drinks permanently.
“Your blasé comment reminded me -” Ford said.
“Who's Blasé?”
Ford would not dignify that with a response. “Reminded me of the story I was going to tell you.”
Rubbing his hands together, Stan settled deeper into his seat. He took a longer sip of his-used-to-be-Ford's coffee. “Yeah?”
“Yes!” He rolled up the left sleeve of his sweater to reveal a gnarly scar, tight pale skin stretching across the top of his forearm and tapering off above the elbow. “In fact, this scar is a reminder of a very perilous operation I had undergone to collect ore I needed for the Quantum Destabilizer. I was overconfident, but made it out with all my limbs intact… by the skin of my teeth!”
“Oho, now we're talking! Forget the pug smuggling, this is an adventure.” Stan waved a hand. “I'm listenin’.”
It was a delight to tell stories that had been trapped behind Ford's teeth for so very long. He hadn't known that he even wanted to tell them until Stanley had started to ask, months ago. It had all been a blur of the past, of things happening to and around him, memories and forgotten allies and abrupt endings that launched the next chapter of his quest. But here, he could drop the events in context, draw them together with a throughline.
And maybe impress his brother just a little bit.
“I fired blindly behind me, and hit the Claxoton guards close behind. Then I rolled under the security doors with seconds to spare! The rest of the heist team had abandoned the plans with the shifting political winds, but I couldn't join them - I had no choice but to obtain that ore.” Ford took a long drag to finish off his coffee.
“Holy shit,” Stan breathed. “How'd you get out? Weren't you stuck in the vault once you got in?”
“Now that's the interesting part…”
After detailing an improbable escape and an armed skirmish with a guard that earned Ford that nasty scar, they ordered refills and sat back down, chatting along the way.
“And you still got the gold too! God damn,” Stan cackled. “I gotta say, if you ever asked me how I thought you'd end up, ‘badass interdimensional criminal’ wouldn’t have been high on my list.”
“Yes, well, it wasn’t high on my own list either,” Ford laughed. He used to be bitter about that, but he'd since made his peace. “Circumstances make the man, I suppose.”
“Nah, I dunno about that. I think you'd always had that something in you.”
“What would that be?”
“Pines stubbornness,” Stan smirked, eyes bright.
“Mm.” Ford smiled and savored the flavor of his second coffee. “A fatal disease.”
“Hey, don't knock it. I think it kept you going.”
Ford almost laughed. This, coming from a man who pushed the boulder of Sisyphus for thirty years. “The same could be said of you.”
Stan looked down at the table with a rueful chuckle. “Guess so, huh? Two stubborn old bastards.”
“‘Old’, Stanley?” Ford raised an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself.”
“Oh, but ‘bastard’ isn't a problem?”
Ford had longed for many things while he travelled the multiverse; a bed, supplies, support. He had all that now that he was back home. The thing he longed for most, though, cloaked him now like a worn blanket.
It was this.
The understanding, the ease of conversation. Friends and enemies of the past thirty years sometimes came close, but in the end, they could never hold a candle to one Stanley Pines. Even amid re-etching the patterns and grooves of their brotherhood, there was an intrinsic comfort.
‘Two stubborn old bastards’ was right. Like peas in a pod.
“Stanley, have you seen my high-precision scale?”
Ford poked his head into the common room, beakers and packets jostling in his arms. The Arctic fox tail turned out to have intriguing magical properties from which he might be able to derive spell and potion components. For accurate tests, though, he needed to weigh certain ingredients out to the nanogram. Unicorn blood was tricky that way - much too potent for a coarser measurement.
“Huh?” Stan said from the loveseat, turning his hearing aid up. “What're you looking for?”
“My high-precision scale?” He shifted the items in his arms with a jangle. “I left it out here when documenting those mer-dragon scales last week.”
Stan looked at him blankly, romance paperback folded in hand.
“A flat tray attached to a broad base with a small digital display on it?” Ford tried.
“Sorry, Sixer, haven't seen it.” He shrugged. “You check your lab?”
Ford paused. “I could have sworn… no, I'll look again. Thank you,” he tossed out over his shoulder, tools and ingredients clacking against each other.
When he didn't find the scale in his lab, knowing full well that wasn't where he had left it last, a creeping suspicion grew.
Infuriatingly, it wasn't always easy for Ford to tell when Stan was lying. It had been marginally easier a lifetime ago, but at some point in the past three decades, his brother had blanketed himself in a disaffected sleight-of-hand. That turncoat poker face he would flip on to entrance (and trick) other kids on the boardwalk was now a defense against all sorts of problems. Everyone received it, from shopowners who investigated a theft he definitely committed, to the twins when their questions poked too close to home.
Ford received it too, when his own proddings were unwanted. He was receiving it now about something as inconsequential as a scale.
Or was it about something else entirely? What if Ford had walked in on one of Stan's vulnerable moments? Or he simply wanted to be alone? Or - oh God, what if something was wrong with him, and he was just avoiding telling Ford?
No, no, catastrophizing was not necessary. Ford resolved to simply find out. He was nothing if not a thorough and stringent investigator.
And despite the lack of information, he had an educated guess on what happened.
He didn't actually want to invade Stan's privacy, so he started by ruling out other avenues. He double-checked odd corners of his lab, and behind the screwed-down furniture in the common area. He searched random storage compartments and surfaces. He even looked under his own bed, not putting it past himself to place it there in an exhaustion-addled haze.
Each failure dropped more weight on Ford's heart with the inevitable conclusion. There was only one place left for the scale to be. That, or the bottom of the ocean.
It was a bit hard to avoid each other on a vessel of this size, so when Ford heard the squeak of the shower turning on, he made haste to Stanley's bunk. All was as expected - the dentures case on the nightstand, the unmade sheets, the bevy of pillows, a stray pair of socks. Storage trunks peeked out innocently from beneath the bed, although Ford knew there was at least one gun case inside.
Frowning, Ford eyed the scene. Then he lifted up the mattress.
Underneath, tucked off to the side, was a flat tray with a broad base housing a small digital display.
It was what Ford had suspected, but it was still so bizarre that he blinked at the scale for a moment. Then he lifted it up and placed the mattress down. It looked perfectly fine to the naked eye.
He turned it on. Ah, there was the problem. The display flickered sadly, jumbled pixels phasing in and out.
Dread pooled in Ford's limbs. He wasn't mad about the scale. He packed an extra for a situation just like this, considering they would be out at sea for long stretches of time. No, he was just… sad. The symptom of a larger problem weighed heavier in his hands than it should have.
Tense, he sat on his own bed with the scale placed beside him, and thought hysterically that at least Stan hadn't been hiding something worse.
That Ford knew of.
Not ten minutes later, Stan sauntered in, humming a meandering song under his breath. He was in his sleepwear, hair damp, and carrying a case under one arm. He deposited it beside his bed and its shape became clearer to Ford - it was Stan’s toolbox.
Then he turned to the right and saw Ford. “Chrissakes!” He jumped. “Thought you were in the lab!”
Ford held up his hands instinctively at Stan’s shout. “Uh, I’m not.”
“Duh. Why are you just staring at the wall in here? Got bored with -” Stan’s eyes flicked down to the broken scale by Ford’s side. “Oh. Uh.” He rubbed his neck. “Ain’t that the thing you were looking for earlier?”
Of all the things for Stan to say… Ford admittedly had expected him to give up the ghost at this point. “Yes,” Ford merely said, bewildered. They both knew that.
“Where’d you find it?” Stan’s poker face was better than most, but even Ford could identify the look in his eyes of a man tightening his own noose.
“Under your mattress,” Ford said in a controlled tone. He wouldn’t get angry about the lying, he told himself. This was a delicate situation given their history. He would be calm and measured. Supportive, even.
“That’s weird,” Stan muttered.
Immediately, Ford groaned. “Oh, come on, Stanley.” He dragged both hands down his face.
“What? What am I supposed to say?” He threw his arms out, shoulders rising defensively.
“You -” Ford took a deliberate breath in, then let it go. “Stanley, I'm going to ask you a neutral question. I am not mad. Do you understand?”
His brother froze, eyeing Ford with suspicion, like he had been thrown off-script. “Uh… sure?”
Good. Knock him off that well-worn track. Ford pressed on. “Did you break it?”
A million emotions flit across Stan's face - noose tightened - before he tamped them down into a frown and a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, Ford, you got me. I was tidyin’ up the other day and bumped it off the table, an’ when I turned it on, the display was all outta whack.” Before Ford could reply, Stan raised his hands desperately. “B-but I can fix it! I was gonna pop it open and see what I could do just now, even!” His eyes flicked down to the toolbox, then back to Ford.
“No, no, it's alright. The casing on those things is tricky. In fact,” he smiled, hoping it was warm and disarming, “You don't need to worry about it at all! I packed an extra.”
Unexpectedly, Stan's face crumpled.
Ford screamed internally. This was not expected behavior.
“Wouldn't have needed an extra if I didn't klutz it up, huh,” Stan laughed, but it wasn't very humorous.
“What - Stan, no! I brought extras of many things.” It was true. After so many decades of travelling light with very thin margins for error, he may have gone overboard. He never wanted to be stranded after he accidentally sat on a delicate glass instrument ever again. The first time had been hellish enough. He still had nightmares about the Equipment Calibration Dimension. “Things break. Even by my own hand. It's just a fact of life.”
“Yeah,” Stan muttered, staring at the floorboards blankly.
Ford did not like that.
“Can… can you sit down, please? Can we talk?”
Slowly, Stan did, his bed creaking slightly.
“Why did you lie?” Ford asked, then backpedaled. “Nevermind. We both know why. I…” He tangled a hand in his unruly curls. Admittedly, when they first set out on this venture, Ford did think things would be easier to put behind them. A new chapter, a fresh start. But the nightmares persisted, and so did Stan's lies, and Ford needed to rediscover what it meant for Stan to be his brother. For him to be Stan’s brother. “Stan, look at me.”
Stan finally locked eyes with him. Apathy sat poorly on his face, shoddily secured.
“You don't need to lie to me. You don't need to hide things from me, like the fishing rod, or the broken scale. I - damn it all, I don't care about those things!” He dashed out a hand for emphasis. “Whatever breaks, we can mend it together, or laugh and forget!” He smiled sadly. “But you… you can't do this. I'm worried - no, terrified - that someday you'll feel like you have to hide something bigger and more terrible because you don't think you can come to me.”
“Ford -”
“That's it, isn't it? I'm not safe, to you.” The realization struck like a rock to the skull, and those easy tears rose up again. Not the time. He thought about the perpetual motion machine, the way Stan would squint at the board, the bruises unexplained. “Was… was I ever?”
“What? ‘Course you were.”
The strength of his conviction startled Ford into silence.
“I trusted you more than I trusted anybody, once. I just didn't trust anyone much. And now…” Stan's momentarily steely gaze softened, wrenching down to the floor again. He twisted a pillow roughly under his hands. The ambient light of the cabin caught on a rare wet film over his eyes. When he spoke, it was so low that Ford strained to hear. “What was it you’d said? You spent so long alone that you forget you're not?”
Ford swallowed. “Yes.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn't need to.
For a long moment, the only sound was the groaning of the hull.
“This whole thing’s been a dream come true,” Stan eventually said, eyes downcast. “Sometimes I wake up and I just can’t believe it. I don’t want to, uh… do anything that makes it not true anymore.”
“Stanley…” Ford’s face fell. Suddenly, frames of his brother stitched together into one moving image. Their childhood had been one on eggshells around Pa, and skirting potholes of lies dropped by their mother. Stan cringed on his bed, small, like the eggshells and potholes had never disappeared, like he’d been waiting for it to get easier to avoid them for forty years if he just played his cards right.
He did always know his brother. But now he felt he understood him.
“This is not conditional. Do you hear me?”
“Huh?”
Ford swallowed. “I am not lying when I tell you this: you are my family. You have always been my family. You always will be my family. No mistake will change that, and it was my mistake to think so, once upon a time.” Then he opened his arms and cleared his throat. “Should we… ‘hug it out’?”
Stan paused, muscles taut like he would spring away at any moment, emotion tightening his mouth silently.
Well, that wouldn't do. Ford stood and drew closer, offering a small smile.
“Hey, watch it,” Stan warned, voice wavering but warmer than before.
“This is happening. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
Stan leapt up and ducked under Ford's arms to book it out of the bedroom, but Ford was too fast. He pivoted and caught up quickly, yanking his brother into his arms and against his chest.
“Gah! Ford -”
“Shut up,” he admonished, hugging Stan tight. “As a doctor it is my medical opinion that you need one of these.”
“Did you get your M.D. at the same place that ‘love doctor Mabel’ got hers?” He muttered into Ford's sweater.
“The very same.”
The laugh that followed from Stan wobbled. Then he sniffed, and leaned fully into the embrace, clutching Ford's back.
“I'm sorry,” Stan let out shakily. “I don't know why I still feel like I gotta -” He choked down the words against the knit fabric of Ford's shoulder.
“A lot happened between us,” Ford murmured. “I would be surprised if you trusted me right away.”
“Stop throwing my words in my face. What are you, a-a walking camcorder?” He sniffled. “I-I wanna trust you. I do.”
They really were two sides of the same coin. It punched the air out of Ford. How could they have wasted all that time at odds for so long? The immense weight of lost years threatened to drown him. He swept it away. “How about we make a pact?”
Stan pulled away, scrubbing harshly at the tears on his blotchy face. “A suicide pact?” He mumbled.
Ford shoved his shoulder with a quirked brow. “Not funny, you knucklehead. No, a pact of trust. No matter what we may think is happening, we will trust that the other is acting with good intent, and is a reliable source of support.”
“Sounds way too mushy.” The tips of his ears were red. “Do we really gotta lay it out like that?”
“Well, I think when we don't discuss these things, we become… to use the kids’ words, ‘stupid’.”
He snorted. “You were already stupid, stupid.”
“I'm serious! Neither of us are alone anymore,” he said firmly. “It's time we both acted like it.”
Stan rolled his eyes, but he was betrayed by the smile he failed to fight down. He held up his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. I, uh. I trust you, or whatever. You'll tell me when you need help? If you have a nightmare or wanna do something dumb?” Ford opened his mouth, but Stan raised a finger in warning. “That’s not a loophole. Rule of thumb: if I would think it’s dumb, it’s dumb. Trust me, I’m an expert.”
“Stanley, you’re not dumb.”
“Did I say I was? I said I know dumb. I heard we’re doing a pact, so you better agree, or else I’m reneging.”
“Yes, yes. I'll do my best.” Ford bumped shoulders with him. “I trust you as well. I’ll remind myself to go to you, even when I’m… adverse to the idea. You'll tell the truth and stop hiding things? Like, say, your own nightmares?”
“Hey! I don’t -” Stan's mouth worked automatically to spit out a denial. He realized the futility and sighed. “Yeah, I’ll do my best too.” He crossed his arms. “But, uh, don't be surprised if I slip up.”
“I figured as much. Lying's in our blood, after all. Or at least yours.”
“Hey, what's that supposed to mean?”
They bickered into the kitchen to get coffee. Then they settled in the common area to watch one of Stan's teledramas.
Hours later, eyes blearily tracking an explosion of family intrigue onscreen the likes of which even the Pines haven’t experienced, Ford jumped at the sudden warm pressure on his shoulder. He looked over to find Stan, head lolling, mouth hanging open slightly and eyes shut.
Smiling, Ford turned the volume down and tugged a throw blanket over them both.
Nothing could change the past. But Ford was pleasantly surprised to realize that the future looked promising, with his brother by his side and plenty to discover. Not just about the anomalous and strange, but also the capacity to heal, and the not-a-stranger that saved him.
Soon enough they were both asleep, heads resting against each other and drama long forgotten.