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It’s a fucked-up role reversal, honestly. Usually, he’s the one passed out, and Ford’s the one who’s up all night. Well, these days, at least. It used to be mutual.
Either way, he can’t sleep, and he blames Bill Cipher.
He’s taken to blaming the bastard for everything, but this latest one might actually be his fault.
Stan keeps hearing his voice in his dreams. At first, he thought it was nothing. Thought it was just paranoia, that whatever Ford’s got going on in his head has leaked into his a little, the way things tend to. It’s not like he’s afraid of the guy, you know? Bill never scared him. Stan knew all his tricks the moment he appeared in his dreams the first time—because he’s used them all himself.
It’s just that, well, Stan’s not really an interdimensional psychic, or—or a fraud lucky enough to be born with actual abilities to back himself up, right?
So, when he wakes up, and his eyes are so dry they hurt, like he hasn’t blinked in hours, he starts to question what kind of fuck-shit two-dimensional bastards can do from beyond the grave.
Because they’ve run every test on Stan’s mind—that is, Ford’s run every test—and there’s no trace of him in there. They would know. They would. It’s just…
He can’t shake the feeling that someone was just watching his brother sleep.
And if—entertaining the remote, infinitesimal possibility for a second—someone was, Ford could never know. Ford could never know, and Stan would need to figure out a way past it. A way to get rid of it.
Because Bill is not allowed to see his brother. Ever. Again.
Stan’s fists clench.
It isn’t happening. It isn’t. It’s just his cataracts. Ford’s been meaning to concoct something to reverse those, right? Well, Stan should check with him about it. Get it taken care of. Usually, he would hate the thought of a medical procedure, but waking up without his eyes burning seems pretty fucking appealing right now.
And, you know, if that’s the way to do it, then that’s the way.
Stan’s newly clear vision can tell that something is bothering Dipper. Even over the phone, the kid looks fuckin’ tired, and he keeps rubbing at his face as if trying to keep himself awake.
Ford flashes him a concerned look, and Stan clears his throat.
“Y’alright, Dip?”
The boy starts a bit, sitting up. “Oh, uh, yeah! Yeah, I’m—I’m all good.” He pauses. “Just haven’t been…sleeping great.”
“Nightmares?” Ford asks, tone somewhere between clinical and sympathetic.
Dipper pushes his hat up on his forehead a bit. “No, I mean—Yeah, it’s just—yeah. Nevermind.”
Mabel’s face goes funny. “You should tell them,” she whispers, barely audible. Stan and Ford exchange another concerned glance.
Dipper shakes his head. Mabel furrows her eyebrows, and says:
“He’s been having weird dreams. And his eyes are really itchy in the mornings.”
Stan goes completely rigid for a second, phantom alarms ringing in his ears.
Ford stiffens too, leaning carefully in towards the computer screen.
“What kinds of dreams?” He asks, his voice edging on anxious.
Dipper looks at Mabel again, and they both look unsure. Stan could swear he sees Mabel glance at him specifically, but it’s difficult to tell when they’re shoulder to shoulder, squeezing onto a laptop screen.
Ford can’t know, he thinks, Ford can’t know.
Time to do what he does best.
“What, you showin’ up to high school in your boxers?” Stan laughs. “Look, kid, you got nothin to worry about next year! Remember what I told you at the end of last summer, now. You can handle anything!”
It’s true, they can. But Stan isn’t referencing his well-wishes.
One night, a few days before the kids were supposed to leave, Ford had woken up screaming. He’d run down the hallway, fearing a threat—but, of course, nothing had been there. By the time he’d left Ford’s room to grab him a glass of water, the kids had been listening at the door.
The next morning, he’d pulled them aside, and in his best gentle-yet-firm (probably too-firm) tone, he’d created a hard and fast rule:
There are some things Grunkle Ford doesn’t need to know about.
They’ve had to break or bend it a couple times—like with that stupid fucking book—but, there are times Stan’s enforced it. And he’s enforcing it now.
He is going to figure this out. He feels his neutral expression wavering a bit.
“Haha, yeah!” Mabel exclaims. “He keeps dreaming about Waddles eating his homework! I try to tell him that Waddles only eats Grunkle Stan’s papers, but he won’t listen!”
Dipper jolts, probably as a result of his twin sister’s swift punch to the leg.
“Y-Yeah! Well, Waddles doesn’t have Grunkle Stan to torture, so, uh, you never know, right?!”
Stan paints on a curmudgeonly expression. “The pictures are punishment enough.”
Mabel laughs a bit too hard. “Sure, Grunkle Stan.”
Ford seems to relax. Thank God for Mabel, Stan thinks, not for the first time.
“You’re both bright,” Ford reassures, “And you have each other. School will be fine.”
“Yeah,” Stan adds, “We made it through. For the most part.”
Ford gives him a look that reads not helpful, and Stan grins impishly. “Okay, maybe we’re not the best example. But you two? You can handle it just fine. And if anyone gets in your way, go ahead and give us a call.” He points his knuckles at the camera.
“I think Mabel would be way ahead of you,” Dipper jokes. “But thanks.”
“Of course. Well, you kids gotta get to school, don’t you? Because this old man,” he gestures at Ford, “Has got to get ready for bed.”
It’s only eight P.M, and Ford raises an eyebrow, but Stan doesn’t want to risk another slip. If he asks, he’ll just say he has a headache. Ford’s stress over that will probably wipe away any concern over suspicious behavior. He’s still not entirely convinced the memory gun didn’t leave Stan with some kind of lasting condition, beyond the occasional lapse.
They exchange their goodbyes, but when Ford isn’t looking, Stan fumbles through a text to Dipper:
Call. After school. Ford sleep.
That night, he stares determinedly at the wall of his bunk, pretending to sleep, not daring to roll over and face his twin.
Stan locks the bathroom door behind him, yanking his buzzing phone out of his pocket and pressing the big green button, then holding the thing to his ear.
It’s weird. Usually, the only person that calls him when Ford’s not there is Soos, and that’s only part of the time. Stan thinks he’s still a little scared of the guy. Oddly enough, the feeling is probably mutual.
“Grunkle Stan?” Dipper’s voice.
“Hey, kid,” he murmurs.
“What’s going on? Why isn’t Grunkle Ford there?” He seems concerned.
“Because–because Grunkle Ford doesn’t need to know about any of this,” Stan answers sharply, then softens. “Sorry. It’s just—I don’t think he can handle it. No, not that he can’t, the he shouldn’t have to—You know what? He just can’t know, okay? Because I said so.”
“Know–know about what?”
“Know we’re havin’ dreams about you-know-who.” Stan feels foolish. “About godd-dang Bill. ”
He could swear he hears a muffled, anxious squeak on the other end of the line.
“Look, we know where he’s at. Obviously he can’t actually do anything, so no worries there. He ain’t gonna start—” Stan winces. “He has no real power anymore.”
“…right.” Dipper replies. “He has no power.”
“Pretty clear from that stupid book of his, right? Guy was ‘bout as desperate as the last time I saw him.”
The kid gives an anxious chuckle. “Yeah.”
“Look, all I’m trying to say is don’t worry. He can’t do anything to you. He can’t hurt you. Just…don’t do anything stupid, Dipper. Mabel, don’t let him do anything stupid. I know you’re there, too.”
A faint voice. “Tell him I’m not!”
Stan suppresses a laugh, but when he speaks his tone is deadly serious. “I promise, kids, I’ll figure this out, okay? I’ll find a way to fix it.”
“Okay,” Dipper murmurs. “We trust you.”
“Just—” He sighs. “Just don’t tell Ford. Call me if you need anything. I ain’t sleepin’ much, so…whenever you need to.”
“Take care of yourself, Grunkle Stan.” Mabel’s quiet voice.
“Thanks, kid. Take care of you and your brother for me.”
“I will,” she replies firmly, over Dipper’s protests.
“Good. I gotta go.” He pauses, chewing on his bottom lip.
“We love you too, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper chirps.
“Bye, kids.” Stan shakes his head. Like a pair of fuckin’ shrinks, those two.
He sighs, sitting on the rim of the tub, staring at the wall for a long while. He scrubs at both eyes with the heels of his hands, then drops them into his lap, staring down at his broad fingers. He flips himself both middle ones, scowling.
“Take a look at that, asshole,” he mutters, “If you feel like fuckin’ watching.”
He immediately feels like a loser. Flipping him off’s the best you can do, huh? Can’t block off his access to the Ford-cam entirely? He can just fuckin’ tune in whenever he wants, like we’re some kind of reality show? God, I want to tear him to pieces again. Can he hear us, too? I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll get to that stupid prison, and I’ll run his 2-D ass through an interdimensional paper shredder. Wonder if Ford or I’ve got any contacts in there that can get him stabbed in the shower. Jesus, what am I even thinking? Guy probably doesn’t shower at all.
There’s gotta be a solution to this, right? A way to block him out? I can’t believe he can watch the kids, too. Watch Mabel and Dipper. He had better leave them alone. He can’t do anything, though. He can’t. He’s locked up, we would know if anything changed there. We would know. God, have I been sleeping with my eyes open? Ford can’t see that. I better face the wall from now on. What am I going to do, here? I can’t talk to him. I can’t—
Hold on. He’s a dream demon, right? I mean, I could always try to get to him in one of my nightmares, give him a proper scare. Hey, now there’s an idea. That could really—
A soft knock at the door. “Stanley?”
His eyes squeeze shut on instinct. “Y-Yeah?” Shit. Been gone too long.
“Are you alright? I woke up when you left, and you’ve been gone quite a while.”
“Christ, Sixer, a guy can’t take a shit around here?! What’re you knocking down the door for?!” He barks.
“That’s disgusting!” Ford complains, and Stan can practically see his nose wrinkling up. There’s a moment of silence, and Stan almost exhales, thinking his brother’s gonna walk away, but then Ford speaks more softly, almost apprehensively.
“It’s only—you were acting strange today. And yesterday. Are your eyes feeling alright?”
“What do you mean my—” Stan stops. “Oh, from that stupid spell you did? Yeah, no, great! It’s fine, I’m fine, it’s just—”
“Stan…”
Shit. Ford’s not gonna take a dismissal here. Gotta throw him off the scent.
“Okay, okay, fine! Fine, alright! I haven’t been feeling well. You happy?!”
A gasp, horrified. “I knew it! I knew—” A hand jiggles the doorknob. “Stanley, let me in. I need to assess you! What are your symptoms?”
“I’m taking a shit, Stanford!”
“Well, you’d better hurry up and come out, then!” Ford exclaims. “I told you not to keep these things from me, Lee, I could swear you do this on purpose! How many times have we had this conversation?! How many times, Stan?”
“I know, I know—I just told you, didn’t I? Now quit your kvetching and let me take a dump in peace.”
“Gross.” Ford’s footsteps patter away, and Stan exhales in relief, shoulders slumping. His eyes slide open.
Fucking hell. That was a last resort. He’s gonna be subjected to a few days of excessive testing and bed rest—which, come to think of it, may be useful in the task he’s just assigned himself.
It might even help to swindle his twin out of a little extra cold medicine.
Stan spends much of the next two days being hovered over by his twin, or trying to converse with a demon in his sleep—and he can’t decide which one is worse.
Kidding. That’s a joke he would have told Ford, had his twin been looped in on the situation. He doesn’t mind Ford’s overbearing nature in small doses, and it’s nice when Stan can close his eyes and listen to Ford read or something—but, facing the wall or feigning sleep has prevented too much interaction between the two of them. He doesn’t want to risk them being observed.
He’s not sure how much longer he’s gonna get away with this, though. Ford’s been pursing his lips, visibly biting his tongue about something all day. It won’t be long before he manages to bring it up with Stan—and all he’s going to be able to do is avoid, avoid, avoid.
So that’s why he needs to handle the situation straight away. Except, every time he falls asleep and manages to realize that he’s dreaming, Bill is gone. It’s the inverse of how he was before, the opposite. As soon as you knew you were dreaming, he would appear in earnest, trying to converse or brag or offer something. It was his whole schtick. There’s no way he would be able to resist bargaining, even now.
He isn’t really there. But, then, Stan knew that, didn’t he?
All he can do is watch. He can’t even affect anything—he can’t even make Stan watch something, can’t rouse him from his sleep or signal his presence beyond drying out his eyes. Stan and Dipper’s instincts are the only thing giving it away.
Still. He shouldn’t be entitled to even that.
In his dream, he stands on the lawn of the Shack, summer leaves just beginning to change colors for fall.
“Come on,” Stan growls, “Come and face me, you bastard!” He clenches his fists.
No response.
“What are you, scared?” Stan demands. “Too afraid to come talk to the guy who punched you out of time and space? You coward!”
His chest is heaving, nails digging into his palms.
“Leave him ALONE!” Stan shouts, “Leave the kids alone! You’re powerless, Bill! Just give up! You’re never getting him back!”
His shouts echo through the trees. Stan strains his ears, and hears only the whisper of leaves in the wind.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, “Fuck.”
He isn’t here. He’s not listening. He can’t. Stan knows that.
His eyes snap open just before his fist collides with the nearest tree trunk.
Ford is hovering a few feet from the bed, his expression crossed with concern.
Stan holds back his frustrated sigh. He shuts his eyes, and attempts to turn over and face the wall—but there’s a six-fingered hand on his shoulder, pulling him back over.
“Stanley. Are—are you alright?” Ford’s voice is shot through with a deep, genuine worry. Stan is squinting, unwilling to open his eyes all the way, but he makes out dark circles under his brother’s. He hasn’t been sleeping.
God damn it. Stan wants to slam his head against the wall.
“M’Fine.”
“You were talking in your sleep,” His twin murmurs. “About the kids, about—”
“Was I?” Stan murmurs, attempting to roll over again. “I don’t—I don’t remember what I was dreaming about.”
“Lee,” Ford’s voice is low, almost pleading. “Come on. I—I know you’re not sick, at least not anymore. You’ve hardly even looked at me for three days. Why—what’s going on? Please. You—you have to tell me.”
“Go back to sleep,” Stan mumbles. “We can talk in the morning.”
“No.” Ford’s voice is firm. “No, Stan. You’re not doing this. We’re supposed to talk about these things. You promised me we would talk about these things. I can handle it.”
“Ford, buddy, just—”
“Don’t treat me like a child! You’re keeping things from me!” Ford stomps a foot. “You—you still think I’m some fucking teenager who can’t protect himself, don’t you?! You still think you need to take all the goddamn punches! This is ridiculous, Lee! Whatever’s going on, you need to tell me!” His brother’s voice has risen to a shout, and Stan wants to claw off the skin on his forearms.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t, I just—” He sits up straight in bed. “I need some air.”
“Stanley!”
“Just—just a goddamn minute, okay? A minute, and then—” His voice breaks. “Then we can talk.” He gets up, throwing the covers off of himself, and makes for the bedroom door. Ford grabs his arm, gaze firey—but, looking at Stan’s expression, he loosens his grip.
“One minute. One.”
Stan wrenches himself free, and runs out onto the deck, bracing both hands on his knees. He feels nauseous, swallowing against the sensation of rising bile. It’s cold, but he hardly registers it. He’s too focused on his own panic.
Ford can’t know, Ford can’t know, Ford can’t know. I have to fix this, I have to fix this, now, I have to protect him, can’t let Bill see—can’t do that to him, he could be watching now, he could be watching—
He can’t see. He can’t. God, Ford has enough nightmares about him, thinks about him enough without worrying about being watched, fuck, he’ll never look at me the same way again, he’ll never be able to look at me without thinking about him, I can’t look at my own damn brother without giving that bastard access, like a security camera I can’t cut off—
An idea occurs to him—a terrible, impulsive, necessary idea.
Cut it off. If I can’t see…if I can’t see, he can’t see. I have to make sure he can never see again. If I—if I have to—I will, if I have to—
He whirls around, making for a box of supplies strapped down on deck, unclipping a bungee cord and pulling out a knife twice the length of his palm—the knife Stan uses to gut fish. Ford makes him do it outside.
He grips the handle with both hands, knuckles white as he turns the blade around, holding it inches from his face.
He can still find a solution, for Dipper. For the kids. But Ford can’t know. He can’t handle it. He doesn’t deserve to be watched. He’s suffered enough.
This will make everything easier. This will protect him.
Stan takes a deep breath, picturing Dipper and Mabel’s faces, trying to hold them in his mind, to remember them, as he pulls the knife back and prepares to drive it into his right eye—
Suddenly, a great weight collides with his side, toppling him over. Two hands cover his, trying to pry his fingers apart, yanking the knife from his grip. He struggles on instinct, thrashing like a feral animal trapped beneath a net, but he’s unprepared, off his guard, and easily pinned in place.
“What the fuck,” Ford shouts, “Are you doing?!!” His voice is raw, angry, terrified. Stan squirms against the force, on his stomach now, face pressed against the deck. He turns his head to the side.
“Get off of me! I’m trying to fix this!”
“No!” Ford roars, “No, you’re trying to—trying to run out here and fucking—fucking kill yourself!” He’s gasping between his fragmented sentences, and Stan feels his twin’s chest heaving above him. Something cracks inside his chest—he’s never seen Ford like this.
“I wasn’t—” Stan tries.
“What is wrong with you, God, what is wrong with you?!” Ford screeches, his voice unhinged and thick with tears. “Were you seriously going to leave me here alone? Leave the children?!”
“No!” Stan shouts, “No, fuck, I wasn’t—” His face is burning, ears ringing. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself, okay?!” He exhales shakily. “God, what did you think, I would stab myself in the goddamn brain? That’s barbaric! No, I was—”
“That’s what it looked like!” Ford screams. “That’s what it fucking seemed like, Stanley! And—and what else was I meant to think?! After you’ve been acting so—so unlike yourself, I mean, you’re clearly depressed, you don’t want to do anything, and you won’t even look at me!”
His brother lets out a scared, hurt little sob, and begins to sniffle. It’s a pitiful, wrong sound. Stan immediately goes limp in defeat, completely disarmed.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “It’s okay, fuck, please don’t cry, Sixer—”
“What were you trying to do?” Ford demands, cutting off his attempt at comfort. “If not—if not that? Why else could you possibly be doing?” He pauses. “What were you trying to fix?”
“…can you let me up, before I explain?"
“No.” Ford’s grip loosens.
“Ford, I ain’t gonna—”
“I don’t believe you.” His brother’s voice is too-small. Stan feels sick.
“I’ve been dreaming about Bill,” Stan whispers. “I mean, kind of about him. He’s just—he’s there, in the background, or carved into a tree somewhere, or just…lurking. Watching. But—but every time I realize I’m dreaming, all the signs disappear. He doesn’t talk to me—believe me, I’ve tried to get him to. And—and the book says he’s gone. So. Obviously he’s not really there. But I keep waking up, and my eyes are dry. Like they’ve been open all night.”
“Like…like Dipper mentioned.”
“Yeah.” Stan sighs. “I talked to the kids about it. We think—or, well, I think—he can access our vision somehow, from wherever he is. That he can…he can watch, sometimes. Maybe just when I’m asleep, I don’t know. It could be any time. He could be—he could be watching—” He trails off.
“I see,” Ford replies, after a moment. His voice is emotional, when he speaks again. “And so you were trying to…to blind yourself.”
“I mean…I guess,” Stan answers, hesitant. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing, honestly.” He sighs. “I just—I hate the thought that he has access to you. That he can know what you’re doing. I—I didn’t want to tell you, because I was afraid—I was afraid you would never look at me the same again. That—that you would always see him.”
Ford goes silent for a long moment. Then, he sits back, releasing Stan, dropping his hands into his lap. Stan sits up, with effort, and does his best to avoid Ford’s gaze.
“Lee, I already knew.”
“Y-you knew?”
“W-Well, I didn’t know that was what was making you—I mean, I guess I hadn’t really thought about it, lately, but, I did know Bill for a long time, and he hunted me throughout the multiverse, and he always managed to find me, and he knew so many things, had possessed so many people—I mean, I always suspected it. That even without a demonic presence, he had the means to see through the eyes of his past victims.” Ford sighs. “And it would make sense, I suppose. For him to…feel bitter. To watch.”
Stan’s at a loss for words. Ford seems so…calm. He’s looking at Stan openly, kindly, normally. He’s not panicking, or freaking out, or having a flashback. He’s just…concerned. He’s…worried about him. Not about Bill.
He feels like the biggest idiot in the world.
“I’m sorry,” Stan whispers.
“You could have just told me, Stanley. You don’t need to keep things from me, just because you’re not sure how I’ll react. You don’t need to insulate me from difficult things. I can handle it.”
“I’m sorry,” Stan repeats. “I was just—I was so sure you—I didn’t want—”
“There are measures we can take, if you like. I could fashion a sort of contact lens with unicorn hair, though it might take me a short while to figure out a formula that would keep the eye moist during sleep. We could send them to Dipper, if he wants.” Ford pauses. “I should like to talk with him about it, though I suspect you already have.”
“Why doesn’t this bother you?” Stan asks, incredulous. “The idea that…the idea that he could be…”
Ford levels him with a sincere gaze. “It’s like you always tell me,” he explains, as if it were obvious, “He’s dead. He’s powerless. He can’t hurt us.”
After a moment, his twin laughs—actually laughs.
“It’s probably torture for him, honestly. I mean, I’m happy. I’m so happy without him, out here with you. With the person that killed him. It probably hurts him to watch that, makes him angry. He can probably only do it in the dead of night, when the anger turns to regret, when he misses the only person who ever made him feel human.” Ford smiles. “The feeling isn’t mutual. I have a family—he’ll never have that again. And, well, it’s kind of nice that he’s suffering. He made me suffer for half my life, made countless others suffer. It’s his turn.”
“…right,” Stan replies. “I mean, of course. Bastard deserves it. I just…I guess I thought you’d be upset.”
Ford’s expression goes solemn once more. “That isn’t what upsets me.” He shakes his head. “What upsets me is that you would gauge out your own eyes before coming to me for a solution on this matter—or even a conversation. That’s—that’s indicative of a serious issue to me.”
He stiffens a bit. “Uh, look, I mean—”
“You were literally planning to blind yourself, so that you could protect me from something you were going through. You—you do realize that’s…not healthy, right?” He sounds somewhat unsteady in the last sentence, as if the words feel foreign in his mouth. “You can talk to me. You…you need to talk to me. If—Lee, if this happens again…”
“It won’t,” Stan says quickly, wanting to head off an ultimatum. “I swear.”
Ford’s eyes are still stern. “Stanley. You’ve made that promise before. I—I want things to get better. I want it to be easier for you, alright? So, I’m telling you. If you can’t talk to me…I’m going to tell the kids, and they’ll never leave you alone about it.”
Stan makes a face. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, yes I would.” A beat. “And I’ll tell Soos. And Wendy.”
“Oh my God, don’t even joke about that,” Stan groans.
“I’m not joking.” Ford’s expression is grave, suddenly. “Stanley, you scared the shit out of me. I can’t imagine—I can’t even imagine what I would do if—if anything—”
“I’m fine, Six. Nothin’ happened, alright? I won’t try any other stupid shit, promise.”
“Alright.” Ford clears his throat. “Okay.” He stands, and Stan follows suit, joints popping, then leans against the railing of the boat.
“Come inside,” Ford instructs. “You need to rest. Neither of us have been sleeping well.”
“Yeah, I’m right behind you.”
Ford nods, then starts for the door. Stan hears it swing open, but, for a moment, the footsteps stop.
“…Stanley?”
He turns over his shoulder. Ford is staring at him, wide-eyed. Stan resists the urge to look away, to hide his eyes or clamp them shut.
His gaze hasn’t changed—he still looks at Stan like he hung the moon.
“Yeah?” He asks, his voice emotional. “What’s—”
Before he can finish, Ford has rushed towards him, colliding with him once more—only this time, his arms are wrapping around Stan in a too-tight, somewhat awkward hug. His brother’s face is buried in his shoulder, for a moment, and, like a goddamn baby, Stan feels his throat begin to tighten, his eyes watering. He brings his arms up, wrapping them around his twin in return, and Ford relaxes, his shoulders going loose, leaning into Stan.
They remain there for what may be either a brief second or several minutes, before Stan pulls away, shivering from the cold and wiping at his damp eyes.
“Okay,” he breathes, “Let’s go.”