Chapter Text
Stanford woke up, slow and gradual, warmed by the sun against his coat, his head resting on the coarse material of the bag he was using as a pillow. Stanley was driving: for a brief moment Stanford squinted at the wide-set shoulders and the thick neck from his low position in the backseat, and thought, dad.
It was not an unpleasant shadow of a memory.
He woke up properly, and sat up, touching his face only to find his glasses missing.
He sighed. “Bill –“
Stanley hissed, moving one hand from the wheel to bring it to his lips. “Quiet,” he rasped. Stanford frowned and shifted to peer into Bill’s seat.
Bill was asleep. He looked a mess, as they all did, with a tooth missing and his face bruised (not that he’d seemed to care), his head resting on the dashboard in a position that looked immensely uncomfortable. He was talking in his sleep, a steady, silent murmur in each exhale, and Stanford pricked his ears uselessly to make it out. It would’ve probably been something unpleasant, anyway.
“Just enjoying the last moments of silence before we get back to the kids,” Stanley grunted quietly, but he was smiling, eyes fixed on the sunny road, like he was looking forward to the noise. “Were you – dreaming about sailing?”
A strange anxiety squeezed Stanford’s chest as he stared at Stanley’s blurry ear. He couldn’t remember.
“No,” he said, and then, “maybe.”
“It looked nice,” Stanley said. He sounded surprisingly wistful, surprisingly soft, but maybe he was just trying not to wake Bill up.
“Where,” Stanford said, swallowing, because nothing was actually wrong, and that felt wrong. “Where are my glasses, anyway?”
“Oh, Bill’s wearing them,” Stanley said easily. “I let him play with them when you fell asleep. Figured we owed him that much, at least. And then he conked out too.” He sounded disturbingly fond. “Look at ‘im sleep, sweet little hellmonger.”
“He’s not keeping my glasses,” Stanford said, rubbing his face. “And we don’t owe him that much. At this point we might be even, maybe.” He paused. “No, forget it, he burned my journals.“ And tried to kill all of them multiple times, he added in his head, hastily.
“He deserves a smaller beating?” Stanley suggested.
“I think he’s gotten a small beating.”
“Ya gotta work with me here, Sixer. Do we do a dump-‘n-drive or give him a big, wet kiss –“
“You’re not kissing him!” Stanford yelped before he could stop himself.
He couldn’t see because his glasses had been once again spirited away by an eldritch kleptomaniac, but he knew Stanley was giving him a Look through the rear-side mirror, he just knew it. At this point, without coffee or breakfast, Stanford silently surrendered to the judgment. He deserved it.
Bill sat up suddenly, going from sleeping to awake in one fluid motion, blinking as he looked around. “We there yet?”
“No!” Stanley snapped, surprisingly heatedly. “We’re driving, genius, does it look like we’re there? Give Ford back his glasses.”
“Sheesh - I told’ya, Ace, this dumb meatsack gives me no sense of time or direction. Only burps,” Bill said, taking something off his head. “That’s why I need to ask ya!”
“You’ve asked me at least thirty times already!”
Bill smirked. “Thirty-three.” He turned, leaning between the seats, almost colliding with Stanford who’d wedged himself there to see, and both of them reared back hastily.
“My-“ Stanford started, and Bill threw the glasses at him gracelessly.
“No taunting or anything?” Stanford asked as he slipped them on, only to find Bill blinking at him. Uncertainly.
“No,” Bill said quickly, looking strangely taken aback. “I, uh. I forgot.”
“Four-eyes?” Stanford suggested after a moment of awkward silence. “Pointdexter? Visually impaired and inferior?” He felt a bit manic, trying to think of things Bill found insulting, his cheeks heating up. “Square?” he prompted.
Bill barked out a sudden laugh – a cackle, really – and Stanford felt immensely relieved. “Hey, that’s good! It’s a two-for-one!” He grinned at Stanford, his eyes just two slivers of yellow, and he felt warm again.
Stanley grunted. “No wonder you got bullied so much.”
“Shut up, Ley,” Stanford said, a grin tugging in the corners of his mouth.
“Make me, nerd,” Stanley answered jovially, like they were still teenagers, and Stanford grinned for real.
“If you two start fighting, I’m gonna get the axe again!” Bill said.
“You do realize you’re not allowed to start solving all your problems like that?” Stanford asked.
He thought he heard Bill mutter something along the lines of “that’s what you think” but he decided to just hide the sharp instruments and let it slide. They were going to be home soon, after all.
“I can’t wait to tell the kids about this trip,” Stanley said, perking up a little. “I mean, heavily censored, of course! And I was the one who rescued us from that motel. But boy – we were like those guys from that show Mabel likes, what’sit called – Super Unnatural!” He paused. “I’m the handsome one.”
“We’re twins,” Stanford said dryly.
“Damnit, Ford! Have some imagination!”
“Looking at you, I’m going to need lots of it.”
“Ahah – “ Stanley shifted and then jeered at Stanford in the mirror, so smug. “But we’re twins, Fordsie.”
“That’s it!” Bill declared over Stanford’s only slightly hysterical laughter. “You two are in a time-out! I’m driving! I can turn the wheel! Ace, unbuckle my seatbelt!”
“Hold your horses –“
“How dare you!”
“What –“ Stanley paused, confused, and then pushed on. “We just passed a sign, buddy. We’re back in Gravity Falls!”
*
The house had been repaired.
Correction: the house had been haphazardly patched up with what looked like the contents of a junkyard reigned over by a retired clown who still missed the circus. Even Bill would have probably made it all look less insane. Stanford felt too old for this.
Bill was wriggling in his seat impatiently, grinning like a lunatic. “I like parties!”
“Would’ya look at that!” Stanley barked out a laugh. “The little rugrats are all done with the preparations!”
No one within six mile radius would have been confused about tonight’s event, considering they’d passed at least two dozen signs that looked like they’d been born and bred from glitter, indicating where the birthday extravaganza would be held. There were tables outside, and lanterns, and what looked like an unholy union of a bouncy castle and a ball pit, and balloons tied to trees around the house. Stanford squinted.
“What’s that on the roof?” he asked.
“Oh –“ Stanley waved his hand as he parked the car, saying it as if it made perfect sense. “Bedazzlement. Catches light real nice, doesn’t it?”
“Stanley, don’t you think all of this is a bit –“
“It’s their birthday, Ford,” Stanley interrupted, forcefully, and then continued – gentler. “It’s their birthday. They’ve gone through hell in the past weeks. Just – let ‘em have this, okay?”
Stanford paused, guilt suddenly snagging somewhere in the back of his chest, as Stanley’s words hit him, because he hadn’t even thought of that. He’d gone through hell a number of times and Weirdmageddon had sadly been just one of many. But Dipper and Mabel were just kids. His family.
“Oh god,” he said, horrible realization dawning. “I don’t – you’re supposed to give kids presents, right? People still do that? Get presents? Wrapped? Boxes- um -” he struggled, embarrassingly. “Bows?”
“Relax, Ford,” and Stanley undid his seat-belt, as well as Bill’s. “I got ‘em something. Just sign the card.” He paused, and then added, sternly. “This year. You’re gonna be swimming in money soon with all those gadgets so you better get ‘em something good next year. Like – hoverboards or something. Pay for their college.”
“Oh, that’ll be easy,” Stanford breathed out. “I can fix up a hoverboard by lunch time – and what do colleges cost these days? Two, three, four grand a year?”
“Oh boy,” Stanley said, getting out of the car.
Bill stumbled out of the car like a drunken moose in a liquor store, staring at the decorations.
“Not bad!” he exclaimed. “I mean, fire’s always nice. I find it gives a sort of dramatic ambiance to everything, especially if it’s burning everything –“
“Stop talking,” Stanford ordered sternly, shuffling out of the car.
“Sheesh, Sixer! I was giving yer kids a compliment! They’ve done a pretty good job with their pudgy little –“ Bill wriggled his fingers, as if he’d forgotten what they were called. “Grabby-feelies,” Bill concluded, and Stanford just decided to let that be.
“No,” he said firmly. “Let’s make something clear. Don’t compliment the children. Don’t give out suggestions, for the love of everything unholy. Stand very still and don’t talk at all, and maybe we can convince Dipper and Mabel not to leave you tied up outside.”
“Hey, I can quiet!” Bill paused, and they stared at each other for about three heartbeats, before he grinned expectantly. “See –“
“I’ll come visit you,” Stanford said, resigned.
“Grunkle Stan!”
The shriek echoed in the yard as Mabel printed like a small, (turquoise today), glittery cheetah and leapt into Stanley’s waiting arms, nearly knocking him over in the process. Stanley didn’t seem to mind, his fez lying on the grass as he spun his great-niece around. “Hey, watch it, sweetums, yer turning thirteen already! Getting a bit too heavy for me to do this!”
“Then I’ll spin you!” Mabel declared, as Dipper jogged out in the yard.
“Get yerself over here, little man!” Stanley called out, laughing. “C’mon, one-time deal, a birthday hug from your Grunkle. Don’t be shy now!”
“I’m not little,” Dipper muttered, cheeks pink, grinning helplessly as he padded closer, swinging his arms around Stanley’s mid-section.
“’course you’re not,” Stanley laughed, still hoisting Mabel with one arm, knocking Dipper’s hat off to tousle his hair. “Look at ya, I think you’ve grown since we took off here!”
“Really?” Dipper perked up, hopefully. “Because I think my shoes have gotten smaller – it’s a bit hard to see with the shorts, though –“
Stanford stood in the sidelines awkwardly, together with the eldritch abomination. Story of his life, really. Watching how naturally Stanley interacted with the kids, he realized he was better with this when it was just Dipper and him, one-on-one. Or Stanley and him, although that was very seasonal. This felt – unnatural, an uncharted territory. Somehow he’d forgotten how to hold his arms naturally.
Mabel made sudden eye-contact with Stanford, her grin shifting from open and joyous to something a little more toned down, and she made her way over. Stanford braced himself.
“You wanna hug too, grun- great uncle Ford?” she asked, her mouth curling easily.
“Oh no, it’s fine, Mabel,” Stanford said hastily. “Please, don’t worry, a handshake is fine –“
“Well, if that’s what you –“
“You don’t have to force yourself, Mabel,” Stanford said, a little desperately, almost drowning in his own awkwardness.
Mabel snorted. “Force myself?” And then she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Stanford – just like that. Stanford shifted, awkward, his hands raised up uselessly, before he put them very gingerly on her shoulders, and he – felt warm. Dipper let out a laugh and raced over to them, pink-cheeked, avoiding Stanford’s eyes (although Stanford avoided his as well), lunging to hug him as well. Stanley eyed Stanford with such amusement he had to restrain himself from shrugging helplessly, and then strolled over, sliding his arm easily around Stanford’s shoulders.
“Good to be back, kids,” Stanley said, gruffly.
Then he laughed, tousled Stanford’s hair and picked him up, spinning him around - extremely clumsily.
“Stanley!” Stanford yelped.
“Ow, my back!” Stanley yelled. They fell onto the grass together, in a heap of limbs and tangled trench coat, and Stanford faceplanted onto dirt and runaway glitter. The twins were laughing, and Stanley was laughing and groaning, and Stanford – Stanford was laughing too, in the midst of spitting out grass.
*
“So, he’s still here,” Dipper said, eyeing Bill, his tone unreadable, a little later on when the twins had banded together to help Stanley and Stanford back on their feet. Mabel was scowling, her arms crossed over her chest, unusually silent. The twins stood huddled next to Stanley.
Bill waved at them.
“Yes, well,” Stanford cleared his throat. “We can’t really do much about that, now can we? He’s better off like this than free to do as he wishes –“
“Hey Pine Tree! Pine Tree! I got you and your sister a present!”
“I don’t want it,” Dipper said hastily.
Bill grinned, his weird eyes wide. “It’s the gift of my friendship!”
“I really don’t want it,” Dipper said firmly.
“Can’t we just put him somewhere?” Mabel asked plaintively. “Grunkle Stan, you’ve hid tons of stuff from us, you must know some good places. Let’s put him in an iron mask!”
“Sounds like a whole lotta fun, sweetie,” Stanley started, gruffly, “but for once I think you should at least consider this.” He paused. “Consider. If you really don’t want him around, then that’s fine. I can put him in the trunk of the car, give him a trinket from the shop to play with, he’ll scream himself to sleep, easy as pie. So don’t worry about it.”
“He did – save us a few times, during the trip,” Stanford stated, uncertainly, glancing at Bill, who’d had his attention stolen away by a butterfly fluttering close to his face, his eyes wide and wondering.
As they all watched, he caught the insect mid-air and put it in his mouth.
“C’mon, buddy, at least try,” Stanley muttered.
“Well –“ Dipper hesitated. Mabel glanced at her brother, and she did a sort of a shrug as he made a face.
“We did forgive Gideon,” she said.
“But Gideon’s a – human,” Dipper argued. “He’s not some- weird megalomaniac pyramid, Mabel!”
“You don’t have to forgive him,” Stanley said hastily. “Kids, all we’re asking if you’re okay if he sticks around – and even then, if he steps one toe out of line –“
“Well,” Mabel said slowly, eyeing her brother. “You know, we could – you know. That thing.”
“What thing?” Dipper asked blankly. Mabel leaned in to whisper in his ear, and his expression slowly transformed from a confused frown into a small grin.
“That might be fun,” Dipper admitted. “And it is our birthday.”
“It’s totally our birthday!” Mabel cheered. They did – or rather, performed a sort of complicated high-five. Stanford remembered those. They had to be practiced, in secret, so they’d look casual when done in public.
“You got your phone, bro-bro?” Mabel asked.
“I, er,” Dipper coughed. “No, not really.”
Mabel gave him a searching look.
“Dipper,” Mabel said slowly. “Did’ya break your phone while trying to take a selfie with the apocalypse?”
Dipper hung his head. “Yes,” he said.
“Oh well,” Mabel said fondly. “I bet Soos will let us use his phone. Okay, Bill, you’re in! But you have to do everything we say!”
“And wear everything we say,” Dipper added.
“That sounds ominous,” Stanley commented, not sounding particularly bothered by it.
“Deal!” Bill beamed, thrusting his hand for Dipper to shake. They all fell silent, staring at him, once again. “What?” Bill asked. “Sheesh. Tough crowd.” Stanley sighed, long-suffering.
“Okay, we’ve got a tight schedule today, but if we get started now, we can squeeze you in,” Mabel said briskly, gesturing imperiously. “Into the house, Bill Cipher!”
“I hope you don’t mind we invited a few people over, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper grinned. “They should be arriving any moment now.”
“A few people?” Stanford asked suspiciously.
“Yeah,” Dipper said, evasively. “A few. The town’s population is not that big, right?”
“Oh boy,” Stanley clapped his hands together, rubbing them. “Okay. I can make money outta this.”
“The whole town,” Stanford said weakly. “I see. Well, it is… your birthday. I guess.” Well, he supposed he hadn’t practiced his field camouflage in a while now.
“C’mon, Bill!” Mabel called out. “We gotta get you to hair and make-up!”
“Oh boy!” Bill perked up, immediately. “Whose hair?”
Stanley started making his way towards the house, following Bill and the twins, when he paused and glanced back at Stanford, who was lingering by the car.
“You okay?” he asked. “Y’know, it’s better if people just get used to – there being two of us. It’ll be okay.” He paused. “After everything’s that happened –“
“It’s fine, Stanley,” Stanford said absently. He was staring at trees. “I’m not worried about that. Really. You go on inside, I’ll be just a minute.”
From the corner of his eye he could see Stanley hold still for a moment, before his brother shrugged and started ambling towards the house.
He’d completely forgotten about the fact that the people in Gravity Falls thought he was Stanley – or, that Stanley was him. On the road no one had really asked for his ID, and they’d just been – Stanley and Stanford. Like they used to be. He paused for a moment, reflected on the words, particularly on the phrase he’d just thought – used to be.
Somehow it didn’t feel as gut-wrenching as it had before, thinking about it.
Stanford shook himself out of his thoughts abruptly, rolled up his sleeves, pulled a knife from his boot, and made his way towards the birthday balloons, like he’d intended.
Better safe than sorry, after all.
*
As Stanford entered the house, he found that it had been as lovingly, if insanely, decorated as the outside, maybe even more so. He was pretty sure the paint on the walls glowed in the dark.
There was a girl, a couple of years older than Dipper and Mabel, standing by the door leading into the living room – well, not as much standing as lounging against the doorframe with effortless grace, her arms crossed over her chest, a small smile playing on her lips, and somewhere deep inside some adolescent part of Stanford still recognized her as the Cool Girl.
“Oh, hey,” she said when she spotted Stanford, and then paused. “You’re the other Mr. Pines, aren’t you? The one Soos was talking about.”
Stanford cleared his throat awkwardly. “That’s right. The one who came back.” He paused, a name popping into his head. “Are you Wendy? I think I saw you during the – ah, the proceedings. You were good out there.” He paused, not really sure how to compliment a young girl on her dropkick. “Would’ve liked someone like you back when I was surviving outside our dimension.”
“Yeah?” Wendy paused, eyeing Stanford critically. “Dipper says you build stuff. Like – really cool stuff. We went to your bunker at some point.” She paused, and then added, casually. “We fought a shape-shifter.”
“Oh god,” Stanford paled. “I’m so, so sorry –“
“Don’t be!” Wendy laughed. “I mean, it was pretty scary, but cool too. Totally worth the nightmares!” She paused. “So, that guy, Bill Cheiffer or whatever –“
“Cipher,” Stanford corrected automatically.
Wendy smirked. “Bill Diaper. Got it. Anyway, he’s here now? He’s the same – um, guy the twins just dragged with them?”
Stanford was starting to sweat from this conversation. “That’s right – he’s at least temporarily incapacitated, completely harmless to everything except insects and pebbles which he seems to eat a lot –“
“He flew me up really high,” Wendy interrupted, eyeing Stanford – her eyes hard, for a moment. “Really high, and then he laughed and laughed, and I just fell. Good thing there was that pine tree.” She paused. “Is it okay if I punch him in the gut?”
Stanford exhaled, shakily. “Please. Be my guest. Anything that helps.”
“Thanks!” Wendy said, brightly, pushing her hat back a little. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. P. Be cool to your brother. He’s not a bad boss.” She paused. “You guys are still gonna run the Mystery Shack, right? I don’t have to look for a new job?”
Stanford licked his lips, his throat dry.
To be honest, when he’d told Stanley to get out of his house, it’d been easy. There had been no casualties, except the one who deserved it.
“I need to ask him,” he said, in the glare of Wendy’s bright Cool Girl glow, and she winked at him, slipping through the doorway, leaving Stanford standing in the hall alone. People would probably be arriving soon – Stanford decided that maybe he did need to talk to Stanley before that.
He wandered into the kitchen, which was stocked full of foods half of which he’d never seen in his life – voices drifting through the open window.
“Okay – you’ve got your lines, right? Soos, hold that sign the other way up!” Mabel’s voice piped up.
“Oops, sorry, Mabel.”
“Okay, Bill,” Dipper’s voice put in briskly. “We wanna do this nice and easy. No grumbling, no grouching, no trying to destroy reality and everything in existence. You got me?”
Stanford wasn’t sure whether he should feel worried or not. Bill tended to take restrictions as a sort of a personal challenge.
“I got ya, Pine Tree!”
There was a pause, and then Mabel was speaking again. “And a one, and a two, and one two three – action!”
Music started playing.
“I’M BILL AND I WAS WRONG! I’M SINGING THIS BILL WRONG SONG!”
Stanford had never heard anyone obliterate every right note in a song quite so thoroughly. It was actually sort of amazing. He wondered if the twins minded if he shoved a marshmallow, or a dozen, into his ear canals.
“I SHOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN THAT CHANCE! NOW HERE’S MY REMORSEFUL DANCE! HA CHA CHA!”
“Oh god,” Dipper groaned over the singing.
“He’s step-dancing! No one told him to do that! Where are the kicks?”
“I’M BILL AND I WAS WRONG –“
“Mabel, it’s all wrong! He’s enjoying it, Mabel! He’s enjoying it!”
Stanford winced. The heights that boy’s voice could climb up to.
“I know, Dipper! I don’t know what to do!”
“- MY REMORSEFUL DANCE – ONCE MORE FOR THE FOLKS BACK AT HOME!”
“What folks?”
“There’s no business like show business, kid!”
“What?!”
Something outside crashed to the ground and Bill cackled.
“Heh, y’know, he’s not half-bad,” Soos said.
Stanford escaped the kitchen in search for Stanley. And just to escape.
Outside Bill started the song for the third time.
*
He hadn’t been upstairs since he came back, but so much of it looked the same. The wallpaper was curling in the corners and the colour felt different – as Stanford looked at it he realized that Stanley must have replaced the paper with one that matched it the best.
He pushed open the door of the room that had been, once upon a time, his bedroom and found that it too, had stayed the same, under the surface of Stanley’s life.
Stanley sat on the bed, a box, unopened, next to him, lifting his eyes when Stanford came in. Neither of them said anything at first, and he stood there, inhaled the scent of familiar cologne, the smell of dental cream, old age and Stanley, and thought, long and hard, what to do.
“So,” Stanley said gruffly, breaking the silence. “What’s the plan, Ford? You leaving?”
“Not right now,” Stanford said, softly, and then. “You took my bedroom.”
“Slept on the couch downstairs for ten years. But my back started giving out, so – sorry about that, I guess.”
“Fair enough,” Stanford said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I’m going right away. But I’d like a proper bed.”
Stanley paused, his head bowed, his massive shoulders hunched, and then he nodded curtly and stood up, tucking the box under his arm.
“Give me a couple of hours to clean it out, and then you can – “
“Another – bed,” Stanley said, hastily, and added, when Stanley turned to stare at him. “You’ve slept here far longer than I have.” He paused. “I don’t think I could ever get that smell out of the mattress.”
Stanley huffed out a little laugh, and Stanford smiled, weakly. Here they stood, him and his brother, a strange old man who looked like their dad and laughed like that kid who still ghosted somewhere in Stanford’s memories. One moment he didn’t know this person at all, some stranger in his house and his life, keeping him constantly on edge – and the next, Stanley was like some anchor holding him in place, making him a part of something.
The way he saw it, he could either drift away or not.
“Stanley,” he started, and swallowed, his mind going blank.
“Stanford,” Stanley prompted, after a moment, his head cocked – a small crooked smile playing on his lips. And Stanford still couldn’t think of what to say. There were things, between them. There was no magic wand, no miracle solution, to wipe the slate clean, no single confrontation to make everything better.
“I’m sorry I said I didn’t want to – that I didn’t want you to be my – brother,” Stanford said, quietly, haltingly. “I was angry. Obviously, I was angry. I’m just –“
Stanley rubbed his ear, turning to look away, uncomfortably. “Look,” he interrupted, a little roughly. “I get it. I felt it too. I thought it’d be – I don’t even know who you are, anymore.”
Never had words filled Stanford with more strange relief. “You don’t? I mean – that’s exactly what I – I know who you are! But it’s like I feel this – obligation to act like your my brother when you –“
“When it feels like you’re hanging out with a total stranger, yeah,” Stanley agreed, still looking away, jaw set. “I guess that’s why I pushed it a little too hard. I wasn’t just trying to convince you – I was trying to convince myself too.”
“So,” Stanford started uncertainly. “What do we do now?”
Stanley took a deep breath, staring at the wall, and then dropped the box he was holding back onto the bed.
“Dunno. You wanna like – give this a shot?” he barely glanced at Stanford, like he was afraid of what he might see there. “Just stick around for a while – the two of us, once the twins go back home, and – well, Bill. Kinda seems like we’re stuck with Bill.”
“And Soos and Wendy,” Stanford said. “I don’t think I can fire her, she might hurt me.”
Stanley barked out a sudden, startled laugh, turned and stared at Stanford. “Wait – are you saying I can keep – going, with the Shack and everything? Is that what you’re trying to say here? Be very clear with me, Fordsie, you know what a dum-dum I am.”
Stanford’s mouth curled, in response to his brother’s, helplessly. “I don’t think I can fire Soos either. He’s got very soulful eyes.”
“Like some frigging twin ponds in some magical faerie forest.” Stanley laughed, running his fingers through his hair – and Stanford was startled, startled and pained, to see his hands shaking. “I was gonna make him ask ya too, in case you said no to me – oh boy – “
“Well, I’m sure glad you didn’t,” Stanford remarked, crossing the room, to sit on the bed gingerly. “I don’t think I could’ve taken that kind of pressure.”
“The kid’s got a way about him,” Stanley said, flashing a shaky grin at Stanford, grateful for the pretense as he sat down heavily next to him.
For a moment, they were quiet, their shoulders touching, sitting side by side, before a thought stirred in Stanford’s mind.
“What’re we going to do about my name?” he asked, quietly.
Stanley shrugged. “You could take mine. Or – I guess there are a couple of outstanding warrants there –“
“Are there any for Stanford Pines?”
Stanley coughed. “So – I have a big stash of fake IDs too, if you’d like to –“ he paused, studying the expression on Stanford’s face, and then concluded. “I don’t know, bro. I never thought – well, I just never thought this far.” He lowered his voice. “I just wanted you back.”
“What about just telling the truth?” Stanford asked, swallowing. “At least to people out here. I mean, I guess we could always just share my name.”
“The truth, huh?” Stanley blinked. “Wow, that’s a – I’d never have thought of that.” He paused, genuinely puzzling that over. “The truth. Huh. Well, I mean –“
“Foreign concept for you, huh?”
“You have to take a lead on that one,” Stanley said slowly. “I have no idea how to go about telling the truth, Ford, cards on the table.” He paused, adding, in wondering undertones. “The truth.”
“I can do that,” Stanford said, rubbing his face. “I’m sure we won’t be the strangest thing around here anyhow. We should fit in nicely.” He paused, nudging Stanley’s – and his – worn carpet with his toes. Somehow it felt easier – just a tad – to sit here, with his brother, like this. And it was a nice change of staring at the back of Stanley’s head. He’d already said the worst things, done the worst things – and yet, here they were. Suddenly, Stanford realized he’d been sort of afraid of this – of Stanley’s eyes, constantly on him like they were searching or pleading for the things Stanford couldn’t be. But he hadn’t been the only one who’d felt this way.
“I gotta ask you, for real,” Stanley said abruptly. “Ford, are you in love with Bill Cipher?”
“Ley,” and Stanford paused, gathering his words in order. “I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”
“And you act like a crazy person around him,” Stanley said bluntly. “All the time, you’re either smitten like a kitten or you’re trying to claw his eyes out –“
“Why am I cat in this scenario –“
“Hey,” Stanley interrupted loudly. “Listen. It’s okay. War’s over. Look at us.” He gestured at himself. “Don’tcha think at this point we can just do things for the hell of it?”
“Do things,” Stanford said, voice hollow. “I don’t think it’s even possible. For me to love him or him to love me. I’m just –“ he searched for the word, not finding it. “I’m stuck. I’m stuck to him. And now he’s stuck to me too. What is that? What can that even be called?”
“Marriage?” Stanley suggested dryly.
“Stanley, really –“
“No, listen,” Stanley said, lifting his hands to settle Stanford down. “I’ve thought about it. I’ve really thought about it.” And an odd expression flashed across his face, just briefly. “And I think I’ve got the hang of it. So he doesn’t feel like we do. He doesn’t think like we do. But it doesn’t have to matter – as long as he still – well, as long as he still goes all axe-murderer for ya. You get it? You don’t have to toss and turn and agonize over things you can’t control – because maybe he’s never gonna understand some things but he really wants to keep you around, Ford. He really does.”
“But what if he stops wanting one day?” Stanford asked, hoarsely. “What then?”
“Well,” Stanley said, his mouth quirking, crookedly. “See, the thing is – it never killed me.”
They fell silent, again, two old men sitting on a bed, hunched and greying. Stanford mulled over Stanley’s words – he wasn’t sure what Stanley was mulling over, with the way he stared at nothing, but he was quiet, nonetheless.
Finally, Stanford spoke, quietly. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” Stanley said, simply, and then. “Sometimes it’s worth it. Not always – but sometimes, it has been.”
“Good to know,” Stanford said, subduedly. He stirred, staring at his shoes, and then added, in a different tone, evenly. “This bed smells like you’ve spent thirty years farting into it every night.”
“You keep quiet, unless you want your face rubbed into it, ya nerd,” Stanley said serenely.
*
And then there was the party.
The whole town had really come – there were people milling in and out, the house and yards around the house both full of faces Stanford didn’t recognize nor did he really care to. Any other night, any other event, he would’ve retreated into the basement, but Dipper and Mabel were worth his newfound agoraphobia.
Stanley spiking his drinks for him had helped to take the edge off too.
There had been couple of awkward moments, throughout the night, such as when the cakes had been brought out and Mabel had told Bill that only people who hadn’t attempted to destroy the world got to have some.
“Well, that seems a bit rude!” Bill had said, gesturing at Stanford like he was genuinely indignant. “I mean, he’s related to you and everything!”
The twins had actually engaged into a brief furious discussion over the rules at this point.
It had been settled that people who’d tried to bring forth the apocalypse didn’t get any cake, unless they’d tried to fix things too. Stanford had surprised himself by how grateful he’d felt, getting a piece of that cake. He’d earned it, damnit.
Then, a little later, there’d been Fiddleford.
It had been a bit of a shock – no, it had been a nasty shock, a big shock, to see him again, and see the state his intelligent, kind, clever friend had been reduced to. And he’d been told Fiddleford was doing much better these days – that he wore shoes, finally, and he’d moved back in with his son. That he was remembering things again.
Stanford, who’d felt so relaxed, so at ease before, sat on the stairs with his head in his hands and Fiddleford’s hand on his shoulder, listening to him talk haltingly while he held back – because he wasn’t the one who was supposed to break down, here.
It was another one of the same, yet another stranger, but this time, Stanford was deeply, painfully guilty for not feeling at ease with this person.
“Do you think you can ever forgive me?” he’d asked, the staircase abandoned, his voice hoarse and quiet, barely carrying over the party.
Fiddleford had paused, leaning his bony arms against his knees, and stared into space for a moment.
“Ah reckon that’s feasible,” he’d said, finally, evenly, and when Stanford had turned to stare, he’d smiled, like the person he once knew, like he’d said it on purpose.
They’d sat like that a while longer, Fiddleford’s hand on his back, and Stanford had struggled to hold back some dark, bitter grief over years lost, fearing they were going to flow over.
He’d returned to the party and snapped at Stanley, and snapped at Bill, because he couldn’t help it. He’d made up with Stanley again almost immediately, though – watching Bill get sucker-punched by Wendy in the middle of the impromptu dance floor had helped a lot. People had clapped and cheered. Mabel had ordered Mabel-punch to be passed around. Everything had turned into a bit of a blur, after that.
And now, the crowd had thinned, from well-wishers to the closer friends, teenagers and kids, for the most part, but quite a few older faces that Stanford assumed were Stanley’s friends. Mabel was still on the dance floor, with a flock of girls her age, laughing and spinning like she was never going to stop, holding hands with a blonde girl who’d brought her an actual pony as a present. Dipper was holding court with teenagers older than him, Wendy sitting by his side, and they’d switched hats – she was wearing hers with the cap turned backwards, listening to whatever Dipper was explaining with a fond little smile. The teens were holding out their phones and talking about a “selfie”, whatever that was, hooting and laughing.
Stanford made his way to the living room, where Stanley, disregarding the guests still in the house, had taken over the armchair like some scarred, satisfied alley cat.
“Did’ya see that tiny horse outside?” Stanley asked. “Sheesh! The kid’s building up a frigging zoo in here – I’ve had hard enough time convincing her parents to let her keep the pig.” He paused, mouth curling. “Good party, though.”
Stanford looked around, for a flash of yellow.
“Have you seen Bill?” he asked.
Stanley leaned back, closing his eyes contently. “Not since I gave him a drink after Wendy hit ‘im.”
Stanford hesitated, standing there for a moment, weighing his options – and then he took off, leaving his brother dozing.
“Bill!” he called out, triangles staring at him from the windows and the carpets. “Bill!”
He went through the kitchen, the shop, the bathroom, all the rooms that he knew and remembered, and he was calm, and didn’t think about when he’d last seen Bill – hours ago – and that nothing actually bound Bill here except his human body, and he could pilot that thing wherever he wished to go.
He finally found Bill in the attic, the last place he looked, sitting under a window shaped in his image. The dream demon had his knees pulled against his chest, a red plastic cup sitting by his right, and he was holding a single Dorito chip between his thumb and a forefinger, staring at it with unblinking, unsettled intensity, before he turned that gaze on Stanford, holding it out to him.
“What is this?” Bill rasped, his voice voice small, as if everything he’d known had been wrong. “What is this?”
“I – “ Stanford paused. “How much have you been drinking?” He stepped forward and picked up Bill’s cup. Most of the Mabel punch was still there, but he put it up out of Bill’s reach, anyway.
Bill, in the meanwhile, looked at the chip for a moment longer, before he solved his momentary identity crisis by eating it.
“Nice party!” Bill said brightly and held out his hand. Stanford hesitated for a moment, before he took it, pulling Bill up to his feet.
“You think so?” he asked, skeptically. Bill flashed a grin, sans one tooth, and peered up at him like he found the question amusing.
“Sure! I mean, maybe not the kind of party I would’ve thrown – you know that, Sixer – but hey, you gotta start somewhere! Did’ya know I can fit thirty-three marshmallows in my mouth?”
“So that’s where they went,” Stanford remarked absently.
“Red dared me to,” Bill preened. “After she hit me! Funny, I asked if she could do it again and she said no!”
“Don’t ask – people to hit you,” Stanford said slowly, looking down at Bill. “They’ll get the wrong impression.”
“Well, apparently, since she did the opposite!”
Stanford looked at Bill, and then put his hand very deliberately on Bill’s shoulder – his bare shoulder, feeling the skin there, feeling the warmth.
“Don’t ask people to hit you,” he repeated, quieter. “Because then they might.”
“You going soft on me now, Sixer?” Bill asked, smirking crookedly.
“Well, you only have so many teeth left,” Stanford said evenly. “Someone might argue the originals are better than the prosthetic.” He paused. “I needed to talk to you.”
“You always do,” Bill said. “And good news to ya, Sixer – we’re talking right now!”
“About something,” Stanford said patiently. “About – “ he paused, feeling utterly ridiculous as he completed that sentence. “About us.”
Bill paused, and looked at Stanford, his eyes glowing, steady and warm and strange, in the dark attic.
“What about us?” Bill asked. “Y’know, I was under the impression we had an understanding. I thought you got it – you said I got it –“
“Yes,” Stanford said, his voice lowering, hastily. “You do. You do, Bill. But I – humans need this. I need this – I need to know what things are.”
Bill paused, staring at Stanford, blank and mute, and he knew he’d lost him – that Bill just didn’t comprehend, not really. Stanford grappled with the words shouting over each other in his head, words that Bill wouldn’t get or experience – and then finally, he breathed out.
“I want things. I want to be happy,” he said, swallowing, feeling his throat dry out. “I want my family to be happy, and safe. I want –“ he hesitated.
“Could give ya a nifty finger I found on a mens’ room floor,” Bill whispered up at him, almost tenderly.
“No, and we’re burying that tomorrow. Bill –“
“There’s a pony downstairs that could suffer an accident,” Bill said speculatively. Stanford shifted and grasped his arms, firmly.
“Stop guessing,” he said.
Bill laughed, low and amused. “You never let me guess, IQ.”
“That’s because everything you say is awful,” Stanford said lowly. “You’re an awful, awful person, Bill.” Bill laughed. He shifted, tightening his grip a little. “I don’t even know why I’m up here. I don’t even know why I want you.”
Bill paused, his eyes gleaming, and slowly, slowly he smiled – and Stanford should have found that smile alarming, like a mouse watching a cat smile, but everything in Bill was alarming and wrong and horrible, and somehow it had grown on him anyway. Maybe this was what he liked in his life, post-Portal.
Bill was sort of cute when he was this smug.
“My, my my, Stanford Pines,” Bill said.
“Yes,” Stanford said hoarsely. “That, exactly.”
“My Stanford,” Bill said, tilting his head like a bird, an alien in a flesh-suit, wondering, and Stanford let out a shaky huff of laughter, shifting closer. He had no idea what he was doing.
“Just stay,” he said – or perhaps pleaded, more like it. “Just stay for a while, Bill. Maybe I’m just a drop in your ocean, but you owe me at least this much – you owe me for taking half of my life. I want this.”
“Humans always want things,” Bill said absently, and lifted his hand, toying with Stanford’s sweater. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve been asked – well, maybe you would, you guys aren’t exactly kings of imagination –“
“Bill –“
“I want things too,” Bill continued. “Y’know? And hey, I’m not stupid! You won’t give me my powers back, will ya, you won’t release me – “
“I can’t –“
“Just worship me.” Bill’s eyes shone like lamps, and Stanford stood frozen in their glow like a rabbit in headlights as Bill continued, lowly. “Just a lil – just a lil bit, Stanford Pines – that’s what I want - hey, I know, I know I’m in this unimpressive cover, it’s weird and squishy and ugly –“
“I think you’re beautiful,” Stanford said, the words rushing out of his mouth, stumbling over each other.
Bill froze, staring at him, his hand still on Stanford’s collar, his expression wondering.
Stanford struggled, for what was supposed to come next. Ah, yes.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
“What –“ and Bill still looked wide-eyed, genuinely taken aback – a good look on him – staring at Stanford, “What’s a kiss?”
“I could show you,” Stanford said very quietly, his throat dry, and it was laughable, really, that he’d never done this before and yet Bill had him beat on the inexperience.
He leaned in, and their lips met clumsily, wet and awkward, and Stanford didn’t know where to put his hands, whether to pull Bill closer or hold him in place, Bill’s hair tickling against his face. As he pulled back, Bill licked his lips, thoughtfully.
“Well, that was terrible!” he declared, and Stanford felt his chest go cold with anxiety; but Bill grinned, and took off Stanford’s glasses, putting them on himself, and then Stanford found himself pulled closer by the lapels of his shirt, and he had no choice, really, no choice at all but to put his arms around Bill properly.
“Let’s try that again, shall we?” Bill said.
They did.
It was better the second time around.