Archive of Our Own

While Stanley wouldn’t consider himself the most “purposeful and calculated” person, he wouldn’t call himself oblivious or naive, either. He was old, but that made him an experienced businessman—he was able to learn to pick up patterns from people, especially after living a life of constant re-do’s.

At first, it was a skill made to avoid trouble. Trouble always managed to find him and he needed a way out after displeasing customers or jail mates—so he began looking at the different scars, expressions, and ticks to avoid and tried to search for patterns that would work in his favor, instead. 

It was only after picking up the Mystery shack in Gravity Falls that he found a good, livable pattern to stick to. (Farming smiles and laughter and absurdity was a source of both money and sanity, during those years.)

He could read the energy of a room and the people inside it, at least more easily compared to books and endless cursive. The only fault was in how he spoke at the wrong time. Or maybe it was the emotive, clumsy, and vulgar part. Whatever. That gave him personality, which was one of the things he wanted to keep, because that was the one thing that made him effective and independent.

Anyway—it wasn’t his job to be cool or calculating or consistent. Those traits were for his brother. 

And, now, they were reunited with Weirdmageddon long gone and his memories up and running. It was the dream he had fought for and finally managed to gain by correcting his mistake. Maybe, this was the only universe where it worked out, but all Stan cared about was how the Pines brothers were back together again.

And, that’s all he needed to care about, because anything more than that—asking too many questions or being involved in Ford’s actual work—was one of those bad patterns he managed to avoid thus far. Memory blanks or not, he knew that much.

So, Stanley wasn’t oblivious, and he was able to pick up on what his brother needed without an interrogation (usually food, sleep, or a scolding knock on the head). Stan could also see patterns that came from childhood (usually muttering to himself while journaling or keeping his hands intertwined behind his back around others). Those were familiar.

But, Stan eventually picked up on unfamiliar patterns of his brother—new ones that he couldn’t connect with anything except theories on what could have happened to Ford in those other dimensions (or, what could have happened before that postcard was sent).

And, it was those new patterns that made it more difficult for Stan to care less about what Ford was up to, especially since most of them were negative, in a way: random spouts of paranoia, a habitual need for caffeine at night, and (again) muttering, but in some sort of quick, anxious alien language. At that point, the patterns built up to be signs of some sort of scars. Criminals had an eye for scars.

Stan didn’t like thinking too much about Ford’s potential scars. Thinking was another trait for his brother, not him. But, he did anyway, because he was helpless in stopping his own habits. And, it wasn’t his fault that Ford was so reserved sometimes.

(A snake could only coil so much before it began to suffocate someone, so it’s better not to wrap around the neck in the first place, Stanley had learned. Then again, Ford once told him snakes don’t typically cut off air, but blood flow instead. Whatever!)

The first time Stan caught onto one of Ford’s scars, it was an accident. 

They were in the dining slash sitting room of the Stan O' War II, eating together like, well, a family. A month in, and it was the first time they were eating at an actual table, since Ford usually ate alone in his office/lab or Stan on the deck. So, it was the one day where their screwed-up schedules actually aligned. 

There was a lamp with one of those thousand-year-skin-softening light bulbs installed above the table. Stan was able to feel the warmth from the light as he sat under it on one side, waiting for Ford to join him on the other.

Stan's eyes were dragging back and forth as they followed Ford’s fervent pacing in the kitchen. The researcher’s arms moved fervently as he described a plan for studying anomalous narwhals and comparing them to the unicorns back in Oregon. And, while Stan was listening (trying to), he was more taking note of how Ford’s food was getting cold.

“I actually started blueprinting a while ago, so I think I’ll start working on the prototype tonight, and it should be finished by the time we get there.”

“Mhm, cool. You can show me after we eat.”

“Naturally! A second opinion will be needed. I’m sure you will have some creative input—oh, and of course it needs a proper name—”

Stan pushed Ford’s plate forward in a slightly obvious way to make a silent point, but it went unnoticed.

“Though, I have been brainstorming some myself. Ah, and I have worked out all the software and such, but maybe the device should be painted with a purpose? I do have a rough theory that certain colors can make this particular species of narwhal reactive somehow—”

“Like a bull?”

It looked like Ford was about to dismiss the comment, but, once he processed it, he stopped to add:

“It’s actually a common misconception that the color red makes bulls aggressive—”

Stan sighed with mixed amusement and impatience.

“Eat,” Stanley insisted with additional firmness, wholly interrupting the spiel. When Ford’s eyes narrowed, he continued. “Tell me between bites.”

At that, Ford rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and he mindlessly removed his gloves. He plopped down in his seat and placed them at the edge of the table. 

Out of habit, Stan never really looked at Ford’s hands, because he became self-conscious if anyone studied them for too long. Funnily enough, Stan found more distrust in other people’s hands, being used to looking out for pickpocketing or stealing from the gift shop. And, Stan knew that the only thing Ford’s hands were doing was inventing, not taking anything from Stan. There was nothing he could want from him, anyway.

But, while Stan’s eyes would usually just brush over his hands, there was something on the exposed skin that zapped his brain awake.

“What is that?”

Ford reflexively curled his fingers, and Stan immediately made the correction.

“The scar, I mean.”

It couldn’t really be called a scar, but it fit enough. It was more like a pethera of them made into one bigger one across his knuckles and tendons. They were evidently old, but the outlines were still somewhat visible—the edges formed like the mixed lands and archipelagos on the boat’s maps.

But, unlike his more passionate and enthusiastic demeanor when explaining the maps, Ford seemed to frown a little at the mention of the scar. 

“An accident.”

Stan hid his own curiosity by averting his attention to his plate.

“In a science experiment way or in a punching-the-wrong-alien way?”

“Neither,” Ford responded.

Stan looked back up. Rather than elaborating further, his brother had finally decided to take a bite of his pizza, maybe trying to chew Stan’s potential questioning away. It wouldn’t work, not with how the scarring looked.

“In the portal?”

“No.”

“Before, then. Did one of the gnomes gnaw on you?”

Ford let out a huff, a slightly amused but defensive sound.

“No, not from teeth. And, the damage was dealt with as soon as I was made aware of it.”

“Made aware of it?” Stan asked, and that was when Ford finally crossed his arms, letting out some sort of contemplative sigh.

Stanley was ashamed to have already broken his rule of not asking too many questions and getting too involved in his brother’s life, but ‘an accident’ wasn’t a good enough answer. There was some sort of unsaid darkness that made Stan uncomfortable to not know about. But, he kept quiet as Ford seemed to search for an answer in the back of his mind.

“Do you remember when I told you about Bill?” He eventually said.

Technically, his brother never told him anything until after the kids told him and Stan forced Ford to cough it up, at least part of it.

But, he could remember the fact that Ford had been convinced to make the portal in the first place because of the demon—with some sort of deal being made. Stan was no stranger to falling into the wrong crowds and making deals that he would rather forget, but when he made deals with demons, it was never literal.

“Mhm.”

Ford continued at Stan’s affirmation.

“And, when the portal was finished, that I couldn't let him access it?”

“And that’s why you called me over that time?”

“Yes, good.”

Stan rolled his eyes at Ford’s not-so-vague attempt to assess his memory. It was done out of care, so he supposed he couldn’t complain with what he was getting. And, this conversation was more trusting than any of the others they had before. Stan couldn’t complain about that. But, his jaw clenched, anyway.

“So…?”

“So, he didn’t take it very well.”

Stan’s eyebrows furrowed at the thought of Bill harming his brother, but he still didn’t understand how it led to the scarring on Ford’s knuckles. The confusion must have translated into his expression, because Ford continued rather delicately.

“For the days I let my guard down, he would try to convince me to let him access the portal.”

Convince. Stan wasn’t oblivious to the implications. He didn’t have to think too much for that one. Rico and his buds convinced for a living.

But, of course, his brain wasn’t big enough to grasp the supernatural level of hurt Ford seemed to know. Stan was only involved in “earthly” fights. It was nothing in comparison to Ford’s world. He glanced down at the scar again.

Stan knew nothing, but he knew blunt trauma, and he knew his brother’s hand took a whole load of it. And because of the triangular demon? That was able to possess people? The scarring wasn’t on the other hand, so it must have been the one holding the weapon.

“For how long?”

Stanley didn’t quite recognize his own voice, and he wasn’t sure where the question came from. Ford didn’t seem to either, but the tone seemed to disconcert the researcher.

“A forgotten story, really. The mistake was undone.”

“A forgotten story,” Stan repeated, and Ford rolled his eyes again, less in good nature and now more in that uppity way he did when frustrated. It successfully made Stan more irritable.

Even when he looked away, the marks were fresh in his mind and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed them until now. He could feel his ears run hot at the thought of his brother’s skin being busted open and how he had obviously resisted giving in for so long—it still showed after decades. The turtleneck had to have been hiding the increased measures Bill took in response to that resistance. Stanley knew how that kind of convincing worked. His brother was hurting for years while Stanley was, what, conning customers?

“He tortured you, and it’s a forgotten story? Seriously, Sixer? God, no wonder you had a crossbow just on tap like that.”

Stan rubbed at his face, and when he looked back at his brother, he saw his eyebrows knit with both guilt and surprise. He likely didn’t expect Stan to remember that, but God, he did. His surprise made Stan angrier. His mouth was beginning to run.

“What? I know I can’t remember what I had for dinner yesterday, but I can remember those damn eyebags from when I saw you then, Ford. Is that surprising?”

Most times, Stan wasn’t sure if Ford cared in a patient-doctor way or in an actual familial way. But, when Stan saw Ford flinch, he realized that it didn’t matter, because he was lucky enough to have any care from him at all.

He had stood up at some point, and it was when he saw Ford’s tense face that he placed himself back down onto the chair, reining himself back in. He tried to focus on the heat of the lamp again, but it felt more clammy, now.

“I… sorry.”

They were on a boat together, and it was the dream he had wanted. Stan didn’t have the right to wake up from it after spending his whole life manifesting it. After a moment of silence, Ford spoke.

“Forgiven. I understand, Stanley,” Ford said with a small smile. It’s alright, his eyes seemed to say.

But, even with the forgiveness, Stan knew he made another mistake with his reaction, because Ford easily put the gloves back on as he segued into another conversation. Covering. Distrust. 

Ford’s tone was unbothered as he spoke about one of his upcoming inventions for the adventure ahead, but Stan felt his heart drop. He already knew that when he started with one mistake, it was bound that he would make another. Patterns. That’s how he functioned.

Ford ended up eating the pizza, at least.

— — —

A month after that night, they continued to exchange jokes and conversations like they usually did, and, as they approached closer to their destination in the Arctic, he thought he had moved past the thoughts of the scars entirely. He was getting better at forgetting when he wanted to, at least during the day.

But, it was night, this time. The moon was full, bright, and high over the water, and Stan was out on the deck, leaning on the railing. It was cool, and the mist of the waves and rocking of the boat was soothing compared to being inside. And, he didn’t want to risk disturbing Ford, who was asleep in his bunk.

Arguably, it was an even rarer event than them being found eating together, with Ford never sleeping and Stan always wanting to catch up on it. But, Ford seemed to have overworked himself yet again on an invention, the most recent one having been lovingly named the Narwhalmatic (courtesy of Stanley).

The Narwhalmatic was perched on a dresser inside, probably. Ford had taken it out of the lab at one point. Whatever, Stan was busy remembering other things. The dark made him contemplative, which made him usually want to sleep more. Contemplation meant thinking, and thinking wasn’t good for him.

But, tonight, he didn’t want to sleep.

Maybe it was because he just noticed the clarity of the sky—clearer than Gravity Falls with its trees being more populated than the people and street lights. Or, maybe he just wanted more time with the water and the boat.

The foam of the sea danced on the surface, flimsy and fragmented.

When Ford had announced that he was going to sleep earlier, Stan didn’t believe him, but when he turned, he saw the rings under his eyes. And, for once, Stan didn’t follow him to the bunk to ensure that Ford actually went to bed like he usually would.

Stan had simply nodded and turned back to the water, giving a “rest well” as he continued to lean on the railing. But, when he didn’t hear footsteps, he turned to see Ford still standing there.

Before Stan could actually process Ford’s expression, that was when he had quickly turned to leave. Had he been expecting something more? He was likely expecting Stan to follow, but Stan had learned better. He didn’t need to follow him like a puppy anymore. He was getting better. He wasn’t looking in a mirror and imagining it being someone else anymore.

Stan watched him as he walked away silently, just barely noticing some more scarring as Ford’s hair was adjusted by the gust of wind. Must have been from inserting that metal plate.

Stan didn’t comment on the scarring, that time, turning back around once more to look up at the sky. Ford needed sleep, and the last comment Stan had made led to Ford wearing gloves around him more often. Though, it was getting colder, which at least made the thought less discomforting.

Then, torn from his thoughts, he felt a drop of rain. The coolness trailed down his cheek. 

Oh, right. Ford’s radar had predicted it was going to shower tonight. While it would have been more responsible to go back inside, Stan found himself stuck to the dock, unwilling to move from the railing. The previously slow-moving foam on the ocean’s surface turned into a blur as the rainfall thickened and the ripples melded together. It was comforting.

The rain touched his skin and wet his hair. He looked down at his covered arms, seeing the wet spots of his clothing slightly shining from the moonlight. He looked back up at the source. The moon was broken into pieces as the clouds passed over it.

He used to not have the time or energy to look at anything beautiful. It was either constant movement or staring up at the dents of his car for hours. But, now, the stars and clouds and sky were here and were going to stay for as long as he was on the boat. Even though the stars would never look back at him, he at least had a chance to be near something pretty. (And, the reflection of the water doubled the amount, on the days it was calmer.)

His eyes followed the movement of the waves for a moment longer before the railing slipped under his hand, and he seemed to snap back to reality as he steadied himself. The rain wasn’t super heavy, but it hadn’t let up yet. 

His vision was obscured, and he realized his glasses were covered in droplets, so he took them off and shoved them in his pocket. He was used to functioning without them—a little difficult at the moment, but he would make do like he usually did.

Stan let out a breath, and when it came out shaken, he decided that would be the best time to head inside. He turned to the entrance of the cabin, just barely hearing his own breathing over the rain hitting the deck’s surface.

He opened the door with haste, but remembered to shut it closed quietly. His own breathing was audible now, and he quietened himself as his eyes adjusted to the light inside (it wasn’t much, but the lamp from the sitting room illuminated some). In the quietness of the cabin, he heard water pooling beneath him from his clothes.

He looked down at himself habitually. Even without his glasses, he could tell the water had soaked to the skin. He was wearing two layers, with the outer one being a fleece jacket. The fabric was wet and spongy as he tested it with his fingers. It definitely needed to be hung out to dry for the next few days. He must have stayed out on the deck longer than he thought.

Whatever, he lost track of time—that happened to everyone. He needed a towel, first.

At the door, he took the jacket off and dropped it by his shoes, then began a careful yet brisk walk to the bathroom to avoid having any more water drip everywhere.

The bathroom was dark, but he managed to feel around for a towel. His teeth were chattering and—damn, he was too old for this. He dried his face off with one hand as the other fumbled around for his glasses in his pocket.

His fingers tingled as he pinched the towel with one hand and guided his glasses with the other. He dried each of the lenses, but a tremor decided to pass through his fingers, and the rim slipped out of his grasp. He heard the clatter of them dropping, and he sighed before bending over, knees audibly grinding as he reached down for the glasses.

But, more water must have accumulated below him from his pants, because his foot slid, and he felt his body turn.

His hands flailed as they reached for any support.

The side of his palm brushed against something before it fell out of reach, leaving him to grab for the edge of the sink. He could hear the shatter of his glasses before a louder more metallic collision followed.

“Shit!”

Stan cursed as he reoriented himself, catching a breath. He lifted himself up and flicked on the light. He could see the outline of his glasses at his feet and—

He didn’t need to put his glasses back on to know he had broken something else.

The shape was recognizable—comparable to the blueprints Ford had shown him—and he could make out several dark metallic pieces scattered across the wooden floor.

No.

Stanley apparently said that out loud, because he heard the acoustics of the bathroom return the word to him. It rang in his ears, and reality suddenly shot through him. He dropped his knees to the ground, hands fumbling.

“No, no, no—”

What was the Narwhalmatic doing in the bathroom? Why couldn’t he remember where it had been placed before? Was it always here? He was as clumsy as he was since he was a child. No matter how hard he polished he was still the same walking pattern. He wasn’t a child anymore. At this point, Stan was hurting his brother on purpose.

He heard footsteps rapidly approaching, and a shiver racked his body. His hands felt clammy and clumsy, his face hot and cold all at once. Ford was going to find out.

“I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it,” he repeated to himself, but if Ford had needed more than a month to work on this, Stanley knew he wouldn’t be able to fix anything in under a few seconds.

Rather than getting up from the ground, he braced himself. His legs had become numb at some point, and he leaned his head against the coolness of the sink’s lower cabinet. It grounded him, but not as much as the entrance of his brother.

“Stanley! Are you—”

The footsteps stopped, and he could feel Ford assessing the situation. His new invention was definitely in view, battered and most definitely non-functional—the same invention he had been going on about for weeks with an excitement that reminded Stan of when they were young. Maybe Stan should have taken that nostalgia as a warning.

Stanley didn’t look up, keeping his head low. He already knew Ford was angry. But, instead of the yelling he was expecting, Ford’s voice came out as worried and a little out of breath.

“Holy Moses, you’re soaked. What happened?”

Stan swallowed, not able to find any excuses or explanations.

“I broke—I broke it… I’m sorry.”

Stan felt somewhat detached from his voice, but he heard it echo back to him with a soft quiver. He personally thought it sounded undetectable under the grit, but Ford must have caught it as he swiftly kneeled down beside him. Damn him and his strong knees.

“It’s… it’s fine. Hold on, let's get you dried up first.”

He felt the towel being draped over his shoulders. His vision suddenly cleared, and Ford was in view. The researcher had picked up his glasses and put them on. They were cracked. Stan let out a bitter scoff, somewhat dry and wheezy.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Yes, you do.”

Ford’s voice was firm, and Stan frowned. He could feel his body shivering. His shirt stuck to his skin uncomfortably. Ford needed to fix the machine, not the source of the damage. Stan frowned further and gripped the towel around his shoulders. Had his brother just said it was fine?

“Of course,” Stan said sarcastically. “You would think I found some sort of independence being away from you for more than half of our lives, but I’m still the same person.”

“What?”

Ford’s confusion made Stan angrier, loosening his tongue. The words were already slipping out through chattering teeth and resounded on the walls.

“It never changes, it’s p–predictable. So predictable. It was already predicted as soon as I was born. A parasite—”

“Stanley.”

“—a parasite, poison, just like Bill. Only another conman would be able to worm his way back into your life, right? ”

The last word was accompanied with a drained laugh like it was an overdone joke. He heard Ford’s breath catch at the mention of the demon. Stan didn’t continue after that, afraid that his voice would break. Bringing up the name had to have provoked him, so Stan looked away, bracing himself again. They were both breathing somewhat heavily.

Ford took a slow breath in, but still didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t speak as he remained kneeled, either, probably to try and evaluate more of the situation, as if there was some sort of logical explanation for everything. Well, how would he be able to respond, anyway? Yes, actually, you are right.

But, the silence remained. Stan couldn’t look up, so he looked down where Ford’s hand was resting. It was slightly trembling against the wooden floor. It was the one with the scar on it, and it was much more visible up close in the bathroom light. God, how painful was it when the flesh was exposed? Why didn’t Stan notice sooner?

Stanley mindlessly reached out his hand towards his brother’s knuckles. His fingers ghosted over the creased skin, and, to his surprise, Ford didn’t flinch away. In fact, Stan felt him reach to feel his own shaking hand instead.

“You’re freezing.” Ford said it as a statement more than anything else. “I’m fetching you clothes. Wait here.”

And so, Ford stood quickly and walked out, presumably back to the bunks.

In silence, Stan wrapped the towel further around himself self-consciously. He could feel his muscles straining as he sat on his knees, and he eventually moved to stand. He shook as he did so, but he did it on his own, and that was enough for him.

His brother returned promptly with the replacement clothing between the crook of his elbow. He handed the bundle to Stan with a quiet here.

Stan took it, but wasn’t left to change in the bathroom until Ford dried all the surfaces down. He didn’t once mention the invention as he did so, even stepping over it unconcernedly at one point.

Ford had been keeping himself quiet and distracted with the methodical tasks: cleaning, fetching clothing, folding towels, et cetera. So, he was purposefully ignoring it, and probably saving the conversation for tomorrow. God, Stan had really messed up.

Then, Stan was left alone in the tidied-up bathroom to change. After many moments of struggle, he managed to dress into something dry. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was a face with clammy skin and eye bags hanging darkly. 

When he reached up to rub away the dark circles, he noticed a small shiny spot on his sleeve. And, before he could curse it for being more water, he looked down and saw the iridescence. It was glitter, an obvious signature of his grandniece. Ah. It probably should have annoyed him, but he felt something tighten his throat at the thought of it being just for him—a small reprieve compared to the colorlessness of the invention broken not even a foot away from him.

He looked away from the machinery, then up and down at the door, pondering his exit. 

Stan took a few breaths in and out, as he usually did before performing for customers. He hoped Ford was asleep by now, or at least lying down. But, upon opening the bathroom door, Ford was standing right outside.

“Holy—Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?”

Ford’s eyes were a little wide and guilty.

“Sorry! Sorry. I just… you know. Just in case.”

Stan raised his eyebrows. His brother was shifting around. Stan had probably alarmed him in some way—likely from the crash of the invention hitting the ground earlier. And, the fact that it was night didn’t help. 

Stan turned the bathroom light off and closed the door behind him, a futile attempt to hide the shame that was inside and in pieces. He turned back to the fidgeting man in front of him.

“I’m fine, Ford—no, seriously. I’m good. Thanks… for helping.”

“You’re welcome,” Ford said, but his eyes were still darting around, as if there was some sort of danger.

Stan sighed at how he had amplified his brother’s nighttime paranoia. Loud noises. Noted.

“So—”

“What were you doing outside?”

Stan crossed his arms at the interruption, but answered anyway.

“I was just looking at the water. There was nothing dangerous out there.”

“For how long?” Ford asked, ignoring the small reassurance.

“Not sure.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed, somewhat scoldingly. Stan winced internally.

“Stanley, it felt like you were out there for at least an hour. Why didn’t you go inside when it started raining?”

Stanley shrugged, then gave an awkward chuckle. He put a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder—tense.

“Lost track of time, I guess. I’m good now. We’re good now. Good thing you made those thousand-year bulbs, huh? It’s like I was never out there at all.”

The lie was said as a comfort, but more for himself.

“Mm,” Ford answered, still looking at Stan with some sort of assessing stare. There was a frustration behind it, and Stan shifted on his feet, pulling his hand away to scratch his neck. The discomfort would come first, then the distrust, and then the anger would kick in at any moment.

(Dipper had followed the same pattern before the portal opened. His grandnephew wore Ford’s face sometimes. Stan probably should have been sad when Dipper called him a liar, but it was the days when the boy’s head was buried in a book or mouth was running about some niche subject that something hurt.)

Stan cleared his throat.

“Well, it’s probably better we head to bed now, yeah? Didn’t mean to wake you, Six.”

“It’s fine. You didn’t wake me. I wasn’t asleep yet.”

His voice was still strangely quiet and reserved. But, Stan just scoffed light-heartedly to counter the potential contemplation behind the tone.

“Course you weren’t.”

Ford didn’t reply, instead grabbing his arm. And before Stan could ask, he was being practically manhandled to the bunks.

“Hey!”

Ford ignored him again, only responding with a small huff. Brevity is the soul of wit, Stan thought bitterly, then followed his pace as best he could. 

Once he let himself be dragged through the doorway and next to his bunk, Ford let go. 

The lamp on Ford’s bedside-desk was lit, with a few pens and crumbled papers from the desk having fallen off the edge. Stan could imagine the mess being from Ford fumbling to turn on the light before he ran to the bathroom.

Other than that, there were the windows high above the beds, stained with rain. There was a small pattering sound that could still be discerned from outside, but there was a sizable ray of moonlight coming through Stan’s window, so the rain must have let up like Ford’s system probably predicted.

Stan rubbed his arm and threw Ford a mock glare, and when the man didn’t budge, Stan rolled his eyes in defeat. Well, the sooner Stan went to bed, the sooner Ford would go to bed. Stan put his glasses on his bedside desk next to his red beanie.

Stan’s ankles groaned as he climbed onto the mattress, then his back as he pulled the covers up and laid his body down. He turned his back to his brother before lazily covering himself again, forcing his eyes closed.

When he expected to hear the sound of the other bunk creaking, he felt his own covers move over him further. They were being adjusted. Then, the weight of a second blanket fell on him and was tucked at his side. He opened his eyes and saw Ford’s blurry shadow cast by the lamp on the wall. He stared at it moving around, and the realization set in.

“Good grief. Are you seriously tucking me in—”

“Yes. If you won’t for me, then I will for you,” Ford replied stubbornly.

“When have I…”

Stan trailed off as he briefly recalled the small moment before he was left alone with the water—how he had abandoned the usual ritual of forcing Ford to bed. It was only occasionally (maybe always) that he put a blanket over him. He had been sure that the researcher was too tired to remember that. Well, apparently not sure enough. Stan huffed as he begrudgingly let Ford “correct” the bedding.

“Regardless of what you think…” Ford sighed after finally moving away. There was a beat of silence before he continued with a little bit of embarrassed petulance. “I actually find it comforting when I’m not sleeping alone.”

So Ford couldn’t fall asleep because he wasn’t there? He was a comfort for his brother? Stan couldn’t stop his heart, so he turned his face into his pillow when he felt something in his eyes.

“Oh, okay.”

That was the safest response he could make. But, apparently, not the most convenient one, because Ford thought it best to sit down on the edge of the bunk. Stan felt the side of the mattress bend the slightest bit behind him.

Stanley was getting too comfortable. The unintentionally glittered top was warm and, despite the complaints, Ford had wrapped the covers around him snugly. He knew he was getting too comfortable, too soft, and he should have told Ford to buzz off and go to sleep already, but he didn’t when Ford opened his mouth.

“So, what was that about?”

Ah, so he wasn’t saving it for tomorrow. Ford never saved anything for tomorrow, so Stan shouldn’t have hoped otherwise. Stan sighed as he looked back at the wall and the fuzzy shadow of his brother sitting near him.

“I don’t know. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

“No, I mean… what you said,” Ford elaborated. “What you said made me frustrated.”

Stan felt shame wash over him. He had brought up the demon rather casually, hadn’t he? Especially after knowing more about what he had done.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry for bringing him up.”

“Not what I meant, Stan,” Ford corrected, saying the name with a growled frustration. Stan didn’t know what else to guess.

“Me breaking—”

“No! You getting practically frozen blue and freaking out over an accident and calling yourself those—those names! ”

The anger that Stan sensed earlier from Ford came out suddenly. Stan’s mouth shut with an audible click, and the rain could be heard spattering outside against the boat. Ford continued, speaking at Stan’s back.

“A parasite, Stanley? How long have you been thinking that? You’re not innately trying to hurt me. I know it was an accident.”

Stan swallowed thickly.

“Yeah,” he answered vaguely, which made Ford breath in slowly to compose himself.

“Even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t hold it over you. I’ve… I’ve learned not to,” Ford admitted softly. “This place is yours just as much as it’s mine. Which also means you can come into the lab instead of staying on the deck all the time.”

Stan felt exposed at Ford’s observation. But, at the hinted offer, Stan wasn’t sure if Ford genuinely hated the distance as much as he did, or if Ford was just trying to convince himself out of unspoken guilt. His heart immediately fled.

“We can talk about that tomorrow,” Stan insisted, nestling the side of his face in the pillow. “Go to sleep, Sixer.”

“No—”

“Yes.”

“Stanley, stop.”

Ford was upset now. There was a small beg in his voice, and Stan’s lip curled at the sad sound.

“Just say you’re mad at me,” Stan heard himself say obstinately. “I’d rather hear that. Saves the trouble.”

Ford made a disgruntled sound.

“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad that I wasn’t there to help.”

“You should. I always manage to break something.” Someone.

“Still a hero at heart,” Ford countered.

That was one of the things Stan still didn’t understand, even with his memories back. Ford had been calling him that from time to time with frightening sincerity, and Stan went along with it. But, it always left behind a bad taste, one that was more potent compared to the other lies said in his life.

He saved everyone with the erasure of his mind. A sacrifice, Ford called it, a hero. But Stan only thought of it as another attempt to fix his own mistake. It was Ford that was going to save the town with that zodiac circle, then Stan broke it, and he had to improvise. Like he did when he pushed his brother into the portal.

“Hero” seemed to act as another one of his false identities that everyone followed along with. But, if that title was what led to them sailing together on Stan O’ War II, then Stan supposed he could live as another lie for a while longer. So, he just shrugged.

“Whatever.”

“It wouldn’t be right to stay mad at the one who would erase himself just to get me back.”

Stan drew in a breath. Was there a poetry dimension that his brother had dropped by or something? But, that thought didn’t come out. Instead, his mouth was already responding with something painfully defenseless.

“So, you’re not mad at me? You won’t—”

His voice broke, and he stopped talking.

“Won’t?” Ford pried gently, and Stan gave up.

“Won’t make me leave?”

The shadow on the wall flinched, and there it was, out in the open. Stan squeezed his eyes shut. It sounded stupid when he said it out loud, but he felt a hand set down on his shoulder.

“When I say you can be in the lab, it means I want you to join me. When I’m working on something, I want you to have a say in it. I want us to have time together. I want—” 

Ford cut himself off before his voice lowered into something soft and fragile. 

“I want you to be my brother.”

Before the last word could finish, Stan already felt the pillow beneath him becoming wet against his cheek. He couldn't even thank himself for being faced away because he clumsily revealed himself with a sharp, shaky exhale of relief.

“Oh, Stanley…”

At his name, he curled in on himself, probably undoing the progress Ford had made with the covers, but his brother didn’t go to adjust it. Stan felt the hand on his shoulder move to the space of his covered back. It began to move in a small, firm circle.

Stan forced himself to be still, not resisting the touch, but not leaning into it, or else Ford would have been able to feel the shuddering of his lungs. Hell, he probably already could, but he didn’t say anything. The weight of Ford’s reassuring hand echoed what he said.

I want you to be my brother.

An involuntary sob forced its way out. Stan felt himself recoil instantly when he heard it, silencing himself with the pillow. And, his heart nearly stopped when he felt the hand leave his back, but, just as quickly as it left, it returned around his arm and began to pull.

Stan reflexively tried to shake it away, but damn Ford and his thirty years of multi-dimensional experience, because he was forced to sit up and be pulled into a tight hug.

“I should have done this when I came back,” Ford whispered.

And, Stan froze. 

The hands that were pushing at Ford’s chest slowly faltered, and with a second sob, Stan broke again, beginning to clutch the shirt as if the person inside would disappear at any moment. Then, when Ford didn’t disappear, he was fully weeping, head sheltered between his neck and shoulder with tears, snot, and water definitely leaving stains behind.

It was the type of sobbing that was only meant to stay inside the Mystery Shack when he was alone. They were the type of tears that would be successfully hidden by the winter outside, by the trees and the wind, miles away from the rest of the townsfolk.

Now, he was even further away from that small town, on a boat in the middle of the ocean. But, his brother was here. He was close, the closest he ever was after so long.

“I’m s—sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Ford was quiet as Stan blubbered uselessly into the collar of his shirt.

“Ford, I don’t—I don’t want you to be mad at me—I can’t. You were so far, so far.”

His voice was gravelly and broken, lip quivering when he felt his brother’s fingers untangle the still-drying parts of his hair.

“I’m here,” he reassured, and Stan almost felt young again.

Stan was unsure of how long he remained there, but the sobbing eventually turned into occasional sniffling. And, after enough brief murmurs from his brother, he eventually calmed down and felt his limbs getting tired. He must have held the position for a while if his joints were complaining.

Ford didn’t let go until Stan finally gained his senses and pulled away. The man wiped furiously at the wetness of his face, hoping it wasn’t too red when he looked up at his brother. His face was a little blurry, but he came into view after enough focus.

Ford’s eyebrows were knitted with a small bit of worry and analysis, but he seemed to have relaxed as well, in a way, with his hands relaxed at his sides. Open. Trust. When Stan gave a final sniff, he decided to ask, just in case.

“We’re… we’re alright?”

He cringed at the hoarseness of his own voice, but his brother gave him a small smile.

“We’re alright.”

His eyes met his smile, and, this time, Stan didn’t feel like he made a mistake, because Ford tried to pull him into another hug. But, he wasn’t soft enough to let it happen a second time.

“Okay! Okay, Poindexter, I get it,” Stan said with a groan, and Ford laughed, letting himself be pushed away after a few seconds.

When the laughter between them subsided, Stan remembered something.

“Uh, also.”

“Yes?”

“What was the Narwhalmatic doing in the bathroom, anyway?”

At the question, Ford’s eyebrows knit into a more embarrassed shape.

“Ah, well. I was testing its proofness when submerged in different substances. I didn’t remove it from the bathroom, because, ah…” Ford sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “It seems exhaustion made it escape my memory.”

Well, if Ford was actually admitting to being too tired, then maybe it wouldn’t be a problem if Stan got at least a little more involved in the work part of things. They were a team. They’ve been a team. As the thought entered his mind, it pulled at the corners of his lips and quickly coaxed out an involuntary grin. Damn it.

“Makes sense,” Stan teased, but didn’t let his brother respond as he cleared his throat, then easily laid himself back down. He sighed as he got to stretch his limbs back out on his back. Ford, who eyed the grin momentarily, took it as a hint to stand from the bedside and move back to his own bunk.

This time, the increased distance didn’t bother Stan, and, as soon as Ford turned the lamp off and entered his bunk, he found himself saying:

“What do you think about covering it in glitter?”

After a beat of silence, he heard Ford laugh. But, the answer was sincere.

“I think that might be a great idea, Stan.”

Under the clearing sky, the Stan O’ War rocked on the sea, and the pattern of the waves lulled the two seafaring brothers to sleep. Stan slept deeply, comforted by the fact that he would wake up to his family in the morning.