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“So, you kids all packed?”
“Grunkle Stan, we still have like, three days left here. I’ll pack the morning we leave!” Mabel takes another bite of her pancakes, smiling.
“I’m mostly packed,” Dipper answers. “I just left out, like, clothes for the next few days.”
“Yeah, you should’ve left out some deodorant and shampoo, too,” Mabel shoots at him, pulling at one of his curls. Dipper glares but says nothing.
“Yeah, she got you there, kid.” Stan laughs and takes a tiny sip of his coffee. He spares a glance toward the basement door, a slight uneasy feeling coming over him. Ford didn’t come up for breakfast. He hadn’t really made that many appearances after Weirdmaggedon in general, really. They agreed to go sailing, and Stan knew his brother had a long conversation with McGucket, something about tying up loose ends, and he’s played a few rounds of that nerdy ass board game with Dipper, but– he’s made himself rather scarce since the almost end of the world. He doesn't really join them for meals– in fact, he hardly leaves the basement. Even sleeps down there.
He always seems a little off, whenever Stan goes down to visit him, almost like he doesn’t like Stan being there. Stan doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize their trip, so he tries to give his brother his space. Ford’s always been a bit of a solitary creature. He’s probably just… adjusting. Yeah. Adjusting. He hasn’t been in this dimension for a long time, and he’s just getting used to it again. That’s all.
“Grunkle Stan?”
Stan blinks. “What?”
Both of the kids stare at him for a moment. Stan rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Grunkle Stan,” Dipper says, carefully, “are… you okay?” Mabel nods, silently asking the same question.
“I… yeah, I’m fine, kids. Just– just… wonderin’ if Ford’s had breakfast yet. Is all.”
Mabel’s face lights up. “I bet he hasn’t!! You should bring him stancakes!!”
“Oh, jeez, I dunno if he would want– I-I mean, what if he’s still sleepin–”
“No, he’s awake,” Dipper says quietly. “I heard some sort of like, clanging or something from down in the basement. He’s probably working on something.”
“He probably needs a break!” Mabel says excitedly. She jumps up from her chair and grabs a clean plate, then places two pancakes on it. She drenches them in syrup, then shoves the plate into Stan’s hands. “I mean, I can bring them if you reeaallyyyy don’t want to…”
“Nah, I– I can bring ‘em.” Stan sighs and stands, preparing himself for the (probably awkward) task at hand. “Don’t burn down the kitchen while I’m gone.” Stan uses his free hand to ruffle Mabel’s hair, then gives Dipper’s shoulder a squeeze. Kid really hates his hair being messed with, Stan’s learned.
Stan fights the urge to turn back as he heads to the basement door with his plate of pancakes that suddenly feels ridiculously stupid. But Dipper and Mabel are watching, and those kids are nothing if not relentless. Plus, he knows it’s really because they care. They want Stan and Ford to be okay. And Stan certainly shares that sentiment. God, he loves his brother. He wants them to be okay, really, he does. It’s just that, he feels like he barely knows Ford anymore. All that time apart…
Stan shakes himself off and pushes the thought away. He lumbers down the stairs to the lab and pushes the door gently open. The creaking sound it makes echoes throughout the room.
“Hey, Poindex? You awake yet?”
“Hm…?” A hoarse voice hums in acknowledgement. Stan realizes after a moment that the noise came from a lump hunched over the desk.
His brother, the lump in question, pokes his head up, glasses askew on his face and hair an utter mess.
“Yes?” He blinks, eyes focusing. “Oh! Stanley, I didn’t… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you. Can I help you with something?”
Stan suddenly feels at a loss for words. Ford looks… well, he’s in a pretty bad way, it seems. There are deep, dark circles under his eyes, and he looks a little… sunken in is the best word Stan can think of. Hollow, maybe.
Ford doesn’t seem to interpret his silence well. “Are you alright?” he asks, words thick with evident exhaustion. “Did you have another lapse? Did you–”
“No, I– I’m fine, Ford. Just thought you might want some breakfast, is all.” He sets the plate and silverware on the counter and pushes it toward him. “Er– might be a little cold now, actually. I can go warm it up, if you want.”
Ford blinks up at him owlishly, then looks down at the pancakes. He swallows.
“Ford? You alright?”
“I…” he tears his gaze away. “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you. For the pancakes.”
“Anytime.” Stan hovers awkwardly, eyes unsure where to land in the room. He shoves his hands awkwardly in his pockets. It’s not like he wants to just stand here while Ford’s eating, obviously, yes, that would be weird, and he’s not going to do that. Except he is doing that.
Well, he would be, except for Ford hasn’t taken a bite yet.
“You, uh… you gonna eat?”
Ford doesn't respond. Just stares forward.
“Ford?”
Nothing.
Stan puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder and shakes lightly. Ford gasps and flinches back, eyes wide and worried for a moment before they locate Stan. He softens, blinking, and settles back into his chair, though not without a slight tremor going through his body.
“Sorry,” he mutters. He clears his throat. “Did you say something?”
Stan can’t ignore the obvious alarm bells anymore. He pulls his hand away and crosses his arms over his chest. “What’s goin’ on?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, somethin’s wrong. You don’t look too good. What’s goin’ on?”
“I’m fine, Stanley.” Ford offers a small smile. “Nothing is going on.”
Stan doesn’t believe it, even for a second. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Ford’s tone is slightly frustrated, now.
“Well. Alright.” Stan fidgets. “You… wanna come eat upstairs, then?”
Ford glances aside. “I don’t know. I– I have a bit of work to do, and… I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Six, the kids wanna see you. You’re all holed up in the lab lately. Think they kinda miss you. They leave in three days, you know.”
“I…” Ford softens slightly, hands messing absently with his sweater. “Alright. I’ll… come and eat upstairs.”
He takes a deep, shaky inhale and begins to rise from the chair, hands tightly gripping the arms of the chair. He stands slowly, almost clumsily, and takes a few steps forward. He blinks rapidly.
Then his legs give out from under him.
“Ford!?” Stan hurries to grab his collapsing brother before he can bash his head in on the concrete. He lowers them both gently to the ground, holding Ford close to his own body. Ford groans softly, not completely unconscious but not completely aware, and shivers. He curls into Stan, head pressing into the crook of his twin’s neck.
“Ford, Ford, hey, can you hear me?” Stan shakes him gently, and receives nothing but another tiny groan. “Sixer, c’mon, what’s goin’ on?!”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Should he call an ambulance? Did Ford get hurt during Weirdmaggedon and not say anything? Is he sick? Who knows what kind of weird space diseases he could’ve caught out there when he was in the portal–
“Ford, please wake up,” Stan repeats uselessly, rocking Ford gently. “Ford?”
Then– Ford stirs. He blinks his eyes open and looks up. He looks confused. One of his hands reaches out and tugs at Stan’s t-shirt, then falls weakly back onto his own chest.
“...Stanley…?” he mumbles, the words slurred slightly. “What…?”
Stan could cry in relief. He almost does, but, by some miracle, it comes out as a watery laugh instead. “Hey,” he says softly, “atta boy, there he is!”
Ford shifts uncomfortably. “I…” He blinks again, realization seeming to fall on him. “Did I…?”
“Yeah, you, uh, passed out there, bud. Had me worried for a second, but–”
“Oh god,” Ford croaks, squirming. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to– I-I’m so sorry, I just– I’m sorry.” He drops his head. “You should go back upstairs and eat with the children.”
“What– no, Ford, you just passed out. And, look, I’m not tryin’ to be mean when I say this, but you look awful. Are you sick? When was the last time you ate? O-Or slept?”
“I’m not sick,” Ford says immediately. “I’m fine. Just– tired. A little out of sorts, is all. I’m fine.”
Yeah, Stan doesn't believe that shit for a second. His brain is immediately bombarded with about a million times where his brother said I’m fine when it absolutely wasn’t true.
“You’re not fine. Don’t lie to me.”
“I just–” Ford squirms out of Stan’s arms and pushes himself up against the counter, back to the metal. He sighs. “I haven’t slept well since Weirdmaggedon, is all.”
“How much sleep have you got since Weirdmaggedon?”
Ford pauses briefly in thought. “Maybe… five or six hours?”
“Christ, Ford, five or six hours?!” Stan fights the urge to slap his brother in the face. “That’s not– it’s been, like, two weeks!”
“I know,” Ford whispers.
Another thought strikes Stan. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” He asks again, the question more sharp this time. He’s reminded of times his brother got stressed over exams and neglected to eat in favor of studying. Unintentional, sure, but– dangerous all the same.
“I…”
“Ford.”
“I don’t know,” Ford admits quietly.
“You don’t know?!” Stan can’t help how harsh his words come out. “No wonder you passed out, you’re runnin’ on goddamn fumes!”
“I-I'm sorry, I know, I-I–”
“No, you don’t know, clearly you don’t know!” His tone is harsh, as if he’s scolding a child. “You can’t just not eat and not sleep, that shit’s gonna catch up to you!! This could’ve been so much worse, you know? You could’ve fallen on the stairs, you could’ve– Mabel wanted to come bring you the pancakes, what if you passed out on her, instead? That would’ve scared the shit outta the kids, Six! There’s a pantry full of food and an empty bed, why the hell haven’t you been usin’ em?”
Stan takes a deep breath after his unplanned outburst. He rubs his temples, all the fight draining from him out of nowhere. He sighs heavily and finally glances back up at his brother.
Ford is crying.
Fuck. Ford is crying.
He stares at Stan, brown eyes wide and brimming with tears that overflow onto his cheeks. He sniffles miserably and glances away, lip trembling. A tiny sob escapes him as he scrubs at his eyes and shakes his head. Stan watches for a moment, shocked, until he finally remembers how to speak. He was too mean, he was– god, why would he talk to Ford like that?!
“Oh, Ford, I– I-I didn’t mean to– shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you–”
“I haven’t been using them because they’re yours.”
Stan freezes.
“What?”
Ford sniffles again, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I haven’t… they’re not mine to take– the bed, the food, it’s…” He looks at Stan with wide, desperate eyes. “I can’t take anything more from you. I already took… your entire life. Your memories. How could I also then take your food, your house, I–” his voice breaks, but he keeps going. “They’re not mine to take. So I can’t take them.”
“I…” Stan is at a complete loss for words. He swallows thickly. Come on, idiot, say something!
“I’m so sorry,” Ford whispers, barely audible. “I took everything from you. I won’t– I can’t take anything else from you.” He lets out a tired, broken sob and lets his face fall into his knees, his whole body shaking.
Fuck. How did Stan not see this earlier? And, more importantly, how could Ford possibly think that?
“Ford…” Stan says quietly. He doesn’t even know how to start. But he has to try. “You gotta know none of that shit is true.”
Ford scoffs, in a watery, broken sort of way. “Isn’t it?” His voice comes out muffled from inside of his cocoon.
“No, it isn’t,” Stan insists gently. “Look, my memories are still kinda spotty, but I do remember that I spent thirty damn years workin’ to get you back. If I put in all that work, I’m sure as hell not just lettin’ you be miserable and alone now that I finally got you back.”
“But–”
“And you didn’t take my memories from me. You erased them because doing it would save the entire universe. You didn’t want to, and I know that, Ford. You did what you had to do, and so did I. I’d make the same choice every time.”
When Ford doesn't answer, Stan keeps going.
“And, if we’re bein’ honest, it’s not really my house. At least in a legal sense, it’s still yours.”
“It’s yours–”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Stan interrupts. He places a hand on his twin’s shoulder. “It’s not really, though. I dunno, I sort of got to thinkin’ of it as… ours?”
Ford looks up at him. “Ours?”
“I mean… yeah? Well, more than anything, really, it’s Soos’s now, but… y’know.”
Ford cocks his head in a way that reminds Stan a bit of a bird. He can’t help but smile.
“And, look, maybe it is my house, and maybe it is my food, sure, but if that’s the case, I want you to take it. If I make you pancakes, I want you to eat them. If I get you a new damn blanket for your bed, I want you to use it. If it is my house and my food, I’m choosin’ to share it with you. You don’t get a say in it.”
Ford blinks at him.
Then he bursts into tears.
And Stan has no idea what to do.
“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t– what did I say, Ford? C’mon, don’t cry–”
“You didn’t say anything,” Ford sobs, scrubbing at his eyes, “I just–“ he hiccups. “You still… want me here?”
“Of course I do,” Stan answers immediately.
Ford sniffles and attempts to swallow back another sob. “Why?”
“Because you’re my brother, and I love you.”
Ford suddenly pitches forward and presses his face into Stan’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around him in a tight, desperate hug. Stan tenses instinctively, then quickly shakes himself off and hugs him back. God, he nearly forgot what it was like to hug his brother. It’s the best feeling in the world. He pulls the still sobbing Ford in tighter, one hand drawing circles into his back.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright, Ford. It’s okay.” Stan hopes to God that his small, murmured comforts have the effect he’s hoping for. “It’s alright. You’re okay.” Ford only cries harder, pressing in closer to Stan’s chest, almost like a child desperate to be held. He doesn't seem to want to let go anytime soon.
Stan doesn’t dare break off the embrace. Not for the world.
It takes a while for Ford to calm down, but, eventually, his wails fade into quiet, hitched breaths and tiny hiccups. Stan doesn’t let up in his murmurs, though it reminds him a bit of when Dipper got that nasty nightmare a few days after the whole sock puppet opera. Stan stayed up with him all night, whispering the same sort of comforts, rubbing his back and assuring him everything was okay.
Dipper is a lot like Ford in a lot of ways.
Once Ford seems ready to speak, he clears his throat and digs his fingers harder into Stan’s skin.
“Stanley,” he says quietly, sniffling, “I love you too.”
Stan sighs, content, and feels Ford slump into him. A tiny noise escapes him, one that sounds almost like… a purr?
Nah, Stan’s gotta be imagining things. He chuckles at the very idea of his brother, Stanford Pines, purring, and pats his head affectionately. Ford slumps again at the touch, making a confused sort of hum. Shit, he’s still kind of loopy, isn’t he? In all the emotional confessions, Stan nearly forgot that Ford needs to get some food in him. “C’mon, Six. You should eat, then I’m makin’ you take a nap.”
“Mm… ‘kay…” Ford sways slightly, and leans on Stan to help them both to their feet. He lets his head fall into the crook of Stan’s neck.
“Pancakes still sound good?”
“Pancakes sound great.” Ford looks up at him with the same eyes he had as a kid. Eyes Stan would recognize anywhere. Bright, wide, inquisitive. “Stanley?”
“What is it?”
His voice is small and full of exhausted fondness. “Thank you.”
Stan swallows down the lump in his throat. “Anytime, Sixer.”