Chapter Text
“Fine. If you don’t want to listen, you may leave. But if you leave, you may never come back.”
That was how it started.
Well, how it started was technically with Stan happening across Ford a measly three years after being kicked out. By that point, the genius had just finished his master’s degree and was working on his first PHD, while Stanley was living in his car, out of ideas, out of fake IDs, and starving. Truly, painfully starving.
Ford was living on his own in an apartment. He never made any friends in college, not really— he got close, but in the end, his complete lack of moral compass or any semblance of a conscience was too off-putting. He was too stern, too unforgiving. He’d never been too anything for his brother, though; Stanley always loved him anyways.
It was cold that first night. Very, very cold, and Stan was already starting to feel something awful settling into his lungs. He knew he couldn’t afford to get sick, especially at the start of the cold season like this. Ford saw him and for one singular moment in precisely one instance, Ford took pity on his brother.
He let Stan inside. Let him sleep on the couch. Stan babbled his gratitude, offered to do anything asked of him in return— perfectly familiar with having to do some rather unsavory things to earn shelter and food— and Ford decided it would be stupid not to take advantage. So Stan cleaned a bit, cooked dinner, and did all of the dishes after.
The next day was cold too, with the night expected to be even colder. Ford came back from his classes to find the carpets all vacuumed and the windows washed for the first time in… well, ever. Dinner was already started and Stan stood there at the edge of the kitchen with this nervous smile, waiting for approval.
“The bathroom needs cleaning as well; I’m sure you’ll have time for that tomorrow.”
That’s how it really started. Threatening to kick him out again was the turning point a couple weeks later when Stan started getting comfortable, started arguing with his brother again. The lesson was made very clear: they were not equals in this situation, and Stanley should not be comfortable.
The only idea Stan hated and feared more than going back to being homeless and starving and cold was facing his brother’s rejection again. So he stayed. When Ford moved to Gravity Falls to conduct his research, Stan was ecstatic to be allowed to accompany him. He even got his own room, his own bed! It was the ideal life, as far as he could remember.
The slow, gradual process of forgetting how to be himself went nearly unnoticed by Stan and was met only with smug satisfaction from Ford— his twin deserved it for ruining his life, after all. Now Stanley would never ruin anything again, because now, he had fear. Now, if he fought back, he’d be kicked out with nothing. Now, when he made mistakes, he was punished. Yes, Ford decided the best way to control the situation was to train his brother like a dog.
To break him. Slowly.
“No no, Stanley— if you can’t be bothered to cook dinner on time, then you don’t need to eat. I’m the one who paid for those groceries, after all.”
“If you can’t keep your sheets clean, you don’t get to use the bed. You’ll sleep on the floor tonight.”
“Oh sure, you may go wherever you’d like, Stanley… so long as you don’t return. Ever.”
“I won’t have you dressing yourself like a hooligan. Make better choices or I’ll choose your outfits for you.”
“Growing your hair out on purpose? No, you won’t be doing that.”
“If I hear your voice one more time before 5:00, I’ll put you outside for the night.”
“My house, my rules.”
“You will address me with respect.”
“No more talking out of turn; your voice annoys me.”
“Stop whining and get to work. You can ice the bruise after.”
“No wonder Pa used such a firm hand with you, it’s clearly the only way to keep you in line.”
“An ‘accident,’ hm?” Ford’s tone is unimpressed, looking down on the sheepish, hunched Stan and the scattering of broken glass on the floor at his feet, “It’s always an accident with you, Stanley. How do you manage to break everything you touch?”
“I-I don’t know, sir.”
Ford scoffs and crosses his arms. Stan politely looks at the floor,
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“As you should be. Now clean this up. Quickly.”
“Yessir.” Stan nods, reaching for the broom… which isn’t there.
“Oh, the broom’s in the lab, I was using it… well, you don’t need it. Just use your hands.“
The briefest hesitation, which Stan kicks himself for, then Stan’s on the ground picking up pieces of glass with his bare hands. He only cuts himself twice, and he thankfully manages not to drip any blood on the floor— the last time he got blood on the floor, he had to mop the whole house for it.
By the time he looks up, Ford’s already gone. Some of the tension loosens from his shoulders, his posture, but only some. He can never relax fully now. What if he makes a mistake?
He can’t disappoint Ford anymore. For a thousand and one reasons, he just can’t.
There’s a little alert on Watchdog’s radar.
He’s ecstatic when he sees it, even if his stomach drops a moment after; this universe, LF-17~, is one he’s never been able to interfere with before. Until now, it’s been on its set path. Until now, he’s only seen moments, brief glimpses of the miserable situation his counterparts have there. Until now, he couldn’t do anything. Now he can.
Of course, the little pinging light indicates that something there has somehow gotten worse, which isn’t fun to think about. He expects he’ll be nauseated to see it. Sure enough, there it is:
Cause of Death: Blood Loss.
Well, that’s not very informative. He takes a closer look into that future.
Gremloblin. Slashing claws. A not-quite-thirty year old Ford looking down at his brother. Screams of pain. He says something. He walks away. Stanley simply never gets up. It’s slow. Very slow. The Ford never comes back.
Watchdog hardly processes the trip there, blinking and feeling his feet set down in the grass of the pine forest. There’s a very familiar terrified cry, and he starts shooting.
The gremloblin goes half-down, shrieking in pain and anger before more shots have him retreating to lick his wounds.
“Stanley! Where are you?”
For a frazzled moment, Watchdog thinks that was his own voice calling out, but no. The tone was wrong. Angry, not concerned.
Stanley Pines, disheveled and bleeding from one arm, hides against a tree, whispering to himself. It takes Watchdog a moment to get close enough to hear, though he doesn’t have to be particularly stealthy.
“Shit shit shit shit— not again, this’ll never wash out— stop fucking bleeding, you idiot— dammit, what did you do?!”
He’s more worried about the new bloodstain on his shirt than his own well-being.
Nope. This won’t do. He’s getting out of here.
By the time Stan looks up and notices Watchdog, there’s hardly a meter between them. Immediately, Stan’s plastered up against the tree, trembling,
“W-who are you?”
“Relax, Stanley. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Stan glances hectically between the cryptic stranger and the distance where his Ford’s voice came from. He swallows hard. His throat’s still dry.
“Y-you, uh. Did you shoot that thing?”
“Yes. It was going to kill you.”
“Oh. T-thanks.”
“I can help you, Stanley. I can get you out of here, take you somewhere safer, away from him.”
“…away from who?”
”Stanley!” The voice in the distance calls again, closer and more irritated. The sound makes Stan flinch. Hard.
“Your brother. He’s hurting you. I can take you somewhere safe, give you a new, secure life.”
Something shines in Stan’s eyes. Maybe hope, maybe consideration, maybe just surprise, but something strikes him about that idea. He stares Watchdog right in the helmet for a long moment, mouth opening and closing multiple times before he settles with a grimace,
“I can’t leave my brother. He… he’s my brother. I need him.”
“Not this version. You deserve one that appreciates you. One that cares about you.”
“Ford does care about me.”
Speak of the devil, Ford spots them and storms over,
“Stanley! I was trying to study that thing, and you— urgh—“ He’s torn from his lecture by the presence of the stranger, whom he keeps glancing at, “We’ll discuss that later. Who is this?”
Stan backs up, hands in the air,
“I-I don’t know, he just showed up, walked up to me, I-I don’t know what he’s talking about or what he wants, I’ve got nothin’ to do with this guy—“
“I’m taking him.” Watchdog declares. Ford raises an eyebrow,
“Oh? And why should I allow that?”
“Are you going to check on him?” He asks instead of entertaining that ridiculous question, “He’s injured. He’s bleeding.”
Ford lazily glances back at Stan before rolling his eyes,
“If you can’t work the stain out of that shirt, Stanley, you’re paying for the new one. If you’re lucky enough that I bother to get you one.”
“Y-yes sir.”
Watchdog’s head starts to hurt, pressure building between his ears. How dare he speak to Stanley that way? And why the hell is Stan calling him “sir”?
He pulls Stan forward by the shoulders, firmly but kindly, to look at his arm. There’s a gash on his bicep, but it probably won’t need stitches. Lucky. Stan flinches at the sudden movement but says nothing. Ford, however, makes this offended little sound,
“Hands off, he’s mine.”
“He doesn’t belong to anyone, he’s a person.”
“Hardly.”
Watchdog turns entirely to Stanley,
“I’m going to get you out of here.”
“You absolutely are not!” Ford exclaims, then turns to Stan as well, “Stanley, come here.”
Stan immediately tries to start moving like an obedient little pet, but he hasn’t been released. In fact, the grip on his shoulders tightens just a bit.
“You don’t have to listen to him; I won’t let him hurt you.”
“He wants to listen to me.” Ford insists, crossing his arms, “Stanley, tell him.”
Stan’s lip is quivering.
“I… wanna go with Ford.”
Taking a Stanley away against his will? Not ideal. Convincing a Stanley to do what’s best for himself, however…
Watchdog’s hand drifts down to Stan’s wrist, gentler again, and then he slowly removes his helmet, revealing his face. His hand intertwines with Stan’s, slotting together perfectly, much to Stan’s apparent awe.
“There are other versions of your brother, Stanley. Better versions, who will be kind to you and care for you properly. Versions who would never, ever hurt you or use you. Versions who just want you to be happy.”
Stan’s eyes are wide as saucers, tearing up,
“F…Ford?” He asks, looking into Watchdog’s eyes. “I-I’m confused.”
“That’s okay.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Stanley.”
They both turn to the Stanford, who’s sputtering angrily now,
“This is obviously some kind of trick. You know where you belong. Don’t make me ask you again: Come. Here.”
Stanley hesitates.
Gently, so gently, Watchdog pulls him in. He goes with it, pressing his face into the chest of the thick black suit, clutching the fabric for his life. Indignant, the Ford takes a step forward, reaching for his brother, and Watchdog instantly raises his blaster again with one hand, the other wrapped around Stan.
“Ideally, I’d like you to die here and now. Painfully. You deserve it, for how you’ve treated him. However,” he briefly glances down to the shaking form in his grasp, “this is already hard enough for him, so I’ll restrain myself for now. Unless you force my hand. It’s up to you.”
With a low growl, the Ford reaches into his coat and wraps a hand around some kind of unimpressive laser pistol, pulling it from its holster, powering it on—
Watchdog pulls the trigger.
…
Stanley’s eyes are screwed shut. Watchdog pulls off a glove to run a hand through his hair.
“Is he….”
“He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“…Okay.”
“Come along. I’ll explain a little more of what’s happening and we’ll find you a new home.”
“Yes sir.”
Watchdog has to silently choke back a sad little sound. He opens his home portal and guides Stanley through it. They never once let go of one another.