Yeah...Tw: Stan Pines. Insomnia. Stan is just really angsty.
Stanley tossed and turned in the night, feeling suffocated by the fancy new bed he was attempting to sleep on.
After weirdmaggedon, as the others described it, a lot of things had happened. They were trying to fix up the shack once more, most of the items like his old bed, getting replaced. He sighed as he sat up, slipping his feet onto the floor.
Things had been...strange. Since he woke up in that field. Not bad, just peculiar. Like that feeling of Deja Vu you get after doing something, even though you have no recollection of doing it before. The people who claimed to be his family told him that he was a hero, that he had saved the world. He had no idea what they meant by that, but it felt...wrong. As if they were lying to him, but for some reason, he knew they weren't.
It helped that as the weeks came by, more and more memories flew back to him. He remembered the children, Mabel and Dipper. Mabel's fondness for her pig, Waddles, and Dipper's interest in the paranormal. He recalled bad soap opera's, and days filled with fake smiles and slippery fingers. Although, he didn't tell the others about the last bit. It didn't seem like something he would do, so he stayed silent about those things. Mabel had told him he was a 'grumpy old man marshmallow' at some point. Strangely, that did make him feel better.
Yet that man, the one who claimed to be his twin brother, remained elusive in his memory. He had no recollection of most of his life. Other than the occasional nightmare, which Stanley was starting to believe weren't nightmares...Runrunrunrun, no! Nononon-Bang! Blood, pain, ouch, okay not doing that, AAAH!
Stanley shuddered as he padded out of the room. He didn't want to dwell on that.
Speaking of that man- Stanford. Stanley really wasn't sure what to make of him. He would often speak with the kids, who were long gone by now, in private. The day they left he had whispered something to both of them that Stanley couldn't hear from where he was standing. He had a feeling he could eavesdrop if he wanted to, but doing so to them...it felt wrong. No, worse than wrong, it felt bad. So Stan stood, watching.
Now he and the six-fingered man were both living in the shack, Stanford doing his best to keep it together each day when Stanley still didn't remember him. For a while, Stanford wouldn't let him do much of anything, worried he would get hurt or lost. He had barely started letting Stanley drive again. Stanley had wished Stanford had let him do so earlier, he felt safer in that car. More grounded.
If only he could remember why.
The days passed by in a blur, one day nearly the same as the next. The only thing that changed was the deep guilt building inside of him as he saw the hope in Stanford's eyes grow smaller and duller each day.
Stanley pulled open the door to his room and stepped out. He could use a drink.
Or two.
...
When he pulled out the soda from the fridge, he grieved the fact that they didn't have anything stronger. For a moment there, he could have sworn there was a six-pack somewhere.
Guess he was just getting confused again.
Stanley moved to sit down at the table, but something stopped him. Stanley pushed the chair back into place and his brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to make sense of it all. It was almost like his mind was trying to follow some sort of muscle memory, but that didn't make sense.
Either way, he didn't want to sit at the table. Rather, he let his feet guide him instead, his tired limbs tense as they led him outside. He saw the car and smiled.
Yeah, that's better.
He closed the car door quietly and laid back in the seat. He just felt better in here. As if that's where he belonged. Not some fancy bed. He cracked open the can and relaxed while his eyes gazed outward unblinkingly. He stayed like that until he fell asleep, his hand automatically wrapping around a bat he had found the other night.
Much better.
I have a lot of stories, I know, but if you want this to continue, just ask, and I'll try. I'm going to go update as much as I can now.
Stan: Yeah, you do that, you procrastinator.
Ford: What makes her a procrastinator?
Stan: Uh, she procrastinates? I thought you were the smart one.
Me: Hehe, he is. But your right, I am a huge procrastinator. Sorry.