So I let you in
But I'm so scared of what you'll see
Just skin and bones
Hiding this monster inside of me
And I don't need much
I just need a little room to breathe
And I need you
But I'm not so sure that you need me
And I felt empty
What's left of me?
~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~
It took some doing to build a serviceable vessel, get all the proper training, and actually plot their journey, but Ford has even further proven himself to be… well, obsessed. It's been Stan's main focus too, but he just hasn't been working with the same urgency as his brother. And it's not because Stan doesn't hold their mission to be important; he does. He knows what kind of disasters anomalies of the kind Ford's radar picked up can bring on the world. But Ford has had nothing to think about apart from this voyage.
Well, that's not quite true. He's had Stan to think about.
Stan's time over the last few months has been split among several activities and directives: planning their voyage, taking care of the legal transferal of ownership of the Mystery Shack to Soos, teaching the guy how to run a business, keeping in touch with the kids, and trying to fill in the missing details of his life story.
His mind still feels… new. The memories he's managed to get back are old, but their container still needs to be broken in. It's not a feeling he can begin to explain; there was one night when he tried, but Ford didn't quite get it. It might have been because they were both exhausted from working on the Stan o' War II, and ended up falling asleep on the couch sitting next to each other, but Stan suspects the attempt wouldn't have been much more successful even if they'd both been awake and alert.
There's still a lot he doesn't know. His childhood has been thoroughly detailed by Ford, up until the moment the two of them were torn apart (Ford was frustratingly hesitant and vague when he recounted that day, but Stan was able to build a pretty clear picture based on his own memories stirred up by the details he did give), and the kids have given him an exhaustive play-by-play of this summer, supplemented by Mabel's scrapbook, but there are so many pieces still missing, primarily from those ten years he spent alone before he came to Gravity Falls.
He's not sure he really minds. Or rather, he does mind, but he's afraid whenever he tries to remember that he'll find out something he'd rather not know.
So instead, he's been focusing on the thirty years he spent alone, working on the portal. In the time between the end of Weirdmageddon and Dipper and Mabel's birthday party, a lot of the locals came by to share stories, and many of them still didn't ring any bells, but Stan reminds himself that it's natural to lose memories as you go through life. You can't expect to remember every chance encounter you have.
Soos has told him a lot of stories from the ten years he's worked under him, and Stan remembers a much larger portion of those. Frequently he'll figure it out not too long after the story begins, but just listen with a smile on his face as Soos paints a picture of him that's much more heroic and intelligent than he really is. Wendy's stories are much more honest, but she'd barely been working with him for a year, so they are also far fewer.
Newspaper clippings and some older denizens of Gravity Falls afford him a spotty story of how the Mystery Shack came to be, and these resources have triggered a few more memories that may have been entirely lost otherwise.
Naturally, nobody can tell him a thing about his work on the portal.
Stan tells himself he doesn't care, it doesn't matter anymore. And at least that second part is definitely true—he's got Stanford back. His work, at least in that regard, is done.
But that's half his life, almost completely gone.
It shouldn't matter that the work is moot now; he can't let such a large part of his life slip away. Particularly the part that has essentially been the core of it. The portal was the reason he stayed in Gravity Falls. The reason he founded the Mystery Shack. Everything would be completely different without it. And he can hardly recall a thing about what must have amounted to tens of thousands of hours he poured into it.
Sometimes he takes a look at Ford's notes and finds that the interdimensional metaphysics comes alarmingly easily to him. When he first expressed this, his brother nodded knowingly. "It's procedural, or implicit, memory," he explained. "Memories of skills and procedures are much more stubborn than memories of events and feelings and experiences. It's why sufferers of Alzheimer's may still know how to play the piano but they don't recognize their family members. They probably can't recall learning it, but they still have the ability."
That night, Stan spent a lot of time staring at himself in the mirror before he went to bed, taking in every wrinkle and fold in his skin, every gray hair. Trying not to picture himself as a feeble old man with a feeble old mind, even though he can't deny that he's well on his way to being exactly that. He has Bill partially to blame, but it doesn't make it any less real.
From there, starting as he lies in bed and continuing from the following morning, he has been trying to rotate back to the last thought he was dwelling on, but it's not much more comforting: with the business of the portal behind him… particularly now that he can barely remember it… he's not sure who he is anymore.
This is not the kind of thing he should have to be dealing with at this age. When he was a teenager, sure. A young adult starting off on his own, fine. Even a mid-life crisis would have been acceptable, but now? He's almost sixty for pity's sake, he should know who he is. And it's not a matter of normality; it's a matter of what's owed to every dignified human being.
Eh… On second thought… what does he know about it? No one owes him anything. And the world's never done him any favors. What he has now, he has only after thirty years of sacrifice and loneliness—and maybe his loss of those memories is a blessing. Who knows.
His thoughts have no focus anymore. He pushes on regardless.
He lived his whole life for his family. For Ford in particular. At least the Mystery Shack was something he could call his own, but he doesn't even have that anymore. And he doesn't regret his decision for a second, and he knows that this is what all that sacrifice has been leading up to: the moment he and Ford set out for the Arctic. He's got his brother back.
Which is great for Stan. Far beyond great—it's like finally being whole again.
He's… just not so sure Ford would say the same.
He finally arrives at this as the cause for his misgivings during the last week before they are to set sail. They're still living in the Mystery Shack, doing a lot of work in the basement, out of Soos's way, but they're winding down. It's all just daily checks of the equipment at this point, and runs to the store to shop for supplies. And then, of course, those supplies have to be packed.
Stan's bedroom has been cleared out, and Soos has started to move in. A few things that Stan didn't want to get rid of but would rather not bring on the boat with him have been packed away in the basement, but not too many items have fallen under this category. Most of his stuff, he either donated or gave to Soos. He was very carefully discerning with every object, constantly fearing that there was some special significance to some things that he couldn't remember now, but would later. So if he was even a little unsure, he found somewhere to squirrel it away, to be reevaluated the next time he was in Gravity Falls.
He's sitting in the basement, clutching the red beanie Ford picked out for him just yesterday, when the man himself appears from the staircase, brandishing some tool that looks like a screwdriver designed a hundred years in the future—and that might not be far off the mark—and makes a beeline for the equipment sitting across from Stan. Stan watches idly, forgetting how tight he's holding the beanie, and registering too late Ford's rushed greeting of "Hello, Stanley."
It's been a couple seconds, so he reasons it's best to just opt out of replying. As Ford bends over one of the weirdness sensors—Stan vaguely knows it to be something that picks up certain very rare elements—he turns briefly, obviously still immensely distracted, and asks as he returns his attention to the device and turns his back again to Stan, "Something bothering you?"
A long moment passes as Ford locates whatever part of the device needs adjusting and starts fiddling with it. The "Nah" trembles on the tip of Stan's tongue, ready and willing to be given a voice. Stan almost grants it one, just out of reflex.
His window of opportunity to reply is closing.
And just like that, whatever social skills are still alive in Stan alert him that he's waited too long to answer.
Ford probably wouldn't notice. He's engrossed in the machine, the equation, whatever nerdy problem he now faces, and has probably forgotten he asked the question.
Stan knows he's going to regret this, but something inside of him is pushing him to say it anyway, so for just a moment he gives into impulsiveness and lets the words fall from his mouth: "Are you sure you want me to go with you?"
Ford goes still. For a moment Stan expects him to just resume what he was doing, as is his way, but to his surprise, his brother turns around, actually placing the screwdriver-looking thing down on top of the device, and fixes him with an intense stare. "Of course I am," he says, voice even and carefully modulated.
Stan really didn't expect a different answer, but it frustrates him. "No, really. Aren't I like… a liability? I… At this point I remember a lot, but… there are still holes, and I'm not really… stable, in that regard… and… and I just don't know if you really need me. I'd just get in the way."
Ford hasn't taken his eyes off him, and now a profound worry begins to spread across the man's face. A knot forms between his eyebrows, and he asks, "Do you want to come, Stanley?"
"Of course!" Stan blurts, eyes widening, brows shooting skyward. Not nearly for the first time, excitement bubbles up inside him at the thought of being out on the open ocean, his brother beside him, wind in their sails, making discoveries and fighting off monsters—together. Sometimes he's not sure his heart can take the anticipation. It feels like this is what his entire life has been leading up to.
Ford is still watching him carefully, apparently trying to discern whether or not he is to be believed, and Stan says quietly, "I do. I really do. It's just…" He exhales, and rubs the back of his neck. "Are you sure you feel the same way?"
It's Ford's turn to widen his eyes now, but this time it's in understanding. For a moment he seems to be struggling to find words, which is not a look Stan sees on him often. Finally, he only says, "Absolutely."
For an awkward couple of seconds they just stare at each other. It seems Ford is still trying to string a sentence together in his head, and Stan is searching his face for any hint of hesitation, becoming frustrated at the simple answers in the positive.
It's Stan who eventually breaks the silence: "Look, Ford, I screw things up. Especially when your science-y stuff is involved." He's thinking of the portal on that snowy day thirty years ago, of course, but he also can't stop picturing the faces of Dipper and Ford as they were carried off by that annoying wizard to have their brains eaten. That was on him too—he hurled that bag at the floor despite Ford's panicked protests trying to get him to stop. And now, with all kinds of things he can't remember… he could put both of them in serious danger.
Maybe he should be saying this out loud. "It doesn't help that I'm so messed up in the head now," he concludes quietly.
"Stanley," Ford says, expression intense, "of course I want you to come. I swear there is no one else I would rather have with me. Frankly, I don't think your memory gaps will cause any problems at all, but even if they do, I owe it to you to just set up necessary precautions. And as for whether I need you… I convinced myself for forty years that I didn't. Then you brought me back, saved me from my own foolishness, and even then I couldn't—"
"Your own foolishness?" Stan chuckles dryly, but there's no feeling behind it. "Remember the part where I was the one who shoved you into that nightmare land?"
Ford holds up a hand. "Let me finish."
Stan blinks, not sure where he's going with this, but he folds his arms and waits.
After a couple seconds his brother continues, "Even when I stepped back through to this dimension, I didn't understand what you'd done for me. I might have, if I'd been able to overcome my own stubbornness. All sorts of terrible things happened because I wouldn't trust anyone, wouldn't let anyone in. And yes, that day thirty years ago falls under that category too. If I'd described the situation to you, rather than just summoning you with the intention of shoving a job at you and then sending you away again, things could have been so different. You would have known the dangers and we could have talked things out. But even when you brought me back, I hadn't learned. And then… and then the worst possible outcome of my inability to trust came to pass—the world started falling apart—and you saved us all from that, too. You're not just a hero, Stanley, you're the savior of your entire family. We need you. I need you."
For about three seconds Stan just stares at him, all words flying out of his head. His mouth opens and closes once. Finally, he manages, in a much more lighthearted tone than he thought he'd be able to pull off, "That's some speech you got there, Poindexter."
Unexpectedly, Ford sags, and some of the light flees from his eyes. "What can I do to make you believe me?"
Stan holds his hands out, palms outwards. "No, it's not that I don't believe you… I'm sorry. I just…"
"Don't be sorry!" Ford says in exasperation, and immediately stops short, composing himself. Stan waits uncertainly, and after a moment Ford continues, "Please. If either of us should be sorry, it's me. You spent so many years paying for one little mistake that by now I'm certain was an accident anyway. There is so much I still have to make up to you."
Stan watches him closely and carefully. He seems genuine, he really does. Stan reads desperation in his tensed shoulders and truth in his wide eyes. But isn't it equally likely that he's putting on an act so Stan won't feel guilty about coming along?
In the lull, Ford continues talking: "Now, we'll keep working on your memory. But let's not forget that Bill did a number on my mind, too. I feel like I see him every time I close my eyes. I know you have nightmares as well, though I'm not sure how frequent they are."
Shoot. Stan thought he was doing a pretty good job of hiding those.
"So we'll help each other," Ford continues. "And that's another thing—don't think of this as me 'bringing you along.' You're my partner, not my assistant or my helper—or if you are, then I'm the same to you."
Stan furrows his brow, trying to picture it. That's certainly how it always felt when they were growing up—they helped each other in all things. They played off of each other's strengths. And if either of them ever messed up, hurt the other, forgiveness was quick and repentance was complete. Stan guesses he forgot that somewhere in the thirty years he spent unable to apologize, to make amends, to set things right.
Ford's not done. He sure does like to talk, but for once, Stan is ready to listen for as long as he has more to say. "Stan, I have to investigate this—it's an obligation to the stability of the world—but I want you to do it with me. I know it can't be like we thought when we were kids; we've both seen and done a lot, and we're different people. But you're still my brother. But, all that being said… I don't want you doing this out of a sense of obligation to me. So here is the real question, and I want you to answer honestly: do you want to come sailing with me?"
A thrill of excitement starts at the back of Stan's neck and travels down to the base of his spine. He doesn't bother trying to suppress the grin that comes with it.
Maybe it would be best just to believe his brother.
Maybe it would be best to live in a world where he's good enough.
Who is he? He still can't really say, but he figures the best way to evaluate this is to consider what matters the most to him. And based on that… he seems to have done pretty well for himself.
The words form on their own: "I'd like to see you try and stop me."
And suddenly, he notices the tear shimmering in his brother's eyes. Stan's not ready for this, and his grin melts as he puts his hands out, saying, "Whoa, you're not gonna cry, are you? 'Cause I'm not prepared to deal with that."
He is absolutely not ready when Ford steps into his open arms, and wraps his own around Stan, holding him tight. A full three seconds pass wherein Stan just stands still, trying to process this turn of events. Vague shadows of a memory flit across his mind of a similar scene, sitting in the dappled sunshine of the woods, everything around him achingly familiar but profoundly strange.
He knows what to do now.
His hands meet on Ford's back and he melts into his brother's embrace, and for the longest time they just stand still as they cling to one another, two halves of the same whole finally reunited. Stan spent so many restless nights fearing that he'd never be able to fill this emptiness in his life again, even after Ford was back and his work was done. But here and now, there is not a single thing missing.
Maybe some things have changed, but the ones that matter haven't.
"I'm going to show you how sorry I am," whispers Ford's voice right next to his ear.
It's at this moment that the realization finally comes to Stan in words. They're together again. Everything is as it should be.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. They stand still, leaning against each other, holding one another close like they'll never let go again.
~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~
There's a soul
There's a pulse
There's a warrior
There's a hole where my heart used to be
Now I'm filling it up with all the things I always said I'd be
I always said I'd be
-Paradise Fears "Warrior"
AN: So I know I'm going to regret using "Warrior" for this fic because I'm going to want to use it for every Stan fic I ever write again. It's just so… Stan. Oh well.
Shameless self-plug: I've written about Stan before. And honestly that fic was better, so if you liked this even a little you should go check it out.
Also, I don't own Gravity Falls.