Tis the season for Depravity Falls! Happy Halloween, everyone!
Recurring
Stanley Pines didn't know when exactly the dream began, but he knew it was early enough to be known as his first 'memory'; but not so early that he wasn't disturbed by it.
The first time he had the dream, he recalled being so disturbed by it, he cried so hard he vomited. It took hours for his mother to calm him down, but by the time he did, he had forgotten what the dream even was.
He didn't have the dream every night. There were no triggers that started the dreams up again. But every time he had it, it was always the same.
Twelve.
Long, elegant, and beautiful.
Stroking those precious digits lovingly, coveting them. No…not THEM.
Just the two.
Holding the hands down. There was some effort. Some struggling. But they were held down.
Picking up a knife.
Had to make it clean. Couldn't destroy those perfect, beautiful fingers.
Make it quick.
A flash of red.
The fingers were perfect.
Perfect.
Had to make it quick. Get the needle and thread. Hurry, hurry…
Beautiful.
His fingers were beautiful now.
All. Twelve. Of them.
He never told anyone the dreams. Ever. He never spoke of it, never wrote it down. It was a horrible, disgusting secret, and one he would take to the grave. He buried down the dreams, muffled his screams when he jerked awake. Forced himself to be normal.
Who was he kidding. Nothing about it was normal.
Looking at his twin's hands with LONGING was not normal. Eyeing that sixth extra digit on both was not normal. Taking any chance he could to hold those hands and run his thumb over the extra finger in a show of comfort but in a reality of coveting was NOT NORMAL.
The dreams came more frequently when he was a teenager, and did not mix well with his hormones. He would jerk awake from the dream, feeling a rush of horror and shame of being aroused. By the dream? No. No, it couldn't be. He REFUSED. He would curl up on himself and bury his face in his pillow, silently sobbing and begging whatever god that would listen to make it all go away.
Stan found respite from the dreams for ten years, the only relief of being disowned. For ten years, he had normal dreams and normal nightmares; but those nightmares were NOTHING. He'd faced the worst of depravity, and it was himself, practically lusting over sixth fingers. His BROTHER'S sixth fingers.
Ten years, and one night, he hears a knock at the door and sees a postcard from some backwoods Oregon town called Gravity Falls.
PLEASE COME! —Ford
His brother was in trouble; that was the only explanation. But he was already sleep-deprived, and he would need to be wide-awake for a winter drive from New Mexico to Oregon. He packed everything he needed and went to sleep.
Twelve.
Long, elegant, and beautiful…
Goddamn it.
It was like someone up there hated him.
He lost his brother. His back was in agony from a brand. He had no idea what he was going to do to get Stanford back. And the brief time he had to sleep was spent with the dream.
The rest of the night was spent screaming in agony; physical from the brand in his shoulder, emotional at losing his brother, and mental at that goddamn dream AGAIN.
So many years were spent alternating between his day job, and his night life; a double-life he was happy to have, on the off-chance he would have that dream again. But ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty years passed, and the dream didn't come again.
After all that time, he began wondering if the dream was real to begin with, or just some odd, sick fantasy his sleep-deprived mind cooked up when he was especially exhausted.
Real or not, he would often take out the journal he'd kept safe for three decades and press his hand to the cover. The fingers were always more slender than his own, slightly longer…
…and that extra one that would stick out on its lonesome.
He would trace his finger over that extra sliver delicately, almost lovingly, convincing himself it was his brother he missed. Not the hands. Not that extra finger.
Long, elegant, and beautiful.
Stan looked at his face in the mirror, able to make out a mark from where his brother had punched him. He'd been hit knuckles-first, and could see six perfect marks over his cheek. A shudder ran up his spine as his fingers touched that sixth mark, old memories like a bad but torrid love affair coming back.
He went to bed with a heavy heart, feeling that nothing was going to be like it used to be, nothing was going to be fixed.
Twelve.
Long, elegant, and beautiful…
He woke up before dawn, the image of a sixth finger sewn onto his own hands fresh in his mind, a rush of shivery arousal crawling over his spine, sending him a thirty-year-absent reminder of his sick fetish for his brother's extra fingers.
He tried so hard to keep away from Ford. Their bond was already shattered, it didn't need further sullying with Stan being tempted by seeing those hands every day. But being under the same roof, separated by elevator or not, made that impossible. His niece and nephew also wanted them to get along and try to make up, and that just made things worse.
Ford would come up from the basement, even just to sit and be among the rest of the family for whatever reason, and Stan would find himself looking.
Whatever happened in that portal, it didn't tarnish Ford's hands at all. The fingers were still long and elegant, those sixth fingers still perfect and undamaged; work-worn, yes, but still beautiful.
Stan didn't know if it was a weakening conviction or the careless nature of his aging mind, but he felt himself longing even more, coveting even harder. His own hands would clench and flex when he saw them, aching with the sensation that something was MISSING.
After a particularly trying day, he locked himself in his room, sat down on the bed, and stared at his own hands, trying to rationalize his feelings in his own mind.
There was nothing rational ABOUT this.
The dreams HAVE to mean something. You've lived here long enough to know that the weird isn't without reason.
This wasn't even WEIRD. This bordered on INSANITY. Even by Gravity Falls standards, THIS isn't normal!
It doesn't have to be normal. You'd fit right in. It IS Gravity Falls, after all.
But to ACTUALLY do it?!
Hey. Ford's always wanted to be normal. Two birds with one stone, really. You've cut off fingers before. You know how to make it quick.
Oh yes, because cutting off fingers for the Colombian mob was considered something to be PROUD of!
Perhaps not. But now it's useful.
I cant…
It wont ever go away until you do.
That was true. So painfully true.
Stan curled up on the bed, clenching his eyes shut. He knew he'd have the dream again. Part of him dreaded it, was afraid of it happening.
Another part anticipated it with an excited rush.
And Stan just couldn't take it anymore.
He couldn't take the sickness in his own mind, the horrible thoughts that plagued him, the late-night masturbatory thoughts concerning those goddamn fingers.
Long, elegant, and beautiful…
As though his body was on auto-pilot, Stan got out of bed and left his room, walking silently downstairs, through the house, and into the downstairs bedroom that Ford had reclaimed as his. Ford was lying on the couch, glasses askew as he snored softly. He walked up, looking over his brother quietly, his eyes resting on Ford's hands.
Twelve.
Long, elegant, and beautiful.
Stan sat down on an unused part of the couch, staring at those hands. He reached out slowly and touched them, tracing his fingers over them.
Stroking those precious digits lovingly, coveting them. No…not THEM.
Just the two.
Ford was on his stomach sleeping; Stan was glad that some habits didn't die hard. That made this much easier. He stood up and shifted over to Ford's side before climbing up on him, sitting on his back.
By that point, Ford began to wake up, feeling discomfort and heaviness. He shifted a little, frowning and blinking blearily. "…wha…?" he mumbled, shifting again, definitely feeling a heavy weight on his back. He went into panic mode, scrambling to sit up, only to find the combined weight on his back and someone holding his wrists keeping him from doing so. "GET OFF!"
Holding the hands down. There was some effort. Some struggling. But they were held down.
Stan shifted Ford's wrists to one hand, grabbing a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffing it into Ford's mouth before reaching back and taking a knife from Ford's boot.
Picking up a knife.
Had to make it clean. Couldn't destroy those perfect, beautiful fingers.
"Shh, calm down, Ford," Stan murmured, though Ford was screaming into the gag too forcefully to hear. "It'll be over soon." He took one of Ford's arms and twisted it behind Ford's back and pinning it under his knee before taking hold of the free hand, lining the knife up neatly.
Make it quick.
He cut in, making quick, precise sawing motions.
A flash of red.
Ford's body jerked hard as he screamed into the gag louder, tears streaming down his face as the finger came off. Stan jerked that arm behind Ford's back and pulled up the one he had pinned down, repeating the motion until he had two fingers in his hand.
The fingers were perfect.
Perfect.
Ford's body convulsed and shook under him, and Stan had a feeling his twin was going into shock. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of gauze, wrapping the hands up with care, murmuring words of comfort to his brother, making a note to give Ford some of his prescription painkillers after this.
Had to make it quick. Get the needle and thread. Hurry, hurry…
His job was only half done. He reached back into his pocket and took out a small surgical kit, picking up the scalpel and digging it into the side of his hand, right next to his pinky, biting his lip hard at the sharp pain. He just needed some skin to latch on, that was all…
He picked up the pre-threaded needle and the left finger before getting to work. It was hard. His hands shook from the pain but his adrenaline kept him going until the finger was firmly in place. He wasted no time in doing the same to his right hand, even though his head was starting to swim by then.
But he powered through until that finger too was latched on snugly and both hands were covered in blood. Whose blood, he didn't know. He didn't care. He had done it. His hands…
Beautiful.
His fingers were beautiful now.
He was complete now. That horrible ache of something missing was finally gone. He had all of his fingers now.
All. Twelve. Of them.
Stan felt tears of joy—and pain—run down his face, and he couldn't stifle his sobs. His body shook with crying. He had to share his joy. He had to hug someone. He shifted down and hugged his brother's torso tightly, feeling the sticky blood soak his front, but he didn't care.
He kissed his brother's sweat-soaked hair, smiling. "…it's for us both, Ford," he mumbled, his voice shaking. "You….you're just like everyone else now…..like you always wanted to be….and I've…..I've got what's mine, finally…"
Ford didn't answer. He was still lying shaking in shock, unable to comprehend what had just been done to him.
Stan just smiled, resting against his brother quietly. He could use a nap now. He'd never have that dream again. Before he closed his eyes, he looked lovingly down at his hands, counting his fingers.
Twelve.
Long, elegant, and beautiful.