Compromise
After pengychan and I watched the finale again, we discussed on how Stan tells the twins "I thought I had lost you two" at the very beginning, and just how many heartbreaking implications that short, simple phrase contains. This story is the final result of our conversation.
It is not like this that Stan expected the end of the world.
For one, the final days are lasting too long. Not the kind of fast bullet he would have wanted to go with. The small crowd in his home does not provide much comfort, either. Alone or not, they are going to be done for – as far as he is concerned, a near complete week is an awfully long time to wait.
Fatigue does not unsettle him, either. Tending to the survivors isn't much of a hassle, when the offending creatures hail from something like an unrepentant stoner's high dream. At least he can boss around the gnomes, and get unpaid employees in exchange of his hospitality.
In any case, if the alternative is focusing on what was left outside, he'll take up heavy labor any moment.
While he certainly cannot claim to have been through worse, the rest of his life was not so far from this. There were all the times he left on the run; there were the cold nights he barely slept through, slumped in his car. So many.
In the end, not even that could prepare Stan for the silence.
The absolute worst are, in fact, the hours they spend saying nothing. The way they follow one another, crumbling to dust like the town they left outside, is more unnerving than the rare knocks on the door.
Outer contacts grow less and less likely, to boot. It means fewer distractions – fewer chances to break their wait in pieces.
He does not complain. As long as they stay here, they are also safe. But they remain shivering and still, without the slightest trace of a move.
Stan knows what it means. He can feel them think, just like he does.
And it is the thought of the missing to make the air denser.
Over and over, he pulls his mind away from that idea. Dwelling on things that will never be fixed only makes it worse. He cannot see any other sensible choice than just being here, now that every purpose he fought to cling to has vanished into thin hair.
He has learnt the lesson now, yes. The anger of that certainty helps him smash the cans of food. There was never a point in anything, given that life is one giant ungrateful bastard.
Which is why Stan opts for drowning in his chair, rather than focusing on a past he has no control over. Nothing of what happens out there is his concern, at the edge of an apocalypse which has pissed him off quite enough. Much better to live by the moment, without the long-term plans he only ever watched dissolve into failure, and chase away hard truths that are too painful to begin considering.
To run after remedies in vain is no longer a good plan. Nothing of what he did produced results, so why bother?
He never did any good, didn't he?
He might as well go by his own rules. With that in mind, Stan keeps the leading role for himself; everyone follows anyway, for lack of better options. He can at least take control over the last game he is playing, the only one he was any good at – survival.
Who broke the dam open – who unlocked the door these monsters must have crossed, or how else, where from? – is something he prefers not to dwell on.
This is fine, Stan's head aggressively repeats. This is the best he can bargain for. If his life lessons count for anything, he must let it suffice.
He chooses to embrace that belief. To what extent he is free to do so, well, that's another matter entirely. Each time he dwells on the reason why, a bitter emotion confirms it right away – like it or not, he must walk that path.
Because, if he does not fill the silence with that, the other things are always going to return.
For once, at last, Stan is the leader. He gets the first ration, the massages and the comfiest chair. He can enjoy all that during the day, as a distraction.
By the time he goes to sleep, the rest catches up with him.
It isn't the end of the world that finally breaks him, in the darkness of his makeshift room. Whether he starves today or tomorrow, deep down he couldn't care less. His own was never in the number of the lives that counted. What he cared about is long lost to this mess, to the pointless silence that spread across his actions – and guess why, he screams within himself, they are never coming home. Guess whose fault it is, again.
When Stan bites his pillow, to cry all he has left in tears, he does it alone. Whatever meaning it may have now that they are gone, the rules of their shelter are established. He is the chief.
That he can barely stand this does not mean the others have to see. If they so choose, he must help them carry on.
And in his own way – without leaving his chair, who do they think he is? – he is going to remain the strongest one. He is staying true to everything his role implies, even if it means hiding his pain.
It's not just Dipper and Mabel, after all. He helped ruin everyone.
Since this was his fault, it is about time he began to take responsibility.