A/N: Hey, look, a stand alone story!
I was hyped for tonight, so here's a quick drabble I cranked out. It's a bit dark. You've been warned. Rated T to be safe.
Who's ready for that new episode? *thumbs up*
He had never meant for it to happen.
He had never meant to let Stan die.
The rift was never intended to be shattered so early. Ford had held a calculated schedule deep within the recesses of his drawers in the lab, a perfect timing where the date he planned to release Bill would line up with the kids and his brother traveling far from Gravity Falls. Far from the danger.
He had meant to go after Bill alone, armed with the proper weapons and no distractions to lead him away from his goal. The alien spaceship with Dipper, the droid kidnapping, the conversation, Mabel's outburst...wasn't part of the plan.
Then the rift was shattered, Bill escaped prematurely, Ford had to scramble to bring together a half-assed plan to take down the dream demon as quickly and efficiently as possible.
Four days later...
He's holding an identical figure, a bloodied and beaten version of himself in his arms, still snappily dressed in that goddamn suit despite crawling out of a collapsed building like a champ.
Blood's sweeping across the black fabric, absolutely coating the white areas with a stark red, so much pain in Stan's eyes...
Ford's apologizing, scolding, screaming, pleading, words tumbling out and eventually blending into a stream of sentences that make no sense. Stan's attention leaves his twin, his cloudy eyes staring up to the sky, the rift closing, the red-orange hue fading back to sky blue. Bill's defeated, but the kids stand to the side crying for their Grunkle, Ford's still shaking Stan and ordering him to stay awake because help is coming, help is coming...
The only thing Stan manages to stutter out is something concerning the kids, and then...
Ford had never meant for his brother to die.
One week later...
Rain soaks Ford to the core, the rental suit he's wearing the least of his worries, as he studies the tombstone in front of him. The funeral had been rather short and to the point, like Stan would've wanted, and the twins had had to be lead out by Soos in the middle of it. Ford's chest aches from all the sobbing.
The town knew who he was now, were aware he was one of the heroes to thwart the yellow demon who sabatoged the town, but whoever had attended Stan's funeral hadn't even looked in the author's direction. Perhaps the image of Ford in a suit reminded them too much of...
Another choked sob fills his throat and he lays a six-fingered hand on the tombstone, surrounded by flowers and letters and a cheesy balloon Stan would've disapproved of if it hadn't been from his great-niece. Ford buries his face in his hands, keens a bit, tears mingling with the rain, and he wonders why the hell he was the one to be put in this position.
Two weeks later...
The kids are gone, on a bus heading back to California, and the Shack feels ten times lonelier. All of the energy supplied by cheap coffee and sugary snacks just about leeches out of Ford, as he sits at the kitchen table with his head in his arms.
He's unsure on his next move. Whether to continue Stan's business, or drown himself back in his experiments down in the lab. Maybe pretend the Shack never happened.
But looking at his experiments, hell, looking towards the vending machine sent shivers up Ford's spine, the memory of Bill and the outcome of his defeat making him think twice.
Stan's legacy couldn't just be dropped.
He stands, enters the gift shop area that had remained empty for the past two weeks and a half, dust gathering on the shelves. He paces, his hands on his face, trying to stifle his cries and think of a solution. Of what to do.
He catches something out of the corner of his eye, and lets his hands drop. Approaches the object, the darkness of the shop making it a indistinguishable shape. Six fingers wraps around it and hefts it into the light, the 8-ball top shining a bit.
Stan's cane, the one thing Ford had almost buried with him, but thought against it. Dipper had insisted on keeping it too, saying Stan wouldn't approve burying valuable things in the dirt with him, or at least that's how the twelve year old recalled a conversation with the now deceased Grunkle.
The cane is heavy, and Ford finds himself tapping the floor a bit as he walks. How did Stan walk?
He stoops over a bit, a hunched slouch, trudges a bit, then picks himself up higher upon consideration.
He then Stan-walks to the door, and flips the sign to Open.
Three weeks later...
Ford just about grasps Stan's method of giving tours, trying to display his twin's exuberance and hand motions. The days go by as customers trickle in, Wendy and Soos coming in to take their jobs back after Ford insists. They stay unusually quiet, but seem to silently approve of the choice to keep the Shack open.
Ford can't quite get Stan's methods exactly right though...and it's almost like the tourists from out of town seem to notice. He gets weird looks from returners, a perfect visual match to his deceased twin, but his personality not entirely convincing.
He's not good enough.
He sits in his room that night, staring at the cane, scribbling notes down in his journal as he goes over Stan's personality again and again within his head. His quirks, his habits, everything Ford could regather from their childhood. He's going to fix it, he's going to fix it, he's going to fix it...
He had never meant for Stan to die, but maybe he can bring a part of his brother back.
Four weeks later...
Despite having told himself he wouldn't, Ford rummages through Stan's closet and discovers his Mr. Mystery gear. He throws it on, grabs Stan's fez, and becomes a splitting image of his brother. That day at work, Soos cries and has to take a break to compose himself. Wendy is speechless, but eventually assures Ford it's a good thing he carries on Stan's legacy. She seems almost amused, almost happy.
Ford begins to develop Stan's way of tours, and soon falls into his brother's swindling tactics. More money makes its way into the register. More tourists begin to visit, there are less odd looks of confusion and he feels like he's finally settling into the swing of things.
Ford doesn't really feel like he's carrying on Stan's legacy. He feels more like he is Stan. He's got his twin's actions and posture down, his clothes and style. And it makes Ford feel so much better.
A month and a half later...
The Shack's business is booming. Townsfolk are stunned when they visit, looking baffled as to why the famous Mr. Mystery is still alive. Ford finds himself never denying it when he's approached. Soos and Wendy are often the ones to tell the truth of the other Stan twin.
Ford begins to develop his brother's accent, words melting into each other, his science talk falling into the deep recesses of his brain. He's excitedly happy each day he wakes up. It's like Stan is beside him, like he's helping Ford along. It's a way of comfort.
Ford stares at himself in the mirror that night. Then decides he'll let his stubble grow, he'll cut his hair shorter. Pitt Cola cans begin to litter his room. He feels so much at ease with himself, like he's filling in the hole that was created after...after...
...maybe there could never be a hole. Ford hadn't been in the Shack in thirty years and it never made a difference. Stan was the one who mattered.
Ford had never meant for Stan to die, but maybe he can replace him.
He moves into Stan's room that night.
Two months later...
Ford is the exact image of Stan and he loves it.
The Shack's business is at its peak, the money is raking in, and Ford finds himself greedily taking in the haul. Wendy seems worried, but blames her schoolwork when questioned. Soos distracts himself within his work.
Ford checks himself out in the mirror almost excessively. Makes sure he's perfectly like his brother. He's dyed his hair a lighter color, gotten rid of the streak through his original hair.
A few days later, the twins are back for fall break. Mabel screams at the sight of Ford. Dipper is speechless. Wendy speaks to them outside, explains things, questions if they really want to stay, but they insist that they do despite her warnings.
The twins hug Ford and he takes on Stan's tone, Stan's jokes, jabs a little at Dipper. The kids look stunned.
They still call him Ford. Later, he tells them to call him Grunkle Stan. Instead, they just call him Mr. Mystery, before eventually falling into the routine of simply addressing to him as "Grunkle."
Ford paces in front of the mirror that night, looks himself over, muses over things. He can't help but feel like Stan is slipping away again. The kids don't look convinced. They almost look frightened, and he's overheard Mabel whispering to her brother that he's gone "kooky". Dipper just responds with something about denial and stages of grief.
Ford leaves the room at midnight, when everyone is asleep. Travels to the vending machine, descends the stairs, enters the musty lab he'd abandoned a month ago in favor of filling in Stan's role.
He finds the right area, the long counter with buttons and controls, the copied pages of Journal 3 laid across the top, the originals destroyed by Bill long ago.
He finds what he's looking for. The glowing hot symbol he'd pushed his twin into thirty years ago, that had ripped a yell of agony from Stan's mouth before everything went downhill. Before the stupid portal, before the dimension hopping, before the whole mess. He can't help but feel like this is more of a rightful punishment.
Ford lifts off the suit's coat, and lets it drop on the dusty floor. Removes the collared shirt, then the undershirt, dropping to his knees as his eyes scan the cautionary sign hanging nearby, proclaiming its danger, how hot it could get.
He turns himself around and slams himself backwards, a fiery pain rippling through him, making his limbs spasm, his breath quicken, and he holds back a scream.
He tears himself away, slipping to the floor, the mark now branded into his right shoulder. The skin burns with such a fierce intensity, his head swims, but he smiles even as tears trickle down his cheeks.
Ford had never meant for Stan to die...
But maybe he could become Stan.
Three months later...
The Shack's business slowly dwindles as the weather becomes colder. The twins seem to avoid Ford, more engrossed in the familiar people of the town. He tries to talk to them like Stan would, but they never seem convinced.
Mabel just looks saddened by his presence. Dipper always stares down at Ford's hands, like it's the only thing keeping him from really believing the man standing before him is Stan.
Ford feels like he is Stan. He is his brother. He has to fill in his twin's shoes, needs to take his place. Needs to be convincing.
The twins' stay slowly comes to an end, and they pack up. Ford tries to get them to call him Stan, to finally see he's his brother, how convincing he's become, look at him!
Mabel never says anything. Dipper sends Ford a heated look, seeming to contemplate his words before he finally tells Ford to "stop playing pretend" and to accept things. And they leave.
That night, Ford stares at his hands, six fingers curling and uncurling as he dwells on it all. He's not playing pretend. He's not playing anything!
He's Stanford Pines! Or...he's Stanley Pines! Or...he's...
He's Stan. Owner of the Mystery Shack, Mr. Mystery...
The problem is that every title still fits. Fits for Ford Pines, researcher and author of the now deceased journals. The only thing that's keeping him from being Stan is his fingers.
Six fingers. The only telltale sign to know for sure Stan Pines hasn't risen from the grave.
Three months and a day later...
Ford stands in the kitchen, the nearly empty bottle of liquor on the counter shining and reflecting light from the candle he has before him. He has his right hand splayed out in front of him, his vision is blurring.
Even his thoughts have taken on Stan's accent, and as he takes another swig of liquor, he ponders over how much money it could've cost.
He decides he oughta be quick, picks up the biggest knife he could dig out from the drawers, the handle heavy in his hand. He studies his six fingers, thinks hard, before lining up the blade with the last finger.
He sucks in a breath, ensures he's got all the supplies, then realizes that's the Ford way of things. He needs to do things the Stanley way.
Quickly, efficiently, he shoves the knife down, chopping off one finger, then switching hands and doing the other. He nearly passes out, blackness bordering his vision, feels himself swaying on his feet before he catches himself.
He holds the knife to the flame of the candle, digging his soles into the floor, trying to ground himself. He's gotta do it. He's gotta do it.
He cauterizes the new wounds, nearly passes out twice. Grabs the gauze, wraps it around and around carelessly. The Stan way of doing things.
He's got five fingers now. The way it should be.
He cries tears of joy and relief, before finally heading to bed in a drunken stupor.
Four months later...
The Shack is booming with business from the winter months. Wendy quits for unknown reasons, but Ford simply hires up a more efficient cashier. Soos completely avoids him, hardly even talks, and the tourists seem to acknowledge him as just some silent janitor or handyman who mills about doing odd jobs. Ford uses the opportunity to crack jokes at Soos' expense.
Soos yells at him later, telling Ford Stan is dead and to stop doing what he's doing, that he's gone too far. Ford is furious, argues back that Soos is wrong, that he is Stan. Stan is standing right here! Ford is the one who died!
Soos quits the day after, and doesn't even give the Shack a backwards glance. He looks horribly heartbroken and torn apart by the decision, but Ford is adamant that he never show his face again. He hires a simpler handyman, one who will call him by his real name.
That night, he stands in front of the mirror, runs a hand through his hair, fixes his glasses with his bandaged hands. Hands with five fingers. It took some getting used to, but it was quick to adjust to.
He laughs at himself, a small chuckle that soon erupts into something more. He's gasping for breaths, supporting himself against the wall, laughing and laughing and laughing as he stares at his reflection.
The laughs suddenly morph into sobs, and he punches a hand out without warning. The mirror shatters, glass strewn on the rug, but he doesn't care. He lets himself calm down, rubs his eyes, wipes away the tears and composes himself.
Four months.
It took four months for Ford Pines to cease to exist.
Ford had never meant for Stan to die.
Ford never wanted Stan to die...
But, he figured, as he gleefully looked towards his hands, his outfit, himself.
Stan was never dead.
The End