Chapter 1: In which Stanford refuses to admit he has a problem.

A/N: Hello all! This is my first GF fanfic, and the first thing I've written in a long time. I hope you like it. Set after Weirdmaggedon, assuming Stan doesn't die a fiery death. This will be a multi-chapter fic, but my life is a bit busy right now so don't expect updates too fast. Please review!

Their fight against Bill was over. The night after it was finished, Ford swore he would leave his gun in the basement. But as he stood at the threshold of the elevator, he was suddenly extremely nervous. Bill was crafty. What if it wasn't really over? What if something happened? In the end, he turned back and grabbed the gun. Better to be safe than sorry.

He kept telling himself that.

Dipper and Mabel left, but Stanley stayed. Turned out, the world had changed a lot in 30 years, and Ford wasn't sure he could handle it. So he let Stanley stay. Just until he got back on his feet, Ford had said.

He kept telling himself that.

But though Ford had made a cursory attempt at reintegrating early on, now he spent all his time in the basement and tried not to think about the future. There were much more important things to worry about: dismantling the portal, securing his other experiments, recreating the journals. Those were important, much more so than anything else.

He kept telling himself that.

In retrospect, the symptoms were obvious. No one would be normal after going through what he'd been through. But trying to see that from inside the haze of paranoia was impossible. Even a genius could miss the forest for the trees. It became painfully obvious one late September evening.

They were eating dinner. They never talked much, for which Ford was thankful; after 30 years, he was - to put it mildly - somewhat out of touch with the intricacies of human conversation, and the last person he wanted to make small talk with was his twin brother. That made what Stanley said that evening all the more unusual.

"Ford, we need to talk."

Ford immediately didn't like the tone of his brother's voice. Stanley was almost never serious, and Ford couldn't even imagine what had got him so worried. He cleared his throat and glanced up at Stan, trying to gauge his brother's intentions, but looked back down at his plate before they made eye contact. "About what?" he chanced, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

"About you."

Ford barely managed to keep from choking on his food. He chewed slowly, deliberately, hoping to force Stan to continue before he swallowed.

"You've been acting weird lately."

"How so?" Ford continued to feign ignorance, and he could almost feel Stan's eyes narrow.

"You hardly ever come out of the basement anymore-"

Ford was silently thankful. He'd already anticipated that question. "That's because I have very important work to do, Stanley. Just because Bill's been defeated doesn't mean there aren't still dangerously unsecured experiments down there. I don't have time to-"

"Would ya let me finish, Poindexter?" That shut Ford up. He seemed stunned. "And when you do come up, you're always carrying your gun." Ford winced. How did Stanley know about that? He thought he'd been careful to conceal the gun. "And don't try to play dumb. I lived on the street for 10 years; I can tell when someone's packing heat."

Ford couldn't speak. All his excuses seem to have slipped away. But after a few painful moments, he swallowed the lump in his throat and mumbled, "I-I need it. In case something happens."

It was an extraordinarily stupid thing to say. Stanley's retort was obvious. "In case what happens, Ford? That triangle guy is gone, but you're still down in the basement from before I wake up until after I go to sleep, and I have to practically drag you out of there just for dinner! If something dangerous is going on down there, I have a right to know. This is my house too!"

Ford felt relief wash over him. Stanley didn't know. He thought it was just another one of Ford's experiments, and he could easily talk his way out of that. "Like I said, Stan, it's just a precaution-"

"Against what? You still won't tell me!" Stan stood up. His voice was raised, and for a second, Ford flinched, sure they were about to get into another fight. But then there was a sigh - a great, heaving sigh - and Ford looked up to see Stan turned slightly away, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "You know, you don't have to do this alone, Ford. It doesn't have to be like this. Not again."

For a moment, Ford believed him. Memories came flooding back, visions of 30 years ago, of a scene he'd played over and over and over in his head ever since, of how if he'd just had the strength to say what he meant, to tell the truth, things wouldn't have turned out like they did. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe Stan would understand. He took a deep breath. "Stanley... Maybe you're right."

Stan grinned. "Who woulda thought? Stanley Pines, right about something. Does this mean you were wrong for once?" He sat down, punching Ford playfully on the shoulder as he did.

Ford laughed. "Well, you don't have to rub it in."

"Course I do, Sixer. So come on, what's got you so spooked? I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle after all that Weirdmaggedon nonsense, but whatever it is, it's been driving you crazy."

And just like that, it all came tumbling down.

It had been the one thing Ford had desperately avoided thinking about. He was anxious, sure, and restless and irritable. He wasn't able to sleep through the night, and often woke from nightmares drenched in sweat. He was even willing to admit he was being a bit paranoid. But the one thing he definitely was not, was crazy. A small voice had been nagging him relentlessly - this wasn't normal, he wasn't okay, he needed help - but a louder, prouder voice had drowned it out, insisted he was fine, he just needed time, if he didn't dwell on it this would all go away. Crazy meant he was losing his mind, which after 30 years of hell was the only thing he had left. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't crazy.

"I'M NOT CRAZY!" It came out much louder than Ford meant it to. Before he knew it, he'd shot up, slamming his fists on the flimsy table so hard it almost broke. "I'm not crazy." Much quieter this time, as if he was still trying to convince himself. Stan had thrown his arms up defensively at the sound of Ford screaming, but now stood frozen, mouth hanging open stupidly. It couldn't have been more than a minute before Stanley finally spoke, but with the way Ford's heart and head raced, it felt like hours.

"Stanford…"

No, no, he couldn't do this. It was exactly as bad as he had imagined. That awful mixture of fear and pity in Stanley's eyes was the last thing he needed right now. Ford ran to the basement, feeling the beginnings of tears prickling behind his eyes.