Didja miss me? Admit it, you missed me!

More seriously, it's been roughly FIVE YEARS since I posted fanfic, but Gravity Falls has managed to drag me back into it. (Mostly because I've run out of content to my liking; and I came to the conclusion that if I really wanted it, I'd have to be the one to make it.) So, my writing skills are terribly rusty - not like I was ever all that great to begin with - but hopefully someone out there enjoys my efforts, anyway.

This is Not an Apology

Stan doesn't head for his own bedroom even after chasing Mabel and Dipper to theirs for the night. He already knows he'll just end up staring at the ceiling, so there's no point. Too much has happened - changed - today, and it's left him more unsettled than he cares to admit.

Stan rubs at his face as he shuffles down the short hall and into the TV room. He winces a bit and pulls his fingers away from his tender jaw. No need for a mirror to tell him that it's already starting to bruise.

The old man grumbles under his breath at the thought of who is responsible for inflicting this latest abuse on him, "Since when does my nerdy brother know how to throw a decent punch?" A memory of childhood boxing lessons flits through his mind, but Stan brushes the thought aside. He is one-hundred percent certain that wasn't it. Ford had gained one truly impressive losing streak to his name before he'd finally been allowed to quit boxing altogether.

He spends a moment looking for the remote before he sits down and turns on the TV. A few channels later and he's settled in to watch the tail end of a Ducktective marathon. Come to think of it, the next episode was scheduled to air in a day or two, wasn't it? Well, that was one small bright-spot in a day that had otherwise gone down in flames.

Stan is about two-thirds through his fifth episode when he notices the figure leaning against the doorway. "Holy Moses!" Stan screams as he pushes himself further into his chair's backrest and clutches at his heart, "Don't do that, Sixer!" He squints up at his twin when Ford doesn't say anything. "How- Uh, how long have you been standing there, anyway?" he asks, just to break the stretching silence.

Ford finally unfreezes, shifting against the wall. It's only as he does so that Stan realizes just how tense Ford's whole stance is. His brother glances away before saying, "Seventeen minutes. Closer to eighteen, now."

Stan fights to keep his eyes from rolling as Ford's gaze finds him again. Leave it to his brother to seek out a damn clock in order to give the most accurate answer possible when anyone else would have just guessed or ignored the question entirely. But, then, that was Stanford for you. "Not every question is gonna be on the final, Poindexter." The words slip from Stan's mouth before he can stop them.

Ford's shoulders tense even further than they had been already. "I didn't come up here to fight with you."

"Right. Sure." Stanley isn't trying to growl the words out, but he can hear how gruff they sound, regardless. "So, why are you here?"

Ford pulls away from the wall he'd been leaning on, straightening his spine and tucking his hands behind his back; his face is unreadable, even as his gaze stays steadily on Stan.

Stan tries to push away the frustration and despair that bubbles up from that, but he isn't very successful at doing so. His twin, who he used to know better than he knew himself, has become a virtual stranger that he can't read. That never should have happened. He may never have been able to decipher Ford's thoughts - 'Cause God only knows what goes on in his genius brother's head! - but he used to know Ford's heart. All it had ever taken before was one glance, and he'd just know. Looking at his brother now, it's painfully apparent that those days are long gone.

"As cheery as that last conversation was," Ford's voice jolts Stan back from his thoughts, "it occurred to me that there are a few other things we need to make sure are clear between us."

Stan swallows thickly. He really isn't ready for a round two. "Go on, then."

Ford draws himself up further, standing with his shoulders back, spine ramrod straight, feet planted, and hands still hidden behind his back. Frankly, that last bit alone is enough to drive Stan nuts. Ford shouldn't be trying to hide away pieces of himself, and especially not from him.

"I've shut down the portal and disconnected the power source," Ford states, "It will still need to be dismantled, of course; but for now, it's stable and I've managed to contain the damage. I should be able to come up with a more complete solution after I get some sleep. It would be helpful if you and the kids refrained from going down to the basement while I'm working." He stops, lips pressing tightly together as if unsure of what else he should say.

"That it?" Stan demands when the silence begins to press in on them once more, "'Stan, I'm busy mopping up after your latest screw up. Don't make another mess in the meantime.'"

Stanford frowns. "Not quite how I would have phrased it, but an avoidance of any potential mishaps in the near-future would be appreciated. The last thing needed in this situation is any further complications. And... No, there is something else, but I'm not sure how..." He sighs and tips his head back as he gazes up at the ceiling. He shifts again, rolling his shoulders just a bit as he drops his hands to his sides. All twelve fingers twitch slightly before curling into a pair of fists. (Considering the greeting he'd received just a few hours ago, Stan isn't so sure he likes this any more than when Ford had been hiding his hands.) When he looks at Stan again there is an almost frightening amount of determination is his eyes.

"Stanley, I need you to understand," Ford says firmly, "that this is not an apology. You deserved that punch and worse for reactivating the portal. Nor is this that 'thank you' you seem to think you're entitled to. This whole thing was an incredibly foolish gamble, and you jeopardised countless lives that weren't yours to risk-"

"Oh, don't you dare start-"

"-INCLUDING THOSE KIDS UPSTAIRS."

Stan's mouth snaps shut and his face pales. Shit. He'd been so focused on getting Ford back that he hadn't even considered... Stanley tries to swallow down the guilt. It doesn't work very well when suddenly all he can see is Mabel floating too damn close to the same gaping maw that had swallowed his brother whole decades before.

"It's obvious you care about them," Ford's voice, gentler now than it had been, pulls his attention back to the present, "I'm not questioning that. But you need to be aware of the fact that your decisions can put them in danger just as easily as mine can. Caring for someone doesn't mean that you're incapable of hurting them, regardless of if it's never been your intention." Ford is the one to break the ensuing silence this time as he adds, "Sometimes, it even means you're the one who can cause them the most harm." Something heavy settles in the air between them.

Stan crosses his arms and looks away. "I get it already! I'm a terrible summer guardian, and I should never have been trusted to look after those kids. You got anything to tell me that isn't gonna make me feel like crap? Or you wanna keep rehashing all my faults, just in case I ain't aware of 'em?"

Ford doesn't respond immediately, and, for a moment, Stan thinks his brother may have left as quietly as he arrived. Then his view of the TV is interrupted by a trench coat and red sweater. "I said, I don't want to fight with you. It would be nice, if you could return the sentiment for the next few minutes, at least." In a quieter voice, he adds, "I'm sick of arguing with you, Stan."

"Yeah?" Stanley chokes out a harsh laugh. "Me, too."

Some of the tension finally leaves Ford's shoulders as something between an exasperated sigh and a weary groan escapes his mouth. He scrubs his face with both hands under his glasses. "We're so broken," his brother mumbles from behind his hands and Stan feels like he's been stabbed in the chest.

Any other time, and the comment would have been said softly enough that Stan never would have heard it; but it's late at night, so Stan has the TV set low and his hearing aid high. He hears the short summation of everything he's been denying to himself for decades with perfect clarity. And it hurts. It's like having a curtain closed on him again. It's like watching helplessly as physics fail and something he can't begin to comprehend opens its greedy mouth. Ford is now less than two feet in front of him, and there are still so many obstacles keeping them apart that Stan can't even figure out where to start.

Eventually, Ford removes his hands from his face and folds his arms over his chest. He doesn't look at Stan, though; instead, he chooses to stare at the T-Rex skull next to the chair. "Back to what I was trying to say earlier," Ford begins again, his tone more subdued and weary than it had been earlier, "this isn't an apology, or that 'thank you' you want. I can't even say it's forgiveness, because I'm still angry at you for...a lot of things, really."

"You goin' somewhere with this, Sixer?" Stan asks in the same tired, defeated tone that Ford is using.

"It's just... You... I need to..." His eyes go distant for a second before he shakes his head and looks back at Stan again, "I'm making this more difficult than it has to be. I just need you to know that-" Ford trips over his words and something that looks a bit like fear washes over his features. "...Stanley? Are you...crying?"

Stan touches his cheek, more than a little surprise when his fingers come back wet. Like hell he's going to admit to anything, though. "What? No! Got something in my eyes, is all." He runs a forearm over his face, but without a sleeve to absorb the moisture, it just makes things worse.

Stan looks up when he hears Ford make a noise. It's not really a sigh, or a groan; it's more explosive, like all the air is being forced from his lungs after taking a shot to the gut that left him winded. He looks it, too, Stan realizes after a solid two seconds of staring. Ford's practically deflated; both the tension and the bravado have gone from his body, leaving behind a man that looks most similar to a marionette with all but one of its strings cut. It's a far cry from the badass that marched out of the portal.

For some reason he can't really put his finger on, Stanley thinks it makes Stanford look more like his brother than he has in over forty years.

"You're still an awful liar, Stan," Ford wheezes and then drops to his knees more smoothly than Stan is convinced any man their age should be able to.

He's still a bit too shocked to protest as careful hands tease his glasses from his face. Stan does put up a token resistance when they return to mop up the smeared tear-tracks with the cuffs of the sweater Ford has unearthed from somewhere; but, frankly, he's been craving this sort of attention from his twin for far too long to risk actually putting a stop to it.

Stanford's hands fall to rest on Stanley's shoulders after he's finished wiping away the tears. "This is not an apology, not a thank you, and not forgiveness," Ford repeats softly and then adds, "I know that's not what you want to hear, but it would be wrong of me to let you to get your hopes up when I'm not sure if we'll be able to fix things between us." A choked noise escapes Stan and Ford grimaces. His brother's fingers drum against his shoulders nervously. "But I- I do want you to- to know that..." Ford takes a deep breath, screws his eyes shut, and finally manages to finish the thought, "I just need you to know that you're not the only one who missed his twin!"

Stan doesn't have time to so much as process what Ford actually said before he finds himself being wrapped up in a hug. It's a tentative, almost scared thing. It's as if Ford expects to be pushed away. But why? Stan decides it doesn't matter, just returns the hug as fiercely as he can.

For a little while, at least, he has his brother back.

I imagine Ford then has a complete emotional breakdown, and Stan is unnerved by how quiet Ford is even while his entire frame is shaking as he weeps. Like, one loud, ugly sob at the beginning and then Ford just goes completely silent aside from his hitched breathing. But this seemed like a good place to end, so I cut it short here.