i. Gravity Falls, Oregon, USA.

You were a shameless child, bandied by stiff cross currents. Anything but mild, yes and no just simply weren't invented yet.

꙳

Stan closed his final bag, the soft ring of the zipper echoing between his ears in the near-silent house. He sat back and flipped through his mental checklist, ensuring he hadn't forgotten a single supply. Although, in all honesty, Ford was sure to pack more than was necessary, fully anticipating his brother to come up empty on some vital supply.

After all, Stanley hadn't seen his twin all day, and already it was nearly two in the morning.

Ford was stowed away in his lab, arranging his luggage and tinkering with his new inventions that, with any luck, would help them along their voyage. A portable water purifier that could make sea water drinkable, a compass that functioned properly on all sides of the earth, coats made from multidimensional fabrics that assist one's body in maintaining homeostasis in every possible weather condition.

He'd spent the past several weeks studying languages and wind patterns, identifying at which seasons they would be traversing which waters and which countries and places Stan probably shouldn't be allowed to enter. He'd packed all three of his journals as well as a couple of empty ones, thick auburn leather encasing warm tea-colored pages, an aureate six-fingered hand adorning the cover of each book.

An entire duffel bag was chosen to exclusively harbor Ford's weapons. A long-range tazer, a positronic needler, a crossbow, his quantum destabilizer, a number of grenades, explosives, some daggers. The only weapons he planned to take that weren't stored in the bags were the three that he carried at all times, never daring to remove: hidden between his foot and the wall of his left boot, his multitool; slid into an ages-old neoprene calf holster, his drop-point serrated hunting knife; concealed within a sash-style holster draped across his chest, his raygun.

Ford was prepared.

It took quite a bit of analytics, problem solving, and trial-and-error for the doctor to determine how to carry all of his luggage from the basement up to the front door in a single trip, but he eventually managed. A smile etched its way onto his face, cheeks warming at the sight of Stan crouched beside his few messy bags and cases, rifling through his old, ratty dufflebag and pulling a few things out.

"I would suggest that you refrain from unpacking until we're already on the boat, Lee."

Stan sat up straight, a grin spreading across his face as his brother's smooth, friendly voice broke the silence in the air. "Well, I remembered you mentionin' that you wanted all the weapons in the same bag. I still think that's a dumb idea, if I ever heard one, but hey. You're the genius." He turned around and gestured to the pile beside him, which contained his brass knuckles, two semi-automatic pistols, a switchblade, and a grocery bag full of smoke bombs. "Go ahead, pack 'em up. I got an AR in here too, but I can't find it just yet."

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose as chuckles bubbled out from his throat, soft and genuine. They tinted the air a purple-pink. "How do you lose an assault rifle, Stanley?"

"How d'you lose an assault rifle, Stanley," Stan mimicked, voice twisted in a mocking nature, his right hand flapping in the air to imitate Ford's mouth opening and closing. "Shut your yap, Brainiac. I got it around here somewhere."

Ford rolled his eyes, leftover laughs still shaking his shoulders. He unloaded all of his bags onto the floor, then leaned into the weapons duffel and zipped it open, loading his brother's things into it. "It's best for us to keep all of our weapons in one place. This way, we can avoid losing track of any of them and risking that they fall into the wrong hands."

"God forbid the 'wrong hands' manage to get ahold of the whole damned bag, leaving us defenseless," Stan muttered, shoving all his clothes haphazardly back into the bag he had opened, zipping it up after successfully confirming that it did not hold his M16.

"Hey," said Ford, nudging his twin on the shoulder so he would look up at him. "We have each other's backs, remember? We're never defenseless." He offered a reassuring smile, which Stan returned, and reached back into the duffel to retrieve something. "Keep these on you. If it'll make you feel better." He handed his brother the brass knuckles.

"Hey, what did I say about you gettin' all sappy on me?" Stan scolded, snatching the dusters from Ford's hands. But there was a ghost of a smile dancing on the edges of his lips the way that warm rosy-pink dances on the tip of a young boy's nose after spending long, chilly evenings working toward a distant dream, the way that comfortable nostalgia dances in the back of an old man's mind after being reunited with a lost friend. The quiet almost-smile indicated nothing but fondness, and when Ford saw it his expression took on a wistful dance of its own.

Not long after that, they started packing up the car, eager to get on the road. It was a little less than four hours to drive to Newport, where their monohull was waiting, and they wanted to set sail by dawn so that they could get a good start before the late summer heat kicked in.

The road stretched on ahead of them, Stan drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he listened to his brother speak excitedly about plans and ideas that he had, places he wanted to visit and what adventures he thought might lie in wait for them there.

Stan smiled listening to his brother talk, his gentle orchid-purple voice painting animated illustrations of the land, the sea, and their millions of undiscovered secrets and hidden inhabitants. Excitement swirled deep in Stan's core as they conversed throughout the ride.

Loading their bags and settling into the Stan O' War II once they arrived at Newport was almost effortless; the twins had been preparing for this day for so long that neither of them had any focus other than completing everything necessary in order to set sail.

And when their boat set out, cruising westward across the Pacific Ocean, nostalgia and wanderlust gripped the hearts of both brothers, leaving them breathless as they beat on, tall orange-colored clouds and pearlescent rays of light hitting their smiling faces as the sun rose on their long-awaited adventure.

꙳

Here we go, mistaking clouds for mountains. Oh, here's the thing that brings the sparrows to the fountains. Oh, here's the thing that makes us run for the highlands. Autonomy.

꙳

Lyrics (c) Andrew Bird.

I do not own Gravity Falls.