*cries* I love you, reviewers, you honestly make my day. Thanks to you just readers too! I love you both equally.
Stanford Pines hated this time of the day.
Morning.
Morning meant a lot of things. That he had to face reality, that he had work to do, that he was already wasting time. Morning meant he hadn't been strong enough to stay awake, that he had fallen asleep, against his better judgment. Morning meant he had survived.
Morning meant he was alive.
Despite this, Stanford Pines woke up every morning.
He blinked awake that morning, his eyes old brown eyes reflexively sliding shut again when the first rays of light fell through the window and onto his face. The light was only amplified by his glasses, which he had failed to take off. Again.
As his mind woke up, the rest of him shifted into a sitting position and he quickly took off his glasses and rubbed at his temples. A sharp pain shot through his head when he had sat up. He knew it to be the beginning of a migraine.
This was starting up to be a very bad morning.
...
Ford, after stretching and doing a hundred push-ups {old habit, he didn't get into shape drawing pictures, after all.} He quickly changed, wincing when the sweaters chaffed at the still raw skin. He thought they were scarring over nicely enough. They shouldn't cause him any additional pain after being fully recovered, at the very least.
Swiftly pulling on his trenchcoat, he walked steadily, but quickly out his bedroom door. {He slept in his study}
His headache was getting worse very fast, and he nearly tripped down the stairs as he raced to the bathroom where the medication was. I should really have a bottle or two in my room.
Ford sighed in relief when he flung open the bathroom door and almost ripped off the medicine cabinet. He sifted through the various medications and shook his head as he gritted his teeth.
Ibuprofen was definitely not strong enough. Not for him, not even if he took the entire bottle. Surely Stan had something stronger.
Stan! SHOOT.
Ford forgot his headache as he made his way to Stan's bedroom. Every morning, Ford made sure to wake up his brother.
A head injury was very serious, after all. And Stan still didn't remember everything. He often woke up confused.
It struck Ford like a physical wound every time he saw that lost look inside Stan's somehow older, yet strangely innocent eyes. It made the guilt weighing on his shoulder's even worse, somehow. Like everyday Stan didn't make any improvement, it was a failure on Ford's part, another brick of defeat being laid on his back as he struggled to stand.
He was used to it, it didn't matter. He didn't matter. He had mattered for sixty years, now it was Stan's turn.
Ford pushed his way down the hallway and knocked once on the door. It was funny because he was only happy when he didn't receive an answer. The days Stan woke up, unsure of where he was, or what was going on, he was already awake, and would always say 'come in.'
The days were silence greeted him were generally good days for the both of them. Usually.
Ford, after getting no reply, opened the door to wake up his twin {Please remember me, please, please, LEE PLEASE} Ford stopped.
He stopped breathing, he stopped thinking, he stopped feeling.
Stan was gone.
Ford was suddenly in overdrive when a rush of adrenaline {fear} pulsed through him {convienently quieting his headache} and he booked it out of the empty bedroom. His trenchcoat flew behind him as he ran to the kitchen.
Okay, so maybe he was overreacting, to some. But most didn't understand how dangerous Gravity Falls could be! Even after the events of last summer, the forest still held all of the previous anomalies that had dragged him there in the first place and most of them were dangerous to someone as uneducated to them as Stan.
No, he wasn't overreacting at all. Maybe somewhere else, anywhere else, but not here.
Ford burst into the kitchen and his hand went to the light switch. Which should have been a sign in and of itself.
Empty. Ford's breath picked up speed and he worked to steady it as he checked the armchair, it wasn't uncommon for Stan to be there after a restless night.
The weathered armchair was equally vacant and Ford's fear was hardening into something worse.
Panic.
Fear can be beaten into submission, fear can be reasoned with, willed away. It can be ignored.
Panic was uncontrollable. A wild force that made one do illogical things.
Ford needed logic. Ford without logic could cause {another} apocalypse.
He did his best to ease his fears, or at least quiet them by continuing to search. Logically, if Stan wasn't there, he was somewhere else. All Ford had to do was find him.
...
Ford had searched everywhere. He had been hoping that Stan had just gotten lost inside the large cabin's many rooms and hallways, as long as he was anywhere but outside. If he had gotten outside he could be anywhere.
Of course, he wasn't in the house. Ford should have known. He didn't have good luck enough for that.
Ford's large, six-fingered hands grasped the doorknob and he stared at them for a moment. For the longest time, he blamed his extra fingers for nearly every unfortunate happening in his life.
He didn't do that anymore, he had no one and nothing to blame except himself and his stubborn pride.
He opened the door and stepped outside. The air was warm and welcoming, the sun shining brightly in the sky. It was the exact opposite of how Stanford Pines was feeling, almost as if it were taunting him.
He really, really, hated mornings.
He grimaced as he stepped out and his eyes gazed outward, looking for any sign of his brother. For any clue as to where he had gone. His eyes landed on the car.
Well, where the car was supposed to be. Right now it was empty, fresh tire-tracks in its place.
STANLEY WHAT THE KARABAST?!
... was this any good? I'm sorry if it wasn't, I really can't tell. I was talking to one of my friends, and I let her read one of my stories, and I didn't really like the one she read, I thought parts of it was okay but she told me she loved the parts I hated and honestly I can't be trusted to judge my own work.
Stan: Eh.
Ford: Eh, what?
Stan: Just...eh.
Me: You are useless to me as a critic. Go away.
Stan *leaves*
Ford: I thought it was...eventful. Where did Stanley go? Not just now, in the story.
Me: I have an idea, but I won't know until I write it, will I? Or if I write it...review if you want more, I guess. Love ya'll.
