DISCLAIMER: The following is a non-profit fan work. Gravity Falls and it's characters belong to Alex Hirsch and Disney. Please support the official release.
...
The evening was warm and humid, darkening ever so slightly as Stan and Ford walked out of the theater. Ford hadn't much cared for the movie; there was absolutely no story and the scenery in it was unrealistically clean. But at least it had taken his mind off of… the person whose name he refused to think about. Not like Stanley was ever going to let him forget about her anytime soon.
Ford checked his watch; 7:10, almost time for dinner. They had better be heading home.
As they passed The Happy Cavity sweet shop, Stan stopped to look in the window. He licked his lips and turned to Ford.
"Wait here a minute, I'll be right back." he said. "You want anything?"
"Sure." Ford replied, tossing his twin a quarter. "Just get me a chocolate bar or something."
Stanley nodded and headed inside, leaving Ford alone outside. After several minutes of being bored with nothing to do, he walked over to the second hand bookstore a few doors down, browsing around the book stand in front of the shop. Propped on it's side in the heap of novels, a beat up paperback entitled War of the Worlds caught his eye. Eagerly, he picked it up and began to read, squinting through the dim evening light. He had barely finished the first page when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Must be Stan… about time. He thought, smiling as he peered up over the top of the book. To his horror, his eyes did not meet with the familiar bright brown ones that belonged to his brother. Almost covered beneath a mop of yellow hair, a pair of watery gray eyes viewed down at him from nearly half a foot up.
"Well, well, if it ain't loser twin number one." sneered Crampelter. "Long time, no see."
...
Stanley sauntered through the candy aisles, searching for a bag of toffee peanuts. He had already picked out a regular old chocolate bar for Ford, so all that was left to buy was his snack. He knew that he should hurry up, as the shop was closing in only fifteen minutes. The movie he and his brother saw was okay, just one of those beach party flicks with no plot; but hey, it had cute girls in bikinis and and some dancy songs, so Stan was satisfied.
He didn't think he could say the same for Ford, though. His brother had always preferred the serious, action-adventure sort of thing, instead of just having a little mindless fun every now and then. And ever since the 'Gertie incident' (or as poindexter called it, 'the thing which I'd like to never ever think about again so shut up already'), Stanford hadn't been too friendly towards the topic of girls. As much as Stan hated to admit it, teasing his brother about his lady love was beginning to lose it's appeal.
Trying his best to look casual, Stanley fervently searched the street for his twin. In between every store was an alleyway for the dumpsters and other related effects. It wasn't too unusual at night to hear a racoon scuffling through the trash cans, or to see shady figures arguing in hushed tones. So when Stan passed between the bookstore and the grocer's and saw a group of tall boys laughing, he didn't think much of it. That is, until he heard a very familiar whimper.
Peeking into the alley curiously, Stan ducked behind the green metal dumpster and crouched down, careful not to be seen or heard.
"C'mon fingers, try and hit me. Go ahead, I dare you."
"Get…offa...me!"
A sneering cackle rang out, chilling Stan to the bone. Those.. those… buttheads were messing with his brother! Oooh, were they gonna get it…
Disregarding any caution, Stan stepped out from behind the dumpster and ran at a bully with a black leather jacket, tackling him to the ground.
"LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BIG JERKS!" shouted Stan, trying to punch every inch of the kid he had jumped on. This didn't last long, as the boy was almost a head taller and much stronger. Quickly, he pinned Stan's arm behind his back and slammed him against the hard brick wall. Stanley tried to squeeze out of the boy's grasp, but to no avail.
"Whaddaya know, the dumb one's come to protect his nerdy brother. That's cute." said Crampelter, crossing his arms.
Stanford was laid out on the cement, a short, heavy-looking boy sitting on top of his stomach. He tried to push the boy off, but he must've weighed too much, because the kid only laughed at his attempts.
"Whaddya think, boys, should we have a little fun with 'em?" said Pelter, to the agreement of his cronies. Both twins understood all too well what they meant, and tried even harder to wrestle out of each of their captor's grip.
Stan couldn't budge, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ford wiggling out from under the chubby boy's backside. Taking him by surprise, Stanford kicked the boy off, knocking him to the ground. He ran for his brother, attempting to pry him away from the leather-clad bully. Stanley wanted to tell him to watch out behind him, but Ford didn't see Crampelter's fist grab him until it was too late.
"Now, just what do you think you're doing, fingers?" sneered Pelter, lifting Ford up by the scruff of his collar. "Trying to be a hero? Well, tough luck, braveheart, 'cause you just entered a world of pain."
Crampelter grinned, then punched Stanford right in the face. He cried out in pain, and his glasses clattered to the ground. The smaller crony laughed and stomped hard on the glasses until they smashed.
Stan watched in frozen horror as the enormous blond boy continued to strike blow after blow on his trembling and moaning twin, cackling nastily after every clout. Pelter threw Ford down, sending him skidding out on the alley. He next seized Stanley, punching him three times in the stomach and once in the nose before Stan tried to punch back. Pelter simply took hold of his tiny fist and twisted it behind his back.
"Say 'uncle', loser boy, and maybe I'll let you go." he jeered. Stan's eyes watered with the pain, but he was determined not to crack.
"I said, say uncle!" Pelter twisted harder, and Stanley felt his arm might break with the strain. Eventually, it became just too much, and Stan had to succumb.
"Alright, alright! Uncle! Uncle-uncle-uncle! Lemme go already!"
Crampelter laughed, hurling him down next to his twin, Stanley's elbows scraping upon impact. His thin arms throbbed with discomfort, but he managed to sit up, shaking, tears streaking down his bruised cheeks. Ford was still face down on the ground, quivering; he too was crying softly, although much more audibly than Stan.
"Aww, did I make the wimpy wittle babies cwy?" snorted Pelter, hands on his hips. Stanley's face burned in humiliation.
Crampelter jerked forward, snagging the front of Stanford's collar once again. Ford lifted his swelling and tear-streaked face up to meet Pelter's, looking absolutely terrified.
"Listen close, wise guy," hissed Crampelter, simpering cruelly. "I want ya to remember this the next time you feel like you'll ever be anything but a wimpy, worthless little six-fingered freak who will never make a single friend. Ya understand?" said Pelter, shaking Ford until his teeth rattled.
"I-I-I…" Tears flowed freely down Stanford's face.
Pelter grinned, then punched Ford right in his right eye, knocking him again to the cold cement ground. Stanley watched, loathing as Pelter and his cronies ran off, laughing and shouting insults. He had half a mind to run after them, make them sorry they had ever messed with him or his twin. Low, echoing sobs snapped Stan out of his rage. Next to him, Ford attempted to stand up, but was trembling so violently that it was impossible to maintain balance; Stan had the feeling that it wasn't from getting punched. Stanley managed to pull himself together. Taking a closer look at his brother's face, he could see his eyes and cheeks swelling into purple and black bruises.
"Come on, sixer, let's go home and get some ice or something." said Stan, standing up and reaching out a hand to help up twin. Ford took it, still shaking intensely.
"Y-your nose is bleeding." he said simply.
It was? Stan touched the bottom of his nose, and sure enough, his hand came back wet with blood. He hadn't even noticed.
Suddenly a thought came into his head. "Ford, what about your glasses?" he asked, remembering that they had been broken.
Ford's eyes widened. "Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap... Dad's gonna kill me…" he moaned, slapping his forehead but quickly recoiling from the pain.
Stan picked up the mangled frames and a few of the larger bits of glass. "It's okay, Ford, we, uh, just need glue. Lots of it. And probably some tape or something, too… but we can fix them! They'll be good as new in no time."
Ford shook his head sadly. "No Stan, I don't think they can be fixed. Some of the glass was crushed practically to dust, and I don't think all the glue and tape in New Jersey could fix them." He took the frames and put them on, as some cracked, but reasonably sized bits of lens were still in the frame. Stan didn't want to say anything (as he knew that his twin was feeling bad enough), but the smashed glasses only made him look worse.
"Come on, it's getting dark. Ma'll be wondering where we are." The brothers walked out of the alley leaning on each other for support. Stan winced slightly at the pains in his stomach where Pelter had hit him, but knew that now was the time to just suck it up and deal with it.
By the time that they had managed to get home, the sun was dipping into the horizon, the last bits of the day fading. The shop had closed and the front was locked, but a Ford kept a spare key in his jacket. As they walked upstairs, Stan could hear chattering and the clanking of shot glasses. It was poker night, and their father was hosting. Great. Just what they needed, a bunch of Dad's drunk friends seeing them all roughed up. He and Ford exchanged knowing glances; they could not be seen.
They quietly slipped off their shoes at the bottom of the stairs, tiptoeing upstairs in their sock feet, skipping the many squeaky steps. The poker game was in the dining room, and by some small miracle, their father had his back facing them, so Stan and Ford were able to sneak past him.
Too bad the same thing couldn't be said about their mother.
She was in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee. When she saw her boys creeping past the open kitchen door, she gave a strangled shriek and nearly dropped the coffee pot.
"What on earth…? Boys...oh my land…" She rushed to her sons and clutched them by their shoulders, examining their bruised and bloody faces. Realization swept over her, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose in exasperation.
"You got beaten up again, din't ya?" she said, barely audible.
"Um, well, see-"
"Din't ya?"
The twins looked at each other, then their mother. Solemnly, Stan gave a few quick jerks of the head, feeling slightly ashamed now. He could see Ford staring down at his feet, eyes glimmering at the edges.
She sighed walking back into the kitchen, the boys following her, and opened the cupboard above the sink. She pulled out their frequently used first-aid kit, containing peroxide, cotton balls, and plenty of bandages. As Ford looked the worst, he was the first to be treated, him climbing up on top of the counter. Their mother worked in silence, grimacing when she took off his glasses.
"Oh Stanford," she said, disappointed. "This is the fifth pair since September!"
Ford hung his head, looking guilty. Stan felt horrible; this was all his fault… if only he hadn't left Ford alone outside that candy shop…
Suddenly, the door to the dining room banged open, and a heavily muscled man with a white undershirt, red suspenders and a porkpie hat sauntered into the kitchen, holding an empty beer can and laughing at a joke someone told. He turned to the boy's mother, who was just finishing rubbing peroxide over Ford's cheeks.
"Hey Louise, got any more whisk-" He stopped abruptly at the sight of the roughed up twins, staring at them for a bit, then chortled lightly.
"Wha' happened to you, kid? Lose a fight?" He said to Stanley, who was sitting at the table and glaring at him.
"Not now, Frankie. Go back to the game." said 'Louise' rather coldly, continuing to patch up Stanford. Frankie ignored her and gawked at the twins, chuckling irregularly. Stan could smell his breath from a mile away; the man was obviously drunk.
"Bet it was a big kid, eh? Didja fight back, squirt?" Frankie poked Stan in the forehead a few times. It took all his willpower not kick Frankie in the shins.
"Betcha lost, din't cha, kid? Was anyone makin' bets? Heh, heh. They'd lose their money, the suckers. Heh, nice sneezer ya gots there. Hey, hey Filbrick! Hey Filbrick, your kid got in a fight! Commin' see!"
"What're ya talking about, my kids ain't even home!" called a gruff voice from behind the swinging door.
"Yeah they is, 'en this one's got one heckuva shnozz…"
The door opened, and their father walked in, accompanied by one or two of his poker buddies. He took one look at his sons and froze. Filbrick's gaze shifted from Stan to Ford, and his mustache twitched. Fists clenched, he turned to his wife.
"Just what the devil happened here?"
She sighed. "Filbrick, please don't lose your temper."
"I asked you, what happened here?"
"I'm not too sure myself. All I know is that they came home looking like this, dunno why, 'en that they need to get cleaned up 'fore it all gets infected. Please don't lookit me like that, hon."
He grunted, glaring at his boys. Then, he wheeled around to face his friends, who were eyeballing the twins like they were an interesting exhibit at the zoo.
"Game's canceled. Take your money and go home. We'll resume next week."
"Ah, what? Is this 'cuz your brats got beat up or sompin'?" said a tall, wiry man with a limp cigarette hanging out of his mouth. "'Snot our fault they look like they lost an argument with a wood chipper, Brick."
Filbrick didn't answer, instead just glaring at the men fiercely. They got the message and left the kitchen, grumbling. Stan could hear them gathering their things as loudly as possible, then finally slamming the back door. Their father then turned to the twins. Stan felt very hot under the collar all of a sudden, the feeling he got whenever he was caught misbehaving. Was Dad going to ground them? Send them to their room? Stanley desperately hoped that he wasn't getting a spanking. He hadn't been belted in two years and preferred to keep it that way.
"Explain to me," he said, low and dangerous. "Why you two come home every other week looking like you got hired to be some neanderthal's punching bag?"
Neither of the boys answered. For years before, they had managed to hide the fact that Ford was considered a freak, and that neither really had any other friends besides each other. It was easy, hiding the pain of the words shot at them, and if Dad ever witnessed someone teasing them, he never seemed to care much, just shrugging it off as 'kids will be kids'. But ever since the bullies had taken to using the twins as a way to sharpen their knuckles, about a year or two ago, it had been steadily growing harder to conceal the abuse, especially with the costs of buying Ford new glasses every time they broke.
Dad paced back and forth across the small kitchen, hands behind his back, mustache bristling. Stan began to sweat in anxiety; he hated it when his father acted like this, delaying their disciplinary fate. He suddenly became very interested in his feet, not daring to look at his father.
"That's it."
Stanley found the courage to look up and almost said something, but his mother got there first. "What's it? What're ya talking about, Filbrick?"
"I've had enough of this. I don't know how you kids keep ending up like this, but I don't care, it ends now."
Stan was very confused. How did he expect it to end, just like that? His father often made steep demands, but this was nuts.
"Honey, you ain't making sense. Whaddaya mean, 'it ends now'?"
"I mean, it ends now. I'm sick of paying for new glasses and first-aid kits. If you boys can't stay out of trouble, the least you'll be able to do is learn to defend yourselfs."
Now Stan was really puzzled. What did he think was going to happen, they'd just read up on Kung Fu or something and suddenly be unstoppable? (okay, maybe Ford could do that, but definitely not Stanley.)
"And just how do you suggest we make that happen?" said Mom crossly, folding her arms in front of herself defensively.
"Same way I learned it. Starting Monday, yous two are learning to box, and I don't care if it takes all summer to toughen you up. Heck, I don't care if it takes ten years."
The color in their mother's face drained away. "... Boys, go to your room."
"B-but Mom-"
"Your room!"
The twins obeyed, scurrying off to their shared bedroom. Curiosity won them over, and they couldn't help but listen at the door. Their parent's voices were slightly muffled, but still within earshot.
"Whaddaya thinking, Filbrick? They already come home hurt every other week, I don't wanna have them get beat up every day!"
"They won't get beat up if they learn to defend themselves!"
"They're only children!"
"They're thirteen, Louise! That's old enough to learn how to fight!"
"But-"
"End of discussion! If those little wimps don't toughen up now, they'll be weak for the rest of their lives!"
(sigh) "Filbrick…"
"No, Louise. I'm putting my foot down. Those kids are going to learn to fight if it's the last thing they do."
…
Well, I promised angst, so there you go. Keep in mind, basically every other chapter in this is going to involve boxing, so there will be mentions of blood and lots of descriptions of pain. If you're squeamish about such things, it's probably best if you stop reading. I might also change the rating from K+ to T if I have to.
The overall plot is going to kicking in about now, so buckle up, kiddos.
