Stanford awoke disoriented. He blinked, sitting up. It took a moment for him to recognize he was in his bedroom. He was used to falling asleep in his lab, or on the couch downstairs, and waking in his bed was a rarity. Seconds later he remembered why he wasn't currently on his couch. Stanley and his kids had arrived unexpectedly and uninvited during the night, and had taken over his living room.
The man felt a distinct prickle of irritation, but a much softer emotion tempered it. He was surprised to find himself happy to see Stan, and while he didn't have a knack with children he was glad to meet his brothers kids. They were the spitting images of himself and Stanley as children, and their congeniality was infectious. He'd wandered downstairs in the early morning to check on them and had found the pair cozied against one another. Mabel lay facing Dipper and had flung an arm and leg over him, the boy's arm curled loosely around her shoulders. Ford had frozen in the doorway, watching them sleep. The sight was precious, and he allowed himself to stare for a few moments.
Both children twitched in their sleep, and when one jerked the other would groan and try to shift away. The offending twin would grunt and snuggle closer to the moving source of warmth. They finally settled comfortably against one another, snoring softly and oblivious to their uncle's melting heart.
Ford would deny it, but he'd also checked on Stan. The man had done his fair share of squirming and his blanket had been discarded in the movement. Ford begrudgingly recovered the man's sleeping form, rationalizing that if Stanley became ill either himself of Fiddleford would be forced to care for the children. Although he had no specific deadline for his work, he preferred to steer clear of avoidable distractions.
He'd returned to bed, mentally noting that they'd need to get the kids their own beds. The image of them cuddled together was adorable, but sleeping in the same bed for a prolonged amount of time could lead to separation anxiety. Independence was essential to functioning as a healthy adult. Then again, he had to keep in mind they were only children.
Confronted with Dipper and Mabel's closeness naturally caused him to think about Stan. As children they'd shared a room, and when thunderstorms or nightmares struck they shared Stan's bottom bunk. They'd fashion a flimsy wall using a sheet hung from the top bunk and pretend it could keep all of life's problems at bay. In reality, it didn't even keep out the carrying voices of their fighting parents.
When the yelling became particularly bad, Stan would pull Ford into a tight hug and tell him fantastical stories about them adventuring on the open sea. They battled pirates, unearthed treasures and secrets, and by the end of the story Ford always forgot about their parents.
He missed that. Stanley had been born fifteen minutes after Ford, but he'd taken well to the protective role stereotypically reserved for the elder sibling. Whenever Ford's emotions got away from him, Stan was there to ground him. If bullies preyed upon him, Stan stood up for him. He always became bruised in the process, but that made the effort all the more gallant.
In the years of being apart, he'd forgotten what it felt like having someone who always had his back.
Ford tried to crush the stubbornly persistent hope unfurling in his chest. Stanley had shown tremendous growth when he apologized. It wasn't exactly taking responsibility for his actions, but it was acknowledgment of wrongdoing, which was infinitely more than the 'look at the silver lining' approach he'd taken years ago. Stanley had, aside from his irredeemable error in judgment, always been there for Ford.
This thought struck Ford hard. In his anger he'd ignored all their happy memories together, and they'd faded into obscurity until being faced with Stan and his kids brought them back. In the wisdom that age brought, he felt sympathy for a young Stanley Pines. Ford had generally been the center of attention and praise throughout their childhood, the only time Stan got noticed was when he was in trouble. Yet Stan didn't seem to mind, as long as Ford and he were together he was content. He never resented or envied Ford.
He was proud of him.
Ford swallowed thickly, for the first time considering that Stan was not completely at fault. With a sense of mounting dread Stanford realized he'd meant much more to Stanley than Stanley had meant to him. At least, that was how Stanley must have perceived it. In his selfishness, he was prepared to leave Stan with nothing while he went to college. For seventeen years they'd been a duo, and Stan didn't know how to be alone.
He'd put Stanford on the same pedestal their parents and teachers had, and he must have felt abandoned on the ground. With startling vividness he recalled the afternoon he walked into the principal's office, his mother and father waiting there for him. The principal outright insulted Stanley, and Ford did nothing but quietly wince. If a schoolyard bully, or even an adult, had insulted him Stan wouldn't have thought twice about acting.
He could hear Stan's voice in his mind. "Don't you dare call my brother a freak, you butt munching jerk!" They must have been about ten when Stan had said that to Jimmy Simmons, a seventh grader who had been whacked early by puberty. He had a good five inches of height and fifteen pounds on Stan, but Stan was a spitfire brawler. Jimmy, the leader of a pack of future thugs, had made the mistake of calling Ford a 'six fingered freak'. Stanley's reaction was instantaneous, self preservation vanishing as he launched himself at the boy, wailing punches on him. The two duked it out, resulting in Stan losing a baby tooth prematurely and Jimmy having a bite mark on his arm that didn't heal for weeks.
Stan risked his physical well-being to protect him, and Ford didn't say a word when that principal openly scorned his brother. The brother who could easily hear their conversation from the other side of the door.
Their entire adolescence Stanley had been there for him, and the one time he needed him Ford failed him. He looked the other way, letting the curtains separate them and leaving Stan below on the sidewalk.
For so long he'd thought 'how could Stan do that to me?'. Now he saw the other side, and wondered how he could have done that to Stan. They'd been teenagers, hormones and insecurities running rampant through them, and he condemned Stan for what had been the single lapse of years looking out for Ford.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat. All those years he'd hated Stanley, and he now saw that Stanley had not been hating him. Stan had come to him, needing help and not too proud to ask for it. Annoyance was replaced with gratefulness. He had a second chance to be the brother he hadn't been. He had the opportunity to help Stan and his children.
And that was invaluable.
Ford descended the stairs quickly, eagerness to greet his family spurring him. He burst into the kitchen, intending to cook breakfast for the sleeping Pines. He'd apparently been too late, and found his kitchen bustling with life. The smell of maple sausage lingered in the sun drenched room, mingling with a lively conversation. Stan stood at the stove, a spatula in one hand and Mabel dangling from his other, outstretched arm. He flipped a pancake and asked her something, his tone light-hearted.
Mabel grinned and dropped heavily to her feet. "I think you're doing great, Grunkle Stan!"
Fiddleford's elbow rested on the table, chin cradled in his hand and a smile gracing his features.
"I agree, you didn't burn that pancake as badly as its predecessors."
"Hey," Stan snapped. "My cooking is..."
"Edible!" Mabel chimed.
"Yeah! Gotta eat." Stan patted his stomach, and Ford noticed how stained his shirt was.
How had everyone become fast friends in the few hours he'd slept in? He felt out of place, like he was intruding on a family's private moment. Mabel, perhaps sensing his awkwardness, looked up. Stan and Fiddleford followed suit and the kitchen momentarily became quiet. Dipper, who had been buried in a book, also looked up.
Mabel broke the pause by shrieking. "Uncle Ford your pajamas are so cute!"
He glanced down, confused. The girl was right; he'd forgotten to get dressed. He wore pajama pants decorated with rocket ships, a gag gift given to him at a Christmas dorm party. His T-shirt, which he'd bought himself and had no excuse for, adorned an atom symbol and said 'never trust an atom, they make up everything'.
Dipper read his shirt and smiled. "That's funny, uncle Ford." he said.
Ford coughed into his hand. "Thank you, Dipper."
Stan didn't bother to stifle his amused look and plated a freshly finished pancake.
"Don't just stand there, Poindexter. Gotta eat 'em while they're hot." He placed the plate at an empty table setting and just like that the pleasant atmosphere returned, unperturbed by his presence.
"What are you reading, Dipper?" The word 'Dipper' was obtrusive in his mouth and Ford was reminded he had to ask what Stan-or the children's mother-had been thinking if Dipper was really the boy's given name.
Dipper smiled and showed him the cover of a book that had been collecting dust on his shelf. "On the Origin of Species, by Charles Darwin."
Stan smirked, "I told you they're smart."
"Oh, yeah," Mabel agreed through a mouthful of pancake. "Dipper's way into science and mysteries and spooky stuff. He read a bunch of Nancy Drew books when we were-"
"Hardy Boys!" Dipper interjected. "It was Hardy Boys," he laughed, cheeks reddening.
Mabel blew a raspberry at him, "nuh-uh, you read Nancy Drew more."
"I did not! And they're basically the same thing."
Ford observed their playful spat, again painfully reminded of himself and Stanley. He chose not to dwell on that, and instead angled himself to face Dipper.
"Science and mysteries, huh? Did your d-Stan tell you I'm a scientist?"
"Heck, he said you're the smartest person he knows!" Mabel provided helpfully.
"Oh," Ford didn't know how he felt about the flutter in his stomach. "Well, I study anomalies here in Gravity Falls. If you like science and mysteries, this is the place to find them."
Dipper smiled, the action reserved and bashful. It was as if Ford was looking at himself as a child. Stanley had been right, in less than twenty four hours these kids were already proving to be impossibly endearing.
It was difficult to believe Stan had been their primary influence.
Ford absentmindedly took a bite of his breakfast, tensing visibly. He swallowed and relaxed. Stan crossed his arms as he watched him, eyebrow raised smugly.
"Pretty good, huh?"
"Ah, yes, actually." Ford cleared his throat. Stan snorted.
"Don't sound so surprised. I had some help."
Fiddleford nodded approvingly, "the chocolate chips were Mabel's idea."
"They make everything better!" Mabel said proudly, vibrating in her seat from what Ford assumed was a sugar rush. Dipper closed his book and slid Mabel's plate from her, exasperated expression an indication that this was a common phenomenon.
She didn't notice or care that she'd been cut off and continued to jabber. "I'd have made you some of my Mabel juice, uncle Ford, but I didn't have the ingredients.
"What in tarnation is Mabel juice?" Fiddleford asked before Ford could.
"Toxic," Dipper mumbled. Mabel ignored him and launched into a detailed explanation.
"Pink lemonade, sugar, sparkles and plastic dinosaurs. But no pterodactyls, those guys are jerks. Blend it up with extra love and you've got yourself some Mabel juice."
"Three times as potent as coffee." Dipper quipped.
Ford looked at Stan, aghast. "You let her put plastic objects in beverages and then consume them?"
Stan held up his hands. "Hey, the glitter is edible… sometimes."
There were no more open chairs at the table, and Stan leaned against the counter sipping his coffee.
"It's a kid thing," Fiddleford added. "Tate loves mixing up all sorts of concoctions. Kid thinks Tang and cola make 'Dancing Juice'."
Ford nodded, chair legs scraping on the floor as he stood. He filled a mug liberally with sugar and coffee, the familiar burn on his tongue a comfort.
"Keep adding all that sugar and you're going to have a heart attack." Stan joked.
"And how do you take your coffee?" Ford shot back. Stan shrugged and gulped the remnants of his drink before refilling it with steaming, black coffee that he sipped leisurely.
"Black, like a man."
Fiddleford, who had been rifling through the fridge, emerged with a carton of heavy cream. He plucked the sugar canister from where Ford had set it and poured an obscene amount of sugar into his mug, chasing it with enough cream to make his coffee pale.
Ford and Stan watched him with identical expressions of disgust.
The man shrugged, "we didn't have hot cocoa."
Mabel gasped, standing on her chair and planting her palms on the table. "We should totally get some! The best way to make it is to fill the cup with mini marshmallows, so the hot chocolate fills the cracks and when it melts it's a sludge of happiness. Top with whipped cream and eat with a spoon."
"My sister," Dipper said with forced dryness, "sprinting to diabetes."
Mabel plopped into a sitting position. "Uh, it's pronounced diabeTUS. As in, sugar won't beat us!"
Mabel's and Dipper's dynamic was entertaining and effortless, and Ford strained to remember if he and Stan had ever been that in sync. The kids contrasting personalities complimented one another rather than clashing. Ambivalent was how he broadly recollected his relationship with his own twin. They had been the others everything, and in the end that had been the problem. He hoped that Mabel and Dipper were not so dependent that they saw themselves as integral.
Ford shook the thoughts from his head like cobwebs. They were children, he reminded himself. They had their whole lives ahead of them to learn how to behave as individuals.
"Stanley," he started. "I'm not using the attic for much. I was thinking we could put a couple beds up there and the kids could use it as a bedroom."
His suggestion was purely practical. The attic was a place for storage, and most of the things up there could be disposed of. But the look of unadulterated joy that crossed Stan's face told him he'd said something right.
"We should also procure some new clothes for you and the kids, but until we get to that you can wear some of mine."
"What's wrong with my clothes?" Stan demanded.
"Are you really going to turn down free clothes?"
Stan glared, "you know I won't."
Ford clapped. "Excellent."
Stan gaped at his reflection.
"I look like a nerd."
Ford scoffed, "don't be dramatic." He regarded Stan thoughtfully. The man now wore an oversized burgundy 'Harvard' T-shirt Fiddleford had given him when they were seniors. It had been far too large for his scrawny frame, but it fit nicely over Stan's barrel chest and soft stomach. Ford had also managed to find a pair of jogging pants for Stan to wear, and because their feet hadn't changed with their lifestyles he'd simply given Stan a pair of scarcely worn slip-ons.
It was a massive improvement. Aside from his absurd mullet and black eye, Stan looked respectable. He stood straight, his legs together, shoulders back and his chest out. It was reminiscent of a soldier standing at attention, and in that moment Ford was reminded of their father.
"You look like Dad." The words left his mouth before he could think about them. It was true Stan's stance was similar to that of their fathers, but otherwise he looked and acted nothing like the man.
Stan shivered, "ugh, don't say that."
Ford smiled apologetically. "Sorry, it's just that… you're a father now."
Stan shifted and looked away. "Yeah, I know, Sixer."
"Does Ma know?"
Stan jerked, "no!" Ford recoiled, and Stan breathed in. "No, and you can't tell her."
"Stanley, she deserves to kn-"
Stan cut him off. "No, she doesn't." he said flatly. "The last thing she needs to know is that I knocked a girl up, didn't marry her, and wasn't even there for my kids when they were born. Pa already hates me enough, I don't need this too."
Ford frowned, eyebrows tilting upwards. "Dad doesn't hate you."
Stan's face darkened, and Ford knew he'd touched upon a sore subject.
"Don't you dare say he didn't hate me." He advanced, jabbing a finger at Ford's chest.
"Stanley I didn't-"
"No. You don't talk right now. Right now you listen." Flames shone in his eyes and Ford shut his mouth obediently. "You don't get it. Dad always took it easy with you. He didn't see a lick of potential in me. And he didn't hesitate to tell me that. The only things I did right by him was fixing that car and making sure you didn't get picked on. You don't get to stand there and say Dad didn't hate me because Dad never hit you."
Outside the sun was high and the afternoon was warm, but when Stanley said that it seemed as if the room was freezing. Ford stared at him wide eyed, any retort gone from his mind.
"Dad hit you?" His voice wobbled, and Ford wasn't sure he wanted the answer. Stan folded into himself.
"...Yeah. On bad days when I'd do something he'd just explode."
"But-you, how did he-" How had Stanley hid that from him? From their mother?
"I always just said I'd been fighting with kids from school."
Nausea gripped Ford's innards. How many times had Stan told him not to worry about his newest bruises, that they were just from some stupid kid? A six-fingered hand slapped over his mouth and Ford clutched at his stomach. Tears caught in his lashes and smeared his glasses.
"Ford?"
His only reply was to shake his head, eyes squeezed shut and tears flowing unbidden down his face. Stan's mouth flapped open and shut, and he finally enveloped Ford in a crushing hug. Ford stilled and then threw his arms around him.
In so many ways he'd failed Stanley. He'd considered himself smart as a child, more observant than his peers, but their father had been abusing Stan and he'd never known. An awful thought occurred to him. Stan had gotten into fights since they were young, usually defending Ford's honor, at what age had Filbrick started targeting him? He could picture his brother, the brother who was always sunburnt and grinning, backed into a corner as Filbrick towered above him.
And Ford had done nothing.
Stan was running a hand along his back soothingly, making shushing sounds as he supported Ford's weight. The last time he'd broken down so severely was when he was working on his first PhD. He'd worked three nights straight, sustained by coffee and instant noodles, and what pushed him over the edge was that his pen ran out of ink. Fiddleford found him sobbing on the floor, babbling incoherently. Fiddleford hadn't known what to do, and had settled for a quick embrace before sending him to bed.
He hadn't known how to defuse his minefield of emotions, not like Stanley did. His brothers response was almost automatic, calculated to calm him. Ford allowed himself to be held, his tremors subsiding gradually.
Stan released him, gently pushing him back. "Hey, it's alright, Sixer. You didn't know."
"That's the problem! I should have known, I should have protected you!"
Stan's eyebrows arched. He shrugged and clasped Ford's shoulder. "You can; now. Please, don't tell Ma."
Ford met his earnest gaze, and it was as if a string was attached to his head, forcing him to nod. He owed Stanley this much. He could trust Stan's judgment, which came from a place he wasn't privy to. Stan was making a decision based on what he believed to be in the best interest of his children. It wasn't a decision made in logic or according to data, but Ford respected it all the same.
"I won't."
Midnight velvet stretched all around him, the stars strewn across the mindscape burning brightly. No cataloged constellations were formed by the pinpricks of light. Stanford had noticed that, and had told Bill about Greek mythology, where many of the human constellations came from. Bill particularly liked the one about a hunter called 'Orion'. The man's lover, a great huntress and goddess, had been tricked by her brother and shot Orion with an arrow. Upon learning she'd killed her beloved mortal, she placed his likeness in the stars.
How foolish the human 'Gods' were. He would surpass them all. He would reign over this dimension with power that mortals could not comprehend. He would be their God, and he would be malevolent.
Bill watched on with displeasure as the Pines twins reconciled. This new development had been completely unforeseen, and things didn't often catch him by surprise. This brother, Fez, was proving to be more of a problem than he'd anticipated.
He dismissed the conjured image with a wave of his hand, deep in thought.
This would require some deliberation.
He closed his eye, watching the two younger Pines twins. They were currently taking too much pleasure from washing breakfast dishes, the female twin coating her chin with frothy soap bubbles and slurring that she had 'the rabies'. The male twin-Pine Tree, he dubbed him on an impulse- and Bean Pole were laughing at her antics.
Bill's eye opened, narrowed.
Nothing would keep him from taking his rightful place as a God. He was the only one allowed to pull Ford's strings, and if Fez was going to try and take what was his he'd just have to eliminate him.