Family was a sense of righteous fury that scorched hotter than hell itself.
"You two wait here," the demon had thundered, inserting a note of discordant glee in his command. "I've got some children I need to make into corpses!"
Stan and Ford had shouted, pleaded, as the abomination stormed off, his monstrous roars reverberating in the brothers' very bones. Ford hadn't even been able to form words; he had just banged his closed fists on the glowing bars of their cage, his screams growing hoarser by the second. Stan himself was overwhelmed with fear. Never in his life—not even that time in prison when the other inmates had closed in on him with knife-thin grins, not even in the tight oppressiveness of that car trunk, not even on those cold lonely nights he'd spent thinking he'd killed his own twin —had Stanley Pines been so utterly incapable of drowning out the terror currently engulfing every inch of his being.
The undercurrent of horror only receded slightly as he and Ford slumped down on the black brick floor of Bill's Fearamid. Ford handed Stan over a canteen that strongly smelled of cheap whiskey. The alcohol loosened the brothers' tongues, and out came all of Stan's fears, all of his regrets, everything that he had so desperately tried to hide under the gruff and aloof persona of Mr. Mystery. Dad had been right all along, Stan told Ford—the youngest of the Pines brothers was a screw-up, a worthless leech who had only dragged down his family in his fall from grace.
And yet, Stan's twin forgave him everything.
Ford's face was drained of all colours, except for the purplish bags below his eyes. Under his collar and cuffs Stan could spy angry red welts. The air sapped out of Stan's lungs at the sight of these wounds. Just what had that demon done to his brother, all these days he'd been held captive? Ford seemed barely able to stand on his own two feet. His hands shook as he grabbed the bars of their cage; he held them as if it was the only way for him to stand upright.
And yes, Stan could not believe what he saw, but Stanford was blinking back tears. Ford—the man who'd survived three decades away from anything resembling a home, the man who'd managed to hold his own against horrors Stan could not even begin to imagine, the man who happened to be Stan's one and only twin brother—Ford was exhausted, crippled by pain and bereft of all hope—and obviously terrified out of his mind.
The fear went out of Stan like a tide ebbing away from the shore. Instead, all that remained was the anger, white-hot and so achingly, so reassuringly familiar. Stan relished in that fury, in the purity and sheer intensity of the feeling. That thing had laid waste to Stan's home, gleefully destroying the lives of the folks who had kept him afloat in those long, dreary decades spent repairing the portal: lovable oaf Soos, smartass Wendy and the idiotic, but strangely endearing people of Gravity Falls. That demon had manipulated and harassed and tortured Stan's brother, leaving behind a paranoid wreck of a man who was but a mere shadow of the happy boy who had brightened up Stan's childhood. And of course, worse of all, that triangular bastard had the cojones to threaten to rip apart the kids, Stan's kids—and hell would freeze over before he'd let some corn chip cosmic abomination hurt a single hair on their heads.
That piece of shit Bill Cipher was going down.
"Sixer," Stan growled, "gimme your coat. And get out of that sweater, now."
Ford's expression would have been funny in another situation. "What…? Stanley, have you gone mad…?"
Stan was already putting the fez on his brother's head. He fumbled at his collar to remove his tie. "No, genius, I'm trying to save all of our asses. Now, so help me, get out of that coat, we don't have much time."
Ford gaped at him for a few precious seconds before he seemed to understand Stan's intent. "No… no, no, no… I can't let you do that, Stanley, I can't let you sacrifice yourself for me…"
"Do we have a choice?" Stan said, exasperated. He threw his jacket on Ford and began to unbutton his shirt. "We can't let that bastard win. Not after the hell he's dragged us through." Stan's eyes flicked to the burn marks around his brother's wrists and neck. "That sonuvabitch needs to learn what happens when you screw over a member of the Pines family."
A hint of hysteria slipped in Ford's tone when he spoke next, "No, Stanley, I won't let you. Do you—do you even know what's going to happen to you if your plan fails? What will happen if your plan works?"
"Hey, I've been impersonating you for the past thirty years, Stanford, I know what I'm doing."
Fooling that pyramidal devil would be like fooling everybody else—Shermie and his wife, Stan's nephew Ethan, hell, even Dad. Most people always failed to note the obvious differences between the Pines twins, after all.
"No!" Ford cried out. "Don't you understand? The memory gun—it's going to destroy you too! It's going to eradicate what makes you, well, you! You would be gone! Forever! I… I can't kill you, Stanley!"
Stan kicked off his now unlaced shoes. "Alright, then, let's put it that way: you either lose the kids plus the entire world or me. 'S not a difficult decision, now, is it?"
Stan approached his twin, tugging on the man's sleeve. Ford met his gaze; he was unmoving as a block of granite. And so it took only a shared glance for all of Stan's resolve to nearly crumble to dust. He really had believed it would take all of a second for Ford to make his choice. He really had. Perhaps, a lifetime ago, Stan would have been happy beyond belief to have an indisputable proof that his brother still gave a damn about him, despite all the years and the tears. But Stanley Pines had a mission to fulfil, and sentiment was not going to help him accomplish the only worthwhile thing he would ever do in his sixty-something years of living.
"C'mon, Sixer," he told Ford, as gently as he could. "Work with me here." Stan helped Ford out of his coat and sweater—slowly, so it would not irritate the injuries caused by Bill Cipher's twisted ministrations. "Just trust me this once, bro. I'll kick his ass nice and proper for you."
"I'm sorry," Ford replied hoarsely. "I—I wish things could have—" He hung down his head, unable to say more as he handed Stan his sweater. The latter tried not to stare at the array of scars marking the skin below Ford's undershirt. That's your fault, too, knucklehead, Stan noted with a dull pang. Strangely enough, it only served to fuel his anger more. That's it. I'm gonna do right by him. I'm gonna be the hero the kids always said I was.
Stan slid into the sweater before finally donning his brother's coat. "I know, Poindexter. If you're lucky, maybe the new me will be easier to deal with, huh?" Ford gave a visible flinch, which Stan pointedly ignored. "Try to be nice to him for me, will ya, Ford? And—" The next words were pure torture to enunciate "—and keep an eye out for the lil' squirts. They're strong and stubborn as bark, but…"
Ford pushed his glasses—Stan's glasses, in truth—up his nose and offered his brother a half-hearted smile. "I—I will. Don't worry, Stanley. I promise."
It was a weight off Stan's shoulders. From beyond the doorway where Bill had chased off after the kids, the loud boom-dooms of his footfalls could be heard. The demon was approaching.
Stan fumbled to put on his brother's six-fingered gloves. It was something that he had done countless times before, yet his hands were shaking. His mouth was dry, his head hurt so much it seemed about to split open.
Despite everything he'd said to Ford, Stan was afraid to die.
But he couldn't show it, not when the clock was ticking ominously, not when Ford appeared on the verge of a breakdown, not when that demonic fucker was still out there trying to kill the kids.
But, yes, Stan did not want to die—for the first time in over thirty years. Dying meant washing out the good along with the bad. And there had been so much good lately. Even if those little moments of happiness had been so few and far between, Stanley held them close to his heart, unwilling to part from them. Receiving yet another postcard from Ethan and Stella and putting it with all of the others he'd kept over the years. Teaching Soos how to shave and scaring off the kids who picked on him at school. Chatting over the phone with Abuelita Ramirez about their favourite telenovas. Telling Wendy the basics of hotwiring a car and letting her drive the Stanleymobile one time or two. Flirting with the cute waitress at the local diner. Hearing the respect and affection warming up the voices of the townspeople as he walked down the streets of the only home he'd known for almost half his life.
Pulling pranks on Dipper and being pranked in return and laughing breathlessly while chasing the kid around the house. Stroking Mabel's hair until she'd stop crying and seeing the smile emerging on her face like the break of dawn.
All of this—Stan's most precious memories, the only evidence that his life had been worth living—they would be gone forever.
Losing these memories also meant pulling the trigger on the rare dreams Stan still nursed for the future. Losing these memories meant killing his chance to reconcile with his brother. Losing these memories meant he would never see the glorious manner of mischief the twins would cook up as they grew into adults.
"Stanley," Ford said in a little voice, "Stanley, he's coming…"
Stan squeezed his eyes shut. Slowly, he cast adrift his happy memories—one by one he drowned them in the depths of his mind where they would not be found. He let go of the darker moments as well; the guilt, fear and self-hatred he had carried for the last forty years would only hinder him in this final battle. He prepared his mind, scrubbing it all free, leaving only a blank slate behind.
Soon, Stan had stopped shaking. Once again, he was filled with a pure, familiar sense of rage.
A rage borne out of a desire to protect all that he held dear.
Stan looked at Ford as the roars of the demon grew closer. "Hey, Stanford, there's not much time, but, uh, I gotta say it." He offered a rueful, almost childlike smile. "Sorry, bro. Sorry for all the crap I've pulled."
"Stanley, no, there's nothing to apologize for—"
"An' thanks. For everything. I'm glad that we were born brothers. All in all, my life was crap, but I-I wouldn't change that, at least."
Ford choked. His hand reached for Stanley's. Their fingers brushed in an all-too brief moment; in the distance they both spied a flash of yellow, and Ford retracted his hand.
Stan braced himself, his boxer's instincts kicking in. He did not know what awaited him the moment the pyramidal monstrosity would turn around the corner, but he would be ready. That triangular nuisance would feel the full brunt of a Stanley Pines-patented left hook.
Stan almost savoured the anticipation.
"… what the—?! Oh, no, no, NO—!"
"Oh, yeah," the old man sitting in the yellow sofa said smugly. "You're going down. You're getting erased. Memory gun. Pretty clever, huh?"
"You—you idiot! Don't you realize you're destroying your own mind too?!"
The old man shrugged as the blue flames licked the base of his chair. "Eh. It's not like I was using this space much anyway."
The triangular trickster began to panic. He lunged toward the door, only to shrink back as he realized it had caught fire. "Let me out of here. Let me OUT!"
"Hey!" the old man boomed. He'd gotten out of his sofa. "Look at me. Turn around and look at me, you one-eyed demon!"
The creature, now cowed, did as he was bid.
"You're a real wise guy, but you made one fatal mistake." The old man jabbed an accusing finger toward the three-sided devil. "You messed with my family!"
By now, the fire had engulfed almost all of the old man's mindscape, leaving only the two enemies staring at each other amidst the rising flames.
"You're making a mistake!" the demon cried. "I'll give you anything! Money, fame, riches, infinite power, your own galaxy… PLEASE!"
His body was starting to melt—no, twitch, like some sort of computer glitch. His single eye bulged out of its socket, his little stubby arms flaying about as the flames encircled them both. The demon's equilateral form twisted, shrank, shattered, liquefied, turned to stone, broke into pieces before reforming in a pale imitation of his original self. He screamed out a series of garbled sounds and reached forward with one hand, his eye glowing red with hatred and fear.
"…STANLEY!"
The old man's fist punched him out of existence.
In the end, killing Bill Cipher had been as easy as fighting the schoolyard bullies off Ford's back.
Panting, the victor stood alone, unperturbed by the blue inferno raging around him. He shot an anguished look over his shoulder. Next to his sofa could be found a photograph depicting him with two children. The old man took the wooden frame and smiled at the boy and the girl beaming at him from behind the glass.
"Heh," the old man said as the flames enveloped him. He could not even sense their heat upon his skin. "Guess I was good for something after all…"
Family was… well, the man kneeling in the clearing wasn't exactly aware of what family was, in truth.
He remembered the definition in the dictionary. A group of human beings closely related by blood. A unit living under the same roof. A couple of people bound together by an ever-encompassing force for which he had no name. The man knew the words, but they seemed to mean very little to his mangled mind. It was very strange, truly.
A faint wind stirred some leaves off the ground. In the distance sang a few birds; the man could spy their dark silhouettes against the pure blue of the sky. The grass was a little humid beneath his pants. He shuffled his knees, shivering despite his woollen sweater and long coat. A faint ache diffused through each of his limb, but other than that, he was strangely content. His head seemed to be stuck in an invisible vise, however.
"Oh my gosh!" a voice called out from beyond the pine trees. Soon, three people—a boy, a girl and an old man in a black suit—were emerging from the forest. The girl sauntered over to the man in the clearing; she'd run so fast it almost appeared as if she couldn't bear to be apart from him another second. She put something on his head—some kind of weird, cylindrical hat, it seemed—and said happily, "Grunkle Stan! You did it!"
Her little hands came to rest on his shoulders. By instinct, his own hands reached for hers. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but at least she was smiling.
"Uh, hi, uh, kiddo," the man said, uncertain. "What's your name?"
The girl glanced askance at the boy next to her. The man took note of the blue pine tree stitched on the kid's cap. The girl was clad in a pink sweater decorated with a shooting star. Lastly, he noticed their expressions: the two children looked as if they'd been punched in the gut.
"G-Grunkle Stan?" the girl managed to utter.
The man with the strange hat surveyed his surroundings. There seemed to be no one save for the four of them. "Uh," he said, "who are you talking to?"
The girl drew back, her eyes welling up some more. The old man in the suit reached out as if he wanted to comfort her. His attempt failed miserably; now, big fat tears were coming out of her eyes and she was shaking from head to toe.
"It's me, Grunkle Stan!" The girl launched herself forward, almost as if she wanted to embrace the man she called Stan. Instead, she pointed at her chest, telling him in a grief-stricken voice, "Grunkle Stan, it's me! It's me!" She stumbled on her words and faltered, her little legs buckling under her weight.
The old guy and the boy caught her, dragging her shaking, sobbing form away from the man kneeling in the grass.
"We had to erase his mind to get rid of Bill," the grey-haired man explained to the child as tears streamed down her cheeks. She shook her head, her face going white with disbelief. "It's all gone."
'Stan' found the other man's gaze. A pair of tired, mournful brown eyes stared back at him. 'Stan' noted the man's disheveled grey hair and chalky complexion; he spotted the dark patches of blood shining on the black of his suit. Something stirred within him. 'Stan' did not know this old man or the two children who hovered about him, but there was something absolutely unbearable about the agony etched on every inch of their faces.
"Stan has no idea, but he did it," the old guy in the suit said softly. He went to one knee, putting a trembling hand on the other man's shoulder. "He saved the world. He saved me." The grey-haired man sniffed, and he could not stop his voice from wavering as he said, "You're our hero, Stanley."
He enveloped 'Stanley' in a hug, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder. The collar of 'Stanley's' turtleneck sweater was soon damp with the old man's tears. The guy smelled rank, his clothes reeking with the mixed stench of charred skin, sweat and blood. Yet 'Stanley' felt his remaining tensions easing up. He sank into the stranger's embrace, closing his eyes.
This was not so bad—the warmth, the sense of completeness, the simple reassurance brought about by human contact.
Whatever family was, the man named Stanley felt he could definitely get used to it.