Stan Pines always knew he would die young.

It wasn't exactly uncommon when someone lived the lifestyle that he did. Living on the streets, living fast— that kind of living never did tend to last. Never did tend to be kind either.

Hell, there was already plenty of times where he'd escaped with his life just by pure dumb luck. He'd lost count of the amount of times he thought he was as good as gone yet he always seemed to somehow make it out ok, more or less. Maybe a few wounds to patch up, but still whole and breathing.

The thing is, he always thought he'd go out fighting. Stan Pines wasn't a man to lay back and take a beating. He always fought back with tooth and nail, or anything else he could find to fight with.

He never thought he'd go quietly.

What was the saying he'd heard once? This was how the world ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper.

The last thing he recalled was getting the postcard from his brother and packing up what few belongings he had to his name into his car before setting out for what he knew would be a long trip.

The address he had been given had been in some sleepy town in Oregon called Gravity Falls. He'd had a hell of a time getting directions to the town. It wasn't on any maps, and no one seemed to have even heard of it. For all he knew, the place didn't actually exist.

More or less, he did get some directions after talking to enough gas station attendees. He remembered driving past the large sign that welcomed him to the town, yet nothing about it had seemed welcoming.

Of course it had to be snowing. Stan hated the winter. The cold had a way for settling deep within his bones that not even all of the clothing he owned (which really wasn't a lot) could keep out.

Not to mention he simply couldn't afford to stay in a motel most of the time, and sleeping in his car with the heat on was out of the question as well.

There was also something off about this town. Stan couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but when he had driven past the sign, he couldn't ignore the weird feeling that slithered up his spine.

Over the years, he had learned to trust his gut. If it weren't for the fact that his brother had asked for him to come, he would have turned around and driven out of town.

To be fair, it wasn't like he had been driving in Gravity Falls long before his memory became fuzzy. He tried to recall any details, anything at all, but he couldn't quite get past the holes in his memory.

Oddly enough, he found himself standing outside of a strange, creepy looking cabin. Several windows were boarded up and there were signs warning against trespassers. The Stanleymobile was nowhere in sight and oddly enough, the cold didn't seem to bite at him despite only wearing a thin, worn jacket.

The house didn't look at all inviting, yet something in his gut pulled him forwards. Even stranger yet, despite not seeing a number to the house or even a street sign, he somehow knew this was Ford's house.

With a shrug, Stan approached the house. His resolve shrank as he reached the door.

"You haven't seen your brother in over ten years." Stan murmured to himself, taking a breath to steel his resolve, "It's okay. He's family. He won't bite."

He raised his fist to knock on the door. Instead of knocking, as he had intended, his hand went through the door.

"What the—"

He tried again. His fist went through the wood again, making no sound.

He pulled his hand back and examined it before glancing back to the door.

Third time was a charm... right?

He knocked with such force that he stumbled, falling halfway through the door. With a grunt, he pulled himself through and found himself within the cabin.

He glanced back to the door, still closed, and stared. His thoughts screeched to a halt, unable to come up with an explanation as to why he just phased through a door.

If this really is Stanford's house, Ma did say Ford was studying anomalies. Leave it to Ford to have some weird door.

He'd also been driving for nearly two days with only a few hours of sleep.

Yeah, that sounded right. Chalking it up to that, Stan turned his attention back to the room around him. The house was dark, and cluttered with all sorts of important looking science-y things that looked more science fiction than nonfiction.

"Ford?" He called loudly, "Uh, I think something's up with your door."

He waited for his brother's response, but got none.

Maybe his brother was out of the house at the moment. Usually people stocked up their food supplies before a big snowstorm, but Ford did have a tendency to get wrapped up in his work and forget that kind of thing.

At least he had back in high school.

Stan was going to ignore the treacherous voice in his head that reminded him that over a decade had passed since he'd last seen or heard from his twin. Ford could be totally different than what he remembered.

The house was silent as he hesitantly wandered further in. Notes and specimens were scattered all throughout the room, much like the first room.

The nosy part of Stan wanted to stop and look. Apart from the small snippets his mother told him over the phone, he knew nothing of the life his twin was living. The temptation to see what his twin was up to was too strong.

Leaning over a desk, he glanced at the papers and books scattered across the surface. Ford's handwriting was still recognizable, to Stan's satisfaction. The numerous sheets of meticulous notes were also recognizable, and it was good to know that some things didn't change.

The sheet he had picked up was full of some sort of equations that made no sense to Stan so he quickly put it down.

Turning his back to the table, Stan made his way to the hallway.

"Ford?" He called again as he traveled deeper into the house, "I got your postcard."

There was a sound from a room further down the hall.

Stan laughed awkwardly as he slowly approached the room, "Stanford? You didn't call me all the way out to your creepy cabin in the woods just to kill me, did ya?"

He peeked around the corner into the room he heard the noise originate from. A man stood with his back to him, urgently flipping through notes and textbooks strewn across a desk.

"Ford?" Stan asked again, a twinge of concern bleeding through his voice. Ford's movements were frantic. He was muttering under his breath, his words too low for Stan to hear what he was saying.

Ford still hadn't responded to him yet Stan found that any anger from being ignored that rose within him tapered away as soon as it came.

"Hey," his voice was more gentle as she spoke again. With slow, purposeful steps, he stepped into the room and approached his twin, "You okay, bro?"

Ford's movements didn't falter, even as Stan stood just arms length away behind him. Swallowing thickly, Stan reached out to put his hand on his twins shoulder— a gesture they had shared numerous times growing up.

Only his hand phased through his twin's shoulder, just as it had the front door.

Ford didn't even react; it was as if he wasn't even there, but he was standing right behind him! Stan was talking to him!

Stan's jaw dropped as he tried to comprehend what was happening. He lifted his hand in front of his face, staring at it. Scrutinizing it in detail, yet all he saw was a normal hand.

Hesitantly, he tried touching Ford with his other hand, but again, his hand phased through.

Panic was slowly creeping up the back of his throat.

"Ford!" He spoke again, voice steadily rising, "Stanford, please! What's— what the hells happening?"

Ford finally turned around, and for a moment, relief flooded through Stan.

"Oh thank God! This is a trick, isn't it? One of your weird science-y things, right? Boy, you really had m—"

Stan was cut off as Ford stepped right through him. Distantly, he could hear Ford's footsteps fade as he walked out of the room and down the hall, but he could barely think beyond what just happened.

He stood frozen to the spot, his breaths steadily increasing in his panic.

What the hell was happening to him? First he had no idea how he even got to Ford's house, then he had phased through the door. Ford hadn't even heard him when he called his name, and now even his own twin was walking through him as if he wasn't there. As if he was a—

A ghost.

The realization finally hit, causing Stan to stiffen.

With renewed desperation, he tried searching back in his memories for anything beyond driving past the sign welcoming him to Gravity Falls. His memories were still shrouded just out of reach, but the distant echoing of the screech of car tires on a snow covered black top echoed in the back of his head.

Just that recollection in itself was jarring enough to cause him to stagger to a nearby chair and sink against it. With some grace of luck, he didn't phase through that.

Dead.

He really was dead.

His brain bulked at the thought, not allowing itself to really accept what he knew, deep down, must be true.

He couldn't be dead. Sure, he had a few close calls over the years, but to die just miles down the road from his twin who had asked to see him seemed crueler than dying in the locked trunk of a car abandoned in a desert.

An angry yell tore through his throat as he gripped at his mullet. This wasn't fair! All he had ever wanted for ten long years was to hear from his brother, to get a chance to make up for his mistakes and finally get to be brothers again.

He'd finally had an opportunity to do just that. Ford had finally wanted to talk to him and had sent him a post card to come see him. It was the chance he had been waiting for for so long. He should have figured he'd never get that chance.

Good things didn't happen to Stan Pines.

He knew this as a fact. If a good thing ever did happen to him, it just meant he had further to fall when he inevitably hit rock bottom again.

It was so unfair to be so close to his brother, just a hair's width away from the twin he had missed for ten long years, yet not be able to talk to him.

Stanford.

Oh right. Ford had finally contacted him after ten long years. He'd be waiting for Stan to arrive, not knowing that he'd never come.

He'd probably think that Stan ignored him. It wasn't like Stan had thought to call and tell him he was coming, despite having his number.

Stan also doubted that whoever found his body would be able to contact his family. He didn't even know if he had an ID with his actual name on it, rather than one of the many aliases he used. Not to mention, he didn't have anyone in his family registered to receive a call if something happened to him.

The best chance he had was that whoever found him would recognize that he looked nearly identical to Ford (if Ford had a mullet).

Assuming that his face was still recognizable.

Stan shivered at the thought.

"Ok, think Stan." He mumbled to himself, "So you're dead and somehow at Ford's house. He'll know what to do; you just have to find a way to talk to him."

The only downside was he knew nothing about ghosts. Or nothing practical, really. Sure, he'd seen a lot of ghost movies growing up. What did they always do in movies?

Looking around the room, he spotted a blanket folded over a couch. Maybe if he could throw that over himself, Ford would be able to see his form.

Hurrying over to the couch, he reached for the blanket. Instead of being able to grasp the fabric, his hands phased through, eliciting a growl of frustration. He tried again, and got the same effect.

"Aw, come on!" He took a swing at the blanket, and though his fist phased through, he could have sworn he saw the blanket move slightly, as if a breeze had ruffled the fabric.

If that was all he could do, that wouldn't exactly help him.

Frustration rising in his throat, he stormed after Ford instead. He could hear his twin rifling through some of his papers in the front room, and followed the sound.

"Ford!" He yelled, as loud and as bellowing as he could, "Earth to Stanford! Hello! I'm right here!"

He positioned himself through the desk that Ford was bent over, waving his arms in Ford's face frantically and making as much noise as he possibly could.

"Stanford, come on! I'm right in front of you! You've got to see me!" Stan yelled, a desperate edge to his voice.

Being this close to his brother, he could see how much time had changed him. He had grown wider since he'd last seen him, his broad chest and shoulders filling out that trench coat he was wearing. His hair was a rumpled mess and his eyes were bloodshot as they desperately searched the papers on the desk.

"Come on, it's got to be here." Ford muttered to himself, taking a six fingered hand through his messy hair, only causing it to stick up even further.

Yeesh, just what happened to his brother? He looked like Ma after her tenth cup of coffee.

Ford's eyes suddenly lit up, "Aha!" He yelled, reaching a hand through Stan (causing his twin to stumble back a step) and pulling his hand back with a paper in his gasp.

Turning his back to Stan, he paced the length of the floor as he scrutinized the papers contents, muttering to himself.

"Hey Ford." Stan spoke again, voice somewhat dropping as he tentatively approached his frantic twin, "What's going on? You're actin' pretty weird, bro."

He got no response from his twin. Of course he wouldn't. Ford hadn't even heard him when he was yelling. It was foolish to think he could hear him now, but somehow Stan found it somewhat comforting to talk to his twin after all this time, even if he didn't hear a word he said.

"Useless!" Ford spat as he threw the paper to the floor. Hands gripped at his hair desperately. Stan took a step towards his twin, a hand raised to rest on his shoulder, desperately wanting to comfort him. At the last minute, his hand stilled.

He didn't think he could take watching his hand phase through his brother. Not when he wanted to comfort him so badly.

"Calm down, Stanford." His brother coached himself, "Focus on your intellect."

Stan couldn't help but snort at that comment. Of course Ford would focus on that.

"Stanley will be here soon. He'll be able to help; you just have to wait until then." Ford said, finally making his way to a desk. He sank his weight onto the surface and hunched in on himself, looking more desperate and helpless then Stan ever remembered seeing him.

Stan felt as though a knife had been twisted into his heart. His brother needed his help. Desperately. Whatever was going on had him more wound up and stressed than anything he had memory of, and yet after all these years, his twin was counting on him to come and help.

Yet Ford had no idea that Stan wouldn't be coming. Not really, anyways. Stan was here, yet he never felt more useless in his life. He couldn't do anything to help his twin in this state, probably because Stan did something stupid like run his car off the road and get himself killed.

Heaving a sigh, Stan crossed to where Ford was sitting on the desk, curled in on himself. With some hesitation, he sat down beside his twin. He didn't have the heart to try to touch his twin again, knowing that his hand would just pass through.

So he settled to sit shoulder to shoulder with his twin. Just that simple action reminded him of nights long passed when he and Ford used to sit on the swing set by the beach, talking about anything and everything. He hoped the gesture would do something to comfort his twin, but even if not, it at least gave him some comfort to be so close to his twin.

He could at least pretend that things were as they used to be. Even if just for a moment before the image was shattered by reality.

"I'm sorry, Stanford," he said, hating the way his voice quivered with emotion, "I'm not coming. But I'll find a way to help you. I promise."

He looked up. Ahead of him was the front door he had entered through. He hadn't noticed before, but there was a loaded crossbow propped up by the side of the door. The sight of it drew another helpless sigh from him.

He didn't know what happened to make Ford feel the need to keep a weapon by the door, but it was a sentiment that Stan could understand seeing as he always kept a bat or his brass knuckles nearby.

"Whatever's got you so worked up, we'll figure it out." He said, his voice feeling heavy in the deafening silence, "I won't be leaving; it's us against the world. Always has been, always will be."