"What are you doing?!"
The demand came bursting out of Ford's mouth without preamble.
Stan froze, the disassembled pieces of a shotgun in his hands, and blinked a couple of times, before pointedly tossing them into the suitcase, which already contained a hotchpotch supply of shirts, brass knuckles, and several large wads of cash.
Ford realized what he was trying to indicate, and made an irritated sound.
"Why are you packing-!"
A second later he realized what the obvious answer was, and he groaned into his hand.
Stan looked even more confused, and began balling up a Hawaiian shirt of unbelievable tackiness, clearly about to throw it into the suitcase as well.
"Figured I should get a head start on it," he muttered. "Since the kids are goin' home soon, and you said-"
"I know what I said!"
Stan took an alarmed step backwards, nearly fumbling the shirt out of his hands.
Get a grip, Ford scolded internally, you're not explaining yourself clearly.
Even so, he had to take a moment to hold the bridge of his nose and inhale and exhale a couple of times while he figured out what he wanted to say.
"Stanley," he said at last, adjusting his glasses, "I-when I said all that, about wanting my house back...at the time I was trying to reestablish a level of normalcy that in hindsight was not reasonable to expect, or attempt to implement. Your Mystery Shack has become a very well-established source of this town's income, from what I understand, and I doubt the people living here would appreciate it being taken away, regardless of what rights I might claim to the property. And I was-" he didn't want to admit it, but he forced himself to swallow his pride and do so anyway- "I was lashing out, and being cruel to you."
Stan looked like he was thinking, 'That's nothing new,' but mercifully refrained from saying it aloud.
"I just-I didn't want you to actually leave!" Or rather, at the time that he'd said all that it had not yet sunk in that Stan would have nowhere else to go and he would be taking away his only source of income at the same time, ergo doing the same thing as their father but worse. Nor had it sunk in until later that despite what he told himself, he didn't want to go back to being alone in this big empty house, part of which had led him to make that ill-advised offer to Dipper. In hindsight, he wasn't sure what he'd actually wanted, but it was all enough to make him very annoyed with his past self.
Ford looked at his twin, a little part of him desperately hoping that he would instinctively understand what he was trying to ask the way he always used to when they were young.
Instead Stan frowned and asked suspiciously, "...So what's your point?"
"My point is I've been looking at boats!"
Stan stared at him like he was still waiting for him to start speaking English.
...This would be coming out far more eloquently if I'd had more time to rehearse.
"...Wendy has been trying to teach me how to use the Internet, and I've managed to find places online that sell used sailboats. I've been comparing prices, because-" Ford took a step further into the room- "even though Weirdmageddon has been contained, I've been picking up signs of supernatural activity in other parts of the world. Particularly in certain areas of the Arctic Ocean. And-and I want to go investigate it…" he was only a few feet away from Stan, "but I think I might be too old to go alone."
He looked at Stan for a reaction; all he got was another unreadable expression.
Ford's heart sank, but he decided to finish spelling it out for him. He reached into his inner pocket, and pulled out the old photo that he'd kept all these years.
"I don't want it to be just anybody, Stanley. I want it to be you. So-will you give me a second chance?"
Stan stared at the photo. Then he looked back up at Ford. Then he slowly let the shirt slip through his fingers to the floor, and reached one hand over and gave his other hand a slow, deliberate pinch.
He waited for a second after doing so, frowning; then, when evidently nothing happened, he reached out and pinched Ford's hand instead.
"Ow! What are you doing?!" Ford stumbled back.
"Trying to wake up," Stan said in a tone like he thought this should be obvious.
"You're not asleep," Ford insisted as clarity asserted itself. "I'm genuinely asking-"
But Stan was shaking his head stubbornly, staggering back a little. "Nuh-uh. It-it can't be. You're-any second I'm gonna wake up, or you're gonna let the other shoe drop and tell me what ya really want, or it'll turn out Bill somehow got in my head after all, or-"
His previous calm air had started to crack; his voice was wobbling, and his jaw was clenching fiercely, and Ford could hear his breath coming in harsher exhales as he began pinching himself again-
Ford grabbed his brother's shoulders firmly. "Stanley. Look at me. You're awake. This is real. I promise."
Stan stared at him, apparently unaware that he was drawing blood from how hard his newly regrown teeth were biting down on his lower lip.
"But-you don't-"
"I know I've hurt you, and you're scared that I'm going to hurt you again." Ford squeezed his shoulders. "I'm sorry that I've made you feel that way, and that everything's become so messed up between us. But I want to try again. Please."
Please don't let it be too late.
Stan blinked rapidly, and something warm and damp trickled down his cheek, landing on the back of Ford's hand.
Ford slowly curled his arms around his brother's back, and tugged, until he felt him step closer, and two thick arms tentatively wrap around his middle.
"...Ya think we'll find treasure? And babes?" Stan asked his shoulder.
Ford let out a somewhat damp laugh. "Well, it's the middle of the Arctic Ocean, so unless you want to try to kiss a leopard seal or something I wouldn't count too much on the latter."
"Eh, might be better than some o' my past relationships." Stan's laugh wasn't too dry itself.
"Ugh, don't be disgusting!" He reached up and lightly cuffed the back of Stan's head, before burying his hand in his hair.
"Don't tell me what to do, Poindexter." His hold tightened a little, as his shoulders shuddered and trembled.
By this point it wasn't clear how much emotion was being expressed by laughing, and how much by crying.
But it didn't matter.
All that mattered was, as cheesy as it sounds, that they both felt whole again. Or at least on the road to it.
No, don't worry, I'm not implying Stan is into bestiality. Gross.
Sorry, I would have posted this last night but for some reason it wouldn't let me upload the document.
