It had been a pretty good day. Still sucked, still barely made it through, still had to watch his back so he wouldn't be caught off guard or find a knife to his throat and his back against the wall, but he had made a decent amount of money and had enough not only for a fair amount of meals and a cheap motel room, but something he had debated on wasting his money on for awhile: a phone call.

Stan had called Ma about two weeks ago and talked with her for a while; it had been a few months since his last call, but they don't exactly give you a chance to call anybody in Colombian prison. He had cheerfully chatted with her for a good hour, playing a selling act that everything was okay and he was way more inclined to listen to his mother ramble about gossip of the neighbors and family news. Ma let slip that his twin had graduated from college last May and had moved into a new house up in the Northwest area. That led to a small comment about her having his new phone number.

Silently Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and had to hold his breath from huffing in frustration, not just with his mother for her insistence that her sons reconcile and communicate, but frustration with himself. For the last four-and-a-half years he would finally pile together enough courage to call him, but the minute he heard that professional greeting he hung up, unable to face his brother and simply grateful to hear his voice and be reassured that he was somewhat okay. What was the point in wasting the little money he had and everyone's time if Stan was gonna end up being a big coward?

However, he found himself unable to deny the only family member that seemed to like him (he didn't dare get his hopes up that somebody in the family, or any living thing, loved him) and so Stan allowed his mother to recite the phone number to him before they said goodbye, and while the conman fully intended to forget the number, it wouldn't leave his brain.

There was a payphone across the street from his shitty little motel room in Nevada that seemed to mock him every time he looked out his window to check for Rico's goons. You'd think fleeing from Columbia to Mexico to New Mexico to Arizona to Nevada would be enough to ensure his safety. Now Stan stood at the door of his place, knowing he should get inside and go to bed to save some food, but something bigger than himself tempted him too greatly in wasting two quarters for a phone call. Maybe this time he won't be a chicken and hang up. Maybe his brother won't hang up the minute he hears his voice. Maybe things could actually work out, and if not then at least Stan would have an answer and it wouldn't kill him to not know for sure how his own twin would react to the chance to talk to him. Then maybe the hole in his heart could start to heal.

Dragging his feet and walking zombie-like, Stan shuffled over to the payphone and fished out two quarters from his jeans. He picked up the phone and slipped them into the machine, then dialed the number Ma gave him and nervously played with the cord. The phone only had to taunt him with the ringing three times.

"Hello, this is Stanford Pines."

Stan cleared his throat to try to get rid of that stupid lump and to make it easier to respond. "Hey, Sixer."

It sounded like Ford had dropped the phone on the other end. Stan thought he heard some scurrying and his heart stopped at the idea that Ford might slam the phone down, but instead Stan was graced by the strained reply of, "Stanley?!"

Still nervous, but grateful things hadn't gone south yet, the drifter sneered playfully, "Glad you still recognize my voice."

"It has been awhile. I… How did you get my number?"

"Ma gave it to me." Stan tensed a little and bit his lip, ready to offer an explanation or possibly an apology, but Ford spoke first.

"Ah, I see." He almost sounded grateful that their mother had done so, but that wasn't possible. Stan must've misheard his tone through the phone. "How are you?"

The smile of radiant hope was gone now. Stan looked down at his muscular body free of bruises for the first time in a week and the sorry excuse for clothes that covered him. And he did what he was best at: lying. "I'm pretty good, but enough about me; a little birdie told me you graduated a few months back."

"Ma told you, didn't she?" Ford injected with a smile.

"It certainly wasn't Pa." Stan snorted casually. "Congrats, Brainiac, I'm proud of you."

"Well, thank you, Stanley." Ford sounded surprised by the statement, probably expecting Stan to be resentful of any kind of success life gave him, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. "I'll admit, it was difficult, but nothing a little hard work can't do, and I did manage to graduate top of my class…"

"No surprise there."

"… and leave with as many PhDs as I have fingers, but F-…"

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Stan barked with laughter. "You can't just drop that in there like it's nothing! You telling me you got twelve PhDs?! Doesn't it take, like, four years just to earn one?!"

"Well… yes, I mean, sometimes, or well, often, but…"

Ford was interrupted by Stan's laughter and the conman shook his head like a wet dog. "Oh boy, am I gonna have to start calling you Dr. now?"

"That's not necessary."

"Whatever you say, doc. So whatcha gonna do with all that smart stuff, anyway?"

That sent Ford on a long spill about his move to Oregon and his investigations. Apparently he had been investigating for only three months and found a bunch of stuff he had been interested in when they were kids. Stan made himself comfortable, leaning against the phone booth as he listened to his twin ramble forever about the town and the weird stuff.

It was like his phone calls with Ma; Stan didn't really talk much, mostly just listened to be distracted from his shitty world for only a little bit. Kinda like TV but he actually gave a crap about the people entertaining him.

"But what about you, Stanley?" Ford asked once he sensed he was the only one really talking. "Ma says you've been travelling a lot recently. Oh, Holy Moses, you gave in and became the thing you hate most."

"WHAT?!" Stan yelled, making Ford burst into a fit of laughter. "Now you listen to me, I will NEVER become a nomadic hippy, you hear me?! I will never lower myself to join those free-loaded, kale-munching horror shows!"

"Well, what have you been doing?"

Stan ignored the way his gut sunk. "Just out seeing the world, Poindexter. There's a lot of places to see and people to meet and things to try. We live in a big country, you should explore it when you get the chance."

"I suppose so. Where are you right now?"

"Nevada. It's an alright state. Vegas sure was something." He let out a chuckle, almost telling Ford about his ex-wife and how she got away with all of his winnings, almost stealing his car, and disappearing through a door in a canyon, but ultimately decided that was a story for another day. "Can't complain about the scenery either. Definitely different than - AUGH!"

The phone swung as Stan collapsed and the world spun like he was on a merry-go-round. He would vaguely hear his brother's voice through the phone, but efore Stan could muster up some strength to fight back or ask for help, everything went black as he laid on the cool pavement.

It had been a really good day. Not only had Ford made a major breakthrough on his investigation of Gravity Falls, but everything just seemed to be going his way today. This morning his new DD&MD game came in the mail, at the grocery store he had found a twenty dollar bill on the floor, and after lunch he had finally found the enchanted forest. He had spent weeks looking for it and had finally mapped a route to it from his cabin in the woods. Making plans to explore tomorrow, Ford went home and spent his evening reading a book with a cup of tea Fiddleford's mother had given to him as a graduation present. October in Oregon made for perfect tea-drinking on the porch with a blanket weather.

Maybe that was why it was so easy to accept the phone call from his long-lost family member when he had to get up from his comfortable seat to answer. Maybe the good mood he had been in had helped cushion whatever shock he had. Or maybe since Stanley did the hard part for him (making the phone call) all that left Ford to do was to accept it, and he didn't have the strength to reject an opportunity to at least make sure his brother wasn't dead in a gutter somewhere.

Yes, if asked about it, Ford would admit to still being angry at Stanley for ruining his project. Not only that, but angry for glossing over it, for not taking it seriously, and for thinking a small mention of a childish dream would distract Ford from how hurt and betrayed and disappointed he was. However, that was no reason to get kicked out of your own home at seventeen, it was still unfair to be unable to graduate high school, still no excuse to be outcast by your own family.

Ford can still remember how badly that day had hurt him. How he had wanted to go out there and get his twin back, but waited until the next morning in fear of what Pa would do to him. Ford had skipped school and combed through Glass Shard for his brother, hoping to find the Stamobile in front of Shermie's house or on the beach or maybe even at Carla's house, but Stanley was long gone and the only way he would be back is if he came home himself, which Ford knew he was too prideful to do.

Still, he drowned his fears, anger, and hurt feelings down to focus on work, his studies, and whenever guilt for what happened to Stanley started to resurface, he pushed them down by assuring himself that Stanley was fine. He was tough and could handle a tough world. He had a magnetic personality and could charm anyone. He probably had his own home and maybe even a wife by now. Stanley was fine without him, and Ford was fine without him, too. Everything was fine.

So yes, given into account his good day, his good mood, his anger overshadowed by his sadness and pain, and the fact that Stanley had enough guts to call him in the first place, it was just too easy to talk to him like everything was fine, because everything was fine. Really, despite his setbacks, Ford was doing great right now. He had his dream job and was happy, so if his own twin wanted to talk to him, Ford had no issue putting forth some effort into having a conversation.

But when suddenly Stanley's line of dialogue about Nevada was cut off by a groan of pain and a dead-pan silence, Ford's heart was quickly pounding against his ribcage and his hold on the telephone tightened. "Stan? Stanley? What happened? Are you alright? Stan?"

The scientist paused a moment to give his brother a chance to answer, to listen for anything, but nothing graced his ear, nothing gave him some assurance that Stanley was still with him. "Stanley, are you there?! Stanley?!" And then the line went dead, sentencing Ford to a long, continuous beep.

He lowered the phone, not completely hanging up, as he looked ahead blindly and let his mind race. Ford wasn't dumb; he read between the lines. Something was wrong. Stanley always had a knack for getting into trouble, but nothing too serious, but there was a chance he had angered the wrong person. Ford's instincts shouted at him that something was wrong, nothing was fine, and that he should do something more productive than just standing there.

Ford hung up and quickly pressed *69 to have the telephone number Stanley had called him from. While Nevada was a great clue as to where his twin was, that was still a lot of ground to cover and Ford had to narrow it down somehow. Luckily the payphone was owned by the motel Stanley was most certainly staying at, so without a second thought, Ford threw some clothes, his first aid kit, and a pillow into a suitcase, took his atlas and journal off the bookcase, locked up his house, and ran for the bus stop, all while cursing Steve's name for crushing his car a few months ago.

Thank God the bus stopped to pick up Ford just outside of Gravity Falls. The payphone Stanley had called from was owned by the Indian Spring Motel, a small town just outside of Las Vegas, according to Ford's map, and an estimated twelve hour drive from Gravity Falls. Worrying about what would happen to his twin in those twelve hours wouldn't help him, so Ford distracted himself with journal cataloging in that bus that took him as far as Klamath Falls, just at the border of California.

With no other passengers and nowhere else to be, Ford managed to bribe the bus driver to take him as far as Susanville, CA. There, he found another bus willing to take him to Carson City, NV in the wee hours of the morning, and Ford found another bus going to Las Vegas, not quite his destination, but close enough.

Ford finally arrived at Las Vegas at 8am, about twelve hours after Stanley had called him. Tired, hungry, and worried sick, Ford pushed himself to keep going, promising himself coffee and maybe a sandwich as soon as he reached the motel. He was graced with the presence of a hippy van full of tired college students leaving Las Vegas and were going to pass Indian Springs on their way back to campus, so they offered him a ride and some Mary Jane for the road. Ford happily accepted the ride, but politely declined the Devil's Lettuce; He had enough of that in college in California.

Finally, at long long last, he set foot outside the motel, his shoes crushing sand, at 8:30am. Ford looked around and didn't see a payphone, but the balconies for the rooms were on the other side of the L-shaped building, inside the L so to speak, so the young explorer walked around and found a lone payphone a few feet away from a vending machine full of snacks and a second one fill with sodas and water. His stomach growled and he felt a little light-headed, so he decided to keep his promise and eat something.

It wasn't coffee and a sandwich, but some trail mix and water served nicely, and after Ford wolfed down the trail mix and swallowed down half his bottle, he decided to resume his search.

There was no blood anywhere near the payphone. Good. But Stanley was also nowhere to be seen. Ford went to the desk to ask if a Stan Pines had checked in. The tired manager shook his head. "No, sorry, but hey. Some guy who looks a lot like you booked 312. Said his name was Stephen Penshield."

Ford resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Thanks." How much trouble was Stanley in if he had to fake his name? Did he do it just to be cautious, or because he knew he was being followed?

The young scientist followed the signs to the correct room and knocked rapidly. "Stanley? Stanley, it's me." The small amount of hope that thought that he was lying in bed, aiding any injury he had or was asleep was soon gone. Ford knocked again, harder and more demanding. "Stanley!"

Still no answer. Ford rummaged through the pockets of his trenchcoat and grinned at his handy little lockpick; it was very helpful when he needed to access the Gravity Falls archives or private section of the History Museum. Ford tinkered for a minute or two, tongue between his teeth, and soon the door clicked and opened.

He stood up straight and entered, frowning at the scene. There wasn't much. The bed had been sat on, at least, but not laid in, and a red duffle bag was on the bed. Ford recognized it as Stanley's old bag, the same Pa had thrown him, and he opened it to be sure and to look for clues. Some old, worm clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a pack of cigarettes, and an old photograph.

Ford recognized it and smiled, a picture of them as boys playing on their sailboat. He pocketed the photo and looked around the room. There was a small coffee machine with grounds, paper, and cups. Ford scrambled, abandoning his suitcase on the floor; He needed his fix so his brain would work properly. After about ten minutes, he had forced down two cups of hot coffee down his throat as he sat on the bed.

While Ford recharged his batteries, he took another look around the motel room. It looked like this brother had barely settled in before stepping outside to make the phone call. Okay, so where was Stanley now?

The temporary detective went back to the payphone, but stopped as he looked down at the ground and behind him. He was making footprints. Maybe if no one else had… maybe if there hadn't been any wind…

Ford cautiously looked down on the sand. He actually managed to find Stanley's tracks, his heavy footsteps dragging him from the back door of room 312 to the payphone. Ford had accidentally stepped on a few tracks earlier, but he could see a third pair of tracks standing a bit behind Stanley. There was no sign of a fallen body, but there was a sign of heels being bragged. Whoever harmed Stanley must have caught him mid-fall and walked away.

Heart pounding and anger fuming, Ford followed the trail. They stopped at some tire tracks, which went to the concrete road and disappeared. Ford groaned, but he didn't have any other lead. He could mindlessly walk down the road, or he could try to think of a better plan, but no other better plan was coming, so he stepped to the side of the road and walked.

For about three hours Ford walked along the road. The sun was quite hot, even in October, but that might have been only because of the hot pavement and he was still in a trenchcoat and sweater and there was no shade in sight. Ford wiped his forehead dry of sparkling sweat and finally shedded his trenchcoat, carrying over his arm like a waiter's towel, and made himself press forward.

His head pounded from lack of proper caffeine. He wasn't dehydrated yet, but he had just finished his water, so that may happen soon. He opened his atlas and checked his map of Nevada. He was, if he had to guess, somewhere between Indian Springs and Amargosa Valley. Ford was exhausted and started to feel defeated. He had no idea where he was going or what he was doing. Stan could be in big trouble, maybe even d-… no! No, Stan was fine, he was okay. And even if he wasn't, Ford would fix this. Everything will be fine.

Ford shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose to gather himself. He kept walking on the left side of the road. A few minutes later, he was distracted by his journey, his head down, to see something odd. Tire tracks, but not in the correct angle. If someone had simply pulled over, the tracks would have been more linear, only slightly shifted from straight, but they weren't. They were at a sharper angle, indicating that a car would have come onto this side of the dirt from the right side, from Indian Springs, but why would any car want to do that? There was nothing but desert in that direction.

Ford quickly noticed a second pair of tire tracks right next to the first pair, and he knew where to go. He followed the two tracks, this time making sure to keep an eye ahead for anything that could give some indication as to where the two cars were going. He only had to walk for about twenty minutes.

He would recognize that red Diablo anywhere. Stan "found it" one day during the summer between junior and senior year, and when he wasn't working on the Stan O' War, he was working on the car. Ford wiped some more sweat from his face and broke into a run to the car. He took the time to notice the second pair of tracks stopped by the Diablo and then drove off. Fine, then, but where was Stan?

"Stanley? Stanley?!" Ford called and peered through the window of the front seat. He pulled the door, finding it unlocked, and sighed to not only find it vacant, but cluttered with things. It looked like Stan was living in his car if not a motel room.

Ford threw down his trenchcoat on the sand to try to find more clues. He opened the back-left door, in case Stan was asleep in the backseat, but it was filled to the brim with clothes and alcohol and was that a vacuum cleaner? Ford slammed the door shut and grabbed his fluffy, greasy brown hair, and gritted through tight teeth. "Stanley, I swear, I…"

Because it was so silent in the desert, it was easy to detect the smallest sound. Ford might have imagined it, but he could have sworn he heard movement coming from the trunk. Without a second thought, he swiped the keys hanging from the rear-view mirror and unlocked the trunk, pulling it up and gasping with a mixture of relief and horror. "STANLEY!"

He was pale and sickly, extremely dehydrated. Not only was he locked in a trunk in the middle of a desert, sure in October, but the sun was still shining brightly and his brother was in jeans, boots, and a jacket. He barely stirred at the bright light and the noise, scaring Ford beyond reason. He carefully picked him up, quickly found him too heavy, and gently set him on the sand to inspect him. He was tied by the hands and feet with rope, but his pocketknife solved that and he scrambled to remove the rope and the jacket.

"Stanley? Stanley, look at me. Please, open your eyes and look at me." Ford begged and patted his cheek a little, not quite slapping him but trying to bring him around. "Come on, Lee, please!"

Stan groaned and stirred a little. Damn it, he needed water. Ford gently removed him from his lap and nearly turned over the car for some. There was nothing but liquor bottles in sight. Ford knew it wasn't gonna hydrate him, but if something wet would bring him around…

Ford took a bottle of tequila and bit the lid off and spat it out onto the sand. On his knees, he pulled Stan close, cupped his cheeks to open his mouth, and poured a swing.

The bitter, familiar taste helped. He choked a bit and swallowed, then coughed and blinked his eyes open, overwhelmed by the bright sun and unable to make out the shadowed face, but that voice…

"Oh, thank Moses, Stanley!"

"S-Sixer?" Stan suddenly felt like he was slapped in the face. He quickly sat up on his knees and looked around wildly, taking in his surroundings. The memory of last night came crashing back down, and he knew what had happened. But what he couldn't wrap his head around for the life of him was why Ford was sitting in front of him, looking scared.

Wide awake and alert, Stan shut his eyes and shook his head. "No. You're not here."

Of all the things Ford thought his twin might say when he first saw him, that wasn't it. "Ex-Excuse me?"

"You're not here." Stan said firmly, rubbing his aching forehead. "I've officially lost it. I'm thirsty or dying or whatever. This is just a stupid trick my dumb brain made up to make me feel better before I die. You're not here. You'd ne-… Y-… F-Forget it, you're not real."

Ford was devastated when he thought of what Stan decided not to say, but nearly said it. You'd never come, cuz you wouldn't've cared. He rubbed his arm sheepishly and croaked, "I know I wasn't there for you, but… I would like to be here for you n-…"

Stan broke. The dam collapsed. The wall crumbled. Not just because of what had happened, not just because if it wasn't for the fact that someone had found the car in the middle of the desert, he would have died, not just because of his stupid brother, but everything that had ever happened to him in the four-and-a-half years since the science fair, hell, everything that had never happened to him ever, came crashing down on Stan's body and spirit, and he fell into Ford's body, held him tight, and buried his face in his sweater in case he was a wimp and cried.

Ford was shocked, too surprised to respond that second, but after a moment he quickly wrapped his arms around his twin and held him close. He rubbed Stan's back and bit back a gentle "shh"; if Stan needed to choke out a sob he was more than welcome to. Ford just focused on being there for his brother and he actively chose to ignore the wet spot forming on his clothes and the sobs echoing into his ear.

They stayed like that on the sand for a few minutes, maybe half-an hour, behind Stan let out a long sigh, let his twin go, and sat back, holding his knees on the sand. His eyes found the fallen bottle of tequila, which had a bit left in the bottle, and Stan took a swing. Ford swiped the bottle back and poured it out onto the desert. "HEY!"

"We need to get you hydrated, not drunk." Ford said and stood, holding a hand for his brother. "Come on, do you still like pizza?"

Stan snorted and accepted the hand up. "Yeah, but I prefer pepperoni now."

Ford winced and chuckled as they got in the car, with the eldest by fifteen minutes driving since he had the keys and was the healthiest of the two. "I'm not too surprised, still…"

"You should try it. What'll the folks do, ground you?" Stan teased as Ford started the Diablo, which thankfully still ran like a dream.

Ford laughed, truly laughed, and shrugged. "No, I suppose not. Fine then, pepperoni pizza."

"Lemme tell you, if you're gonna get pizza from anywhere within a hundred feet of Vegas, order from Antonio's, not Mario's. They got the best dough on this side of Phoenix!"

"So what's the best place to get pizza on the other side of Phoenix?" Ford asked as they started the drive towards concrete.

"Believe it or not, this place in Tennessee. I know, I know, not New York, they got the second-best, for sure, and more variety, but this one place in Nashville has, hands down, the best pepperoni I've ever gotten my hands on."

"Nashville, huh?" Ford repeated. "I've been in Chattanooga briefly…"

"No kidding. What brought you there?"

"That was where the closest airport was to Athens, where I spent a summer with a friend to stay out of Glass Shard."

"Good call."

Ford chuckled again, and that started a long conversation about the summer he had spent with the McGuckets in Tennessee, and Stan shared his reason for being in Nashville, and their long story-swap carried them the forty-five minute drive back to the motel.

In what felt like no time at all, they were sitting on the queen sized bed, a large pepperoni pizza between them and cups of Pitt in their hand, after inhaling as much water and coffee as each could hold, of course. The conversation they had was filled with laughter and was, strangely, natural. No awkward pauses, no uncertainty. Maybe a surprise here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. Well, that's not true; How well this whole thing was going was very out of the ordinary.

Stan had just finished telling the story of how he got banned from Arizona, a story of hilarious it actually made Ford's eyes water from excessive laughter, making him lift his glasses up to his forehead and wipe his eyes dry as he caught his breath. Stan smiled peacefully at that, able to still make his twin laugh. But then a dark voice rendered its ugly head. How long will it last? How long until they were back to square one? How long until Ford remembered why he was mad and didn't want anything to do with Stan? Or how long until Stan screws up again? Yes, he was still mad at Ford. He was mad that he had outright abandoned him, but at the same time Stan didn't blame him for wanting to, and Ford had more than made up for it by saving his life, so maybe at the very least they could let bygones be bygones and leave today with the promise of an occasional phone call.

"Well, it certainly seems there is never a dull moment for you." Ford huffed as he readjusted his glasses.

"Hey, your life ain't boring neither, Sixer. From what you said on the phone it sounds like you're busy hunting down monsters and fairies and Santa Clause and whatever else is out there."

Ford snorted and rubbed the back of his neck. "Truth be told, it's a bit slow going. True, I did discover the Enchanted Forest yesterday, and that will definitely help, but before that, I found next to nothing for months. Finding the nesting ground of many anomalies is very helpful, but soon I will have documented all of the creatures lurking there and be back to square one, finding the other anomalies elsewhere in the woods."

"What, you on a time limit or something?" Stan asked, sipping his drink.

"No, the college board has practically given me all the time I need, but that does little to… erm, ease my worries on the matter." Ford decided. He wasn't anxious, but it was a bit apprehensive. "The idea is flimsy enough that a good chunk were against the grant, so it would be most beneficial to give them as much as I can as soon as I can. Updates here and there, proof that I'm not just using the money to have a nice house in the middle of the woods for no work."

Stan shrugged. "Yeah, I get it. Don't worry, you'll figure it out. You always do."

"Yes, well," Ford bit his lip, hesitant, but he decided to go with it. "I've been thinking that a second pair of eyes would be helpful. I almost asked my old roommate…"

"Fiddlesticks?"

"Fiddleford."

"Whatever."

"… for assistance, but he and his wife are expecting a baby."

"That's awesome!"

"It is, but I couldn't possibly ask him to move away and join me, not now anyway."

"Right, gotcha."

And there it was, the first awkward silence between them in years. Maybe the first time in their entire lives, because things had never been awkward, they had never been uncertain on what to say or do. But Ford pushed himself forward. There were too many red flags. Stan was clearly homeless and had enemies out there, and who could guarantee that they would speak to each other again if they separated today, if Ford went home without Stan and pretended everything was fine when nothing was fine.

"It… It wouldn't pay much," Ford shared. "The grant covers the mortgage and utilities, no need to worry about groceries or anything like that, and so I would split the extra money evenly at the end of the month. Apart from assisting in the research and discovery of anomalies, the occasional chore would be appreciated. Like dishes, they would be responsible for their own laundry. I… I think it…"

"Sounds like whoever doesn't take up that kind of offer is a knucklehead." Stan said with a smile.

Ford rubbed his arm, looking away, and muttered with a smile, "But I'm starting to think I want to keep this adventure in the family."

Stan's smile dropped. Worthless. Stupid. He doesn't want you around. But that smile… that stupid, true-blue smile… And this wasn't charity. This wasn't Ford pitying Stan and giving him a place to crash. This was a job, a low-paying job that came with a room and food. So Stan wouldn't be a waste of space. And he had learned a thing or two he could use to help hunt down monsters in the middle of the woods. So he took in a deep breath and made Ford jump when he said, "Okay."

He blinked like a confused owl at him. "O-Okay?"

"Okay," Stan nodded. "I'll do it. I mean, you gotta have somebody watch your back out there, Poindexter. What if you got bit by a werewolf, or a vampire. What if you fell down a bottomless pit, or got lost, or drowned in the lake thanks to some siren or something? Nah, it's like you said, you should have a second pair of eyes. I'll help you out and make sure you don't kill yourself out there."

Ford grinned. A part of him didn't actually believe he would take the job, but he could feel a hundred pounds leave his shoulders as his twin accepted the proposition. There was still a lot to talk about, and eventually they would have to talk about what had happened between them, as much as neither of them wanted to, but they could deal with that in time. They'll figure it out. Everything will be fine. "Thank you." And he held out a hand to shake.

Deciding that was too professional, Stan gave him a low-six instead and laughed, bringing an arm around his shoulders and clicking his plastic cup against Ford's, making him roll his eyes with a smile that refused to go away.