Honestly, Stan was a little embarrassed to be asking his brother for help. Asking for help just wasn't one of the things he did.

But now the niblings were back in Piedmont and only thirteen days lay ahead of Stan and Ford before they set sail on the Stan O' War II, and Stan really wasn't wanting to have any sudden memory seizures or whatever in the middle of the Arctic Ocean.

Here was the thing: not all of his memories were back.

Most of them were. Ford had been there to help him recover everything from his first seventeen years, as well as the fight they had when they were twenty-eight that launched Stanford into the multiverse and Stanley into what became his life's work.

The lab in the basement, the journals, and the dismantled remains of the portal had been there to remind Stan of all the sleepless nights spent desperately trying to reopen the gateway that closed with his brother on the wrong side. Even every detail about taking Stanford's name, starting his own business, and faking the death of Stanley Pines was clear in his memory.

Soos and Wendy and the Mystery Shack had been there to give Stan the memories of all the long days spent conning gullible townsfolk and creating new phony attractions.

Dipper and Mabel, those beautiful, wonderful kids, had been there to bring to light all the events of the summer, all the crazy adventures and trouble they got themselves into. He remembered all the ways they chipped away at his stony exterior and grew the old Grinch's heart three sizes.

But there were gaps.

Stan had anchors for all of the memories that he'd regained. He had people who shared memories with him and things to document what had happened. But between the ages of seventeen and twenty-eight, between being disowned by his family and being summoned to Gravity Falls by his brother, there was nothing.

Stan had nothing.

There were only gaps, sinkholes and bruises in the corners of his hippocampus where ten whole years were simply missing. He knew that he didn't do too well out on his own, because there were small remnants of his youth experiences left around the house: a set of brass knuckles, a collection of fake IDs, scars on his back and arms, a book on dog breeding and pug care. He even had a rough summary of what he'd been through, courtesy of what Stan told Ford and the kids after Ford came out of the portal. But just because Stan remembered telling the story didn't mean that he had the memories.

Common sense made it fairly clear that there were probably a lot of things that his old self would have loved to forget about. He knew that the memories he was missing were bad ones and that remembering them would be no walk in the park, but if the memories were half as dangerous as some of the clues and shadows, the scars and newspaper clippings lead him to believe, then shouldn't he know what happened? Shouldn't he have those memories back for the sake of protecting himself? For the sake of protecting his family?

He couldn't remember those ten years because he didn't have an anchor. He had no one to tell him what happened. Not that Ford had any way of knowing what happened to Stan all those years ago either, but maybe he could help anyway. Maybe having someone to talk to, to bounce ideas off of, could help Stan sort through the cluttered and confused cardboard boxes littering the attic that was Stan's mind.

So, yeah, honestly, Stan was a little embarrassed to be asking his brother for help. Asking for help just wasn't one of the things he did.

But there was no one else around who could help, and Stan sure as hell knew he wasn't going to be any good at helping himself. So he ventured down to the basement, where Ford was tinkering with inventions and researching the signals he'd received from the Arctic.

"Uh, Sixer?"

Ford didn't turn around, reluctant to tear himself from his research, but his voice was lined with mild surprise when he answered. "Greetings, Stanley. What are you doing here?"

"I, uh..." Oh, Moses. How was Stan supposed to do this again? How did asking for help work? He scratched at the back of his neck. "I was wonderin'... if I could talk to you about somethin'. Or whatever."

Ford tilted his head quizzically to the side, his ears instantly picking up on the hesitant tone in his twin's voice. It was almost… humble. That was a tone that nearly never accompanied the smooth-talking liar's gravelly register. Ford spun around on his heel, deciding to abandon his research for now. Whatever Stan had to say, it must have been important. His brow furrowed and a concerned frown on his lips, he nodded, prompting Stan to go on.

"So, I've got all my memories back, y'know?"

"Yes..." Ford spoke slowly. He raised an eyebrow.

"I think maybe that's not all the way true. I still don't remember nothin'-"

"Anything."

"I still don't remember nothin' about what happened in the time between..." he trailed off, considering how to phrase it.

"Between the two arguments between us that ruined each of our lives?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Well, I certainly can't remember any of it for you."

"I know, I know. But listen: you're the doctor, right?"

"I suppose."

"So, just... Maybe can I talk to you about some shit? I think... If I had somebody to sort through my mind with... I mean, if you wanna keep doin' your nerd stuff or whatever, that's fine too, I don't really care. Just, y'know, if you got the time-"

"You're asking me for my help." Ford was doing very poorly to suppress the small smile creeping up on his face.

Stan scoffed. "Whatever, Poindexter. Don't make it weird."

"I don't know what I could possibly do to help you, Stanley," said Ford. "But of course I'll let you talk to me about whatever you remember."

Stan nodded, internally relieved, and turned to start walking back upstairs without another word.

"Would you... like to talk now?"

Stan froze when he heard his brother's voice, chewing on his lip. He thought about it for a moment, but after a quick glance at his watch he decided he'd better get to bed. Besides, he'd spent a good three days mulling over the idea of actually asking his brother for help and now that he'd accomplished that, he was emotionally exhausted. "Seeya in the mornin'," he said finally, continuing his ascent.

Ford nodded in understanding. He supposed that one expression of sincerity, however brief, must have been enough for Stan for one day. "I'll see you in the morning, Stanley."

Stan was already in the kitchen eating an omelette and drinking coffee when Ford entered the small room, his clear eyes and disheveled hair indicating that he had actually gotten some sleep last night, shockingly enough.

The author poured himself a cup of coffee and a sat down across from his brother, picking up the book on naturopathic medicine that he left on the kitchen table yesterday and starting where he had left off.

The morning went on in silence for a while as Stan worked to build up the amount of nerve necessary to start with what little he already remembered.

To his surprise, it was actually Ford who broke the silence first. "I would be more than happy to do some research and uncover whatever documentation may exist, if you'd like to start with that. Criminal records, police reports; that sort of thing."

Good Lord. He knew his brother was a genius, but was he a friggin' mind reader, too? Stan just stared at his twin for a while. The nerd didn't even look up from his goddamn nerd book while he was talking. "No," he said finally. "I don't wanna... read about myself." The idea of reading emotionless police reports recounting things Stan had done that he couldn't remember himself doing deeply unnerved him.

"Understandable. So, where would you like to start?"

"Uh... I got some stuff, I guess. Impressions. Shit like that."

"For example?"

Stan thought for a while, trying to uncover something.

Fear shooting up his spine as he heard an impatient knock at the door.

Knowing that this is how he was going to die, that after all his hard work and all his scrapes with death he was going to die in a shitty motel at the hands of some goon he owed money to.

Feeling ghost pain from all of the beatings Stan received while they were cellmates. Hoping that Rico would kill him quickly instead of beat him to death like he nearly did a half dozen times.

Seeing the mailman at his door and dropping his bat in shock. He wasn't dying. Not today. Not yet.

Reading the rough signature at the bottom of the postcard and collapsing to the floor with trembling hands. For the first time in years, he was actually glad to be alive.

Finally, Stan spoke up. "I sorta remember when I got your postcard. Askin' me to come to Gravity Falls."

"That would make sense. There's a phenomenon called flashbulb memory in which a person remembers everything about what was going on in their lives at the time of a particularly emotionally arousing event. It's the reason why Ma and Dad could remember exactly where they were and what they were doing on the day that Pearl Harbor was bombed. Receiving a postcard from me after ten years of silence between us could have elicited enough of an emotional reaction to create a similar effect."

"You're such a friggin' nerd, Poindexter. Ya know that?"

"All that I'm saying is that your mind probably held onto that day more tightly than anything else because there was an event that triggered you to subconsciously consider it important enough to remember everything."

"I don't remember everything."

"Well, what do you remember?"

Stan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I was in a motel room. Not a good one. Smelled like shit, but it was all I could afford... I kinda have a feelin' I could only afford it on stolen credit cards."

After a moment of silence, Ford decided to prompt him. "Where was the motel?"

The answer came to Stan immediately. "New Mexico."

"How did you get there?"

"Uh, I was..." He shut his eyes tighter.

New cuts and scars on his hands and wrists, the aftertaste of toilet wine in the back of his throat, a nagging soreness in his ass.

"I'd been out of prison for a week or two. Tryin' to figure out my next move. Ya made my decision for me with that postcard."

Ford frowned, looking down at the table. He couldn't help but feel a bit hesitant to help his brother remember things that he probably wouldn't enjoy remembering. "The events that you don't remember, Stanley," he said slowly. "It's likely that they're... repressed. Your mind is holding onto the opportunity to forget these things. You realize that, don't you?"

"I'm not an idiot, Poindexter. Well, okay, I'm an idiot, but I know these memories're gonna suck. I still want 'em back. Are you sure ya wanna hear about 'em?"

"I've been through things that you couldn't imagine, Stanley."

"Exactly!" Stan pointed an accusatory finger at his brother. "You have enough crap goin' on in that big head of yours. And everythin' I've been through is kids' stuff compared to whatever nightmare ya lived for thirty years, so whaddaya care whether I remember shit or not? Ya shouldn't. So, I'll ask again: are ya sure ya wanna hear about my memories?"

Ford sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Over forty years he had forgotten just how difficult Stan was to deal with, and it would take awhile still for him to get fully used to it again.

"Listen. I've been through things you couldn't imagine, but by the looks of it, you've been through things that I couldn't imagine, as well. And if you want to fill the gaps in your memory, which you clearly do, then I ought to help you in whatever way that I can."

"I'm second guessin' whether I want your help," Stan grumbled, turning away. He tried to fill his voice with bitter contempt, but it was fairly clear that in reality he was afraid. He knew that they would be uncovering some vulnerable memories and he was uncomfortable opening himself up, something that he hadn't done in decades. Especially if Ford remained unwilling to tell Stan about his experiences on the other side of the portal. If Ford couldn't become vulnerable in front of Stan, then Stan didn't want to open up to Ford.

Ford opened his eyes and looked at his brother. As if sensing the cause of his twin's uneasiness, he closed his book and quietly set it back onto the table. "Would it help if I told you about what I've been through? We could exchange stories."

Stan looked up, surprised. The guy really was a mind reader, wasn't he? "Okay, Poindexter. But you go first."