HELLO! *Flies from the sky, swooping down to land in front of you* I RETURN! Let's do this: TW: Stan Pines during his homeless days...ya'll should know what that means...


Stan stared at the black bag, contemplating.

Stanley Pines knew how to take a hit. It was something everyone learned during boxing practice, and if you couldn't? You failed the class because you can't win if you can't handle a bit of pain.

Nowadays, failing usually meant starvation, real pain, or death. Stan wished he still worried about grades and how Ford was gonna react every time he came home with a new shiner. The days when making sure your laundry was done was one of the most important things on your daily list. Stan couldn't recall the last time he had done laundry, and the thought made him scoff at himself in disgust. What had he become? A criminal? A dirty hobo with not even a candlelight of hope to draw him out of this disastrous situation? Everywhere he turned he was hunted or chased away. Not even the lowliest of scum wanted him in their set, 'tainting their good name'.

Stan sighed. Nothing he did or tried to do made any difference. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't just off himself years ago.

The thought spun around in his mind and he shook his head, clearing it. If there was something he stuck by, it was surviving. Surviving the insults, the wounds, surviving the snow or the sun beating down on his back, just...surviving.

Stan once heard someone say that surviving wasn't living, but he was alive, wasn't he? Breathing and walking and talking himself into trouble? How was that not living?

Stan Pines had forgotten what it was to truly live and he didn't care.

Placing his right leg behind him, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, Stan scrunched his shoulders in and pulled his arms up next to his face. Jab, jab, punch. Jab, jab, punch, left-hook, pivot, kick. Stan threw everything he had into to the large black punching bag and didn't stop until his arms were aching and his leg was bruised. He fell backward, collapsing on the dusty bed, panting.

He was exhausted, and he knew that he would ache like high-heaven in the morning, but it was the only way he could get himself to relax. Otherwise, he would stay up, tensed and waiting for something. He wasn't even sure what exactly...just something.

...

Stan woke up to a knock at the door. He was out of bed immediately, ready to strike out with the bat he had in his right hand. He slept with the thing, it was the only way he felt safe doing so.

He didn't relax much, maybe slightly when he heard footsteps lead away from the door. Walking up, he looked to the ground to see mail. Wait...mail? Since when did he get mail?

He swooped down and picked up the single piece of paper Stan assumed was the mailman, had left on his floor.

It was a postcard for some place called Gravity Falls Oregon. Stan raised a brow and flipped it over. He'd never heard of the place.

Turning on the bedside lamp, he took a good look at it. His heart stopped and his mouth fell open with an audible pop!

The small piece of paper read "PLEASE COME- FORD" In large handwriting. Stan felt his mind stop moving. Ford, as in Stanford? As in the twin he hadn't seen in over a decade? Why on earth would Ford...?

Oh screw it, Stan didn't really care.

He didn't smile as he packed, he didn't dare let himself hope. Hope had nearly killed him in the past. It was more likely that Ford needed something. Stan knew they were both too stubborn to just snap back together. Especially Ford, who had trouble with emotions in the first place.

Placing the duffle bag over his shoulder (he didn't really have much to pack, although he did take the small bottles of hair-care products. You never really know when you might need them.) He walked out of the run-down motel and didn't look back.

...

The drive all the way up to Oregon from Mexico was long and exhausting, but Stan didn't stop. Something, a fire of necessity, pushed him forward as if stopping would mean his doom. He didn't stop when he felt his stomach rumble or when his throat tickled from the lack of water, making him cough and nearly swerve off the road. He barely stopped himself to refill the gas tank when it started running low. He was back in the car in a flash, refusing to waste time on something as menial as food or water. He had gone without both for longer than this anyway.

By the time Stan drove past the welcome sign into Gravity Falls, nothing to see here, folks! Stan could have cried in joy, had he any water left in his system to waste on tears, that is.

He parked the car in the grass beneath the sign that spelled out 'Gopher Road'. The trail up there was narrow and slick from ice. When had it gotten so cold? Either way, he didn't want to reck the car trying to drive up there, better to walk than risk his only shelter.

Stan hadn't stepped out of the car for several days, and his legs wobbled beneath him as he clambered out, ignoring the bite of the chilled wind as it froze his hands and face. He gritted his teeth when he nearly fell over, berating himself for being so weak. However, he couldn't resist taking a long draught of water from the snow beneath him, letting it melt in his mouth. Even he couldn't go without some water for very long.

Sighing in satisfaction, he pulled himself together and started walking. He had wasted enough time on himself. He already felt better, the cold numbing his aching muscles.

He trecked the best he could up the trail, getting a little nervous when he still didn't see anyth- there! Over the hill, he saw a flash of something. He moved faster, not really caring when it wasn't much faster than the trudge he had been doing before.

He made it to the top and a grin overtook his features. A large cabin was sitting behind a metal fence, snow piled on top of the roof and smoke coming from the chimney. The place, to Stan, but maybe not to another, looked comfortable and homey, but that wasn't why he was happy. He ran (more like stumbled) through the gateway and tripped trying to get up the stairs. He had no right to be so excited, but expectations or no, his brother was in that house.

Knocking on the door without much preamble, he waited for someone to answer.

Maybe, had he been thinking on a full stomach, or even just more than a handful of water, Stan would have thought to clean himself up a bit, but Stan...well. He looked a right mess, to be sure. His jacket was filthy and torn, doing nearly nothing in keeping out the cold. He was skinny and although he didn't notice, his legs still shook, but not with cold.

His face was scruffed up, on the edge of his cheek, coming up from behind his ear you could see a faint pink line, one of his more recent scars. His hair was greasy and gross, coming all the way down to his shoulders and the bags beneath his eyes screamed insomnia!

Stan looked like a dead man walking. Still, he did not care. This was the most excited he had been about anything for ten long years, and he wasn't going to waste it over- analyzing.

His grin widened when the door creaked open to reveal an alive and well Stanford Pines.

Stan had gotten really good at noting things about people. It helped, out on the streets when you weren't sure who to trust. Well, Stan noted that Ford looked...good. He had definitely aged up from the nerd he used to be. He still had nerd glasses, but they fit him. Like they belonged there, unlike the too large ones he wore as a child. He wore a warm red sweater and a weather-worn trenchcoat. His hair was brushed and the smile that had been there for all of two seconds was warm and inviting. To conclude, he looked the exact opposite of his twin, who was on the verge of collapsing.

Stan wasn't sure what to do when Ford's smile swiftly moved to an expression of horror. His immediate thought was that maybe he had made a mistake, that Ford didn't really want him, that the postcard had been a fluke, an error of judgment-

"Stanley! Are you alright?" Ford shook his head, "idiotic question, why do people ask that?" Ford mumbled. He grasped Stan's arm near the shoulder when Stan nearly fell backward in surprise.

"Stanley! You look absolutely awful! When I said 'please come' I didn't mean for you to neglect yourself in the process!" Ford shook his head again, this time in a sad sort of fondness. "You always were an extremist." Ford kept talking as he led in a shell-shocked Stanley into the living room and forced him to sit on the couch.

"Do you know how long I've been looking for you, Stan? I've searched for years! You are way to good at covering your tracks, you know that? But now you're here!" Ford smiled like a child who finally got to see their favorite aunt again. His smile fell slightly when Stan didn't respond, but it returned, albeit softer than before.

"I'm going to be right back, alright? Don't move. We're going to get you cleaned up a bit and then I want you to meet me, associate, if you're willing." Ford nodded to himself as he left, leaving a stumped Stanley on his couch.

What the frell just happened? Ford's been looking for me? He-but-WAIT A MOMENT. WHAT IS GOING ON.

As you can see, Stan still wasn't sure what to think.

Ford, on the other hand, was very relieved, and in a bit of shock himself. He walked into the guest room and retrieved some of the spare clothes he stored there. He knew that Stan was probably going to be a bit on the shabby end. What else would you expect from a homeless man? Yes, Ford knew Stan had been homeless. Why else would it have taken years for Ford to find him? Ford just didn't expect him to be in such sad shape. It made his heart-ache in fear and worry. Stan was definitely underfed, probably dehydrated and needed a shower. (And a hair-cut, but they could discuss the mullet another time.)

Now, if you haven't caught on already, Ford had been prepared to house his brother for a long, long time. The clothes he had stored away were specifically for Stan (Ford figured he could get away with purchasing the same size, although now he wished he had gotten a size smaller.) and he even had little details down, like a punching bag if Stan was still into boxing.

The first few years, Ford had been angry- no. Furious. He thought that Stan had gotten what he had deserved. Yet, as the years went by, and he got more accustomed to the ways of the world, Ford saw more and more of the life he had banished his brother into. Starvation and homelessness, drug rings and petty criminal activity were just the beginning. It was really Fiddleford who made the final decision for him, convincing him to look for Stan. What were older brothers for if not to take care of the other? Ford knew he had failed already, but he hoped to make up for it.

Fiddleford had been staying with him for...going on six years now. Ford had called him up from where he had been hopping from job to job, selling machinery patents to the government to keep afloat. Fiddleford was a true mechanical genius. Ford asked him if he would assist him up in Oregon studying the supernatural. After a little convincing: (AAAH! What is that thing?!...It's a gnome Fiddleford.) Fiddleford had been completely on board. Neither of them had ever gotten bored either, discovering new things every day for the last six years. It helped they had both been searching for Stan in the meantime.

Now Stan was here. Ford had told all sorts of stories about him to Fidds, who was more than ready to meet the man who kicked a principal in the shins for bullying another teacher. Ford shook his head fondly again, not seemingly able to remove the smile from his face. Before he went downstairs back to Stan (who he hoped hadn't run away, he knew he was acting uncharacteristic, but he was really happy to see Stan alive) Ford knocked the door to Fiddleford's bedroom. Getting a bit carried away in his excitement.

"Wha's it now, Stanferd? Can I go back ta sleep now?" Fiddleford yawned, having been awoken by Ford's excessive knocking.

"Fiddleford! It's Stanley! He's here!" Ford bounced on his sock covered feet (who wear's shoes inside?) to excited to dial it down. Fiddleoford's eyes widened,

"Really? Well, I never thought I'd see the day! I'll be down directly, Stanferd." Fiddleford closed the door and Ford walked back to the living room.

His excitement faltered slightly when he saw how distraught, uncomfortable, and ill Stanley looked. Stan looked up from over the couch, his dark brown eyes filled with conflicting emotion.

"Ford? Is that really you?" Stan's voice sounded parched and scratched. As if from months of non-use. Ford could see how confused Stanley felt and Ford placed the clothes to the side to sit by his brother, holding out his hand.

"Yes, Stanley. It's me. I-I have to apologize, I was so excited to see you I didn't bother explaining much of anything, did I?" Stan shook his head and Ford huffed a laugh.

"Yes, well. The story goes like this. I've been searching for you for eight years Stanley. Fiddleford, my friend and work associate, he's upstairs now, helped me. He was the one who convinced me really. He helped me see past my anger, Stanley. Because I was. I was furious, for years after you left, but I now know I was wrong, and I'm sorry Stanley. I'm so sorry!" Ford jumped up from the couch, his features overcome with sorrow, the severity of everything hitting him with full force in that moment. "I'm sorry I abandoned you like I did, I'm sorry I was never there for you. I-I'm so sorry Stanley." Ford buried his head in his hands, holding back tears as he sat back down. He didn't look up until he heard a sound.

Laughter. Stan was laughing.

What?

Stan was laughing, head bowed backward with the force of it, his eyes clenched shut and his arms folded over his chest as if he were trying to contain his mirth. Ford watched on, speechless.

"Um, Stanley?"

Stan calmed down at that, wiping the tears that had sprung from his chuckles from his eyes. He hiccuped and opened his arms out towards Ford. "I- I missed you too, Poindexter."

Ford felt his own eyes water as joy swelled within him and he accepted the hug happily. He felt something within him he hadn't felt for a long time.

Peace.

Ford leaned away and wiped away the unshed tears. "I missed you, Stanley, but you reek." Ford grinned cheekily and Stan threw a punch into his arm without much force.

"Oh haha, Mr. Funny guy over here thinks he's all that huh?" Stan smirked.

Stan knew things weren't going to be perfect. They never were, but he thought maybe he finally had gotten his happy ending. Being here, now, he remembered the old saying 'surviving is not living.' and he thought he finally understood.

He could finally start living.


...Idk.

Stan: I don't understand what just happened.

Ford: I can say that I don't understand either without feeling embarrassed, what just happened?

Me: I don't know. *shrug* (Also me: I think I wanna do another chapter, so I might revise this to accommodate one, or just post another. I want Stan to meet fidds.)