In other news, the pope is Catholic.
When Ford made his way to the kitchen, he found the children sitting around the table, picking at their dinner. There was no sign of Stanley.
As soon as they saw him they both brightened up.
"There you are, Grunkle Ford!" Mabel said as she pushed back her plate. "Wendy said you needed some roof time-did it help you with figuring out how to make up with Grunkle Stan and hug it out and live happily ever after?"
Ford managed a small smile. "...We'll see." Then, more nervously, "...Where's Stanley?"
The little frown that seemed to be between Dipper's eyebrows at least sixty percent of the time deepened. "He went to bed early. Said he was feeling tired."
"...Ah." More likely he was trying to avoid Ford, who despite himself always made an effort to be present during dinner. The thought did nothing to improve his mood.
"You want any?" Mabel gestured to a saucepan sitting on the stove, which appeared to contain a mixture of meat and vegetables, with a small dish of rice sitting next to it.
Ford shook his head. "I'm not hungry." It wasn't a lie; the food smelled appetizing enough, but he couldn't imagine eating right now.
Mabel frowned; even without the potion, Ford realized that she was worried about him. It was a surprisingly pleasant feeling-both that someone else was concerned for his well-being, and that he was able to recognize it on his own.
Despite knowing that he had other things he ought to be working on, Ford found himself sitting down with the children as they finished up.
Then, while she was washing her plate and putting it in the drying rack, Mabel suddenly brightened up.
"Hey, you wanna watch a movie with us before bed? We can't watch Ducktective yet until a rerun of the first season comes on so you can get caught up on the plot, but Gravity Falls television has plenty of horrible movies we can make fun of!"
Ford blinked. "Um-I-I should probably-"
"There's plenty of science fiction ones," Dipper chimed in. "You can tell us about what you'd do to fix them, if you were the guy in charge of writing the script."
...Well, when you put it like that…
"Maybe just one."
"Yay!" both kids cheered. A second later Mabel had gone bounding away towards the living room to "get set up," and Dipper was on her heels.
"I'll be there in a moment!" Ford called after them, before heading up the stairs to the bathroom.
He'd meant to go straight back downstairs after he finished, but Ford found himself walking to stand outside Stan's room-perhaps to invite him to join them, perhaps intending to try following Wendy's advice. He lifted a hand, raised it in a fist poised to knock...but then lowered it with a sigh.
Tomorrow, he told himself. I'll try talking to him tomorrow. Because that way we can both get a chance to rest and I can plan out what I want to say better, definitely not because I'm being a coward about this. I am not afraid of having a potentially emotionally painful conversation with my brother.
Ford adjusted the collar of his trench coat defiantly, and went back downstairs.
The movie night turned out to be more enjoyable than he'd expected, despite the movie they settled on taking ridiculous creative liberties with the laws of science (and that was by the standards of a man who'd been to the M Dimension). He enjoyed talking with the children about all the ways that it could be improved, and he and Dipper got out paper and pencils and drew up some ideas for how to make the aliens not only capable of surviving on Earth if they truly existed, but a genuine threat to humanity.
Mabel seemed to feel a little left out during this part, so Ford offered to let her choose the aliens' color schemes, and she happily went upstairs to fetch what turned out to be the biggest box of crayons he had ever seen, many of which had been reduced to mere stubs that were only capable of being colored with through the user's sheer force of will. Nevertheless, Mabel was able to give some spectacular vibrancy to his and Dipper's illustrations, and included a few of her own sketches of people running from the aliens, yelling things like, "Augh, save me!"
Ford brought them to his room when he finally remembered the kids' bedtime, and was still smiling to himself over them as he lay down on the sofa.
It occurred to him, with a touch of bittersweetness, that he had done similar things with Stanley when they were children.
He woke with the dawn, and after a minute of laying on the sofa, decided on an extra measure to try and ensure that this conversation with Stanley had at least a chance of going well.
After he finished shaving, and then patting out the flames, Ford slipped down to the basement, and made a beeline for the table with the potions still sitting on it. He picked up the purple one, and with minimal hesitation poured out a little bit of it into his hand-then, on a whim, he patted it onto his face like cologne.
In retrospect, splashing strange liquid onto a part of his face that had recently been set on fire was not his wisest decision ever; however, once the pain faded and the echoes of some of the alien swear words he'd learned had faded away, Ford set his jaw and headed back upstairs.
Stan was not in the kitchen, where he usually was at this time of day making breakfast for the children, so he headed up to the next floor to look for him. His stomach squirmed with nervous butterflies, but he wanted to get this over with before anymore time passed.
Sure enough, as soon as he reached the floor where Stan's room was, Ford could feel his air of gloom from all the way out in the hallway (it occurred to him that maybe he should have measured out the dosage more carefully, because it seemed stronger today). Even though he'd been expecting it, it caught him off guard regardless, and he had to lean against the wall for a moment and try to collect himself; as he did, he was able to pinpoint the source of the emotion-it was coming from the bathroom...and it was accompanied by a very miserable noise.
"...Stanley?"
In two strides Ford reached the door, pushing it open-and found Stan inside, praying to the porcelain god.
...Maybe he wasn't just avoiding me last night.
Stan was only half dressed, with legs still encased in just shorts and slippers, and when he lifted his head Ford could see that his face was a ghastly pale color, his bangs damp with sweat and eyes glassy behind their glasses.
Immediately he was hit by Stan's alarm and humiliation at being seen in this vulnerable state, followed by a wave of anger-even odds as to whether it was an accompaniment to his embarrassment, or at the fact that Ford was the one seeing him like this, or both. Either way, they were enough to make Stan pull himself up and flush the toilet in one swift motion, before straightening his jacket and trying to stagger past Ford.
"Where are you going?" Ford demanded; he hadn't meant his tone to sound so sharp, but the feedback from Stan's emotions was affecting his own.
"Got a job ta do-unlike some bums around here." The words slurred around the edges in accompaniment with his unsteady gait. Ford quickly flung an arm into his path.
"You're clearly ill. If you go down like this you could infect your customers."
"That's the price they haveta pay for comin' to a dump like this!" Stan growled; he tried to shove Ford's arm out of his path, but his grip was as weak as his legs, and Ford was easily able to begin steering him back towards his room.
"No. You're going back to bed until whatever this is has cleared up."
"Gerroff!" Stan protested, squirming. "I can just-walk it off!"
"Stanley!" Ford snapped. "You literally just vomited, you can barely walk in a straight line, and-" he touched a brief hand to Stan's forehead- "you have a fever! You can't just 'walk it off'!"
"Don't you tell me what ta do!" Stan snarled, even as Ford pushed the door open with his boot and manhandled him inside.
Remember, you're not here to fight with him.
Ford took a deep breath, let it out; somehow that made it easier to rise above the persistent pounding of Stan's emotions against his psyche and return to some modicum of calm.
"Just think how much faster you'll recover if you try to sleep it off instead," he said.
Stan snorted. "That's funny advice comin' from you."
"Yes, I'm a proud hypocrite." Ford guided Stan to his bed and pushed until he sat down. "That's how I know I'm right."
Stan stuck his tongue out at him, before looking away sulkily. But at least he'd stopped fighting, even if he clearly wasn't happy about the situation.
After a moment Ford knelt down and began unbuttoning Stan's jacket for him.
"...You gotta at least buy me dinner before we get ta that stage in our relationship," Stan muttered, trying to squirm away.
Ford gave the side of his head a gentle cuff. "Don't be disgusting."
Stan grumbled, and folded his arms with a stubborn glare.
Ford growled...and then came up with a solution before they could get caught in too much of an irritation loop and end up not getting anywhere.
"...If I take over running the Shack for you, will you get some rest?"
Stan's surprise cut through both the irritation and the misery; it was quickly followed by an unprecedented-and uncalled for-amount of confusion and skepticism.
"...You?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Ford.
"Yes, me." Ford frowned at him. "I have twelve PhD's, I think I can handle running a lit-" Stop insulting him or his job every time you talk, the memory of Wendy's voice scolded- "a tourist trap for a day or two."
Stan snorted, and this time Ford could detect a hint of dark amusement amongst the confusion and suspicion.
"...You might wanna get input from the kids," he said at last, letting his arms fall.
Ford resumed getting him out of his jacket. "Yes, of course. Just rest and let me take care of it."
Stan didn't say anything else as he was stripped down to his undershirt and then tucked in, but his various emotions followed Ford all the way back down the hall.
Fantasy looked over at Hope cautiously, forgetting about the kraken he was trying to catch with his tiny fishing pole.
"...Do you think it's safe ta get yourself up yet?" he asked.
Hope shook his head. "Nuh-uh. Everyone else is still scared-and confused, wondering what his angle is."
Fantasy winced. "...There isn't one, right? He's doing this for us cuz he actually cares about Stan, right?"
Hope glanced over at the door to this part of the mindscape, which the two of them had done their best to barricade shut in case Despair tried to get in. No matter how many chains and heavy boards they covered it with, it never felt like enough.
"...I definitely me so."
Fantasy rolled his eyes and splashed him. "You're a dork."
"I'm not a dork, you're the dork." Hope splashed him back.
"Nuh-uh! I'm the cool one!"
"Pfft, yeah right!"
They both burst into giggles, and a full-on water fight.