I wonder how much Stan and Ford's dynamic would change if tiny changes had been made in their backstory. If Stan hadn't lived such a hard life. If they reunited before Bill got his clutches in Ford. If they were younger and less jaded.
I dunno, I guess that's what fanfiction is for.
I own nothing besides the circus troupe sans Stan. All rights reserved.
On with the show!
The crisp morning air bit straight through Stan's worn jacket and nipped at his skin. Goosebumps prickled along the width of his back and triceps. It was way too early to be out and about.
He would have helped prep for the show tonight (to make up for his bail job, definitely not to stall or anything), but in a family as small as theirs, gossip traveled like wildfire. Bippa and Babbit had outright laughed at him when he'd offered to help set up wires. Teddy hadn't even let Stan into his tent. Even Cordelia gave him a stare that could wither flowers when he'd meekly asked if she had work for him.
"Stanley, if you don't go on your own volition, be assured either Benjamin or I will lock you out of the grounds until we open tonight."
The former he somewhat doubted, especially since he hadn't seen Benjamin all morning, but Cordelia definitely had the authority. For a woman two thirds his height and built like a twig, she remained freakishly commanding.
After a hasty goodbye, Stan found himself in the empty fairgrounds. Stray bits of popcorn and loose fliers caught the breeze, jumping across the dirt path like tumbleweeds in a wasteland. It may as well be, the fairgrounds were creepily still during the day, when the patrons still slept and the performers worked backstage. Did that make Stan the Lone Desperado?
Pfft. Desperate-rado more like. This whole plan to find Ford seemed so solid last night, in the warmth of Cordelia's trailer, but out in the open air it just felt like... like one of those popcorn pieces. Insignificant enough to be blown halfway to Arizona by a stray gust of wind.
He drew to a halt before the chain link fence surrounding the ground's perimeter. This was a stupid plan, right? Cordelia just hadn't said so last night because her 'cryptic' act didn't stop outside the Menagerie. There was no way Ford lived around here, not when he had the whole world at his fingertips. Any hope that he was still around dissolved like snow in the wake of the hot pain searing his chest, but Stan was used to it by now. Sure, maybe it was a little fresher today, but the pain hadn't stopped, not fully, in ten years.
Whatever, hope was for regular people. At the very least, he could see if there was a place in town to get a decent jacket. This one was running threadbare.
Stan locked the gate behind him and started up the road. The crunch of his feet on gravel punctuated sweet birdsong, and sure, the forest was weird and gave him the creeps, but if he closed his eyes he could almost imagine himself in those huge redwood forests down in California. Man, that had been a good venue. Maybe he could bring the circus down there again when he...
Whoa, slow your roll, Stan.
Wait.
But why?
Sure, Benjamin was still up and kicking, and would be for a while, but he'd outright told Stan that he wanted to keep ownership in their family when he was gone. It was a given. No harm in fantasizing a little about a given, right? Yeah, so California as a first venue, the west coast usually paid well for temporary entertainment. They had a pretty solid routine down, but maybe Stan could implement some more exciting attractions. Mythical creatures like the ones in the Menagerie, but bigger. They might not be real, but from a distance they could pass, and patrons paid through the nose to see those kinds of things. Heck, the Gorr-Icken had been one of Stan's, and people went wild for it! Imagine that kind of revenue, on a wider scale... oh, yeah, it was all starting to come together.
The excitement bubbling in his stomach died a little. Fantasizing was all well and good, but things could change in an instant. Plenty of fantasies met their end by Stan's own hands (and others, but Stan wasn't naming names, no no), best to live in the present for now. Just to make sure he didn't mess anything up.
Under his shoes, gravel morphed into pavement that looked like it had seen better days. Lining the street stood houses that looked much the same. Geez, how old was this town, Stan hadn't even heard of it before Benjamin told him. Speaking of, it was a weird choice to drag the show all the way to a backwater lumber town, usually they stayed near populated areas. More people with more money and less brains. But hey, the turnout last night had been pretty good, so maybe Benjamin knew something he didn't. If it kept food in Stan's stomach, who was he to complain.
His middle growled. Speaking of...
Stan spotted a sign for a diner, turning down an adjacent street. A new jacket could wait. Hard to explore on an empty stomach anyway. But the moment he opened the door, the impression of being a wandering desperado smacked him full force in the face. The diner wasn't huge, but the breakfast crowd was substantial enough to make their reaction to Stan's entrance intensely uncomfortable. Every eye turned on him, like he'd just stepped on that one squeaky board in the tavern.
Stan froze. He'd been in his share of fights before, not everyone liked carnies. Those two spindly guys in the nearest booth he could take, but the hulking redhead by the counter? Might be a close brawl, but the glass bottles on that shelf could come in handy...
Conversation picked up again as people turned back to their food, and Stan relaxed. Looks like he'd live another day.
He slid into an empty booth in the back (facing the door, of course, a brawl might still be a possibility). A waitress approached and Stan grinned. Hot dang, maybe this place wasn't all bad. "Hey there, stranger. You new in town?"
Oh crap, was she flirting with him already? This skipped, like, three steps. All his prepped lines vanished like smoke from his mind, leaving nothing but a strangled, "yup," in their wake.
Stupid, stupid tongue. Never worked when he needed it to.
The waitress ('Susan', her nametag read), didn't seem to have much of an issue with his verbal face-plant. "I thought so, that nose didn't look familiar at all."
Wait. Was... was this flirting, or was she making fun of him?
She bowled over his stammered response like she hadn't just been turning his brain inside out. "What can I get for you, mysterious dirty stranger?"
Finally, a question he could answer! Stan must have given his order through his general haze of confusion, because Susan wrote something on her notepad and vanished behind the counter. Had that just happened? Well, regardless, he'd be ready for her when she came back.
As it turns out, he was not, as she plunked his breakfast in front of him, spewed something about the stick-man who lived in the back alley dumpster, and walked away before he could so much as open his mouth. Was she okay, did she need help? From what he could hear (rather well, as Susan didn't appear to have an inside voice), she treated all the regulars the same way, and they just nodded and agreed. Maybe Susan was just some special kind of weird.
Stan's stomach growled again and suddenly Susan wasn't important anymore. Though, he had to admit, she made great coffee.
Stan scarfed down half his plate before he felt someone looking at him. And not in the way a passerby might, this stare was weighted, deliberate. He swallowed his bite, eyes carefully fixed on his plate. Hopefully his admirer wasn't the huge redhead, he doubted his butter knife would do much in a proper fight. Why'd he leave his switchblade in his trailer, today of all days? Bad Stan, bad planning!
Well, if it were the redhead, he was screwed, so might as well get it over with. Stan glanced up and immediately he loosed his grip on the knife.
It wasn't the readhead. It wasn't even anyone Stan had noted before. Standing some feet off was a figure who resembled more a cornstalk than a man. All elbows and tweed and, yikes, an embarrassing lack of chin. If this stick-figure started a fight, Stan could snap him in half easily, nothing to worry about there. But the man had the decency to look uncomfortable and avert his eyes when Stan caught him staring. Didn't last very long. Two seconds later, he was right back to ogling, and Stan was not a fan.
"Hey, buddy," he growled louder than he intended, but nor had Stan ever been the bashful type. "Got somethin' to say to me?"
The cornstalk glanced around like a nervous rabbit for a second before taking two or three hesitant steps in Stan's direction. He stared openly now, adjusting his glasses in far too familiar a way for Stan to feel comfortable. "By golly, you really are a spittin' image."
Stan was almost certain Cornstalk hadn't meant for him to hear, but the words made his heart stutter to a stop. He couldn't mean...
Stan kept his face schooled into careful neutrality. Cordelia would be so proud. "Pardon?"
Cornstalk's hand snapped away from his face so quickly Stan actually recoiled, but the swipe turned out to be a handshake. Cornstalk's eyes finally settled on Stan's, but his expression ranged through such a storm that Stan couldn't put a descriptor to the face. "Ah, sorry. Fiddleford McGucket."
It took Stan a second to realize Cornstalk was offering his name, and not just having a verbal seizure. He regarded the outstretched hand probably a beat too long before he took it. "Stanley. Uh, Pines."
"Mind if I sit?"
This man couldn't be more Southern if he'd stencilled 'hick' to his forehead. The south weren't particularly nice to carnies (too close to witchcraft, apparently), but through all the emotion on Cornsta- Fiddleford's face, none of it screamed hostile. Stan gestured vaguely to the seat opposite.
Fiddleford sat and immediately began to fidget with his hands again. Stan's shoulders pulled tight with the anxious tension this man shot like lightning from every pore. The sooner he left, the better. "Do you need somethin', pal?" Fiddleford was too long. Fidds, maybe. He could have fun with the last name too, given the chance.
Fiddleford snapped back into himself, like he'd just been spacing out. "Ah, yes, I'm mighty sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I'd like to ask you something, if I could."
Stan could almost hear his Pa's gravelly scowl as one of his favourite phrases sprung to mind: 'Southerners always take the long way 'round.' As much as he hated to agree with anything Pa said, Stan could give that statement merit. "Don't worry about it, I was done anyway." If the mess of crumbs on his plate had anything to say about it.
Fiddleford stuttered and stammered long enough for Stan to wonder if maybe it would be faster to write things down, when finally all the words seemed to spill out at once like a dam just broke. "Were you the ringmaster at the carnival yesterday?"
Stan relaxed. Was that all this was? He dropped into his performance personality seamlessly, a wide grin stretching over his face. "You bet your bottom I was!" He grabbed a spare napkin, fishing a pencil out of his jacket. "I bet you want an autograph, don't you? Want it made out to you, or giving it to someone else?"
"Do you know a man by the name of Standford Pines?"
The pencil tip broke.
That seemed to be answer enough for Fiddleford, he went off on a rant with his eyes shining behind his nerd glasses, but his words fell on deaf ears. Because Cordelia had been right. She'd been right. Ford was here and people in this town knew him and he could see his brother again. It was... it was... too good to be true?
There had to be a catch here, what were the odds Stan just happened to end up in the same backwater town as his brother after ten years of separation? If something seemed too good to be true, Stan had learned, it usually was. Better to get to the catch right away, without all of this infuriating anticipation junk.
Stan held up a hand, effectively halting Fiddleford's enthusiastic rambling. "Hang on, hang on, you know Ford."
"I certainly do, I was with him last night during the whole 'circus' debacle!"
Stan racked his brain for any memory of a stick thin man with bad posture in the tent last night and came up with nothing. Though he had been otherwise occupied. He tried to mask his expression by taking a swig of coffee, but his cup was empty. Crud. "You, uh, you saw that, huh?"
Fiddleford laced his fingers together, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Hard to miss."
Double crud. "Was he..." dare he ask? "Was he mad?"
The amusement died. "I'm not positive one way or another. I tried to call him last night, but he wouldn't answer his phone." Fiddleford eyed Stan for a beat so uncomfortable that Stan went for his coffee out of desperation. Still empty, dang it! "Y'know, Ford never mentioned he had a twin."
Stan's hands tightened on the mug. "Not surprised."
Fiddleford tilted his head, and for a second it was Cordelia sitting across from him, their expressions were so similar. Although Cordelia usually didn't bounce her leg like that. Did this guy even know he was doing it? "Bad blood between you two?"
"Kinda." He could leave it at that, just let it go, and he was pretty sure Fiddleford would stop prying (Southerners and manners and all that), but his mouth kept moving, "made a mistake when I was younger and I pay for it every day of my life, that's all."
"Doesn't sound like all."
Stan wished he could rant and rave to the world about how Ford abandoned him to a life on the streets without a second thought, how his brother didn't care one iota about him, how it was all Ford's fault anyway for leaving him, alone and rejected, as Ford became everything their Pa ever wanted the both of them to be. But Stan couldn't. In the end, he'd messed up, and he deserved a lot worse than what he got for it. "It's all that matters." Cordelia wormed the story out of him last night and Stan didn't think he'd be able to get through it again without breaking down.
Fiddleford shifted, snapping the heavy atmosphere that surrounded the booth. "Y'all come to town to see him again?"
"No. Maybe." Stan heaved a sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "I don't think he'd want to see me, not after last night." Not to mention he'd resigned himself to not seeking out Ford, and all this yes-no-yes business made his hands itch.
"I'm not so sure about that. These days, I reckon the man could use all the friends he has. Even the estranged ones."
Stan didn't like Fiddleford's tone. And he refused to make eye contact, playing absentmindedly with a packet of sugar. "Fidds," Stan lowered his voice, "is there something wrong with my brother."
"No, no, not wrong," thank Moses for that, though Stan wasn't sure how much more of this cryptic talk he could take. "Just... well, he's been acting a mite out of sorts at times. I knew him in college, we were roommates, but it's like he's... just different now."
"Different how?"
A frustrated huff blew up Fiddleford's hair. "It's difficult to explain."
Stan dropped a handful of crumpled bills on the table, scooting out of the booth. "Then show me."
Fiddleford's mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally settled on what to say, and with every passing second Stan grew more restless. "I-I thought you said you weren't going to see him."
That had been before Stan knew Ford might be in trouble. He could maybe lie to himself about the reason he wanted to go see his brother, but he knew if he left with the circus before making certain Ford was alright he'd never forgive himself. Of course, Fiddleford didn't need to know that, so instead he plastered on the most dashing smile he could muster. "Might as well, since I'm here. Might be another ten years before I find the time again."
"...it's been ten year~"
"C'mon, we're wasting daylight!" Stan practically hauled Fiddleford to his feet, shoving him all the way out the door (though he made sure to shoot one parting wink at Susan before he left).
They climbed into Fiddleford's station wagon and headed out of town, back the way Stan had come. The roads diverged just before the turnoff to the circus, and Fiddleford turned down the rough dirt road. Well, 'road' was a generous term. More of a glorified hiking trail.
Stan stared at the pine trees passing by, willing his heart to still. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea. Fiddleford pulled up in front of a wooden cabin, and suddenly it was too late to change his mind.
Stan got out, propping his arms on the roof of the car. Everything about this yard was weird. Huge dishes marked out a triangle around the house, wires strung haphazardly to a connecting fuse box. The grass grew uneven and wild, spotted with dandelions. Why would anyone want to live in a house shaped like a tent? And so far away from town? "Ford lives all the way out here?" Just like his brother, pushing everyone away even at twenty-seven. Old habits died hard.
Fiddleford tucked his hands in his pockets, staring at the house like he was seeing it for the first time. "I suppose it is a little odd. I keep trying to get him out more, but he says he has everything he needs right here."
Stan snorted as a memory surfaced. "He's been using that line since we were ten. Used to take me an hour to convince him to use muscles other than his brain."
They laughed together, but then Fiddleford shot him a careful look that Stan wasn't sure he liked. "You two will probably want to get caught up." And he ducked back into his car.
Stan's blood ran cold. "Wait, wait, you're not staying?"
Fiddleford's next look slid into a sly smile. "Good golly, Stanley, are you scared?"
Stan crossed his arms in a knee-jerk reaction. "Stanley Pines is not scared of anything."
"Oh, good, then you won't need me around." The expression on Stan's face must have been horrific, because Fiddleford laughed again. "Tell you what, I'll stay until Ford answers. If he doesn't, I'll take you back to town, or to the circus grounds if that's what you prefer."
Stan scowled. He knew a con when he saw it, but no way in hell was he going to be manipulated by a string bean. "Fine."
Fiddleford gave an infuriating smile. "Fine." He nodded towards the front porch. "Off you go."
So much for Southern manners, this man had spent far too much time on the west coast. With Fiddleford watching and no way out, Stan straightened his shoulders, shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking, and lurched up to the front door. Every step was accentuated with the running mantra of please don't be home, please be home, please don't be home, please be home.
He didn't know which would be worse.
Please don't be home.
He knocked on the door.
Please be home.
Nothing happened for a long minute. Stan waited, muscles tensed like rubber bands. Nothing continued to happen.
"Welp," Stan spun around, physically restraining himself from leaping off the porch and vanishing into the forest. "Looks like he's not here, guess I'll try again in ten y~"
The door opened.
Stan burned with the weight of the stare on the back of his shoulders, and with Fiddleford's expectant eyebrow-raise searing his entire front. Sweat prickled at his underarms. Maybe Ford hadn't seen him and he could slip away~
"Stanley?"
Ah, scratch that.
Stan turned to meet the wary eyes of his twin. He tried on a smile, but it felt too weak to be convincing. "Uh, hey, Ford."
Ford's eyes flicked over Stan's shoulder. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stan wondered what Fiddleford was doing behind his back, but a larger part of his mind was occupied by mild panic. Here he was. Here was Ford. Stan thought ten years of heated arguments with himself in the shower would prepare him for this moment, but every single line vanished like steam and he couldn't for the life of him think of what to say, say something Stan, say something Stan!
Ford beat him to it. "What are you doing here?"
That was... well, not unexpected, but Stan still bristled. "Haven't gotten much better at people, have you? Try, 'good to see you, Stan', or 'oh, welcome here, Stan'."
Ford blinked in that owlish way of his and man that brought back memories. Stan waited a second longer as Ford registered that maybe he'd misspoken. "Um... yes, hello, Stanley." He peered left and right so intently that Stan copied the action. What, had he thought Stan would bring friends? Or, like, mercenaries? "How did you find my house?"
Stan jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, and Ford's face shifted to the point where Stan was sure Fiddleford was doing something cheeky.
"Indeed," Ford murmured, and then lifted his chin as though he was expecting Stan to say something. What was one supposed to say when one showed up at one's estranged brother's house after a huge fight and ten years of no contact?
"Are you gonna invite me in?"
That probably wasn't it.
Ford hesitated a beat before nodding, slowly at first, than quicker. "Yes. Yes, yes, of course, come in." He turned and vanished into the cabin. Stan stepped over the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder. Fiddleford shot him a thumbs-up through the car window.
Stan half-heartedly returned it, then followed Ford into the shack.
Stan had been in a museum exactly once, when Ford had dragged him to see a forgettable exhibit one summer, but the smell of the cabin was practically identical. Every flat surface groaned under the weight of the typical 'Ford' things: books and charts, and more pens than Stan had seen in his entire lifetime. Overlaying those, however, were things that were just... weird. Weirder than the yard even. A jar of eyes, an oxygen tank, mismatched pieces of technology that didn't seem earthly. And...
"Is this a human skull?"
Ford's voice drifted in through the adjacent room. "Not exactly. And be careful, it's fragile."
Stan's fascination dimmed. Right. Don't break anything.
Stan followed Ford into the next room, which might have been a kitchen. That, or more experimenting space that just happened to have a fridge involved. Stan stood in the doorway and shuffled his feet as Ford bustled around and barely looked at him. It took him a moment to realize Ford wasn't just rearranging objects, and the notion hit him just as Ford (finally) made eye contact. "Coffee?"
"Uh, sure." Ford went right back to rummaging. "Can I help?"
Ford's hands stilled just long enough for Stan to notice, and he was about to laugh it off when Ford said, "could you wash the coffee mugs?"
Thank Moses, something to do. "Sure thing." Stan carefully extracted two mugs from the heap of mouldy dishes next to the sink (gross). "Where's your soap?"
"Under the cupboard behind the follicle stimulation beam."
"The what?"
"The- the machine that looks like an octopus."
Ah, there it was. Why Ford would throw weird inventions under the kitchen sink was beyond him, but hey, a man could do what he wanted in his own space. Stan ran the water, dumping soap on the sponge. This was easy, right? Just the two of them, doing their own things, like old times?
"You never answered my question."
Oh, crap, had Ford been talking? "Which question was that?"
"What are you doing here?"
Stan's grip on the mug tightened. "Y'know, just visiting for a week or so with the family."
He could feel Ford's eyes on him. "The circus?"
"Yup."
Maybe Ford sensed his tone, because Stan heard him backtracking. "Yes, I... ah, I was there yesterday."
A laugh escaped Stan's chest, though he hoped against hope that it sounded less desperate than it felt. "I was too."
Ford snorted and Stan nearly burst because for the first time in ten years he heard his brother laugh and he could keel over and die now... maybe not happy, but at least feeling like the first stitch had been put in a festering wound. He found a semi-clean towel and dried the mugs, turning to lean against the countertop. "Kinda reminds you of the sideshows on the boardwalk back h- back in Jersey, huh?"
Ford rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "I don't know, I didn't exactly see a lot of the show."
Oh, right. "Well, maybe you can come back tonight. I'll give you the VIP tour!"
Ford busied himself with the coffee maker. "We'll see." And sure, maybe the uncertainty stung a little, but all in all this was going surprisingly well, considering.
Stan ploughed on, the words more nervous babble to keep the silence at bay than anything. Silence still sat too heavy between them. "You can invite your friend too, he seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy it."
"Fiddleford? He's the one who convinced me to go in the first place. He's always dragging me places, just like in college..."
Ford's cheeks tightened and Stan nearly lost his grip on the mug. Change subject, change subject. "I didn't even notice him last night, I only met him this morning. Twitchy guy. Hey, speaking of, why settle here of all places, this town seems way too normal for you."
Ford brightened like a lightbulb, and Stan knew he'd pressed the magic button. "That's where you're mistaken, Gravity Falls actually attracts many strange and wondrous things! I'm actually in the middle of formulating my own theory on it~"
Aaaaand off he went on a technobabble nerd rant so sufficiently brain-numbing that Stan could check out completely aside from offering the occasional hum of agreement. Until Ford mentioned something really wild (barf fairies? Really?) and suddenly everything became intensely interesting.
And it seemed... it seemed Ford was doing well for himself. His own house, his own land, a decent research fund going by the way he spoke about his discoveries. Stan had ruined Ford's chances to go to that fancy nerd school, but had it really affected him at all? He was living the dream out here in the boonies, no matter where he may or may not have gotten his (excessive amount of) diplomas. And the more they talked and laughed and as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky and the coffeepot ran dry, the more he felt maybe... maybe Ford wasn't angry. Maybe he never had been. He'd been upset in the moment, but maybe he realized afterwards that Stan had never meant to ruin his brother's chances at anything and just couldn't call Stan to tell him because... well, probably because by that time Stan had ditched Jersey altogether. Maybe the wound Stan harboured in his chest, seething like heartburn, didn't exist in Ford at all.
Maybe he could dare to hope.
But for this evening, Stan carefully kept the conversation away from events from ten years ago, and by the time he had to leave to make it back for the first show, the tension in Ford's cheeks had all but vanished. Ford had work to finish, but he promised he'd be at the circus opening time tomorrow to watch Stan's show properly.
Stan practically floated back to the circus grounds, and his performances that night were flawless.