The kids spend almost an hour telling Stan about their summer.

Ford finds himself surprisingly engrossed by their enthusiastic retellings. Thanks to them, he learns to know about the man his brother has become, this man he's treated with the upmost scorn until just recently.

The kids—the twins and Soos, not to mention Wendy later on—fill Stan with stories, slowly but surely anchoring his errant mind with unwavering love and support. Stan himself doesn't seem to believe the kids' outlandish tales; he certainly raises an eyebrow when the twins tell him he punched a dinosaur to save Mabel's pet pig.

Ford, for his part, is not surprised. Not surprised that Stan fought a horde of zombies to keep Dipper and Mabel safe, not surprised that he climbed a sheer rock cliff to save them from being blown to bits. Stan, after all, is the man who walked to the embodiment of all of Ford's nightmares and shook the devil's hand without flinching. Stan just saved the world, and he can't even remember it.

Then again, he barely remembers his own name.

After a while, Stan's clueless expression and the kids' forced enthusiasm are too much too bear. Ford excuses himself to tend to the wounds he's gotten in Bill's, well, gentle care. When he comes back, Stan is sitting alone in his sofa, Mabel's pig still snoring at his feet.

"The kids are gone?" Ford inquires. He hears Soos speaking with Wendy in the kitchen, but he can't hear the twins' voices. Fear shots through him, and Ford is seized by the irrational need to search the house and make sure that they're alright, that they're safe and whole and unharmed—

"Told 'em to get some rest," Stan replies. He doesn't seem to notice Ford's sigh of relief. "They looked like they could use a good nap." He raises an eyebrow at Ford. "Then again, so do you, pal."

Ford forces a smile, making sure to hide his wrists under his sleeves. Stan doesn't need to know that Ford has spent the last few days being tortured. "Probably."

There is an awkward silence, then Stan says, "So, if the guy in the pictures really is me as the kids say, then I guess we must be related, huh? 'Cause there's this crazy resemblance, right?"

Stan grins innocently—that is, in an entirely un-Stan-like manner—unaware that his words just hit Ford with the force of a hurricane.

"Y-Yes," he admits. "We're twins, actually."

Stan lets out a bark of laughter. "Hah! We're s'posed to be brothers, but I don't even know your name! Talk about freaky!"

Ford finds himself short on breath. He stares in mute dismay at the man sitting in the sofa; Stan is smiling and shaking his head, as though it's the stupidest thing he's heard in a while.

Meanwhile, Ford's mind is threatened by overflowing memories.

Bro! a six-year old Stan says, smiling a tooth-gaped smile. C'mon, Poindexter! a twelve-year old Stan calls out, dragging his twin to another adventure. Psh, you nerd! a sixteen-year old Stan laughs, slapping Ford on the shoulder.

STANFORD! a thirty-year-old Stan screams, futilely reaching for his brother's hand.

Ford drops on the armrest of the sofa, his legs suddenly unable to support his weight. "Yes," he says, voice cracking. "Freaky."

Stan only hums contently as he leafs through Mabel's scrapbook. Ford shifts on his seat, unable to speak as he simply looks at his brother. Thankfully, Stan is too absorbed by their niece's handiwork to pay him any mind.

After a while, Ford gathers enough courage to say, "At least you remember the kids. They're more important, anyway."

"Hmm?" says Stan "Oh, yeah. Mabel and… what was it? Mason?"

Ford manages a slight smile. "No one calls him Mason. Funny that you remember his real name and not his nickname."

"Really?" Stan frowns, looking deep in thought. "Yeah, now that you mention it… it all started 'cause he used to get bullied at school, right? 'Cause he had something different about him, something the other kids found freaky. His twin gave him that nickname to make him feel better 'bout that. So he'd be proud instead."

"Really?" A warmth spreads in Ford's chest. "How thoughtful of Mabel."

Stan snaps his fingers. "Sixer! Yeah, that's it! On account of him having six fingers on each hand an' all." He holds out his own hand, grinning.

Ford draws a sharp breath. Gingerly, he raises his hand, putting his palm together with Stan's. The latter frowns as he notices the extra digit on Ford's hand.

"Huh. Ya got six fingers too? Unless…" Stan lifts his eyebrows as realization dawns on him. "Wait… you're…"

Ford only laughs and draws his brother into a hug.