A/N: Betcha thought this fic was dead, didn't you? Nope! I still really want to write this; in fact, I think about it constantly, but ran into a wall over winter break. Suffice it to say I was frustrated that I couldn't make the story perfect, which kept me from writing anything at all. It's a very common problem for me. Recently, however, my other half gave me some great advice: "Do not let the perfect be the enemy of the good." Well, I don't know how good this is, but I figure it's good enough. At any rate, I don't want this to die, so take this part that I've had done for a while, and nag me in the comments for more!
Stan couldn't shake the feeling that he should have expected this. He kept trying to tell himself otherwise - Ford hardly talked to him; how was he supposed to know what went on inside his head? - but it didn't really make him feel any less guilty. Whatever was on the other side of the portal obviously wasn't pretty. A glimpse was enough to drive Old Man McGucket insane, and Ford had lived there for 30 years. Stan had thought Ford was being so distant out of spite, and maybe that was true too; it wasn't like they had even tried to reconcile since Ford's return. Stan had merely been relieved when, shortly before the twins left, Ford had mentioned he could stay. He hadn't wanted to press the issue, especially not with the kids around. He thought that this, at least, was progress. They'd figure out the rest later.
But even now, a month after their greatest adversary had been defeated, Ford hadn't changed much. If anything, without Dipper or Mabel to pester him, he seemed to have become more reclusive. He only ever seemed to work and eat; Stan wasn't even sure if he slept at all. He'd woken up before Ford once in four weeks, and when he'd glanced in Ford's room it looked more like his brother had passed out on the couch rather than gone to bed. Ford spent the vast majority of his time in the basement, only occasionally going out to work in the forest, though he was always sure to leave early and return late so he wouldn't run into anyone. "Too many questions," he'd said, as though that explained everything. At first, Stan had been willing to chalk all of it up to the pressing nature of Ford's work; even though he'd managed to reconstruct the portal, Stan still only understood about a quarter of what his brother actually did. And if Ford thought his work was important enough to require all of his time, then Stan wasn't really in a position to argue.
Everything changed when Stan noticed the gun. That had been just two days ago, but now that he thought back on it, he couldn't be sure how long Ford had been carrying it. He had to admit, Ford was good at concealing his weapon. A normal person definitely wouldn't have noticed it, but over his homeless years, being able to spot a gun had saved Stan's life more times than he was comfortable admitting.
He was angry at first, of course, and had half a mind to barge into the basement and give Ford a piece of his mind about not telling him - if there was a reason he should be armed in his own house, he sure as hell wanted to know about it. Not that he could: Ford had changed the code to the vending machine elevator almost immediately upon his return. So Stan had had some time to think it over, and he knew that shouting at Ford wasn't likely to get him anywhere. The last time they'd fought, he'd spent 30 years trying to make up for it. Besides, he knew how oblivious Ford could be. Maybe he hadn't thought to mention it. He'd give Ford a chance to explain himself, and they'd work it out. It hadn't occurred to Stan then that the demons his brother was now fighting might not be the kind he was used to.
Stan would be lying if he said he knew what to do now. He'd been sitting in the living room for 8 hours now, thinking about what he should say to Ford when he finally came back up, but nothing seemed right. Around midnight he'd begun to doubt himself, wondering if he should just give up and go to bed. But a feeling in his gut kept insisting that saying something was better than saying nothing, and so he stayed up, trying and failing to find the right words.
Stan felt his eyelids getting heavy. Anything worth watching on TV had ended an hour ago, and now it was only hokey infomercials and static. Without the adrenaline of a life-or-death situation coursing through him, he was rapidly losing the will to stay awake. He didn't want to go upstairs without talking to Ford again, but he really didn't want to fall asleep in the armchair; his back would be killing him in the morning, and dammit he was getting too old for this. 10 minutes, he told himself, 10 minutes and I'll go upstairs. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on an advertisement for a hair growth formula for men. It was then that he heard the sound of the vending machine sliding across the floor.
