Two Hearts
Chapter Two
Earlier:
"What's it?! Stanford!" Stan's ghost wailed and chased his brother down through the elevator shaft, emerging through the doors as they closed behind him.
"Don't worry," Stanford barked. "I've got it under control." The crazed look in his eye told Stanley otherwise. He pushed a stack of books from the table he'd been working at for the last three days to the floor and pulled one dusty tome toward him then flipped it open to a place held with a black ribbon. "Poke weed, wormwood, gnome tears," he read off a list of ingredients and gathered them from a nearby chest of tiny drawers. Stanley continued to pester him but unable to touch him or do anything to stop him, the ghost quieted.
"Don't have much time," Stanford breathed. "Gotta be careful…" He ground dozens of ingredients in a mortar and pestle, mixed the purple substance with alcohol and rummaged for an appropriately sized paintbrush. Next, he found five candles and placed them in a ring on the floor and connected them with red chalk into a pentagram.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Stan's ghost pleaded.
"Saving you. Shut up."
"I don't need saving!"
"Do not give up on me, Stanley!" Stanford shouted. "Your death is my fault!"
"An' I told you, I been dead for years and years! I faked my death and became you. I only existed to get you back. I was a placeholder, nothing more."
Stanford looked up from his work. His brows arched in agony. "How can you say that?!"
"Because it's true. I've never been worth a good god damn. Not to pops, not to you… all I've ever done is screw shit up. I lost you twice, so getting you back was the only reason I stuck around. Bein' able to save you guys from that triangle thing was just a little bonus, really."
"If you care so little for me, what about Dipper and Mabel, huh?"
"I didn't say I…"
"Answer me! Do you think you were worthless to them? I have never heard a more heart-wrenching sound than Mabel Pines screaming over your corpse!"
Stan's aspect shimmered as if Stanford's words had a tangible effect on him. "Jesus, Sixer. I'm sorry. I just... I don't want you to... what I mean is..." Stan struggled. Just telling his brother to let him go wasn't working. He wanted to tell him that he didn't want to be the cause of his pain, but the right words would not come. And now, he felt so tired. "Just, don't..."
Stanford looked up from his work and gasped. "Hang in there, Stanley! Just a little longer, please!" In his haste he got the inky stuff on his hands and cursed under his breath.
His brother's cries seemed to rouse him a little and he wavered, but found it hard to form a sentence. "Stop. Sixer... Don't do this."
"You're not the boss of me," Stanford quoted him, ripped off his shirt and hastily painted symbols on his chest. He sat in the middle of the pentagram and chanted in a strange tongue. Stan's ghost faded as he recited the spell, and when it was done the symbols on his chest burned with foxfire then melted into his skin. Stan's ghost disappeared.
.x.
Dipper stared at the man seated at the kitchen table in disbelief. "Grunkle Stan?" He asked again. "How…?"
He shivered and shook his head. "Why? Why did he do this?"
"He's not in there with you?" Dipper gawked at him and wished that he would just look him in the eye. In a moment he got his wish and instantly regretted it. Stan Pines looked up through eyes glistening with tears that were genetically identical, but entirely not his.
"No. He's gone."
"How can that be...?!"
"I don't know!" Stan barked. He was tired, not like he had been as his spirit faded. His body-his brother's body-ached for rest and his mind didn't work right. Stan saw Dipper step away from him and slumped his shoulders into a more like that of Stan Pines. "I'm sorry, Dipper. I feel like I been put through the ringer."
The boy nodded. "Makes sense. Ford hasn't slept in days. Maybe you should go have a nap… at six in the morning."
"Good idea. I'm beat. He's beat. Was beat? Whatever," Stan mumbled and hefted himself out of the chair. His brother's body was lighter, taught with tension and innumerable aches-some old, some new. The sensation shocked him and he stood in place for a moment, trying to adjust to the difference. "Whoa," he said. Dipper must have thought he was unsteady, as he took Stan by the elbow and helped steady him. "It's ok, kiddo. I got it. I'll go slow. Gonna catch a few Zs." Stan made to shuffle away, but found that his legs were not the shuffling kind. The nerves and muscles wanted to march, but as he was running on empty, Stan proceeded slowly, with measured steps. He felt every muscle contract and expand for the first time and marveled at the strangeness of it. "Man, I hope I get used to this," he muttered and stopped suddenly as a thought entered his mind that made his blood run cold. "Dipper, uh… Do me a favor and don't tell your sister just yet. I wanna break it to her gentle, ok? That shouldn't hafta be your job."
With a small degree of relief on his face, Dipper nodded.
"An' I'm sorry."
Dipper's mouth screwed up into a tight pout, but he didn't respond, simply shook his head, dismissing Stan for now. The old man walked down the hall to his bedroom, flopped down on the bed without turning the covers down and pressed his face into his pillow.
"I'm sorry for killing Ford!" he wailed into his pillow and in just a few minutes cried himself to sleep.