Author Note: Huge shout-out to a friend, a Licensed Professional Counselor, for consulting on the opening scene.

The anesthesia made his limbs wobbly and the lights hazy. White clad nurses and orderlies carefully helped him stagger over to a padded, cloth covered table surrounded by all sorts of monitors and machines.

Stan, his thoughts swirling sluggishly through his mind, noticed the doctor fiddling with a small machine at the head of the table. It had a small screen, lots of dials and lights. There were pads attached to it with long wires as well as something made of rubber shaped like the letter U.

The doctor…

Stan didn't like him, he was pretty sure, even through the fog filling his mind. And the doctor didn't like him. Old, cranky, could be heard muttering about politics taking over professional standards. Then he'd glare at Stan, clearly linking him and the changes together somehow.

"How wonderful to see you again, Stanley," the doctor declared in a bored voice as the orderlies helped him onto the table. "We're almost done with your treatment, isn't that wonderful?"

It took almost a full minute for the question to sink into Stan's mind. Then he gave a jerky nod. He didn't like this. He thought- thought the doctor used more electricity that he should. Other patients undergoing this, they recovered much faster. The soreness, the brief patches of memory lost right before and after the treatment. Sometimes he wondered why he had ever agreed to this.

But the awful darkness that had started taking over so much of his life was further away, had been since he'd been dragged into this hospital, started talking to the doctors, taking the drugs they gave him, and let the angry, nosy prick shock his brain three days a week. For the first time in years Stan was actually starting to think he might have a future, might be able to reconcile with Ford.

And those thoughts- those darkest of thoughts- about jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge or suicide-by-cop had faded away.

Hands opened his jaw, sliding rubber between his teeth and then a plastic mask went over his face. Cool air began to blow, smelling faintly antiseptic, and the pure oxygen only made everything seem to float. Distantly, he felt a prick in his arm and cold conducting jelly on his temples as the electrodes were applied. Wires draped across his torso as a nurse finished hooking him up to the heart rate monitor. Then she smiled down at him, eyes dark and warm and comforting. Stan tried to smile back. He liked her. He trusted her. "Countdown from ten, Stan," she ordered. "We'll be all done when you wake up."

Stan fell back against the hallway wall as another memory settled back into his mind. He could still feel the phantom ache in his jaw, his limbs. There was a throbbing in the back of his skull that from more than just the sheer number of memories he and America had been recovering.

As America shut the newly repaired door, he gave Stan a worried look. "You doing alright?" he asked. "We can take a break."

"Just a breather," Stan grunted, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. "Yeesh, I feel like I'm coming off a weekend bender," he groaned.

After looking around for a moment, America suddenly zipped off down the oddly jointed corridor, reappearing a few moments later with a rickety stool. Setting it down next to the older looking man, he then reached out and gently tugged Stan over and down, helping him slide down the fall onto the stool. Once settled, he dropped down next to him on the floor, leaning against his side in an amusing mimicry of the position their physical bodies were slumped in outside the mindscape.

The two men sat quietly, the only splash of color in the black and white building. It felt like they'd been working for hours, walking all around the landscape outside the metaphorical depiction of the Shack to find and repair holes in the foundation, shore up the cliffside the building loomed over, even flying up into the air to patch billiard-ball sized holes in the floating 8-Ball moon illuminating the land below.

The lost memories, the structural pieces as America referred to them, had encompassed a wide scope of moments and activities. The gleeful moment of his first big score in Vegas, the terror as a mob screamed and chased him across the New Jersey county line. Horrifying moments of terror and transgression and pain while in prison and quiet, peaceful nights stretched out on top of the roof of the Stanmobile enjoying the stars overhead with a full belly.

He'd learned that his beloved El Diablo had been stolen and impounded more times than he could count, yet somehow he always managed to find it again, no matter if he'd been gone for days on a job or years locked away in a hellhole in South America.

He and America had spent extra time puttering around the memories of his time as Stetson Pinefield, a persona that spent several successful months conning folks at pool and billiards overseas. Even at the time, he'd been unable to resist the lure of tourism and after setting aside Stetson's urban cowboy garb, Stan Pines had spent countless sunlight hours running staring around him in wide-eyed fascination at the wonders of London, Birmingham, Leeds, and other big cities. Upon returning to those memories, America had grabbed his hand and dragged him into the memories, eyes shining and words tumbling out of his mouth in rapid-fire so he could show Stan just one thing real quick, promise.

Stan made a mental note to tell Ford that they had to invite America along for at least part of their pending ocean expedition. The nation had a deep, genuine love of history and clearly hungered for the opportunity to share more personal anecdotes. Add in America's long life and general physical resilience to harm and some of the stories he'd already shared at been hilarious.

And re-experiencing his memories that way, with America at his side rattling off facts and stories about hauling around drunken nations and scheming, childish pranks… it made some of the harsher memories easier to deal with. Everything he'd done as Hal Forrester, for example. Stan suppressed an inward shudder.

He'd kept his promise. America had stood by him through each moment, ready with a supporting arm or a shoulder to cry on, to distract him from the pain of reliving something awful. And never, ever casting judgement or shame.

Stan let himself sink into the warmth radiating from America, still pressed against his side, head resting against the side of his chest. The old man's arm had fallen over the nation's shoulders and for a moment, just a moment, Stan let himself drift.

He was glad America was here, with his endless, boundless pools of love and support. He could the genuine affection from the country, echoing throughout every fiber of his being, in every corner of his lands. From the deepest roots of the trees to the tips of the mountains. Even up beyond the limits of the world into space, to the moon. The excitement of the moon landing had swept even him up, struggling as he was to survive those early years alone and on the road. He remembered the buzz in the air, every TV tuned in…

Thick gloves, thick suits, feeling so weightless as his people bounced across the surface of the Moon - the MOON he'd done it they'd done it, the future was NOW, everyone in his lands was watching, some scared but mostly so happy and excited, it all reverberated through him-

The warmth at his side vanished as America jerked away. Turning slightly, he gave Stan a sheepish grin. It wasn't the first time since they'd entered the mindscape that some of America's mind had bleed through to Stan. These glimpses into the nation was fascinating and terrifying and reminded Stan just how alien the man beside him actually was.

"S'allright."

Stan didn't mind, not really. The reverberations, the thoughts and feelings and weight of millions of souls, were already fading. Compared to the strain of having his mind burn around him to destroy Bill Cipher? A few seconds of being America were a piece of cake. Not to mention how that, more than anything else, had proven to Stan how genuine his nation was. He meant, and believed, every word he said, wanted desperately for his people, and the people across the entire world to be free and happy.

These moments where the line between Stan and America blurred briefly meant more to him than any of the memories they'd recovered. No one, not Ford, not the kids- no one would ever, could ever love and care for him as honestly and deeply as America did. He couldn't always act directly- the sheer scope and weight of what it meant to be a nation had been clear from the more crossover- but he wanted to. No one had ever been so devoted to Stan and no one ever would.

Seventeen years of longing and yearning for something different.

Ten and some change years alone and homeless.

Thirty years of self-imposed isolation and devotion.

Whatever time he had left, he would carry with him the knowledge and security of finally knowing there was someone out there who cared, would always care, and would never reject him.

Pressing calloused hands to his knees, Stan pushed himself up and offered a hand to America. "Got a few more holes rattling around," he declared, "might as well go finish what we started."

Night had fallen on Gravity Falls. Ford dithered for a moment in the kitchen, torn between grabbing just a box of crackers so he could return sooner to his vigil next to his brother and taking the time for something a little more substantial so he'd have more energy for the wait.

The wait had been… distressing. Far more than he'd expected. Ford had spent thirty years on the run, with only occasional periods of solace and safety or imprisonment to break the pattern of his life. And now, after the events of Weirdmageddon, he'd found himself truly sidelined for the first time in, well, decades.

He couldn't accompany America into Stan's mindscape. The mission they were on now… it would be wrong for him to intrude. Whatever memories existed there, they were Stan's (and, he supposed, America's). His brother would share what he wished but he had to respect that there would be things he had seen or done that he would never speak of.

Ford understood that. He felt the same about a number of the events on his own long journey.

So instead, he kept guard over the vulnerable bodies in the living room. He organized his notes, rewriting and drawing pages from his journals that they'd copied before tossing them into the Bottomless Pit. The journals still held valuable information but also pages of madness and despair. And that was why, in a discussion with the entire Pines family, they'd agreed to Mabel's suggestion that the journals be cast away once and for all. They could retain the information about ghosts and unicorns and the Lilli-putt-ians without putting the world in danger. And so, after about ten minutes at the copier, Ford had captured his notes on the Weird and they could discard everything that was frightening and dangerous.

Creating his notes, without the specter of Bill or the inconvenience of invisible ink, proved to be an excellent way to pass the time. Redrawing his sketches of Gravity Falls took him back to the days before Bill and gave him the opportunity add corrections and updates. Three journals had been condensed to one slightly longer journal now that he wasn't also using the book as an emotional outlet or a place to record an increasing number of nightmares.

He'd started a second journal, leading with everything he'd learned so far about America and how he was helping Stan. It wasn't the final product, however. No, he liked how redoing his previous work had allowed him to streamline and clarify his research. This book was for him and Stan alone. And perhaps the kids when they visited again.

Ford was still standing in the kitchen, torn and indecisive, when he heard movement, the brush of cloth against cloth, coming from the living room. Casting his hunger aside, he turned and bolted, rounding the corner and hopping down the short step into the living room just in time to see America blink sleepily, slowly straightening up from Stan's leg even as his brother scrunched his eyes and flexed his fingers.

America clambered to his feet, somewhat wobbly from sitting unmoving for so long. He gave Ford a small wave, covering his mouth with his other hand as a yawn escaped him. Turning then to Stan, he shook a scolding finger at the older looking man. "You go right to bed," America ordered. "That's a lot of, of- stuff that we just did. Your mind and your body need time to rest. So skedaddle."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Groaning softly at his own small aches and pains, Stan pressed his hands against the arms of his chair and levered himself up and out of the yellow seat. "Everything alright out here?" he asked, glancing over at Ford.

"Fine, fine," Ford was quick to reassure. "And- how are you feeling, Stan?" He was torn, wanting nothing more than to give his brother a thorough examination, to check for any lingering memory gaps or side effects … but Stan needed rest. And he deserved privacy, to decide for himself how Ford could help him.

"Tired," Stan replied. But he gave Ford a thumbs-up, shades of his childhood self flashing up behind the gesture. "Like he said, we, well, we did a lot. But everything up here," he tapped the side of his head with a finger, "it's back to how it was before Bill."

"I'm relieved to hear that." The fist that had been clenched around Ford's heart relaxed. "The children did call a few hours ago. I told them you were taking a nap. I ... wasn't sure what, if anything, you wanted to tell them about America and his offer."

"Thanks for chatting with them-" A sudden yawn broke up whatever he was next going to. "We'll call tomorrow. I'm gonna go hit the hay. Night, Ford. Night, America. And thanks again." Looking increasingly tired, Stan turned and headed for the stairs, deliberately bumping his shoulder against Ford's as he passed.

As the sound of his feet on the stairs slowly faded, America walked over to Ford and laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. "I don't know about you, but I could go for a pot of coffee."

"That- sounds heavenly," Ford agreed. "I was also considering making something for dinner. I'm not much of a cook but nutrition is important." He paused, looking towards the stairs as a small frown crossed his face.

"For now, Stan needs rest more than food," America firmly interrupted. Taking hold of Ford's elbow, he spun the scientist around the started marching him towards the kitchen. "Let's see what's available. And … we should probably talk."

Author note: I am genuinely proud of that opening scene. It makes me really happy to have written that. My LPC friend loved it, helped me make some tweaks and highlight that Stan consented to EST and just how bad off his mental health had gotten.

Almost to the end of the story! Thanks for reading!