"Up and at em, Stanley!" said the most familiar and annoying voice as the lights flicked on in one swift motion, dousing the room in harsh, ugly yellow light. Stan groaned loudly in annoyance, squinting his eyes against the glare. Then the alarm clock went off, blaring bloody murder as Stan blindly stuck out on arm and smashed the off button. Damn Ford, couldn't even wait for the alarm, eh?
"Ugh, I hardly slept last night, Ford… could you give me a couple minutes?" Stanley begged, rolling over to block out the light.
"But Stan, I made your favourite breakfast," Ford lightly protested, putting his hands on his hips as he waited for the response he was expecting. Stan perked up as he sniffed the air.
"Toffee-peanut crusted omelette?" he asked hesitantly, childhood nostalgia rushing through him. Ford gave a small smile.
"It's gonna get cold…" he said slyly, and that's all it took for Stan to pounce out of bed and scramble for the boat's tiny kitchen, leaving Ford laughing in his brother's dust as he followed him to the table he'd set for two. On one plate: a sensible bowl of oatmeal and a sliced apple. On the other: a disgusting creation of pure childhood delight. Stanley looked like he was going to cry as he picked his brother up in a suffocating hug.
"Agh-alright, that's enough, Stanley! You're -agh- you're welcome!" he choked out as Stan sat down at the table and took a bite. He smiled, looking like a kid in an old man's body.
"Aw, you even made it with the same brand of peanuts I like! Man, this is good! What's gotten into you, Ford? There somebody's birthday I'm forgetting?" he said between bites, never one for so-called 'manners.'
"Oh, I don't know…," Ford said with a sad smile, and let out a small sigh and shrugged, putting his elbows on the table and tenting his fingers. "Look, Stanley, I know you've been having a bit of a hard time lately with the… unpleasantness of three months ago…" Stan groaned, dropping his utensils on the table with a clatter.
"Oh, come on! You telling me you made me this because you feel bad for me?" Stan erupted, turning his head to the window to stare out at a more pleasant sight than his brother massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index fingers in frustration.
"Stanley, I'm worried about you," Ford said, trying to get his brother's attention back. He clasped his hands in front of him, tilting his head in sincerity. "Look, it's perfectly normal to be experiencing some delayed memory response to all this, especially in your case…"
"Don't you especially-in-your-case me!" Stan shouted, loudly pushing his chair out as it scraped against the wooden floor and stood up with his plate in one hand. "I don't need your sympathy, I told you it's nothing!" And with that, he walked over to the garbage, scraping the rest of his omelette into the garbage.
"Tasted terrible anyways," he muttered, his eyes narrowed as he looked to see the shock painted on his brother's face.
"WOW, HE SURE IS PATHETIC! IT'S KINDA FUNNY, ISN'T IT?!"
Stan started to laugh, low in his throat before exploding in a short burst of hysteria. Ford stared at his brother, completely at a loss for words. Stan stood up straighter and adjusted his glasses.
"I've got some letters from the kids to write back to," Stan said, staring straight ahead as he headed for his room. Ford stood there dumbfounded, watching his brother slam the bedroom door as the sun rose higher in the sky.
One week passed. A week of hardly any sleep. A week of frightening visions and suspicious glances from Ford. A week of trying to ignore the new voice in Stanley's head.
It was a voice Stanley couldn't quite place. It didn't sound any different from his own thoughts, and yet Stan knew it couldn't be his own because he was frightened of it. There was something sinister about the way it seemed to slither in and out of his inner dialogue; the way it encouraged him to laugh for a bit too long when his brother took a bad slip on deck, or the way it stretched the small frustration of being out of Pitt soda to a full blown tantrum.
It had become a common occurrence for Stanford to find himself being silently woken by his brother's pained murmurs at night. He'd descend the small wooden ladder of their bunk bed and tuck his brother back in, the sheets thrown in a nightly mess on the floor. Then he'd turn on the lamp on the desk across from the bed, and with the 15 minutes every night until Stanley would stir again, he'd write down the day's… anomalies.
So many sleepless nights went by that they began to blur. Stan could no longer tell when the darkness of the bedroom stopped and the darkness of his nightmares began. He'd find himself wandering through the hallways of the boat, only to see eyes appear inside the walls.
And so Stan stopped sleeping.
Ford curtly announced that they'd finally be docking in Iceland the next day. It wasn't their first trip there - it had become fairly routine: they'd make accommodations at the closest bed-and-breakfast, do a few weeks' worth of shopping for the boat, send back a couple letters to the kids, and be on their merry way. This time was different though - they'd be staying ashore for a few days, docking the boat at the marina, and then flying home to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in Gravity Falls. The kids had been invited to stay for the break, which to their Grunkles' delight, they'd delighted in accepting.
Thinking about seeing the kids again seemed to help ease Stan's mind. He was eager to get back to the shack, back to his old familiar armchair where he could relax and watch Ducktective when his brother wasn't around to judge him. They'd decided to stay until after New Year's, and then they'd take off again for the Arctic Ocean.
"NOT THAT SIXER OVER THERE COULDN'T HANDLE THIS SNOOZE FEST ON HIS OWN, AM I RIGHT?!"
Stan smiled in agreement, before catching the strange thought in its tracks and dragging his hands down his aged face in frustration. He closed his eyes and saw a single red one staring back.
The two brothers sat across from each other at the table, neither one of them speaking as they ate the catch of the day that Ford had prepared. The clatter of cutlery marked the silence like tense punctuation without a phrase. Ford coughed gently. Stan didn't look up from his plate.
"You know, I think this trip home couldn't have come at a better time. I think we've both gone a bit stir crazy on this old girl, haven't we?" Ford probed. He was met with Stan looking up from the table to glare at his brother, and then look back down again at the mangled bits of fish left on his plate.
"Stan, I need you to talk to me," Ford sighed, one six-fingered hand resting on his forehead. Stan continued to cut up his fish.
"What's there to talk about?" he grunted back.
"Stan, you're not acting like yourself…"
"LISTEN TO THIS GUY! SINCE WHEN HAS HE BEEN THE EXPERT ON YOUR LIFE?! THE GENIUS WAS OUTTA THE PICTURE FOR THIRTY YEARS!"
"Oh, yeah? And how would you know?! You didn't know me for thirty years!" Stan erupted, his cutlery pointing up as his fists banged on the table.
"Stan, what if the kids saw you like this?!" Ford exclaimed, before narrowing his eyes. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"What?! Like how I'm losing my mind? That's what you think, isn't it six fingers!" Stan exploded, standing up from the table. Ford was silent, his eyes wide in silent horror.
"What did you just call me?" he asked quietly, standing up from the table. "Stanley, I need to check something, right now." Ford started to move towards his brother. Stan nervously backed up against the wall, looking for a quick escape. He found it as he ducked around the corner, running through the main corridor and up to the deck.
"Stanley, come back here!" Ford called, grabbing something from the kitchen drawer before running up the short steps, Stanley not far ahead of him.
"You're crazy! Get away from me, you maniac!" Stan exclaimed as he ran towards the steering wheel, piloted by Ford's self-steering program he'd built into the ship. That's when he slipped on the deck, eliciting a wrathful growl from the man, echoed by the even more wrathful voice in his head. Stan was too late, though, as Ford tackled him and the two wrestled on the deck for control.
"Stanley, snap out of it! Hold still!" Ford yelled as he managed to pin down his slightly-out-of-shape brother and shine a small flashlight in his eyes. Stan squirmed and squinted as he tried to get away.
"What are you - aghh - doing?!" Stan exclaimed as Ford examined each eye, when his face suddenly fell in confusion, and he dropped the flashlight on the deck. He relinquished his grip on Stan's wrists as he shook his head.
"I'm… I'm sorry, Stan, I thought… I thought Bill was…no, but that's impossible..."
"Can you get off me now, you old coot?" Stan grumbled. Ford chuckled as he offered a hand to help his brother up.
"Hey now, we are twins," Ford replied, before placing both hands on his brother's shoulders. "Stanley, I'm so sorry…"
"It's okay…" Stan sighed, looking down at the scuff marks on the deck from their skirmish. They… he… had really made a mess of things. He absentmindedly scratched the back his neck before finally looking his brother in the eye. "Look, I… I got something to tell ya."
Thanks so much for encouraging me to continue guys! I'm really excited about where this is going - right now I'm aiming for a five to six part story so stay tuned boys and girls! Seriously though, thanks for sticking with me for the journey - the next chapter's gonna be a doozy! As always, comments are hugely appreciated! Till next time!