*Awkardly sidling into the room and waving*
Heh heh...hey.
Sorry I've let this story go so long.
But I promised a few chapters ago to finish this story if it killed me, so here I am working on fulfilling that promise.
...That came out wrong, but you know what I mean.
"EEE-mmph!"
"Ssh! They're still asleep!"
"Sorry, I can't help it! My dreams are coming true before my eyes!"
"Sssssssh!"
"Can I at least take a picture?"
"As long as you can do it quietly."
There was a soft click, followed by a series of louder ones that meant a camera was being used.
Stan barely registered the noise; he was too busy trying to sort out the rest of the sensations his body was picking up.
Warm, fleecy material draped over his knees-blanket.
Kind of a light breeze on his neck-his collar was open, and he realized that he could faintly feel his tie draped over his shoulders.
The thickness of a heavier material wrapped around the top of his head, something wispy tickling his temple-that was his fez.
And he had a headache, the front part of his skull throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat.
So far, situation relatively normal. He must've fallen asleep in front of the television again after a long day of suckering tourists, and forgotten to go to bed because of some crappy program.
So what? He'd earned the right to be a couch potato in his old age.
Something thick and heavy pressing into his shoulder, and a soft, floofy sensation tickling his chin-wait, what?
The heavy weight shifted.
It grumbled.
Stan fought back a wave of panic and tried to remember what happened last night and whether he could fight his way out-
"...3.1…415…zzz…926…zzz…"
Oh.
Right.
Stan tried to decide how he felt about…this.
About him and Ford having finally kinda-sorta cleared the air, a.k.a. the thing he'd wanted more than anything in the world for the last forty years.
He should've been over the moon about it, especially cuz the truth voodoo meant it had all been real and neither of them could have covered up or lied about anything. He should've felt happy, the way he'd been last night when they came up out of the basement.
Instead, at the moment he just felt…kinda numb.
Not exactly like he had after the giant robot incident, but kinda close.
Like this was all just another beautiful dream.
There was another muffled squeal that had Stan resisting the urge to open his eyes, and another "Sssh!" that had to be Dipper.
The head on his shoulder snuffled, and then slowly scooted off of him, before its owner made a startled noise.
"Oh! Um-good morning, children."
"Hi, Grunkle Ford! Did you sleep well?" Ugh, Stan could hear the joyful smugness in Mabel's voice.
"Quite well, thank you." There was a clinking noise down by their feet; if he had to guess, Stan would say it was probably one of the, ahem, expired corn bottles from last night being discreetly nudged under the blanket they were sharing, and oh ugh, they were never gonna hear the end of this, were they?
Stan continued pretending to be asleep in order to delay the inevitable for just a little longer.
"...Is everything okay between you now?" Dipper was still more subdued than his sister, but there was a hint of excited curiosity in his voice.
Stan actually felt a small twinge of nervous anticipation in his guts as he waited to hear how his brother was gonna answer that.
Ford hesitated, and then cleared his throat. "...We're working on it."
Okay, weirdly enough that made Stan feel a little better.
"Oh."
It was all he could do not to wince at how crestfallen Mabel sounded. But a second later she said brightly, "But this is definitely a huge step up! I'm so proud of both of you-you deserve celebration of brotherly love pancakes! C'mon, Dipper!"
And there was the thundering of feet headed towards the kitchen.
Okay, better 'wake up' and make sure they don't set the stove on fire. Again. Or put glitter in my saucepan. Again.
He was just about to start stretching and yawning when he felt the lump next to him nudge his shoulder.
"I know you're not asleep, Stanley."
"...Yeah I am. And now I'm talking in my sleep."
Huh; guess the candles must've gone out.
Ford made a gruff old man noise. "You haven't been snoring for the last three minutes. That's not going to work this time."
With a sigh Stan opened his eyes, squinting against the morning light, and resettled his glasses onto his nose.
Ford was giving him a weird look as he swam into focus.
Not that kind of weird; weird as in it gave Stan a funny feeling in his chest that continued the work of cutting through the numbness and making him feel things (rude).
He busied himself with pushing his way up and out of the chair, grumbling as his old bones creaked, and cracked his back.
"How are you feeling, Stanley?" Ford asked, folding the blanket and setting it back in the armchair.
"Old." Stan reluctantly knelt back down and picked up the empty ice cream carton and spoons. He noticed with a wince that some of the leftover sludge had oozed onto the carpet, and made a mental note to make one of the kids clean it up.
"I know the feeling."
"Sure ya do, Mr. Action Hero." Stan cracked his neck from side to side, and headed for the kitchen to face the music.
The next few days were…a little better.
Not like they used to be, not half as idyllic as the days of wandering the beach, but at least they weren't yelling anymore, or even passive aggressively sniping, and there was no talk about anyone having to leave, or the Mystery Shack being shut down.
Instead there was mostly just awkwardly dancing around each other, with the occasional good moment thrown in.
Like Stan sneaking a jar filled to the brim with weirdly shaped jelly beans-that he'd apparently been saving for the last thirty years-down to the basement and leaving them on the table (he claimed to know nothing about it, but Ford knew better).
Or Ford, after his failed attempt at making breakfast one morning resulted in using up most of the fire extinguisher, deciding instead to start setting the table for meals.
Or Stan stomping into the basement to drag Ford away from his work because a new episode of The Duchess Approves remake was on, and he needed someone to help mercilessly mock its inferior quality compared to the original, and often wound up with both of them falling asleep side by side in their chairs.
Little things like that.
Ford found himself being dragged into spending more time with the kids, too.
Mabel somehow persuaded him to let her paint a turkey onto his hand, and from there to participate in a charming little film she called "Mabel's Guide to Hand Makeovers" that involved them going into town in search of people with hands in need of being decorated, and was forced to cut off abruptly when they nearly got arrested because the dear girl decided to cover the statue of Nathaniel Northwest's hands with the word "LIAR" over and over in bright red paint.
And of course he and Dipper took every opportunity to play D, D&D, the campaigns growing increasingly elaborate as they allowed their imaginations to run wild. He even found himself relaxing enough to tell the boy about some of his adventures in the multiverse, and the wide-eyed delight in his eyes as he asked him questions made a strange, warm feeling rise in Ford's chest every time.
Even Stanley's employees seemed happier with his presence in the house, now that he was no longer trying to enforce his will over it.
Soos occasionally tried to help Ford get caught up on all the popular culture he'd missed out on during the last thirty years (which mostly meant he would talk his ear off about something called 'anime' or different video games that he liked to play until Stan told him to get back to work), and once in a while joined Dipper in asking questions about his travels. They were usually less scientific than Dipper's, but he seemed so happy when Ford took the time to answer them that he didn't have the heart to ignore him.
As for Wendy, she was not as openly friendly as the others, but she at least accepted him without hostility if they happened to be in the same room, and would continue reading her magazine or texting on her cellular device without acknowledging that he was there unless he addressed her.
Ford decided to count that as progress.
Eventually McGucket showed up at the Mystery Shack (with his son, no less, so perhaps fences were being mended there too) to help get the remains of the robot off the lawn, much to the disappointment of the tourists until Stan improvised a new story about it returning to life and escaping to a giant tree city in the clouds.
He looked better; still barefoot, but now he was wearing new clean clothes, and even appeared to have gotten a few square meals and taken a bath or three since the last time Ford had seen him.
Of course Ford assisted with the dismantling of the robot, partly because he was sort of-okay, mostly responsible for its being there in the first place, partly as an opportunity to catch up on lost time with his old friend and continue making amends for his egregious mistreatment of him.
Fiddleford assured him there was no need for the latter, since he'd acknowledged that he'd been a "bullheaded idjit" already and apologized for it, but he seemed to enjoy his company regardless.
And every once in a while, Ford would sneak back down to the basement and check on the rift to make sure that the container was holding firm.
It was, even if he could still hear disturbing sounds echoing inside of it.
But one morning he opened the cupboard, and saw a thin, hairline crack etching its way across the glass surface.
