Chapter 2

"It smells amazing, kiddo," Stanley exclaimed as he made his way in from the porch, surefooted but slowly. "Dipper upstairs?"

"Yeah, I told him to get his laundry done, but seeing how he's been awake for a few days, he might be unconscious on the floor," Mabel shrugged, wrapping her last tamale and tying it with a piece of straw twine. "These are gonna need about an hour to steam, so say an hour and a half until dinner, okay?"

"I can wait. There's a football game on, anyway," Stanley replied, starting to make his way into the den. He paused for a moment, glancing up the stairs. "Think I should go make sure he's okay?"

"Eh, let him sleep until dinner," she shrugged. "Laundry can wait. He always wears the same stupid flannel anyway."
Stanley considered this, then continued on his way, sinking down into the old threadbare couch that remained in the den. He hadn't had the heart to change any of the furniture or anything since Sixer died. He had picked it all out, anyway. It just didn't seem right. His knees popped as he eased himself down, and he winced, remembering for the fourth time today just how old he had gotten. The first three times had also had to do with his knees popping.

The football game showed on the TV, but Stanley wasn't really focused on it. The same scene that had been playing over and over in his head for months on end now. The feeling of holding his brother's hand in his as he took his very last breaths, peaceful and smiling.

"I don't think it will be very long," the at-home nurse whispered to Stanley, who was lounging in an easy chair next to the hospital bed that they had brought in for Ford. "His breathing is already slowing."

Stanley nodded curtly. "We'll be fine," he said, and the nurse caught the feeling that he no longer wanted her to be in the room with them. That was normal. Family members sometimes wanted to be alone with their loved ones while they passed.

The nurse put a gentle hand on Stanley's shoulder before quietly exiting the room, the old door creaking behind her. It woke Ford, who had been asleep for the past several hours as Stanley had stood vigil.

"She gone?" Ford croaked breathlessly, his once deep and commanding voice reduced to the whisper of a terminally ill man.

"Yeah, you know I always chase the pretty ones away," Stanley replied, cracking a small smile. Ford tried to laugh, but he simply didn't have the strength. "Don't strain yourself. Just relax."

Ford exhaled a shaky breath and turned onto his right side so that he could see Stanley better. "All those adventures and cancer is what gets me in the end. How ridiculous is that?"

Stanley settled back into the chair, taking his brother's six-fingered hand in his in a rare gesture of love. "I don't know. Maybe it's better this way. You don't have to do it alone, you know?"

Ford smiled. "Yeah. That makes it better."

The two old men were silent for a moment, listening to the spring birds chirping through the window.

"You didn't tell the kids, did you?" Ford asked with a slightly guilty expression.

"No, I didn't. But they would want to be here, Sixer," Stanley pleaded. "Why don't I call them?"

"No," Ford wheezed, trying to shake his head with the little strength he had left. "They know how sick I've been. It won't come as a surprise to them. I can't…" he struggled to continue, drawing in another breath. "I just want it to be you and me, Stanley. Same way we started."

Stanley sighed deeply, knowing he didn't have any choice but to respect his brother's wishes. There was another long silence, Stanley listening to Ford's breathing as it got slower and shallower.

"It wasn't a bad life, was it, brother?" Ford asked, giving his brother's hand a squeeze with the last bit of muscle strength he had in him.

Stanley smiled. "No, it wasn't, Sixer."

And then Ford was slipping away for the second and final time, his breathing going quieter and quieter, and then there was nothing else.

And for the first time since he had been separated from his brother decades ago, Stanley cried. Deep, heartbroken sobs that shook his whole body. But only for a moment, and then he wiped his tears and closed his brother's eyes.

And that was it. It was over.

Having Ford gone was like he was missing a limb. He found himself waking up every morning with a deep dread that he was missing something extremely important, and every time he felt that deep sorrow all over again as he realized the thing he was missing was Ford. His bones ached with it.

He didn't have any tears to shed. Ford wouldn't have wanted that. Stanley had always been the tough brother. But man, sometimes it was hard to keep them in.

Mabel continued to putter around the kitchen, the sweet and salty smell of tamales floating through the entire Mystery Shack. Stanley stared at his niece, so proud of the successful and kind person that she had grown up into.

She had cried for weeks when Stanley got the twins together and told them that Ford had died. All she had done was paint and cry. No eating, no showering, no going outside. Her paintings, usually a colorful mix of acrylics, oil paints, and fibers had turned into dark blue and black. Chaotic visions on a canvas, like nightmares brought to life. And that's how it stayed for almost a month before she had sat down with Stanley and confessed to him that she was terrified that Ford hadn't felt like she loved him enough. They had always been very different, she explained, and she had always been more like Stanley. She was so afraid that Ford didn't want her there when he died because he didn't feel like she loved him enough.

Stanley had gathered her up into his arms, her frame having become almost alarmingly thin, and swore on his own life that that wasn't true. Sure, Ford had loved Mabel and Dipper differently, but he'd had so much love in his heart for both of them. He hadn't wanted them to see him die. He wanted them to remember him smiling and happy.

And Mabel had spent one more night secluded in the apartment before emerging the next day, showered and eating cereal, albeit with a slightly puffy face. Ford, she declared, would have been furious with her for not taking care of herself and for neglecting her art. He had always been so proud of the things she created. Several of her pieces even hung in the bunker now. Within a few months, Mabel had returned to her normal self, her art becoming brighter and more colorful again, the color returning to her cheeks and her frame filling out again.

Dipper had reacted so differently. While Mabel had collapsed in on herself, he had simply nodded and stared off into the distance. And just hours later, he had almost taken on Ford's role, already secluding himself in the bunker and throwing himself into the research they had been working on. When Stanley and Mabel came to check on him, he didn't really seem to see them. He just kept writing.

It had been that way ever since. Dipper didn't really ever seem to acknowledge his feelings about Ford's death. Instead, he did everything he could to keep his mind off them. He worked for days at a time, forgetting to eat and not changing his clothes. When he would come back up to the apartment, he would pass out from exhaustion, and Mabel was lucky if she could get a full meal into him before he left again. He had work to do, he said. He had to finish what Ford had started.

Stanley worried more about Dipper now than he did Mabel. If Dipper was anything like either him or Ford, he would break down eventually. But the longer it took, the more Stanley almost found himself wishing Dipper would go ahead and hit rock bottom so that he could start recovering. He felt helpless until that happened.

The football game was long since over, and Stanley realized just how long he had been lost in his thoughts as Mabel called everyone in for dinner. He heard her clomping up the stairs, knocking on Dipper's door, then coming back down.

He pushed himself up off the couch, following the smell of hot food into the kitchen, his knees popping the whole way.