Author's Note #1: The Stans are on a boat! *That Lonely Island song plays* (Yet again I reference them, but in another fic this time. Forgive me.) Speaking seriously though:
…Finally! One of the first fics in a while that I've managed to finish and post (even though I basically finished this ages ago). I'm definitely happy about that, although to be honest, Idk, this might come across as cheesy, corny and white-bready. It was meant to be part of a (future?) ficlet collection (the first "chapter" for it, in fact) but I ended up making it too lengthy, haaaa. The (probably overlong) descriptions and characterization here I'm also not completely sure on, as usual. FWIW, I like to think Stanley would still use his catchphrases from the show post-canon, from time to time, even in his head and even with no children around and that they both truly would be capable of seeing things from each other's pov and be "adorable together", haha. (So yeah, no actual cursing is present in this particular Stancest fic, even if one or both Stans probably do at least occasionally curse when the audience isn't looking.) I also have a (possibly annoying) habit of switching back and forth between different names and nicknames for individual characters. I'm also no doctor or expert on the way light, colors and healing work in nature, including human body-wise, so please forgive me for any errors made in those regards. I hope I didn't offend anyone either (e.g. with the nation stereotypes)! (Some) Old people and their outdated ways of thinking, am I right? Anyway, I just wanted this fic to be silly and sweet, if not short. This may have become a bit more than that, but I hope I still managed to do so, and that the title I chose works well for this without being click-baity, and that you enjoy it!
P.S. Yes, the title is a pun. And content warning: N/A. Unless you hate learning. That could happen.
White-speckled darkness had overtaken the skies and blanketed around the motionless sea, casting gray shadows across the Stan-O-War II. As the Stan Twins sat at their small table for two located on the main deck of their ship, the luminous colonies of stars overhead shone down on them, causing bluish-purple overtones to appear upon their skin.
They had just finished eating dinner; spaghetti and (cooked) freeze dried meatballs with pasta sauce (that they knew would need to be finished or disposed of soon due to how fast perishables like that rotted and reeked), all courtesy of Chef Stanley. They were now sitting in silence, just enjoying the light of the night and each other's company.
Stanley was the first to eventually break the silence.
"The stars sure are lookin' pretty uhh…starry tonight, huh Sixer?" He grinned slyly and wiggled both eyebrows repeatedly, for effect.
Stan wished that comment had solely been a bad joke, as opposed to a failed attempt on his part at romantic talk; but it wasn't. Which is why he'd followed it up by doing what he'd learned from a young age to do: Escape embarrassment in the best way possible by acting confident, even if you didn't really feel it. Inwardly, he chided himself for almost saying "pretty pretty" to describe the glowing dots above them instead. Now wouldn't that have been smooth?
Stanford, having heard his brother-turned-lover's verbal blunder, responded; his voice an odd combination of befuddlement and amusement, his own expression a shy, fond smile with half-lidded eyes. "Well, that's one…eloquent way to put it, Stan," he teasingly answered.
Between the two of them, he felt Stan was probably the better flirt over all, (or just quicker, more frequent at it and more subtle with his tongue, like when he conned) although Stanford didn't want to (outwardly) admit that. Regardless, he savored every attempt Stanley made with him—"successful" or not—as well as the many other moments that the younger twin spoke to Ford, nowadays, and more than ever before. He adored Stanley's gravely, chainsmoker voice that only they knew the onset of. He adored viewing and listening to him, and knowing that Stanley was there— here, with him —and nowhere else; and that he still didn't want to be anywhere else.
" Heh heh , yeah." Stan nervously but good-humoredly chuckled.
"I was, uh…talking about the painting, ya know?" He then expertly lied. He didn't like lying to Stanford, truthfully. Not one bit. Hated it in fact. Especially when the other actually bought it (which happened mere seconds later). Which is why it had always been rare for him to do it. Even so, it was never more than little white ones and those never hurt anyone, now did they? That was something that even the "morally upstanding" people of their world agreed on, he'd noticed.
Ford slightly rounded his lips into an "o"-like shape and raised his eyebrows high.
"Oh?" He began, the first word almost matching his mouth.
"Do you by chance mean "Starry Night" by Vincent Willem van Gogh?"
He'd pronounced the famous artist's full name in such a way that it sounded unfamiliar to Stan (As well as stupidly pervy, yet pre-ten- tious , Sweet Moses! He thought.) but Stan was positive he knew a "Vincent" of some sort, so wasn't without a clue.
"Yep! That one! However, we here in this dimension pronounce the painter's surname as "Go". Shame he had to so soon though!" Stan joked morbidly. (Honestly, he could relate, at one point…)
Ford smirked as an enthusiastic glimmer found its way within his eyes. "Well, actually…"
Hot Belgian Waffles . He was about to Nerd-out over a name and give a lecture worthy of an academic prize, and Stan knew it. Stan hated Ford's lectures, big or small. He also hated how much he secretly enjoyed them. He enjoyed every socializing quirk—every very-much Sixer conversational trait—that the older twin had. He adored the gratuitous finger pointing and intense emphasis on words Stanford chose to focus on, just like he would do when they were younger. He adored witnessing him and realizing that Stanford was right there— within arms reach —and nowhere else; and that he truly wanted to be there and never planned on going anywhere else.
"It's the proud people of our birth country, the so-called United States of America—still can't believe they haven't broken up into separate provinces yet in this dimension, it has to be a coverup—that pronounce the second half of his surname as 'Go'."
Wait, second? So Van wasn't his middle name? Stan's head was spinning already.
"In England and other areas of polite, polished Britain however, they typically pronounce it as "Gof"," Ford continued.
What was the difference between England, Britain and the UK again? Stan couldn't help but momentarily ponder the answer as soon as the question found its way into his mind. He decided seconds later that it probably must have been a country-sized example of a Russian doll situation. Also, that he didn't really care.
"Meanwhile, the French, in all their alluring sophistication, pronounce it as "Gog". The strict, reserved Japanese on the other hand, pronounce it as "Goho"."
Stanley tried not to snicker and cackle over his goofy brother's blatant stereotyping of entire nations, including their own. It's not that it really mattered to Stan much, but it was another reminder that just because this nerdy adventurer had traveled between space and time to different planets, didn't mean he knew a lot about any of them, or even his own planet!
"And the direct, frugal Dutch themselves? They, in fact, pronounce it exactly as I did just a few sentences ago! "Khokh"! Hardly even close to "Go". Can you believe it?"
Stan saw a chance to mess around with Ford and took it.
" Ha-ha! Nope! When'd ya find out about all those earaches? This mornin'?"
"For your information Stan, I've always been aware of Van Gogh's other names, as well as the original, proper pronunciation!" Ford loudly declared, again using that first odd pronunciation for the last name.
"Oh really ? Because, ya see, despite my previous temporary amnesia and me never being anything close to a star student to begin with, I still have some vivid memories from highschool art class—"
It was actually one of the classes—if not the only class—that Stanley would occasionally look up at the board, projector or teacher for, out of sheer curiosity and awe. He'd always loved art and everything related, but…as evidenced by certain commonalities he'd noticed about past artists' lives…it almost never paid well. Not until after the artist was long dead, anyway. RIP creative, avant-garde people and their hopes and dreams.
"—and nowhere in any of those classes—because trust me I would remember if somethin' like this and its aftermath happened—did the words "Fun Cock" leave Mr. Plumpton's lips!"
(Mr. Plumpton had been a relatively short, half-bald, seemingly-lonely, middle aged man who had also been very rotund; to such an extent that it was considered impressive back in those days. Many students at Stan and Ford's old highschool would give him a hard time and even call him names behind his back—and occasionally to his face—such as "Humpty-Dumpty", "Plump one" or "Mr. Weighs-A-Ton". Truthfully, his unaltered last name alone could elicit laughs too, unfortunately. Even so, he seemed to genuinely enjoy art and teaching about it and didn't allow the cruel language of teens to stop him from doing so. Because of all that, Stanley and Stanford had felt sorry for him; sympathizing with him, empathizing with him and then—soon enough—respecting him.)
"He'd never have lived that down, no kid from Glass Shard Beach woulda let him! And ya def'nitely woulda corrected him at some point if you'd somehow magically known better than him back then! It's just how ya are!" Stanley astutely noted, poking fun at (and holes in) Ford's claim about all those surname pronunciations being old knowledge for him.
Stanford, who found it amazing that Stanley actually managed to remember, even now, one of their old teachers' names from highschool that Ford himself had forgotten, began a rebuttal.
"There were and are pl-plenty of other resources besides teachers, that one could use to–to figure something like that out Stanl—"
Seeing Stanley cross his arms over his chest and give Ford a look that yelled out "not impressed"—while still being warm, comical and so, so Stanley— made Ford suddenly stop, then finally give in.
"Fine, fine. I…read about it on the internet."
(Such an extraordinary [yet easily endangering] invention.)
Every time Sixer has tried to mildly lie to Stan, the more muscular twin has immediately sniffed it out. And every time the nerdier twin tried doubling down after being found suspicious, he would quickly end up conceding anyway once he'd been fully exposed by the other. Every. Single. Time. Without fail. It's thankfully been few and far between that he's attempted to (like vise versa), but it had happened before and it never ceases to entertain Stan, how easily he always gets Ford to reveal himself, no matter how sturdy the lie. How does he do it? Must be the fear of the left hook .
" Heh , see? Now was that so hard? I tell ya Sixer, honesty is—"
Now it was Ford's turn to cross his arms over his chest and give his brother the hard stare, as playful as it was judgemental.
"—not the policy that I tend to follow. Which is why it's best to do as I say but not as I do."
The ends of Ford's mouth immediately curled toward his ears and he burst out into laughter. It was so contagious that Stan quickly followed suit and began chuckling boisterously.
Some time later, Ford spoke again interspersing a few chuckles in.
"With heh heh , all due respect, Stanley, heh it's probably best if I do neither."
Stan responded on cue, still in good humor.
" Ha! Ya don't say? I mean really, who else but an experienced wrong-doer like myself would think to still carry a random marker on them at all times, for reasons I won't get into?"
He suddenly pulled out a writing utensil—a marker, in fact—from one of the pockets of his dark brown trench coat and paused for a few moments, allowing for visual examination despite the hour.
(If it had been a rare, official date night, they both may have dressed into something more refined than their usual sailing-getups. If it was currently their agreed-on, routine bedtime, they'd likely both be wearing their pajamas. Instead, they were dressed for neither.)
The marker Stan held appeared to be a black one based on the dark color of its cap, except for the red and gold embellishments covering it which reminded Stanford of the suit and fez Stanley previously wore everyday. As well as Stanford's own attire from just before they began their voyage…and the skins of all three of Ford's original journals…and if he was being honest, it even reminded him of their current, middle age, young adult, teenage and childhood outfits that they'd usually worn. (Wow! They really did admire those colors! Ford acknowledged to himself after some moments.)
Although he didn't mention it, Stan was actually very aware of how interesting-yet-typical his choice of colors for his marker's decoration was. Their shared favorite colors were just never really a secret though, so it wasn't noteworthy.
Stan continued. "Yep, this here refillable marker has helped me out on more than one occasion in the last few years. Speaking of, wanna see a trick?"
Ford raised one skeptical eyebrow. "A "trick", you say?"
" Heh yeah, like a magic trick, of sorts. A revelatory one. Just gotta close your eyes for it."
"Why, so you can draw a mustache and dot a mole on my face?"
"Which you'd wear beauuuutifully. Buuut, no. I'm not gonna pull that type of trick. Promise."
Ford hummed contemplatively, wondering if he could trust a promise from Stan regarding the responsible use of an ink tool.
" Please don't tell me I hav'ta do some sorta "pinkie swear" thingy with you Ford, or whatever it's called that Mabel makes me do when I promise something," Stan grumbled.
Ford audibly laughed over the absurdity of such a thought while also enjoying the warmth it made him feel, knowing all that he now knew about Mabel along with Dipper. Stanley had also amazed him yet again that night, just by saying "please", even if it was only in jest. After all, he was aware that the word—according to his grand niblings—had, for a time, made Stan's skin "burn" at the sound of it.
"No, no need for that. I'll…close my eyes."
And close his eyes he did. Stan then grinned widely in triumph before reaching out for one of Stanford's hands straight away.
The slimmer twin almost gasped at the unexpected contact made with their hands, yet managed to stay quiet as the chubbier twin moved to do whatever it was he wanted to do.
"And keep those eyes closed for me, would ya?" Stan softly warned.
A sound that matched that of a marker cap being removed could be heard. Momentarily worrying Ford. His face was not touched, however, as promised. Only his hands. Specifically—
"Aaand done!" Stanley shouted mirthfully."
—his ring fingers.
Ford looked down and viewed what Stan had marked on them.
All four had a single, thick, dark circle drawn around their circumferences, something Ford was absolutely sure had to be an intentional ring-related reference of some sort, because only Stanley knew him well enough to understand that the "extra fingers" that Ford had (which—as Stanley once wisely noted as a child—couldn't have been extra anyway, if they were meant to be there) were actually another set of ring fingers. Not middle (though he had "double-flipped" his twin off before at said brother's giddy request), not pinkies and definitely not thumbs. Because of course Stanford was born with the rarest form of polydactyly; central (while Stan was somehow neither born with extra digits nor a cleft chin, despite these being dominant traits and despite his being Ford's identical twin brother; something that Ford understood made Stan an anomaly, too, but which he'd never truly figured out the cause of).
Stanford noticed something else was on his fingers as well. Faces. Smiling ones, on all four of them as well. What the flying saucer?
"Stan…?" Ford looked up at him now as his own distinctive, blank, extremely confused expression overtook his face.
"What? After all this time, you're surprised to find out that a major genius hottie like yourself has always had a fan club? Or rather, four forever-supportive spouses." He gestured his own hand toward both of Ford's. "Honestly Sixer, I'm not gonna lie. I'm a little jealous."
Snooorrrrt hehaha. Stanford snorted so harshly that it hurt before breaking off into another fit of laughter. Oh Stanley, what was Stanford going to do with him? His one of a kind brother.
Heh heh–ha ha ha. Stanley once again hooted along with him. Some of his favorite pastimes had always been making Stanford uncontrollably laugh and cheering him up. It always brought him back to another period, perhaps less simple and peaceful than now but somehow still just as cherishable. One where he'd smile and grab his brother by the shoulders after Ford had had a hard day, look straight into his dew-filled eyes and say something like "you're not a freak, Sixer. You're someone amazing that's gonna do amazing things some day, with me and the Stan O' War right behind ya. It's gonna be sun, sea, treasure and babes as far as the eye can see. I know it and soon, everyone else will. Just keep that chin held even higher than you keep your grades". And Stanford would then chuckle at his words before completely tearing up and falling onto Stan's chest as his knees buckled, probably due to the weight of the emotional release and—Stan always figured, hoped really—because Ford liked feeling Stan's arms immediately wrap around him in a tight, close embrace; and liked giving the same back, moments later. Stan felt like he was reliving such a moment right then.
"But doesn't that mean you technically have two yourself, though?" Ford asked, genuinely curious what Stan's answer would be.
"Oh, heck no! Not even one! See?" He wiggled all ten of his uninked fingers in front of the man with the intimidatingly larger amount of twelve.
"Marriage wasn't and probably never will be for me…" He trailed off, quiet for some time.
Stanford's mind immediately jumped to the knowledge of how Stanley had actually managed to get married before—unlike Ford—but that it only lasted for under a day, with nothing to show for it afterward but a newfound talent for car-chasing, his retrieved wallet and a broken heart, as well as even taller, thicker walls. No matter what Stan might have said or done beforehand to upset her (Ford had no way of truly knowing), he doubted it warranted such a reaction. Marilyn honestly sounded like a contemptible woman to Ford. Conning someone out of their belongings (maybe even multiple people) using a promise of everlasting love as a lure? Foul. He knew Stanley would never do that to someone, and he could only imagine how devastating the realization must have been for him. Stanford also couldn't help but wonder if…if he himself would have fallen prey to her scheme—or that of anyone like her-–had such a seemingly-promising chance shown itself to him (and if he'd ever had the confidence to even just ask anyone out before). After all, he'd already risked far more for a far less believable and even more ridiculous-in-hindsight promise, from the eyelids of a demon whose memory now felt like an old, faded dream.
"...And if I tried marrying my fingers, they might just pop off from the joints and leave hours later! And I, uh, kinda need them, ya know?" Stan finished.
Ford gave a small smile at Stan, secretly somber. It was always so jarring to hear Stanley speak so lowly of himself, even now. Maybe especially now. His brother's sense of humor, as far back as he could remember, had included occasional self-deprecatory jabs. He never realized that—or maybe didn't want to think about how—it had been Stanley's genuine feelings about himself; that Stanley's self-esteem had always been so minute. It had been so obvious, too. The signs had always been there… A part of Ford had always, constantly convinced himself that he was largely to blame for it:
From the way he allowed his brother to think he had little else to offer but his muscles and jokes in comparison to Ford, rarely bothering to correct Stanley or others who said so, especially as they grew older; to hardly ever offering to help Stanley with his education troubles, despite the fact it would have been no skin off his nose; to allowing Stanley to get himself flogged, flayed and flared everyday in the name of protecting Stanford and his stupid extra fingers, sacrificing many things, including the chance at friendships with other normal children. On more than one occasion, Stan had come home with many noteworthy injuries due to being ganged up on by neighborhood bullies that weren't looking to play fair those days. He'd always just shrugged it off after. "Imma tough guy, Ford. I'll be fine." He'd always say, with a blackened eye and bloody nose, to a horrified Stanford, while their parents looked on in silence; one clearly sorrowful and distressed, the other shaded, jaded and expressionless… These guilty thoughts, rightly or wrongly, gnawed at Ford a lot. Why didn't he take boxing more seriously, so he could have protected himself ? Or so he could have protected Stanley , just once? Why—
Noticing his partner's current silence and the look on his face which seemed so, well, sad all of a sudden, made Stan's belly twist. He knew that look. Knew it far too well. Not least of all because he'd carried it on his own face far too many times before, which now made him once again recall how he had felt whenever he looked within a mirror, prior to getting his brother back (but this time in reverse). He attempted to grab Ford's attention again to get his mind out of the abyss.
" Heh heh yeah, plural marriage. That's one crime I'm not interested in committing. I've heard it's still legal in some other countries though."
Ford blinked like he'd just been woken up from a disturbing stupor, then responded good-humoredly.
"Oh, so that's where I got away with it 3 times?"
"I don't know where or how you did it, Sixer. I just hope you'll be willing to share one."
Stan suddenly grabbed Ford's hand again.
"Because she—"
He pointed at one of Ford's marker-ringed, face-covered fingers.
"—is pretty cute."
He then pressed his lips to "her", and began smooching Ford's finger.
Stanford was stunned by this at first; eyes large and mouth shaped like a slightly agape pocket.
Then he lost it. He snickered and cackled and huffed over the absolute outlandishness of it all. By the time he recomposed himself, he'd literally been tickled pink to the point it showed all over his cheeks and he was struggling to breathe. Only then did Stanley pull his lips away for a few seconds, having also let a few snorts and chortles slip out under his breath during the kissing.
"But to be honest, the other three aren't half bad looking either. And I don't wanna give off the impression that I don't appreciate them too, 'specially when there's enough of me to go around!" Stan hollered.
He then chose to kiss the finger right next to the one he'd just given attention to. Then another, the third one on the other hand, and finally, the last one standing. Each one got a whopping amount of Stan's affection while Ford looked on, trying not to laugh again. When he pulled away completely to gaze at the older twin with deep, hickory eyes, with crows feet that curled upward due to Stan's enormous, genuine smile, Ford felt a tight warmth make its way into his chest and slowly spread. He looked at his and Stan's hands; one of Stan's still holding on to Ford's other, bolstering them both.
Ford moved his other hand toward the two conjoined ones and grabbed Stan's, maneuvering it so that the palm was facing upward, slightly startling Stanley in the process. Once again, despite the darkness, Stanford examined what was before him:
Stanley's hands—specifically the one he was holding and analyzing—were rough, to put it simply and nicely. It wasn't just that he could feel a very firm, calloused texture over every area of the palm he rubbed with his thumb. He could also see, quite easily, the undoubtedly not-age related damage that had been done: old cuts and gashes; all healed but with varying degrees of lasting scarring, one in particular appearing comparatively recent. There were bruises too, perhaps less serious than broken skin but still saddening to see. Some were greenish-blue splotches, most if not all likely from punching aggressive anomalies during their journeys, with the fervor of an angry bull; blackish-indigo areas where capillaries looked to have burst, leaving permanent damage. All of this he only just now truly noticed on Stanley's hand…
They had previously talked to each other about what life was like for them all the years they were apart (as well as before the dreaded science fair aftermath and during the absolute insanity that was Weirdmageddon) and what situations, misunderstandings and past regrets had led to their pre-reconciliation worldviews; sharing their deepest apologies. It's why Stanley these days supported and uplifted Stanford again like when they were young but with a new empathetic awareness present that both knew no one else on their Earth would ever reach, if they could help it. It's why Stan had tried at first to give Sixer a fair amount of space at all times to breath, only for him to practically jump Ford with relieved adoration when his brother, having a seemingly long-lost, oh-so-familiar nervousness to him, asked Stan why he was being distant and what Ford had done wrong, before answering Stan's assumption by making it clear he wanted to be near Stanley as much as possible at all times, while they were still able.
It's why Stanford these days was far more sympathetic to Stanley—even if he couldn't be equally (or close to equally) empathetic in return in every way—and often tried his best to comfort and encourage the younger twin during the rare times his recollected memories or emotions would truly get to him, even when Stan would still attempt to hide it from Ford, like old times. It's why he often feels ghosts of panic attacks brew within him, whenever he can't find Stan for even just a few moments only for Stanley to quickly pop up and assure that he's still breathing. Stanford knew—truly understood now—that life had rarely, if ever, been kind to his other half; his better half. It hurt him deeply to think that he'd ever played a role in the neverending flogging and constant rejections Stanley had been through.
Stanford did nothing but continue to hold Stanley's hand for some time, clearly lost in thought.
" Yeeesh Sixer, you sure do love thinking and studying . Not that that's new or nothin'." Stanley finally noted, puzzled but interested, grinning and feeling a touch anxious. He couldn't help but wonder what the reciprocated hand grabbing had been about.
Stanford looked up from their hands at last to smile tenderly at him.
"That's not all I love, though."
He suddenly pulled Stan's hand up while pushing his own face down, pressing his lips to Stanley's hand in a fashion similar to what Stan had done to Ford's hand earlier. He began kissing the tips of Stanley's fingers before moving ever so slowly, lower.
"Uh! Uhm…I uh–I…" Stanley stuttered, not knowing how he could possibly respond to this completely unexpected action. His face then grew bright red and he puffed up his cheeks before looking away to the side, as Ford continued.
Even now, Stanley sometimes struggled with receiving affection, especially the physically-close, love-dovey sort (not completely unlike Stanford). Stanford felt he deserved every available pinch though and had made it his mission now to make sure he got it.
After giving many pecks, Ford felt brave; enough that he worked up the courage to ask Stan something bold.
"Stanley?" Ford, who had flipped Stan's hand over again to work on the other side, paused on osculating one of the knuckles.
"Y-yes, Stanford?" Stan was still looking to his side instead of directly at Ford and his own hand, still cherry in the cheeks and flustered.
"Do you…really not think you could ever marry again?"
Stanley was quiet for a moment before responding. "Well…there's maybe one person I think I could consider visitin' a courthouse one last time for. Ya know, if I didn't think we'd both be laughed outta the place on sight or thrown in a loony bin. Or a straight up prison for a minimum a' five years."
The last part seemed like oddly specific knowledge, though Ford didn't prod about it (nor think about it). Instead he doubled down with trying to imply what he wanted to before.
"Then would you perhaps marry this person privately and on your own terms, if this person wanted to as well?" Ford's own cheeks were pink now and he'd looked to his side as he spoke, avoiding Stan's possible expression as much as Stan had been avoiding his.
Those words however, convinced Stanley to turn and look directly at his brother. Now seeing Stanford's own embarrassment covering his features, he grinned cheekily—almost coyly, fluttering his eyelashes—and answered the question with a question: " Are they asking, though?"
Stanford stumbled. "Oh! Uhh…yes, this–this person—it's one person, so "they" is not necessary—is definitely interested in that. He would most certainly like to…ask…for your hand …"
He looked down at the one he still held in his.
"...in marriage." He looked up at the man in front of him, their eyes locking, hickory brown to fondue brown.
Stanley's grin widened. That silly brother of his and his knack for ruining (or almost ruining) moments with grammar corrections.
(There really should have existed a common, singular, genderless term that worked even better than "they" by now, though. The younger twin thought.)
Stan then raised his hand that had yet to be touched that night and grabbed Ford's own slightly-less-attended-to hand with it, so that they were both holding one of the other's. He moved his face forwards and pressed his lips to Ford's. The kiss quickly changed from soft and sweet to deep and passionate once they both put in their all. Soon, Stan momentarily pulled away to speak once more.
"Well, I thought he'd never ask!"
They began planning right after.
Author's Note #2: Here's a link to the article I mainly used to help me a little with this fic (ignore the particular news source if you need to, it won't change anything) which explains some different pronunciations for "Van Gogh", for those who want it. You can pretend in-story that a webpage (or multiple) that was similar to this one, is what Stanford read on the subject, but with a name that's more fitting for the Gravity Falls world. I'm a sad person, I know:
style/article/van-gogh-gbr-intl-scli
So where do you think Stan got all the marks and scars on his hands from, in this fic? Each individual one, I mean. In-series we're told where at least one of them came from(assuming Stan was telling the truth) and we see the injury that caused another, but that's it.
I really liked seeing the blushing faces Stan and Ford had on while watching walkthroughs of that one fan-made Dating Simulator ages ago, which are what I was kinda thinking of while typing those portions of this fic out.
Also, to those that can type up a fanfic without letting emotions control them/get in the way and without allowing saltiness over unresolved in-universe plot points/mysteries hinder you, I salute you! I find it very hard and fandom doesn't always make it easier. Still, I like to think I managed okay here. Hope you enjoyed reading!
P.S. I think I have an incest-shipping problem, as well as a character-fully-commits-to-other-character "kink" (AKA I love when they marry/settle down permanently with each other after knowing from the start that they're with "the one"). Or maybe I'm just drawn to borderline-obsessive ships where such behavior makes sense for those involved haha.