Stanley and Stanford on a quiet night during their high sea adventures, post canon events.

Ford and Stan had been at sea for a little over three months. December was settling over the port town they pulled into, somewhere in Mexico. Stan still knew a little Spanish from his wandering youth and it translated well enough that, in broken phrases and gestures, he was able to get docking for the night and a room at a nearby motel. Stan had spent so much time knee deep in snow in Oregon it was a nice change to walk through a mild balmy late afternoon. The sun was starting to sink but there was still light enough to walk by. Stan stopped for a moment on the docks, looking over the line of boats anchored there. The water glistened, familiar and foriegn. Sea birds cawed above him. He tucked his fists into his coat pocket. He never thought this would ever be more than a dream - travelling the world, his brother beside him, family waiting back home who'd be happy to see him. He thought of Dipper and Mable, that they'd home for winter break soon. His heart swelled.

He felt like a better man than he'd ever been.

He returned to the ship with the good news. Ford was already buried in books and papers for the night. Stan sighed and started throwing some clothes into his duffle bag and told Ford to do the same, they were headed to a motel.

"Motel?" Ford questioned, barely turning from his papers "We can just stay on the Stan o' War. Why waste the money on a motel?

"Why not? Come on, pointdexter, let's see a little of the real world. It's not all monsters and aliens and...tentacles. How about some dames and drinks, huh? Something normal."

Stanford swivled in his chair to look up at his brother now. "I think we left normal lives behind long ago." Stan lobbed an empty bag at his brother. It thudded against his stomach soundly.

"Not me." Stan said stubbornly. Ford smiled softly at his brother and started tucking books and papers into the bag. Maybe some dames and drinks wouldn't be so bad.

Being back with his brother had not been as easy as Ford had hoped. He hoped that now things would settle and they could just be The Pines Twins again, the Dynamic Duo. But there was a deep cavern of years and hurt between them that he didn't know how to cross. The silence seemed to envelope them whenever they weren't chasing a lead or fighting some monster. Stan was not exactly an open book and turned most conversations into a joke. Ford never really knew what was going on in his head. He thought being together again would make him feel whole but, sometimes, he felt more alone than ever. Like the man sitting across from him was a ghost of the brother he knew.

He stood elbow to elbow with Stan now, silently gathering laundry into their matching bags. Was it worth coming back like this? Was it worth being here with Stan if they didn't feel like brothers anymore? Maybe he should just admit it was a bad idea and part ways. Maybe Stan didn't even want to be with him. Maybe they really had been better off seperated. Stan had managed to build a life for himself, sham or not, and maybe Ford didn't fit into it.

Stan, as if sensing his brother's inward spiralling, nudged him with his elbow. Ford looked and was met with Stan's practiced rakish grin. He didn't say anything. Just held his gaze unflinchingly. Knowingly. Ford offered a tentative smile back. The worries melted away for the moment.

They clambered out of the ship together. The shadows were getting longer and the bite in the air was getting sharper. Stan produced a small slip of paper and directed them to the motel.

"There she is." Stan said after they'd been walking several minutes, trotting ahead a little, pointing at a dilapidated building. "El Motel Para Ratas." A flickering neon sing in the window declared vacant rooms. Stan opened the door and greeted the clerk confidently. With very little fuss, they found their room for the night. Ford thanked the indifferent clerk and followed his brother down a short cold hallway to a door marked 618.

The room was cramped by two sagging single beds. An ancient CRT tv sat on a rickety table. The bathroom doorway showed a grimy shower stall and toilet/sink combo. Ford made a face. Their quarters on the ship were better than this.

"Not bad!" Stan announced, dropping his bag unceremoniously on the floor "You can hardly smell the mold."

"Stanley, this is deplorable." Ford said with a curled nose "I spent time in Garbage Dimensions cleaner than this. Let's just stay on the ship."

"Don't be so soft, Sixxer, this is luxury compared to some places I've crashed. Once I spent a whole night in a fresh compost heap in Witchita in the middle of summer. Slept like a baby." Stan was already pulling off his shoes, falling into one of the beds. He motioned to the TV "You think there's a remote for that thing?"

There was that cavern between them again, opening up. Swallowing him whole. He pictured his brother curled on a pile of food scraps and dirt and wondered how he'd ever come to that. He thought about that night, his father throwing him to the sidewalk.

Maybe Stan was just lying but, when he said things like that, Ford felt like his brother was far away from him and there was no way for them to meet again. He sat on the bed next to his brother's, it creaked loudly underneath him. Stan had already procured the remote and was flipping contently through snowy channels filled with chatter he had no way of understanding. Standford clawed desperately across this distance.

"Did that really happen?" Ford asked.

"Did what happen?" Stan echoed.

"Witchita. Did you really spend a night in a compost pile?"

"Sure, but it wasn't so bad. What about you, are Garbage Dimensions a real thing?"

"They very much are, Stanley. You wouldn't believe the smell."

"Probably smells better than you do." Stan laughed at his own joke. Ford nodded and scratched his head nervously. An old tick he never shook.

"Sounds like you've had some adventures of your own." Ford said. Stan shrugged, grunted and continued watching TV. He'd settled on some game show or other. It was incomprehensible to Ford. He couldn't tell if it the players were answering trivia or spelling words or just making noises. The flickering light and stacatto speech filled the air between them. Ford looked at his brother, searching for a lifeline.

"Where did you go? You know...after..." Ford couldn't say it. Stan's eyes didn't leave the screen but his voice became closed and sharp.

"After pop threw me out?" He offered.

"...yeah."

Stan shrugged and settled deeper into the lumpy pillow he was resting on.

"You know me, I can make it anywhere. No high school diploma, no job, no ties...I had the whole world on a platter. I travelled wherever I wanted, I was my own man, Fordsie. The world was my oyster! Did a couple odd jobs here and there, picked up girls in every town, was the envy of every sucker stuck in a nine to five!"

Stan had a way of using a lot of words to say nothing at all. It was both admirable and infuriating. Ford rested his elbows on his knees.

"You know, I wish I had been there when dad passed."

Stan looked at his brother now. Ford was staring hard at the faded carpet on the floor. Stan sat up and mirrored his pose. The room was so small their knees nearly touched. He laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Fordsie." He'd been greiving for almost 2 decades now, the pain was familiar. It was raw and new for Standford.

"It was sudden, they said." he added, "Dad never felt a thing."

"That sounds like dad." Stanford said bitterly. It was meant to a joke but it rung too true in the room. The silence weighed heavily over the two of them. Standford broke it first.

"When I went away to college, I called him up. Dad. On his birthday and on Father's day. He never had much to say to me. Then one year, I got so busy with exams that I forgot to call him. I just...forgot. When I called to apologize the next day, he acted like he didn't even notice. He was so disappointed in me."

"In you!?" Stan nearly shouted. Ford flinched at the noise. Stan laughed, a hearty belly laugh that rolled all around the room "You been drinking the sea water, Sixxer? I was the screw up, remember? Last time I saw dad was when I was 17 years old and he tossed me to the curb. You were his pride and joy. You were everyone's favorite little nerd."

Stanford rubbed his forehead and buried his face in his hands. He remembered bringing home his report cards - all As, all advanced courses. His bachelors, his masters, his doctorate. To the same impassive response, the same cold congratulations pried from somewhere shallow and dishonest. It was never enough. His mother hugging him tightly. "Oh, you know how your father is." She'd assure him. "We're both so proud of you."

Walking on eggshells every moment he was home. Dancing around the ghost of Stanley that haunted their once-shared bedroom. Stanford left after graduation but the feeling was always there, everytime he came home to visit.

Stanley hadn't died but they didn't speak of him. They acted as if he'd never been born at all. He was worse than a ghost - an echo that no one was allowed to acknoweledge. Standford went on.

"He thought science would bring the family money and respect. But it never did. Science isn't about accolades and he never understood that. I was never going to be the millionaire he wanted me to be." He didn't raise his face from his hands as he spoke. "And I lost everything trying to prove to him I was worth something. I lost my friends, my career, my family. And it was never enough. By the time I called you, I was sleep-deprived and half crazy. I was barely coherent and we argued and... It was all for...nothing."

The beds creaked as Stan moved and sat next to Stanford. He put an arm around him. Ford did not reject it but didn't return the gesture.

"Hey, don't beat yourself up. You got me back. You got the kids, now. And we're out here on the adventure we always wanted." Stan said "Everything is okay, now."

Stanford felt tears sting his eyes. Everything okay? How could everything could just be okay, just like that? After everything he'd said and done, how could Stan sit there and tell him everything was alright again?

"Come on, Sixxer, let's get some fresh air." Stan said, nudging him.

They tugged their shoes on and walked into the night. Street lights threw pockets of lights in the darkness. The sidewalk was busy with folks headed home from work. Stan slid easily into the flow and happily took in the sights around him. Standford felt watched and crowded. He walked upright and rigid, eyes sharp on the people around him.

"Hey look!" Stan said, grabbing his brother's arm. He ran ahead of Stanford, dragging him into a blinking noisy cacophony. Ford felt his heartrate spike and panic crawl up his neck. It was too loud, too bright, too much. A thousand different dimensions flashed in his mind. A thousand threats. He reached under his coat and pawed for where his gun should be.

"A boardwalk arcade, just like back home!" Stan announced. Ford looked at his brother, bathed in pink neon, the shadows distorting his face. His heart pounded in his ears. How could he get out, get away?

"Stanley, I'm too old for this." He said and started backing away.

Stan looked at his brother. His eyes were wide, his pupils dialated. A sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was ghostly white.

"Oh alright," Stan said, uncharacteristically accommodating. "Let's just go down to the beach." He grabbed his brother firmly by the elbow and guided him. Out. Away. Stanford felt like that hand on him was the only thing that kept him from entirely imploding. The world went dark around him.

Stanford came back to himself several minutes later, sitting on a dark beach looking at the black ocean. How long had he'd been sitting there? The waning moon hung firmly in the sky. The sounds and lights of the arcade was distant and muffled. He felt his breath, was able to breathe deeply again. The panic subsided. He felt the cold wet sand under his fingers, heard the comforting crash of waves, smelled the salt air. Stan was a few feet away, reclined easily in the sand, eyes fixed on the dim stars above. Standford wiped sweat from his brow.

"Feeling better, Sixxer?" Stan asked, noticing his brother. Stanford nodded.

"I'm...I'm sorry." He stammered. Stan waved his apologies away.

"I'm dumb but I'm not stupid. I know when you're in over your head." Stan said and settled back into his observations of the heavens. Standford felt a flash of hot intense anger. How could be so at ease? How could he be so nonchalant? Hadn't he faced Bill, hadn't he seen hell in his wake? Didn't any of it mean anything to him? How could he be so damned calm?

"This is nice, Fordsie." Stan said unprompted. This took Ford aback. He waited but Stan offered no other commentary. The anger that flashed in him disappeared just as instantly and he just felt tired. He felt old and tired. He fell backwards into the sand and looked up at the stars. The light pollution from the city made the sky almost completely black. The sound of the waves erased his thoughts. He slowly came back into his body. He thought about the boardwalk, the arcade. He felt guilty for how he reacted.

"Wanna go back to the arcade? I haven't played ski-ball in years." Standford asked. Stan sat up.

"You bet! Let's see if you're still Sixxer the ski-ball king!" Stan leapt to his feet and helped Ford up. Stan had always been athletic. His body took to the strain of sailing, easily rebulding muscles he'd once had. He hoisted his brother to his feet without any struggle.

Back at the arcade, Stanford felt on edge but manageably so. He felt like he stood on the edge of a canyon looking down but on firm ground. Something about coming on the noise so unexpectedly had affected him. He stuck close to Stan and felt okay. They weaved through the crowd until they came upon a ski-ball machine. Ford patted his pockets.

"Stanley, we don't have any--" but Stan was already loading coins into the machine.

"Still got these magic fingers." He said, winking.

"More like sticky fingers." Ford chided but he smiled. A row of heavy plastic balls slid down the shoot and Ford reached for one and picked it up. The pitted heavy plastic exploded his sense memory. The ground crumbled beneath him.

Suddenly he was nine years old again. His brother at his side, on the boardwalk in the hot summer air of New Jersey, and everything really was okay. There was no monsters or nightmares. The world was small and safe. He felt tears sting and this time he wasnt able to stop them. He fell to his knees, the ski-ball thudding to the ground. He buried his face in his hands, sobbing like a little boy. Heaving, shaking crying that he couldn't control.

"Stanford? Are you okay?" Stan dropped to one knee beside him. Ford couldn't catch his breath around the sobs to speak.

Stan looked around nervously. People were beginning to stare. Several people approached and spoke but Stan growled at them.

"What, you've never seen a man cry over a ski-ball game? Mind your own business!" He barked at them. They didn't understand him, of course, but they hesitated at his tone. Turning back to his brother, he lowered his voice. Soft and low, he said "Fordsie, talk to me."

"Stan, I wanna go home." Ford hiccuped through his fingers. Stan nodded.

"Okay, kid, let's go home." He said and guided him brother to his feet.

Back at the motel, Stanford was able to regain his compsure for the second time that night. He washed his face in embarassed silence.

"You wanna tell me what that was all about?" Stan asked, not unkindly, kicking his shoes off again. Ford braced himself on the edge of the sink. He was shivering. He felt fragile. He felt like a single word would shatter him into a thousand pieces.

"Stanley, I wanna go home." He said softly, barely above a breath. Like a prayer.

"What, like, back to the Shack? I mean, with the weather this time of year we'd have to--"

"No, I want to go back. To when we were kids. I wanna go back to Jersey. I want another chance. I don't want to miss those 40 years together. It isn't fair." Stanford said. His voice rose. "I want mom and dad and Shermie and the pawn shop and the apartment. I want it all back!" He pounded his fist into the metal sink and pain radiated through his knuckles and wrist. There noise reverberated and resolved into a buzzing silence.

"Talk about wanting what you can't have, Sixxer." Stan said.

"I know." He whispered, the fight gone out of him. He hated how his emotions came in these waves, lately. Strong sudden crashes of feeling and then dragging lonely nothingness. He felt like he never knew, one second to the next, how he'd react to anything. Stan walked over and stood next to his brother. Ford looked at their faces in the mirror. Soft and forgien old men's faces. "I know."

"Come on, kid, let's get some rest." Stan said, patting his back. Ford smiled wryly.

"Why do you keep calling me that? I'm not a kid. And we're twins, for heaven's sake, we're the same age!"

"Ma always said I was born first."

"Yeah, well, she told me the same thing."

"Everyone always lies to the little brother." Stan shrugged, smug and smiling.

"That's means it is the exact same probability she'd be lying to you!" Ford argued.

"Nah, no one ever lies to the oldest kid!"

Ford knew that Stan was needling him on purpose. Trying to get him out of his own head. Ford was prone to overthinking and Stan combated it expertly with under- thinking.

Ford pounced on him, surprising his usually rough and tumble brother, and manage to grapple him playfully in a headlock. They wrestled lightly against each other. Stan was clearly stronger but Ford managed to keep his hold.

"Say uncle!" He teased, like a child.

"Grunkle!" Stan shouted back. Ford released him and they sat on the floor together, out breath from their momentary tussle. Stan brushed his knuckles affectionately across his brother's chin. Ford felt the ocean of broiling emptions inside him still but Stanley was still here. That was something, at least. Some anchor he could cling to.

"I only let you win because I'm older and it wouldn't be fair."

"Oh, shut up, Stanley."

That night, like most nights, Ford slept fitfully. His mind plagued with monsters and nightmares and regrets. Stan didn't sleep. He watched his brother tossing and turning and thought about what he'd said, about going home. He was jealous.

Going home had never been an option for him like it was for Stanford. He could complain about dad being cold and mom being a liar all he wanted but at least he had them. At least they wanted Stanford. Stanley had just been the two-for-one deal they never asked for.

Stanford mumbled in his sleep. Stan had no idea what sort of demons plagued his brother at night. Weird, unholy, supernatural thoughts. He had hoped Ford could be happy, here with him, but maybe that was asking too much. Maybe he'd just gone too far into the Otherside. Maybe he was right, maybe they had given up their chance at a normal life long ago.

He thought of the look on Ford's face at the boardwalk. The panic and fear. He'd seen it before, mostly in prison. Guys who'd suddenly snap and go ballistic. Guys who would scream at night. The county shrink had a name for it he couldn't remember. But he knew what it looked like and the way it looked on his brother tore him up inside. Where there had once been curiosity, there was suspiscion. Where there had been wonder, there was fear. Where there had been fun and excitement there was only angry determination, now.

Stanley was restless. He stood and went to the bathroom, looked at himself in the mirror. What about him? In all these years, what had turned hard and bitter in him? What had the world crushed out of him? He didn't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe it didn't matter. A person couldn't be a little boy forever. Maybe growing up meant having all the soft things inside you turned into callouses and scars.

A sharp gasp and the whine of the bedsprings behind him made him turn. Ford was sitting upright in bed, panting and holding his chest. His eyes were wide and searching.

"Stanley?" He gasped looking at the empty bed.

"Over here, Stanford. You okay?"

"I thought you were gone." Ford let out a forced chuckle and joked "Thought maybe you were finally sick of me and left."

"Sorry, Fordsie. Youre stuck with me for good. Bad dream?"

"yeah... just a bad dream."

"Lets get some rest. we gotta ship out bright and early. Weird science junk waits for no one."

Stan patted his brother on the shoulder as he passed him, back to his own bed. He pretended not to feel him trembling.

"Good idea. Goodnight, Stanley."

"Goodnight, Stanford."