Archive of Our Own

Stan sits up with a gasp. He’s already forgotten the nightmare that woke him up. Rain taps against his window as a low roll of thunder growls out in the distance. Otherwise, the room is dark and quiet.

He looks at his own hands, curling each finger in turn. The smallest finger confuses him. Are these my hands?

“My name is… Stan?” He rolls the name around his head a few times. “Stan Pines. I’m in Gravity Falls, Oregon, and today is September 13—”

He checks his alarm clock.

“September 14, 2012. I’ve just woken up from a dream that I can’t remember, but that’s okay.”

How is this okay?

Stan grits his teeth. “My name is—”

I can’t remember anything! Who the hell am I?!

“Stan Pines—”

Lightning briefly lights up the room, thunder booms again. Rain hits the glass.

Am I Stan Pines?

Stan takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, and starts over from the top. “My name is Stan Pines. I’m in Gravity Falls Oregon…”

-

Early morning sun is streaming through the curtains. Ford turns his head from the glare, causing his glasses to catch on the sleeve of his coat and end up squashed against his nose. He sighs heavily. A mature adult would accept that it’s time to start the day, so Ford adjusts his frames and extracts himself from the chair.

The basement has changed in the short weeks he and Stan have been living together. The only remains of the portal are a few wires still clinging to the walls, and the empty space has been filled with Ford’s temporary projects. He wants to finish a few things before they leave for what Mabel has been calling “The Adventure-Cation of a Lifetime”. It also gives the older Pines twins time to repair
a. the Mystery Shack
b. their relationship, and
c. Stan’s memories.
None of those are going quickly, but if Ford has learned anything, it’s that sometimes things develop at their own pace. And besides, he’s spent a lifetime hopping from place to place in a hurry. Some time in one spot is a refreshing change.

Ford peels his latest journal from his face and stumbles towards the stairs. His back and legs complain about sleeping in a chair. Getting old is rough.

Ford exits through the vending machine and treks through the winding house to the kitchen, where Stan is standing in front of the fridge. He’s studying a can of Pitt Cola like it might hold the secret to life’s mysteries. In the time since Stanley regained his memories, Ford has learned to read him roughly 75% of the time. He looks Stan over, carefully taking in the details: wrinkled pajamas, no slippers, and a confused expression aimed at his favorite brand of soda.

“Hi, Stanley,” he says, deliberately loud.

Stan starts. He fumbles the can, turning sharply toward the noise. “Uh. Hi.”

Ford gently takes the soda cracks it open. “You doing okay?” He asks, handing it back.

“Yeah.” Stan takes the can, but doesn’t drink. “Just… frustrated, I guess?”

“Do you remember me?” Ford asks. He takes Stan’s arm and gently leads him to the table.

“Kind of. I know you, but there’s too much going on,” he says, yanking the pull tab off the soda can.

Ford sighs. Stanley is dissociating again. Fugues like these have been common since his memories started coming back. The memory gun seems to have shuffled his neural connections a bit, leading to dissociative episodes the seem to be decreasing frequency. This one breaks a three day amnesia-free streak.

He carefully slides the Pitt Cola out of Stan’s hands. “You’ll cut yourself if you drink it now. Do you want it in a glass, or should I make some coffee?”

“Coffee sounds good,” Stan replies. He chews on the tab while Ford sets up the coffee machine. It’s a fifteen-year old nightmare that needs to be hit in very precise ways before it will do its job. Ford briefly thinks about coffee machines blueprints he's studied in the past and wondering what kind of materials he'd need to upgrade this one. He could probably file the cost with the Mystery Shack repair receipts.

“Don’t eat that,” Ford says as Stan works the tab between his teeth.

“What even counts as eating,” Stan grumbles, but he surrenders the piece of metal when Ford holds out his hand for it.

“Eating is the consumption of nutrition. Metal is not something generally considered necessary to human dietary needs.” Ford tosses the pull tab in the recycle bin. Neither he nor Stanley have strong feelings about the environment, but Mabel insisted on a separate bin for recyclable materials. It’s labeled in pink glitter. Neither of them want to buy a more stoic trash can.

“What about junk food? There is zero nutritional value in that stuff, but people eat it all the time.” Stan starts chewing on his nails.

Ford spots the new habit and makes a mental note to log it later. He’s been carefully monitoring his brother’s behaviors to makes sure his recovery goes smoothly. Although, to be fair, he doesn’t know if Stanley had a nail-biting habit before his brain was erased. Ford makes another note to ask the kids about it in their next conversation. “Alright, let’s say that eating is the consumption of things that the human body can digest.”

“What about eating disorders? Some people have eating disorders that—”

“Just don’t eat metal,” Ford says.

The coffeepot gives a final gurgle.

Stan rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment further. Ford pours two cups of coffee and sets out the milk. Stan looks at it the container for a moment, then adds milk to his coffee until the mug overflows.

“Volume is weird,” he says, still pouring milk into the growing puddle.

With a sigh, Ford pries the milk from Stan’s fingers and grabs a paper towel to sop up the mess. He’s never been a good caretaker, but for Stanley, he’ll do his best. “Okay, I don’t think you need coffee right now. It’s still pretty early, do you want to watch TV? They sometimes play one of your favorite movies on public access at,” he checks his collection of watches and runs a few calculations to determine the time, “Six in the morning.”

“Okay,” Stan says, watching as Ford takes the mug, “What is it?”

They haven’t found time to buy a decent couch, so there are now two threadbare armchairs set up in front of the TV. Half an hour into The Duchess Approves, Stan is asleep in his chair while Ford clutches a box of ice cream to his chest and whispers, “It’s just like my life.”

-

Stanley wanders back into the kitchen a few hours later. He scrubs at his eyes and mumbles, “Morning, Poindexter.”
Ford smiles and sets two steaming bowls of soup on the tables. “All your memories back in place, then?”

“Yeah, except this morning. I got nothing.” Stanley wanders to the silverware drawer and pulls out two spoons. After some consideration, he flips on the coffee maker for a fresh pot. “So, what’s the damage?”

“We’re out of milk, but that’s about it.”

Stanley makes a face. “Milk is gross, why did we have milk in the first place?”

“I like milk,” Ford says, setting a pack of crackers on the table, “It’s got a good protein to fat ratio.”

“It is literally taken from inside of a living creature. That is the definition of gross,” Stanley says, snagging a cracker from the box.

“You eat meat,” Ford points out, “The definition is meat is—”

Stanley glares and pointedly slurps his soup. Ford laughs and stirs his bowl. They eat together in companionable silence.

The summer weather is stretching into fall, making the afternoon warm without being hot. Ford thinks about finishing his current projects so they can go treasure hunting together. While he’s more than ready to get the expedition underway (partly to alleviate his own guilt, but mostly because Stanley has been dreaming about this for forty years and Ford likes to see him happy), it would be irresponsible to start before Stanley’s memory is firmly restored. It’s doing an admirable job, occasional lapse aside, but Ford wants to make absolutely sure they’re ready for this.

“Here, this is for you,” he says, placing a hardback book on the table. The cover painted a deep red and with gold metal corners, and has Stanley’s Mister Mystery emblem embossed in the center.

Stanley examines the book from all angles with an extremely unimpressed expression. “A diary?”

Ford returns the look. “You worked from my journals for thirty years, you know they’re not diaries.”

“Yeah, but you were writing down important scientific crap. I don't know any important scientific crap.” His eyes light up, “Are you asking me to write down important scamming crap? Are we gonna con suckers for a living?”

“What? No, Lee, do not write things down that could incriminate us in a court of law,” Ford snaps. He clears his throat to recompose himself. “Journals are for keeping records, and with what you're going through, having a record of your day-to-day life could be important.”

Stanley tests the weight of the book in his hand. “That sounds like a diary to me.”

“When you black out, reading about your own life might end the episode faster.” Ford carefully doesn't mention how much he hates seeing his brother reduced to a blank slate, polite and well-mannered and nothing like the Stanley he knows. He pulls out the big guns. “Just give it a shot for me, will you?”

Stanley flips through the pages with disdain, but Ford knows he won’t refuse an outright request from his dear older brother. “Alright,” Stanley says, “But you’d better not read it. Maybe I should write things in code, like you do.”

“You wouldn’t remember the code when you need to read the journal,” Ford points out, stirring his soup. It looks cool enough to eat now. “Write about things that happen, like what you’re doing today or our call with the kids tonight.”

The excitement of seeing Dipper and Mabel seems to override Stanley’s disappointment that Ford isn’t following him into a life of crime. Ford breathes a quiet sigh. He’d been worried that Stanley would take one look at the idea and chuck it. They chat about the kids through the rest lunch. Dipper and Mabel will be finishing their third week of eighth grade soon. Ford does not remember eighth grade fondly. Stanley seems to notice his brooding and steers the subject towards scientific advancement that have happened in the past forty years. He’s surprisingly knowledgeable.

“Nostalgia is not enough to bring Pluto back,” Stanley says firmly, “It just doesn’t meet the qualifications to be a planet.”

“I liked Pluto,” Ford grumbles.

“Everyone liked Pluto,” Stanley says soothingly as he takes their empty bowls to the sink. “If it makes you feel better, it inspired a whole new classification of dwarf planets: plutoid, something tiny that’s farther out than Neptune.”

“Alright, fine. But I’m still not happy about it.” He accepts a cup of coffee (the coffee machine, for some unknowable reason, takes twice as long to brew in the afternoon than the morning; despite Stanley’s protests, Ford is 80% sure the thing is haunted) and wanders into the living room after his brother. “Why do you know that, anyway? You always hated space.”

Stanley claims the same chair from this morning. Since it’s the one he’s been using for nearly two decades, Ford doesn’t fight him for it. “Thought you might have hidden some of the journal codes in the planetary sciences, so I kept up with it. Turns out space isn’t so bad,” he says, digging for the remote between the cushions.

Ford recognizes his reluctance to talk about it. For some reason, Stanley gets awkward when he admits to knowing anything that’s part of “Ford’s field”, which seems extend over all of the STEM sciences. “Pretty sure you always faked hating science anyway,” Ford teases gently.

Stanley growls at him, but it’s just for show. He finally unearths the remote and starts flipping through channels in search of the TV guide.

Ford smiles and ruffles Stanley’s hair on his way back to the Mystery Shack’s gift shop. He’d like to get some work done before dinner. Stanley’s memory is coming back nicely, and if everything works according to plan, the journal will speed his recovery further. Just as Ford starts down the steps, Stanley gives an indignant squawk from the living room.

“The Duchess Approves was on this morning and I missed it?! How could you let me miss it?!”

Yeah, everything is going to be fine.

-

Stanley hums to himself as he sets up the skype call that evening. Ford complains about the inefficiency of modern technology, and how he had plans for something like Voice over Internet Protocol long before he was sucked into the portal.

“You sound like an old person,” Stanley points out as he adjusts the camera.

“You sound like an old person,” Ford snaps.

“You both sound like old people,” says the screen. Mabel waves frantically as Dipper adjusts the lighting. “Hi Grunkles Stan and Ford!”

“Hi, sweetie,” Stanley says enthusiastically, “How’s things? You guys survive your third week wading around in high school garbage?”

“It’s not garbage, Stanley—”

“Things are so good,” Mabel gushes, “There are so many older kids now! And they’re all so cool.”

“They’re not cool,” Dipper says, crossing his arms defensively.

“Dipper’s upset that no one’s signed his petition to form a DD&D club yet,” Mabel says, gently patting Dipper on the back.

“I only started it Friday, and no one signs things on Fridays. They’re probably waiting to sign on Monday.”

Ford smiles sympathetically. “No one would join my club, either. I had to stage my campaign at the local game shop.”

“He made me play with them,” Stanley grumbles.

They chat amiably about the kids’ first week. Dipper has been trying out different classes during the trial period, and Mabel has made several new friends in her bedazzling and classic film appreciation clubs. Their experiences seem different on the surface, but Ford knows they’re both trying to figure out who they are and find people who accept that person. Ford watches his brother take over as the conversation turns to the Mystery Shack and wonders if Stanley ever found people who really accepted him.

Stanley reports that Wendy is handling most of the structural repairs, while Soos is using the damaged wiring and plumbing to study for his various licenses. Unknown to Ford, Stanley has been working on new attractions and walking the new Mister Mystery through them. They’ve had to tailor the exhibits to Soos’ skillset, which apparently does not include lying.

“When he tried to describe the new sas-crotch, he literally couldn’t say anything other than ‘this is something I put together this morning’. But you should hear him talk about the Rocks that Look like Things series! Soos can describe anything in terms of kid’s cartoon shows.” Stanley takes a swig of his soda, frowning when it comes up empty. “Hold that thought, I need some more of this. You want anything, Ford?”

“Just water, please,” Ford replies. He waits until Stanley has officially left the room before breaching the next subject. “Kids, has Stanley always had a habit of chewing on things?”

Mabel’s face scrunches up in thought. “I don’t think so.”

“He does chew on toothpicks sometimes,” Dipper adds helpfully, “But just when he wants to look cool.”

The chewing is new, then. Ford jots the thought on the post-it pad he picked up this morning. “He seems to be coming along well,” Ford tells the kids, “A few new behaviors but nothing too unusual. Another week or so and I’d say it’s time to set sail.”

“Stop talking about me when you think I’m not around,” Stanley grumbles, handing Ford his requested glass of water. “And for the record, I have never chewed on anything in my life.”

“What about eating?” Dipper points out.

“Don’t get smart, kid.”

“It’s only because we love you, Grunkle Stan. Grunkle Ford wants to make sure you’re happy and healthy, right Grunkle Ford?”

Ford looks at his brother fondly. “It’s true.”

Stanley looks grossed out by his family’s affection. “Keep it together, guys. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

“We know you love us, too.”

Watching Stanley argue with Mabel over whether or not Tough Guys can love their families, Ford is struck by how little he’d valued this kind of connection before returning through the portal. There was little time to form social bonds while he was studying the paranormal, then even less when he was exploring the multiverse. Ford is quietly glad that he came back before it was too late to watch his family bicker among themselves.

The kids’ parents call them for dinner mid-tiff. Stanley and Ford say their goodbyes and hang up. Ford reaches over and adjusts Stanley’s jacket on his shoulders.

-

The next evening is a quiet one. Both Stanley and Ford spent the day journaling, which naturally led to reminiscing about their childhood and trading stories. Since the dual purpose of the journal was to give Stanley a record of his life and, possibly, create an opportunity for him to share pieces of that life, Ford considers this a huge success. The TV is droning low in the background as the older Pines twins sit in their respective chairs. Ford is cataloging his experiences with Weirdmageddon in his own journal, currently sketching Bill’s three-dimensional form from memory. He wonders what an autotrophic creature would even do with so many teeth.

“Sixer—”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” Ford says patiently.

“Right. Question: do you hate me?”

Ford pauses. “Why do you ask?”

Stan continues trying to play paddleball, though he misses the ball eight times out of ten. It’s not unusual for Stanley to temporarily lose muscle coordination these days, especially in the twenty-four hours following a fugue. He’s also found a pen to chew on. “I remember you being really mad at me. I must have done some really bad stuff, and that usually leads to people hating me.”

Ford adjusts his glasses. These aren’t the after-effects of an episode, Stan is in the middle of one right now. How did Ford miss that? “No, Stanley, I don’t hate you.”

Stan lines up another shot and completely misses. “Did you used to hate me?”

“I… thought I hated you,” Ford says slowly, thinking over their conversation with the kids, “But I was actually being incredibly selfish. I bought into dad’s idea that I was the clever, hardworking twin and you were the dumb, lazy twin. That I was good and you were bad. Looking back on everything, you were just a kid that made a mistake. I was the adult who carried a grudge against you for forty years.”

Stan sets down the paddle. He’s biting on the pen so hard, the casing is threatening to crack.

“So, no. I don’t hate you, and I never really did,” Ford finishes with a smile, gently taking the pen from Stanley and placing it on the table.

His brother considers this, eyes drifting back to the paddle in his hand. “I think I hated you for a while. I think I wanted to hurt you, over and over again forever until you’d paid for ruining my dreams. You could have given me everything I ever wanted, and instead you swiped it and disappeared.” He looks back to Ford. “I think I got over it, but I’m sorry it was there in the first place.”

Ford is surprised by the depth of Stanley’s hostility. He had the impression that Stanley spent his adult years trying to make up for his actions, but upon further reflection, he’s more surprised at himself for not considering that Stanley might also be angry about their conflict.

“Sounds like I wasn’t the only one with complicated feelings.”

Stan barks out a laugh. “Yeah. Guess we’ve both got stuff to work out.”

He resumes trying to hit the plastic ball. Ford looks down at the chewed-up pen and wonders why something about this feels so off.

-

Rain continues to patter against the window. This is the second time it’s rained this week. The clock (an analog model because Ford likes the ticking noise) says it’s quarter past one. Ford grumbles to himself and punches his pillow a few times.

Stan’s inability to play paddleball, a game he’s always loved.

Stan chewing on anything he can fit between his teeth. Has he always done that?

“I think I wanted to hurt you, over and over again forever.”

Ford’s being stupid, really. There are memory gaps because Stanley’s mind hasn’t finished piecing itself back together, and Ford doesn’t recognize Stanley’s ticks and quirks because he picked up new ones while they were out of contact. The human brain doesn’t stop developing until age twenty-six, Ford reminds himself, so it would make sense for Stanley’s personality to undergo a few minor changes in the time they’ve been apart. There are plenty of reasonable explanations for Stan’s behavior.

Thunder booms loudly.

And really, there’s a good chance this also has to do with Ford’s anxiety around rebuilding a relationship with his brother. They’re still trying to figure out how to put the Science Fair Incident and forty years of animosity behind them, it’s bound to be awkward and that’s bound to bring out some unusual behavior. Hell, Ford himself is probably exhibiting some weird habits that Stanley’s been too polite to ask about. All this worry must be a combination of Ford expecting his brother to be the same as when they were kids, the fact that they did most of their growing up away from each other, and Ford’s own issues and insecurities about it all. There’s no reason to assume anything else is going on.

Ford rolls over. It’s been ten minutes since he last checked the time.

Rain beats gently against the window.

He pulls the pillow over his head. “You’re being absurd,” he tells himself.

The thunder rumbles again.

Ford sighs heavily. Five hours later, he has completed a full systems diagnostic on the remains of Project Mentam. It’s going to require extensive repairs, but he should be able to integrate modern technology to make the device more functional than it was thirty years ago. Plus, he’ll finally be able to put these ridiculous worries behind him.

“You’re just being paranoid,” Ford grumbles as he packs up, “Lee’s being himself, and you’re upset that you don’t really know that person.”

He wipes his dusty hands with a rag and stores it with his toolkit. The sun is just starting to peak through the basement windows. Ford yawns and cracks his back as he climbs the stairs. Maybe he’ll be able to get some rest now that his brain has something else to latch onto.

When he reaches the vending machine, Ford pauses. Piano music drifts in from the gift shop. Even with his lack of musical training, Ford can hear the skill behind the keys. The piece trickles into the stairwell as he pushes the door open, its driving, somber notes are leaking in from the main house. Ford follows the sound through the living room to the open door of Soos' makeshift break room. This close to the source, Ford can hear a faint static between the chords, and identifies the instrument as an electric keyboard. Sure enough, when he peaks around the doorway, the mystery player is hunched over Soos' battered old Yamaha.

This also identifies Stan as the mystery player. Ford desperately tries to remember if Stanley ever mentioned having musical talents. It's wouldn't be impossible for him to have learned the piano in their time apart, and plenty of accomplished instrumentalists didn't begin playing until adulthood. Forty years would be more than enough time for Stanley to acquire this kind of ability.

Thousands of human generations would also be enough time for someone to learn to play the piano.

Ford tries to recenter himself. This is impossible. This is absurd. The memory gun was supposed to erase everything, and yet here is his own brother sitting at a third-hand keyboard playing some kind of ballad (or whatever the proper term is) while Ford hides in the hall and weighs the pros and cons of having a panic attack. He takes a deep breath, adjusts his glasses, and looks at the facts: there simply isn't enough information to identify the person currently sitting at the piano. It might be Stanley Pines, and it might not. Conjecturing in the hallway isn't going to make things any clearer. The only way to figure out what has happened is to collect data from the source.

Ford squares his shoulders and steps through the doorway.

The person, who may or may not be Stanley, misses a chord. The notes stumble and smash into each other, and the song grinds to a halt. He and Ford stare at each through the early morning gloom, and Ford gets the distinct feeling he's staring down something much bigger and more dangerous than his eyes can see.

Stan coughs awkwardly. “Thought you were gonna be downstairs for a while longer.”

Ford raises an eyebrow at the unexpected opener.

Stan scratches the back of his neck. “Don't suppose you could keep this between us?”

The tension deflates and Ford's suspicions thaw in the awkward conversation. “Why on Earth would you want to hide this? You play beautifully!”

“Keep it down,” Stanley hisses, as though a he hadn't been playing an electric keyboard at full volume just moments ago, “If anyone finds out about this, my reputation will be ruined.”

“You could build a new one with talent like that.”

“I don't want to be known as a pianist,” Stan says, grimacing around the word.

“Is this because of the name? Just call yourself a piano player! You could make tons of money doing tours, you love tons of money.”

He makes a dismissive gesture. “I only wanted tons of money so I could have tons of power to rub in everyone’s faces. And so I could be super rich and get everything I wanted, but you know what? Everything I wanted is already right here. So, no.” Stan shuts off the keyboard and folds his arms.

Ford suddenly realizes how much disquiet he was carrying. He leans against the door frame to mask his wobbly relief. “Will you at least finish the song? I want to hear it.”

Stan frowns skeptically. “Why?”

This person is self-conscious to a fault. How did Ford ever think this wasn't Stanley? “Because you play well and it’s audibly appealing,” he says reasonably.

Stan examines Ford's face. If Ford were to guess, he'd say Stan's looking for the slightest hint that he’s being mocked. After a moment, he turns back to the keyboard and presses the power button. “This stay between you and me, got it? Don't even tell the kids.”

Ford mimes zipping his mouth shut and gives a thumbs-up sign.

Stan rolls his eyes. Ford waits patiently as Stan tests a few keys to find his place. He hums a note, then plays a chord.

“When did you learn to play, anyway?”

“Picked it up for a con,” Stan says. “I found other talents after everything happened. After all, we can't all be the man who changed the world.”

Ford grips the door frame. He's heard those words before. Was it a trick of the growing light, or was Stanley grinning when he said them? Stan picks up the song before Ford can speculate further. If he notices Ford's silence, he doesn't comment on it.

-

Ford slinks back into the basement and dedicates the rest of the day to assessing his resources and designing Project Mentam 2.0. He needs to know for certain who he is dealing with, and Ford simply doesn't have the social skills to properly assess the situation. Instead of beating himself up over that, he devotes himself to pursuits better suited to his abilities. Namely: reading the human mind through the use of technology. As afternoon moves into early evening, Ford finishes the list of items he’ll need to complete the project. He can go shopping for parts in the morning, and in a few short days will be able to put his ridiculous doubts to bed.

The distinct smell of coffee meets him at the top of the stairs. Ford closes the vending machine and steps into the house.

Stanley is standing at the kitchen stove, humming to himself as he pours batter into a pan. The resulting hiss suggests pancakes.

“Evening,” Ford says cautiously.

Stanley waves and points at the table. For reasons that elude Ford, Stanley has decided to cook breakfast for dinner. There’s a fresh mug of coffee at Ford’s place setting, along with a proper breakfast spread of bacon, eggs, and orange juice.

“What’s all this for?” Ford asks as he slides into his chair. The coffee is piping hot and smells wonderful.

“I kind of miss making brinner,” Stanley says.

That’s right, Stanley’s dinner routine with the children included breakfast-dinner on Thursdays. In the weeks since Mabel and Dipper went home to California, Ford has witnessed at least seven video calls and eleven phone conversations, and he doesn’t doubt that the bills will show more. Of course Lee would miss his mealtime rituals with the kids. Ford takes a sip of coffee. That's another point for Stanley Pines on the “Stan vs. Bill” scoreboard. Unfortunately, that’s not enough to tip the balance either way.

“I couldn’t remember if you actually liked milk in your coffee or just drank it for protein, so I left it in the fridge,” Stanley says.

“Plain is good,” Ford replies.

Stanley grins and flips a few pancakes onto a plate. “Just like mom.”

“Yeah.” Ford uses the opening to gather information. “How is mom, anyway?”

“You haven’t called her yet?”

“I wasn’t sure what kind of… system you had in place,” Ford says carefully, “Didn’t want to upset anything.”

Stanley makes a rude noise. “It’s not a great story, we can talk about it later.” He comes to the table with two stacks of pancakes and slides one in front of Ford.

Ford considers scanning the food for poisons, but Bill's plans so far have benefited from Ford's continued existence, and besides, the pancakes were all made from the same bowl of batter. He cuts a fluffy piece from the stack and mulls over his options. Despite Ford's rigorous observations, the data remains unclear. He simply doesn't have enough evidence to say that the person wearing Stan's body is, in fact, Stanley Pines, and not knowing is driving him up a wall. It either means that
a.) Bill Cipher is back, or
b.) Ford is superimposing his own fears and anxieties onto his own brother.
Neither possibility is pleasant. If the memory gun failed and Bill has found a way to return from oblivion, the entire dimension could be in jeopardy and Ford needs to start making containment preparations as soon as humanly possible. But if it isn't true, and Stanley's been acting strangely because he's coping with having his entire mind erased, Ford is once again slapping his own ideas over his brother's image. Ford hates to think he might still the kind that kind of person.

Stanley looks up from the evening paper, but closes his mouth when he meets Ford's eyes. Ford realizes that he's been staring for at least a minute and quickly stuffs the piece of pancake in his mouth. He offers what he hopes is a reassuring expression. Stanley gives him a worried look, but returns to his crossword puzzle without comment.

Ford knows he hasn’t been careful about his suspicions, but though the unknown person has clearly noticed, he keeps glossing over the rude behaviors. Is this Stanley trying to respect his brother's privacy or Bill carefully avoiding a confrontation to buy time? Has Stanley ever respected anything? Bill is a skilled manipulator, but Ford has never known him to take a subtle approach. What could he be doing this time that's so different from before?

Stanley awkwardly clears his throat, cutting off Ford’s internal dialog. “Uh, Ford.”

Ford blinks at him. Stanley looks nervous and uncharacteristically serious.

“I just want to tell you—” Stanley pauses, rubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes meet Ford’s, and his steely look fades into something fond. “That I’m really proud of you. I know we don’t talk about this kind of thing, but I want to say that it must’ve taken a lot of guts to survive out in the multiverse as well as you did. And on top of that, you kept learning and doing science that you love. That’s pretty cool and I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”

Ford stares at him. He puts his cutlery down and reaches across the table to feel Stanley’s forehead.

“You’re hilarious,” Stanley grumbles, shoving Ford’s hand away.

“Just making sure,” Ford says with a weak grin. “Where is this coming from?”

Stanley shrugs. “Just felt like it needed to be said,” he replies, suddenly engrossed in cutting his pancakes into smaller pieces.

“Oh. Well, thank you.” Ford looks at his own stack. While the past twenty-four hours have been a breakneck race to determine this person’s identity, Ford suddenly realizes that this wouldn’t be a problem if he’d put aside his pride and gotten to know his brother prior to Weirdmageddon. As it stands, Ford is struck by how little he knows about Stanley’s past. “I’m, I’m proud of you too, Stanley.”

Stanley rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious! You’ve been through a lot, too. You managed to learn everything you needed to rebuild the portal (which was incredibly irresponsible, but I’m still grateful) while at the same time running a business that not only kept the house, but also turned a profit. And when it came down to it, you gave up everything to make sure the world was safe.”

“You’dve done the same,” Stanley grunts.

“Probably,” Ford agrees, “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re the one who did it.”

Stanley pushes a few pieces of pancake further into the syrup. The look of resolution flickers briefly across his face again. “Yeah, I did,” he says quietly, “And I’d do it again.”

Ford catches Stanley’s eye and smiles. “I meant it when I said that you were my hero, Stanley. I’m proud of you, too.”

Stanley smiles back. They share the moment.

Stanley coughs. “Look at us. I’m getting sappy in my old age and you’re getting sappier in your older age.”

Ford chuckles to himself. “You’ve always been sappy.”

“And yet, you’re sappier.”

Ford returns to his pancakes, and resolves to get to the bottom of this as quickly as humanly possible. He doesn’t know much about his brother’s past, or who he is, or what he really wants out of life, but none of that matters. Ford promises himself that he’ll learn all these details once he’s exorcised the literal and metaphorical demons from their lives.

-

While Ford has learned to handle conflict situations, he is a terrible spontaneous liar and much prefers to have his actions and dialog scripted out ahead of time. As such, Ford quietly closes and locks the Mystery Shack’s door just as the sun is peaking over the horizon. It will take a while to walk to town, but he doesn’t know how to ask for a ride without explaining the fact that he doesn’t trust his own brother. Stanley, either an eons-old demon is taking over your mind or I can’t tell the difference between your normal mannerisms and those of an inter-dimensional abomination. Could you please drive me to town so I can buy computer parts that will tell me, once and for all, whether my penchant for making assumptions about you knows any bounds?

It’s four and a half miles to the center of Gravity Falls, and Ford apparently plans to fill every step with self-recrimination.

Forty-five miserable minutes later, Ford has several disappointing electronics outfitters to choose from. He had honestly hoped this dimension was further along by now. It takes another two hours to track down the various parts he needs to complete Project Mentam, thirty minutes of which are spent explaining to a gathering crowd that he is Stanford Pines and their town hero is Stanley Pines.

“But you look just like him,” says a whiney man holding a turkey baster.

Ford eyes the baster. He originally moved to Gravity Falls to study the supernatural, but oddities usually have some kind of sense behind them. This man is just weird. He makes a mental note to see if the general Gravity Falls weirdness has started rubbing off the citizens. “That’s probably because we were born with identical genetic structures. We’re twins.”

“The Pines kids are twins,” someone shouts from the back of the group.

“It runs in the family,” Ford says, carefully sidling towards the grocery store.

“The Pines kids are annoying babies,” the same person yells.

“No they’re not, they’re precious little darlings,” replies a man closer to the front.

Ford grabs his purchases (a large screen, several dozen feet of insulated wire, some hardware he bought on a whim) and slips away before things escalate further. He’d once taken a tour through the remains of the Mystery Shack, and spent the entire time loudly wondering how Stanley had made a living off this kind of capricious mess. Stanley had only grinned. Ford understands that grin, now.

The grocery store is cool and quiet. Ford extracts the weekly list from his pocket (grabbed off the fridge to give him an excuse) and takes a moment to map the most efficient route through the aisles. Potatoes, eggs, soda… Ford adds his favorite cereal to the list and sets off.

Having easy access to resources is still a novelty. The prices are far above what Ford is used to, but he has enough money to afford the convenience. A deeply ingrained instinct insists this must be some kind of trap designed for idiots who think food is something they can just take home with them without a fight. Ford gently pushes the idea aside. This is his home dimension, where he is a member of the dominant species and isn’t being hunted by anything. He puts an entire box of oranges in his basket to prove it. No one reproaches him for it, and Ford now has an entire box of his favorite fruit that no one can take from him.

The rest of the shopping continues like this, with Ford taking some things just because he wants them and others just because he can. The soda aisle boasts three different flavors of Pitt Cola. Ford remembers peach sodas in the refrigerator when he and Stanley were children, but can’t seem to recall what flavor Stanley prefers now. ‘Favorite kind of soda’ gets added to the growing pile of things he doesn’t know about his own brother. Ford grabs a six-pack of each flavor to be safe.

The checkout line is mercifully short, probably due to the early hour, and the path to the register is a gamut of leftover summer inventory. Ford rolls his eyes at the various squirt guns and pool toys, but a small section of camping paraphernalia catches his eye. A quick series of calculations identifies tomorrow evening as the last warm night before fall sets in, which would make it the last opportunity for outdoor activities. Ford doesn’t appreciate the supermarket’s blatant manipulation, but he adds a large pack of marshmallows to his basket anyway. Because he’s his own person.

Just as he’s stepping out into normal sunlight, Ford’s phone rings. It’s an archaic device, barely capable of sustaining a conversation, but Stanley refuses to buy him a newer model. He flips it open and frowns. “Hello, Stanley.”

“Where are you?! Are you still in this dimension?”

“What other dimension would I be in?” Ford asks.

“How the hell would I know? Maybe you get itchy feet these days.”

The unspoken doubt comes through loud and clear. Ford frowns harder. If this is Bill Cipher, he’s not pulling any punches. “If I were in another dimension, I couldn’t answer your call,” he points out, falling back on logic to cover his insecurity.

“Yeah, because that’s the real issue here,” Stanley grumbles. “You alright?”

“I’m in town buying food.”

“Look who’s Mister Evasive this morning.”

Ford wanders to a bench and starts storing food purchases in his backpack. “I’m fine, Stanley, I just wanted to stretch my legs and thought I’d do some grocery shopping at the same time.”

A young woman on Stanley’s side of the phone asks a question. Wendy must be working on the house today. Ford feels a momentary stab of guilt before remembering that Stanley and his employees (who also seem to be adopted family) have been working without Ford since day one. “Ask someone else, I’m busy looking after a moron,” Stan says in response. “Ford, do you need me to come get you?”

In spite of everything that could be going on, Ford smiles. “No, I’m enjoying walking around town. I might stop by the diner you’ve mentioned. Thank you,” he adds.

“Yeah, yeah. Just, in the future, let me know where you are? I thought you’d disappeared again.”

Ford holds the bag of marshmallows for a moment. It was a ridiculous purchase that he doesn’t regret. He reminds himself that as soon as he has an answer to this, he and Stanley will make s’mores and laugh about the all the ridiculousness they’ve lived through and put everything firmly behind them. “I’ll be back soon,” Ford says, zipping the backpack closed.

-

The next fourteen hours are a whirlwind of computer parts and software engineering. Ford is astounded by how much programming has improved in the last thirty years. He spends most of the first morning being delighted by the advancements in C and the next thirty-six hours absorbed in the language.

“…can’t possibly be a problem with the main function,” Ford mutters to himself, “Or there’s no way the neuro_prob module would be working—”

He reaches for his coffee, completely engrossed in equations and notes and the digital thought process, when his hand lands in mashed potatoes. The unexpected event is enough to jar Ford back into the physical world. The sun is setting, his eyes are blurry, his stomach is cramping with hunger, and his mug has turned into a plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes.

“Welcome back.”

Ford blindly hurls the closest object at the intruder. The object turns out to be a pen, which bounces harmless off his unimpressed brother.

“You’re welcome,” says Stanley.

In a completely foreseeable misstep, Ford has forgotten that living with another person means they’ll notice your absence. He takes a moment to admonish himself (when will he learn to factor other people into his decisions?) before taking stock of his surroundings. At some point Stanley turned on a desk lamp, and has apparently been sitting next to Ford’s desk long enough to settle into a magazine. Ford glances at the cover, but is too busy fighting the surge of adrenaline to see what it is.

“Have I always had this lamp?” Ford asks.

“I brought it down with dinner. Figured you’d be sitting in the dark like a hermit, and I was right.” Stanley nudges the plate in Ford’s direction. “You haven’t eaten all day— don’t lie to me, I know you haven’t.”

Now properly reprimanded, Ford turns off the computer monitor and wipes the potato from his hand. “Sorry, I got caught up in my work.”

“Yeah, I saw. You really trying to get the Ghostbusters colander working?”

So much for secrecy. “I’d don’t like leaving things unfinished, so I’m repairing it before we leave.”

“Pretty sure your just upset Dipper broke your thing.”

Ford latches onto the explanation. “Yes, well, that might also be a component of it.”

“Why don’t you call Dipper and go over the schematics with him? You’re basically his idol, he’d love a chance to work with you.”

Ford moves food around his plate. “He’s probably busy with school, and being a teenager. I don’t want to take up his time.”

Stanley gives him a look that clearly says he doesn’t buy Ford’s answer. If this is Bill, this is the second time he’s successfully steered Ford’s emotions today.

“…and maybe I think he should look for a better idol than me. I’m not someone a child should admire.”

Stanley sighs. “No, you’re not. But it doesn’t matter, because that kid looks up to you and no amount of reasoning or avoiding him is going to change that.” He scoops the pen off the floor and places it back on the desk. “The best thing you can do is be a good role model for him. He’s going to emulate you, so you might as well be somebody worth emulating. Now eat your damn dinner, Poindexter. I didn’t mash those potatoes for you to wear them.”

Ford reserves the right to remain suspicious. Just because this person made him dinner and cares about his being a good role model to children, doesn’t mean that he isn’t also trying to reshape the dimension into a horrific nightmare realm. Still, Ford enjoys the dinner and the company, and Stanley takes the dirty dishes with him when he goes back upstairs. And when he leaves an entire pot of hot coffee on Ford’s desk a few hours later, Ford takes it as data and absolutely does not let his emotions wonder what kind of person doubts their own twin.

-

Ford completes Project Mentam the next morning, and grabs his brother as soon as work on the Mystery Shack has finished for the day. “You didn’t mention the Ghostbuster’s collider was for me,” Stanley grumbles, trying to scratch under the helmet.

“I want quantifiable data about your neural progress,” Ford lies. He makes another minor code correction as the information starts coming in and slaps his brother’s hand away from the equipment. “Stop tampering with it, you’re throwing off my readings.”

“I can feel your weird machine poking around in my brain, of course I’m going to mess with it.”

Ford smacks the back of Stanley’s head this time. “Stop futzing.”

Stanley lurches forward, causing the headgear to slide down over his eyes. “Isn’t that going to mess up your readings more than if I scratch my own head?”

“It’s worth it if it means you stop fiddling with it.” Ford knows he’s being unfairly snappish, but he’s anxious and more than a little tired. This experiment has been days in preparation and there’s a lot riding on the outcome. “Look,” he says, readjusting the helmet, “I’m worried about you. Hold still just a bit longer, okay?”

Stanley holds still as Ford reorients the headgear. “Thought I was doing better,” he says, and oh no, now Stanley sounds concerned. Or Bill has really figured out how humans work, but Ford is fairly certain Bill wouldn’t have agreed to this reading in the first place. He places another tally in the ‘Ford is a terrible brother’ column. They’re really starting to add up.

“You are, but you know me. I want the science to back it up.” Another moment of typing and the second, larger monitor flickers to life.

At first glance, the visual representation of Stanley’s mind is complete chaos. Words and images fly haphazardly across the screen with no apparent order or reason. Ford watches as Stanley thinks about the itchy helmet and how badly he needs to clean his boots, while also cycling through the Stan was Wrong song and trying to remember how long he needs to cook the soup he’s making for dinner tonight. There’s a brief flash of something else in the mix. Ford zeroes in on it, and is surprised to find his brother thinking about the chemical process behind the ‘umami’ taste he wants to capture tonight.

“That feels weird,” Stanley grumbles.

Ford zooms back out and pans around the digital mindscape. He doesn’t seem anything immediately reminiscent of a billion-year-old dream demon, and while that’s thrilling, it doesn’t mean he’s not there. “Do you mind if I poke around some memories?”

“You can do that?” Stanley fidgets a bit, but heroically doesn’t touch the helmet again. “Okay, but don’t go into anything personal.”

Ford nods. A few keystrokes are all he needs to delve into Stanley’s surface memories. He sets the parameters to search out only the most recent memory consolidations, four weeks and less. He watches

A breakfast from last Friday. Ford is complaining about having pancakes for two meals in a row, but cuts into his stack when he thinks Stanley isn't looking. Except Stanly apparently knows Ford well enough to know what he's doing, and turns his back so Ford can eat without losing face—

A moment shaving in the bathroom. Stan watches himself in the mirror. This must be a buried amnesia-memory, because he looks confused by both the safety razor in his hand and his own reflection in the glass. He presses a fingertip to the blade, sending a thin rivet of blood running down his hand—

Watching teenaged Ford work on his perpetual motion machine, and it's easy to see how happy Ford is but when Stanley passes the hall mirror he looks absolutely devastated—

Stanley being thrown in a trunk, the door slamming shut on a man's smirking face. The car lurches forward and hits the water with a crash—

Ford quickly backs out. Stanley has re-consolidated most of his life’s memories within the past four weeks, of course the stronger ones are going to be close to the surface. He quickly returns to the overview.

“That’s starting to hurt,” Stanley says.

“It’ll die down in a minute,” Ford reassures him, refining his query to search for recently formed memories. The last few weeks slide into focus.

A late night walk in the woods, long after the animals have gone to sleep. Stan watches as his boots sink into the mud. He walks with purpose, he is going somewhere important—

Waiting for Ford to come back from the grocery store, Stanley writes in his journal. “I keep blacking out but maybe that's normal? I don't want to worry anyone yet, but what if" —

Reading over the entry in his room that night (Ford recognizes it as the night he began work on Project Mentam). Stan flips through the pages impossibly fast, then faster, then chucks the book across the room with a scream. He grabs the sheets off the bed and sends them flying, grabs the bedside table and heaves it over, throws himself at the bureau mirror, fist drawn back to—

"Ford, it really hurts—"

Arranging broken mirror shards with trembling hands, Stanley's broken reflection staring at him from pieces that have been shaped into a triangle—

With a crackle of unchecked electricity, he main screen cracks in half. Stanley rips the helmet off his head and hurls it straight into the viewer. The surge of unprotected power explodes in a shower of sparks that the room ablaze, then everything shuts down. Rain pelts the window. Ford holds his breath in the silent darkness and curses himself a thousand times either. He is a terrible brother, but not for any of the reasons he thought.

The emergency generators start up, bathing the room in unnatural green safety lights. Stan is leaning way over Ford's desk so their faces are inches apart. He grins.

"Hi."

-

“…Tambourine, Leg-Faced McCullen,” Bill lists as they walk. He has one hand tucked into Stanley’s favorite jacket while the other holds the end of the tie restraining Ford's hands. Somehow, the steady stream of chatter he’s kept up since they left the Mystery Shack has culminated in a long sequence of imaginary monikers. “Artichoke, Penguin, Pete, Steve. But I think the worst possible name for a boat would be—”

“Where are we going?” Ford asks as he climbs over a fallen tree.

“Pottsfield,” Bill replies, hopping up onto the log and nudging Ford over it with his boot. “Come on, Sixer, use that big brain of yours: what might the resident overlord want that’s out in the woods?”

“A sense of decency would be nice,” Ford mutters, quietly lamenting the mud now smeared across his back.

“Close! Pick up the pace, Fordsy, we’re almost there.”

They trudge on through the mud, leaving a long trail of footprints that the light rain gradually fills back in. Ford wishes he had an umbrella, or possibly some kind of weapon, or (best and most improbably of all) a way to bring Stanley back. This development is only the latest in a long line of times Ford has failed his twin. Ford feels the weight of each failure every time the tie chafes against his wrists.

“Hey, cheer up l’il buckaroo,” Bill says, punching Ford’s shoulder. It’s such an achingly Stanley thing to do that Ford feels ill. “One quick incantation and we go our separate ways! Well, you know, I destroy everything you’ve ever loved in one fell swoop and leave you grieving over the mangled remains, but then you’ll probably never see me again. That’s what you wanted, right? For me to—” He clears his throat and imitates Stanley’s voice, “Get as far away as I could? Do something worthwhile with my life?”

It’s a good imitation. Ford firmly reminds himself that Stanley doesn’t hold that against him anymore and focuses on the facts. “Incantation?”

“Whoops, spoilers.” Bill grins and mimes zipping his mouth shut.

“Wouldn’t it be better for me to know what I’m supposed to do?”

Bill mulls this over. He stops moving, which forces Ford to stop. With a painful twist in his chest, Ford notices that Bill’s thinking face looks exactly like Stanley’s. He’s not sure if Bill adopts traits from his hosts or if he’s been startling similar to Stanley all along.

“You already know what to do,” Bill says after a quiet moment. He looks thoughtful and, under that, like he's trying to regulate some very volatile emotions.

Ford doesn’t like it. He’s known Bill for most of his life, but he’s never seen him like this. To cover his nerves, Ford plows on. “No matter what you’ve got planned, the Gravity Falls bubble is still in place. You can’t escape.”

Bill snorts, all signs of anger gone, and starts chewing on his free hand. “I know you love feeling superior, but try to remember that other people have brains, okay pal? Baby brother here spent thirty years pulling you out of the portal, he’s got your journals memorized.” He taps his head with a grin. “I can read through them page by page if I want.”

Ford feels the blood drain from his face.

“I forgot about your stupid comments,” Bill says with a laugh, “‘Pointy hats’, hah. How did you ever con yourself into thinking these were scientifically sound?”

If Bill knows how to get out of Gravity Falls, then the only thing holding him back is Stanley’s fragile human body. Bill must be taking Ford to some kind of separation ritual, and there is a very good chance that Ford and Stanley are both going to be sacrificed.

“Calm down, Twelve-Toes, no one’s getting sacrificed,” Bill says. Ford didn’t realize he was thinking out loud. “I just need a grounding agent to make sure everything goes where it needs to go, and you’re pretty much an exact copy of everything I’m not. Gonna make sure I make it out of here uncontaminated.”

Ford opens and closes his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“So let’s shake a leg, buddy,” Bill marches ahead with an unsettling spring in his step. “I got a date with the universe, and if you make me look bad in front of the universe so help me, Stanford.”

The threat hangs unfinished. Ford follows as far behind as the makeshift rope will allow, while Bill resumes biting his fingers and listing names he deems unsuitable for a sea craft. So this is what he’s been planning. Ford was so focused on figuring out who he was dealing with, he didn’t bother keeping an eye on what they were doing. And it may have cost him everything.

“We’re here!” Bill dashes ahead, forcing Ford to run to keep up. They enter a small clearing between the trees just as the rain lets up. The way the sun streams through the woods gives the space a magical feeling. It might be beautiful, if not for the ornate, archaic circles burned into the grass. There are three in total, arranged in a triangle and surrounded by an assortment of candles. Each circle radiates a complicated series of lines and runes from the center. Two are connected by two thin black line seared into the ground; these are reminiscent of the Cipher zodiac, but have replaced Bill's central image with Stanley’s fish-like emblem and Ford’s own six-fingered handprint. The third circle is connected to Stanley's with another charred line. This circle is chaotic, almost haphazardly drawn. Ford doesn’t recognize the symbols. He doesn’t put any further thought into them, though, because he’s focused on the fact that Bill’s stone body is resting in the center.

Bill chats amiably as he pulls a stake from Stanley’s pocket and stomps in into the center of Ford’s circle. “Let me tell you, dragging my body around was hell on your brother’s back. And with all the rain we’ve been having, there were a couple times I thought we were gonna kick the bucket. Would have been way less work.”

Ford glares at Bill, then returns his glare to Bill’s statue. What might the resident overlord want that’s out in the woods? His own body, of course.

“So, let me run you though this,” Bill says, tying Ford’s lead to the stake so he has to stand within the circle. “I’m gonna do the heavy lifting and say the complicated words, all you have to do is stand right here and be a carbon copy of the other half of me. Easy, right?”

“Stanley is his own person, he’s not half of anyone.”

“Okay, I get that you’re learning to respect your brother as an individual and all, but let’s look at the facts: Stanley and I are sharing a carefully divided mental plane which, as of your little stunt with the mind-reading computer, is now trying to consolidate our completely incompatible mindscapes. Staying here is not an option. On the other hand, if I were to attempt an exorcism on my own with the way things are right now, there’s a high chance that the thin boundaries between us would shatter and we’d end up an unholy human-deity amalgam splattered across two bodies. Try to imagine that, Sixer, two things that were never meant to share a headspace, violently scrambled together in eternal agony forever.”

Ford tries to remember how exorcisms work. He doesn't recall anything that contradicts Bill’s claims.

Bill stands back up and dusts his hands. “You and I have a long and awkward history (I understand that, I really do), but do you honestly want your baby brother to spend the rest of time trying and failing to claw his way out of his own hellishly decomposing mind?” He claps a sympathetic hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Listen, I don’t want the spend eternity writhing in pain, you don’t want your brother to spend eternity writhing in pain, and I have it on good information that Stan-o’s would cast his vote with the popular opinion.”

Sadly, Ford is fairly certain Stanley would not agree with the current consensus. He’s already offered himself up for sacrifice once, and Ford doesn't doubt he would do it again. This situation would be alright if it didn't mean leaving his brother bound to a demon, and if Bill is telling the truth about the degrading boundaries between them, there may not be much time before their minds really start melting together. Bill has already displayed several Stanley-like ticks since this adventure began. Ford swiftly decides that leaving the situation unaltered is unacceptable. Stanley might be willing to volunteer for sacrifice, but Ford won’t let him do it again.

Bill conjures a matchbook from another pocket and starts lighting the various candles. It looks like he's ransacked a craft store: there are dozens of pillars, votives, and tapers set up around the perimeter of each circle, with smaller tea lights following the traversing lines. Each hovers at waist level after it's been lit. Ford watches him picks up large jar filled with orange wax. “Is that cinnamon scented?”

“Spiced pumpkin,” Bill reads off the label, “'Pumpkins baked in simmering spices of clove, nutmeg and cinnamon, and sweetened with brown sugar. Irresistible!' I guess humans like their pet fires to smell like things?” He shrugs and sets a match to the wick, then turns to the next candle.

Ford tries to knock the candle over with his foot, hoping to delay the ritual by any means necessary to buy time to make a new plan, but his restraints keep him firmly within his own circle.

As usual, Bill is chattering away. Now that he understands the situation, Ford recognizes it as Stanley's tendency to fill silence with his own voice. “You were so busy being sneaky the other day, you didn’t notice that I was in town, too. Called you from the candle shop and everything. Turns out people are more than happy to give free stuff to the town hero,” Bill sneers.

Ford grits his teeth and reaches for a closer candle with his foot. If he can pull one to him, the flame might be enough to burn through Stanley's tie.

Bill pauses. Ford freezes, worried he's been caught, but Bill seems to be taking another contemplative moment between actions. “You know, when you fired the memory gun and Stan's mind started to burn, I begged him to let me go. I offered him everything, anything he could ever want and more, but he wouldn't renegotiate the contract. 'You messed with my family,' he said as we burned to ashes together.” Bill looks over his shoulder at Ford. “He wasn't anything I was expecting.”

Ford pretends he wasn't stretched out half-way across the circle a moment ago. “He's amazing.”

“I thought he was going to be the way you remembered him.” He lights the final candle and tosses it up and down a few times. “Stupid, selfish. Dead weight. An anchor pulling you down. He wasn't like that at all.”

Ford squares his shoulders. “I was wrong.”

Bill catches the small votive and holds it between his hands. “I was hoping to bide my time with this, figure you out better. But then you stepped in and ruined everything again. Why can't you just leave things alone? There wouldn't have been any risk if you'd just waited.”

“How dare you—” Ford snaps, “I ruined everything? You were hurting him!”

“Like you're one to talk about hurting people, Sixer!” Bill screams, hurling the candle across the clearing. Ford dodges the tiny light by inches. Bill has always been mercurial, but Ford's never seen him become this angry with so little warning. Extrapolating from the information at hand, Ford suspects the worst case scenario: Stanley's volatile feelings are bleeding over the psychic walls and Bill, who is experiencing human emotion for the first time, isn’t handling them well.

Ford eyes the final candle, which is miraculously floating within his finite range.

“I've had access to both our memories for a while,” Bill rants, “But this is the first time I've had context for them and they're pissing me off! I’m so angry about what happened to us, I want to grind you down into your individual components and light them on fire. Why did he forgive you?” He hauls Ford to his feet by the front of his coat so they're eye-to-eye. “Why the hell did Stan forgive you for all this?!”

With a silent apology to his brother, Ford slams his head into Bill's. Ford’s metal-reinforced skull takes the blow well, but the impact sends Bill reeling with a shriek. Ford dives for the guttering votive. The tiny flame hurts when it licks his skin, but Ford manages to burn through the tie and untangle his hands just as Bill stumbles to his feet. Blood is streaming from Bill's broken nose down his chin, and he looks livid.

“This is exactly what I was talking about!” He shouts, lunging at Ford again. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Ford jumps away, running for the third circle. Bill needs to be separated from Stanley, but allowing him to inhabit his old body (and wield his old powers) is not an option. The stupid statue gives Ford one last, stupid idea.

“Don't you dare,” Bill screams, tackling Ford to the ground. They grapple across the clearing, rolling over each other in a desperate bid for control of the ritual. For a creature only recently introduced to tangibility, Bill puts up one hell of a fight. He finally pins Ford down with a snarl and draws back a fist to punch him. And hesitates.

Ford takes advantage of the moment to jab a knee into Bill's stomach. Bill wheezes, but instead of letting go he reels back a second time and slugs Ford in the side twice, three times in succession, then smashes an elbow straight into Ford's sternum. All the breath bursts out of Ford's chest and he can't get it back. Sound muffles in his ears as his lungs absolutely refuse to draw air. Temporary diaphragm paralysis, Ford diagnoses, gently pushing the resulting panic aside. There's nothing for it but to wait.

In a rare stroke of human insight, Bill recognizes Ford's incapacitation and breaks off the assault. He mutters something under his breath and tosses Ford back into the handprint circle. “Stay put this time.”

Ford hits the burnt ground with a wheeze, narrowly missing being impaled by the stake. He can't do anything as Bill stomps to Stanley's circle and begins the rite.

The various candles react with a shudder. They begin a slow orbit around each circle, while the ones placed along the lines bob on an invisible current. Ford sits up and cautiously reaches for the edge of his circle, only to burn his hand when he makes contact with the outer boundary. The ritual apparently begins by making sure each subject remains firmly in place. He kicks the force holding him in.

“Cheer up, Fordsy,” Bill says between backwards phrases. His earlier mood seems to have dispersed, replaced with a grin stretched across his bloodied face. “Another thirty seconds and we're done here.”

“I'll stop you,” Ford swears. He punches the barrier for emphasis, even though it singes the hair from his knuckles.

Bill's grin only widens. “Sure.”

The light suddenly becomes blinding glare as though each candle turned into a miniature sun, and the candles begin to revolve at an alarming speed. Ford flinches back and shields his face from the blaze. Bill is yelling something as wind suddenly storms through the trees into the clearing. Ford thinks he hears something about a newt but he's too busy covering his ears from the noise and his eyes from the beaconing light.

“Let me come home,” Bill screams into the chaos.

It stops. Ford risks getting a visual on the situation: the wind has died down, the candles have dimmed to a normal luminescence and fallen helter-skelter to the ground, and Stanley's body is lying face down in his circle. Throwing his own safety to the side, Ford scrambles out of his own circle (which, luckily, is no longer surrounded by fire) and into his brother's.

“Stanley,” he says urgently, checking his vitals. Stanley's pulse seems alright and his breathing is only slightly slower than normal, but isn't showing any signs of consciousness. “Stanley.”

Something is crumbling. Ford looks up in time to see a crack appear along Bill Cipher's statue, closely followed by hundreds of hairline fractures spreading across the surface. The stone flakes off in small pieces at first, but quickly begins falling away from Bill's face in slabs. A larger section falls away, revealing the eye underneath. Bill blinks.

Stanley stirs. Ford grabs him under the arms and starts hauling them both out of the clearing. “There's no time to explain,” he says, “We have to move. Can you move?”

“Not sure,” Stanley says. He looks unfocused, and for a moment Ford is terrified he's lost his brother to amnesia again.

He stores this panic with the rest of the feelings he doesn’t have time to process right now and slings Stanley's arm over his shoulder. “Come on, lean on me. We have to go now.”

The last of Bill’s stone prison breaks loudly apart, and Bill starts to giggle. It climbs upward in strength and volume until very ground rumbles with his shrieking, demented laughter. In a short fit of hysteria, Ford wonders why villains always seem to laugh about this sort of thing.

“Finally,” Bill says. “Hey, come back and celebrate with me!”

An impossibly large hand grabs Ford and starts to drag him back. He tries to keep hold of Stanley, but another giant hand scoops his brother up like a rag doll and tears him from Ford’s grip. Ford cries out. After everything he’s done in the past week, all the worry he’s been through and sleep he didn’t get and the plans he’s made, Bill still rips Stanley away from him just like the memory gun almost did.

Bill has grown to an absurd size, bigger than he was during what the town has been dramatically calling The Final Battle. Outlined against the darkening sky, his face twists in a way that implies a mouthless grin. “Hey there, Sixer! And hello Stanley Pines!”

“Don’t hurt him,” Ford yells, wriggling frantically in Bill’s grip.

“I’m not gonna hurt him, I’m just curious,” Bill hums. He opens his fingers to let Stanley sit dazedly in his palm, then starts poking him with the hand still holding Ford. “You’re much… older than you looked when I was you.”

“M’not old,” Stanley grumbles, ducking Bill’s finger when it tries to prod him again, “You’re old. You’re, like, millions of years old.”

Bill pins Stanley on his back with a giant finger to the torso. “There is a difference between being around a long time and being old. You, buddy, are old.” He presses down hard enough to make Stanley wheeze.

“Stop,” Ford shouts.

Bill’s giant eye locks on Ford. “Or what, exactly?” He laughs again and tosses Ford in the air, just like the last tea candle. “Face it, Sixer, you can’t do anything. You lost again. Even with your best efforts, you’re little stunt with the ray gun only delayed the inevitable.”

Ford hates that Bill is right. The only consolation is that Stanley seems to be alright, though that’s not much in the face of the destruction of the universe.

“Lucky for you two, I’m a forgiving kind of guy. I saved you front-row seats to the end of life as you know it.” Four new arms suddenly shoot up from Bill’s sides. They stretch far up above the tree line, and somehow grab a piece of the sky with all four hands.

Ford watches in horror as Bill sinks his fingers into the heavens and starts ripping them apart. The pieces split with a noise like rending metal. Ford can actually see the thin threads of reality stretching and snapping under the force, and Bill laughs maniacally as the thin space between Earth’s dimension and the nightmare realm begins to tear. Pink light spills from the breach, splattering across the sky in sickly, abnormal patterns. Hundreds of hands emerge from the opening to begin pulling at the fraying strings, and thousands of eyes peer out from between the pieces. Ford glances at Stanley, a line already prepared about how he’s going to fix this, about how they’re going to fix this and everything is going to be alright, but Stanley looks… fine. He’s watching a demon shred reality to pieces and he doesn’t look worried. Ford searches for a word to describe his brother’s expression and comes up empty.

“Hey,” Stanley yells.

Bill lifts Stanley to eye level. “What?”

Stanley gets to his feet, dusts himself off, folds his arms, and looks Bill right in the eye. Ford finally identifies the expression: Stanley looks determined. “If you do this,” he says, “You’re going to hurt the kids.”

Bill stares at him. He blinks his giant eyeball once, slowly. He looks up at the rip he’s still holding in his four extra hands. One of the arms dangling through the tear waves at him. Bill watches it move as though he’s noticing it for the first time. He doesn’t seem to like what he sees.

“Do you really want that?” Stanley asks.

Bill looks back to Stanley. Stanley holds his gaze. The things on the other side of the tear start to gibber and shriek in impatience, but they’re ignored as Bill and Stanley continue to stare at each other.

Finally, Bill heaves a dramatic sigh and grumbles something under his breath.

Stanley nods.

To Ford’s astonishment, Bill lets go of the sky. Both halves of the tear slowly pull together over the disappointed screams of the nightmare realm. The unhealthy pink glow recedes into purple, then blue as reality reasserts itself. Bill drops them both.

Ford has the wind knocked out of him a second time when he lands in the clearing. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the beautiful, healing sky. This is the second time he’s dodged an apocalypse. Ford watches the last broken stitches of existence stretch across the clouds and reconnect in their proper places, and for the first time since this horrible misadventure began, allows himself the luxury of feeling bone-dead tired.

A moment later, Stanley appears in his field of view. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ford replies. He takes Stanley’s hand and sits up. “Are you going to tell me what just happened?”

Stanley shrugs. “Saved the universe.”

Ford processes this with a nod. “Are you going to tell me how?”

Stanley makes another interesting face. Ford identifies this one as sheepish reluctance. Between losing his memories, recovering his memories, being possessed by a dream demon, and participating in an exorcism, Ford isn’t sure when Stanley had time to develop all these expressions. “You won’t like it.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Stan-o here reminded me that there are people living in this dimension,” a normal-sized Bill replies. He hovers in the middle of the clearing like he isn’t completely at odds with the physics. “And that they’re not made to co-exist with nightmare folks.”

Ford, who has apparently spent the entirety of his emotional budget and isn’t sure if he will ever have another feeling as long as he lives, nods again. “That’s true.”

Stanley opens his mouth, presumably to explain further, but closes it when Ford gestures vaguely in Bill’s direction. “When is he going away?”

“Relax, Sixer, I’m on my way out now.” Bill suddenly pops into existence next to Stanley and slings an arm around his shoulder. “Just need to talk to this guy for a second. ‘Scuse us.”

Bill drags Stanley away before Ford can answer. Ford would normally give a loud objection and go charging after them, but after everything that’s happened tonight, he’s confident Stanley can survive a chat. “Just don’t make a habit of it,” Ford mutters, then exits the conversation by flopping back onto the ground to watch the moon rise.

Bill and Stanley talk quietly for a while. Ford tunes them out, focuses instead on the crickets chirping outside the clearing. He watches as the last of the sunlight fades and the stars start to appear in the darkened sky, leaving the clearing dimly lit by the few remaining candles. It will get cold soon. Maybe he and Stanley should wait to set sail until spring? It’s also going to take a while for Ford to reassure himself that his brother is alright. And probably an equal amount of time to deal with his own trauma about all this.

Someone smacks someone else. Bill makes an indignant noise; there’s another popping sound and the night is finally quiet again. Stanley wanders over and lies down next to Ford. “You really doing okay?”

“I think I’m having an acute stress reaction,” Ford says. He absently pats Stanley’s face to let him know he’s otherwise alright. “Is Bill gone for good?”

Stanley catches his hand and holds it between his own. “Maybe not for good, but he’s not gonna hurt anyone or try to destroy the galaxy. Were you really gonna make Bill possess you instead of me?”

Ford thinks back to his sprint for the statue circle. He remembers adrenaline and desperation, and the spark of a last, impossible hope. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Didn't want to lose you again. I'd rather give myself up.”

They lay together in the finishing twilight. The last of the crickets pick up where they left off.

Stanley, who seems to instinctively understand how overstimulated his brother is right now, lets go of Ford's hand. “We’re gonna sit out here for a bit and you’re going to tell me the name of all the stars, okay? Then I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.”

Ford nods. He also wants to take care of Stanley, but honestly, he could stand to be looked after right now. The first constellation rises in the east. Ford sinks into the analytic parts of his brain and rattles off relevant astronomical information off by memory, while with them in the clearing in the Gravity Fall woods, the last candle gutters and goes out.

-

“Guess this is the real last night of summer,” Stanley says.

Several pleasantly warm days have passed since Bill popped back out of their lives. This evening, they’ve set up camp in a clearing in the woods, far, far away from the scorched earth the exorcism left behind. Ford has crafted a tension bow from two sticks and a piece of twine. Stanley watches with a bored expression as Ford tries to ignite a piece of kindling.

“You know I’ve got a lighter right here, right?” He asks, repeatedly lighting and extinguishing the tiny flame. He’d originally carried matchbooks with him, but decided to upgrade after everything they’ve been through.

“You won’t always have a lighter,” Ford replies primly. He’s aware that he’s being excessively high-minded about this, but Ford wants to prove, once and for all, that he’s capable of looking after himself and that the two times his brother saved him are statistical anomalies, thank you Stanley.

Stanley huffs and takes another soda from the cooler. Ford notes that it’s the peach flavor. “You’re being ridiculous,” Stanley says, cracking the can open. “Just because I turned out to be the hero yet again, doesn’t mean that your role wasn’t equally important.”

Ford attacks the kindling with renewed vigor.

“I mean, all of your nerdy role-play games had a mad scientist, or a damsel in distress—”

“I got it, I got it,” Ford shouts when the dry grass finally catches, “I told you I could do it.”

Ford plies the fire with twigs and brush until it can honestly be called a flame. Ten minutes later they have a successful campfire. It crackles merrily as Ford pointedly feeds it a small log.

“You’re a real survivalist,” Stanley agrees with an eye roll.

Ford tosses him the bag of marshmallows, and Stanley pulls the necessary s’mores materials from his backpack. They roast everything over the campfire as the sun sinks below the tree line.

“So,” Ford says awkwardly.

Stanley scrapes his gooey sugar-and-gelatin mixture onto some chocolate. “Yeah?”

“How are you doing?”

Stanley rolls his eyes. “Really?”

“I’m just, you know, concerned. After everything that’s been going on, I think I have a right to be concerned.”

“Your brain scanner said I was doing fine,” Stanley points out, squashing the mess between two pieces of graham cracker.

Ford dredges up his limited humility for this next part. “I was more wondering about you and me, Stanley.”

His brother cocks an eyebrow. Molten sugar oozes between his fingers.

“We’ve been through a lot the past few weeks, and I wanted to make sure we were okay.” Ford closely examines his own lightly toasted marshmallow to avoid eye contact. “Maybe talk about things from our own perspectives to get a better understanding of the big picture.”

“You wanna make sure I’m not mad at you for assuming I was mentally unstable,” Stanley translates.

“No. Well, yes, but I’m also curious about how you knew what to do at the end.”

Stanley gives this a moment of thought. “Does it matter?”

Ford tries very hard to be supportive. “No…?”

“I’m just messing with you,” Stanley says with a grin, reaching over to punch Ford’s shoulder and wipe the excess gelatin on Ford’s jacket. “Truth is, I had no idea invoking the kids would work. Just took a guess and hoped for the best.”

Ford shoves Stanley’s hands away from his now sticky sleeve. “You guessed?! You left the fate of the universe to a guess?!” He grabs his own melted marshmallow and smashes it against Stanley’s laughing face.

Stanley high-fives Ford’s glasses a few times in retaliation before returning to his own chair. “Okay, maybe it was an educated guess. Bill spent, like, a week thinking he was me. Between that and your probe’s malfunction, I figured some of me might have stuck with him, and if anything was going to stick, it’s that there’s nothing I value more than family.”

“That is true,” Ford agrees, cleaning his gummed-up lenses on his shirt.

Stanley smudges some goo off his cheek. “So it worked. I saved the universe (again), and we can start looking for Bill tomorrow. As for you building a brain probe to figure out if I was actually a demon pretending to be me, I guess maybe I should be mad about that, but honestly? I think you did fine.”

Ford watches him battle the melted gelatin. “Really?”

“Yeah. Not like you could have done anything else. And everything turned out okay, anyway.”

Ford smiles. He sits in the clearing with his brother on the last night of summer, watching the moon rise for the second time in so many days. Stanley is fine, Ford is fine, and somehow, against all odds, their relationship is fine. Ford skewers a new marshmallow and lets it rest just above the fire.

After all, everything has turned out alright so far.