Archive of Our Own

Sleep hadn't come easily to Stan in years, not since he'd been given a boot out the door. That first night, and every night after, was uneasy. Like a shadow was looming over him, waiting for him to drop his guard so it could pounce.

Tonight was no different. He'd gone to bed hours ago, and while it hadn't taken long to get comfortable, he hadn't been able to sink any deeper into sleep than a doze. Every creak disturbed him, every twist and turn as he tried to find just the right position brought him back into hazy awareness. Any time he managed to brush off the newest disturbance, something else would tug him back up from sleeps sweet embrace.

It was frustrating, but he was used to it.

So when the feeling of being watched crept over him, he grumbled, rolled over, and told himself he was just being paranoid. When it continued to grow, sending a shiver down his spine at the shadow his mind was conjuring above him, he scrunched his eyes tighter and slowed his breathing.

When a soft breath brushed across his ear he sighed.

No point in ignoring it anymore.

One heavy eyelid peeled open and squinted at the air above him.

Two blood red pinpricks hovered in the air, drawing in the shadows. A slow blink obscured them for a moment, but they reappeared just as quickly, staring directly at him and unphased by his now open eye.

Stan darted a look towards the door, but the shelf he'd pushed in front of it was still there, so how-

Another breeze brushed against his ear, and he flopped his head the other way to look at the open window, curtains flung open to reveal a pitch black sky. No stars were visible, and the silence that hung over his room like a guillotine was cut through with a rumble of thunder.

Creepy.

"Ford," Stan muttered, grabbing his pillow to drag over his head, "Ford. I blocked the door for a reason. You gotta stop doin' this."

"And I already told you," Ford said, not even bothering to whisper, "That no mere obstacle can stop me from getting wherever I desire, especially in my own home."

Stan gave the open window a side eye and opened his mouth, but Ford was already jumping to explain himself, "But I'd rather not risk breaking any of my things, and I didn't want to wake you."

"Like your creepy staring did?" Stan muttered. He heard Ford inhale to come up with some brand new excuse on why he needed to watch Stan sleep, but ignored it in favor of fumbling for the collar of his shirt and fishing out the necklace he'd had stashed in his car for years and only now made a habit of wearing.

It had barely made it out of its confines of his shirt before Ford was springing away. Faster then lightening the red eyes vanished and reappeared in the far corner of the room, up towards the ceiling. A low hiss filled the air, shadows growing longer and thunder rumbling above.

Stan flicked on the lamp next to his bed and gave his brother an unimpressed look. Ford had wedged himself into the space above the door like a spider, squished as far as he could go and wrapping the shadows around him to make him look even more menacing. His mouth was open, exposing his long fangs.

His eyes were locked on the necklace still pinched in Stan's fingers, and the pendant swaying back and forth.

Watching his brother react so violently to one of his nerdy shows merchandise would never stop being hilarious, but the fact that Stan had to wear a made up space badge to sleep wasn't. He was grateful Ford had lost in in his car cushions after one of his nerdy costume parties though, and that his inability to let go of a single piece of his brother had proven to be the correct option.

Still though.

"Go on," Stan grumbled, squinting in the low light and waving a hand at Fords still hissing form, "Get. Shoo. Begone, stinky creature of the night."

"I'm not-"

"Just because you're dead, doesn't mean you don't stink." Stan stated, waving the necklace around, "Take a shower. Right now even, or whatever will keep you out of this room so I can get some sleep."

Ford hissing deepened, and his pitch black claws dug into the wood around him, leaving deep gouges in the walls. Similar marks were already scattered across the room, and if this was Stan's house he would have been even more pissed off at all the damage.

But it was Fords, and if his brother wanted to keep scratching up his walls because he couldn't stop watching Stan sleep every other hour, that was his business. Except for the 'watching Stan sleep' part, which was pretty solidly Stan's business, one he wanted no part of, no matter if he was 'subject to Fords whims' or whatever nonsense his brother had spouted the first time Stan caught him doing it.

Vampire or no, it was creepy as hell, and if Stan didn't get a night of uninterrupted sleep soon, he was going to do... something. He wasn't sure what he could do now that Ford was an undead creature of the night with supernatural strength and speed. Maybe slap pictures of nerds everywhere, since crosses and stars didn't seem to do anything.

Thunder rumbled overhead, bringing with it a low drizzle tapping against the roof.

"Fine." Ford growled, dropping to the floor in a huff once Stan shoved the necklace back down his shirt, "But I still think you're overreacting. This is my house, and I should be free to wander as I please. Besides which, I am just checking up on you. This place isn't safe for-"

"Squishy humans, yeah yeah." Stan rolled his eyes, then rolled them harder when Ford stomped back towards the bed to close the window, cutting off the midnight chill. Droplets hit the glass, and Ford gave it a firm frown before pulling the curtains firmly shut, then moving on to smoothing out Stan's bed.

A real monster of the woods right here, tucking Stan to sleep and tutting about 'catching his death.'

"Ford," Stan growled, when Fords tucking slowed down and he paused to lean over Stan once more, "I swear if you're not out of here in the next five seconds, I'm going to-"

"Do nothing but sleep." Ford said, even as he eyed Stan's collar and pat his stomach, "And then, in the morning, you'll-"

"I'm not leaving Ford."

Ford huffed, but didn't do more then give Stan a stink eye before reaching over to turn off the lamp. The darkness rushed back in, obscuring Ford's figure and deepening the feeling of dread that hung around him. Two red eyes glared at him, but at least Ford didn't start up their argument again.

The eyes vanished. No footsteps filled the room, and the only sound Ford made clearing Stan's makeshift blockade was the gentle tap of furniture being set down. The door didn't creak when it opened, just filled the room with light from the hall.

Stan was already stubbornly shutting his eyes and snuggling into the bed. The light disappeared, the storm rumbled on, and he only checked to see if Ford hadn't snuck back in twice before sleep took him once more.

It was as restless as every night he'd had in the last ten years. The feeling of being watched faded into a soft embrace, and the dread trickled away. No dreams graced Stan's dreams, but no nightmares did either.

Not restful, not yet, but soon.

If he could get Ford to stop 'wandering' in here and staring at him like a morsel just waiting to be devoured.

The next morning Stan rolled out of bed, shoved his feet into the slippers he'd 'acquired' once he realized he wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon, and shuffled downstairs into the kitchen. Breakfast was an easy affair, and he spent the rest of the morning doing some cleaning around the house, made sure all the windows wouldn't let in any sun, and kept an ear out for anyone else moving about.

The house was silent (except for him) until lunch, during which a loud thud echoed from down the hall. Stan paused midbite of his sandwich to listen, then continued chowing away when a low hiss reverberated throughout the house, and sweat started building on his brow.

"Can't I finish lunch?"

The only response was the hiss deepening, and his skin getting flooded with the feeling of spiders crawling just underneath it.

With a scoff he shoved his sandwitch into his mouth, brushed the crumbs off, and made his way down the hall towards Fords study. The door was flung over wide, and Ford was face down flat on the floor. He was even paler than usual, limbs trembling and breathing heavily.

Stan watched him try to drag himself forwards as he chewed, then crouched to peer at his face. He hadn't bothered to turn it, so his nose was smashed into the floor, a small trail of dark blood oozing from one nostril.

Two eyes were already glaring at him, burning with hatred and glowing a bright, neon, yellow.

"Havin' fun?" Stan asked, propping his head in his hand as they stared at each other, "need some help?"

"I'm going-" Bill panted, fingers sliding across the wood as he tried to point or maybe grab at Stan, "Kill you. Tear out-" Another wheezing breath, and the hand's trembling worsened, "your heart, and-" the wheeze rattled, and the hand was shaking so badly it was almost vibrating, "swallow it whole."

Stan raised an eyebrow, "Uhuh, sure you are."

Something dark flashed in Bill's eyes, and Stan broke out in goosebumps as it landed on Stan, feeling almost physical.

At the same time, Bill's hand collapsed, limp and useless. The claws Ford had so easily used to slice through solid wood were grey and dull, and he hadn't moved more than an inch from the doorway.

"Come on." Stan stood up and walked around Bill, easily dodging his noodly, weak attempts at grabbing to hoist him up by the back of his coat and push him back into the room.

A coffin was sitting tucked into the corner, far from the window and lid already half fallen on the ground. Stan would have been impressed Bill managed to push if off, if he didn't already know Ford usually forgot to close it in the first place.

The inside was full of blankets and pillows, with a cut out mattress and custom blood red sheets on the bottom. Stan lifted Bill over the rim and into the bed easily, ignoring the muttered threats and attempted grabs with the ease of long practice.

Once Bill was face first in the coffin (which Stan knew for a fact Ford didn't own or decorate before his current affliction), Stan grabbed the blankets and began to wrap him up, so he couldn't slam his useless limbs against the sides. He wouldn't be able to break out, but he could hurt Fords hands.

It wouldn't hurt Ford in the long run (a perk of being undead) but seeing his brothers hands cut up made him feel some kind of way, and swaddling him wasn't too hard when his arms bent like wet paper.

"There we go!" Stan took a step down and smirked at the wriggling, breathless demon, "All ready for bed. Want me to read you a story?"

Bill let out another hiss, and Stan smirked.

Sure having a vampire for a brother was dangerous, and Stan was risking his life every second he was sleeping under its own roof, but he'd rather risk going to sleep every night hoping his brother wouldn't eat him, then abandon Ford to deal with Bill on his own.

Not that Bill was hard to deal with, since Vampires were next to useless once the sun came up, but still.

Still.

Stan made himself comfortable in Fords chair as Bill screeched in outrage, and crossed his arms. He couldn't do much for Ford, but he could make sure Bill stayed out of mischief.

The air was still, silence heavy as the dust settled around them. Everyone watched as the figure who'd stepped out of the portal scanned the room, a frown on his shockingly familiar face.

"What? Who is that?" Dipper asked, gawking as the man stepped further into the room, the portal flickering off behind him.

Grunkle Stan didn't answer, just pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself off. Both younger twins watched with bated breath as their grunkle and his mysterious doppelganger eyed each other, their mirrored frowns deepening with every passing second.

Then, suddenly and without warning, both men yelled and attempted to tackle each other to the ground.

Mabel gasped as they collided and rolled to the floor, limbs and debris flying. Grunkle Stan was in decent(ish) shape for his age, but the mystery doppelganger clearly had the upper hand. Every swing Grunkle Stan sent flying was easily dodged, even kick blocked by the mystery man's own.

The only thing that prevented a clear victor was that, every time Grunle Stan was about to be put in a head lock or have his arms pinned behind him, he'd send a nearby piece of scrap or rock flying towards the other man. Each piece bounced off mystery man's head with a worrying clang, hard enough to shock him into giving Grunkle Stan time to wriggle a limb free, but not enough to give Grunkle Stan an advantage past that.

Or maybe whatever was making the clang sound absorbed most of the impact, and Grunkle Stan was throwing things with enough force to blow his head off.

Both of them were yelling, words too fast and loud to make sense of. There was a lot of "Who do you think you are, me?!" And "I should have crushed you when I had the chance!" thrown around to be worrying, but nothing that gave the spectators any idea on if they should be cheering either of them on or prying them apart.

It was Soos who spoke first, jumping at a brief pause where Stan and the man were rolling back and forth on the ground grunting to ask "So is that Mr. Pines evil twin or..."

"No!" Both of the men snapped, whipping around to glare at Soos. Stan turned back to pull a fist back, but the man froze, eyes darting to soos, the twins, the ruined room around them, then back at the kids.

"Who-"

Stan's fist in his face stopped the rest of the question, and was enough to snap the rest of them into action. Soos grabbed Stan's arms and yanked him away from his doppelganger, while the twins wedged themselves between them, hands up towards both of them when Mystery man looked ready to vault over them and launch himself at Stan.

"Hold on, time out!" Mabel yelled, bringing her arms up to a T, "someone explain what's happening, or I'll- I'll- I'll do something outrageous!"

"I'll tell you what's happening," Stan growled, clawed hands still swiping at the other man as Soos held him up in the air by his armpits, "I'm taking back what's rightfully mine. Now let go Soos!"

"What's yours?" The man scoffed, crossing his arms and glaring at Stan, "as if anything you have wasn't stolen or copied off me. Now who are you, and what are you doing in my basement."

"They're my family, Shermies grandkids." Stan cut in before any proper introductions could be done, "and this is my basement! Not yours!"

"Your..." the man trailed off, glancing at the twins, Soos, then back at Stan. Realization bloomed across his face, and he smiled.

"My family?" The man knelt down and offered a hand to Mabel, a sparkle in his eyes as he introduced himself and ignored Stan's cry of outrage.

"Pleasure to meet you, my names Stan Pines." He said, grinning as Mabel took his hand in her own and tentivly shook it.

"No, it isnt," Grunkle Stan (?) once more interrupted, "I'm Stan."

"No, I am."

"No, I'm Stan."

"No you're not, you're some kind of shambling mockery of life," new Stan said, voice oozing disgust as he stared at old Stan, "that thinks just because it has a few foundational memories and can hold a conversation, that makes it a person."

Mabel put her hands on her hips and glared at new Stan, "Hey, that's not nice."

"Also I think that does? Make him a person?" Dipper added, looking between both Stan's as they tried to kill each other with their minds, "we've been with him all summer, I think we'd notice if he was faking being alive."

"I didn't say it wasn't alive," new Stan grumbled, as old Stan smugly crossed his arms and stuck his tongue out, "I said it's not a person."

"Which is exactly what something that isn't a person would say to someone who is. Which is me," Stan pointed to himself, clearly on some kind of high from the twins validating his personhood, "the real Stan Pines."

"Why you-" new Stan lunged at old Stan, almost bowling over the twins. Soos cried out at the sudden impact, letting go of old Stan so he could catch his footing.

The Stans hit the ground and rolled, once more at each other's throats as they yelled about who was and wasn't Stan Pines.

Through several more interventions the rest of them learned that both Stan's were once one singular Stan, that they'd been born as one mind in two bodies, and that thirty years ago he'd been in an accident that tore him in two. It wasn't an equal split, with Old Stan retaining more of original Stan's childhood and personality, while New Stan got his schooling and more of his (their?) time in Gravity Falls.

Neither was willing to budge on who the 'real' Stan was, both were convinced the other was some kind of advanced living zombie, and both were dead set on getting into a psychic battle to ego death, so that only one of them would win.

(Imaine several hours have passed now as my lunch concluded but i had more to say)

It was obvious (to anyone not named Stan) that both Stan's were people in their own right. While that might have been different at the initial split now, thirty years and two unique experiences later, both men had developed into two stubborn men with clear preferences and personalities.

Personalities that, if they played their cards right, Mabel was sure would get along great with their long lost twin brother's.

"We aren't brothers." Old Stan said, glaring at New Stan from across the table. He'd been very helpful in clearing out the agents (a feat for which he'd preened from the attention, then shit Old Stan a smug look about), and the revelation of his six fingers meant Dipper was now staring at him in clear admiration.

(It was a look that Old Stan had snapped at him about. According to both Stan's, they were the ones who'd written the journals, and it wasn't Old Stan's fault he'd been left with the body that didn't have the extra finger he'd decided to use to mark all his things with.

The resulting argument about which Stan was the one who wrote any of Stan's research led to another brawl and a broken shelf, and was the reason they were now in the kitchen under strict instructions not to get out of their chairs.)

"Correct," New Stan agreed, "though my bodies-"

"My bodies-"

"My bodies." New Stan glared at old Stan, "were born at the same time to the same parents, and some have mistaken me for twins, I assure you children, there is no bond of brotherhood between us."

"There's no bond at all."

"Precisely what I just said."

"But there could be, if you just-"

"Eh eh eh!" Mabel cut in, wagging her finger at them both, "no death threats. We've all agreed that you aren't murder-brain eating each other."

"You all agreed," Old Stan dug his fingers into the table and glared at New Stan harder, "besides, it wouldn't be murder. It'd have to be alive for that. This is more... corrective surgery. Think of it as reataching a severed arm. If your arm learned how to walk around by itself without a brain."

"On that, we can agree." New Stan muttered, tensing in his chair.

"OK but you guys get why that doesn't work as an example right?" Dipper asked, looking between them, "both of you have, I'm assuming, fully functional brains. It'd totally be murder if either of you tried to get rid of your, you know-"

Dipper gestured to his head and shrugged.

"Yeah! Besides, isnt this better?" Mabel asked, grinning her most charming grin as she looked between both Stan's, "from what i gathered, you two used to be one lonely sad guy with no one who got how weird you were. Now you're two guys! Who can be brothers who love each other!"

"This is worse."

"There is no possible reality where being sperated is an improvement."

"You guys just have to agree on the worst things, huh" Mabel sat back with a sigh, pouting a little when the air started to hum from the unseen psychic battle happening over the table.

"Hey quick question."

"Yes, what is it Soos." Dipper said. He'd given up on supporting Mabels crusade to instead slowly hold out a spoon towards the center of the table. The closer it got to the center, the more it began to wiggle and vibrate in his hand.

Soos was doing the same on the other side, a small pile of deformed cutlery already next to him.

"If he's Mr. Pines and he's Mr. Pines," Soos gestured to each Stan as he spoke, ignoring the grumble of 'Doctor' from New Stan, "which ones the real Mr. Pines."

The air got heavier, and the windows around them started shaking. Neither Stan moved, but their eyes sparked, and Old Stan's hair started to lift threateningly.

"Soos!"

"Sorry, I just mean that. What if we want one Mr. Pines, but the other one keeps thinking we want him?"

"How about Stan one and Stan two?" Dipper offered with a shrug.

"Yes, but which one would be one, and which would be-"

"I'd be one." Both Stan's said, and there was an audible snap as the pressure in the kitchen increased.

"How about we put the name Stan away for now, and come up with brand new names!" Mabel suggested, grin straining to keep itself cheerful, "that way you won't keep fighting about who's Stan."

"No."

"I refuse."

"Oh come on guys," Dipper threw his spoon onto the table, where it began to spin and vibrate ominously, "there has to be something we can call you. Like, what did great grandma and grandpa name you? Before they knew your whole.."

Dipper motioned to the Stan's and then interlocked his fingers with a bloop noise, shrugging when Mabel gave him a look.

The intensity in the air didn't lessen, but Old Stan let out a long breath, and his murderous glare become less murdery and more thinkingy.

"Ma named this body Stanley," he said, gesturing to himself, "and my other body-"

"My other body you mean."

"Can it and let me speak." Stanley rolled his eyes and waved at New Stan, "its name is Stanford. Legally. But like I said-"

"I'm Stan." Both said at the same time, crossing their arms in sync.

Mabel let out a slow breath. Grunkle Stan's stubbornness was fun, but only when it was on their side. Most of the time it was annoying, like right now.

"How about," she pointed at Stanley, "Grunkle Lee, and," whe turned to Stanford, "Grunkle Ford. Is that OK?"

"No."

"Call me Stan or don't call me at all."

"Then it's settled!" Mabel clapped her hands and smiled "Lee and Ford, out super cool twin Grunkles!"

"Absolutely not."

"I refuse to respond to anything but my name."

"We'll work on it!"

The morning light was soft and warm as it poured through the tiny window of the Stan'O'War 2 window. The boat rocked gently back and forth, safely docked and in no danger from the whims of the sea.

Probably.

(It only took one water elemental to rid oneself of definite assurances on how safe their boat was in the water anywhere, and one giant bird dropping them on the side of a mountain to realize that danger truly was around every corner and also the sky)

Ford stretched his arms above his head, grunting as his back popped. He shook off the lingering haze of an adequate night's sleep and hopped to his feet, making his way to the closet.

"Good morning Stanley," he called out to his brother, sparring the other bed in the room a glance, "are you ready to head further inland today? The locals gave us surprisingly good leads on where to look for the 'mysterious lights'"

Ford chuckled at the description for what he was sure was merely a colony of fairies, wisps, or rambunctious teenagers running around the woods at night. He didn't have any grand expectations for today, hadn't even docked to do anything more than resupply and stretch their legs. It was really an excuse to get in some hiking, potentially interview a local anomaly, and spend time with his brother.

The blanket pile that hid his brother muttered something, before huddling further into the corner. Ford took the time to change before wandering over to give it a threatening tug. The blankets shifted at his touch, unseen hands tugging them in at the looming promise of rude awakening.

Ford had both hands around the blanket and had readied himself to yank them off before he stopped. The subtle shift had exposed Stan's head, revealing a tiny mop of curly brown hair instead of Stan's normal white or rare shapeshifter baldness. His face was still shoved in the pillow, but Ford didn't need to see it to feel the need to let go of his death grip.

Instead he smiled, setting a hand on what he now realized was a mound far too small to hide a grown man, but just big enough to cocoon a child.

It was probably Dippers face Stan was wearing, judging by the length of his hair. Mabel's would have cascaded down the pillow, and what he could see of Stan's cheeks weren't nearly as rosy.

"I'll give you a little longer," Ford promised, giving his brother a gentle pat, "but be warned, I am making breakfast."

Stan mumbled something else, then sighed. Ford left him to it, stepping out of the cabin and heading towards their small kitchen to prepare something simple.

A Dipper face usually meant Stan was dreaming about their grand niece and nephew, and Ford wasn't in such a rush he couldn't let Stan enjoy a good night's rest. Plus Stan was sure to wake up in a good mood, which was an excellent way to start the day.

After a very simple breakfast of toast and eggs (a feat that involved 0 fire and only slightly overdone toast depending on how burnt you proffered it (and Ford was willing to argue that he liked it very burnt, no matter how much wincing he did while eating or how much butter he soaked it in)) Stan failed to appear. Ford gave him an extra ten minutes (that he did not use to remove the evidence of his simple breakfast making), then ten more minutes just in case Stan needed a moment to get himself up and moving.

When no Stan appeared after thirty minutes, Ford made his way back to the cabin, only slightly apprehensive. A delayed wake up could mean nothing. Stan might be taking his time changing or had stubbornly decided he did, in fact, need Ford to drag him out of his cozy blanket nest.

But it could also mean confused eyes and vacant stares.

Stan's memory had recovered significantly in the last several months, but no one could predict when or where he'd have a 'moment'

(5 hours passed as dark lords lunch ended and I had to finish work before continuing)

Still, Stan hated Ford making a big deal out of it, and he'd hate it more if Ford was too obviously cautious in approaching him. So instead of poking his head in to get a feel for the situation, he threw the door open and grinned at his brother with a "Get up sleepy head, adventure awaits!"

Or he would have said it to Stan, if there was a stan there to say it to.

Stan's blanket bundle was cast aside, barely any warmth remaing when Ford pressed his hand against it. There was no sign of him in the room, but Ford would have heard Stan if he'd made his way out.

Nothing had changed except for Stan's blanket cocoon being cast off. All of Fords things were as he left them, and it looked like Stan hadn't touched his clothes, so...

Carefully, Ford knelt down and peered under the bed.

Two terrified eyes stared back at him.

Stan had shoved himself as far back as he could into the corner. His pajamas, currently far too big on his smaller form, pooled around him. One of his fists was shoved in his mouth, and he was taking small, shallow breaths.

Tears sprung to the corners of his eyes when they locked with Fords, before getting squeezed away with a whimper.

Ford swallowed whatever comforting words he'd had prepared for times such as these. Usually, when Stan was lost or confused, Ford would talk him through whatever memory had sprung up until Stan remembered on his own or was calm enough it didn't matter that he didn't remember the specifics of who or where he was. If that didn't work Ford would give him space, just enough so he wouldn't feel trapped, but not so much he'd run off. There were times neither approach worked, times he had to hold Stan down or chase after him, but overall it was an effective system in memory loss recovery management.

But Stan wasn't usually wearing his own face from fifty years ago.

It was a face Ford thought he'd never see outside photographs and his own minds eye. Stan's cheeks were round with baby fat, covered in freckles and tan from a childhood running under the sun. His dark brown curls were a mess, tiny locks tangled as they hung over his face. He looked younger than Dipper and Mabel, perhaps around nine or ten, but it was hard to tell with how far he'd wedged himself.

It made his heart hurt, seeing his brother in this form so full of fear. There was no telling when Stan thought he was, or how quickly his memories would bounce back this time. Trying to force it never worked well for anyone, and fifty years was a long time to make anyone remember all at once.

Ford had to handle this carefully.

"Good morning." He whispered, slowly lowering himself until he was laying on his front, "how did you sleep?"

Stan didn't answer. His eyes looked even wetter though, and he started trembling.

Not good.

"I myself had a rather pleasant dream." Ford continued in a soft voice, laying both his hands flat on the floor under his head, "the details escape me, but I do recall feeling very satisfied with myself. And a lot of candy. Perhaps too much for someone my age."

Stan still didn't respond, but the shaking stopped. Tension slowly left him as Ford kept talking about his dream, then his favorite candy, before moving onto his modified favorite candy list, as the flavors had changed drastically in the last several decades.

"For the worst in my opinion," Ford explained, itching to go grab his diagram on how candy flavors as a whole had taken a turn in the last few years, "far too sweet, except for when its too hot. And some of the flavors- it's too much mankind was never meant to-"

"Whatdya want from me?"

Ford almost missed Stan finally mustering up the courage to speak. His tiny voice was much quieter than Stan's usual voice was capable of, barely a squeak.

Ford swallowed his lecture on candy flavors (a subject Stan had grown tired of after the third candy store they'd perused) and focused on the small boy. Stan hadn't moved from his spot, but his hand was no longer in his mouth. It was now twisting his too large shirt with its pair, both sporting an additional finger.

Whether that was an attempt at comfort, or some part of Stan's shifter survival instincts trying to make him look more like Ford to blend in, he didn't know. All he did know was seeing his own small hands on his equally small brother made him want to reach out and pull him close.

He kept his hands firmly under his head. The last thing anyone needed was for Stan to see Fords hands and have a panic attack from too many memories, or for him to snap one of Fords fingers off trying to defend himself.

"I don't want anything from you Stanley." he said instead, keeping his voice light.

"How d'you know my name." Stan whispered, somehow even quieter. His eyes were starting to water again, and his hands were white from how hard he was clutching his shirt.

Saying he was Stanford, Stans twin, who Stan might only remember as a child if at all, wouldn't help matters. It was good that he remembered he was Stanley, even if the fear lacing his words made Ford regret saying it at all.

There weren't a lot of ways to reassure a child who thought they'd been kidnapped they hadn't been, and that they were actually an adult. Or anyways really, but Ford had gotten used to coaxing his brother back to himself.

He had a few ideas of what to say.

"Why do you think I know it?" Ford asked, studying Stan's face. A crease formed over his tiny brow as his eyebrows furrowed in thought, and his eyes darted up and down Fords form.

After a moment they landed on his face, and Stan squinted at him.

"... kinda look like pa." He mumbled, biting his lip, "d'you know him? He's big and yellow."

Ford had to bite his own lip at his brothers description of their father. Stan might have been even younger than he thought, if 'big and yellow' was all he could come up with to describe Filbrick.

Even if Filbrick would have towered over Stan at this age, and seemed to only own yellow suits.

"Yes, I know him." Ford coughed out, sucking in a deep breath to control the laugh trying to force its way out, "I know him very well."

"Oh."

Stan studied him a little while longer, eyes sharp and bright under the bed. Before Ford could try and prompt Stan into thinking about why he might look like their father, Stan spoke.

"Are you my uncle?"

"Hmm." Ford mulled it over. Lying to Stan would do more harm than good, but saying no might lead to him staying under the bed for the rest of the day. The last thing Ford wanted was for Stan to think this was a situation he needed to escape from and, more importantly, his back was already starting to hurt from laying on the floor.

Sitting on the bed was out of the question. Stan would lunge for the apparent avenue of escape, and then Ford would have to track him down like some kind of reverse horror movie. He had no idea what if any limitations Stan had at this age, and he didn't want to find out in the world's most stressful game of hide and seek.

"Something like that." Ford decided on.

Stan nodded, and, to Fords surprise, carefully uncurled and crawled out from his corner. Ford moved back to give him room, sitting up just as Stan poked his head out. He kept his hands folded in his lap out of sight, both to hide them from Stan's still wary gaze and to stop himself from snatching his brother off the ground.

"Sorry," Stan mumbled, staring at the ground and still gripping the bottom of his shirt, "I thought- I don't know. Where's pa? And ma. And Ford."

Fords name came out of his brothers mouth a whisper of a whisper, his missing presence obviously distressing. Once more Ford wondered if Stan was hesitant to bring him up to protect Fords identity if this was a kidnapping, or if Stan just didn't want to think about where Ford was because then he'd have to think about why Ford wasn't there too.

Questions Ford would never have answers too, but that was fine.

Stan was more important than his own curiosity.

"They're at home," Ford answered, regretting it immediately when Stans lip started trembling, "but its- its ok! Because- Because- this is a special trip! Just you and your uncle- uh-"

Ford looked around wildly. Every name he'd ever known had decided in this instant to abandon him, leaving him floundering for something to lie to his brother with.

His brother, who every second Ford spent scrambling for a name became more upset. The trembling was back, and tears were starting to build at the corners of his eyes. His breathing was staring to become ragged and watery, and he was beginning to press himself against the edge of the bed.

A name. Something simple, easy.

Ford could come up with a name.

"Your uncle Ford?"

Well. That was just his name.

"Why is that a question," Stan sobbed, not at all comforted by Fords answer, "why- where am I? I wanna go home!"

"Shhhhh shhh shhh!" Ford shushed, unable to control himself any longer. He scooped Stan into his arms and jumped to his feet. Stan squirmed and pushed away from him, but a few sharp pats and quick rubs were enough to get him to collapse into Ford, tiny hands clutching Fords sweater as he sobbed giant tears.

"There there." Ford said awkwardly, alternating between rubbing and patting Stan's back, "you're OK, everything's going to be OK."

"No- it's- not!" Stan wailed between sobs, burrowing his face into Fords neck and smearing snot all over it, "bad- guys- got me and now- now- now I'm gonna get got!"

"Get got?" Ford asked, genuinely confused, "what does that mean, you're going to get got."

Stan sobbed harder, his answer incomprehensible as he started to ooze more liquid than any human child should. Ford grimaced at the wetness, but pressed on, patting Stan harder.

"Well if it's any consolation, I'm not a 'bad guy'. I'm a scientist."

Somehow Stan sobbed harder, and Ford made out the words 'scientist' and 'baddest' to get a general understanding of what Stan was trying to say.

"I assure you, I'm not a 'baddest guy' either. There are others out there far worse."

This also failed to be comforting. Panic gripped his heart as Stan cried, his childish form losing definition with every passing second. Ford whipped his head around, before his eyes landed on the perfect thing to convince his tiny brother of his 'goodness'

"Here look at this." Ford walked over to his bed and grabbed one of his sweaters from where it sat on top of his hamper. He laid it out flat and waited patiently for Stan to blink his tears away so he could look at it.

The sweater was blue and sparkly, with white lettering declaring the wearer '#1 Best Nerd Grunkle'. Stan had a matching one that said '#1 Best Cool Grunkle', along with various others that proclaimed him best 'crime grunkle' 'alien grunkle' and 'funkle grunkle'.

"See?" Ford gestured to the sweater, relieved as Stan's sobbing shifted into sniffles, "could a 'bad guy' also be the number one best Grunkle?"

Stan sniffed, his arms regaining bones as he lifted an arm and wiped his nose.

It left a streak of thick green snot across Stan's cheeks, and to Fords disgust his brother wiped his alien snot covered hand on Fords chest.

"... says nerd."

"Yes, it does say that, but also-"

"Nerds aren't scientist."

"I think you'll find-"

"S'different."

"Stanley if you'd just take a second to listen-"

"Are you some kind of idiot?"

Ford sighed. He'd forgotten how mouthy Stan had been... always. He didn't like what this version of his brother thought of his intellect, but if it would get Stan to calm down-

"I have, on occasion," Ford sighed again, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "been called 'some kind of idiot.'"

"Knew it." Stan whispered, drawing out another sigh.

They stood there in the cabin, Stan wiping at his face as his sniffles subsided and Ford held himself back from trying to get samples of everything oozing out of him. He swayed back and forth, bouncing Stan a little and rubbing his back. The motion seemed to help, and Fords efforts were rewarded with Stan settling his head on Fords shoulder with a tiny sigh and a soft, shy look.

The day had just started and already Ford felt drained.

And gross.

Stan's alien snot was really working its way through Fords layers.

A rumble interrupted his thoughts, and he looked down at Stan's red face. Both of his tiny hands were clutching his stomach, and he looked away when it rumbled again.

Ford huffed out a laugh, and he gave Stan's concerningly damp hair a pat

"How about some breakfast?"

Stan nodded, and Ford carried him through the ship, smile widening with every curius look and awe filled sound. By the time they made it to the kitchen Stan was eager to get down and look out at the window at the rolling sea. Ford left him to it, shedding his sweater and throwing it down the hall towards his lab.

Breakfast was once again simple and not burnt, no matter how much Stan insisted.

Ford yawned as he exited his room, stretching his arms behind him before continuing down the hallway to the kitchen. The last few days had been... days. Eventful, perhaps, might be a word someone might use. Or enlightening.

Tragic even.

But Mabel had called them 'one too many of those days in a row' and was determined not to 'put labels' on the harrowing events their family (and the rest of the town) had gone through, so days it was.

But those days were starting to make their way behind them, and so Fords heart was light as he strode into the kitchen for a morning cup of coffee. Stan wasn't in there, but that wasn't too unusual nowadays.

He'd just had his mind erased after all, deviations from his normal routine were more than expected.

Morning light poured into the empty kitchen, and the room was soon full of the noises from the coffee machine. It rattled worryingly, and every few seconds made a high-pitched noise that was eerily reminiscent to a kettle. Ford let it be, confident his repairs would hold until McGucket took a look at it or a new one was acquired.

Instead he turned his focus to breakfast.

The townsfolk had been very helpful in restocking the decimated pantry (even if the kids complained that nothing was where it was supposed to be) and Ford took great care in selecting their morning meal. A part of him cursed himself for neglecting all the family breakfasts he'd avoided, as the last few days had proven his knowledge on cooking to be... more than somewhat out of date.

But today would be different, because today he had come prepared with a plan.

A plan not to touch any appliance in the room besides the fridge.

Children (according to Stan) needed a wide variety in their diet. Before, when Stan was the one providing meals, his brother made sure the kids ate plenty of meat and carbs in the form of cans of meat and pancakes, and shoved fruit down their throats in the form of sugary juice boxes and fruit cups.

(There had been no mention of vegetables, and a part of him feared none had been in his house since his less than graceful departure)

So with that in mind, Ford grabbed a few plastic plates, loaded them up with granola bars, fruit cups, oranges, bread, and whatever other snacks he knew the children would eat.

Stan would eat just about anything, and Ford had already taken a pill this morning. He loaded up his brother plate with a few more questionable choices, then called the children down for breakfast. Distant thuds was his only response, their bare feet shuffling around as they got up.

There was no response from Stan's room.

"Stanley!" Ford called, taking a few steps up the stairs, "Breakfast! I promise I didn't burn anything this time!"

Upstairs he could hear a few disbelieving mutters, but he brushed it aside. Once they came down and saw his unburnt spread, he'd bask in their praise for his ability to feed them by himself.

A normal thing for someone his age to want, surely.

"Stanley!" he repeated, making his way to the top of the stairs, "Stanley?"

Nothing.

Ford pushed down the growing nerves in his stomach. It had been over a week since... and while Stan had improved drastically, he would still stay up strange hours and slept heavier than he used to. A side effect of all the stress Weirdmaggedon put on him, nothing to be worried about.

That's what Ford told himself, forcing his hand to be steady as he reached out and grabbed the doorknob. It twisted easily, door creaking as he pushed it open.

To his relief, Stan was in the room. The curtains were pulled closed, and he was bundled up under a pile of blankets, his true face peeking out by the pillow. Pinkish eyes squinted in the light of the hallway, an expression Ford now knew meant he was tired and not contemplating the best way to eat him.

"Stanley," Ford sighed, opening the door all the way, "sorry, did I wake you?"

Stan squinted harder, before blinking his eyes wide open. A ripple went through him, and a moment later Ford was looking at Stan's human face, the mass under the blankets flattening into a person shape as Stan shifted.

"Ah, my apologies," Ford stepped closer to the bed and tugged at the blankets, helping Stan sit up, "I know how you feel about us seeing your base form. I should have knocked."

"Ah, my apologies," Stan repeated in Fords voice, sitting up and staring at Ford intently, "I know how you feel about us seeing your base form. I should have knocked."

Ford froze.

With a heavy heart, he turned to examine his brother closer, heart sinking with every confirmed detail.

It was hard to make out in the dim light of the bedroom, but Stan's normally whiter hair had a streak going through it, and his chin now had a cleft.

Not Stan's face at all.

Fords face, one Stan had finally stopped wearing a few days ago, stating it felt 'weird' to look exactly like Ford all the time. But that wasn't what made Ford want to pull him close and tuck his brother's head under his chin. It wasn't the reason he spent every night since he'd held a gun up to his brothers head wide awake, haunted by every choice and missed moment that led him to discovering his brothers secret in the worst way possible.

What took Fords heart and squeezed it in a vice grip was Stan's hands. His fingers, to be exact.

All twelve of them.

"Oh Stanley," Ford whispered, pushing the burning feeling away from his eyes.

"Oh Stanley," Stan repeated, face twisting in what Ford knew was a copy of his own expression.

It wasn't the first time Stan had regressed, far from it. There were hours he'd forgotten peoples names, times he forgot words or went back to mimicking voices, times he seemed lost in his own mind, reliving moments no one but he could see. It wouldn't be the last either, something Ford would have to help Stan through each and every episode for the rest of their lives.

It was the least he could do, after everything.

So he wasn't surprised that Stan had forgotten again, just sad. Sad, and devastated, because while it wasn't the first time, it was most certainly the worst.

Stan had never gone back to having extra fingers, not since that first day when he first woke up, brand new and hanging onto every word Ford said.

There was no telling how long this would last, or if he would bounce back as quickly as he did that first day. The best they could do was try and help Stan as much as they could, until the memories came back on their own or they could sit down and go through the scrap book again.

Ford swallowed, almost choking when Stan did the same, then held out a hand, "Come along, its breakfast time. Are you hungry?"

"Come along, its breakfast time. Are you hungry?" Stan repeated, matching Fords tone and cadence perfectly, before grabbing his hand and letting Ford pull him up. He didn't wobble, and Ford cheered at the steady, even steps Stan took without having to study Ford's gait. His hand felt awkward in Fords, large and bulky, the extra finger throwing off what should have been a perfect fit.

He held it tighter, getting a squeeze in return.

Together they made their way out into the hall, where Dipper and Mabel were groggily wandering towards the stairs.

"Mornin' Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Ford," Mabel yawned, holding Dippers hand so he wouldn't run into anything in his zombie-like state, "Whats for breakfast? I don't smell anything burning."

"Ah yes," Ford said, tugging his own twin behind him, "I decided to try something less... flammable this morning."

"Ah yes," Stan said, making Mabel jump and blink up at him, "I decided to try something less.. flammable this morning."

"Grunkle Stan?" Mabel asked, shooting Ford a concerned look.

Ford gave her a soft smile in return (which Stan also copied, before muttering flammable under his breath one too many times for Fords liking), "Not to worry my dear, I'm- We'll see how he's doing after breakfast."

"Not to worry my dear," Stan said, turning towards Dipper (who was squinting up at Stan in early morning confusion), "I'm- We'll see how he's doing after breakfast."

"Oh. Ok." They drifted into silence, both of them helping their twin down the stairs. It took Stan a second to work his legs right, and Dipper kept leaning heavily on the rail and almost sliding head first to the ground. It took them a few minutes of making sure neither would meat an untimely demise via gravity, but eventually they were on the ground floor, heading towards the kitchen.

"Do you think-" Mabel said suddenly, before biting her lip and looking away. Ford ruffled her hair, and idly noticed Stan did the same to Dipper, getting a swat that made Stan jump and shoot Ford several worried looks.

"Go on, what did you want to ask?"

"Well," Mabel said, staring at her feet as they continued on to the kitchen, "Is he... will it be like before? We're leaving soon, and I don't..."

Ford opened his mouth to answer, only to pause when Stan said, "Go on, what did you want to ask?" accompanied by a yelp from Dipper.

Both of them turned around to find Stan holding Dipper by the back of the shirt. He was frowning at the boy, apparently upset with Dippers flailing and demands to be put down.

"Go on," Stan repeated, shooting Ford a tight look before focusing back on their gnephew, "what did you want to ask?"

"Nothing Grunkle Stan!" Dipper shouted, kicking his legs and swinging his arms at Stan, "Put me down!"

"What did you want to ask?" was Stan's only response, besides shaking Dipper, "Go on."

Ford opened his mouth to tell Stan to let him go, before Mabel burst into laughter. Stan shot her a panicked look, before desperately shaking Dipper harder, ignoring his increasingly high pitched screams.

"What?" Ford asked looking between his gneice and his sputtering gnephew, "Whats so funny?"

"Whats so funny?" Stan repeated, his even tone a stark difference to the growing panic in his eyes.

"Its- Grunkle Stan!" Mabel breathed, wiping a tear from her eye, "He's- he's copying you, but with Dipper! Dipper! You're supposed to be copying me! He's-"

Ford stared at the cackling ball that was his gniece, before turning back to face his brother. Dipper had stopped flailing, and was now rubbing his face and groaning, while Stan looked near tears as he looked back and forth between the children.

Because Dipper wasn't copying Mabel, and because Dipper wasn't copying Mabel, Stan couldn't copy Ford and have a coherent conversation.

It was tragic really. Stan was nothing more than a blank slate, one that was convinced Ford would teach him everything he needed to survive, as long as he copied everything Ford did. Of course he'd try to copy Fords conversation, using Dipper as a partner instead of Mabel. Of course he'd be upset if Dipper didn't respond the way Mabel did. To him, it must be a sign he was copying Ford incorrectly.

It made Ford want to cry.

But it was also kind of funny.

"Stan," Ford said, stiffing a smile, "Put the poor boy down, you can't shake a question out of him."

"I decided to try- shake a question out of - the poor boy." Stan said, frowning at Dipper. Dipper rubbed his eyes and muttered under his breath, before looking up to frown right back at him.

Stan shook him one more time, and Dipper groaned.

"Can you put me down?"

Stan frowned harder, before nodding sharply. He let go, and Dipper slammed back to the ground, wobbling for a moment.

"What? Whats so funny?" Stan said, staring at Dipper intently. Ford stifled a laugh, and Mabel failed to stop hers from bouncing off the walls.

Dipper sighed again, then let out a flat "ha ha ha."

Stan stared harder.

"Oh come on!" Dipper shouted, throwing his hands in the air, "I can't laugh on command! What do I look like, a clown!"

"A clown." Stan said in Dippers voice, nodding. He waved a hand at him, then pointed to where Mabel was clutching her stomach bent over on the floor.

"Stanley," Ford said, coughing to hide the quirking of his own lips, "I understand you want to.... copy, the experience, but you can't force the boy to laugh if he doesn't-"

"Don't worry Grunkle Stan!" Mabel interrupted, popping up between them. Her cheeks were rosy red and her smile wide, and both her hands came up on either side of her, fingers wiggling in the air, "I can get him to laugh."

"Wait- Mabel don't-!" Was as far as Dipper got. The next moment Mabel was upon him, fingers digging into his sides and armpits before they even crashed to the floor.

The effect was instant. With a screech Dipper buckled underneath her, then howled with laughter. His pleading for mercy fell on deaf ears, as Mabel locked their legs together and continued her tickle assault.

Stan nodded sharply, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Alright, settle down," Ford said, supressing his smile as best he could when Stan moved to copy him. Unlike Fords attempt at mature conflict diffusion, Stan was radiating smugness, pleased to have gotten his successful copied experience. Mabel got in a few more tickles, then bounced to her feet and skipped to the kitchen, leaving her wheezing brother behind.

Her wheezing brother that Fords brother was poking in the ribs with his foot.

"Leave him be," Ford said, pushing Stan back so Dipper could get to his feet, "Breakfast is getting cold."

"Leave him be," Stan repeated, and even though his mimicry was perfect, Ford got the sense he was being mocked, "Breakfast is getting- flammable this morning."

"It is not!" Ford puffed up, marching towards the kitchen to show off his unburnt breakfast spread, "Look, see!"

Ford burst into the kitchen and waved a hand, gesturing to all the fire spreading across the counter next to the stove. He stared at it for a moment, shocked, while Mabel frantically grabbed the emergency fire extinguisher and Dipper lunged to save breakfast.

The coffee machine hissed and sputtered, sending flaming blobs of coffee around the room in magnificent arcs. It was coated in white a second later, and Stan sauntered up and very mockingly copied Fords gesture.

"Look, see!" Stan parroted, "Breakfast is getting- flammable."

Ford looked at his brother. Saw his own face staring back, grin wide and nothing at all like his own. Every day they spent together as brothers was something he didn't deserve, something he'd spend the rest of his life trying to earn. Every second Stan was here, as himself or not, was a miracle Ford would be thankful for every day. His mischief and criminal ways were something he'd never take for granted again.

Fords brother. His best friend. The person who saved the world.

None of that saved him from Ford looping an arm around his neck and putting him in a headlock, and as long as Stan was determine to copy him he wouldn't use his shapeshifting ability to cheat.