Blank ERRØR

Imagine Ford finds a compass like that in Gravity Falls. At first he thinks it’s junk, because it doesn’t point north, but a closer look at the thing reveals it has magical properties. After a bit of investigation, Ford is fascinated to find it points towards whatever he wants most.

Except the compass doesn’t point towards any of the things Ford would have expected himself to want. Curious and thrilled to discover there’s some mystery thing he apparently wants more than anything, Ford sets off to follow the compass to whatever it keeps pointing to.

He follows.

And follows.

And follows.

And eventually realizes he needs to get a car for the trip, because whatever his deepest desire is is quite far away, out of Gravity Falls. (How intriguing! How unexpected! Ford would have thought everything he wanted was in this anomaly hotspot he’d found.)

He follows the compass for days, making notes in his journal about it. The compass doesn’t always point in the same direction, like whatever it is Ford wants moves around. But eventually, it narrows in on a location: a rather seedy-looking casino that Ford would never step foot in otherwise.

But in he goes. His eyes are glued to the compass, so he doesn’t notice a man stepping in his way until he hears a shocked, quiet, “Stanford?”

Ford looks up and locks eyes with the twin brother he hasn’t seen in years. Stan is staring at him wildly, muttering to himself about whether or not Ford is a hallucination and he’s high. Something to come back to, perhaps. Ford isn’t inclined to deal with his brother right now, he’s so close to whatever the compass says he wants—which is apparently on the other side of Stan.

“Excuse me,” he says bluntly, stepping around Stan and looking down at his compass again.

Except now it’s pointing behind him?

Ford turns around and skirts past Stan again. The compass whirls to point behind him. Huffing, he moves around Stan yet again, but this time Stan shuffles away from him to the side.

…And the compass follows.

As realization dawns on him, Ford makes a circle around his brother, who’s watching him with concern and nerves. No matter which way he goes, the compass always points back the same way.

It’s Stan. The compass is telling him that what he wants most in this world is the brother who betrayed him. (The brother he’s missed.)

Ford doesn’t want to believe it. He thought he was finally happy. He had the degrees he wanted, the research job he wanted, and a whole forest full of strange and wonderful anomalies to study, but apparently the thing he wants the most deep down is to reunite with his brother?

He’s not sure he’s ready to forgive Stan. But he’s not sure he’s still quite as angry with him anymore. Perhaps that anger was really just a cover for the hurt he felt and the ache of missing his twin. He doesn’t really want to think about it; has been pushing those feelings down for years.

Based on this post about Ford being better at memorizing while Stan is better at rationalizing. Different types of processing, different types of perceived intelligence. Self-perception is one hell of a nuisance, especially when you grow up being compared to a better version of yourself.

Dedicated to @empressofsamoyeds for reminding me of this wip and always leaving nice tags in my stuff. Hope you enjoy!

⋉ ▫ ⋈ ▫ ⋊

It's a nice day in Gravity Falls. Or as nice as a summer post-apocalyptic day can get. The sun is shining in a blue, not-teared-open sky, the birds (both the regular and the three-eyed ones) are singing, and the grass is green– except for that shiny fuchsia moss that grows near the unicorns’ place.

It is also a quiet and relaxing day for Stanley Pines, which as per usual includes some incessant ramblings from his brother and his grandnephew in the middle of the kitchen, where he was doing his brand-new morning routine: having breakfast and rearranging his memories. Last night wasn’t particularly eventful, but it takes him a while anyways to figure out whether his dreams were made up or past events that truly happened.

The non-stop blabbering from Nerd Senior and Nerd Junior doesn’t help with the headache. They’ve been at it for at least an hour, with Dipper asking more and more questions (he can really see the resemblance to his sister now) and Ford excitedly answering each and every one of them. They are getting increasingly louder with each sentence, talking about stuff that is colossally boring. They will just. Not. Stop. His nerdy grandnephew and even nerdier brother.

Stan could listen to this noise for hours. He’ll deny everything, of course.

He briefly looks up from the newspaper he’s been pretending to read when he notices the table has stopped vibrating. Dipper isn’t writing anymore.

“…and then, if the formula looks right, that means you have successfully solved the equation. Simple, right?” Stanford half-shouts, his eyes practically shining with excitement.

Dipper’s voice, on the other hand, is lacking his cheerful tone when he replies. “Yep, yep, totally, if the formula looks right... then it's solved, cool.”

“Very cool indeed, my boy.” If Stan weren’t busy eyeing Dipper’s body language right now, he would’ve laughed at his brother’s attempt to use the younger’s slang without sounding like an old English teacher. “Such a simple thing that solves so many difficult problems. I remember Fiddleford and I almost framed a picture of the equation in our room with how many– wait a moment, what time is it?”

“It’s 9:17.”

Stanford looks slightly panicked now. “My stars, it is late! I have to meet up with Fiddleford in thirteen minutes.” He goes to the door, before turning back to the kitchen. “Maybe we can continue our chat later Dipper, I was enjoying it greatly.”

“Yeah, yeah, for sure, you ehmm... you go see McGucket, I'll clean up my notes.”

“Great then, I will see you later. Goodbye, Stanley!”

“Bye.”

The entrance door closes with its characteristic grinding sound, and all that Stanley hears after that is his grandniece saying goodbye to his uncle from the porch. His attention drifts back to the kid in front of him, who’s now hunched over the table, looking at his notebook like the answer to all his questions is in there. He knows that expression, and he also knows that a piece of paper won’t give him the information he needs.

“You alright there?” he says, admittedly startling Dipper a little.

“What? Yeah, yeah, all good. Just checking my notes.”

“That was some rant he went on.”

“Yes, it was very interesting.” The boy’s eyes still have that excited shine in them, but there’s a layer of worry covering them. Bad.

“Sure it was. You got everything down?”

“Yeah, yeah, all's good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, why wouldn't it?”

“'Cause you're about to crew through your pen for the third time this week.”

Stan huffs as Dipper takes the pen out of his mouth, looking at it almost guiltily for the damage he’s done to it. If it weren’t because his brother is back home and alive, he would almost think this kid is Ford’s reincarnation, with how much they look, talk and move alike.

“Oh. Sorry,” Dipper says in a shy voice.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, I'm just... organizing my notes.”

“Kid, I haven't seen you put your pen away from the page in the past hour except when he mentioned that last formula. Did you get it?”

“Well... no, but it's fine. I'll just go over my notes again, I'm sure I can figure it out.”

No you won’t, Stan wants to say, but he stops. He’d recognize that stupid formula anywhere. Stanford was right: it was everywhere. Every problem, every step of the way, every minimal calibration needed it. It was like every scientist in the world decided to stop using simple math and instead went for that amalgamation of numbers and symbols that would surely solve all their problems. Stanley can quote that formula by heart, even after his entire goddamn mind had been erased. It will haunt him until the day he dies, that’s for sure.

Instead, he settles for a gentler approach. The kid doesn’t need to go through the whole ordeal of not being good enough to solve this stuff.

“Dipper, it took me seven months to understand it myself. And look, you're obviously smarter than I was back then, but still. This one is a mess, and I hated it until I got it. I’ll help you.”

“I... you remember physics already?” Dipper raises an eyebrow. Stanley refrains from rolling his eyes, knowing the kid will interrogate him about his mental recovery when they finish this conversation.

“Apparently, yeah. My brain just decided that was more important than my bar mitzvah, which I'm pretty sure I had. I think. Whatever, let me take a look. Do you have a paper?”

“There's some loose sheets in the back of the jour– notebook.”

Stan smiles a little at the slip-up. Of course, the thought of those damned journals still makes him uneasy, but those weren’t the only ones Ford had. When they were kids, his twin loved calling his notebooks ‘journals’, because all academic papers that are worth reading are called ‘journals’, Stanley, so ours will be a sailing journal. Maybe we can even discover new sailing methods that we could publish and revolutionize the sailing world. Can you imagine? Two pirates setting the new ways for all future sailors!

Stanley forces himself to get out of that memory and focus on the page before him. First, he makes sure all of Dipper’s notes are correct, in case the mistake is a simple miscalculation and not a lack of understanding, like he suspects. When he rules out any mistakes in the calculus, he speaks again.

“Which part are you stuck on?”

“Well, Grunkle Ford said that the equation is solved when the formula looks right. I just...”

“You don't know what ‘right’ means.”

“Exactly.”

Bingo. Just like he expected.

“But that means I should know, right? He said it was simple.”

This time Stanley does roll his eyes.

“Kid, Ford was a genius since the day he was born, and he has been for 60 years. You're smart as hell, but you're still a kid.” Dipper pouts slightly at the comment, which only proves his great-uncle right. “I can assure you he didn't know about this formula when he was your age.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. You see, Sixer has this habit of explaining things like they're the easiest thing in the world, even if they aren't. He's done this his whole life. When we were kids, we had to find some middle ground when he explained things to me, and it took us a long time to do that. He means well, don’t get me wrong, but he’s terrible at teaching, because he just repeats what he learns.”

The whole time he's speaking, Stan is drawing what appears to be a series of graphs on a piece of paper. Dipper leans a little on the table, tilting his head to see what he's writing. Stan turns the page around so he can see, sliding the paper towards him.

“Alright, this ain’t gonna be very scientific, but this is what worked for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So, when you use this formula, you will get some numbers you can put in a graph of functions, like these.” He taps the paper with his finger. “If the formula is right, you can put the results in function form and it will end up looking like one of these options: the ‘smiley cat’, the ‘fallen surfer’ or the ‘grass that needs trimming’. Do you see them?”

Dipper looks at the graphs: the first one, the “smiley cat”, has a line that looks like an M with another that looks like a U right below in the middle, which Dipper assumes is the mouth. The second one, the “fallen surfer”, has a line that looks like a rounded soundwave with a straight one that starts right above the crest and shoots upwards diagonally. Finally, the “grass that needs trimming” is a series of short parallel diagonal lines along the same horizontal axis.

The kid laughs. “Yeah, I see them.”

“Good. This is what Ford means when he says it looks ‘right’. Any time you use that formula, the results should always look like one of these three. Doesn't matter what numbers you put.”

“Right, because the formula is always the same no matter the numbers, so the lines stay the same!” The sentence starts slowly, but quickly picks up in pace and volume as understanding settles in. Dipper yanks the notebook from Stan’s hands and starts furiously writing on it again. He copies the names of the functions and a few other familiar symbols that Stan thinks is one of his brother’s codes; however, upon closer inspection, he notices he actually recognizes them from Mabel's scrapbook.

Stanley is wondering whether a pen can physically catch fire due to friction when Dipper stops writing. He stares at his book, his eyes darting from each paragraph to each complementary drawing, before they lay on his grunkle’s. There’s the shine again, this time without the previous worry.

“Thanks, Grunkle Stan, this was very helpful,” he says sincerely. “Can I keep your drawings?”

“Knock yourself out, kid. I don't need them anymore.” God, it feels good to say that.

“Great, thanks!”

“No worries,” Stan replies, taking another swig of his coffee as Dipper runs to his room.

⋉ ▫ ⋈ ▫ ⋊

The next time Dipper asks Stan for help, the older twins are a couple of months into their sea adventure. They’re somewhere in the Pacific, on their way to Japan to investigate some of the local supernatural marine fauna. It’s about 7 pm, and Stan has finally managed to get his brother on deck, saying that if he’s going to be nose deep in a book 24 hours a day, he might as well get some sunlight while he’s at it. And that’s how their arrangement had been for the last week or so, with Stan fishing lazily on his chair and Ford by his side, at a makeshift table and drawing what seemed to be the trees on an island nearby. Whatever it is, at least it’s keeping him away from his dim-lit studio downstairs.

A ring from inside the cabin gets Stan to turn his head. They didn’t schedule any calls for today, so it could either be the kids, Fiddleford, Soos, Wendy or Shermie. Stanford doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes fixed on the trees, probably looking at any details he can add to his already impressively realistic drawing.

Well, the fish don’t seem particularly eager to bite the bait today, so Stanley reels the line with a sigh and collects his fishing gear, ready to pack up for the day.

“I’ll get the call,” he says out loud as he stands up, making sure that Ford notices he’s leaving and doesn’t freak out when he wakes up from his trace and finds himself alone. Last time that happened, he had to hold his shaking brother so long they both fell asleep. A hum is all the confirmation he needs, even though he’s pretty sure Stanford doesn’t have the faintest idea of where he’s going. He knows he’s leaving, and that’s all that matters.

The strident ring from the computer grows louder as he comes closer, and even though it means that someone is calling them, he hates it. Maybe he should take Wendy’s advice and change the tune, just so it doesn’t sound like an alarm clock. He’ll have to ask her again how to do it next time she calls.

The computer is laying exactly where he left it a couple of hours ago when he was… ehem, proofreading his story. On the screen, a photo of the kids smiling greets him on the pop-up window above the “answer” and “decline” buttons. Without a second doubt, he leaves his gear on the floor next to him and presses the green button.

“Hi, Grunkle Stan!” Dipper’s face is now looking at him, smiling.

“Hey kid, what's up?” Stan can’t help but smile back. After all the apocalypse thing, Dipper had been worried sick about his memories returning. He would obsessively write down his progress and take notes about everything he would remember or not. Stanford had insisted that Dipper’s help had been decisive in keeping track of his recovery, since the kid had been with him the entire summer and knew his current mannerisms, his routine and all the things that made Stan… well, Stan. Dipper had taken this job very seriously, which Stan could tell was taking a toll on him. But now, seeing him all smiley and carefree, it was impossible not to return the smile.

“Not much, really. Are you free right now?”

“Yeah, what d'you need?” For a split second, an alarm blasts in Stanley’s mind. Dipper needs his help, and he called him without his sister around?

“I have this equation that I cannot solve, and I was wondering if you could help me out.”

A weight lifts off the older man’s chest. Thank God.

“Sure. Gimme a second, I'll get Ford.”

“No!” The kid almost screams. Or maybe it was his naturally high voice. “I mean, I was kind of hoping you could explain it to me,” he adds, now much softer.

Stan raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I asked Grunkle Ford to help me with it yesterday, but I didn't get it. But he spent so much time going over it again and again, in the end I just felt bad for him. He was trying hard, but it's…”

“Right. Fine, I'll help you, but next time don't lie to him, you hear me?” The last part comes out a little harsher than he intended, or maybe it was his naturally fucked-up voice. He needs Dipper to know this, though; Ford and him had made a deal before sailing to be completely honest with each other on everything, to avoid future paranoias. It had been working so far, so he needs the kids to follow suit.

“I'm sorry.” Dipper’s voice is now laced with regret, and he’s looking down.

“It's fine. Next time just tell him to look for me and I'll help, yeah?”

“Okay, thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it. Right, what do you have?”

For the next 15 minutes, Stan and Dipper talk about the equation. This one proves to be even harder than the last one they discussed, and Stan realizes that there’s a bigger problem revolving it that needs several steps. He tries his best to come up with different explanations that can help his nephew, but they are both running in circles. Suddenly, the door opens, startling both of them.

“Stanley! I was right about the palm trees, they do change colors when you're not look– oh, hi Dipper!”

“Hi, Great Uncle Ford.”

“Stanley, why didn't you tell me you were in a videocall? I would have stopped looking at the trees had I known.”

Stan frowns, although there’s more sarcasm in his eyebrows than there is reproval.

“I did tell you, you knucklehead. I was just helping Dipper with some homework, I was gonna call you after.”

Ford’s eyes lit up. Nerd. “What kind of homework? I'm sure I can help.”

“Nah, don't worry, I got it covered.”

Now it is Ford’s turn to frown. Looking at the papers scattered across the table, his eyes squint with realization. “Wait… those graphs look familiar. Dipper, isn't this what we talked about yesterday?”

“Well…”

“Yeah, the kid just needed a second round of explanations, it's fine.”

“I thought you understood this yesterday, were my explanations not clear?”

“I… not entirely?” Dipper’s voice is barely above a whisper now, clearly embarrassed about his lie despite his uncle’s gentle tone. To spare them both, Stan opts to explain the situation to his brother.

“Sixer, remember when we were young and you had trouble explaining math stuff to me?”

“Yes, but Dipper is smart, I'm sure he can understand it.”

The silence falls. Dipper's expression turns from nervous to shocked. Stan looks away from his brother. Ford looks at him, then at the computer, confused as to why they stopped talking. Out of the corner of the screen, Mabel's head pokes out with a frown.

“That was not nice, Grunkle Ford.”

“What? What did I–” Stanford looks back at his twin, searching for some clarification. As his mind replays his niece’s words and his own, his brain latches onto one sentence.

Yes, but Dipper is smart.

But, an adversative conjunction. Meaning, opposition.

Dipper is smart, as opposed to someone else who is not.

That was not nice.

It decidedly wasn't.

Before Stanford can even open his mouth to apologize, Stan speaks first.

“Kids, give us a second.”

“Okay,” the kids answer in unison.

Stan mutes the call, but he leaves the camera on, not wanting to give the kids the impression that they're arguing behind closed doors. If they see they're not screaming at each other but rather talking things out, the better.

“Stanley, I didn't-”

“I know you didn't mean it like that.” Stan's voice is calm, even with three pairs of concerned eyes on him. “And I know Dipper is smart. Hell, he's probably as much of a genius as you were back then, but he's still a kid, Sixer. And don't take this the wrong way, but you are not too great at dumbing things down. Which is fine, it’s not like you ever needed things to be easier than they were… but I did. And I know how to dumb things down because I had to do it for years in order to make some sense of your journals.” He looks discreetly at the screen, where the younger twins are still sporting a sad look that mirrors his brother's. God, he hates it. “Listen, I'm gonna finish explaining this stupid equation to him, and then we can talk, yeah? But I don't wanna worry them more. Just…” He grabs his brother's forearm, giving it a playful shake. He smiles. “Don't get too into your head because of this, yeah? I'm not mad, I promise.”

Stanford nods, a little less tense than before but his face still serious. Stan unmutes the call.

“Alright kids, we're back. Sorry about the intermission.”

Before he can stop him, Stanford leans down until he's back in the shot.

“Dipper, I'm sorry. I really thought you understood my explanations, I should've tried harder.”

“It's fine, Great Uncle Ford, really! You tried hard enough yesterday, this one I just can't get behind. I'll get it eventually, don't worry.”

“I am surely not worried about it, you’re a smart kid and you have a great teacher here.” He looks back at Stanley, who nods in return. “I'll let you go back to your class.”

“Wait, Grunkle Ford!” Mabel is the one speaking now, her voice a firmer tone than usual. “Did you say 'I'm sorry' to Grunkle Stan?”

“Yes, he did. Get off his back, pumpkin, it's just a slip. No big deal.”

Mabel scowls lightly at the response, a sign that she isn't convinced but won't push any further.

“Anyhow, I will let you kids talk to Stanley. If you can call me when you finish, I would like to join you for a chat. If that's okay.” He turns to look at Stan in the last sentence, the question lingering unasked in the air. If Ford’s eyes weren't shining with hope, Stanley would've probably laughed at how obvious the move was.

“Sure, I'll call you. I don't know how long it'll take us to finish, so you can go stare at those trees for another while.”

Stanford smiles, relief washing over his face. “I'll do that. I'll see you later, kids!”

“Bye, Grunkle Ford!” the kids reply in unison. If he weren't a twin himself, Stan would think they rehearse it.

⋉ ▫ ⋈ ▫ ⋊

After 50 torturous minutes, Stanley finally comes up with an explanation that is simplified enough for Dipper to understand. The kid is so ecstatic that he honest to God squeaks, somehow even higher than his sister ever has, and in the process, Mabel jumps on her bed like she just heard a bomb go off in the room. Stanley watches with soft eyes as Dipper runs to her sister to explain the equation, even if he knows Mabel doesn't understand a lick of what her brother is saying to him. It doesn't take long for her to join him, jumping up and down and congratulating him, and a memory of some big project his own brother managed to finish flashes in front of Stan's eyes. He shakes his head and focuses back to the screen, where Dipper is now panting and smiling.

“Grunkle Stan, this is great! Now I can finish the rest of the problem! It all makes sense now!”

“Heh, I'm glad, kid. I told you you could do it.”

“Well, not without you, that's for sure.” Dipper finally tears his eyes away from his book and looks directly into camera. “Thanks. I'm sorry it took this long to get it.”

“People normally learn these things in like, university and stuff. I'd say it took you very little.”

“Yeah, well, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, and you know what I mean. You got it in the end, so that’s that.”

“Well, thank you anyways.”

“‘Course. I'm gonna get Ford so we can chat.”

“Grunkle Stan, wait!” Mabel's voice stops him from getting up.

“What is it?”

“Do you think Grunkle Ford is mad? Because of what I said?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Maybe I was too harsh when I told him to apologize. He looked sad.”

“Sweetie, don't worry about it.” This girl is way too observant. “You know Sixer always has this sad owl face, that's just how he looks.” Both kids chuckle now. Stan has yet to find a sound he loves more than that. “Really, don't worry about it. I'm not mad at him, he just needs to process his words sometimes before he says them. He didn't mean wrong.”

“Okay.”

“Great, I'll go get him.”

After a minute of getting his brother, both men re-enter the room. Stanford is a bit weary at first, trying not to speak a lot, but he quickly picks up the pace as his twin asks him about the chameleon palm trees. The rest of the evening goes by smoothly, until the kids' parents return and they're forced to hang up. As Stanford closes the laptop, Stan stretches with a melody of cracks along his back and arms, and declares it's time for him to grab a bite. He stands up and goes to the kitchen, his brother following close behind. A few minutes and two simple golden-brown cheese sandwiches later, both of them sit at the table to eat. Well, Stan eats; Ford stares at his plate, hands below the table.

“Spit it out,” Stanley says with his mouth half-full, not even bothering to look at his twin.

“Huh?”

“I want you to actually eat the sandwich, so spit it out already.”

Stanford blinks sheepishly a few times before looking down again.

“I'm sorry about what I said. I didn't mean it the way it came across.”

“I know you didn't.”

“I know, but I'm still sorry.”

“You don't need to be sorry.”

“Yes, I do!” Ford's voice picks up quickly, which prompts Stan to stop mid-bite.

“Sixer, if you didn't mean it like that then I don't take offense. It's fine.”

“It's not. Too many people have said things like that to you, and I refuse to be one of them.”

“It's alright, Sixer.” Stan's voice is slow, and if he didn't know his brother, Ford would think he's exasperated. But it's Stan, and thankfully he remembers enough of his brother to know this tone. “I know you just meant that Dipper is a smarter kid than I was at his age, and that's true! He's a fucking genius, anyone can see that. And besides, we all know I've never been too smart myself. The bar wasn’t exactly high here.”

“That's… not true.” Stanford wishes his voice had been more determined, but the last sentence caught him by surprise.

“Come on, I'm not insulted by it, I made my peace with it a long time ago. I was terrible at school, and I didn't even finish high school. And it's not like I made smart choices after that either.” Stan shudders at the last part, trying not to focus on some memories threatening to come to the surface. “I studied all of that nerd crap later, sure, but still. Even if you did mean what you said, you'd still be right. That's fine.”

Stan takes another bite of his sandwich while Stanford stares at him, mouth agape. He stutters, trying in vain to find the right words, not wanting to mess up again. He feels like his brain gave up on him.

“You alright there, Six?”

“What are you even saying?” Stanford just gives up. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing again, but if he does, he knows his brother will understand the meaning anyway. “What– how do– I can't even comprehend how you can think like that!”

“I don't expect you to understand it, you've never been the stupid twin.”

“Don't call yourself that?!” Ford's voice now sounds... desperate? Stan arches a brow, worry starting to set in. “Don't ever call yourself that. You're not stupid.”

“Fine, I won't, relax. I just meant you're not used to be the dumber one, that's–”

“Stop calling yourself those things!” Ford is full-on shouting now, a sign that Stanley has learned over the years that means that his brother has something on the tip of his tongue and needs a moment to collect his thoughts. He puts his sandwich back on the plate as Ford tangles his fingers in his hair.

“Fine, I'll stop. But you have to breathe, Sixer. And put those hands away from your hair, will ya?” Slowly, Stan puts each of his hands over his brother's, waiting for the tension to leave them, and gently guides them so they're resting on the table under his own. Stanford takes deep breaths for a few seconds before opening his eyes again, looking directly at his twin.

“You're not stupid. Or dumb. Don't talk!” Ford demands, and his brother closes his mouth again. “You've never been any of those things. Ever. I don't care who told you that, or how many times, or how long ago. You were never a stupid kid, or teen. And I'm damn sure you weren't a stupid adult either, even if I wasn't here to see it for myself.” Ford turns his hands up under his brother's, catching the other's gently before Stan can retreat them. “I know that's what you grew up with, and I apologize for not realizing sooner. You've always been a very smart kid, even if it wasn't in the way everyone expected you to be.”

This time is Stanley who doesn't make eye contact. It's a weird thing to see, because usually it's the other way around. He still has his hands between Ford's, so the older guesses he's not uncomfortable at the words. With that confirmation, he continues.

“It took me way too long to understand it, I barely registered it after Weirdmaggedon, when I was looking back at our childhood and the way you interact with the kids. I also remember Mabel comforting Dipper one day after what I assume was a nightmare, and just a few minutes later I was hearing laughter coming from their room.”

“Yeah, she's great at that.” Stanley's voice, low and full of fondness, almost startles Ford.

“So were you,” he answers, the words slipping out of his lips as easy as breathing. “At that moment, two thoughts came through my mind at the same time: 'This little girl is so bright for her age' and 'She takes so much after Stanley'.” Ford is now smiling, joy washing over him as he recalls the nights spent between quiet laughs at their makeshift sheet fortress back in New Jersey. “Stanley, please believe me when I say this: you are and always have been a remarkably intelligent kid. You might have struggled with math and sciences, but you picked up languages with enviable easiness, something I always had trouble learning. Not to mention how good you were at understanding all sorts of art: I recall you being very interested in art history class, as well as music and literature. You excelled at theater readings, and you were able to distinguish any guitar on the radio by ear. And you made your own comics, both the scripts and the drawings! You had incredible creativity for such a young age! Sadly, like most adults in our lives, I didn't really see those as signs of intelligence, which was a grave mistake on my part.”

Stanford stops for a second to catch his breath, looking down at his hands. To say he’s surprised by the words coming out of his mouth would be a lie. Truth to be told, these thoughts have been in his mind for months now, even before he and Stan made up. It had been interesting at first, seeing his brother so involved with these kids’ lives and being an actual responsible adult. Looking back, he wants to punch himself for not seeing reality: Stan had always been a caretaker, even when he wasn’t supposed to be. Maybe he hadn’t been “responsible” as a kid, but being honest, what was a literal child supposed to be responsible for? And even then, he had established himself as Ford’s protector, both physically and emotionally, and had executed his role without fail. The man in front of him, even if older and beaten down, continues to be his family’s caretaker.

So no, he’s not surprised by his own words. If anything, he’s surprised that he’s been able to put his pride aside and actually verbalize his thoughts. Stan deserves to know, and deserves to believe it. He rubs small circles on his brother's hands before carrying on.

“But above all that, above school and academic things, you had an astonishing emotional intelligence. I can't recall a single time I was in distress that you wouldn't come running to help me, whether I needed physical protection or just a shoulder to cry on. Every nightmare, every breakdown, every... failed social interaction, you were always there. You always seemed to know what to say and what to do to make me feel better. And you still do.” He smiles fondly at the thought. “Even more than 40 years after we properly had a relationship, you still… seem to know me better than I know myself. That's already remarkable at any age, but to know you used to do this when we were literal children too... I don't know, I think that is definitely the profile of an intelligent person.”

A beat of silence passes before a sob breaks it. Stanford bolts his head up, now noticing how shaky Stan's hands are in his own. His brother's shoulders are tense from what he assumes is holding back his tears, but he's visibly trembling. He reckons the dam has already broken down.

Another barely contained sob is all the confirmation he needs.

“Stanley...” Stanford quickly stands up from his seat, accidentally letting go of his twin's hands. The other quickly crosses his arms over the table, hiding his face in them and letting out a loud cry that completely shatters Ford's heart.

It barely takes him a couple seconds to go around the table and kneel next to his brother's booth, but he doesn't want to startle him with any fast movements. He embraces him by his side, resting his head on his back, waiting patiently for him to return the hug whenever he feels like it.

Luckily, it only takes Stan a few seconds to turn to him and throw his arms around his neck in a hug so tight Ford wonders if he'll run out of oxygen in the next minute. It is so reminiscent of his teen years that he could cry right now, if it weren't because his brother is now openly doing so on his shoulder, his hands grasping the back of his sweater like he'll disappear if he lets go. Following how Stan would operate when they were younger, Ford decides to be the strong one, the anchor, and to not cry for his brother’s sake.

Except...

Maybe there's a reason why Stan was the designated comforter out of the two of them.

Before he realizes, Ford is weeping in his brother's arms, much quieter but still feeling the tears running down his cheeks. It's an odd feeling, finally being able to cry and hug Stanley knowing that the other knows who he is. This thought only makes the oldest cry harder, out of sadness and relief simultaneously, but he still tries his best to stay strong as he feels the damp patch on his left shoulder starting to seep through the fabric.

He doesn't even know how long it's been, but he can't be bothered to care. Not when this is the happiest and most carefree he's felt in literal decades, maybe even his whole life. He listens as Stan's sobs slowly turn into sniffs. The tightness around his throat decreases, as well as the fistful of fabric behind his back. Still, he's resolute to let his brother break the hug first, just like he used to do when the situation was reversed.

Eventually, Stan pulls away and wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket, careful to look to the side and not directly into the eyes staring at him. He clears his throat before he speaks.

“Sorry, that was...” Another throat clearing, just for good measure. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Ford replies, not even bothering to hide his smile. “I'm glad my words got through to you. How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine,” Stan answers, almost on autopilot. He turns to his brother, realizing how his words might come across as empty. “I'm… better. Thanks.”

“Of course. And I meant every word, by the way. In case it wasn't clear.”

Stan half-laughs and half-sobs, which immediately sends Ford into his previous caretaker-ish mindset, just in case his brother needs any more physical reassurance.

“Yeah, you better. Some speech you threw at me.”

Ford chuckles, his smile growing even bigger.

“What can I say, I had a great teacher.”

Spoilers for the fic, but just be warned it has heavy implications- check the tags before you read/ look

A little meaningless comic like what