#stanisbill

Stanford was startled, scared. He'd been scared before and he'd learned to concentrate on his intellect and let the irrational emotions ebb from his mind. But the blood that beat a rough staccato at his pulse points wasn't cold, wasn't leaving him chilled and anxious to run. He was burning; his clothes, his very skin, feeling tight. He felt faint as the perspiration dripped from his brow and down his neck. He would burn up if he lost control; it was always fire in the end with Bill. And with Stan.

It was Stan Bill who looked like Stan. Bill who wore the same face as his twin. Bill who spoke with the same voice, who had the same mannerisms, the same memories, the same sense of humor that had Stanford rolling with laughter even forty years later. But Stan was gone now. Only Bill remained. And Bill looked like Stan, and despite that, Stanford was still affected by the daemon. His body still responded to the monster that manipulated him, that put his family in danger, that killed his brother. God, what kind of sick creature was he? To still be attracted to that thing? To...still...love Bill? He did, didn't he? He still loved Bill, and nothing that had happened between them, nothing Bill had done was enough to break that. To finally squash that damnable flutter he felt whenever Bill was near. He couldn't kill that burst of affection that warmed his chest when he thought of his muse. He couldn't sever the hold Bill had over him, and the worst part was, he wasn't sure if that was what he really wanted.

He wanted to want to leave Bill in his past, to move on and live his life, be with his family. But he had lived so much of his life obsessing over Bill. He’d spent what seemed like years working alongside him, calling him friend. Bill had been such a large part of his life, that a part of him didn't want to forget about Bill; still longed for the daemon’s touch, that it was a fight every waking moment to not give in and just let go. To just go to Bill and stay here with him, floating in the ocean, together. Just forget about everything. Forget about those waiting back home. It hurt to think that a part of him was so selfish as to separate himself from his family once again. And to what? What would Bill give him that he didn’t already have? What could Bill be for him that wasn’t already filled by the other people in his life.

And that was the sticking point; Bill had been the most important being in his life once. Bill encouraged him, engaged him, stretched his mind to the limits with concepts and theories and philosophy far beyond his own mortal understanding. They had been partners in every sense of the word. They worked and lived together, they talked about politics, advancements in mathematics and science. Bill would sit in the peripheries of his mindscape, even while Stanford was awake, and just be there. Just spend time while Stanford worked, humming strange and alien music, occasionally making images for Stanford’s amusement out of the clouds and dusty mist that existed in the gap in Stanford’s mindscape. The gap, more a link or an overlap between Stanford’s mind and Bill’s; not really one mind of the other, but a place where both existed at the same time, in the same place.

They had also been intimate, or as intimate as you can get with a being that only exists as a projection into the mental plain. It had only happened once, but once was enough to hook Stanford. Enough to drug him, hypnotize him, and drown him in his already unhealthy obsession. Once was enough to leave him shaking and tingly and thoroughly debauched, although his physical body had remained untouched. It was difficult now to tell if it had been a dream built on years of sexual repression and culminating in a subconscious manifestation of his affection for Bill, or something Bill had actually projected into his mind as a way of keeping Stanford both focused on the project and completely emotionally reliant on Bill. It was a memory that, despite all attempts to repress it, had remained resolute and vibrant. And it still affected him.  

*~*

Stanford had been distracted for two full days, unable to make any real advancements in the project while his mind kept wandering, while his trousers felt tight in all the wrong ways. He had been long past his formative teenage years where puberty and hormones controlled him like some base animal, but nothing he did could alleviate the low thrum of ‘want’. Everything even remotely attributed to sex flitted through his mind and disrupted his calculations, flinging numbers and variables this way and that as the flirty cashier from the corner market stripped for him, or Cathey Crenshaw from high school pulling down the top of her strapless dress to expose her (Stanford had been reluctant to admit he’d noticed) rather perky and sizable breasts, or the muscular boxer with a fuzzy face, large hands and a mouth Stanford was sure tasted of Pitt Cola and toffee, or the young undergrad that had grappled for his attention in grad school who had hidden beneath his desk one night to surprise him. Stanford had sent the boy home, but his hormone drugged mind filled in what would have happened if he hadn’t; a hot mouth and slick swipes of a tongue along his cock, a willing body on their knees, face pillowed between his thighs. The fantasy wasn’t constant (it never was); the undergrad’s short black hair grew long and faded to red, the moans coming from the boy’s throat increased in pitch until Stanford could feel Cathy trailing her perfectly manicured nails along his hips, then changed again, taking on a much rougher pitch, like gravel in a rock tumbler, making his cock throb and the hair darkened to a chocolate brown, boxing gloves thrown over the young man’s shoulder. He would knit his gingers into that mop of hair and thrust, and the subsequent groan would change yet again, becoming more smooth and sultry.

Stanford had been well in to the fantasy, palm pressed against the front of his trousers and hunched over the basement desk, when Bill had popped into his mind, pulling Stanford fully into the mindscape. The fantasy had dematerialized in an instant, Stanford dropping out of the now non-existent chair to float with his trousers around his knees and cock painfully erect, red, and throbbing, still slick with the imagined saliva from his fluctuating, illusory partner. A tense moment passed between them, Stanford’s mind still hazy from his exasperating distraction.    

“Heya there, Smart Guy. Need some help?” Bill’s voice had taken on the same chipper tone it always had, only this time, there was a slight veneer of curiosity. Stanford had instinctively made to cover himself, make himself decent in the face of his muse, but six ribbon-like tentacles erupted from Bill’s form and wrapped around each of his legs, his wrists, his waist, and his erection.

“Bill, what…?” But the question died on his lips as Bill lifted him closer; he could feel the tentacles writhing, twisting, and kneading against his exposed skin, his clothes having vanished without his noticing.

“No sweat Sixer, just let me handle this. You humans were always so weird with your physical needs. I never understood how you ever get anything done.” The tentacles started moving with purpose, tracing the line where his buttocks and thighs met, and coiling and uncoiling around his erection. One tentacle left his right arm loose and snaked over his chest to ghost over his nipples. Rubbing circles around the areola lightly before flicking the hardened bud. Stanford swallowed a squeak. He could feel something pool in his intestines. It was tingly, and warm…no, hot. Heat. It felt like his blood was rushing to his groin. His head felt light, his mind filled with random and unorganized thoughts. The tentacle wrapped loosely around his cock doubled up on itself; the lower girth still stroking his erection up and down while the probing tip inched its way back to his perineum, pausing to tease his testicles and tug gently as the pubic hair.

“Ooooohh.” Stanford couldn’t hold back the groan even if he had the mental focus enough to try. His hips jerked of their own accord. His mind blurred with questions, the words materializing and whizzing in the ether around them: What, Bill? Why are you doing this? Holy Moses, that feels amazing! Why do this for me? Are you curious? Nnnhhhhh! God, I’d let you watch. I have before, right? You wanted to know what it felt like. But why participate now? What are you getting out of it? He felt a four-fingered hand cup his cheek and he tiled his head up, blinking through a lusty haze to gaze into the eyes, er, eye of his muse.

“Hey there, Sixer. You still with me?” Bill was amused. While the triangle had no mouth (or rather, his eye was both his eye and mouth), Stanford could tell Bill was smirking. The set of his eyelids were nearly as expressive as a pair of lips on humans. What would they taste like? Would they be soft? Would the lashes ringed around Bill’s eye feel ticklish as they inevitably fluttered across his face? He nipped at his lower lip, imagining the taste of Bill’s lips on his. He found himself wrapping the tentacles around his limbs further in an attempt to pull himself closer to Bill. The black appendages looping tighter around his arms and legs, the bulk of his weight held by the one wrapped around his waist and hips and gently prodding at his navel. His hips were still bucking into Bill’s touch, the constant shift in weight in this gravity-less void pushing him closer to the triangle until he heard Bill sigh and felt the tentacles draw him in. Stanford let out a soft groan when his body finally came into contact with Bill.  

Bill’s surface was warm and surprisingly soft, just as he remembered. Stanford pressed himself as close to Bill’s form as he could, his twelve fingers splayed and drawing patterns on Bill’s form. Bill had kept to a mostly human size, maybe slightly larger. Stanford’s arms, tugged loose from the tentacles, wrapped around the upper part of Bill’s form, holding the triangle tight against his body. He felt like he was on fire, and the cool temperature of Bill’s form did nothing to abate the heat. He hadn’t noticed that he had started mouthing and licking at Bill’s surface until his lust fueled brain registered that he was tasting what might be described as a spiked energy drink, something vaguely metallic, and something bitter that reminded him of sulfur or quinine. It was a flavor that was very quickly proving to be addicting.

“God, I…” Stanford couldn’t even pause in his ministrations long enough to speak. Instead, he just panted and moaned, feeling the sounds bubble up from his chest. It may have been wishful thinking, but he swore he felt Bill shudder. With every movement, his erection brushed against Bill’s warm surface. Here he was, Stanford Pines, so desperate and needy he was grinding against Bill, his muse, his friend, his teacher. Using the omnipotent deity for his own inferior carnal pleasure. His hips snapping with every thrust, erection bobbing between them, smearing precum and leaving slick trails over the triangle; the bowtie was quickly becoming damp. He couldn’t help it; Bill’s touch was electric. He needed it. God, but he needed it. But it wasn't enough. His lips worked their way to Bill’s eye, kissing and gently nipping at its perimeter. His fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises on Bill’s back if it was possible. The tentacle around his cock squeezed, and Stanford took the risk, bringing his lips to Bill’s eyelids in some semblance of a kiss.

Bill’s lips, really eyelids, were soft and supple, and the eyelashes didn’t get in the way as much as he expected. Stanford licked at Bill's lips, tracing the plush ridges, and nipping the bottom lip, holding it between his teeth. He wished Bill had a proper mouth, or a tongue, or something. He felt Bill pull away and couldn’t hold back a whimper at the loss.          

“Whoa, slow down there IQ. Knew you were inta weird stuff, but I didn’t think you were this depraved.” Bill punctuated his statement with a long slow stroke to Stanford’s cock with one of his actual hands. Stanford whined, throwing his head back and gasping as Bill pressed at the spot below the head, sending a jolt of pleasure down his spine. He heard Bill hum and repeat the action. Through his haze, Stanford desperately tried to claw his way back to Bill; his fingertips just barely making contact with Bill’s face.

“Please…I want…” Stanford didn’t really know what he was asking for, not really. Maybe he just wanted to touch Bill, maybe he wanted to make Bill feel as good as the daemon was making him feel. Bill’s chuckle filled his ears the same moment his hands felt the plush warmth of Bill’s face, and he felt the tip of the tentacle massaging into his perineum creep further to brush over his entrance. Soft, and barely there, feather-like touch. Bill’s hand on his cock continued jerking, thumb swiping at the tip and smearing the beading precum.  

A litany of whimpers and panted exclamations of need passed his lips as his fingertips dug into Bill’s surface. “Ah, Ah, Ah, AH!” He was so close, but it was all so wrong. Here Bill was, giving him exactly what his body and mind needed, what his soul needed, an act of intimacy with the being he loved most, and Bill was getting nothing in return. He wanted to do something, something that would make Bill feel as good. If that was even possible. What if Bill’s kind didn’t do anything like this? What if there wasn’t any way for Stanford to reciprocate? Was Bill just helping him and getting nothing in return? The questions spiraled in his mind and clumped together like a heavy stone in his gut. A chill whipped through his blood stream and he felt is erection soften.

“Hey, what’s the matter? You’re overthinking this aren’t you?” The subtly glow accompanying Bill’s words made Stanford’s heart flutter. It made Bill look ever more like the divine being that Stanford believed him to be; it made Bill’s attentions to him, both academic and physical, all the more special because here was this perfect and omniscient being that actually went out of his way to spend time with Stanford.

Bill had spoken of creating a better world, one where the atrocities and injustices of the current world didn’t exist. One where every person was able to get by on their own merit rather than some lucky draw of the genetic or financial lottery. One where diversity and deformities like Stanford’s were celebrated, rather than ridiculed. One where he could…

Stanford felt a bizarre mix of longing, revulsion and fear itching at the back of his crania. It was strange. Something he wanted, something he couldn’t have and felt ashamed for wanting. He wanted Bill, and without the portal, he couldn’t ever really be with his muse. Some may think less of him for seeking such a relationship with something so dissimilar from humanity, but he felt no shame in desiring Bill; perhaps this shame stemmed from the fact that his desires were physical and not purely mental. He was weak to his baser emotions and physical needs just like any other human. But even still, Bill sought out him, Stanford Pines, to share his infinite knowledge with. And Bill seemed to be enjoying this in some way, so there should be no shame felt. And there wasn’t really, other than he felt he should do something to reciprocate. It was absurd that these feelings were for anyone expect Bill; Bill was his whole world. Fiddleford was a friend, sure, but Bill was his friend, confidant, muse, and dare he say, now lover. Bill was everything, so, naturally, his emotional conflictions would stem from Bill…right?

“Hey, it’s gone soft again. Did you finish? Wasn’t there supposed to be some sorta fructose-dihydrotestosterone-enzyme acid mix that went with it? Human bodily functions are weird, I never really understood them. But I’m guessing you just got lost in that maze of a mind ya got there.” Bill waved at the words and questions floating around them, dispersing Stanford’s insecurities. Stanford felt his throat tighten. How to explain it? Could he?

“Or is it that I’m not doing it right? It that it?”

“What? No, no it was, God, it was great! I just…” Stanford took a steadying breath, “I want to do something for you. Something like…” Stanford, being uncharacteristically bold, lunged forward to capture Bill’s lips/lids in another kiss. He peppered Bill’s mouth with short, rough kisses, trying (and again wishing that Bill had one) to lap at his tongue. Bill could read his mind, right? He knew what Stanford wanted, but maybe he didn’t understand it? Or maybe he didn’t want to do this? Maybe he was just humoring the stupid little human? Maybe…

“Alright, I gottcha. I can’t exactly get that same thing out of this, but I can probably do something.” The tentacles, all at once, particlized and dropped out of existence. Instead, Bill grew several sizes and Stanford was being supported by three of Bill’s hands; one supporting his back, one gripping his slowly hardening cock, and one cupping his hips under his buttocks. One eager finger softly probing his entrance, this time with some slick residue.

Something large and black, with intimidating girth, smacked Stanford on the cheek, rubbing the same slick substance over his face. He nuzzled at it without thinking, before opening his eyes to stare at Bill questioningly.

“There. I tried to make something with the same nervous system and electrical feedback loop you humans have. Go ahead, give it a whirl.” Stanford stared at the...well, it was supposed to be a penis, wasn't it? It looked far more like a fat tentacle that tapered slightly with a bulbus tip. Stanford could feel his mouth water. He'd never even thought of performing fellatio before – he'd never had the opportunity to entertain the idea – but he eagerly lapped at the head and shaft, letting his saliva drip down his chin. The pressed his tongue into the gap that was supposed to resemble the urethral opening and grinned when Bill moaned.  

“Whoa…..whoooooookay. So, so that's why you humans are obsessed with this, huh?” Bill shuddered and Stanford felt the newly formed shaft throb against his lips. But it was still more tentacle and prehensile than a human organ, and the surrealness and alien sensation sent a pulse of raw heat to his groin and Stanford bucked into Bill’s hand.

The tentacle pressed against his lips, wedging itself into his mouth and running over his tongue. It thickened gradually, open his jaw wide and forcing Stanford to swallow around it. He both heard and felt Bill moan. He could see a light shade of red pigment begin forming at Bill’s edges. His eye was closed and he was shaking. Stanford felt electric. To be able to pull a reaction like that out of Bill, to be the one, possibly the first, to make Bill feel this way. He swallowed hard, taking the tentacle as deep as he could, careful to not scrape his teeth. He swiped at the head with his tongue and heard Bill groan. “Oh man, I gotta get me a real body! This is great! Oh yeah! Laer rof siht yrt attog I. Siht ot desu teg dluoc I kniht. Tep taerg a ekam duoy. Uoy peek annog mi, snepo latrop taht nehw.” Bill eased a fingertip passed the ring of muscle, easing the way with the makeshift lube.

Stanford was too far gone to understand what Bill had said. Far too gone to understand much of anything besides the white heat in his veins. He whined. Hips still bucking into Bill’s hand and lips working their way up and down the shaft Bill created. Stanford came with a muffled scream around Bill’s cock. But Bill hadn't yet.    

Bill had been rough, and the power dynamic fluctuated back and forth between them. He would have had bruises, scratch marks, curved indents of teeth had they both been physically present. Bill had made himself a vulva, and Stanford had plunged in without hesitation. Bill had pushed into him while he simultaneously fucked Bill; the differing sensations, differing perspectives had been too much. His mind whited and he woke sweating and hunched over his desk, pants damn near dripping and papers stuck to his face with drying perspiration. The ink was smudged beyond all recovery, but Stanford could not bring himself to care. He never mentioned it to Bill, he didn't know what to say, how to approach the subject. He finally decided that if Bill wanted that again, they would do it, if he didn’t, then...well, Stanford would simply handle himself. He had plenty of fantasy material to work with.

***

Stanford shook his head free of the memory. He was sitting on his bunk below deck, he'd left Bill upstairs in the cabin. Stanford thought it must have been a dream now, because Bill had been too out of character with the being he knew. One bad thing about having an Eidetic memory, was that he remembered every detail, every touch, and it affected him just the same. Stanford shifted, feeling the tightness in his trousers. God, he was in his sixties, he was too old to be getting randy over memories of fantasies.

The worst part? He missed Bill. Missed being with the daemon. Missed talking to him, discussing the world, discussing life and the worlds and universes beyond this one. They would talk, about everything and nothing for hours, sometimes days. They would play interdimensional chess and D, D and MD for days. They would just sit in silence, Bill playing with the elements between space and Stanford working on expanding his notes, or working out his hypotheses for the strange things going on in Gravity Falls. He enjoyed Bill's company. He enjoyed being around the daemon, despite all the slightly off or disturbing things Bill was into.  

Bill had told Stanford of his family, his life before being ousted from his original dimension. Yes, Stanford knew that Bill was not a native to the Nightmare Realm, knew that Bill’s life in the gap between dimensions was wildly different and infinitely more fun than the boring life he lead as a merchant. And Stanford had told Bill about his family, his parents his older brother, Sherman, and…and Stan. Stanley. His twin brother. His best friend for the first eighteen years of his life. The one person he thought he would spend the rest of his life with. The one person who loved Stanford for who he was, who never treated him like a freak. The one who's love and devotion nearly suffocated Stanford. The one Stanford had tried to protect, because Stanford wasn't...he wasn't safe. He wasn't safe to be around. He was…wrong, weird…a freak. And it wasn't just because of his hands.

Bill had understood. Bill had helped him redirect and harness these blasphemous feelings. Stanford never understood why, but he'd always wanted to...do...something…with Stan. To Stan. Something he most definitely shouldn't. But it was so nebulous. So intangible, that he was never able to pin down and define what exactly he'd wanted from his twin. He terrified him when he was younger. He got jealous when Stan tried to make other friends, he got possessive over Stan’s time, always wanting to keep Stan with him, doing the things that he wanted. It got better as they got older; Stanford had been able to be content with Stan continuing boxing lessons, had been begrudgingly fine with Stan dating Carla. But he was never able to isolate why he felt like that. He wanted companionship, a friend, a confidant. Someone who could keep up with him, who had the same thirst for adventure and knowledge he did.

He had wanted to go to college both to expand his knowledge and opportunities for discovery, but also because, while Stan’s devotion to Stanford was suffocating, his own tenuous feelings about Stanley were driving him to asphyxiation. He never thought he would get over it, but then, miracle of miracles, Stanford had found Gravity Falls…and Bill Cipher. Bill had fit that need for companionship so much better than Stan ever could. And he felt safe around Bill, like he wasn't taking advantage, wasn't moments from doing something unforgivable and irreversible to harm Stanley. Like his wretched mind had finally calmed down and he could think clearly for the first time in nearly two decades. Bill had set him free from a nameless demon and gave him exactly what he wanted, what he needed. Now, Bill looked like Stan. And Stan was gone, and even after forty years, he still didn't know what it was he felt for Stanley, only that his demons had never been banished. He had never been freed. They had simply lied in wait, biding time. Ready to rear its head back from the repressive portion of his mind.

His feelings for both Bill and Stanley clashed in his chest, in his mind. Beating against the walls of his crania and kicking at his ribcage until he swore he felt bruises. These feelings wared with one another, so similar and so different. In a perfect world, both would exist, and both would be safe, and his relationship with them would be definable. No, in a perfect world you would have gone to West Coast Tech, Stan would have never been homeless and you would have never even heard of Bill Cipher or Gravity Falls and never had the audacity to think you could change the world by building an interdimensional portal to an unstable universe. Stanford felt his jaw ache from pressure, gritting his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn’t shatter. Then he would have to get dentures or an implant. He shuddered. Nope, not even in self-deprecating fantasy would he stoop that low. He licked at his teeth as if to sooth away the potential damage. Stanford’s posture sagged and he flopped sideways on to the bunk. His feelings for both men (could Bill be referred to by masculine terms?) warred because now, it seemed, that Stan had been absorbed by Bill, possessed by Bill. Now…now they were the same.

No, they weren’t. Stanley may be the embodiment of every negative quality that grated on Stanford’s nerves, but Stan was NOT that same as Bill. Never. Bill was a monster, and sure, his brother was sketchy on the best of days, but the man wore his golden heart on his sleeve and was a hopeless romantic. He was tender-hearted and kind, almost to a fault. And Stanford loved his brother. Wanted to be more like Stan, more open, trusting; his nameless feelings for Stan be damned. He could never be like Bill. Ever.          

But that didn’t matter now. His feelings didn’t matter anymore, for Stan, or for Bill. And it didn't matter that Bill wore Stan's face, that had been clearly evident by his reaction earlier. It didn't matter that Bill acted so much like his brother in an attempt to break him. It didn't matter that looking at Bill brought more than just a little pain to his chest.

But it could. It could matter. Stanford could fight it. He could control his feelings and pretend nothing affected him, that Bill no longer had any effect on him. He could suppress this. He had to. He had to be strong in the face of adversity. He was just surprised at Bill's actions, he wasn't expecting it. He had his guard down, a mistake he wouldn't be risking again. Whether Bill was Stanford's captor or his prisoner, it didn't matter. They were here, for as long as it took to fix this, to save his brother, if it was even still possible. They were here until he could bring Stan back, or they were here forever. If Bill ever tried to leave, to get back to shore, Ford would sink the boat. He would mix a chemical explosive and blow it up. Kill them both. Maybe. Maybe then he would give in, when it didn't matter. In the last few moments. Maybe he would go to Bill and give himself to the monster, let himself be taken by the beast, let himself give in to this godforsaken need. But not yet. And maybe not ever. But if…

Stanford had to be ok with if.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stan found himself standing on deck, leaning over the railing, and staring into the inky black water below. He'd really gone and done it this time, hadn't he? He just had to lose control of himself at the worst possible time. He wanted Sixer to trust him, to be his brother again, to see him as as something other than a monster. Instead, Stan thought he’d seen the thin wisp of arousal in Ford – had inanely thought that something would come out of it and that Ford would be receptive – and acted on it. And now Stanford was downstairs hating Stan-Bill and himself all the more.

It hurt to see Sixer like this. It hurt to know that Sixer still loved him, but loved the part of him that Stan hated. It hurt that he, as both Bill and Stan, loved Ford, but he couldn't act on anything without turning their already unhealthy relationship into an even more twisted impression of what it was supposed to be. He could feel Sixer’s agony, his desire. His memories. (God, he remembered that night with wicked clarity, feeling only approximate sensations while in Sixer’s mindscape.) Ford wanted to act on it. Wanted to fall into Stan’s embrace and throw caution and all sense to the wind. But only if Stan was Bill. Only if it was Bill that fanned the icy blue flames that threatened to consume him. Stan wasn't Bill. And if it was the last selfish thing he ever did, he never would be again. Even for Ford.  

Stan had to block his mind off from Stanford's, think of something else, something stronger than the thoughts whirling in his brother's head. He tried to just let Stanford's thoughts drone on as background noise, white fuzz. But it wasn't always easy, he couldn't always drown out Sixer's fears. Or his desires.

That was how he’d ended up like this, wasn't it? Because he just couldn’t say no? He just had to be curious, just had to play with his new puppet and drown in it. He remembered the first time he’d become curious. IQ was so unusual compared to other humans, but even he was subject to life’s baser needs. What would the mind of someone like Stanford Pines be like when all defenses were lowered? What would feeling it, experiencing it first hand, be like? Sixer had let him. Stan pressed his forehead into the cold metal of the railing, the memory as clear as it was decades (or was it now months with the folded timeline) ago.

*~*

IQ had made the deal and had granted Bill permission to inhabit his mind and control his body. The first few moments, the first rush of adrenaline and he couldn’t help the gleeful delight that bubbled up inside Sixer’s body. He’d laughed. Sixer had laughed. It had been momentous and wonderful and horrible all at the same time. Sixer had given him full permissions. Not that he needed it (he’d planned on taking over IQ’s body whenever he needed to), but it was still nice to have. The truth was, physical form, the kind that organic life takes, was kinda awkward. He had inhabited a human body before, but never long enough to require taking care of its needs. Breathing was strange, the rush of air coming into this gaping hole in this body to fill two large and fleshy sacks, the exchange of gasses and then pushing the majority of the air back out again. It was horridly disgusting and inefficient and unnecessary. There were creatures in this dimension that could absorb the required gases from the air through their skin, why couldn’t humans do that? Blinking was fine, a bit strange that it was partly involuntary, but relatively normal. Digestion was creepy. In a good way, but still, the feeling of Sixer’s insides churning and moving and wriggling had him stop writing and just sit. The feeling was so unique and novel that he just sat there, wrapping Sixer’s arms around his gut and just…feeling this body function. He was tempted to try and cut himself open and start prodding at the stuff inside, but he didn’t have the same abilities he had in his own dimension while possessing something. And he liked IQ. He’d have a chance to play with his puppet when the portal was completed. Then, he could explore human functions all he wanted, with no limits. In the meantime, Bill had just experienced things through Ford. It was all so disgustingly exciting. The thrill of discovery of new feelings.  

His foray into human waste processes was also disturbingly fascinating. He had nagged at Sixer to let him experience it. To, as soon as Ford had felt the urge to pass waste, let Bill take over and just learn how it felt. Human experiences, while simple enough to understand, were still fascinating because as a being of Flatland, human functions were something he couldn’t do, could never experience. So, he had begged, and Ford had finally relented and let Bill used the toilet.

He instantly regretted it. It felt so so wrong and uncomfortable and the smell was,…just, nope. Nope he was NEVER doing that again. Sixer had woken to find himself naked and wet, laying on his bed when Bill had given control back. Not having the necessary coordination to properly clean himself, Bill had decided to bathe Sixer (the man needed it if Bill’s new sense of smell told him anything) and clean up any and all of that nasty human waste. Ford had, embarrassingly, guessed what happened, and had laughed at him. Laughed!

But, despite the rather horrid experience, and the embarrassment, Bill still wanted to experience what humans were like. And so had spied on Sixer while he worked, catalogued his actions, his movements, his functions based on which ones intrigued him the most. Urination was out – too close to that other one – eating and drinking were on the table, but only if Bill got to choose what to try. Running was something Bill hadn’t gotten the hang of yet, walking was hard enough. Sitting and writing were easy, and sleeping was not something he could really do as the human body’s way of dealing with the mind while unconscious, forcefully ejected Bill. He really wanted to try falling, but he might have to wait until he got another willing puppet; falling tended to be fatal. Burning alive too, and drowning. He could try stabbing himself, but it would have to be something small, like a needle or a pen, so as not to harm Sixer too much, or to scare the man off. It was so much better having a willing puppet than a non-consenting one.    

But the one thing he wanted to try and wrap his mind around, what the reason humans (males, anyway) yanked at that organ between their legs so often. Even his Sixer did it (though not often) so there must be something to it. He’s made up his mind to knock that off his list first. He didn’t have to wait too long, maybe a week or two.  

He’d found his puppet sprawled out on the sofa, head cradled by the decorative pillows. Sixer’s clothes were split open down the middle; his coat and shirt unbuttoned and pushed to the sides, his tie loosened and draped over one shoulder. He could probably tug at the tie and cut off Sixer’s airflow, but the sounds his pet was making were making his insides wriggle again. Sixer’s pants were split too, and pushed down around his knees. The thing that passed waste water was bright red and swollen and Sixer’s six fingers were tightly wrapped around it, rubbing in mayonnaise, no wait, it smelled like flowers, so lotion. Unless mayonnaise smelled like flowers. No, it was definitely lotion, in this dimension at least. He sat down on the bunch of Sixer’s pants to really get a good look. He wasn’t really there, just a projection – one that took far too much energy which is why he used the representations of himself in the third dimension more often than not – but he still could move around and see things. In order to feel things though, he needed to possess something. He was content to just watch, for now.    

Two of Sixer’s fingers were slipping in and out of his mouth, pressed together to make one. He was sucking on them, caressing the sides and tips of his fingers with his tongue, nipping delicately at the skin with his teeth. Sixer’s teeth were healthy, as far as human teeth went. He brushed and cleaned and flossed and gargled that weak antiseptic to keep his mouth clean and free of foreign bacteria. It was fascinating to watch the man who would frequently forget to shower and eat, spend so damn long making sure his mouth was devoid of any debris.

Sixer had a pathological fear of losing his teeth. The nightmare he’d had as a child had burned its image into Sixer’s psyche, so much so that Ford had developed a complex about his teeth. He had given IQ a dream where he’d gone through a completely normal and boring day, starting with drinking coffee, eating breakfast, reading an article on thermoplastic properties of a new joint implant, going to his lab, and performing absolutely dull and mind-numbing calculations, pausing for lunch and dinner, reading a self-indulgent bodice ripper novel while drinking tea before going to bed and taking out his dentures. Sixer’s scream was heard for a literal mile! Oh, that had been fun. Although the next day, Sixer had brushed and flossed his teeth until they bled and Bill had forcibly possessed his body to get him to stop.

With all the effort he put in, Sixer had perfect teeth. Canines a slight point, molars perfectly formed and cusps all in the right places. His bite was impeccable, perfectly even and practically reflected light when he smiled. Those teeth were now being used to bite and scrape along his fingers while he ran his hand over that organ most human males have. What was it called…a pancreas? Yeah, that was it. Sixer had a big one, too. He moved down off his perch to sit in the divot of Sixer’s hip. Sixer should really get out in the sun more, he was super pale. Red was a better look on him; like his cheeks. Sixer’s cheeks were beautifully red like fire, and the color was creeping up to his ears

Sixer didn’t do this often. He had watched enough humans to know that they did things like this a lot, way more than was necessary. It was bizarre; their bodies didn’t require them to do this, not like breathing and digesting, but humans seemed to engage in this kind of activity as though it kept them alive. Some even resorted to violence to get it; which was absolutely ridiculous, but there you have it. Humans were ridiculous, and bizarre and unnecessary. But his Sixer didn’t seem to have the same problems as other humans. His Sixer didn’t engage in this activity like other humans did, and certainly he didn’t seek out other humans to engage with. It was…intriguing. If even his pet was bound to this practice, then what was it like? What drew humans to do this so frequently as to develop whole parts of their culture around it? He was pulled out of his musings by the startled sounds coming from his puppet.

Sixer gasped, gripping his teeth together and following the motion of his hand with a jerk of his hips. The two fingers he had been sucking on now danced across his chest and started pinching at those vestigial nubs. Ford let out a particularly vocal sigh as his back arched and he followed through with a hip roll. It was enough for Bill, he wanted to see what was so great about prodding at oneself, and now was the perfect opportunity.  

Bill entered Sixer’s mind, not possessing his body, just lingering on the edges of his consciousness, just present enough that if Ford stopped to pay any attention, he would notice. But it was unlikely that old Fordsy was going to notice anything right now. Not with the burly boxer hogging all his attention. Oh, Bill knew who it was, even if Sixer didn’t. Even if the face was blurry and the body was a bit slimmer than reality, and Sixer refused to call out a name. In Sixer's mind, The Boxer, (because that's what old Fordsy had taken to calling him) was over top of him, braced with one hand on the couch cushions and the other wrapped around Ford's pancreas. Was that right? Bill was sure before, but now it sounded wrong. Either way, The Boxer had taken one of Ford's chest lesions into his mouth and was licking it, mimicking Ford's actions in the physical world. In his mind, Ford had pulled their hips together by snaking one six fingered hand down The Boxer's shorts. Ford rolled his hips again and Bill heard The Boxer chuckle, voice like gravel and strangely muffled. Man, Sixer was really repressed, wasn't he? Bill could feel the lingering sense of intangible wrongness dance in the void around them, even as he continued to imagine tasting Pitt Cola on the man's lips. The lingering doubt was causing Ford to lose focus; The Boxer was flickering in and out and Ford's movements slowed.

Maybe he should gain IQ’s attention? He eased his way slowly into Ford's consciousness, sitting atop the faceless man's head and staring Ford dead in the eye. Or, would be, if Sixer would open those baby blues of his. The image was still flickering as Stanford again questioned why this fantasy felt so wrong. Bill sprawled out on The Boxer's brown hair and reached out a hand beeped Sixer's nose. Stanford's blue eyes snapped open, vision clearing for just a moment as the features of illusionary man above him came into focus. Bill couldn’t have that. He yanked on Sixer’s hair, bringing the human’s attention back to him, and blurring The Boxer’s face once again.

“Bill…?” The whisper boomed in the ether. With no eyebrow to speak of, Bill quirked his eyelid and gave Sixer an obvious apprising look before meeting the human’s gaze again. “Hey there, Smart Guy. Mind if I watch?” Though he posed it as a question, Bill made it very clear he was not asking permission as he made himself comfortable in the chocolate brown fluff on The Boxer’s head.

However, his perch flickered and vanished a moment later, sending him down to bounce on Sixer’s exposed torso, sitting between his…pectorals? – he really needed to brush up on his human anatomy, or humans in this dimension anyway – with his legs sprawled. He felt a vibration pass through him as Sixer chuckled.

“Still curious? I can give you a proper run down of all the biochemical reactions that are happening if you want.” Sixer had let go of himself, hands coming up to scoop up the tiny triangle and lift him back to a floating position above his left shoulder. Bill, with an indignant huff, squirmed out of Sixer’s grasp and plopped back down on on the bunch of Ford’s trousers.

“I’ll watch from here.”

“Uhhh, sure. Well, um, right now my body is reacting to mental stimulus and my parasympathetic nervous system is increasing my heart rate to increase blood flow to, erm…my…groin area, and the nerve endings are sending signals back to my brain to increase signal conduits in the area. It also is sending feedback on external stimulus, namely my hand, and the result is the release of nitric oxide into the blood stream around….the, uh…penis.” Yeah, yeah, he knew all that alre…wait, penis?

“I thought it was called a pancreas.” Wasn’t it?

“Umm, no,” Stanford seemed confused that Bill could get that wrong, “that’s the organ that sits below the liver and produces both digestive and cellular metabolism hormones.”

“Oh. Well how was I supposed to know what you humans call your parts. I don’t have any of that.” And possessing humans to get what he wanted didn’t count.

“Hence the lesson. Now where was I…oh, right, nitric oxide in the blood stream causes the spongy tissue…”

Bill tuned him out. He really did know all of this already. Theoretically, anyway. So, he was confused as to what organs belonged to which names; there were an infinite number of universes out there with an infinite number of organ combinations. He couldn’t keep track of everything. Sixer had trailed off in his scientific explanation, instead opting for biting back gasps as he picked up where he’d originally left off.  

He could hell that Sixer was trying his best not to bring any fantasies to mind; smacking them away as quickly as they came into focus. It was adorable how much Sixer was trying to be scientific about this for him. But that wasn't why he was here. He knew what happened chemically, hormonally, and physically. He was here to try and experience what it felt like, why humans engaged in this activity so often as to prevent real scientific advancement. Why humans had purposefully stalled in the advancement of civilization because they couldn’t last a few days without finding a mate or spending an hour or four touching their bodies. Why Sixer was, dolefully, no exception. Did he expect Sixer to be an exception? No, not really, but he couldn’t deny that he had hoped. He held Stanford in high regards; no other puppet had been as intelligent, had kept his attention, had been as fun to be with as Stanford Pines. So, what did Sixer get out of this?

“And….ahhh, as the process continues, the heart rate and blood p-pressure continue to-to rise…and…”

“Hey, IQ. Why don’t you cut it with the commentary? I think some firsthand experience would work better.”

“Huh?” It was clear that Stanford had been reciting the process out of a memorized textbook and had not actually been focused on a proper explanation. “Oh, um, sure. Just…ahhhhhh, just take over when you think you want to. I’ll…ohhhhhhh….” But he didn’t finish, instead letting out a long sigh and rolling his hips, flinging Bill into the air. Stanford was close to the big finish Bill had seen in so many humans before. Now was the time.        

In the final few moments before Stanford’s body arched, and his abdominal muscles tightened sending wave after wave of euphoria through his body and protein rich enzymes to coat his navel, Bill took control of Sixer’s body to ride out the orgasm. His control hadn’t lasted long, Sixer’s body passed out shortly after it begin to relax, ejecting Bill from the mind and back into the room as an astral projection. Even without a physical form, he still felt tingly, and light, and just overall like he imagined what coming through the portal would feel like. Okay, so maybe there was something to this mating thing after all.    

It was less than a month later that they had their, ‘encounter’ in the mindscape, and Bill put his knowledge to good use. Stanford had been ecstatic.

*~*

Stan groaned in misery when he felt the heat in his jeans. Damnit. Well, guess pills aren’t gonna be a problem anytime soon. He did his best to adjust the position of his traitorous erection when he caught a whiff of tension wafting off of Ford and snaking like a genital caress into his mind. He slammed that window closed and kept his hands gripped to the very cold, very real, and very grounding metal railing until it hurt.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to be like this. He could almost forgive his desire for Sixer as Bill - Sixer was his obsession and was so unique and fascinating, the one being who outsmarted him - but his human desires, while Sixer was his own flesh and blood? He couldn't forgive that. No one could. He couldn't tell you when it started, when he began to think of Stanford as something more than a brother. He does know that it went from hypothetical thoughts and fading dreams to continuous and agenizing need that plagued his every moment with thoughts so vivid and loud he was sure that Stanford would know he was obsessing over that fucking kiss.

What had Sixer been thinking? What had he been thinking? Sure, Sixer had offered, but Stan had said yes. Stan hadn't stopped it. Had been so God Damn ready to keep going when Ma had caught them. They had both been thinking about that couple they saw on the beach and trying to parse out what it might mean for them, but Stan couldn't let it go. And then Sixer had been so accommodating, so damned supportive, wanting to help Stan experience something in a safe place. Stan had lost himself that night. Lost every chance he may have had to get over his brother, lost himself in shame and guilt that swallowed him like quicksand. And he suffocated in it. Sixer had once called Stan suffocating; if he was, then Sixer was cutting off Stan’s air with twelve beautiful fingers. Because Stan’s feelings for Ford were crushing his throat, his chest, with their weight, with their revolting and biting claws like needles.

No, that wasn't true. Not exactly. Yes, Stan’s feelings were suffocating, but he had never really felt revulsion at them. Stan wanted to be repulsed by them, because maybe then there might be some hope of salvation. There might be some dignity, some humanity left clicking away in his ancient ticker. That maybe he was really human now, and finally deserving of redemption for everything he had done in a past life. But he didn’t. He wasn’t. He used to be. Back when he had been just a teen and had no fucking clue how the world actually worked and he’d been so scared of losing his best friend. He used to care, used to feel shame. But thirty years of living with these feelings, thirty years of loving someone – then to realize it’s been a hell of a lot longer – the bite of shame fades until even the dull ache is hardly noticeable. After thirty years of living in his brother’s house, reading his brother’s notes, and clinging to that last shred of hope that he might get his brother back from that hell, shame just hadn’t been a top priority. He’d put his qualms and apprehensions on the proverbial back burner, and the flames had just died with time.

It was only now that Stan knew that Stanford had his own misgivings about him. Bill had seen into Sixer's dreams, his twisted desires, those hidden from his conscious mind. Ford had…been possessive of Stan. Had fought with himself over how much he wanted to play into Stan’s loyalty. Not consciously, no, Sixer was sharp as a Carbon-18 Obsidian blade form Caladon 4, but the man was dumb as a post when it came to some simple observations. Sixer had wanted him. Wanted Stan, but was so immersed in the culture in the early 60’s that he hadn’t even recognized it. Instead, he had tried to escape Glass Shard, and thought Stan hadn’t known it at the time, had probably saved them both. Stan had been such a bad influence on his brother, always egging him on, encouraging them to get into trouble. It was no wonder that Stan’s feelings had, in a way, rubbed off on Sixer. He just didn't know how much it had bothered his brother until now. How much Sixer had been frightened by his indeterminant feelings. How much he ended up hating himself over it when he pushed Stan away.

They grew more and more distant after the night Ma caught them. Spending less time together, working less on the Stan 'O War, spending more time away from home, away from their room, away from Stan. When the science fair was announced and the seniors were asked to submit project ideas at the beginning of the year, Ford had thrown himself into it. Working endlessly in the library, the school shop and digging through discarded electrical components that Pops had decided were too far gone to even sell as salvage. Ford didn't even ask Stan to help welding the perpetual motion machine together even though Ford sucked at welding and machining was that only class Stan was passing. Stan should have known then that something was wrong, but he was too wrapped up in his own guilt and trying to squash his own feelings to see that his brother was pulling away from him.

Stanford's decision to distance himself from Stan had probably been the smartest thing he had ever done. Because Stan knows himself. Hates, detests, and loathes himself, every part of himself. But he does know himself. And he knows that he wouldn't be able to let Sixer go. Even if he wanted to try. Stan was weak, no sense of self control. He would have kept Stanford from the moment Sixer let him. Brother, or puppet, it didn't matter when, Stan and Bill would have kept Stanford for himself, forever. He was selfish, no amount of time or life changed that. He was selfish and had no self-discipline.  

It took everything he had to sit himself down every night for thirty years and learn physics and mathematics to fix the portal. To learn how it worked. To build and program that damn bio-scanner. He's still not sure how he did that one; a whirlwind of freaky gnome herb inspired madness and he woke up with the plans and codes scribbled out on sheets of paper, cardboard, whatever he had handy. A few times while inputting the damn program code, he even had flashes of memories writing it. He once thought that he had been given help from some divine being, later thought to have been the same one that contacted his brother. The thought was so horribly laughable now.

It was so trippy, being segmented like this. Being, in a way, two people in one. There weren't two minds in his head, not two personalities, but the different set of memories that until recently had been separated, were clashing. Bill knew things about Stan and Sixer that Stan didn't, and having two different perspectives of the same events make his eyes twitch and he felt his eyes shift again. He'd given up trying to stop it from happening. There wasn't much of a point anymore; it used to bother Sixer, but like all things weird and anomalous, Stanford had just grown used to it.

Sixer had even stopped having nightmares. His subconscious mind was calm, his sleep uninterrupted. Stan had stopped meddling in Sixer’s dreams weeks ago. His brother slept soundly, still fell asleep watching Stan across the room. Stan still woke every morning looking into his brother’s eyes. Despite whatever happened during the day, the twilight hours before sleep and just after waking were calm, almost intimate between them. Stanford was almost like a different person then, treated Stan like Stan was different. Stan had woken one morning to Ford brushing the hair out of his eyes, Ford’s six fingers trailing over his brow and down his cheek. His fingertips felt electric on Stan’s skin. They had laid there, just watching one another until Stan had been overcome with the urge to pee and had gotten up, breaking the spell, and ruining the moment. Ford was in the main cabin when Stan was done. These quite moments between them, it was almost as if Ford still loved him. But Sixer didn't see Stan when he looked at him. No. Sixer saw Bill.  

And Sixer loved him. Had loved Bill, still did. But Stan wasn't Bill anymore. He wasn't sure if he could be again, but even so, he didn't want to be. He didn't want to be that monster again. Remembering all the atrocities he committed, all the lives he had taken just because he was bored, it was all he could do to keep himself from falling apart.

Yes, Ford had wanted Stan, once upon a time. But he hadn’t recognized it for what it was, and instead had attributed it to feelings of possession and control, and had let the guilt and shame wash over him and then repressed it. Buried it in his subconscious waiting for Bill to find it. And as repressed as Ford was, part of him still thought about his brother and the possibility of what would have happened that night if they hadn’t been interrupted. A small part of him wanted Stan. But Sixer, despite everything, wanted Bill more. Stan wanted to be what his brother wanted, was willing to change if only Ford would love him, romantically, platonically, he didn't care. But this, becoming that beast again just to please his brother…he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. No force in heaven or Earth could make him be that monster again. Not even Stanford. Not even…

Stan was weak and selfish and undisciplined. He would break, it was only a matter of time.

But now was not the time to be worried about this. He had something special planned for Christmas for the twins and Poindexter. He had been practicing for days now, if he could pull this off, well, he hoped that maybe it would be enough to convince the kids that he was still himself. That he still loved them. That he still loved all of them. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night so as not to bother them on Christmas Eve. He should probably get some sleep if he could. Tomorrow night was going to wipe him out, but it was all going to be worth it.

Next 

Previous

“oof. Ow, Mabel, you’re heavy.” He winced, voice strained with the lack of adequate air. He tried to push her off, but the more he struggled, the more the mushroom top quacked and jiggled and he couldn’t gain any leverage.  

“Oopse, ok.” Mabel wasn't getting any leverage either, but it didn’t matter much when a set of butterfly wings began to unfurl from her back. They unraveled slowly, the thin webbing damp and dripping with a milky substance. A few drops landed on his face and rolled down his cheeks. It was weirdly sweet, like coffee creamer, and kind of tasted nutty. When her wings were outspread, she flapped them a few times, spraying the mushroom and Mason with more sticky nectar before she lifted off into the air.  

“Is this better?” She called, hovering about four feet (was it feet, or were they really small) above him. They were very fancy wings, having multiple sharp points and curves and embellishment tails that hindered rather than aided flight. In fact, she shouldn’t be able to fly at all. And not just because the wings wouldn’t support her weight.  

“How…how did you…oh, right, I’m dreaming.” Mason scratched at his head and tried again to stand on the mushroom. It let out a heave and a long-suffering quack as he got his footing. It was like that bouncy castle Mike in the third grade had at his birthday party. Mason an Mabel had gotten into a jumping contest…they were asked to leave when the thing sprung a leak. It was a lot less fun than he remembered.    

“Yup, but oh so wrong” Mabel sang from above him, and spread open her arms and rained glitter and small plush strawberries down on him. A particular large berry bounced off his nose; it smelled like baby wipes. Where were they, a weird form of Mabel Land? “I found him!”  

“Wait, what?” Mason had taken off Wendy’s hat to shake the glitter from it – and try to wipe away some of that nectar before it dried – when he hear rustling in the grass forest beyond.  

“FOUR!” The mystery voice was rough, gravel in a tin can rough, and he would know it anywhere. The yellow object flying directly at his head was certainly unfamiliar.  

“What!” Whatever it had been – Mason assumed it used to be a tangy and creamy fruit – was now splattered across his face and shirt, staining the material a bright yellow as the pulp dripped off. He had only a passing moment to be upset when another fruit came out of the grassline and hit Mable. She seemed far less agitated at the mess it caused, instead laughing and crying out in exuberance at the two figures materializing at the edge of the clearing.

Stanley and Stanford Pines stood in all their seafaring glory. Stan wore a white t-shirt and faded jeans that looked as salt encrusted as his boots. He had on a tan trench coat, a read beanie and a pair of palm tree novelty sunglasses. Stan was smiling wide enough, Mason was sure his face was starting to hurt. Ford, however, was not smiling. In fact, if Mason was not mistaken, Ford looked down right livid, face pinched as though he was barely holding back the urge to scream at someone. Ford wore a blue sweater embossed with gold letters that spelled out ‘Nerdy’, brown trousers and stained boots, and a replica of the fishing hats Stan had sewn for Mason and Mabel; it read ‘Sixy’.

“Gr-grunkel Stan? Great Uncle Ford?” What in the heck was he dreaming. His dreams were never this lucid, even when he wanted them to be. He had spent a large part of the summer angry at his own brain that every time he dreamed of kissing Wendy, her face was foggy and blurry and it felt like he was moving through water. He knew when he was dreaming – usually – and this was way too real. It was almost like going into someone’s mi-

“Hey, he finally caught on. It only took Mable a few seconds. Ah well, guess some of us have to overthink things, huh Poindexter.” Stan flipped off the fishing hat so it hung around Ford’s neck and tousled Ford’s hair. Ford angrily pushing Stan’s arm away and flattening out his now pillow quality poof. Mason really should ask him how he keeps his hair that, well, voluminous. He suspected his uncle used a lot of hair gel, or hair spray. He did always have a distinctly chemical smell about him, but Mason always assumed it was due to Ford’s various experiments. Maybe he was a closet fashion aficionado?        

“Merry Christmas!...eve.” Stan spouted, faltering a bit at his correction but still keeping his signature Mr. Mystery grin. He knelt and spread his arms wide, expecting the twins to charge forwards and hug him. Mason carefully slid off the amanita to the ground, Mabel flapped her wings a few times and landed beside him. The twins looked at each other with concern; Mabel was no longer grinning and Mason was chewing the inside of his cheek. Stan’s arms drooped, a melancholy sigh escaping his lips to wrap around his form.

“Alright, alright. I can understand that. They are a bit tacky anyway.” Stan ran a few fingers up his cheek and hook into the hinge of his novelty glasses. With a flourish, he whips them off, revealing his normal glasses overtop deep brown eyes wit round pupils. Only then do the twins rush forwards.

“Grunkle Stan!” They shout in unison, each hanging off one of Stan’s arms. He smelled like salt water and a bit like fish, but neither one cared enough to be bothered. Stan wrapped one arm around each of them, one hand coming up to tangle in Mabel’s hair and the other nearly knocking off Wendy’s hat. Mason felt his cheek press into the fur and cold metal peeking out from Stan’s low shirt collar. It tickled his nose and the chain links were going to leave an impression in his face, but for the moment, everything was right.      

“This is hardy appropriate.” Que Mr. Grumpy Pants, Great Uncle Ford to spoil the moment. Stan let go of the twins and stood slowly, using Mason’s shoulder for leverage and nearly knocking him over. So, Stan got a lot stronger.

“Aw, common Poindexter, we’re in the middle o’the Bermuda Triangle. How else am I gonna get them their presents?” Mason recovered from his stumble and turned to look at Ford, who looked just as irritated as he had before, perhaps with a hint of deep seeded weariness. He rubbed heatedly at his eyes, six fingers pushing his glasses up to his brow. Even though he could probably change his appearance in the mindscape – Mable had been slowly changing her seater color during their exchange, it now sported a pineapple pattern – Ford looked tired. And not the ‘I need sleep because I stayed up too long working’ kind of tired, either.

“Bill, stop it.” Ford’s snap made both kids jump. Mable’s eyes darted back to Stan’s. They were still brown, but now they swam with unshed grief and shame.  

“Aw jeeze. Look, can ya, just this once, call me ‘Stan’? For them?” Stan gestured to the two twins with his open palms. It was Stan, though. His eyes were normal. So even if Mabel and Mason were wrong and it was Bill, he wasn't the one in control now…right? This was Stan. Out of all the things they had learned about Bill, the only consistency was his inability to change his eyes. Mason trusted him. Mostly. Maybe not completely, at least, not if his sister could get hurt. Mason’s eyes snapped to double check that Stan’s eyes were indeed still brown. They were.

Ford looked back and forth between the two teens in front of him and sighed. He couldn’t deny them anything, not when they were this close – even if it was just a mental projection. Ford, too, knelt and embraced the two kinds that had launched themselves at him. Ford’s sweater was soft, and his hug tighter. Mason felt his back pop and hear Mable let out a muffled squeak of protest, but Ford just squeezed them tighter. Ford held them for an awkwardly long time, long enough for Mabel – who LOVES long hugs – to get bored and start tracing the letters on Ford’s sweater. Their uncle needed this. Mason didn’t know why or what was going on in Ford’s head, but it was obvious he needed to make sure they were okay. So, they obliged him.  

“This was kinda a present for you too, ya know.” Stan mumbled, hand rubbing at the back of his neck where the hair had grown to cover it. It wasn't quite long enough to be considered a mullet, but it covered his neck and stopped maybe an inch before his shoulders. He avoided making eye contact directly, but he never turned away so that they couldn’t see his face. It made it easy to notice the slight blush creeping up his face.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.” Ford muttered into Mabel’s hair before letting them go, finally. His hands lingered on their backs, though, each set of six fingers toying with the cotton fabric. It was really weird how tactile it was in the mindscape. Everything here was just a mental projection of what was – and often what wasn’t – in the real world, but it all felt real.  

“I know, I’m gonna sleep for a day after this, but it’s worth it.” Stan just deflected with a grin and a laugh. Mason didn’t care if any of their hypotheses were right, there was no way that Stan Pines was not standing in front of him. He placed his hand on his shoulder, over Ford’s, and leaned into Ford’s arm. Mabel let go of Ford and bounded over to Stan, climbing up his torso to hang from his bicep like an overgrown monkey. She even swung back and forth, losing her wings in favor of a prehensile tail. Mason felt Ford’s grip tighten painfully, his nails leaving six grooves in Mason’s shoulder. Mason winced, but Ford let go when Stan hurriedly gathered Mable and set her back down on the ground. Stan took an obvious step back to distance himself, eyes fearfully darting to Ford.

“Common you two. Wh-where do you want to go?” Stan had recovered, but only just; his voice wavered and now carried a tinge of anxiety.

“What do you mean?” Mason interjected in an attempt to break the tension that has enveloped the clearing.

“Your Christmas present. Anywhere you want to go. Anywhere! All ya gotta do it tell me. I can’t read yer minds right now, too much energy goin’ inta keepin’ all our minds connected.” Stan explained with a dismissive wave of his hand, glossing over the specifics of how exactly he was able to do what he was doing. In fact, he didn’t bother explaining much of anything; he knew that Ford had told the kids everything – well, not everything, but everything important anyway.

“Anywhere?” Mable squealed, head already filling with all the possibilities of kittens and ice cream baby fighting.  

“Anywhere.” Stan countered. Anywhere they wanted to go. No limits. Well, heck, then where should they go first? Mason started towards Stan and Mabel met him halfway. They put their heads together, whispering and glancing over their shoulders occasionally to look at Stan or Ford. Stan pulled at his collar a bit, suddenly feeling nervous about the twins conspiring together. Ford was fairing no better, still gathering himself after the horrid recreation of his nightmare. The one that nearly broke him. The one that would have broken him if Bi-Sta…he hadn’t muted it. He wasn’t stupid, and had picked up on Ford’s anxiety immediately. Stanford prided himself on his ability to control his fear, but the kids were a whole different matter. He would always be fearful for them. Always.

It grew eerily silent, save for the breeze rubbing the grass blades together. The younger Pines twins had stopped talking and were now glancing back and forth between their Grunkles. Neither Stan, nor Ford had yet noticed, too wrapped up in their own heads. The twins glanced at each other and nodded, Mabel clearing her throat to gain attention.

“Decided yet?” Stan asked nervously. He wanted to get this thing started, he wanted to distract himself entertaining the kids, he wanted Ford to stop being so uptight; they were in the mindscape, there wasn't anything he could actually do to anyone here, even if he wanted to. It was talking nearly all of his concentration to make sure they were all on the same wavelength. He didn’t even think he could alter memories at this point, again, not that he wanted to. He wanted to show his brother that he wasn't going to hurt the kids, that he wasn’t going to hurt Ford, that he just wanted them to be happy, together.

“Animation Land Studios World!” Mabel’s shout might’ve actually shook the ground. Stan cocked his head at the unexpected request. Anywhere in time and space, anywhere in existence, even other dimensions, and the kids wanted to go to an amusement park. Albeit a very expensive and world renown one that most people sat on a waiting list of nearly five years to get a ticket, but still, an amusement park.

“Ok, you want the whole thing? ‘Cause that might take a while, that place had got more square acreage than the forest around Gravity Falls.” Not that he couldn’t do it, just, they might get to the edge and it might take some extra time to load. Real life lag. Or, ya’know, close enough.  

“Actually, we just want the Lightning Zapper Thrill Seeker. Mabel and I have always wanted to see if we could handle it. It’s supposed to go like 0 to 80 in eight seconds.” Both kids were giddy.

“A competition, eh? I suppose I could oblige ya. And ya can’t have a park without extra greasy and covered in sugar carnival food! Alright! I think I got it!” he said, cracking his knuckles.  

Stan clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. He adjusted his posture, standing tall. His face closed, intense, and focused. In a few short moments, there was a stranger standing in front of them wearing Stan’s skin. He looked, well, like one of the guys on Mabel’s romance novels. It was freaky how just a subtle change could make such a huge difference. Stan sighed, faltered, and grimaced.

“Ah, kids, um…Ya, ya’know what happens, when I, ya’know, do stuff, right? I know Ford’s told ya, but, well, I know ya haven’t seen it fer yourselves yet. And, I didn’t wanna freak ya out, or nothin’.”  

Mable frowned. They knew, but Stan was right, seeing it in person (well, close enough) was something else entirely. Mason brushed the back of Mable’s hand with his own and she took the hint, interlacing their fingers loosely. Their heard Ford step up behind them.

“It’s ok. We know. Thanks for the warning though.” Mason nodded in agreement.

Stan sighed again, air pushed out between puckered lips as he closed his eyes and steadied himself. They waited a beat, then two. The ground began shifting, the dirt and sand grains vibrating away as asphalt rose from below. The giant grass and mushrooms faded in an out of clarity, pulsating out of existence. Stan’s eyes snapped open, they were bright yellow, elongated pupils. Mason felt Mable’s hand cling tighter to his; Ford bracing both teens with a hand to their backs.

It was different in person. So much different. Mason’s subconscious was screaming at his to ‘Run, get out, get away!’, but he held his ground. Mable and Ford helping to ground him. It was Bill. Except, it wasn't, and as the scenery changed around them, Stan’ eyes changed too. With every blink his eyes grew white, irises forming and pupils curving into perfect circles. With the last blink, the last trace of yellow, the ground stopped vibrating and they stood in the middle of Animation Land Studios World, right at the start of the line the eighth wonder of the world itself; The Lightning Zapper Thrill Seeker, the world’s fastest and tallest roller coaster.

The shock from seeing Stan perform magic wore off quick a Mason and Mabel jumped up and down and raced to the front of the line. Why, not, there was no one here, not even park attendants. Stan wobbled in place a moment before regaining his balance.

“Hey, wait up!”

The twins paused climbing into the front seat of the coaster to see a young boy, maybe their age – maybe a year or two younger – wearing a red and white striped shirt and jeans ripped at the knee. His left cheek sporting a band-aid, and a missing tooth. He jogged up to the twins and took a seat behind them, shouting, “Hey Poindexter, you gonna sit this one out?”

Ford muttered something that was lost to the distance between them and started a much slower and dignified pace to the coaster.

“Oh, come on, old timer! You can change. Or at least run!” The boy shouted at Ford, who continued his slow pace. The boy sighed, turning to the twins and mumbling, “Older brothers, right?”

The twins blinked in unison. “Stan?” Mable uttered the question Mason was having trouble articulating.

“The very same. Who’d’ya think it was?” The now confirmed Stan put out his hand ready to offer a greeting. “Heya.” Mason frowned this time, eyeing the child hand that started to flicker with blue fire. Stan shook his hand and arm to put out the flames and tucked them behind his head. “Yeah, well, we know each other already, so no introductions needed. ‘Bout time!”

Ford had just stepped up beside the stationary carts, arms crossed disapprovingly at Stan’s choice of form. After a few tense moments of the older twins eyeing each other, Ford stepped onto the coater beside Stan and flipped the safety bar down.

“Woohoo! Alright, let’s get this party started!” With a wave and blink, the safety harnesses slid and clicked into place and the bars dropped down. Mason and Mable were jittery and practically vibrating in their seats. The carts jolted and began the slow assertion to the top. A click every second, the cart shuttering every three seconds, the ground slowly fading away below them. Stan was starting to have second thoughts about this. He wasn’t completely cured of his fear of heights. The higher they went, the lighter and lighter his head felt. Every moment it seemed like they would stop, but it kept going, higher and higher and higher. Stan kept moving the clouds higher to make it seem like it was shorter than it was, but Mabel was too strong and materialized an airplane flying below their point on the ramp. Stan gulped and grabbed at Ford’s hand instinctively. Ford raised and eyebrow at the contact, but had no time to react. They crested the top and paused, the carts teetering on the precipice. All four held their breath as the front carts tipped forwards.

Mason was wrong.

It hadn’t gotten to 80 miles per hour in eight seconds.

It did it in four.

They slowed down a bit in the corkscrew, but gained momentum in the curve before the tunnel.

Wendy’s hat had grown hands and clung to Mason’s head like a cat to the ceiling.

Mabel’s hair wrapped itself into a tight braid to keep from catching.

Ford squeezed Stan’s hand and kept his eyes closed save for a few scant moments when they went upsidedown.

Stan could not actually lose his lunch, for multiple reasons, but his body felt like it was trying.

When they finally pulled back into the station and the cart slowed and stopped with a jerk, Stan let go of Ford’s hand.

Stan was heaving and swallowing down the urge to vomit.

Ford was staring at the underside of the station roof, trying to quell the sudden onset of dizziness. The twins were distressingly quiet. The next words uttered almost made Stan want to cry.  

“Again!” Mason and Mable called out in unison.

“NO!” Both brothers called out, but their pleas were ignored and the cart left the station.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They rode the thing three times. Ford would refuse to ride another roller coaster ever again and Stan was feeling uneasy about the spinning coffee mugs ride. Stan didn’t want to be the ‘Old Foggie’, but he sat out of some of the more ‘high energy’ rides. They got hot dogs and corndogs and Stan and Mabel shared an elephant ear and got into an argument over whether it was called an aforementioned elephant ear or fried dough. Either way, they got cinnamon and sugar everywhere and Mason suggested the Splash Zone as the next ride.

Ford’s fluffy hair did not survive the Splash Zone.

Upon Mabel’s request, and Mason’s shy additions, Ford reluctantly changed form, sporting a white t-shirt, patched bomber jacket and corduroy pants. It was easy to keep up with the kids after that. He even had fun on the spinning swings.  

They wound up at the games corner and Mable was hitting bullseye after bullseye and winning prize after prize. The twins each hat a pair of inflatable, oversized boxing gloves and were playfully punching at one another. Ford had a balloon animal hat sitting atop his head and carried something that looked like a hamster in a business suit. Stan was collecting a bear with fairy wings and wand from the counter when Ford mentioned Dimension F-98/β.

It was a dimension where, instead of humans, all types of animals had evolved and gained sentience, built communities, cities and metropolitans, all living and working together. Mabel jumped at the chance to see it, Mason not far behind. With a few ground rumbles and eye blinks, they were standing in the main square of the major metropolitan city.  It was almost like New York Times Square if it had more curved architecture, more bright colors and more greenery. Plants of all types hung from the windows of the buildings and trees grew along the sidewalks. Animals of all different sizes walked or drove or rode variations of bicycles up and down the busy streets. Mable was frantic and followed behind each creature as it passed, imitating them to the best of her ability. A giraffe skateboarding, a water buffalo body builder, tiny gerbil business men, a gecko delivery boy, a duck couple corralling their eight ducklings, a snake zig-zagging his way through the feet of other animals and clutching a briefcase by his tail, frog men being bussed in as tourists and communicating via some language that consisted of more vowel sounds than there ought to be.

Mabel’s antics had Stan and Mason nearly rolling, even Ford found it in himself to smile. They located a city directory and Ford explained the layout of the city. Each district was divided based on climate and the sub-districts based on the major populace; savanna, arctic, rainforest, dessert, and a centralized urban area for non-specialized animals. Sub-districts in each major district were specialized for size and species differences. The rain forest district had a large area to the north reserved for insects and amphibians; the city and structures being built to accommodate tiny insect families. Suburbs lied to the outskirts for community based species like rodents and baboons, and the tops of the buldings were covered in trees and greenery and perches for the flight bird population. The ocean held another entire civilization, with fish and sea-bound mammals as the core populace. Coral reefs acted as telecommunication lines with one coral polyp sending a message to the next polyp down the line.

They used the tube system to travel to each of the major districts. They swung on vines in the rainforest, getting soaked in the process and dried off in the hot desert district. Mason and Mabel got into a sand fight and ran with a group of camel joggers that were eager to talk to the twins. Stan shoved a handful of sand down Ford’s shirt while he was distracted watching the kids. Stan paid for it when all three built him into a snowman in the polar district as a group of teenage penguins watched and laughed. They left his eyes and nose clear of snow, but shoved a carrot in his mouth to act as the snowman’s nose. Some passing snow leopard snapped a picture and they made it into the paper. The transit to the savanna district was closed for gazelle migration.    

They stopped in to talk to the mayor, a capybara by the name of Richard Waterhog, whom Ford had the pleasure of befriending when he had traveled through. Dream or not, it was proper to visit old friends, especially ones that pardoned you for stealing bananas. He’d been so hungry, and hunting was out of the question in a world where animals were sentient.

It was so strangely real that Ford wondered if Bill had tapped into Richard’s mindscape too, but once the mayor agreed to let Mable ride him like a horse, he knew it was a dream. Richard detested walking upon his front appendages, he was dignified after all. Well, he was until he had a few drinks anyway. Ford remembered the founder’s festival less than fondly. After three rounds, Richard turned into a raging flirt and had suggestively asked Ford to ride him. Ford had sputtered and politely refused, desperately citing the difference in their species would make copulation difficult if not impossible. Richard had laughed it off and bought Ford another drink that smelled of timothy hay.  

Ford could feel Stan giving him a hairy eyeball look after remembering his interactions with Richard, and he refused to answer Mason’s questions as to why he was blushing. Richard had insisted on a rather overly friendly hug from Ford as they left, and there was no doubt that it was Bill’s doing. Can’t read our minds, my ass!

Stan was barely keeping it together, face contorting every which way to not laugh, and Mable gave him a thumbs-up and a look she was way, way too young to be throwing him. He was never going to live this down. When Mabel tried to engage him in conversation “Hey Grunkle Ford, that Guinea Pig guy seemed to really like you”, Ford immediately changed the subject and started discussing the complexities of building a civilization underwater with Mason. Mable and Stan shared a quiet chuckle at Ford’s red face; Mason noticed, but decided his uncle’s business was private.

It wasn't long after that both younger twins expressed a desire to explore an underwater city, so another few blinks and they were on Elcoris 4, a planet in dimension A412 that was 90% water and the denizens had adapted to building underwater. They were humanoid with pale blue, speckled skin, webbing between their fingers, toes and attached to their arms and legs. They communicated via sonar, but could speak above water. A few flicks of Stan’s wrist and the four of them each had a bubble of air around their heads and flippers attached to their feet.

They swam in and out of buildings, kelp forests and into the drop-off of the continental shelf. Their guide, a man whose name Stan didn’t like and had instead called Drew, warned them of the drop-off and the potential for sea serpents. He warned that the deeper they went in the planet, the larger and more aggressive the monsters became, warning that if they went too deep, they would find a lava lake with a fire breathing dragon.

So, naturally, Stan gave them all depth suits and they went off searching for sea monsters. And sea monsters they found. In the darkness they came across a serpent like thing with bioluminescent jelly like tentacles protruding from its head, the mouth just a hole with concentric rows of teeth. They found a squid-like creature with pincers instead of tentacles. Mason spotted what looked like a cow in the distance then turned out to be a jelly blob that could turn into anything, save for a few differences like a badly made knock-off.

They made it to the lave lake, and saw the fire – rather superheated plasma as the water was not conducive to fire (but Ford wasn't going to hold that against a population that lived most of their lives underwater) – breathing sea dragon that was easily ten times their size. It was only slightly unexpected when Stan accidently teleported them back to the main city when the beast turned towards them. Nothing could hurt them here, it was a dream, but Stan’s protective nature was instinctual.

They spent the next hour discussing how something like that could survive down there with little to no food source and both twins again expressed desire to know about Ford’s multi-verse travels. He regained them with some of his tamer escapades such as the M-dimension and the time he got into a fight with a sofa and he, with great reluctance, showed the younger twins the ‘All-Star’ tattoo still on his neck even in a child form. He was careful to not mention his other markings.                      

At the end of the day – or night – the four found themselves on Glass Shard Beach. The iconic swing set from Stan’s mindscape was fixed, and had extended to accommodate four people. The dock in the distance bordered by both incarnations of the Stan O’War, and the StanleyMobile parked somewhere in the sand lot behind them.

The memories at the swings were so ingrained into each brother that they hadn’t realized they had changed until Mabel squealed in delight. Ford, startled and reaching for his side arm (that wasn't there) turned to Mable only to realize he now had to look down at her. Which, under usual circumstances was normal, but he had gotten used to being her height all day. Her eyes were wide and shining and her hands pressed into her cheeks. “Grunkle Ford! How come you never told us you were such a hottie!”

Ford sputtered, blushing for what seemed like the millionth time that day, and scratched at the back of his neck while avoiding eye contact. He was wearing the yellow v-neck from that night on the beach. Stan stood behind the younger twins wearing that damn white t-shirt, hair slicked back and acne scars. Stan just shrugged and mouthed ‘Sorry’ as he sat down on the swings. Mason turned in the sand and joined him, pausing only a moment to take in his uncle’s teenage form. Ford distracted Mable by promising to push her and they spent a good twenty minutes just laughing at how high she could get.

Mason and Stan got into a sand kicking contest and wound up losing their shoes in the process. They fell into play wrestling when Stan tried to give his nephew a noogie, over shot the lunge and landed in the sand with Mason sitting on his back.

This is what Stan wanted, all he ever wanted. He wondered if maybe he and Ford could find the fountain of youth somewhere and get some more time. More time to play with the kids, more time for days like this – when if they ever made it back to port – more time for games and stores, more time for them to be a family again. Stan lost all desire to put the boy in a head lock and instead gathered Mason up and hugged him tightly; sat in the sand and resting his back against the strut of the swing set. Ford had stopped pushing Mable to watch them, but now both he and Mable turned their attention to the sunset.

It was so achingly familiar, sitting in the evening air, feeling the bay breeze wash over them. Listening to the waves roll in, bringing in sand and cobbled to tumble the broken bottles into beautiful pieces of beach glass. They used to collect it for Ma, spending hours combing the fresh shards for that one smooth and polished piece. She made them into jewelry sometimes; Ford remembered Stan had been given one as a child that he wore proudly until some asshole kid called him a girl for wearing jewelry. Stan had always been…well, fighting himself in his pursuit to be manly.

Ford remembered Stan going through his wardrobe one day before the school year started and pulling out all of his favorite shirts – the ones he had to beg his parents for and who only relented because they were cheaper than anything else – and throwing them in a donation box. Pink, yellow, baby blue with little flowers embroidered on the collar, a purple one that said ‘free hugs’ (that was Stan’s favorite). They all went. It left him with not much else besides white t-shirts and a mustard yellow jacket. Stan had also tossed in the jewelry he had accumulated. The only thing he kept was a gold chain and pendant that Ford had bought for him; it was thick and heavy and was masculine enough for him to keep.

Pops had made some comments that week about the ‘Gays’ parading around in broad daylight. “They go around dressed like women, wearing make-up and hanging off each other like they ain’t committing sin. Like they ain’t sick.” Ford had seen Stan’s posture tense. The next day, he donated a bunch of old stuff to the shelter down the street, saying it was much too old to even try and re-sell in the shop. Ford, thankfully – though unfairly – never felt the need to do the same.             

He was jostled out of his depressed ruminating by Mabel standing from the swing he was holding onto and striding over the sand to reach Stan.

“I’m sorry.” She said, head hung low and voice full of remorse.

“What in the world for?” Stan nearly snapped, bewildered at the unprompted apology that seemed to come from nowhere. Mason, still sat in Stan’s lap frowned a moment before understanding dripped over his face like water. The boy took hold of Stan’s hand that was wrapped around his middle.

“I…I didn’t know if I could love you anymore. Knowing what you’ve done. But you did all this for us, even though you can’t be with us on Christmas. You didn’t have to, there was nothing in it for you, but you did it anyway because you love us.” Her eyes were wet now, and she was nearly pleading.

Ford felt Stan take hold of his mind while he poked and prodded at the memories of the younger twins. They saw the discussion between them, the theories, the fear, the guilt and the unknown. Could the kids still love Stan even if he was Bill?

“I wouldn’t say that. I got somthin’ out of it. I got to see you kids.” Stan shifted and knelt in front of Mabel, placing his hands on her shoulders to look her in the eye. He was Bill?

“I know things are…different now. I don’t blame you for feeling or thinking the way you did, or still do. I know I…scared you…before. I’m sorry.” Mason took one of Stan’s hands and squeezed. Stan was Bill?

“But hey, we can do this again, just give me a few weeks to rest, ok? This takes a lotta brain power.” Stan was BILL! How could Stanford have forgotten? This whole time? And Bill was taking control of his mind, their minds. This had to stop. NOW!  

“Bill, that’s enough!” Stanford’s words were like a blade slicing through the air.

Stan just looked at a spot above Mabel’s shoulder and sighed, the pain and sorrow dripping from his form. His hand fell limp and lifeless from Mabel’s shoulder, fingers catching on the sleeve of her sweater.  

“Yeah. Ok.” His eyes were downcast as he stood and took a step away from them. She could see he wanted to cry. Heck, she wanted to cry.

It was gradual, the change. His eyes glowed yellow again as he aged, like a movie and fast-forwards. It was hardly a ten count when the teen was left behind and the old and grizzled man that was their uncle stood before them. Grunkle Ford had changed as well, face pulled back into a look filled with anger and hate.

“Hey, it should be morning now. Should probably let you kids back, huh?” The beach was fading faster than they could process. They were falling, or being pulled away from the beach and their grunkles. Mabel looked back and saw a nightmare. Stan’s body contorted, growing in size, and taking on a triangular shape. Her vision blurred and he was jolting awake before she was able to register the voice that still haunted her dreams.

Was he Bill, or Stan? She thought she knew.  

Previous

Next

The crypt. It was fitting, wasn't it? Stan had looked at him and Stanford had seen one beautiful caramel brown, cataract filled eye, and one sickly pale yellow. Had Stan been fighting it? Had he seen the last of his brother looking out at him before Bill…

Stanford pushed the thought down. There was nothing to be done now. And there was still a chance to knock Bill from Stan’s body. He just needed to find the right trigger, the right mechanism. He hadn’t dared try to enter Bill’s mind. He didn’t know if his defenses were resilient enough to defend against Bill’s manipulation. He had already succumbed to Bill’s mind games. He needed to find a way to bring his brother back.  

Yes, a part of him hurt when he hurt his brother’s body. But another part reveled in that fact that he got to hurt Bill. Because Bill was in there, Bill was in control. Bill felt it, had to experience it. And Bill deserved it. Deserved it and so much more. But nothing so far had broken Bill’s grasp.

Even when he slept, Bill seemed to have complete and utter control over Stan’s body. It was so far removed from all of his experiences with Bill and possession, Stanford was scrambling for answers. He had scoured the internet when he could, but there was nothing describing daemonic possession and its characteristics. Well, nothing scientific anyway. Stanford had come across innumerable sites and blogs and videos and religious organizations that talked about the paranormal and daemons and spirits and what-have-yous, but nothing of substance.

There was only so much he could hypothesize on given his limited knowledge on the subject. There were several physicists and phycologists that specialized in astral projection and dream theory, but without the aid of a portal, he couldn’t even hope to get a message to anyone.

It didn’t help that he had let himself be weak…again. He had survived thirty years adrift in more often than not hostile worlds He could handle a nightmare or two. But that last one, God, that last one had been so real. He knew the difference, most of the time, between a dream his own mind had constructed from recent thoughts and feelings, and one that tapped into his mindscape, where they were much stronger and more…real.

He had been trapped in his head that night. Unable to receive sensory input beyond the images his mind had created for him. He had screamed. He must have, that was the only rationale he had for Stan Bill to have come for him. The lock on the engine room bulkhead was beyond repair. Not that it mattered; Stan Bill had gotten through with ease so what was the point in locking him up? For Stanford’s own comfort? Why? It was clear that Stan Bill was just placating him. Luring him in.

That night. He remembered the dream…if only just. He remembered feeling piercing terror through to his core, but he didn’t feel that way anymore. When thinking of it now, he felt…not nothing, because he did feel something, but it was unclear exactly. Like it was just a fact, like it was just something that had happened, and he had moved on.

Stanford prided himself on his ability to separate himself from his emotions when the situation called for it. He had learned this skill in his youth, and had honed it in his travels. To be in control of one’s emotions, to look at a problem with clinical detachment. It was liberating. But this was his family. And he remembered feelings associated with seeing his family torn asunder. He didn’t feel them now, and it was all the more reason to be warry of Bill.

Bill had changed him. Changed how he viewed something, changed how he felt about the dream.

It didn’t matter now. Bill would never leave this boat. They would sit in this forgotten and paranormal ridden sector of ocean forever, or until something sunk their tiny craft, whichever came first. Stan Bill had promised, and Stanford would ensure it. They would stay here far away from people. Bill would stagnate here, power unrefined and out of his control, unable to do anything except reside in a body of his last victim. And Stanford would stay here with him, forever.

Even if that meant he was the one imprisoned.

Imprisoned in his own head, a cell of his own making, a warden he willingly let control him once. A muse that once held the key to everything he ever desired. A master that once held Stanford in the palm of his hand, a willing and eager puppet. A being he once loved. Why could he just let go?

It had almost broken him that night, lying in Stan’s arms, knowing that Stan was no longer there. Knowing that it was Bill, knowing that Bill was the one trying to comfort him, the one shushing him, the once caressing his back. But he felt and sounded and smelled so like Stan. He let himself be fooled. Let himself just pretend that everything was normal. That Stan was still himself; that his brother and Bill were one and the same.

But that was such a dangerous road to travel. It was a slippery slope, and Stanford knew it. Knew how that would end. He had seen it, hadn’t he? It had burned itself into his mind, even if Bill had dulled its initial punch. He wouldn’t forget. But he knew he was not the insurmountable stone he claimed himself to be. He was weak. So utterly weak.

And being with Bill felt so cathartic. He could be directed, he wasn’t expected to be the one with all the answers. He didn’t have to be the one everyone depended on. He could just…be. Just be held, be small (relatively speaking), be taken care of. It reminded him of the times Stan had held him, shielded him from the onslaught of hate and physical abuse. The time Stan had taken a punch, a beating for him; Crampelter and their father. The time Stan had held his hands without thinking, without being started at the extra digit.  

Bill had reminded Stanford so much of his brother as time went on. Bill hadn’t treated him like a freak, hadn’t been put off by his intelligence, had treated Stanford like he mattered. Like he was loved. Like Stan had loved him.

They had been in the mindscape, just idling away the afternoon discussing politics and philosophy and mathematics. Stanford’s body in the physical realm sat meditating in his study while his mind danced around in the swirling void of the mindscape with his mentor.

Without realizing it, as they spoke, Stanford had drifted closer to the manifestation of Bill, enraptured by Bill’s voice. It felt so natural to him, to reach out and stroke one of Bill’s edges, to run his fingers over Bill’s surface and tug on the bow tie.

“Um…” Bill had noticed his presence, but Stanford was too lost in his own fantasy to do much more than smile.

He had enveloped the triangle in his arms, pressing Bill to his chest and resting his cheek against the thin side. He had felt the ever present top hat float off. It was one of the only times Stanford remembered ever surprising Bill. Bill had sat dumbfounded for a few seconds, arms held awkwardly to the sides, before pushing against Stanford’s chest and floating a few feet away.  

“Whoa, hey there big guy, what’s with the touchy-feely business?”

Stanford hadn’t known what to say then. What do you say to someone you hugged without consent? Stanford had held tight to himself, embarrassed about what he’d done. It was high school all over again; he was tripping over himself and being awkward and, God, what did Bill think of him now? Would he leave? Would Bill stop helping him? Would he think Stanford was a waste of time? He didn’t care if Bill had decided to give up on the project, but he didn’t think he could handle it if Bill left him. He wasn't even sure if Bill was real yet, or just a manifestation of is insanity and loneliness. But if Bill left…

“I didn’t mean, I just, I…” He couldn’t even get the words out. God, he was a fool. Useless and pathetic.

Bill had floated up to his side, and placed a three-fingered hand on his shoulder. He knew it was supposed to be comforting, but, it felt like condemnation. It stung just as much as…  

“Let’s just keep this…professional, ok?” Bill awkwardly patted his shoulder and floated back to his original position across the slowly bobbing coffee table. Stanford just hid his face, wiping his hand over his eyes and under his glasses.

“I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”

Was he so in need of affection he would latch onto the nearest being for it?

Maybe he should just pay someone. Pay someone for their company. He didn’t want sex, but it would do, and some prostitutes would even give the “girlfriend” experience for extra. He could claim the lost money on “personal health and mental wellbeing” on his next cost report to his benefactors. It rankled his skin and made his hair stand on end to think of going to such lows, but he desperately needed something. Just a hug, that was all he wanted.

“You don’t need to do that, I’m sure there’s someone in town you could…what’s the word? Copulate with? For free even. I could scope one out for you. There’s a female at the diner that seems to like you.”

Stanford cringed. They were in his mind, nothing would be hidden from Bill here. Nothing he thought was private until Bill left. Before it hadn’t been an issue, he was too wrapped up in discoveries to even think about how lonely he was. He guessed he only realized it now because Bill was his ever-constant companion, but they could only talk. Bill had no real form, and thus always seemed so absent. Like a ghost. Except ghosts were annoying; Bill was brilliant, and wonderful and…he had a problem. Stanford sighed.

Bill just seemed to take it all in. Quiet and unfazed by the tumultuous flow of thoughts and affection from Stanford’s mind. Bill rubbed at the underside of his eye, lips pouting like pert and full lips. He needed to stop. Bill hummed, smiling at Stanford’s new thoughts. Stanford closed his eyes in shame.          

“Hey IQ, how about this?” Without stopping to explain, Bill grew from a size maybe two thirds of Stanford’s form to one that towered above him. By the time Bill stopped and said with a triumphant, “Ta-da”, Stanford could have been a stuffed animal or a small cat to Bill.

Bill picked him up in both hands, palms pressed under his arms, and lifted him to float near a spot beside Bill’s bowtie. Bill reclined, resting his hands behind his form and crossed his legs where the knee joint would be; Stanford being pulled with the force of it to kneel on Bill’s form. The relaxed posture brought forth memories of finding his brother on the Stan O’War in the same position. Stanford couldn’t help himself. He did what he had done with Stan; he curled up on his side and huddled in close to the body beneath him. Bill was warm, and surprisingly not as hard as Stanford expected him to be. Bill’s surface had some give to it, like an old and familiar chair, and it seemed to cradle him.    

He felt so safe, just as he did with Stan. Arms wrapped around him, protected, safe.  

“You humans are so strange with your incessant need to touch.”    

Looking back on it now, with the hindsight of knowing what Bill was going to do, it was so pitiful that he craved Bill so much. Stanford had sought out any affection the daemon would give, desperate and needy. In his subconscious, Bill had replaced Stan as his protector, he could see that now. Touch starved, lonely and in helpless need of a protector, a guardian, someone to make him feel small. It was how it started, but not where it ended. He fell hard, hopeless and wretchedly. He had love Bill. Still loved him.

And he didn’t know why.

Bill taking Stan’s face, Stan’s touch, Stan’s smell…it was too much. Stanford was not going to dwell on why Bill looking like Stan made it worse; that lead down a dark path, darker yet than any road he had ever traveled. He thought he’d crushed those feelings years ago. Apparently, they had laid in wait for the most opportune moment. He knew he would break; it was only a matter of when.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The experiments never seemed to end. It started with what kinds of objects he could form on command. Which was really, really hard. It shouldn’t have been, because food and drinks and things like toothpaste and shampoo were easy; they came almost without thinking.

Random things were the hardest. “Bill make a bonsai tree.” “Bill, I need a set of scales.” “Make me a sample of gallium.” Nothing ever came out the way it should have. The ‘scales’, instead of something useful, became a pile of fish and reptile scales. When he tried again, Stan’s hands were covered in a thick layer of calcium and magnesium like the hard water scale back in Gravity Falls.

Gallium had, for some bizarre reason, become a guillotine. It was fine though, the blade was made of rubber and giggled like a small child when it tried to chop your head or arm off. It even squirted out raspberry jam with a squeal of delight “You’re dead now, yay!” The jam wasn’t bad and was really great on toast, but pretending your hand had been cut off and then scraping it off your arm onto toast just to eat it was far too complicated to bother with. It was a shame.

The only thing that was anywhere near what Ford had asked for was the bonsai tree. It was more trunk and branches than leaves; there was a small spattering of twigs and leaves growing out of the top of it, with two branches spreading out from the sides like little arms. At first, Stan thought he had finally done something right. He grinned at the tiny little tree in the blue terra cotta pot like he’d grinned at the model car he’d gotten for their 10th birthday.

He was so excited to show Sixer, presenting it with both hands and face split wide revealing his dentures. Ford had bent slightly to inspect the tree, adjusting his glasses dismissively (Stan didn’t care, he’d gotten it right this time!), as if to critique the form of the tree or something when it moved. The damn tree moved. It opened two dark eyes under the smattering of greenery and bobbed back and forth like it was dancing.

Ford had said nothing, just pressed his lips together and looked up at Stan with a look that made Stan want to pout. They’d put the thing in the main cabin where it could get sun and Stan made sure to water it daily.

Ford named it Herman. Herman liked music and would dance to any music played for it. It also liked company and would make tiny squawking sounds when they hadn’t paid enough attention to it. Stan found himself passing tiny objects back and forth with Herman when he was bored. It seemed to be the tree’s favorite game.

When object manifestation had failed, Ford had moved onto pain experiments. Poking and prodding with varying degrees of pressure and gradually sharper and sharper objects. First a pencil eraser lightly tapped against his arm. Then the point of the pencil until the blunt carbon had left a sizable dent in his skin. Then tweezers and nail clippers cutting away small sections of his epidermis with minor blood flow. They had gradually moved onto more involved injuries.

He had sustained physical damage such as a broken nose, various lacerations, and a knife through his hand with various control of his magic. Minor damage seemed to require his active input, so Ford had moved onto more severe measures. While Ford didn’t need to drug him anymore, the sedative was no longer working. Additional amounts should have resulted in complete autonomous bodily function shut down after twelve hours. Stan regained consciousness after six and showed no signs of damage. Ford had stepped up his game to poisons, but had not had the guts to actually just shoot him already. If Stan were being honest, he didn’t even think that would do him in. Not really.

They were on the main deck of the Stan O’War as evening fell. It was cool, somewhere in the low sixties, and definitely warmer than anywhere in Oregon in the middle of December. Stan was just trying to enjoy the clam breeze and gentle waves rocking the ship. He was in that blissful intermediate stage of sleep and awake where his mind wandered and came up with weird and nonsensical ideas that were lost as quickly as they came. He snorted and jerked awake when Ford stepped out of the open cabin door.  

“I knew. You know.” Stan blinked at the non-sequitur. His mind searching for something that made sense. Sixer knew a lot of things. Like how Stan was still physically human and still had distinct pain response, and that Stan was the one that taught Herman how to throw wads of paper at Ford’s head. Knew what? Knew…  

“What?” His voice was rough from coughing. His throat still itchy from the poison Ford had forced him to drink. He had really thought he was gonna die then. But his magic made him vomit it out as a solid piece of ice; his body was sweating out the remainder. Stan was shirtless and slumped over the railing trying to cool off as his body and magic fought with the residual poison.

Stan should be mad that his brother tried to kill him, but they both knew it was a long shot that it would work anyway. He was just tired. And hot. And Ford looked really good in the evening light. The sun was reflecting off his skin and making him glow. His hair looked like glistening silver and half of his face lovingly draped in shadow; Stan wanted to take a picture, but he didn’t think he had the energy to paint right now. Wait, what?

“I knew, that…that something was wrong.” Ford stood in front of the cabin door where he had finished writing the results from his latest murder attempt. By now they were both curious as to what Stan was immune to. It seemed that while he had little control over manifesting objects, his powers of healing were in perfect form.

He’d even had an accident where the fish he was filleting kept healing with every cut and had eventually started flopping around. It was flopping so violently, it ended up on the floor of the galley, where it likely died due to blunt force trauma. When Stan had tried to pick it up, it came back to life and started squirming again. He had spent far too much time trying and failing to get the fish to stop moving, to stop resurrecting, to just be food, that Ford had taken the poor thing from him and thrown it overboard. Stan made hamburgers for dinner with the ground beef that appeared on the counter. In fear of suddenly having a live fish on his plate, Ford had forbidden them from having fish for dinner thereafter. Or anything that wasn’t completely and fully processed.

Stan’s mind snapped back to more pressing matters when Ford kicked at the bait bucket.    

Ford knew. When? How? Why hadn’t this come up before?  

“When?” Stan was incredulous. When had he…? Oh no.  

“The draugr.” Damn it!

“What?” Please be something else.

Ford was exasperated. He gestured wildly, pulling at his own hair, and pacing in the small area allotted by the deck.

“Your eye. You looked into my eyes and I saw one brown and one yellow. You read an ancient language even I didn’t know. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t real. Like you just had accumulated weird bits of knowledge during our time apart. I told myself it didn’t matter. But it does and I just…I can’t handle this!”

Ford crumpled, dropping down to the deck on his knees, hunched and covering his eyes. Stan could see wet streaks running down his cheeks. It hurt to see his Sixer like this. It never used to, not really. He used to love it when Sixer responded to him, would show emotions, would make all those delicious noises for him. Moaning, laughing, screaming, delighted squeals, sighs, whimpers, all the beautiful soundtrack to his little Sixer.  

His favorite had been when Sixer had tried so hard not to scream, so hard to not make a noise, and then he broke. It would be so quiet at first, just a little gasp, an aborted moan through gritted teeth, sound leaking out in rivulets between Sixer’s enamel and dancing in the air to his ears. Music, the sweetest music he had ever heard; it made his amorphous insides dance every time he heard Sixer’s voice. There was something about it; something so primal that even he, who had lived for literally millions of years, couldn’t understand. It had made his angry at first. How dare this puny little human, this insignificant little ant, have this much control over him. He was a God in this world. He was a God among worlds, he needed nothing but a pawn, wanted nothing but a willing puppet, a willing pet. Then, it had turned to fear. WHY, did Sixer have so much power over him? Was he weak? Was he losing his edge. Had he finally become so damned lonely in is self-induced isolation that he was craving attention; someone that would stroke his ego, grovel at his proverbial feet.

In the end, he didn’t question it. He was a God, so what if he wanted to keep a toy. His wants and his desires didn’t have to have reasons. He liked Sixer, so he claimed the man. Sixer was his toy, his puppet, his pet. He could do what he wanted with Sixer and it didn’t matter, because he wanted it. And his desires were final. If he wanted to make Sixer scream for him, cry for him, then that was his business.  

It never used to bother him when Sixer was in pain, but it does now and now is what matters. Stan approached Stanford’s small form and knelt down to wrap him in Stan’s thick arms when Ford lashed out.

“Don’t touch me!” He’d smacked Stan’s arms away and scooted until his back was pressed against the wall of the Stan O’War. A corners animal, scared and gearing up for a fight. Stan didn’t want to fight. Not anymore. He just wanted to hold Ford, let the man curl up in his arms and rest. To stroke his back, fingers tracing every dip, every uneven patch of skin. He bet he could heal some of Ford’s scars his he tried. Give Sixer his full range of motion back. “Stay away from me! I don’t know who you are and I don’t trust you!”

“Stanford, I’m still your brother. I still care about you. I still lo-“

“Shut UP!” Stan flinched. “Shut up shut up shut up!”  Ford curled in on himself, trying to get further away from Stan. “Please…” Stanford’s plea hardly a whisper.  

Stan was wrecked. He could force this. Part of him wanted to. Part of him really wanted to. Force Sixer to let Stan hold him, force Sixer to look at him, to trust him. It was so alluring. It would be easy, so easy…

No. It wouldn’t. It would be hard for Stan. Not just because of the metal plate in Sixer’s head, but because it would hurt him make Sixer do that. He wanted Sixer to love him on his own. He had, once-twice upon a time. As a lover, a brother, he didn’t care. It didn’t matter, just as long as Sixer loved him, cared about him in some way.

Stan slowly stood up from the deck, standing over his brother. Sixer looked so small, so fragile, he wanted to pick him up and wipe the tears away, carry him to bed and talk about nerd things. About the kids, about anything. But he didn’t. All Stan did was blink and stare at his brother, Stanford’s form still heaving with silent wails.

“I love you”, was all he could muster before he turned and walked back into the cabin and below deck. Stanford’s tears just intensified.    

Previous

Next

Bill Cipher had sat and bided his time, impersonating Stan Pines long enough to worm his way into the family’s trust. Making Stanford believe that he had gotten his brother back. Making Stanford sit with the agony of dealing with what he’d done to Stanley, giving him hope that it would all be ok, that everything was forgiven and Stan was going to be ok. Making Stanford feel loved for the first time in so many years.

Only to tear it all down and burn it with that infernal blue fire.

There was nothing for it now. Stanford had to contain Bill at all costs. If Stanley could be saved, it would have to wait. It would have to wait.

He was so tired of waiting.    

“What’s taking so long? You forget how?”

He heard a muffled sigh from the other side of the door before the water pump activated. He re-adjusted his grip on the pistol. He really hoped beyond hope that Bill would cooperate. He wasn’t prepared to do this. Not while Bill looked like Stan. He would. He had to at some point. Most likely. But he knew it would break him. Killing Stan, even if Stan was already gone, would finally break the man hell bent on destroying Bill Cipher. He would die alongside whatever was left of his brother. He would never have the strength to make it back home.

He almost wished he never had meet Dipper and Mabel. It would make his inevitable last act less difficult. Because he would. Stanford, if nothing else, knew himself well enough to know he would. He was weak. His emotions, his insufferable nostalgia, made him weak and pathetic. His eyes stung with the need to cry. But he wouldn’t give Bill the satisfaction of seeing him like that.  

What he couldn’t understand was why Bill’s magic was so different. Possession by Bill was always the same; yellow sclera and elongated pupils with no visible iris. The possessed person would manifest themselves in the mindscape or fall unconscious. Or so he thought. Dipper’s account of his own possession was so different from what Ford himself experienced, that it boggled his mind. What was even stranger was that despite all previous allusions to the alternative, Bill’s ability to possess someone was not always obvious.

Stan’s eyes were brown. His sclera white. He was, for all outward appearance, Stanley Pines. The man the boy Stanford remembered from his youth had grown into. His mannerisms, his speech, his movements all spoke to a truth Stanford could not, would not, believe.

Because that was not Stan Pines. For all his extraordinary characteristics, (his uncanny strength being the most prominent) Stan was just an ordinary man. And ordinary men were not able to conjure flames from nothing. Especially not blue flames to seal a deal.

The sudden silence from the water’s end startled Stanford out of his thoughts. He chided himself for being easily distracted. He was exhausted. He needed sleep. But he couldn’t sleep yet. They were still too close to shore. Bill could still turn the boat around and harm innocent people. Stanford didn’t know the extent of Bill’s powers in this form. From what Stanford could remember, Bill had not been able to use magic when he possessed him. Bill had always been regulated to the limitations of the physical body he was in. The face that Bill could use magic now, any magic, meant that he had gained a new level of power since entering Stan’s mind. Stanford refused to think about what that might entail.    

The door clicked, and he braced himself, ready to pull the trigger if he had to. The door the bathroom opened, and there he stood. The monster in his brother’s skin. Bill looked shocked, eyes flicking between the gun and Stanford’s eyes. Didn’t think I would do it, did you? Well, Fuck you!

Stan Bill’s eyes drooped, posture following. He looked so lost. So pitiful. The sigh that escaped his lips echoing off the walls and filled the room with regret, grief, and acceptance. Stan  Bill stared at the floor.

There was a long silence. Bill didn’t move and Stanford made no motion to bind him. What are you going to do, Cipher? What is your game plan? The silence was shredded with the sound of Stan’s BILL’S hushed voice.

“If you’re gonna do it, can I say goodbye to the kids first?” Bill had the gall to pretend to cry.  

Stanford swallowed down the heartwrenching sob that crawled in this throat. Bill had called his bluff even before Stanford himself knew it was a bluff. That was going to be the most difficult part of this; Bill knew him inside and out. Bill knew him even better than he knew himself. Bill also probably knew where they were headed too. The only place Stanford could think of that might help contain Bill. The Bermuda Triangle.

There was evidence that the Bermuda Triangle may have anomalous properties similar to the weirdness magnetism surrounding Gravity Falls. If nothing else, it was a section of ocean that people stayed away from for fear of disappearing. It was the perfect place to keep Bill until he could find a way to break Bill’s hold on his brother. He wasn’t going to think about the possibility that Stan was…no, there was no time for that now. Bill was dangerous.

“Sixer, I know you’re not gonna believe me, but I’m not going to hurt you.” Bill sounded so much like Stan. So much it was almost too easy to answer. Because both Bill and Stan had hurt him, albeit differently.

“You have before.”

Stanford saw Bill flinch. Good. Bill should know he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He wasn’t going to let Stan’s face make him weak. He was going to keep the upper hand if it killed him.

And it just might. Because it was so hard to do this.    

Bill looked defeated. Stanford knew it could be a bluff, was most likely a bluff, but that look on Stan’s face made it hard to remain stoic. The fact that it was Stan’s face made everything hard. The fact that it was Stan’s body made Stanford question just how strong and selfless he really was.

Bill knelt, arms stiffly sliding behind his back; Stan’s shoulders were likely sore from being pulled out of proper alignment for so long. Stanford wanted to ignore it, let Bill be in pain, let him deal with every mortal inconvenience. But Stan’s quiet whimper won him over. Stanford mentally flayed himself when he marched over to the kneeling form, wrenched both arms in front of him and tied them together with the rope. If Bill wanted to escape, it would be easier for him to do so now. Not that it wasn’t easy before. Maybe it was just a show of dominance, who was in charge here. So why did Stanford feel he was the powerless one?  

He refused to look at Bill wearing his brother’s face, knowing that Bill would be smug, knowing that Bill had taken a chunk out of Stanford’s armor.

He brought Bill up and again pushed him towards the engine room. It was the most secure place on their tiny ship. There was nowhere else to keep him. Not where Stanford could rest without worrying about looking over his shoulder expecting an attack. He’d done more than enough of that while dimension hopping. More than enough for multiple lifetimes. He thought he was done with that.

Bill didn’t fight. WHY?! What was the point of keeping up the charade? Stanford knew that it was Bill. He could only conclude that Bill was trying to manipulate him, bring Stanford into a false sense of security before making a move. Bill was patient. It could take years. Stanford had to be vigilant. But he doubted his own strength with every passing moment.

Stanford walked Bill in Stan’s body to the makeshift cell and left him in the room. He didn’t throw him, didn’t kick his legs out from under him to give Stanford time to get to the door incase Bill made a run for it. He’d even holstered his pistol, instead choosing to direct Bill with a hand on Stan’s shoulder and one on his waist. And Bill, Bill just stood there. Just walked to the place Stanford set him and stood there as Stanford walked backwards out of the room before letting the bulkhead fall shut. He spun the wheel lock and felt his legs nearly give out.

Why was this so hard? Why was Bill making this so hard?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dark, dank, and musty. The portal loomed overhead, standing resolute and imposing over him. It was off. It was off! Bill Cipher had no hold on this world save for him. Given enough time, Stanford was sure he could sever that hold too, in any way possible. He was going to stop this. Stop him.

He had called Stanley for help. Stanley was an unknown. Bill had only the first years of Stanley’s life to pull from, to play with in Stanford’s mind. The Stanley of now was a wild card. An unstable variable that would rock the whole plan Bill had painstakingly set into motion. Because Stanford didn’t know Stanley anymore. He’s not sure even if his memories of Stanley and his family are even accurate or of his making.

Bill had altered things. Bill had messed with his mind. Stanford was sure of that now. As little as he thought of Stanley, he knew, somehow, that Stan was not the person he remembered. Stan was impulsive, and boorish, but he…he wasn’t evil. He didn’t do things maliciously. He had memories of scars inflicted by Stan that he could never find. He couldn’t trust his own memories anymore. And there wasn’t time left to suss out what was real. He had chosen to trust Stanley.      

Stanford was sure of his decision. Stanley was the only one left. The only one he could trust. And it didn’t hurt that he wanted to see him. Stanford, in the back of his mind, knew he would likely only ever break the hold Bill had on him by removing the core of the problem.

Himself.

Even at his worst, even under the abuse by his hometown bullies or even his father, he had never considered killing himself. Cutting off his extra fingers, sure, but never so low as to want to stop existing.

But that was what Bill had driven him to. He didn’t want to die, certainly not, but if nothing proved to be a wedge between Bill and himself, he might not have the luxury to choose. If he couldn’t break Bill’s hold over him, then he wasn’t safe around others. At any moment, Bill could take him over, could hurt someone through him. He wouldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let Bill hurt anyone. It would be his last act, his last accomplishment. He hoped his brother understood.

He wanted to see his brother at least once. Even if they didn’t make up and Stanford still detested his presence. Even if there was no rekindling of affection, no warm embrace that he so desperately wanted, and the only words they exchanged were filled with bile and venom.

Because that’s what had happened. He was scared, so sure that Bill would take his brother if Stan lingered any longer. So sure that uttering Bill’s name would call the daemon forth and allow him to possess Stan the same way he had been, that he had not fully explained the severity of the situation. Had not told Stan about the danger they both faced. He just threw his journal at Stan and begged him to leave. Demanded Stan leave. He was resigned. The world would be safe. Even if it meant he would never see his brother again.  

But Stan didn’t. He didn’t leave. Instead his eyes filled with hate and grief. Instead Stan threw his own failures at Stanford, like he expected his brother to take responsibility for them. Like Stan hadn’t made those decisions himself. Feeling guilty did nothing for the problem (and a small part of Stanford did feel a twinge of guilt). They fought. Physically fought over the last piece of Stanford’s long years of work. Emotionally fought over the strained remains of their happy youth.

The acrid smell of burning flesh, the blossom of pain in his nose. The feeling of weightlessness as Stan pushed him into the glowing hole that lead to hell. The lead to him! Stan’s eyes glowing sickly yellow and erupting into manic laughter. Burning his journal with a quick eruption of blue flames.

No!

Bill had gotten to him! Stanford was too late. He has miscalculated. His brother was lost.

“Stanley, fight it!” His call fell on deaf ears. Stan was gone.  

“Stanley, please!” He never got to say goodbye.

“Do something!” He never got to tell Stan he was sorry.

“Stanley!” Because he was. No matter how irksome Stan could be, Stanford was sorry they had drifted. He was sorry he had lost his best friend. He was sorry that they had…had…

“Oh we’ll see each other again, Sixer. We’ll meet again!”

Manic laughter and glowing eyes were the only thing left.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*    

Stanford awoke in the darkness of the bedroom on the Stan O’War II. He was cold, sweat dripping down his neck and chest and beading on his forehead.

He had often dreamed about the day his life changed forever. But never had he experienced it quite like that. The mind was a strange thing; it could hide things from the conscious person, then turn around and paint those same hidden thoughts in twirling and contorting metaphors in attempts to make sense of them.

Stanford pressed his hands to his face, willing the rolling guilt to ease. Because he did feel it. Shame over being so angry at Stanley for so long. Remorse at not reaching out to the man sooner. He had become so consumed with being angry, he didn’t know how to function without it. He had let his anger, his exasperation, his incredulity that Stan would stoop so low as to ruin any chance Stanford had of making something of himself, color his feelings. Distort his memories. He had fooled himself into thinking he hated his brother. Fooled himself into thinking that Stan deserved everything he got in exchange for ruining his attempted at a future without him. Stanford had wanted some distance. Some room to grow as an individual. Was that so much to ask!?

Stanford loved his brother. Had never imagined a future without Stan by his side. It petrified him. Made his heart beat out of rhythm and made his blood run cold. He couldn’t imagine a world, a life without Stanley. Why? Why couldn’t he? Why was it that his identity relied on Stan to exist? Was he not his own person? Was he not a disparate unit from the moniker ‘Pines Brothers’? It was hard for them both, but they needed to grow apart. It was necessary. It was healthy.

And so, he made himself hold onto his anger. Hold onto the idea that his brother was a burden, a wasted space, holding him back from accomplishing what he was meant to do. Bill’s twisting of his memories had not helped matters. Stanford had hated the man, and only after realizing that he would likely never see him again, had he realized the truth.

He was prepared to forgive his brother that night; had they only been level headed enough to talk.

He was prepared to let all that anger go, to let all thoughts of his brother as an obligation, as a drain, go. He wanted his best friend back. He had been ready to heal.  

Stanford felt that overwhelming guilt now. Knowing his brother was gone, likely well and truly gone, made everything so much worse.

He didn’t get to say goodbye.

Neither one had had the strength to say it before Stanford had wiped his brother from the world.

He missed Stan so much.

Stanford found himself putting on Stan’s set of pink bunny slippers and walking out the bedroom door before his conscious mind thought to let him in on where his body was going.

God, he was weak.        

His forehead pressed into the cool metal of the cell door. That monster lied on the other side. The monster that had taken his sanity, years off his life and finally his brother, was just a few steps away.

The monster he had once called a friend. The monster he had once thought he loved.

The monster that looked so much like the man he missed so much right now.

He was pathetically weak, and he mentally berated himself over and over. Against all reason, Stanford unlocked the heavy steel door and entered the engine room.

Bill had been curled up on his side on the floor, facing away from the door. He startled awake upon Stanford’s entry, rolling over to blink rapidly at the nocturnal intrusion.

Stanford pressed his back against the bulkhead. They stared each other down for a few moments; unsure of what this was, or where it was supposed to go. 

“Have a bad dream?” Bill sounded like Stan, so comforting, so warm.

Bill sat up, legs spread and bent at the knees.

Stanford felt like he was walking through water. The six steps it took to reach Stan Bill took ages. Hours. But it was still far too soon when Stanford knelt between Stan’s Bill’s his legs. He didn’t know why he was even here. There was no need for this. He was baiting the bear and the bear was ready to tear into him given the chance.

But it didn’t. Instead of being the vicious and wild animal Stanford expected, this bear was tender, soft, affectionate. And he was of no mind to question its motives.

“I’ve been doin’ this for ya for a few nights. Helps ya sleep.”

Stanford warily held still as Bill brought Stan’s hands up to his face. There was enough give in the rope for StanBill him to cup Stanford’s cheeks in Stan’s large, warm hands. He could feel something like a cool wave flit over his face and up to his brow.

His eyes drifted closed, soaking in the warmth, and compassion like a dying man.

Stanford could feel the memory of the nightmare ease . Colors became washed out and dull. Heart stopping cackle muted. Shame faded to mild guilt, dread calmed to slight concern, into knowledge and understanding. He didn’t forget the dream, but he didn’t feel like his heart was twisting itself into knots. He felt, knew, he would be able to slip into a dreamless sleep if he wanted to.

But he didn’t want to.

He wanted to stay here. Stay in this gentle embrace, this light touch so full of affection and care and worry. He wanted to give in, to just…be loved. Because despite everything, despite how much he hated himself for it, a part of him still loved Bill. And that part of him was in control now.  

Once, long ago, he had craved this. Desired it so desperately he felt he would break from the lack of touch. He had wanted to bridge the gap between worlds if only to be able to hold or be held by this being. Knowing Bill was using his brother to do this was in no way diminishing the effects. Stanford felt a faint whisper of a question as to why, but his brain hurriedly sequestered it. (There were dark and forgotten places in Stanford’s mindscape. Places his conscious mind had no knowledge of. Places he had refused to remember or acknowledge for so long, they had all but ceased to be.)

His mind fogged, body relaxed, all nerves numbed save for that gentle point of contact on his face. In his mind, he saw Bill before him, but he could feel other thoughts, images, trying to push that image away, replace it with one of Stan. It was slow, and unobtrusive, but Stanford could feel the anxiety behind it. The slowly creeping taste of fear and a hint of desperation.

Bill wanted to make him think it was Stan doing this. But Stan wouldn’t. Stan wouldn’t do this, had never done this. Hugs, affectionate pats on the shoulder, when they were younger, tickle fights and platonic cuddling, but not this. Not something this…intimate. That’s how Stanford knew this was not his brother.

Bill was trying to manipulate him. He was trying to…

Stanford ripped himself from Bill’s touch upon that realization. Bill was manipulating him. He was trying to alter his thoughts. Alter his feelings. Again.

The dream! How much of the dream did he remember? How much had Bill changed? What had he made Stanford forget? The memory of his nightmare was dull, sun-damaged, and faded. He felt no real emotion when thinking of it. Nothing like the memory of the bone deep shame upon waking from its grasp. He felt numb, stupidly, and alarmingly numb where he had just felt soul rending remorse.

Bill had changed it. Changed him.

He would not let himself be this weak again.

He needed to keep his mind clear, to be his own. If that meant night terrors, then he would cope.

He pulled himself up and walked out into the dark galley, slamming the bulkhead behind him. He couldn’t do that again. No matter how he felt. He had to resist Bill’s pull, somehow.

It was time to continue their course.

Previous

Next

Sixer had had another nightmare. Stan had woken up to a damp shirt collar and Sixer reaching across the center table to wring his hands in Stan’s shirt. They’d been at sea for months, and sure Sixer had been struck by nightmares before, but he’d not actively reached out to Stan before. Stan was usually the one to initiate comfort. What had gotten Sixer worked up this time?

Stan had run his fingers over Ford’s, slowly urging him to let go so Stan could roll over. His eyes were met with Ford’s brow, beaded with cold sweat and eye’s clenched tight. He really shouldn’t risk it so soon, influencing his brother’s dreams, but his heart ached and Ford was unconsciously seeking comfort. He raised his hand, thumb faintly flickering blue and rubbed tiny circles beside Ford’s eye. Stan felt his eyes shift before being pulled into Ford’ dreams.

Bill…again. It usually was when Ford divulged the topic of his night terrors to Stan. Before it was reasonable, expected, and matched Stan’s own concerns. Now it was just wearisome and a bit annoying, if not troublesome now that Stan remembered. Now that he was slowly regaining his abilities. For now, he would deal with Ford’s fears and deal with the rest when it came; it really was physically taxing to do this in human form.

He Bill was again taunting Ford, reminding him of their deal, of how it had never been officially severed. It had as soon as Ford had stopped work-…wait. Had it? To break a deal, either partner had to retract their promise; He had supplied Stanford with the knowledge his brother craved and in return, Sixer had tried to build a portal. Succeeded in building. Sixer had succeeded and only after he realized where the portal opened to (after it was open) did he shut it down and make efforts to keep Stan Bill from entering his mind. Their deal, their bond, had never been revoked. Well, Shit. This put a wrench in the cogs. Damnit.

Stan let his dreamscape projection shift into the younger image that Ford’s mind designated and wandered into the wheat field. By the time he got to Sixer’s side, dreamBill had taken on his Bipper form (He didn’t care what Shooting Star said, it was a terrible name. It made it sound like they were a Power Couple), and Ford was in pleading and desperate tears. Now Ford’s actions made sense. Stan used his power to dispel Bipper the same way he had lost control before, by pulling Ford’s mental Mabel out and having her tickle the fiend into submitting. Looking back on it now, it was ingenious to use Dipper’s weakness against him, if a bit humiliating. The Bipper manifestation laughed himself into a puff of smoke and Stan drew out Ford’s inner Dipper to take his place.

Ford was exuberant. “KIDS!” He embraced the two siblings in a bone crushing embrace. “Oh, God, Thank you. Shhhh, it’s ok. I’ve got you. He’s gone now.” Ford rocked the two back and forth and the dream siblings responded the way Ford expected them to; they cried and clung back. Stan took the last few steps to reach them and laid a hand down on Sixer’s head, ruffling his hair. “You alright there, Poindexter?”

Sixer turned his head up to look at Stan, face still mended from the last time he was here, and took a sigh of relief. When Sixer didn’t say anything, just held the kids and smiled up at Stan. “You wanna take the kids and play on the swings, or give’em a tour o’ the Stan O’War?” He really didn’t know what to do here. Ford let go of the kids and stood, turning to face Stan. The siblings took each of Ford’s hands in theirs. “I think….that’s a great idea.” Ford’s face seemed to melt and lose all trace of fear or worry. “Well, let’s get to it.”

Stan stayed in Ford’s dream so long, he himself fell asleep, consciousness pulling back into his body just before falling into REM sleep. He’d woken up to a cup of coffee being held under his nose and Sixer smirking at him.      

They’d gone through the treasure haul after a few more cups of coffee each to help an embarrassing set of hangovers. The coins were sorted into piles based on metal type and likely country of origin; Stan had pulled up a book on Ford’s tablet on old coins that had helped and subtly showed Ford how to use the app. A number of coins were set in a bowl of distilled vinegar to get them clean. The gems were sorted by type, size and cut ; Stan kept some gems for himself and the kids: a pink rough stone that Ford identified as Tugtupite for Mable, a light blue and white swirl stone that reminded Stan of the color of the ocean near shore for Dipper (Ford called it Larimar), and a piece of ‘Fool’s Gold” for himself (he was all too familiar with it, having sold it in the Mystery Shack as real gold a few times). He urged Sixer to pick one out, finally choosing a piece of snowflake obsidian that had been shaped into a blade point. Stan also snagged a piece of rhodonite while Ford wasn’t looking. The rest were put in a pile to be dealt with in experimentation, gifts or be sold. Stan swiped a ring with two interlocking triangles. He also pretended not to see Ford wrap a leather band with a compass (Vegvisir, a symbol to provide guidance to wayward souls, Stan’s inner Nerd provided) around his left wrist and conveniently forget to take it off. There were a few other pendants with various symbols that Ford didn’t recognize and Stan refused to recognize and were set aside for later study. The scrolls were gathered and quickly brought to the top cabin with the rest of Stanford’s research material. And that was the last Stan saw of Ford, except for the occasional trip down to the engine room where Ford stored his more volatile experiments.

And that was it. Now here Stan was, sitting in the galley texting back and forth with Mabel about what they wanted for Christmas and assuring her that he and his brother didn’t need presents (and not being able to give her an address to send it to anyway). And Ford was furtively zipping back and forth between the cabin and the engine room, trailing papers, and rank odors with him.  

Stanford’s actions were normal, (well normal for Stanford, they were bordering on unhinged for other people) so everything was fine. He just need to play the part of lovable and eccentric con man until he could adjust to his new memories. He could do that. He’d been a con man his whole existence, it was his bread and butter. However, he had never had to beat down an oncoming existential crisis that he could not deal with in present company.

What was even more alarming, was Mable had picked up on his suspicious knowledge. Mabel had been working on some holiday chemistry homework  and was having difficulty figuring out how to balance chemical equations and Dipper was texting Ford.

I wanna ask Grunkle Ford how to do it, but Dipper has been texting him for like 10 whole hours about science.

Maybe I could help.

No offense Grunkle Stan, but you’re not all that sciencey.

Try me.

She sent over a picture of her homework and Stan worked it out on a napkin. It really was simple,

6 CO2 + 6 H2O → C6H12O6 + 6 O2

He took a picture of his work and sent it back to her with a brief explanation.

You have to remember to count your elements. See how there are 18 O’s on the left, you have to keep the same amount on the right. Take a look at your next problem and work it through with me.

Wow Grunkle Stan! I just checked with Dipper and it was right! Did Grunkle Ford help you?

Crap.

Hey, I know some science too, I fixed the portal remember.

True. Ok, the next one has a lot of B’s in it.

They worked through the second problem together and he instructed her to try the next few on her own. He needed to be more careful.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was two hours until dinner when Ford came down and approached Stan. Stan, meanwhile, had kept himself busy by flipping through several different online articles on dream psychology and mental manipulation while having an Arctic Fishing article open in case Ford walked too close.

Ford looked exhausted, and a bit crazed, like he’d been obsessing over something. However, as soon as he noticed Stan looking, his demeanor changed, perked, and nearly split his face with a disingenuous grin. Stan did his best not to be offended by his brother hiding things. Ford was an inherently closeted person; wasn’t the whole reason everything came crashing down around them was Stanford’s inability to place his trust in others? He’d been trying, so, so hard, Stan wasn’t expecting Ford to share everything.

And, he would be a hypocrite if he said there should be no secrets between them. Ford wasn’t the only one hiding behind a veil of charm.  

“How are you feeling about heading out for dinner tonight? We’ve got a few more days before we need to renew our tourist visas.” Stan blinked at his own choice of words. He had become acutely aware that his inner voice and speaking voice no longer mimicked one another. He had tried to continue his habit of running words together and using slang; He’d let his accent slip. Stan wanted to blame it on the fact that he hadn’t spoken much that day. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. The truth was, it was exhausting, needing to be careful about his pronunciations, how much knowledge he had (he’d already let some things slip), and how much he was aware of the things around him.

Ford, however, didn’t respond, either waving it off or just not taking the time to care. All he did was collect the envelope of local currency from the drawer by the stairs, and smiled at Stan. “Bistro?” Stan nodded, “Sure.”

Ford looked…soft. Just…soft. Stan was overwhelmed by the desire to hug his brother, to bury his face in the crook of Sixer’s neck and…and what? His gums tingled. He wished he still had real teeth.

Stan blinked his mind clear and watched Ford take the steps to the main cabin. He joined Ford on deck not to long after, choosing to throw on his red and gold leaf Hawaiian shirt under his trench coat as an excuse for dawdling. It was happening again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

An hour and a half later they were walking along the boardwalk, a bit reminiscent of the one in Glass Shard Beach, although the chill November air and soft snow meant everything was closed for the season. They’d eaten at a tiny little diner about a seven-minute taxi ride from the docks. The interior had been done up in brick and arches and looked like and old subway tunnel system. They served soul food, and Stan felt his mouth water at the broasted chicken while Ford hummed with delight at baked ziti. Greasy though his meal was, Stan liked at every morsel. They had shared a fudge lava cake for desert. No alcohol this time; they’d learned their lesson.

Ford had suggested they walk back to the docks, ‘to work-off their dinner’ as the saying goes, but Stan could sense Ford was trying to ease back into walking. They were both still sore from overexerting themselves; part of the reason they’d indulged the night before, to numb the pain. Ford had developed a multicolored bruise on his abdomen, but the swelling in his hand had gone down enough that he could use it, albeit still weak. Stan hesitated only a few moments before interlacing his fingers with Ford’s, protecting it, keeping it.

Damnit! It was starting again. He was losing control of his thoughts; impulses creeping in to take over his mind and his new mental state not being one that complied with ignoring those impulses. Not that he ever had it easy denying his impulses, but when he had been just half of who he is, it had been somewhat easier. There had also been consequences then; not so much in the Nightmare Realm.

They walked hand in hand, slowly, taking their time and easing their muscles back into working normally. Stan supporting his brother only occasionally on the way back, prompting them to take it slower, take in the sights, and just be for a bit. It seemed to do them both good. They laughed and pointed at things, snapping pictures, and purchasing some souvenirs for the kids; a book on Nordic culture for Dipper (Ford had decided to add his own notes before sending it off), and a stuffed Puffin for Mabel (Stan thought the blue bow tied around its neck added to its appeal).

When they reached the boardwalk, it had started to snow. Soft, tiny flakes floating down and catching the light from the streetlights and the setting sun. The sky was sparkling. Ford had let go of his hand and before he had even fully turned to see why, Ford had hurled some snow that had collected on the dock railing at his face. It wasn’t much, the fresh stuff had only just started to fall and anything older having frozen solid and made for dangerous horseplay. It was still enough for Stan to reach out and snag Ford by his hood and yank him into a noogie. Not a hard one, just a hard ruffling of his hair and trapping Ford’s head under his arm. “Ow, hey! Stan, let go!”

Stan ran his fingers through Ford’s hair and over his scalp a few more times before letting go, chuckling though a playful sneer. Ford rubbed his head softly, mouth twisted between a frown and a smirk. Ford lightly pushed at his shoulder before taking his hand again.

Stan missed this. He’d missed his brother, of course, but these simple little things, these happy moments where nothing was wrong, nothing was worrying them, he’d missed these the most. Just sharing time, sharing space. They were bother here, both happy, healthy, and doing wat they always dreamed. Stan felt the need to hug his brother once again, to feel Ford’s body pressed against his, feel the pulse under his fingers and just know that Ford was there. But he resisted, mind churning at the very idea that he would ignore an impulse again.

They stopped in front of a close skeet ball game, teasing each other about playing it for hours and competing for the high score. Stan had gifted a red frog (he thought) with a black bowtie and grey shorts to Ford that had sat at the food of the top bunk for a few years (until it got pushed off by Ford’s ginormous pile of books, then it sat on the floor as a guard for Fort Stan).

Ford just laughed at remembering the hideous thing, reveling that it had given him nightmares and that was why he kicked the damn thing off. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, I would’a won you something else!” Stan gasped though laughter. Ford smiled sadly, “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You were so excited the day you brought it home.”

Stan just punched Ford’s arm, playfully, and leaned against the railing, back to the water and facing his brother. Ford mimicked him, arms crossed over the rail, to watch the waves crash against the frozen beach. The snow had picked up some and fat snowflake clusters tangled in Ford’s hair, making him look mystical…otherworldly.    

He loved his brother’s face. He was acutely cognizant that they, as twins, had similar facial features. But they were fraternal twins, not identical, and Stanford just…wore it better. Stan played it like he was the better-looking twin, but he knew it was just show; Ford could look marvelous without even trying. It really hadn’t helped that Ford could kill the ‘sexy librarian’ look with his sweater vests and open collar button-downs. His brother always assumed that he was stigmatized by his abnormality in high school. Stan was reluctant to say the opposite was true. Ford was a magnet for people, he was just too oblivious when people flirted with him that he’d never noticed. His obsession with Cathy Crenshaw had acted against him, making him blind to all other offers; including mine.

Stan was willing to admit that he had flirted with his brother, at first inadvertently as he was a natural flirt and did it without thinking, but then he’d done it with intention. Ford looked good. Even when he was covered in sweat and sand from the beach and sunburnt in mismatched splotches. Even when sleep deprived and had avoided showering for days. Even when he had drunk way too much coffee and was bleeding from his right eye. Even when he had been filled with rage and fear, and helpless and even when the electricity had made him lose control of his bowels (Stan Bill had taken care of that though).

Ford’s face was bright, reflecting the last of the sun’s rays. Being outdoors had done wonders for his complexion. His face was full of color, his cheeks soft, and his chin only slightly dark with hair beneath the skin. Stan wanted to bite him. Bite that smooth and baby soft beside his eye. He wanted to pinch Fords ears, to tug on the lobes and stretch them out. He wanted needed to leave bite marks all along Ford’s face and body. To grab at Ford’s hips and tear into his abdomen, Stan was certain he could extend his jaw far enough to get it in one bite. He needed to rip off Sixer’s extra finger’s and string them around his neck to wear as a keepsake. He wanted to rip IQ’s head off and just nuzzle at his cute brother’s face.

Stan could feel the wood fracturing under his hand with how tight he had been gripping the railing. His mind baulked and he tried desperately to not choke on a rush of bile. He failed. He leaned far over and away from Ford while he coughed up stomach acid and a bit of dinner. NO!

Ford was at his side in an instant, hand rubbing his back and trying to shush Stan’s pained groans, saying “I told you to eat something light. Grease increases the production of stomach acid and without the proper amount of…” Stan sopped listening. He knew that. Just like he knew that the chicken hadn’t done this to him. No, it was your own fucked up head that made you up-chuck. He should be lucky it was just acid reflux and not his whole dinner. That would be embarrassing; stupid American tourist blows chunks off Reykjavik boardwalk, yeah that would go well.

His throat burned and he felt himself wheezing when he tried to catch his breath. He’d inhaled some. Though the pain was distracting him from the…thoughts he’d had. It seared, but he’d take it over the alternative. He was done with that! No more violent thoughts. No more freakish clinginess. No more biting fantasies. It didn’t matter if it was the brain’s way of dealing with over affection (human brains were fucked up and inefficient at storing and processing data anyway).

Ford rubbed at his back again, frowning, and taking Stan by the hand again. “Let’s head back, it’s late. And we can get these presents wrapped and in the mail tomorrow afternoon.” Ford readjusted the backpack that contained the niblings’ presents. Stan just followed, grumbling about being old to keep his brain occupied.

It wasn’t far from the boardwalk to the fishing dock, maybe twenty minutes’ walk at a brisk pace, thirty-five at their pace. They made it just as the last rays of sunlight melted away below the horizon.

Stan pulled out a bottle of water to ease the pain in his throat as Ford unpacked, placing the book upstairs to add to later. He entered the galley as Stan started convulsing, coughing and shaking to pull in a breath. Ford just smacked Stan on the back several times as Stan leaned over the sink.

“You really need to start thinking about your health. I’ve seen you eat, Stan. No amount of exercise on a boat is going to magically make up for a lifetime of poor eating habits.” Stan just groused. He knew he wasn’t ‘healthy’ by any doctor’s standards, but he was far healthier than he had been in years, both physically and mentally. Well sorta. So what if he indulged in fried foods when they made port. And ate brown meat…and…fine.

Stan felt another rise of bile, but kept it down with a groan.

“Alight, Sixer, but I’m gonna make you a deal. I start eating healthy and stop eating that ‘disgusting brown meat’ if you,” he jabbed at Ford’s chest with a finger, “start being more careful when we go out. That side of yours is still bruised and you still can’t grip anything with your hand.”

Ford looked annoyed and weary. But after a moment, he sighed and nodded. “Fine.” Stan grinned.      

Stan reached out, palm open and fingers splayed to shake Ford’s hand. The universal gesture for making a deal. His hand wreathed in blue flame

His grin dropped from his face, replaced with horror as he pulled his hand away and shook it rapidly, putting the fire seal out. He turned to Ford, trepidation marring his face, his eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, a nervous laugh escaping his throat.

Ford looked shell shocked.

Fuck.

Previous

Next

Ford woke some short time later and they ate cold beans and brown meat, water and checked on Ford’s wounds. He was healing well, heavily bruised ribs and a swollen hand that hand lost its ability to grip things (though it didn’t look all that swollen), but healthy, infection free, and beautifully alive.  

He’d spent part of the night crafting a simple pleasant dram for his brother; just a short jaunt down a river in the Stan O’War I, looking for Waddles. He’d let Stanford’s subconscious take it from there. It had been worth it when Ford woke up all smiles, albeit a bit sore.

Thankfully the environment had been kind, and no new snow had fallen in the night. They packed up, Stan shrinking the RV, and they made their way back out of the valley; stopping briefly in Aðalstræti to let them know to not send out a search party (they wouldn’t have, not worth it to try and rescue two stupid tourists bent on getting themselves in danger, but Ford insisted).

Stan drove the six hours home. Ford had offered to take over half way, but Stan could see him fighting to stay awake. He, too, felt tired, but he only had to stop for twenty minutes to get through a dizzy spell, Ford napping in the passenger seat. He really needed to get a reign on this burst of magic. It was taking a too much energy from him. He felt punch drunk like after an extended cage a fight, or after he’d entered into someone's mind.

That was one thing he never let on before; entertaining someone's mind was his specialty, but it was taxing and a draw on his powers. That's why he'd preferred making deals. The deal allowed him into people’s minds willingly; he didn't have to fight their mental defenses because there were none. It was similar to the vampire thing where a vampire can’t enter a person’s house unless invited, except it really was nothing like that.  

His human body was much weaker and much more limited. Magic was significantly tiring, it’s really no wonder he’d never tapped into it before; with no memory of magic, his body lacked the energy for spontaneous releases. Well, the magical kind anyway; human hormones were weird, and he should know having been one for sixty years.

Time passed strangely for Stan, the minutes dragging by like hours and yet the six-hour drive ended rather abruptly when he passed the city limits of Reykjavik. He pulled off on a deserted road and shrank everything, excluding their day packs, to make unpacking easier on both of their backs. Ford woke when he got back in the car and was perturbed that he had napped the whole way.

Ford had insisted on taking the rental car back that night. Stan had protested, saying they could pay the extra for dropping it off late and Ford didn’t need to aggravate his injuries, but there was really no arguing. Ford had sweetened the deal by suggesting they eat out that night; find a local pub, get fed and get drunk. “And maybe you can find someone to flirt with” Ford had suggested with a sly smirk. Stan was sold. He liked flirting, and he was kinda terrible at it. Ok, he was abysmal, but it was fun to see the girls (and some guys) play it off or laugh hysterically at his attempts. And Ford needed a reason to laugh. He’d seemed…off. Stan assumed that it was just from the exertion, but Ford had been shooting him sideways looks (when he’d been awake). He’d done it last night too, staring at Stan when he thought that Stan wasn’t looking. Stan felt guilty for not feeling guilty about manipulating Ford’s dreams. Man, If I went to a psych, they’d need a therapist.

He’d messed with Ford’s dreams and mind before, hell he’d freely entered it and possessed his body before, but…this was different. It was more…….intimate? Sort of. Maybe? Stan didn’t know. It just felt strangely different now than it had before. Maybe it was because he was physically here now, rather than just a mental projection through Ford’s mind. Or maybe it’s because I’m his brother and I shouldn’t be messin’ with his dreams. But he wanted to. He wanted to see what Ford thought about, what he dreamed about. Stan wanted to be able to influence that, be integral to it, and that was steering way too close to other issues that would drive his hypothetical therapist to the loony bin.

They dropped the car off (paying slightly more for the dings to under carriage) and Ford asked the clerk if he could recommend a place to grab a bite and a pint. Stan played dumb as Ford and the Clerk spoke in Gaelic.

“Do you have any suggestions where we could get some good food and good alcohol?” The counter attendant paused, assessing both Ford and Stan with a bewildered frown. He spoke slowly, as if Stan and Ford would dislike the answer.

“Aie, there’re a few places ‘round here. Depending on what’re ya lookin’ fer? There’s a club that makes good chips if yer lookin’ to go on the lash, but I suspect ye might be a bit…uncomfortable with the club scene.” Stan can see Ford’s face twitch in confusion at the regional slang, but pick up on its general meaning. This youngin thinks we’re too old. HA! Should taking him out partyin’ with me.

“If’n yer lookin’ fer somthin’ a bit quieter, I suggest The Drunk Rabbit off’a main street. It’s usually hoppin’ on the weekends, but you should be alright. I think a game’s on tonight, so it might be a bit rowdy.”

Ford just held up his hand to stop the guy, wincing slightly as the man’s eyes widened at his six fingers “Thanks for the tip. We’ll check it out.” They both ignored the muttering “Wot, Jesus, freak man has six fingers” as they left. Ford rubbed at one of his extra fingers shamefully. Stan wanted to wring the fucker’s neck, but he’d learned to let Ford deal with his own battles. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to know Gaelic, right?

“Wha’d he say?” Stan tried to force a smile. Ford gave him a sidelong hairy eyeball that lasted too long for Stan’s comfort before responding.    

“He said the Drunken Rabbit is a good place. It’s off main street. Though it might be loud tonight; apparently there is a sporting event being televised.” Ford’s voice took on a slight condescending tone, as if Stan should know what the guy had said. Wait….

SHIT!

He’d read…fuck!

Stan scrambled for an excuse, anything, anything at all. Ah…ah…shit, um…

“Hey, I said I could read it, not that I spoke it.” Ok, so that was kinda believable, now how was he gonna explain how he could read it. Think, stupid, how’re ya gonna play this?

“And how did you come to learn how to read an ancient form of Gaelic anyway? I don’t recall you taking an interest in foreign languages before.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “¿Entonces soy estúpido?”

Stanford looked understandably speechless. “¿Qué te hace pensar que nunca tuve otros intereses?”

“Stanley, I’m sorry. That was rude. I just didn’t understand why Gaelic of all languages. My apologies.”

Stan smirked and flung his arm around Stanford’s shoulders, “Está bien, Sixer. Puedes pagar por las bebidas como una disculpa.” Ford rolled his eyes. “Don’t I always pay?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After getting lost a few times, and Ford making him try asking directions (Stan had done so, but asking for the “Small Rodent has intoxication” purposefully, had gotten him a few weird looks and continuous laughter from Ford), they found the pub a street over from the park. The place had a mid-sized crowd, mostly locals there for the game. They sat at the end of the bar away from the TV screen with a pint of Guinness each. Stan wasn’t a fan, and he could tell Ford was having a rough go of it, but it was the local favorite so why not? While his Sixer picked at an order of Fish and chips, Stan had to stop himself from inhaling a burger. About halfway through their meal, Ford pushed his half-finished glass towards Stan with a wrinkled nose.

“I always preferred vodka, myself. Or…” Ford looked around subtly, checking to see if anyone was watching before pulling out a small flask from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Can I tempt you?” He said, shaking the flask slightly at Stan.

Stan raised an eyebrow over the glass Ford had given him and downed the last of the beer in a few quick gulps before asking, “What is it?”

Ford smirked, “You’ve had it before. I haven’t got much left, but I think we earned a sip or two.” Ford unscrewed the cap and quickly took a sip before hiding it under the counter from the bartender. A tiny trickle of black, blue and pink with sparkles of white running from his lip.

When Ford turned back to Stan, he was discernibly affected by whatever it was in the flask. His pupils had blown wide and his skin was flushed. Sixer was more drunk than he was and Stan had downed twice as much as Ford. What they heck was in that thing?

When the bartender was again distracted with another customer, Ford brought the flask back onto the bar and gestured it towards Stan with an expectant look. Stan grumbled and snagged the flask, taking a large gulp, and choking slightly at the burn, barely getting the flask out of sight as the bartender came and collected their glasses.  

Stan carefully (and rather failingly) kept a straight face as Ford ordered two shots of Whisky and a glass of flavored vodka for them both. As soon as the bartender left, Stan brought the flask back up, pressing it into Ford’s chest and coughing into his arm.

It did taste familiar. It was the same stuff Ford had offered him in the Fearamid. It had hurt then too, but now he knew what it was. Cosmic Sand?! Where in the multiverse did he get that? But of course, Stan had to play dumb. He just gave Ford a pained look, eyes watering, “Never took you for a fan of the strong stuff.”

Sixer looked smug, smug and predatory. It was a good look on him in Stan’s opinion. “You could fill whole books with the things you don’t know about me. Ten, by my last estimation.” Stan rolled his eyes.

“Alright, smart-guy, how’s about you start by tellin’ me what that stuff is and where you got it.”

Stanford took a second sip before tucking the flask away and began recounting his adventure in Dimension fifty-two and Jeheselbraum the Unswerving. They didn’t even notice the bartender dropping off their drink order until Stan nearly knocked his over.

“You liked her.” Stan gestured with his glass of vodka, sloshing a bit over the side.

Ford blushed, “No I didn’t. Well, yes, I did, but not amorously. She was intellectually stimulating and she knew so much about so many topics. I would love to see her again and pick her brain.” He smiled wistfully while twirling his glass.  

“That’s not all you wanna do” Stan chuckled.

“Stanley, you are impossible!” Ford glanced at Stan from the corner of his eye.

“Did you kiss her?” Ford nearly choked on his drink

“Stanley!” Stan thought scandalized and red was a better look on Ford than smug and predatory.

“Did you?” He wasn’t gonna let this go.

“No” Ford’s tone suggested he’d thought about it though.  

“Did you want to?” Stan really wasn’t gonna let this go.

Ford didn’t respond, just averted eye contact and blushed even harder.

“You did, didn’t you?” Stan arched an eyebrow.

“If I answer in the affirmative, will you shut up please!” Sixer looked like he wanted to fall into another portal or anything to get away from the conversation. Stan just let out a sound of affectionate ridicule.  

“Damn! Wish I’d gotten to talk to the gal that took my brother’s fancy. You were up in a monastery with her, just her for weeks and you didn’t put the moves on her? Not once? Poindexter, common! You gotta do better than that! And she was a party-gal too! Ah! What a wasted opportunity.” Stan lamented his brother’s loss. He couldn’t say why, but he wasn’t going to explore any ideas that involved rebound crushes and one-eyed triangle dream daemons.      

“I was more interested in ending Bill Cipher at the time and recovering from brain surgery. Besides, she knew everything about me. If she’d been interested, then she would have said something.” Stan thought Ford sounded unsure.

“Yer just tellin’ yerself that to lessen the blow that you missed yer chance. Man, Nerd, do I gotta give ya pointers on how to talk to women?”

“I do not need pointers, Stanley. I charmed my way into interdimensional courts, lead rebellions, spoke with professors and scientists that are centuries beyond our understanding of science, and was a speaker at the intergalactic Senate as a representative from Earth 46’\.”

“Ok, but were any of them women?”

“Some, yes.”

Stan looked surprised. “Of those species that reproduced sexually and defined their species by distinctions between those sexes, yes, many of them were ‘women’.”

Stan just sighed. Sixer was so frustratingly accurate and precise about things that didn’t matter. “Ok, check out that one there. She’s sittin’ by herself, but she wasn’t that long ago. Her friend, the blonde over two booths down, went to flirt with some guy and has been over there awhile. She looked lonely and disappointed that the guy flirted with her friend. All you gotta do is go talk to her. Pretend yer a tourist and ask her somthin’ funny, like ya don’t know the language that well.”

“Stan, she’s too young. She looks in her thirties. She won’t respond well to me.”  

“And you look a hell of a lot younger than you are, so just go.” Ford really didn’t look Sixty. He’d aged remarkably well, Stan was jealous.

“What about these?” Ford held out his hands before him, fingers spread to draw attention to his extra pinkies

“Believe it or not Sixer, most people don’t give a flyin’ fuck. They might think it’s weird at first, but tha’s it.”  

Ford took a breath, downed the rest of his glass, and took the shot of whiskey for good measure before walking over to the brunette sitting by herself.

Stan watched his brother make a circuit around the room, weaving in and out of people standing around and coming up to the woman’s side. Stan could tell Sixer was nervous. He opened and closed his hands a few times, gearing himself up to make the opening line.

Stan’s phone beeped. He blinked, attention truing to his pocket. Mabel had sent him a picture text. She and Dipper were shopping for Thanksgiving with their mom. The cart seemed to be overloaded and Mabel was squishing her cheeks with glee at the size of the turkey and the number of pumpkin pie crusts dipper was stacking. Stan could see a bit of Rebecca Pines pushing the cart, but she was mostly out of frame. He grinned and sent a quick text back saying where they were. He and Sixer had agreed that they would call the kids via video chat on Thanksgiving Day; the time difference allowing them to talk to the kids early enough so they didn’t interrupt dinner. Stan also had plans to call Soos and the Mystery Shack. Melody had made arrangements to stay in Gravity Falls and the relationship seemed serious. Stan was overjoyed; Soos deserved to have someone special in his life. He’d just finished typing out a “Goodnight” to Mabel when he noticed Ford approaching him, looking a little awkward and put out.  

“So, it turns out that she’s homosexual and has a crush on her friend who is undeniably heterosexual and was not disappointed that she wasn’t on the receiving end of an unwanted attempt at flirting but rather that her friend didn’t pick up on her own attempts.” Ford said in one breath, slumping down on the stool and burying his face in the empty glass.

“Oh”. Stan knew that, but there was a chance she would flirt with Ford in a desperate attempt to make her friend jealous.  

“Yeah, ‘Oh’”. Ford mumbled dejectedly, running his finger on the damp lip of the glass. Stan tried to signaled for a refill, but the bartender was facing away from him.

“Wha’dya say to her?”

“’Hello, do you have knowing the resting room in the ceiling?’”

Stan spat out his drink. No wonder she’d laughed. Sixer had just about as much charm as he had back in high school. He rubbed at his eyes and tried to stifle a chuckle.  

“’Do you have knowing’, I gotta remember that one. What else?”

“She spoke English, and said that it was probably the funniest openers she had heard. I asked her name, Lisa, and if she would like to sit and talk. She told me about what happened and I said I understood. Unrequited affection is rough.”

“What did she say about yer hands?”

“She didn’t.” Ford seemed reluctant to admit the fact. Stan smiled to himself, glad to be proven right.

“Why did you pick her anyway?” Ford asked, gesturing to the woman whose friend had returned looking annoyed. Apparently, her bout of flirting with the mystery man had not gone well.

“I figured she would be easy for you to approach? Less likely to wave you off if you fumbled-up” Stan had thought it was obvious.

Ford rolled his eyes. “No, I meant, why a woman?” Ford looked shocked at himself for speaking so candidly and looked skeptically at his empty glass.

Stan himself looked a bit surprised, but recovered quickly when Ford showed signs of discontent. “Sorry, I guess I assumed, ya’know, with what I remembered. My bad.” Ford pulled the flask back out, took a quick sip and returned it to his pocket.

“Since I know you are going to ask; that one.” Ford pointed subtly. Stan’s mind had not caught up other than to helpfully supply ‘blue-grey tweed’. He shook his head, “Sorry?”

“My type, in men, I mean. The one leaning against the wall in a blue-grey tweed jacket.”

Stan’s eyes cast around the room before landing on the man in question. The man was tall, about six and a half feet, had salt and pepper hair, looked in his mid-forties, maybe early fifties. The man had a great body. Stan could tell the man was fit and had a tapered triangle shape to him; wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He was wearing the blue-grey tweed jacket, a light blue shirt with a dark blue tie and white pants. The guy was dripping Oxford Professor. Stan could imagine why Sixer would like that.

“So…” Stan prompted

“So?” God Sixer was dense.

“So, go talk to him. And you call me ‘knucklehead’.”

But he didn’t go. Stanford just blushed impossibly redder and hailed the bartender (loudly) for another round of drinks. When Stan prompted him again, Ford just shook his head and avoided making eye contact. When the bartender returned, he pulled the glass to him and chugged like a dying man and his first taste of water.    

“How’d you get there anyway?” Ford looked confused at the non-sequitur.

“You said you’d passed out and woke up in a mountain monastery with tall, dark, and seven-eyed hovering over you. Why’d you pass out?” A soft ‘ah’ escaped Ford’s lips.

“In my travels, I somehow found my way to a second dimension. A flat world from my own perspective, where everything looked like line segments bobbing around. I’d thought it was Bill Cipher’s home-world. After speaking with Jeheselbraum, I learned it was just one of infinite versions of the world Cipher burned. I may have even come across a version of Bill there, and just didn’t know it because of my third-dimensional eyes.”

Ford seemed to go into himself at his next statement, eyes downcast and full of repressed longing. “A dimension where he hadn’t burned his home, where he hadn’t committed such atrocities…where he hadn’t tricked me.”

Stan really should address that. He should. He should also tell Sixer who he was and had been. He should tell Sixer about his feelings and…he should do a lot of things. But he was a coward, always had been, even back then when he was invading people’s minds. The difference now was, he was man enough to admit he was running.

Time to regale Sixer with a round of my misadventures then.

“You said you wanted me to tell you the story of how I chewed my way out of a car trunk, right?”

Sixer perked up, “Yeah, how did you wind up in like that?”

Stan had recounted the tale of getting into a fist fight with a gang member in a bar in Arizona along the border. The guy had lost, but he went and got some buddies. They had cornered him in an alley, beat him and stuffed him in a trunk. Thankfully they were sluggish and uncoordinated and drunk off their asses and had left the car unattended that night. Stan woke up with plenty of time to eat and tear through the cushioning separating the trunk from the backseat and was able to get away. A jagged piece of glass from a broken bottle was enough to cut through the ropes.

Seeing his brother’s expression at his more dangerous misadventures, Stan moved onto funnier tales about running the Murder Hut/Mystery Shack. About finding gnomes breaking into the shack and trying to give him as an offering to their queen which prompted him to use his football skill to punt them out, about going toe to…hoof with one of the manitaurs and losing (he was man enough to admit he’d been no match), about the guy who tried to pay admission fee with a baby goat and the goat just stayed (It kept the gnomes away), and trying to get rid of a Hawktopus that had found its way into the crawl space.

Stan then moved onto stories with the kids. His poor attempt at engaging with the kids at the lake (So then I just found some random kid to show how to tie a barrel knot). Mabel’s endeavor to match him up with Susan Wentworth at the diner (She had soooo many cats. I think I dodged a bullet with that one). His rivalry with Gideon and getting glued to a chair and stuck in the Pioneer Day stocks (I had tomato juice in my underwear). The kids fighting over Ford’s old room (they’d switched bodies and I ended up telling Mabel all about male puberty). Terrifying the attendees of Woodstick with a hot air balloon that unintentionally said ‘I Eat Kids’ (Stan, please tell me you didn’t actually shoot at anyone). His adventure in the cavers under the town and punching a pterodactyl in the face while it was flying (You, WHAT!? But you’re afraid of heights!). And their terrifying zombie escapade that ended in a horrid musical number (Wait, HOW did you break their skulls? You just…just stepped on it? How…how strong are you?). Ford had laughed himself sore and they’d gone through so many rounds of dinks they’d lost count.        

Stan had just recounted his purchase of Summerween props with ‘Stanbucks’. "If I'm not walking out of the store with a great deal, then I'm walking out of there at speed." Besides, it was for the kids. And he knew that fake blood was just going to get tossed after the season was over anyway. He was just offering charity to take it off their hands. They should be thanking him. Ford seemed to disagree.

"Stanley, you can't just steal your way through life."

"Why not, done an ok job of it so far. Its either that or sittin' on a street corner, and I'm not gonna sit here and pretend I still got the body fer that". Well shit. He'd gone and said it, hadn't he? He really was drunk. Now would come the guilt and the water works and god knows what else. Damnit, he'd been trying to keep that tidbit of information from Ford, spare his feelings. It wasn't like he had done it all the time, and he was real choosy about his clients. Only had to get rough a few times and he never let himself get drunk or get messed up with any shitty powders. Only got roofied once, and the guy who did it got the shit beat out of him by Jimmy Snakes. They crashed in some chick's hotel room while she gave an eye witness account that the guy had fallen across some chairs. She had been a sweet gal. Didn't remember her name, though.

He could see the wheels grinding to a halt in Ford's head, lips puckered to take a sip form his drink. The astonishment was clear as day. Then his expression changed, his eyes drooping and mouth twisting up in revile. There's the guilt. Damnit, Poindexter, it does no good to worry now. I'm fine.

To his credit, all Ford did was sigh and run a hand over his face. "I wish I'd have had the maturity enough to pull my head out of my ass long enough to realize you might have needed help." He slid his left hand across the bar and placed it over Stan's. "But we're here now. Doing what we always wanted to do. I'm studding anomalies and you pulled some solid artifacts from that crypt." He chuckled, eyes full of quiet exhilaration. He paused for a moment, grip tightening on Stan's hand. Trepidation creeping onto his face as he swallowed. "That is,...are you....you want to be out here with me,...right?" In that moment, Ford looked like the nervous preteen that clung to Stan's arms after being ridiculed by a classmate; begging Stan to tell him that he wanted to be with him, not just because they were brothers, but because he wanted to be. That used to be Ford's biggest fear, that people were nice to him because they had to be or were supposed to be, rather than because they actually liked him. Stan wouldn't have teased him even if he wanted to (and he did kind of want to). He flipped his hand over and interlaced his fingers with Ford's He took a sip from his drink and flashed a flirty smirk, "Always, Sixer. And forever"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They stumbled the whole way back to the ship, laughing and grappling at each other’s shoulders. He’d shown Sixer the text from Mabel and they both agreed to pick up a souvenir or something that said ‘Reykjavik’ on it for them. Sixer also agreed to start working on a set of portal mirrors he had scribbled about in his journals and sending one to the kids. It would make communication easier, and depending on the size of a stable set, would allot them to meet their hug quota. Both brothers craved physical affection, having been denied it for so long.

They unsteadily made their way on board the Stan O’War and below decks before Stan collapsed in a heap on his tiny cot. Feebly attempting to kick his boots off.  

“Oy. Beds 're too small. Should'a gotten a double.” He mumbled, arm and leg hanging off the side of the bed.

“This is a double, Stan.” Ford sat on his own bunk to properly remove his boots and undress for bed. Stan just rolled slightly, untangled himself from his trench coat and threw it to the end of the bed.  

“You know wha' I mean.” They had contemplated on installing a queen, but it wouldn’t fit. They’d opted for the current arrangement. Ford just laughed.

Stan was starting to love hearing that sound. Hell of a lot better than screaming. No wait, screaming was good, it was sneezing that he couldn’t stand. He remembered being in Ford's body when it was overtaken with a sneezing fit. He had refused to inhabit Ford's body for weeks after that. Pain was interesting (well it wasn't anymore now that he had become intimate with it, but at the time it had been so strange), but the involuntary spasms irritated his molecules. Ford screaming had been nice to listen to once, he isn't sure if it still was though; more recent memories reminded him that it wasn’t. He might have to ask Ford to scream for him sometime to see if he still liked it.

“And get kicked in the middle of the night on a regular basis? Not likely, not to mention your shedding. And you put out heat like a furnace. We didn’t need to worry about heat in the RV.”

Stan snorted. “You like it though. Crawled inta my bed often enough when we were younger. Think my silver medal boxing match was the last time.” He missed it. There were a number of times he rolled over in the back seat of his car or a shity motel bed expecting his brother to be curled up beside him.

“Stan, we were in high school by then.” Ford had removed his jacket and undershirt, opting for a white sleeveless similar to the one Stan used to sport. Stan eyed the star tattoo on Sixer’s neck. He’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to play that song and tease his brother relentlessly. For now, he just closed his eyes and hummed.  

“Yup. An'you were so worried 'bout my eye, you slept next ta me to check on it through the night.”  

“It did look terrible.” Ford agreed, sliding under the covers, not bothering to worry about his nightly routine. They’d even forgot to reset the coffee pot. Eh, fuck it.

“Yeah, but I woke up the next mornin' with you all nuzzled up in my armpit.” Stan couldn’t help but needle Sixer. It was too fun to get him riled up.

“I was not!”

“Were to!”

“Oh, enough.” Ford dissolved in to another fit of giggles. Ok, yeah, laughter was definitely a winner. He could listen to it all night. He hummed in contentment, eye closed and arm draped over his face. He was almost asleep when he heard Ford's tentative call. "Stan?"

"Hnmm?" The bed shifted slightly where the mattresses met and Stan felt something fluffy press into the back of his head. He felt the vibrations of Ford's voice travel through his crania to his gums.

"Goodnight"

Previous

Next

A sharp cracking sound echoed through the chamber as the stone slab covering the of the table split and fell to the floor. Oh right, that wasn't a table, that was a coffin. Well, crap.

Now he remembered. This was a cult that worshiped him, they built this hall in such a remote place to protect themselves from outsiders; they hadn't been popular with other tribes. However, dissent developed between the members, each one trying to vie for his favor. The zombie approaching them and drawing his blade was Shemlic. He had taken over by use of force and magic, banning the worship of Bill Cipher. He had taken a sword that had been made for Bill to use when he came into this world. It was cute how naive they were. He didn't need a sword, but he was relishing in the idea of terrorizing them with it and many more when he came through. Shemlic had taken it for himself as a show of dominion over Bill and had been cursed by the other worshipers. He didn’t seem too happy with this arrangement. In fact, he looked rather homicidal. Stan felt proud, although that pride was pale in comparison to the outright terror he felt watching the seven-foot zombie approach them. He really needed a secretary to keep track of all of his third-dimension dealings. Well, too late now.  

“Draugr” Ford breathed, frozen in place.

The slap-squish, slap-squish of the uncomfortably fleshy feet echoed as Shemlic gained his bearings and narrowed his gaze at the two of them. One black and empty, the other bright and sickly yellow with an elongated pupil. Stan’s eye shifted; double vision was not going to help. But he had no time to think on that now. The shiiing of the sword being drawn sliced through the air as if he’d swung the blade. The dull armor clanged with every jolt of his twisted and withered body. The sounds of his bones grinding against one another were audible. Stan heard rather than saw the creature’s jaw unhinge and gather light in the back of its throat.    

"This is like your dumb nerd game, right?" Stan could hope. "No, duck!" Ford shouted, hitting the floor; Stan followed suit, wrapping his trench coat over Ford to protect him.

Flames licked at the air above them, the heat burning the ends of a few hairs on Ford's scalp and stray threads on Stan’s beanie. When the flames dissipated, they both sprang up and ducked behind the marble statue of a phoenix. “What do we do?” Stan was too panicked to think of how he was supposed to lift the curse and he was the one who wrote the damn thing! “It’s a draugr, an undead protector of Norse burial sites. They gain strength the longer they’ve been dead.”  

Ok, so it's kinda like a Zombie, yeah. So, what was it that beat them before? Well before he had Dipper and Mabel and a really catchy disco song. Somehow, he doubted that would be an option this time. "I don't think a three-part harmony is going to help with this one. We'll have to think of something else." It was if Ford was reading his mind. “Is it normal for them to breathe fire?” Stan’s head was foggy with panic. Ford seemed in a similar state. “I…don’t know.” His lack of knowledge obviously making his anxiety worse.

The thing was getting closer. He could see through his left eye the draugr’s gaze land on the statue. Reacting on instinct, he wedged himself between the wall and the statue and used all his strength to push it over, Stanford following his lead. As the statue came crashing down, Stan threw two smoke bombs directly at the things head. They erupted and immersed it in a blanket of fog, blinding it long enough for Ford and Stan to use the grappling hook to clamber up to the ledge surrounding the room. Stan’s Bill eye blinked out of sync with his normal eye; vision blocked by the smoke. They heard the draugr roar something that sounded like words before a wind picked up and dissipated the smoke. They ran to the far side of the room, the steps leading back down to the platform the creature to their left, then right as they both turned around. Stan watched as he and Ford ran down the length of the room and turn. The angle made any attempted direct shot difficult. From the corner of his good eye, Stan noticed a mounted crossbow the size of his torso. Thinking took too much precious time, so he didn’t. He dove for the machine, pulling a bolt from the slot in the side of the mount and struggled to pull the string back. He felt Stanford at his side a moment later and with both of them, they armed the bow and Stan took aim.

And missed. DAMNIT! That thing had just sidestepped the bolt like it could predict where it was going to go! He watched himself and Ford set a second bolt, and Stan aimed again. This time trying to account for the draugr’s movements and closing his distracting eye. The second bolt hit home.

But Shemlic only staggered, it didn’t fall. It instead hunkered down and extended its neck to throw another fireball at them. Stan saw it coming. He pulled Ford to the corner again and braced himself facing Ford, protecting him. Thankfully, it had missed, the stone sizzling where the fire had struck. The draugr was headed up the steps towards them now. Stan grabbed Ford’s shoulder and pushed him in the direction of the collapsed phoenix statue. Stan ran along the ledge (watching himself and not Ford, thankfully), passed the crossbow and the steps (and the ascending draugr) to the other side. He dropped down to the third-tier platform, knees popping and aching, but adrenaline keeping him going. He aimed the grappling hook at the drauger’s head and pulled the trigger. He felt the claw strike.

He yanked with all his weight on the rope, claw digging into the flesh of the creature’s neck. It staggered again, body snapping back at the pull and tumbling down the steps. A zap and a pale blue light filled the air as Ford took a shot with his plasma pistol from the upper ledge. Shemlic jolted, then tumbled off the steps and into the pool of water at the very bottom. Stan closed his bad eye as the vision pitched and toppled end over end before immersing in water. He retracted the grappling hook and climbed back up to the central tier, meeting Ford in the middle of the room. “We need to leave. It’s not dead!” Ford’s voice was filled with resolve. He didn’t know how to win, but his experience and level headedness coming to the forefront. A bit late!

Stan stared Ford in the eyes a moment.

His brother really had no idea how to kill it. Okay, Stan, you’re the expert here. He really doubted he was really an expert as his knowledge of draugr was coming in random and inconvenient facts. Think, Stan! Think! There was a trick to curses like this. Usually a riddle, he liked riddles. A poem, a limerick, or something. Hey!

“You took an etching of that alter.” Stan spat.

“Pedestal and yes.” Ford couldn’t help but correct him.

“Fine whatever, hand it over.” And Stan had no time for it either. He snatched the book from Ford’s hands before he’d even drawn the thing completely out of his jacket pocket.

“How is this going to help?! I can’t read it.” Ford sounded exasperated.  

“Can it!”

Now Ford looked incredulous, like Stan had told him the last thirty years had all been a dream.

Stan let his mind shift and the nonsensical symbols on the paper began to take on meaning.

“Be bound, vile betrayer, condemned by jury,

‘Till restored sacred oath that pride hath rend.

Return the hallowed symbol of righteous fury

To you, our lord, time has no start nor end.”

Though Stan didn’t look, he could hear the flabbergasted expression on Sixer’s face.

You gotta be kidding. ‘Epic wizard quest’ this ain't.

“We need to get the sword from it and put it on the altar to receive a blessing.” Stan snapped the book closed and handed it back to Ford who was gesturing too wildly to take it.

“You can read ancient Gaelic!? Why didn’t you tell me? How? When?”

“Not a good time!” And it wasn’t. The draugr had finally pulled itself up out of the pool. It looked livid.  Get the sword away from a fire breathing zombie. Yeah sure. Ok, let me get right on that.

Its eye locked on Ford. Well, shit.

“I've got more combat experience, I can keep him distracted while you get the blessing.” Stan blinked at Ford taking charge. A shiver of…something…licked down his spine. Huh.  

“Ok, sure, any ideas on how ta get the sword from’im first?” All well and good in theory, but useless without the pragmatic implementation.

Stan heard a clanking sound and turned to see Ford’s left metal arm gauntlet had expanded to form a shield the size of a large book. Ford nodded.

Stan tilted his head in response and worked on his brass knuckles before charging forwards. He stopped short and slid to the left before bringing his left arm up and wrapping his forearm around the draugr’s elbow joint, pinning his arm in mid-draw, sword barely passed the scabbard. Holy Balls. He was beefy for a dead guy. Ford had been only a few steps behind him, laser pistol firing at its left shoulder and shield bashing the fist holding the sword. It clattered to the floor and slid off the central dais to the one below.  

Ford and Stan exchanged glances. Stan swung with his right fist aiming at the draugr’s head while Ford did the same with the butt of his pistol. Stan disengaged the grapple and dove for the blade as Ford took the creatures attention.

The blade was a rusted piece of metal and looked untempered and better for use as a blunt weapon than a slicing one. He grasped at the blade handle several times, depth perception gone to shit with one good eye; the other tracking Ford as he zig-zagged away, taking pot shots over his shoulder when he could. One such shot caused him to stumble near the edge of the dais, Stan heard, then saw the pistol clatter over the edge.    

The double vision was really getting to him.

Whoa shit! He swung the sword impulsively to his right when second draugr sprang from the wall beside him. He caught the thing in the gut, causing it to double over. He raised the blade over his head and arched down, smacking its head as if the sword was a baseball bat. The skull gave far more that bone should have, especially one that was still encased in flesh, even decayed and peeling flesh.

His heart stopped.

The sword had shattered.

Shards of metal littered the floor, leaving only a tiny portion of the blade and the hilt in his hand. Shit. No. No, this was not happening. No.

Stan jolted, when is left eye was marred by flames. Ford screamed, barely having dodged being hit by flames by sliding off the center dais and on to the one below it. The left hand that had grabbed on to the ledge for easy leverage had been hit, prompting the scream.

That smell of charred flesh had once been a delight, but the knowledge it was Ford made his stomach lurch. He pulled put the grappling hook, aimed at the far wall and the corner pillar and fired. The momentum pulled him up and over the edge and into the middle of the center dais. His bad eye trained on Ford’s position.

“Hey ugly!” The draugr turned at the shout. Stan flashed the hilt, hiding the broken blade with his coat. “Looky what I got.” It roared, full attention now on Stan and the sword. Stan turned and dashed up the steps to the altar, followed by a sharp ‘whpish’ sound and a gust of air. It got close fast! But it was still too far away and Stan slammed the blade into the slot on the altar.  

The draugr roared again, but this time it sounded pained and desperate. Small bolts of electricity lapped at the draugr from the sword, but without the whole blade, the draugr kept marching forwards. Eye intent of Stan. Stan heard loud zap before watching the draugr pitch forwards, vision tumbling again and disorienting him. When is vision cleared, he could have cried with relief.  

Ford was standing, legs bent, panting as he held out his right hand, alien pistol smoking. His left hand a mess of red and dripped sluggishly. The relief was short lived, the draugr had regained its feet and resumed its march on Stan.

“Stan move!” Ford screamed. As long as he had its attention, Ford was safe. Ford could run. “Stan!” Ford fired several rounds, hesitant, careful to not miss and hit Stan in the line of fire.

It wasn't responding to the shots anymore. It barred down on Stan, his nose filling with the stench of waterlogged decay and rot. “Ford, get out! RUN!” He risked a glance at Ford though his good eye. The thing grinned. It turned and said something that took it to Ford's side in an instant. It latched onto Ford's injured arm and raised him into the air. Ford kicking his feet and swinging his good arm for purchase, leverage, anything to free himself. It's jaw hyperextending slowly as a ball of flames formed in its throat.  He could see the fear radiating from his brother through his second eye.

Righteous fury, righteous fury righteous fury, righteous…

He ripped off and slammed the brass knuckles down onto the altar. The result was instantaneous.

The bolts of lightning increased in frequency and intensity. The draugr shuttered and the roar it let out sounded more like a scream. Its body jerked, muscles spasming, hand clenched tight onto Ford’s injured hand. He was still struggling to break free, and likely didn’t have time to care about the electricity surrounding him. Or that it might be dangerous to him as it was to the creature.    

Ford caught a bolt to the side, the electricity burning through his coat. He screamed again and the wound welled with blood.

The curse had been lifted. The power animating the draugr was sapped away by the electric bolts. What remained lost cohesiveness and crumbled to dust, Ford dropping when the hand holding him disintegrated.

Stan had started towards the pair when he saw the curse begin to lift. Now he ran, sliding down on his knees beside Stanford’s body. He wasn’t moving, and the blood had seeped through his coat onto the stone, mixing with the ashes and soot.

No no no no no no no. Stan pressed his hand to the wound to staunch the blood flow. His other arm going to support Stanford’s neck and shoulders. Ford had passed out, forehead slick with grime and sweat.  

No, not again. He couldn't do this again. This was supposed to just be a side jaunt, a vacation after everything they'd been through. No, Stanford, please! Stanford’s breath was shallow, and they were so far from any help. Stan’s eyes had shifted back to normal as soon as the draugr’s eye had melted. Now, both seeing what was in front of him, they welled with tears. Why Sixer? Why hadn’t it gone after him? He had the sword. He was trying to lift the curse! Why…

To get at you. Your weakness.

It wasn’t wrong.

He clutched at Stanford’s body, pressing his tear streaked face to the fabric of his jacket. He would wait until he felt Stanford go, then he would…he would…

He felt the hand pressed against Ford's side turn cold. Blue flames, cold as ice, emanated from his palm and licked at the edges of his hand and fingers. The blood from the floor was pulled to the back of Stan’s hand; he felt it pass through his flesh and flow back into the capillaries in Stanford’s skin. Dirt and ash collecting on the back of Stan’s hand. He felt the skin beneath his fingers knit together, reconnecting severed blood vessels, muscle, and fatty tissue.  

Stanford was breathing. The wound at his side had closed, leaving only a bright rash and faint evidence of a deep bruise. A breath escaped Stan’s lips as he sat in shock for a moment. Shit.

Stan grasped at Ford's burnt hand, the cool flames healing the burnt flesh everywhere they touched. Stan traced the lines and creases of Ford's hand, watching the hurt dissolve away. Damaged skin sloughing off and new skin growing to replace it. Fingernails re-growing, to cover finger ends. Finger prints re-forming as the loose new skin tightened around the flesh of Stanford’s hand.

He was alive.

Stanford woke in a haze, eyes unfocused and slumped in Stan’s arms. He sudden coughing as his lungs drew in much needed air drew Stan’s attention. Stan was still holding his brother’s hand. It was red, and swollen, but it was intact. Stan brought it to his lips and kissed the curved fingers, tears freely flowing from his eyes. Stanford’s coughing fit slowed and he glanced back at Stan, eyes clear and focused.

“Hey.” His voice was scratchy; any impression of his brother’s gravelly voice would have been spot on.

“Hey, Sixer. You scared me there.”

A dry chuckle dissolved into another short round of coughing, before setting back down.

“I’m not outta the game yet.” Ford made a move to sit up fully, winced and settled back into Stan’s arms. He patted at Stan’s arm, and Stan, taking the hint, shuffled around so Ford could sit upright, leaned against Stan’s chest.

“I think that was enough excitement for one day…or a few weeks. Oooh, ow.” Stan could empathize.

“Yeah, everything hurts. There are even things that ought not to hurt that hurt.”

“I think we did pretty good for being sixty. I mean, we’re alive.” Ford shifted slightly, hand running down his injured side and prodding at the swollen and puckered flesh; he inspected his left hand closely to. “And very, very, lucky. I may have to reevaluate my hypothesis on combat magic.” The turning of gears in Ford’s mind was audible. The click, click of interlocking teeth of the gears that powered Sixer’s mind.

“Uh-huh. You do-do tha’. I’m gonna…gonna jus’ res’ awhile.” Stan’s words were slurred and his tongue felt heavy and thick.

They didn’t move for nearly an hour.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Everything was slow. They’re movements, comprehension (well, Stan’s comprehension at least, Ford was probably “at the top of his intellectual game’) and breathing. As soon as Ford was ok to stand and walk a few paces to the discarded bags, Stan made his way back to the altar to recover his brass knuckles. He picked them up, feeling slight sparks dissipate through his body, and jerked in surprise when the action triggered a hidden wall to fall away, revealing a tinny alcove of a room. “There must be a connecting tunnel to the surface, it would explain why we haven suffocated and the fire hasn’t gone out yet.” Ford had crept up behind him and offered Stan a bottle of water that was half empty. Stan took it and downed the remains in two large gulps, a few droplets slipping down his lips and chin.

Stanford took the initiative again, striding forwards into the new room and turning on his phone to utilize as a makeshift light. “Hey, Stan.” Ford’s grin was audible. “I found your treasure.”

There was indeed a chest of a sorts in the tiny room. More a giant earthenware trough full of offerings to a statue. The statue depicted the same dragon that had appeared on the double doors leading into the crypt. Both its eyes were missing. Thank you, Lord. Neither Stan nor Bill had been religious. But he was not giving thanks to the Axolotl. He was still pissed at it.

The trough was filled with gold and tarnished coins, some cut and uncut gems that Stan had no energy to identify, old pouches likely filled with teas and spices and salt, a number of small pendants and jewelry, and at the center of it all, a bowl of black sludge he presumed had once been blood. A couple of old scrolls were piled on the floor in front of the statue and, just as Stan predicted, Ford took great interest in.

They finally decided to decide later and Stan shrank the entire trough, (knocking the bowl of blood away first), taking off his beanie and using it as a makeshift sack. Ford was prodding at the mouth of the statue when a rumble traveled through the floor and a second secret wall dropped through the floor. “What again?” How paranoid were these people. Although, considering what he threatened them with, he could understand the precautions. Too bad it would have never worked.

After backtracking to grab their bags, the brothers carried on into the new tunnel that looked as if had been hastily carved. The ground sloped up every now and again, taking them up closer to the surface. Ford leading the way with his cellphone flashlight. When they reached the end (it had seemed like nearly an hour of straight walking) they came across another fricking wall, but this one had a pull chain clearly exposed. Stan tugged it, and the wall fell forwards, braking upon impact with the floor.

They were back in the central chamber with the massive center pillar. They had come all the way back around. “What the hell!? Why do that? “

“Fascinating, it must have been constructed as an escape tunnel, in case they were ever attacked, or a secondary exit in the event of cave-ins, or….”

“Yeah, whatever” Stan just wanted to get the RV set up. It couldn't drive, but that didn't mean they couldn't be comfortable tonight and get some sleep. And check on Ford’s injuries again. Ford kept wincing and putting more weight on his left side.              

Stan jumped and swung at the draugr dropping from the standing coffin to his right. The brass knuckles connecting with withered flesh and sparking wildly. The draugr slumped and fell to the stone floor, unmoving.

“Unexpected.” Ford simply blinked, not even fazed by the sudden attack, “The power that sealed the sword must have been transferred to your knuckles.”

“Should I leave them here then? I mean, look what happened to that guy when he tried to steal it.” Stan gestured back down the hall with his thumb.

“I think that they may have simply acted as a conductor of power. The sword would have acted as a conduit had it not shattered. Do you feel cursed?” Ford looked and sounded like he needed food and rest if he was disregarding potential danger form Nordic curses. “How’s this sound, if you can’t leave, we’ll return them to the altar and get you a new set?” Stan wasn’t going to try an argue that he might end up suffering the same fate as Shemlic; he’d deal with that hurdle if they hit it.

“I'm just glad I got the treasure.” And that you're alive. I could give two shits about the treasure. Ford just rolled his eyes.

As it turned out, Stan was in the clear. They stepped outside of the main doors into the alcove and realized night had fallen. Stan checked his watch; the local time was almost midnight. The wind was picking up, and his RV was not rated for winter camping. Not without kerosene or electric hook up anyway.

They set up camp in the first chamber, deciding to avoid exposure in their weakened state. Stan used the shrinking flashlight to unshrink the RV. Ford did get to use his striker after all; building a fire with the broken and old torches round the first and second rooms. They heated up cans of beans, brown meat, and vegetables for dinner. A can of mixed fruit in sugary syrup served as dessert.

“Bet this ruined you for that nerd game.” There was a copy of the updated rule book on Ford’s bedside table on the Stan O’ War. Ford had yet to convince Stan to play a round, although they had created Stan’s character; a barbarian who specialized in two handed weapons and hand-to-hand combat.

“I'll admit, it's a lot more fun when the danger is imaginary. But I'll always have you watching my back.” Ford said from the other side of their tiny fire

“Always…” Stan paused, contemplating on teasing Ford. “…as long as there's treasure to be had. Otherwise, you're on your own.”

Ford laughed, knowing Stan had no intention of ever letting him face danger alone ever again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They shared the master bed in the RV. Master bed was really a glorified name as the mattress itself was hardly bigger than a full, but neither one of them was willing to fight with the fold away table to sleep there. They made it work. Stan wanted to keep an eye on Ford anyway, he had been wincing and being extra careful how he moved. His left hand seemed weak too; Ford had dropped his spoon a few times.

Stan lied awake for hours. He couldn't understand what had happened earlier. One second he was imagining a very short life without his brother (again) and the next he was harnessing powers he hadn't had in over sixty years. It felt...strange in this form. Like his body couldn’t handle it and his control was weak at best. Even now, just remembering the anguish at losing Stanford had his fingertips kindling tiny blue flames. Ford shifted in his sleep and Stan froze, fingers curling and putting out the magical fire as he turned to watch Ford.

He was still asleep, brows furrowed. Ford was curled on his right side, right arm curled under the pillow, injured left bandaged and resting on top of the blankets between them. They had wrapped nearly the entire roll of gauze around Ford's torso; Stan could see it peeking out of the open shirt Ford was wearing. Stan hesitantly reached out his hand, letting the blue flames rekindle and brushing them across Ford's brow ridge. His vision blurred again, eyes again taking on a yellow hue with elongated pupils.

He could see into Stanford's dreams.

He found himself in a field of wheat, a broken portal in the distance, the Stan O’War I and II sitting side by side, and an intact swing set. Stan felt a slight stab of guilt; his set had been in tatters, one of the seats busted. It was whole now, but the cracks were still noticeable.

He found Stanford as a teen, curled up in the dirt holding his glasses together and crying. The figure standing over him was all too familiar, and the chant of ‘Six fingered freak’ was all he needed to hear to understand Ford’s frame of mind.  

God damn him! After nearly fifty years, Ford was still afraid of Crampelter. Stan sometimes wished that asshole was still around so he could knock some teeth out. It also explained some of Stanford’s quirky behaviors despite his status as a battle experienced, bonafide badass rouge wanted in two hundred and forty-seven dimensions. Like hiding his hands all the time, or looking shifty-eyed when cornered. Although that last one may have been reinforced with experiences in the multiverse.  

Crampelter continued to spew vulgarities as Stan drew closer, but the boy began to change, shifting into something pale and sickly white with translucent skin. Lopsided arms and spindly legs like a spider's and mouthlike a leech, but with four hooked teeth. Its words also changed trailing off from call Stanford a “freak and a loser who never got anywhere” to something more sinister. “You abandoned me. Left me in that bunker. Left me behind when I was no longer of use to you. You got bored and left me behind!”

Stanford himself also changed, growing older and more like the student and researcher Stan had only caught a glimpse of all those winters ago. He was still kneeling, only now he was muttering a quiet “No, no, no, no, no, no. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The thing then began to shift again, taking on the appearance of Stan himself at a teen boxing, then as he was when he had confronted Stanford in front of the portal all those years ago. “You left me behind, you ruined my life! It was supposed to be us forever.” His own words echoing in his mind like daggers. Ford let loose a wail, tears running rivulets down his face. It shifted a final time, taking on a very familiar shape, huge and menacing and with one glaring eye, "And it will be Fordsy, forever and ever until the end of time." It let out a high pitch, manic cackle and opened it’s one eye to show Stanford saying those very words in the mindscape and making that accursed deal with him.  

Ok, that was enough of that. Stan let his mind run on instinct as he fully entered Ford's dreamscape. "Piss off! Ya ain't here anymore and ya sure as shit don't matter!" It wasn't a lie either. Bill Cipher wasn't there anymore. It was just Stan now. Just Stan and a fuck ton of memories and regrets of another life. All on top of the regrets of this one. He snapped his fingers and the dream Bill erupted into blue flames as he approached the manifestation of Ford's consciousness. "Stan? What are you doing here? How did you get..." Ok, you can play this cool, you know how your brother thinks of you, just do that and he'll think it’s a dream.

"Whadd'ya mean, 'what am I doin' here', Sixer? I'm always here. Someone's gotta keep you pulled to Earth.” Stanford stood, now dressed in black and with his quantum destabilizer strapped to his back; like he’d just come out of the defunct portal behind him.

“Yes, but you’re usually…ah, younger.” Ford nervously adjusted his glasses.

“What like this?” Stan felt his form change to what he looked like as a teenager. He tried to tap into Ford's subconscious and take whatever form came. He wasn't expecting to find himself in boxing shorts and gloves with a towel around his neck. And he certainly didn't expect to feel a busted lip and a black eye. But Ford seemed to melt from agitation and fear to calm and affection. Okaaaayyyyyy…

“Let's get you patched up.” Ford smiled, waving Stan in the direction of the swing set.  

Wait so this was what Ford considered a 'good dream'? "Yeah, thanks bro" Well, he was willing to sit through some doctoring if it meant his Sixer could sleep.

They walked over to the swings, each taking their respective positions. As soon as they sat, a table with first aid supplies appeared before them and the swings seemed to move closer together, bringing the brothers next to one another. Stanford picked up a cotton pad and doused it with alcohol and began cleaning Stan’s wounds. He let his mind be directed by Ford’s subconscious, not speaking and pretending to wince every few moments.

He kept eyeing the area that his dreamself had stood, bearing down on Stanford. Sixer was still terrified of him. Still had nightmares and was still tormented by the memory of him. Well damn. What was he going to do about that one?

“He’s gone. He’s been erased.” Ford had started stitching the area above his eye now, small, and methodical.

“I know. You know. I know everything you know” He was supposed to be a manifestation of Ford’s own mind after all.

“Then you should know I have to remind myself sometimes.” Ford gave a sad smile.

Ford had moved on from stitching the cut above his eye and moved down to the cut that appeared on his left cheek. The swings repositioning to give him better access.

“I’m sorry. For hitting you. For not believing you. For asking you to leave.”

“I know.”

“I know you know, but he doesn’t”

“So, tell him. He does know, though”

Ford chuckled sadly. Stan had a feeling that Ford told himself that a lot.

“Does it bother you?” Stan paused before continuing, “that he calls you Sixer?” Ford frowned, eyes filled with guilt.

“Yes. It shouldn’t, but Bill perverted it. It doesn’t feel special anymore.”

Stan sighed. “So what names are off the table?” He figured. He’d been trying to refrain from calling Ford by that childhood name, but it slipped out sometimes.

“I’m actually fond of the moniker Poindexter.” Ford said with a sly smirk.

“So, tell him” Stan could do that.

“I really couldn’t” Ford knew full well that Stan would give him no end of teasing if he ever knew that Ford liked the name. Too bad for him. I’ll tease him anyhow.

When Ford finally moved onto his split lip, he paused. It was clean, and didn’t really need stitches. Ford’s thumb gently traced Stan’s bottom lip.

“You gonna do it this time?” Stan blinked. Where had that come from. He’d let his brother’s mind take over too much. I wasn’t in control of his words.

Ford just smiled, self-deprecating and full of remorse. It was a resounding ‘No’ as if Ford had spoken aloud. What was he saying ‘no’ to?

He was just about to ask, but instead of opening his mouth, he opened his eyes. He was back lying in bed, thumb rubbing slow, blue flaming circles on Stanford’s forehead. He could see Ford’s eyes moving back and forth under his lids. He was waking up. Stan squeezed his eyes shut tight and willed his eyes to return to normal. He didn’t notice that the blue flames still trailed from his thumb.

“Stan?” Ford blinked slowly, eyes unfocused without his glasses. “Shhh. Sleep. You were having a nightmare.” Stan smiled softly. “I’m here Poindexter. You’re safe.” Ford just smiled and closed his eyes again.

Stan decided he should keep an eye on Sixer’s dreams, maybe twist them around to be more pleasant. Stanford had once said he preferred dreams with him; he just needed to spin things to include him now rather than him then.

Previous

Next