thing I wrote

“That’s about all I can do at this point”

Rubbing the back of his neck to work out the dull pain of being bent over a desk too long, Ford forces himself to set his work aside so he could get a much needed meal from upstairs. Though they have not talked much since the night he returned, he found that his Brother would set aside a plate from each meal he’d make for the kids so Ford could eat something whenever he made it upstairs in relative peace. It was a mature attitude, he would admit, that his Brother was keeping food aside for him rather than being stubborn and forgetting Ford all together. Though perhaps it was the stubbornness that made Stan to do something as simple as setting aside a plate in some twisted notion of refusing to give up trying to save him from himself. Had it been thirty years prior, it may have worked when he needed someone to take him out of his own thoughts most. Now they were both old men that could barely get more than two words from each other waging a cold war over ancient feuds and misunderstandings, dancing around one another until one of them finally get tired of it and leave the other altogether.

Ford steps into the kitchen to look for the plate, hand resting on the counter top as he loses himself in his own thoughts. Part of him knew this quiet warfare between them was petty of both parts but he couldn’t bow out of it, a trait that runs deep in the Pines blood, being too stubborn to stop and admit that he wants to move on from it all. He refuses to admit he wants his Brother back, to admit that he at one point needed Stanley more than ever during those years apart, to admit that if Stanley hadn’t brought him back home he would have been dead in another dimension. His fingers curl under his hand, nails biting into his palm as flashes of the horrors he faced those thirty years play across his mind eye like a montage of trauma. Bowing over the counter he grabs the front of his sweater and slowly makes himself breath, counting out his breaths to try and calm the attack before it really started. He closes his eyes, shoulders shaking, as he tried to keep control over himself so to not show the cracks in the mask he perfected in front of his family. He needs to remain strong so they don’t worry, to force mind over matter so to fix the rift and ensure the safety of the household. He can do this, he has had to deal with these attacks on his own and he is still standing without needing to rely on someone for support.

I can do this. Just focus on your intelligence and don’t let contrived things like panic and trauma render you weak. You do not have the luxury to be weak. Weakness only means death–

“Ford?”

Hearing his name suddenly set him further on edge, curling instinctively inwards as his breathing came out in hisses. He tries to fight back the bothersome reaction, to maintain the guise of a perfectly intact human being, to keep up the lie just a little longer until the children are gone and he can continue to hide in the basement from prying eyes. He flinches when he hears something hit the countertop, eyes shut tight as he tried to get his breathing in order. When nothing came from the sound, he slowly looks down at the surface and finds a glass of water next to his elbow. Looking up from the glass, he meets his Twin’s eyes as Stanley leans against the archway into the kitchen. The other man was silent, looking made of stone and not unlike a gargoyle watching to see what a trespasser might do next with silent judgement. He hated the feeling it gave him when Stan would level his unmoveable gaze on him, of being studied and judged as if he was one of the tourists that come by the house for the overpriced knickknacks and gaudy tours. Taking the glass in hand, he slowly downs the water before setting it back down with more force than needed, refusing to look weak in front of this man, as if trying to prove himself for reasons even he doesn’t fathom.

“How long have you been having these attacks”

The question catches him off guard, making him fumble for some kind of response. He waves his hand as if swatting at a imaginary fly, mouth open at he starts in on his excuse when he is cut off by a annoyed grunt from Stan. Looking back at him with a mixture of confusion and indignation, ready to put up a fight if need be, he watches as his Brother pushes off the archway and fold his arms over a broad chest.

“Don’t even try Poindexter. You can try and deny it until you are blue in the face but I know when someone is having a anxiety attack. I know when someone is having an episode from some kind of past trauma when I see it too. Whichever one if just forced back before I came in can’t be the first one you’ve had or you’d be curled on the floor right now from it. So fess up and tell me already”

Taken aback by the blunt statement, Ford found himself at a loss for words. He could lie and say Stan was reading the whole thing wrong but he knew his Brother could see through the best of lies from his own career as a Con-artist, making him too perceptive for Ford’s liking. Firming his mouth into a tight line, he furrows his brow in frustration as his arms fold behind his back. He can feel his nails bite into his wrist as he takes a steady breath through his nose before matching Stan with a glare of his own. “That isn’t important, Stanley. Don’t concern yourself with it, I have it handled and can do this myself. Just forget what you saw and go about your business before witnessing this…unfortunate circumstance”

Stan rolled his eyes at that, letting his arms drop before stepping closer to Ford and poking him rather hard in the chest, a low growl to his voice as he addressed the stubborn man before him. “Now you listen here. Doesn’t matter how smart you are, how talented you got, how many worlds you may have seen, you are still human and you need to learn to lean on people when you need help. I’ve had no one for years and its only recently I’ve let myself lean on others when I need it. I don’t know what you had to see on the other side, but I do know what you’ve done on this side and frankly its not pretty”. Ford starts at this, stepping back from Stan as his eyes never left his Twin’s. What did Stan know, how much does he know of what he’s done or been doing since coming to Gravity Falls both as a young man and now as a stranger to a new time. His voice, losing the usual edge of authority adopted after years of needing to sound bigger than himself, comes out in a strain whisper. “How…what do you mean you know what I’ve done on this side. What do you know”

This is answered by Stan’s tired look, a mask of fatigue brought on by years of being chewed up and spat out by the world. Running thick fingers through his hair, he lets out a defeated sigh. “I’ve had to read your journals to get you back, Sixer. I read how you changed from being optimistic and full of boundless curiosity at the start of the first book to slowly losing your mind and becoming bitter towards people at the end of the third” He frowns, reaching out to rest a hand on Stanford’s shoulder, fingers tensing against him. “You’ve gotten yourself into dangerous territory here in Gravity Falls and it left a lasting mark on you that was clear as day when I came thirty years ago. You could say at the end of it, it left a mark on me as well” he trailed off at the end, eyes breaking contact as his free hand reaches for his right shoulder. Falling silent, a frown etched on his face and a faraway look in his eyes, he finally steps away from Ford and heads back to the archway toward the rest of the house. “Forget it. Point is you can lean on someone when you are having these attacks. You don’t need to suffer alone anymore”

Stan then leave the kitchen and Ford behind, having said his peace and let him get back to looking for food. He stares at the archway in relative silence, fingers tensing over the wrist behind his back as he digests the moment. He was stunned, that was easy to decipher, he was also unsure where to go from that point on. He had been found when his defenses were weak, allowing a moment of weakness to be seen by another living being, yet the only thing to come from it was startling understanding and an offer of help in their own gruff way. Looking back to the now empty glass of water, he lets the encounter settle in as a strange warmth spread through his chest. He was home, he was going to be okay and he can handle this. Being weak here doesn’t mean he is going to die, it meant he just got tired of fighting for the time being. He was home and he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon if he could help it.

He leaves the kitchen, meal forgotten as he tries to locate Stanley in the house which turned out to be easier than expected when he spotted the slumped figure of his Brother in a recliner watching some kind of period drama shown in only black and white. Creeping as silently as possible, he leans on the entry way and watches the show with him, not sure what to expect from it if Stanley wasn’t changing the channel. After a few minutes of absorbing the show, know sure what it was some kind of soap opera best suited for little old ladies than his ex-boxer Brother, he couldn’t help the low chuckle escaping him. Slapping a hand over his mouth, he tensed as he watched Stan jump in his seat and fumbling to find the remote again with half-lies on his tongue to excuse the whole thing.

Ford quickly shuts him down by stepping into the room and sitting on the arm of the chair to get a better view of the screen. “How I’m confused as to what the story is to this show. Why are their names either ridiculously long or just outlandish. Also why is that woman so mad about everything”. He then looks down at Stan, smile on his face as he watches the man’s face become flush. It was too easy to make the man blush if you knew the tricks in doing so, something he is happy to see he still was able to cause after all these years. Watching Stan scratch at his chest, their eyes returned to the screen as he regarded it passively with a wave of his hand. “Well its not hard to understand. Their names are funny because that’s the time period where people were actually proud of stupidly long titles and being snobs about it. Also maybe the writers wanted to make fun of it who knows. The woman is the Duchess, who had enough of listening to her Mother and refuses to back down to anyone. She had this thing with a Duke but he blew it at the Cotillion, but he comes back to stir up drama later on. As far as I can gather its about a Woman that challenges her title and what is expected of her by society to prove something”

Ford just stares at him, not expecting any of his questions to be answered by the man now avoiding eye contact with him at this point. Looking between the screen and Stan, he had to admit he was a little shocked to hear the analyst on the Drama, not taking Stan as the type to be able to read into things. Though now that he thinks about it, he could sum it up as another thing that comes from being perceptive. Rubbing his chin, he leans back into the side of the chair and starts to watch the show with more interest than at the start. “You must really like this show then if you’ve gleamed that much from it”

“Yeah yeah shut up, Ford.” Stan grumbles under his breath, folding his arms over his chest as he settles back into his show. Both brothers watch the period drama in peace, sharing the quiet moment for perhaps the first time since being reunited. Somewhere during that moment, Stanford’s hand had found Stan’s and interlocked their fingers together, an old habit they shared back in Jersey when watching movies on the ancient box owned by their parents. It was a comfort then as it was now, neither one of them needing to talk to know the other was alright in this moment, that they were both going to be alright and all was well in the world. He barely registers their hands lifting until he felt a light brush over his knuckles that prompted him to look back at Stan. He stills as he sees their hands now resting over Stan’s chest, his thumb rubbing at the back of his hand as he continued to pay attention to the screen as if the action was subconscious. The gesture was small but it made something tighten inside of Ford’s chest, the strange warmth returning, forcing him to look back at the screen so he wouldn’t be caught staring at his Brother. Slowly he started to drift off near the middle of the show, sinking into the back of the chair as he head rests on Stan’s shoulder; eyes starting to grow heavy as the fatigue built up from long nights in the lab catch up with him. He muses that he’ll only close his eyes for a minute, just enough to ease his headache and not keep Stan pinned to the chair by his weight. He didn’t mean to end up sleeping through the rest of the program, arm lightly curled over his brother’ chest as a light snore escaped him. Stan glances to his side and studies the tired face of his Twin, hand tensing over the one still captured in his grasp as rubs his thumb over the knuckles in silence. He’ll give the old nerd a few more minutes of sleep, seeing how badly he needed it from the looks of the dark rings around his eyes.

By the time the show ended however, Ford’s hand was released from the hold and Stan started to lightly shake him back into consciousness before pushing himself up from the recliner with a small grunt as his back pops from sitting too long. He yawns and turns to leave the room until his arm is caught by a six-fingered grip to halt him. Looking down at the hand, before trailing his eyes to meet Ford’s, one eyebrow quirked up as he silently questions this. Getting up from the arm of the chair, he squeezes Stan’s arm as he struggled to find the words he wanted to say, to express the emotion in mind as properly as possible with little success. Shaking his head, he releases Stan’s arm and slips his hands into his coat pocket before him a lopsided smile. Before he could slip past the man, he finds a arm blocking his path causing him to take a step back or else end up clothes-lined. “Sixer spit it out already so we can get some sleep”

Hunching his shoulders, feeling himself start to grow defensive, he lets out a sigh and leveled his gaze with Stan. “I just wanted to say…this was nice. Watching a show I mean. I may not get it quite yet but—“ he finds himself cut off when the arm drops from his path and catches his hand to draw him closer. Now closer to his twin, he feels the arm coil around her shoulders and see the signs of a smile tugging at the corners of Stan’s mouth. The ex-boxer gives him a firm smack on the back before stepping away from him to head out of the room.

“We should do this again sometime then” He calls back to him, pausing at the bottom of the stairs as he watches Ford head toward the gift shop for the elevator. Tapping his fingers over the railing, he calls over his shoulder, voice now more quiet than before. “When you are up for talking about what is bugging you. You know where to find me”

Ford pauses, back to Stan, looking towards the vending machine and thinking of all the work he is doing in secret under the floorboards of the Shack. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath before looking over his shoulder to Stan. “I’ll keep that in mind, Stanley. Good night”

His reply with a grunt and a wave of his hand before ascending up the stairs, leaving Ford alone to his thoughts. Rubbing his hands over his face, he looks back towards the vending machine before a soft pain in his gut reminded him of why he came up in the first place. Letting out a weak chuckle, he shakes his head at how easily derailed he become.

“Well nothing left to do but get something eat. Then back to work.”