Stanley Pines found himself staying up late at night for no reason other than the fact that he was too used to his double life to just go to bed at a decent hour. It was no fun staring at a ceiling for hours on end, so he took to sneaking downstairs and sitting outside on the couch for the hours he normally spent working on the portal and coding.

He normally avoided the outdoors at night. THINGS crawled around at night; things that he didn't want in his home. The only reason why he stepped outdoors at night was to check the wards around the property; there were only so many times he would wake up to gnomes raiding his kitchen before he did something about it.

He cracked open a can of soda and sipped it quietly, staring out at the pitch darkness of the forest, hearing an oddity of things behind the trees croon out, almost beckoning. He shuddered hard. He hated that sound. He hated the sensation it gave him; a pulling, yearning to answer that call. It was almost addictive, and he truly understood why his brother became so obsessed with this place.

The can was empty in no time, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it away. The can seemed to serve as an anchor, a reminder to not answer that call. It seemed to work, anyhow.

But he knew it wouldn't work forever.

Stan took a deep breath and let it out, looking upward out at the sky. The stars were flickering brightly, illuminating out constellations he knew by heart by now. Nestled up high in the sky was a tiny sliver that remained in the moon.

It made his blood run cold; that sight ALWAYS chilled him inside. It always served as a warning, an omen he heeded religiously for thirty years.

But now…it served as a reminder, the sliver of moon perfectly paralleling his current predicament.

His time was running out.

Normally, Stan could easily hide the weariness that always hung about after his long days and late nights, but today, he just couldn't do it. When the first, barest hints of light began glowing from behind the trees in the east, he headed inside and went to bed, crashing out hard enough so that Dipper and Mabel tried to wake him, failed, and had run downstairs in a panic to get his brother for fear of some nefariousness had occurred.

He barely remembered the conversation, but he was SURE he managed to convey he was just tired and wanted to sleep in, and hoped that the swearing was just in his head and not out loud in case the niblings were listening just outside the door. Either way, he was left alone again, and delved back into his dark, silent dreamland.

It was as solitary and eventful as laying down in the middle of a forest; peaceful, yet unnerving. Unnerving because of the omen. Of the reminder that his payment was close to being due. At least it was a gentle reminder…but he knew enough from his past to know that gentle reminders could quickly turn into something worse if payment wasn't delivered.

It was around three in the afternoon by the time he woke up, and he felt oddly refreshed and not at all old-man achy. Ugh, sweet Moses, if a full REM sleep was the cure-all to his issues, he would have tried it AGES ago.

He went into the kitchen and made up some coffee, looking up when Ford came in from the basement, muttering something as he wrote in Journal 2. Stan swallowed hard, feeling both a lurching of anxiety and that beckoning.

Your payment is almost due.

'I know, I know…'

"…You want some?" he asked, getting Ford's attention. Ford looked up, noting the odd wake-up time of Stan, but nodded.

"Yes," he replied. "I could use some."

Stan poured out two cups, feeling a tinge of bitterness that Ford couldn't even say 'thank you' for THIS. He put the cups down on the table and sat down, sipping his quietly. Ford did the same, his nose still buried in the journal. "…so where are the kids?"

"….hm?"

"The KIDS, Stanford," Stan repeated. "Where are the KIDS? I can at LEAST trust you to watch them for a few hours, right?"

Ford gave him an irritated look. "They're fine, Stanley," he replied. "They're out with Wanda—"

"Wendy."

"—yes, Wendy. I had work to do, and she was agreeable enough to take them into town for the day. You're welcome."

Stan's fingers flexed around the coffee cup, his jaw clenching tightly, displaying impressive self-control to prevent himself from letting loose a string of everything on his mind. He took a few sips of coffee to drown out those words, staring out the window.

The day was beautiful. He swore he felt a slight hint of coolness in the breeze that filtered in through the screen. It was almost mocking him. This place ALWAYS seemed to mock him.

"I'm going back downstairs," Ford said, picking up his coffee cup and journal, standing up. Stan felt the omen buzz like a five-alarm bitch, and felt a surge of anxiety.

"Stanford, stay," he said, his voice sounding slightly more panicked than he intended. It was enough to make Ford pause and look up from his journal.

"…why?" he asked, frowning. "Stanley, I really DO have a lot of work to do—"

"Just…!" Stan swallowed hard, his hands clutching his coffee cup so tightly he was afraid it would shatter. "…Ten minutes. Just give me ten minutes, okay?"

Ford's frown deepened, but he sat back down. "…Is everything alright?" he asked. "…you've…gone a little pale."

Shit. Stan let out a heavy sigh, forcing his tensed shoulders to relax. "….I'm fine," he half-lied. "…just ten minutes."

Ford sat back in his chair, looking his twin over critically. Tensed body, pale complexion, jittery tone…it seemed like symptoms of anxiety. But what would Stanley have to feel anxious about over five eventless minutes? In any case, if ten minutes would ease the anxiety, he could at least spare that. He sipped his coffee, opening his journal again, eyes flicking up slightly every so often, noting that Stanley did indeed seem to be calming down somewhat.

Stan didn't feel calm on the inside. A thousand questions swum around in his head, a thousand more things to say…just to TALK about. If that omen was calling, he didn't want it to call him with his end only half-done.

He could see the minutes ticking by on his watch, and knew ten minutes was all Ford would spare him. His brother was dutiful, not generous. He drained his cup and set it down before wringing his hands, the one TRUE question on his mind being the one he SHOULD ask, but he was deathly afraid to.

Two minutes.

He knew he'd never get his brother to sit with him like this again for the rest of the summer. And then…

"…Stanford," he finally said, his voice small but resolute. Ford looked up, exasperation in his eyes, but a show of patience on his face.

"Yes?" he asked.

Stan weighed his words, wondered about the implications of saying them, but knowing he HAD to know. He forced his hands to unclench, letting out a calming sigh. "I need you to answer something for me," he continued. "And I need you to answer honestly. Don't sugarcoat it, don't…don't bullshit me to try to spare my feelings or whatever. Just be completely and utterly honest." He paused, forcing himself to say it.

"…Will you ever truly forgive me? For everything. Put everything behind us, and forgive me?"

There was a deafening silence between them, but at least Stan had Ford's full attention. Stan could practically see the cogs turn in Ford's head as he mulled over the question, but he didn't have to wait long for his answer.

"…no."

To be honest, Stan expected it. It still didn't ease the pain in his chest, feeling like an icicle had pierced his heart and was freezing his insides. He wanted to scream, cry, throw furniture around…

Instead, he nodded. "Thank you," he said, taking a deep breath and letting it out as he stood up. "Thank you for being honest with me."

"Stanley—"

"Ford, I asked you to be honest," Stan said. "And…I think I already knew the answer. It was just….something I had to know for SURE." He walked out of the kitchen and headed upstairs, moving faster than necessary.

"Stanley—!"

He shut the door to his room to drown out Ford's words, pressing his back to the door. He'd hoped…..he just thought if…..

Your payment is almost due.

Stan's body slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor.

It was tonight, then. His debt would be paid in full tonight.

He'd hoped he had more time, but…

Stan buried his face in his hands, his body shaking with dry, silent sobbing.

He managed to buck himself up in time for the kids to come back. They'd had a great day out with Wendy, and he couldn't be happier. He put on a good face for them, ordered out pizza for dinner, and let Mabel splurge on the cheese sticks and desserts.

Dipper looked suspiciously at him for spending so much money, but childish delight over pizza and desserts won out. Stan knew it would, and he was grateful for it. He wanted his last night here to be a fond one, and even if it wasn't with his brother, it could be for his great-niece and nephew.

After dinner, they all went into the TV room to watch a movie, and proceeded to spend half an hour debating and compromising. Dipper wanted a sci-fi movie, Mabel wanted a teenybopper flick, and Stan wanted something that wouldn't give him a migraine. They settled on a romcom, something Stan knew Mabel loved and Dipper secretly enjoyed.

The niblings crashed out before it ended, and Stan quietly carried them up to the attic to bed. As he tucked them in, he felt his heart sink deeper and deeper, hating himself for leaving them like this. He'd leave a note—of COURSE he would, he didn't want them going on a mad goose chase that would never conclude—but it didn't seem ENOUGH.

Not enough time. Not enough consideration. Not enough done that he WANTED to achieve.

He took of Mabel's headband and Dipper's hat, setting them on the table between the beds, watching them sleep peacefully for a few moments longer. He spotted Journal 3 on the table, pausing before picking it up and jotting something down on a blank page before slipping downstairs to tidy up.

He was stalling; he knew he was. He WAS going to do it, but just to stay in this house for awhile longer, take in every familiar detail, memorize every creaky floorboard and crack in the wall. He never wanted to forget.

He finished tidying and walked into his office, sitting down at the desk with a sigh before pulling a drawer that held his hard liquor stash and pouring himself a tumbler. Just one glass and nothing more. He just needed a little extra liquid courage, that was all.

After sitting in silence, he opened a notebook, picked up a pen, and began to write.

Stan could have easily left through the front door, but he took the gift shop door just to look at the vending machine one more time. Part of him wanted to punch in the code, go down, and beg his brother for reconciliation…but he knew it was fruitless.

The hurt was too deep, with forty-odd years' worth of contempt irreparably cracking the foundation that was their relationship. No, it was best to just…get this over with.

He kissed his fingers and pressed them to the button pad, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, picking up his 8-ball cane and walking out of the Shack, heading into the forest just as the clocks in the house struck midnight.

Stan was dressed up to the nines in the nicest of his Mr. Mystery suits, paired nicely with his expensive red and gold bolo tie and gold watch. He even wore his fez. It was completely unnecessary, but he wanted to look his best for paying his dues, because THIS was who he was. Every piece he wore, every accessory flaunted, was all him, ingrained with thirty years' worth of blood, sweat, and tears.

It gave him confidence to walk through the woods, even though he knew not one creature in here would dare harm him. Not now. Not when he had business with something far greater than them, far older.

He walked for an hour, the energy he woke up with thrumming stronger. Had he not checked the mirror before leaving the Shack, he would swear he felt eighteen again. Not an ache in his legs or back, no shortness of breath from walking for so long. He wasn't surprised; as ALIVE as this place was, he knew it had plenty of energy to spare for him to make this journey.

At last, a vibration of energy in the air that he could feel in every molecule of his being let him know he'd arrived. He stopped, standing just outside of a clearing in the forest, resting his hands on his cane quietly. There was a stillness in the air, like time itself was standing still, just for him. Just for THIS.

"…I'm here to pay my debt," he said into the darkness. He felt his breath catch in his throat when he felt something akin to static without the sharp surprise of shock run over his body.

I sense something left undone, said a voice from the air, spoken in a hundred languages unknown to man, but a whisper of English in his ear. Why come when your mission is unfulfilled, as agreed?

Stan swallowed hard, hands tightening around the 8-ball of his cane. "Because it was pointless," he replied. "There…will never be a reconciliation. But…it is not as important as my TRUE mission." He looked up, his eyes hard with resolution. "I've done what I promised I would do…and I'm ready to pay the debt I owe for allowing it to happen."

You will face eternal regret, the voice said matter-of-factly.

"I know. But I was prepared to face it, had my time come before I could get him back. Let me die with dignity, on my own terms."

You poor man. It is not death you face now. But you will have your dignity. Come, we await you. We call your debt to be paid.

Stan straightened his back, gripping his cane tightly in one hand. "It IS death," he said. "Stan Pines died thirty years ago, and he dies tonight. And I'm okay with that. Bring it on."

With that being said, Stan Pines stepped into the clearing.