I. The End

Just one more push, Stanley.

He could not contain his laugh, smug and utterly victorious, at the feeling of warm surface giving way to his punch before shattering into a shower of golden, sparkling shards. The one-eyed demon didn't stand a chance, not with the wall of blue flames trapping them in a literal hell of Stan's own making.

Bill probably had no idea that Stan's mind would be last place he ever saw, that he'd be taken down by a con and a pull of a trigger.

Well, as the saying goes, it takes a con man to know one. Naturally, it would take a con man to bring another one down as well.

The fire around him rages on, casting the room in flickering, pale blue light.

Truth be told, Stan didn't picture himself dying like this either. Yet here he is, stuck in his own mind in a raging infernal, watching everything that made him him burn in a blaze of glory.

He thought he'd go out at the ripe old age of 90. He thought he'd go out in style.

(That's a lie. He thought he was going to die when he was nineteen years old on the streets of New York as a broke and hungry, nameless nobody. He thought he was going to die when he was twenty-four years old with a knife held against his neck while he choked on a mouthful of cock. He thought he was going to die when he was thirty-four years old, on the sixth anniversary of his brother's disappearance, as he sat alone in the Shack, thinking. The oppressive silence in Ford's house weighed on his shoulders, and Ford's handgun weighed comfortably in his palm.)

(If anything, he's surprised he made it this far in life.)

(He isn't surprised that he is dying alone though.)

The fire around him burns brighter.

Somewhere in his mind, a voice echoes out, Everything's going to be okay.

The framed picture of his smiling niece and nephew catches his eye, and he reaches for it. Slowly, he brushes his fingers across the smooth surface of the glass. The children's bright, shining faces send a surge of relief coursing through his veins, chasing away the last of his lingering fear until all that is left behind is a sense of hollow acceptance.

His lips twist in a wry smile.

He's doing this for the kids. He's doing this for his family.

"The kids will be safe," he repeats like a mantra, drawing comfort from the weight of those words. He's going to miss those two, but they'll bounce back. They're fighters. Wendy and Soos will also be fine. Gravity Falls will rebuild from its ashes.

Everything's going to be okay.

And Ford, his twin, will finally be free to live his life without the constant fear of Bill lurking in the horizon.

Ford will be free to live his life in his house with his identity restored, doing all the research he pleases.

(Ford will finally be free from Stan.)

Really, Stan did good. Everything that everyone wants is delivered in a neat little package. This con is his best work yet, a real magnum opus.

(He couldn't care less about that. What he does care is his brother's last shot at happiness, which he refuses to deny. After all the times that he's ruined things between him and his brother, the least he could do is finally get out of Ford's way and let him live his own life. Stan owes Ford this much. He understands that now.)

He's practically surrounded in a ring of blue fire now. No way to back out.

(He wants to cry but he won't. If he's going down, he'll go down with a grin. He'll go down lying 'til the bitter end.)

"Heh," he chuckles to himself. He cradles the fading photograph in his hands as blue flames lick at the corner of the picture frame. "Guess I was good for something after all."

Then, he closes his eyes, draws in one last breath.

And he lets go.

II. What Comes After

The man who claims to be his brother is staring again.

The man – his name is Ford, your name is Stanley, and you are brothers – does that a lot, although Ford only stares when he thinks Stanley hasn't noticed.

From his periphery vision, Stanley catches the series of emotions fluttering across Ford's face like a twisted kaleidoscope of colours.

Anger, pain, relief, curiosity, sadness, pain, always more pain –

Guilt.

He doesn't know why but seeing that particular expression on Ford makes him uneasy.

(A lie, but only just barely. It's more that he doesn't want to know. He's not sure why he feels that way either.)

He turns to Ford with a small quirk of his lips, and watches Ford return a pale imitation of his own.

God, that man does not have a poker face at all. For a genius who travelled the multiverse, it was surprising how Ford did not pick up a few tricks or two on how to goddamn lie properly. If he had to sit Ford down and teach him how to school his expression for the fifth time, he swears –

His mind stills. Fifth time?

"Stanley," Ford, the brother, asks in concern. "Are you alright? You're being very quiet."

He – your name is Stanley, and Ford is your brother - shakes the stray thought from his head. "Yeah, I'm doing fine. Sorry, do you need me for something?"

"I was wondering if you wanted some breakfast?" Ford says with a voice full of fragile hope. Stanley feels his heart ache at how hard the poor bastard is trying. "We can go to Greasy's Diner if you like, or I can make us something."

The 'yeah, sure' is at the tip of his tongue but a half-thought – somebody's gotta get paid to scrape the barnacles off of it, all you ever do is lie and cheat, and ride on your brother's coattails – crosses his mind in a split second.

It's enough to give him a pause.

"Stanley?"

"No, thank you." He shakes his head instead. "You've done a lot for me already. I don't want to be a bother." He gives the man – Ford, his brother – what he hopes is a gentle smile to soften the rejection.

It doesn't help.

"Stanley, you're not a bother," Ford says, his expression crumbling. "You live here."

(That's a lie. Stan Pines lived in the house. Stanley is simply a guest.)

"Look, I'm not hungry anyway." He throws in a casual, loose limbed shrug to diffuse the awkward situation. "Maybe, we can do this at another time?"

Ford grudgingly nods. "Alright, if you're sure. Another time then."

Stanley grins. "Sounds good."

(He doubts he'll bring this up again, not until the other man stops looking at him like a charity case.)

That night, he dreams of blue fire, glass shards, and an old, decrepit boat that will never sail. He dreams of broken dreams, broken promises, and broken families.

He wakes up shaken to his core.

When Ford asks him how he slept the next morning, he lies and says that he slept like a baby.

III. Jumpstart

The man claiming to be his brother is strangely persistent in dragging Stanley on adventures after the children – his niece Mabel and his nephew Dipper – leave for California. More often than not, the man – Ford – would appear out of thin air first thing in the morning with a new mission.

Case in point –

"Stanley," Ford popped out from his basement the day after the children left with two backpacks in hand. "I'm visiting the pterodactyl today. Would you like to come with me? I could really use your help."

The next day, Ford burst into the kitchen, making Stanley jump from his seat at the kitchen table. "Stanley, I'm glad I found you," he said in a rush, "I am bringing something to the Multi-Bear and I need an extra pair of hands."

When Ford isn't dragging him around the outdoors, Ford would bring him to the storefront to watch Mr. Mystery – you can call me Soos, Mr. Pines!– run his tours.

At first, Stanley doesn't know what to make of all this. On the up side, he's never bored.

It takes him five days and a quick glance at the scrapbook that Mabel gave him for him to finally clue in.

"Look, not that I don't appreciate you inviting me to do, er, whatever this is," he says the next morning before Ford can launch into his spiel, "but aren't you sick and tired of dragging me around? The places we've been to haven't jogged my memory."

(A small lie. He catches the occasional bouts of déjà vu here and there, quick flashes of the other him punching the pterodactyl in the face, or that of Multi-Bear using the last of Stan's toilet paper. Nothing substantive and nothing lasting beyond a few seconds. Certainly nothing to write home about. For all he knows, his imagination could have filled in the gaps of the stories that the children were telling him.)

(More importantly though, he doesn't want to raise Ford's hopes for no good reason. Something tells him that Stan, the other him, didn't take well to disappointing Ford. Stanley figures that he could respect those wishes well enough.)

"I haven't been dragging you around, Stanley. You've been helping me," Ford scowls, sounding offended for Stanley. At least he doesn't bother denying what he was trying to achieve. "If the adventures aren't working, we can always try something else. We just have to find the right trigger to start jogging your memory."

"But don't you have, I don't know, things that you need to do?" Stanley asks. "Look, all I'm saying is that you're spending an awful lot of time with me, and I'm thankful that you're trying to help. I just – "

Isn't it suffocating? He hears a voice, one that's painfully familiar, echoing in his head. Can you honestly tell me you never felt like you were meant for something more?

You have two sons, says a different voice this time, all matter-of-fact. One of them is incredibly gifted. The other one is standing outside of this room and his name's Stanley.

Stanley looks away from Ford and grimaces. "I just don't want to get in the way of your life."

"Stanley?" Ford slowly approaches him, worry dancing in his eyes. Gently, he places his warms hands on his shoulders. "Where are you – where is this coming from? Are you remembering something?"

Stanley shakes his head. "Nah, I just don't want to be holding you back."

(He isn't sure why he's not telling the truth, but every part of his body is flinching away from those stray thoughts like a terrified animal. He wonders if this instinct is a remnant reaction from the other him.)

Ford sighs and squeezes his shoulders. "Well, I've said this once and I'll say it again. You're not getting in my way, and you're not being a bother." He adds with a touch of hesitation, "But if you remember anything, just…let me know, alright?"

Stanley nods.

(Stanley almost believes Ford.)

On some days, Stanley wonders who the other him was and what kind of life he led to inspire such fierce loyalty from the people around him. The children have been diligently calling every day to check up on him, and they'd spend hours telling him stories about their summer together or about their new school year. His supposed former employees would provide their own accounts of his day in the life of a businessman, some of which were so ridiculous, they have to be made up. They've also been more than patient with him by showing him the collection of bizarre attractions around the Shack.

His personal favourite is the Sascrotch. It's got a catchy name that rolls off the tongue.

And as for the odd man who's calling himself his brother, well…

He's been clingy.

There's a part of him who is absolutely thrilled to go on adventures with Ford. Whenever he spent time with the man, he'd feel a deep-seated sense of satisfaction. It was as if he's finally achieved something that he has been longing to do for a very long time.

Another part of him wants nothing more than to get far, far away from Ford, as if he's just waiting for something bad to happen, for the other shoe to drop. As if he's afraid of, afraid of –

Afraid of what exactly?

Stanley has no idea.

IV. Floodgates

"Stanley, do you have time? I'm looking for a player for this." Ford announces to Stanley in the living room after a morning of blissful peace. He holds out a box with flourish.

Stanley turns off the television, fixes his glasses and reads out, "Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons." He looks at Ford. "What is that, some kind of a nerd game?"

For some reason, that comment only makes Ford beam. "It's my favourite game of all times! I ordered a new edition and it finally came in the mail. It's a game involving math, statistics and you need to look at the amount of quadrants…" he trails off at Stanley's raised brow, and sighs. "It involves taking risks and making things up on the fly, Stanley."

"Well when you put it like that, how can I refuse?" Stanley chuckles, and joins Ford on the floor.

He watches Ford gleefully pull out the contents of the box like a child opening his presents on Christmas morning.

Stanley may not have known Ford for very long, but even he can tell that Ford is, simply put, the most brilliant person he has met and will ever meet. The man's mind shines like a beacon that inevitably draws other curious, like-minded individuals to him. His inventions speak for themselves: the light bulb that lasts for a thousand years, the gloves that let him shoot lightening like an angry, vengeful god; any of these could have made Ford millions.

Stanley doesn't need the other him's memory to know that Ford is destined to do great things.

Which is why Stanley can't help but be a bit mind-boggled as to why someone like Ford, a man with twelve PhD's, a man who, by his own account, travelled the universe across several dimensions, wants to sit around and play board games with him.

"And now we roll the die to determine your charisma points!" Ford hands Stanley the bag full of dice.

Stanley blinks. "My what now?"

"Your charisma points."

"I," Stanley balks a little. Never mind, he understands why a man with twelve PhD's would play board games with him. Everyone else around these neck of the woods is too sane to do it. "How is charisma point a fantasy power exactly?"

Ford rolls his eyes. "Just roll the die, Stanley."

Despite his gentle ribbing, and for all the bizarre math application involved, Stanley couldn't help but get caught up in the game and in Ford's story-telling.

"Probabilitor the Annoying commands his griffin to seize them. The griffin swoops down and clutches two of your team members in its talons and flies off." Stanley groans, but Ford holds his hand out. "Probabilitor has taken off with two of your team members. From your position in the cabin, you can see that they're heading towards the Woods of Foreboding Darkness."

"Wait, which two did he take?"

"The elf mage and the elf thief."

Stanley groans harder. "Oh c'mon! The mage is my favourite! He's the smartest one out of the bunch!"

For some reason, Ford flushes and his lips curve into a soft, shy smile. He clears his throat. "What do you wish to do next?"

"Well I can't just leave them hanging! I gotta go after them!"

"The rest of your party chase after the griffin, following the old forest road. As you travel further into the forest, the thick canopy of leaves obscures your view of the sky. You lose sight of the griffin."

"You're not giving me a break at all, are you," Stanley grouches. He refills Ford's glass with the bottle of whiskey that he pilfered midway through the game, and waves away Ford's thanks.

"What do you want to do next?"

Stanley takes a sip of his whiskey and relishes in the burn. "Might as well follow the road we're on. See what happens next."

"You follow the meandering road and with each step you take, you can feel the air thicken with magic. The flowers around you become more vibrant, the grass is greener, and birds around you sing as they fly overhead. The walk is peaceful. But wait! It's a trap!" Stanley throws his hands in the air. Ford grins and continues, "An ogre jumps into your path. You recognize him as one of Probabilitor's henchman."

"'Halt, Interlopers!' he says, 'If you wish to pass, you must first complete seven unworldly quest, each, more difficult than the –"

"Yeah, no. I bash him on the head."

Ford pauses. "You what?"

Stanley sips his drink casually. "What? It's one guard right? And there's no one else around." He shrugs. "I bash him on the head."

The judging silence stretches on.

Stanley rolls his eyes. "Look, nobody's got time to do seven quests when there are lives in danger. I'm being practical here!"

Ford huffs a laugh and shakes his head. "Alright, alright. You bash him on the head and," Ford waits for Stanley to roll the die, and stares as Stanley cheers, "I can't believe this. You kill him in one shot!"

"There are no cops in the forest. We take this to the grave," Stanley winks.

He pauses. Now why does that sound so familiar?

Ford didn't seem to notice though. "Alright, fair enough!" he laughs. "Your gambit pays off and you walk around the Ogre's fallen body with ease. What do you want to do next?"

Stanley shoves the odd feeling to the back of his head. "Keep going of course!"

"As you follow down the forest path, you notice that the trees around you are getting thinner. It seems like you are approaching a clearing in the woods. As you move closer, you can hear the familiar voices of your captured teammates shouting at Probabilitor to let them go. What –"

"I'm charging in!" Stanley crows. "Guns blazing! I got some math wizard's butt to kick."

"Stanley, this is a medieval fantasy world. There aren't any guns," Ford says, amused and exasperated. "But roll the die to see if you're successful."

The die lands on a five. They both wince.

"Probabilitor hears you coming and spins around in time to block your attack. 'Drat,' he screams with rage, 'How did you get past my one guard?!'"

Stanley snorts into his glass.

Ford continues, "Very well, I challenge you to a duel! I choose my two champions versus the two I captured from your team!"

"What? Come on!" Stanley complains. "Can't we just duke it out or –?"

Can't we just, like, arm wrestle or something? A half-thought crosses his mind but it dissipates just as quickly. Stanley furrows his brows.

"Or what?" Ford asks patiently.

"Sorry." Stanley snaps back to attention and rubs the back of his neck. "Lost my train of thought there. It doesn't matter anyway. Keep going?"

"Probabilitor explains that the dual is a battle royale. If you win, he would return to the world he's from. If he wins then he gets to eat the elves' brains."

Stanley makes a face. "Ergh. Alright, now I'm doubly glad I didn't go on those stupid seven worldly quests. Is it too late to challenge the nerd-wizard to an arm-wrestling contest instead?"

"No dice!" Ford smirks and rolls the 38-sided die. "Probabilitor's henchmen take a swing at the wizard and the thief with their clubs."

"Oh, no, they don't!" Stanley swipes the die quickly off the board, rolls it and – "C'mon defence spell, I need a defence spell!"

Grunkle Stan, make something up! It's just like lying!

I cast –

"Shield of shielding!"

He looks up at the ensuing silence to see Ford staring at him with shocked wide eyes. "What?" he says a bit defensively. "I know it's a lame name but it's the best I could come up with on short notice! Cut me some slack here!"

"No, no, that's not it." Ford dismisses. "Stanley, where did you come up with that?"

Stanley shrugs. "Dunno. Just made it up I guess. It sounded right so I went with it. Why?"

"Why don't we keep going," Ford says instead, and Stanley could almost swear that he sounds shakier than usual. "I cast shield reversal spell!"

They went toe-to-toe, each shouting out more and more ridiculous spells, until – "Probabilitor summons Impossibeast!" Ford rubs his hands together and positively cackles. "It can only be defeated if you roll a thirty-eight!"

"Alright, for the record, that thing is stupidly overpowered!" Stanley accuses. "He's literally impossible to beat!"

Ford sends him a nonchalant smirk before tossing the rest of his drink back. "If you think it's so impossible, you can give up right now. I'm not stopping you."

Stanley feels his eye twitch a little.

That arrogant asshole.

"Never!" Stanley snarls, swiping the die off the ground. "Long odds are what I live for! Prepare to lose big!" he rattles the die in his hand, and utters, "C'mon, Stan! Papa needs a thirty-eight!" He tosses the die.

They both watch with baited breath as the die tumbles across the game board.

And lands perfectly on a thirty-eight.

"YES! YES!" Stanley jumps up and fist pumps. Ford's dejected groan of misery only makes the victory taste that much sweeter. "I said I could do it and I did! In your face, Ford! In. Your. Face!"

Ford only shakes his head. "I just. How is that – what just – "

"How does it feel to know that all your planning couldn't match up to my dumb luck? HA! Am I good or what? I am a God. I am a gambling God!"

"Alright, alright, let's get this over with." Ford grumbles, and oh dear Lord is he pouting? This makes the win that much better.

Stanley sits back down, grinning the largest shit-eating grin he can manage. So he's an asshole. He never claims to be otherwise. "I cast – "

Hot flame-y sword, a familiar voice whispers in his mind. "Hot flame-y sword!" he declares. "Wait, no, make that super hot flame-y sword!"

He continues before Ford could complain, "And for the record, that roll is completely legit! I could've easily rigged the die roll like last time to beat your cheaty, overpowered monster. Don't think I forgot that that monster is supposed to be banned either, you cheater! Serves you right for losing!"

"Stanley?"

The hushed, almost timid, way Ford says his name jostles him out of his mental victory jig. Stanley snaps to attention.

Ford is staring at him with wide, wide eyes full of wonder as if he's seeing Stanley for the first time, as if Stanley is the biggest mystery he's just solved.

"Stanley," he repeats, and this time, Stanley can definitely hear his voice shaking. "I didn't know you rigged your die roll. None of us knew that. I don't think anybody mentioned that the monster was banned either."

It takes a few seconds before what Ford implies hits Stanley, and when it does, it hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless.

A gambler never reveals his secret – Now you listen to me! As long as I live, I will never, EVER, play your smarty pants nerd ga – Mabel, I am so confused but so proud – Long odds are what you want when you're a wor – Papa needs a new set of twins!

"STANLEY!"

Stanley blinks at the six-fingered hands gripping his shoulder and his arm so tightly that the knuckles turn white. He looks up. The other man – Ford, his name is Ford, and really he should start calling him that – is peering into him with a wild and panicked expression. Ford is opening and closing his mouth in rapid succession.

Stanley squints and tries to make out what Ford is doing, what he's saying.

" – ley?! Stanley? Can you hear me? Are you alright? Stanley? Stanley! Say something!"

"Holy – " Stanley swallows to get rid of the dry taste in his mouth. The feeling of vertigo is slowly receding from his body. "I'm okay. I'm okay." He slowly sits up – how did he end up lying on the floor anyway – and rubs his throbbing temple with his fingers.

"I'm fine, Ford," he repeats. He takes off his glasses, presses his palms against his eyes, and continues when his voice is steadier, "I'm fine. Just got a lot jammed into my head in one go. Ow. Ow!"

Memories, crisp and terrifyingly clear ones, trickle into his head. He remembers poking fun at Dipper for his nerd game, he remembers Ducktective the season finale, he remembers yelling at Ford to move, he remembers his sweet, imaginative Mabel, kicking butt and taking names, oh God he remembers that stupid, annoying math wizard.

He remembers Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons, the live edition, the fear that he'll mess up so badly, he'll actually end up killing his family this time around.

He remembers, he remembers, he remembers.

And then, the memories stop as abruptly as someone turning off the water faucet.

"The game, I remember playing it with you, Dipper and Mabel," he rasps out. He chuckles when Ford whoops and pulls him into a crushing hug. "Hey now, easy on the back."

"Stanley, that's amazing!" Ford tightens his grip on Stanley, and ow. Ow! He wasn't kidding about the back. "Do you know what this means? This means that there's a way to get you your memories back!" He pulls away, and he's beaming so hard, his cheeks must be aching. Stanley doesn't think he's ever seen the man in front of him look so ecstatic. The realization hurts his heart a little. "Don't worry, Stanley. We'll get you your memories back in no time!"

"Sounds good. Can't wait," Stanley says with a weak smile through his pounding headache and his racing heart.

(It's his first lie of the day. He's absolutely terrified.)