XV. Stan Pines

He crawls out of the bed and shuffles to the kitchen the next day in the late afternoon, not because he's feeling better, but because his brother's hovering is starting to drive him a little crazy. He doesn't miss the growing frown on Ford's face as he takes in what is undoubtedly a pitiful, disheveled sight of Stanley Pines with his slumped posture, his pale, gaunt face and dark, heavy bags under his half-shut eyes.

"Stanley, I'm worried about you. Your headaches aren't getting better," Ford says, pushing a cup of herbal tea towards Stanley along with the firm order of 'No caffeine.'

Stanley grunts and cradles the hot mug. His cold, stiff fingers eagerly lap up the warmth bleeding through the ceramic. He's barely keeping himself upright with the power of his stubborn refusal to humiliate himself further in front of his brother, but even that's dwindling fast. "Yeah, tell me about it. Not much I can do except ride it out, I suppose."

"Are you sure? Maybe you can tell me some of what you're remembering. I might be able to identify the memory."

Stanley scoffs into his cup. "Pfft, and risk triggering a full-blown flashback? Yeah, no thanks. I'm not a fan of the pain backlash I get from those things."

Apparently, that is the wrong thing to say because Ford's frown only deepens. "I don't like seeing you hurt," he says gruffly, and it's a such tell-tale sign that Ford is getting truly upset that Stanley feels his heart drop all the way down his throat. "I hate seeing it especially since none of this would've have happened if it weren't for me."

"Hey, hey now, none of that." Stanley reaches over and places a comforting hand on his brother's arm. "Mind wiping me was my idea, remember? This is not your fault. I signed up for it. Oh, stop that," he says when his brother's expression crumbles even further, and he's practically radiating woe and misery now. "Look, how about we give it some time and try to wait it out? It's gotta get better at some point."

Ford doesn't look like he's convinced, not that Stanley blames the man. "Okay, if you think so, Lee," he mumbles grudgingly.

"I'll be fine." Stanley pats Ford's arm. "I've bounced back from worse."

(Frankly, Stanley doesn't need Ford's help in identifying the memory when he already has a pretty strong inkling on what it's about. He's also more than happy to duck and dodge that memory to buy himself as much time as possible to live as Stanley.)

(It's a stupid and futile move, but then again, Stanley never claims himself to be a very smart man.)

(He forgets that Ford is hardly the type to let things go though.)

"Stanley, I've come up with something that can help with the pain!"

Stanley looks up from his oatmeal to his brother waltzing into the kitchen, practically jubilant. Stanley, on the other hand, has been nursing his low-key migraine all morning and has spent the last fifteen minutes staring groggily into his untouched bowl that has since cooled into a sad, congealed mess.

He very much feels like a sad, congealed mess. He probably looks like one too.

"Wha?" he slurs out and winces as his head throbs in warning.

He doesn't miss the way Ford's eyes flit to his oatmeal and at the way he presses his lips together in a hard line at seeing the breakfast untouched. "I've been working on this project since those pain backlashes first appeared, and I think I finally made something that can stop your migraines," Ford explains, calmer this time. "Are you well enough to drop by the lab now?"

Unlike most of Ford's invention that tends to look appropriately sci-fi and alien, this one looks more like a bizarre medieval torture device. A metal upside-down, rusting colander with a thick, dark cable protruding from its dome sits on the seat of a worn, plush armchair. As Stanley edges closer to the chair, he can make out more wires, thin, brightly coloured ones, sticking out of the back of helmet and intertwining with the main black cable. He traces the wires and the cable with his eyes from where they trail along the floor all the way to a massive switchboard in which they are plugged.

Stanley swallows. This thing is not ominous looking at all.

"Uh, what exactly am I looking at here?"

"This was a machine I used to bioelectrically encrypt thoughts." Ford gestures to the helmet. "It, er, broke, so I decided to repurpose it into a machine that induces brainwave entrainment instead."

"Still not sure what any of that means." Stanley says, squinting at the helmet and the chair. There doesn't seem to be any metal cuffs attached to the arms of that chair, although Stanley wouldn't put it past his brother to have installed hidden ones like a supervillain. "But just to confirm, it's not a torture device and it's not fueled by some crazy dark magic, right?"

Ford gives him a dirty look. "It's a machine that changes your brain-wave state to block out pain." He rolls his eyes at Stanley's skeptical silence and he adds with a huff, "With science, Stanley. It changes your brain-wave state with science. Mainly using electromagnetic pulses. No dark magic here." He pauses. "I will need you to remove anything electronic on your body before we turn this thing on though."

As Stanley warily does just that, Ford stalks to the computer next to the switchboard and types up a string of gibberish as far as Stanley can tell. "This project has been a work in progress for a while now, so I'm glad that I finally got to a working end product. It's not perfect, but it should do the trick. I hope." He turns around and beckons Stanley to the chair. "Why don't you take a seat? I'm almost ready with the set-up."

Stanley gingerly picks up the helmet and lowers himself down the surprisingly soft chair, shifting around to make himself comfortable. He holds himself still when Ford takes the helmet out of his hands and pulls it over his head.

"How much pain are you feeling from your migraines at the moment?" Ford asks as he adjusts the fit of the helmet.

"Enough that looking at food makes me go a little green." Stanley glances up at the helmet and gives it a gentle nudge with his finger. From the corner of his eyes, he sees his brother moving away to fiddle some more with the switchboard. "So, do I have to do anything or can I just sit here and wait?"

"Just sit here and wait," comes Ford's answer from somewhere to his right along with the sound of a switch being flicked on. "You should hear a low hum in a bit. That's perfectly normal. I'm going to leave this on for ten minutes exactly."

Stanley chuckles nervously. "Uh, what happens if it goes over ten minutes?"

"Oh, we're looking at a few minor side effects. Nerve damage, maybe an aneurysm. You may or may not lose feeling to half of your body. You'll be fine though," Ford answers disturbingly nonchalantly as if the things he rattled on are not debilitating physical impairment. Stanley is about to protest, or ask which half, when he hears the first note of a low humming sound.

Like magic, a wave of blissful calm washes over him in that instant.

It continues to rise like a crescendo, swelling up and up to fill every crevasse of his being with that same blue calm until Stanley feels himself practically submerged in it as if his whole body is wading in warm water. Slowly, the lingering painful throbbing that clings to his head muffles to a dull murmur, then quieter and quieter still until it's washed away entirely by the sound of his heart beat, the roar of his blood rushing through his veins and the whooshing of air entering and leaving his lungs.

Stanley's eyes slip shut. He feels the clenched muscles in his shoulders and back loosen with every new breath he takes. His rigid posture gives and he sinks in the chair in a boneless heap with the plush cushioning of his chair molding itself to his body.

"How are you feeling?" he hears Ford ask as if underwater. "Any pain at all?"

He gives a pleased hum. Everything is so quiet. Frankly, he can't remember the last time where he can't feel his head pounding in tune with his heartbeat, and he doesn't realize just how evasive the pain is until it's suddenly…gone, leaving behind a massive void in his mind.

"I'm going to take that as a no," Ford chuckles. "I'll leave you alone until the time is up."

All too soon, the humming quiets before stopping entirely, and the magic tidal wave of calm recedes further and further until dissipating completely from his mind. One by one, his senses sharpen – the soft padding that's cushioning his body, the slightly dusty and musky scent of the lab air, the damp cold against his exposed skin. He blinks his eyes open and Ford swims into view.

"Feeling better?"

Stanley waits and listens.

The painful throbbing in his head does not return.

"Huh."

Ford smiles and lifts the helmet up. "Hopefully, this will stop your headaches for good."

It doesn't. By nightfall, the familiar dull throbbing sensation returns.

"Damn. I suppose it's wishful thinking for the machine to work on its first go. Looks like it's back to the drawing board," Ford mutters as he presses a warm compress against Stanley's forehead. "Don't worry, Stanley. I'll get it to work better."

It takes Ford two days to get to the next upgrade, and although the effects of the machine last longer than a full day, it fails to meet Ford's demanding expectations. Neither do the third, fourth and fifth iterations of the machine for that matter.

"It's just not good enough," Ford grumbles for the umpteenth time that month into his Journal #4, his pen scribbling frantically on the page. They've tested version six of the machine a week ago and the pain is just returning to Stanley, but it comes like a sledgehammer to the head that sent Stanley's knees buckling.

"Maybe if I rewire it so that the pulses can concentrate more on the cortex, or I can give part C-27 a bit more juice, that may do the trick. C-28 and 29 could probably use more tweaking as well."

From his seat beside Ford and with his hot compress pressed firmly against his forehead, Stanley watches his brother scrawl out another set of equations on what little blank space he has left on the page. When Ford continues to mutter incoherently under his breath, he grimaces.

"Moses Ford, you're starting to sound like a full-fledged mad scientist. Look, the machine works fine as is. Don't you have that metal egg project to finish?"

Ford pauses in his writing, frustration marring his features. "The machine does not work fine, not when its pain-relieving effects only lasts for a crummy week. The robo-assistant can wait until I get this to work the way it's supposed to."

Stanley pulls the compress away from his head so that he can better aim an exasperated look at Ford, who had resumed writing. "C'mon Poindexter, you're being way too hard on yourself. That machine is a damn near miracle worker as is." When his brother refuses to look up, he gives up and replaces the compress back on his forehead with closed eyes. "So what if the effects only last a week? Just keep re-zapping me whenever the pain flares up again. Eventually, the pain will fade away on its own."

The scratch of the pen stops. "But what if it doesn't?"

Stanley snorts. "Aw c'mon, you can't honestly believe that. Like I said, we just gotta wait it out."

"We tried waiting for it to go away and it hasn't."

The odd tightness in Ford's voice has Stanley opening his eyes and lowering his compress again. Ford is staring into his journal with an unusually blank expression, but the knuckle-white grip he has on his pen gives away his worry.

"Eh, the migraine is a bit more stubborn this time. Big deal!" Stan says with deliberate lightness. Anything to get Ford to relax a little. "It's probably on its way out already. Nothing to it at all. I wouldn't worry so much about it."

The loud snap has Stanley jumping a little. The pen in Ford's grip is broken in half with deep cracks running down the plastic casing. Dark splotches of ink splatter across his tense fingers and his knuckles, dripping a few random drops on to the yellowing page of Journal #4 next to the tiny shards of broken plastic that landed from the pen. Ford ignores all of it though; he's too busy pinning Stanley with a fierce glare.

"Nothing to it?" Ford snaps and Stanley winces at his raised voice. "For Heaven's sake, Stanley! Stop trying to downplay this!"

A flare of irritation sparks through Stanley. Wow, he was just trying to get Ford out of his spiralling negative thoughts. No need to get all snippy on him. "Geeze, Ford. Calm down. I'm just trying to be positive."

"You're being in denial!" Ford drops the pen into the book and slams it shut, not at all caring that he's trapping the broken pen casing between the pages or that he's smearing ink all over the journal. "I don't understand why you're not taking this more seriously or why you're pretending that everything is okay because it isn't! Far from it! This isn't like all those past migraines you've had in the past. You've been experiencing pain for a while now and the machine is the only thing stopping it!"

"It's still just a headache! It's not like I'm dying or something!" Stanley resolutely refuses to think about the truth of that statement and plows on, "Why are you blowing this out of proportion?"

"I'm not! You just refuse to accept reality!" Ford runs a frustrated hand through his hair. The petty, vindictive part of Stanley is disappointed to see that it's with his clean hand. "What if the pain doesn't go away any time soon? What if, what if," Ford's scowl grows as he struggles for words. "What if the pain doesn't go away in the next month? In two months? By the time we set sail?"

Stanley feels his stomach drop but he growls back, "That won't happen. And if it does, then we'll deal with it when we get there."

"That's crazy!" Ford splutters. "We're planning to go out in the middle of the sea where we won't have access to medical aid except from whatever little tech and meds we can bring on the boat! We can't deal with it then! We don't have that sort of luxury!"

Stanley crosses his arms. "Oh, come on! You're saying that we won't have supplies to handle a friggin' headache? We have stuff that can fix broken bones! We've planned for worse injuries!" He shakes his head in frustration. "Look, why are we even worried about these hypotheticals? All of this sounds like wild baseless conjectures."

"Somebody has to worry!" Ford argues. "Since you're not going to, then it might as well be me, and you can bet your ass that I'm not going to let us go out in the open seas until I know that you're 100% better!"

"And you call me crazy?" Stanley cries. "We're not just going to walk away from all the planning we've done! We spent forever on it!" And a small fortune.

He can see Ford, young and bright-eyed and so very hopeful, walking away from him that faithful day on the beach, the setting sun casting a long shadow behind him. He can hear a familiar set of thoughts play through his mind: There was no way his brother would give up their dream, not when they worked so hard on it. There was no way Ford –

"Yes, we are," Ford says with steel. "Until we have this pain issue under control. We're stopping our sailing plans." Some of Stanley's shocked disbelief must have shown on his face, because Ford's eyes soften. "Stanley, I don't want to cancel our plans, and we won't have to if this machine works. But I need you to start taking this seriously. I need you to be honest with how you're physically feeling." His tone turns imploring. "Please."

Stanley can only nod tersely.

Ford works himself to a fervor reserved for a man possessed. For the next week, Stanley barely sees any signs of his brother outside of his lab aside for the wee hours of the morning, when Ford would crawl out of his lair to groggily down coffee by the pot. If it weren't for the meals he brings to Ford, he doubts his brother would've remembered to eat.

But progress is slow going, and with each failure, Ford becomes more frustrated and more engrossed in in his work.

"I know the design works in theory," he rants to Stanley one afternoon by way of greeting when Stanley drops by for a visit to bring him a fresh stack of Stancakes as brain food. Ford is looking a little rough for wear; his clothes are rumpled in a way that suggests many nights spent asleep slumped over the desk, his five o'clock shadow has grown out to become a respectable beard, and his eyes beneath his cracked glasses are bloodshot red. There's also a certain manic energy to his being that makes Stanley more than a little worried.

"Maybe you should take a break," Stanley suggests. "When was the last time you've showered?"

Ford ignores him and waves at the white board in front of him filled with lines of algebra. "See here? This equation models the way in which pain is being transmitted in your neurons, and this here," he points to a separate line of squiggle filled with more Greek letters than Stanley cares to see, "is the mathematic model that describes how the electromagnetic pulses travel through different types of media to reach the targeted neurons, accounting for the amount of energy required and lost –"

"Okay, Ford. I think we need to step away from the white board." Stanley brings an arm around his brother's shoulder and not so gently guides him towards the elevator. "You can come back to this after you've cleaned and rested."

"Wait, wait, but what about –"

"After you've cleaned and rested," Stanley repeats forcefully. He glances back at the board and ignores the heavy pang of guilt that settles low in his stomach.

(Stanley doesn't have the courage to remind Ford that there is an easier solution to all of this, and that's by forcing him to remember the full memory that's been plaguing him. It would've been akin to ripping the Band-Aid off quickly – a first bout of initial pain from the backlash followed by relief. Hell, even the pain wouldn't be an issue with the machine at hand.)

(He doesn't know why Ford didn't bring up this solution. Then again, Ford tends to have horrible tunnel vision whenever he gets elbows deep into a project, so it wouldn't surprise Stanley that his brother lost sight of the simpler option. One of these days, Stanley really needs to sit down with Ford and have a talk about that.)

(Just…not now. Not immediately. Not when there's a chance that his brother's solution to permanently eliminate his head pain can work, and if it does, then Stanley can take as long as he needs to recover his memories. It'd be the perfect solution.)

(Stanley Pines is quickly learning that he's more of a coward than the other him. He's not proud of it.)

The guilt continues to grow and fester with each passing day and with every fresh glimpse of his brother, exhausted yet still so determined to succeed.

Stanley tries to help. Honest to God, he does. He ups the number of daily visits to the basement to keep a better eye on his brother, monitors Ford's meals and caffeine consumption to a level of obsessiveness that would scare even Ford, makes sure to 'gently' remind Ford to shower and sleep like a normal human being, and keeps the rest of the house running without a hitch.

(And if doing all of that has the added effect of keeping his mind distracted from how bad he feels, then that's a bonus.)

It's not like Ford makes his job easy for him either.

"Stanley, I'm not tired! Let me go!" Ford cries out during one of Stanley's gentle reminders. After his suggestion to rest was ignored for a solid fifteen minutes straight, Stanley took it upon himself to bodily remove Ford from his lab bench by slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carrying him out of the room. "I swear, if you don't let me go this instance, you will be in a world of pain!"

"Oy, Brainiac! Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of what you're trying to do here?" Stanley tightens his grip on his flailing brother as he heads upstairs. "Besides, the fact that I was able to even touch you without being karate chopped to death only shows how out of it you are. You clearly need to get some sleep."

"I don't karate chop people. I would've tossed you over my shoulders instead," Ford mumbles sullenly but he stops fighting, slumping limply like a rag doll.

"I'm sure you would've." Stanley pats his brother on the side and ignores Ford's low growls of outrage.

The vending machine swings to the side with a soft whooshing sound. Stanley stalks through the opening and heads towards the couches in the living room. He can dump Ford's heavy ass on them.

"You don't have to do this you know."

"Damn straight I don't. You have two legs. You can walk."

He can practically hear his brother's eye roll. "I meant the constant hovering. I know you've been hyper vigilant, Stanley. It's hard to ignore someone barging into my lab every two hours for the past week. Even I'm not that oblivious. I appreciate the help but I don't need a babysitter."

Stanley sets Ford down on the couch and takes a seat beside him. "I'm not trying to babysit you. I'm trying to keep track of when you'll kick the bucket so that I can collect that sweet, sweet life insurance money," he says blithely as he brushes himself off. Some of the dirt from Ford's filthy boots managed to get on his sweater, or at least he hopes it's dirt. "Seriously though, not that I'm not flattered, but why don't you dial your efforts down a notch or two?" Or five, or ten.

Ford takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, the heavy lines under his eyes more prominent against his sallow skin. "It's the least I can do," he grunts out, "after everything I've caused." Bill Cipher's name goes unsaid. "I know you said you've forgiven me but I haven't forgiven myself, and I want to make things right by making sure you've recovered. I have to."

A sharp pang of guilt stabs at Stanley's gut and that's the cue for Stanley to make his escape. "Yeah, well it'll be useless if you do end up keeling over. Or if you get yourself so sick that you can't go on that sailing trip." He gets up with groan, his joints popping from his movement. Hell, he's really getting old. "Anyway, you think you can manage upstairs on your own? I don't think I can lug you up another flight of stairs. My body can't take that kind of abuse twice in a day."

He's about to leave when he feels Ford's hand tug on his sleeve. "I'm not going to keel over, and if for whatever reason, we can't set sail, well, I'll be fine with it."

Stanley finds that incredibly hard to believe.

"Alright, I'll be disappointed," Ford corrects. "But I'll make peace with it. There are still plenty of things I can do here at Gravity Falls, so I'll manage just fine. What's important is that you agreed to go with me in the first place, and for that, I have to thank you for the trust you've placed in me."

Ford's sweet words do nothing to stop Stanley from feeling another pang of guilt. This time, it is accompanied with the faint familiar, sinister whispers of – always holding your brother back – all you do is lie and cheat and ride on your brother's coattails – Stanford is going places –

He'll make peace with it, he says. He'll manage just fine, he says.

That is so many shades of not okay.

Stanley pulls away from Ford's grip. Thick bitterness coats the back of his tongue like molasses while his head is starting to throb with pain once again. "You shouldn't have to 'make peace with it' or 'manage just fine' because of my issues!" Nobody should, let alone his brother. "You should be out there," he gestures to the window, "travelling and researching, and, and doing incredible things with that big brain of yours!" Instead of being trapped in some Podunk town, honor-bound to help Stanley through his memory issues that Stanley himself is too much of a coward to face.

It's not as if Ford hasn't spent decades separated from Stan to do his own amazing research before and after the Portal Incident. Compared to what he's doing now, it must feel like such a massive downgrade. Hell, if Stanley was in Ford's position, he'd certainly feel like he's getting the raw end of the deal by settling for a life of monotony after the wonderful years of liberating freedom.

Which begs the question, "Why on Earth are you not sick and tired of me holding you back? Why haven't you left me yet?"

Stanley only realizes he blurted that out when he sees Ford's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before turning ice cold, his face hardening. "This again?" he growls, "I told you before and I'll tell you again. You aren't holding me back."

"Bullshit," Stanley spits out. "My stupid head and memory issues are literally stopping us from our plans and is keeping you in Gravity Falls. That's the definition of holding back."

"No, what you're saying is bullshit," Ford counters hotly, and Stanley knows he must have struck a nerve for Ford to be cursing while sober. "Your memory issues aren't forcing me to be in Gravity Falls. I am choosing to stay here with you out of my own volition. I am choosing to spend time with you because you matter more to me, so you can get that ridiculous thought out of your thick skull right now, Stan Pines!"

But that's the issue. Ford should never have to choose between his brother and his dreams. Also, Ford may be satisfied with his decision to stay by Stanley right now, but who's to say that he won't later resent Stanley?

Are you kidding me? comes a distant thought and another short burst of sharp pain that Stanley ignores, Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?

Most importantly, Stanley just isn't worth Ford's sacrifices no matter what Ford says. Just like how Stan Pines wasn't worth it with his cheating, lying, coattail-riding ways, despite the good he's done –

Oh.

Stanley feels his stomach churn violently.

Cheating, lying, and riding on his brother's coattails. That's exactly what he's been doing by deliberately keeping his mouth shut rather than telling Ford how they could fix his problems. He's taken up Stan Pines' selfishness and attitude to always look out for number one when he keeps letting his brother run himself ragged for the off-chance that his problem may go away. He's taken up Stan Pines' cowardice when he watches Ford run himself into the ground while he sits back and cowers behind his doubts and fears, as if those matter more than his brother's mental and physical well-being.

God, he's a disgrace.

Aren't you sick and tired of making the same mistakes? a fresh voice in his head asks.

He is. He's sick and tired of repeating Stan Pines' mistakes especially when he knows he's better than this. He shouldn't succumb to Stan Pines' less favourable characteristics while knowing that they have done nothing but brought Stan Pines trouble in his colourful past. He shouldn't but at the same time, at the same time.

He wants to spend more time with Ford as Stanley. He doesn't want to disappear. He doesn't want to be forgotten. He just wants a little more time. Just a little more time to joke and talk and build things with his brother, to go on reckless adventures and punch a few more mythical creatures in the face, to fight side by side as a team.

He just wants a little more time before he has to say goodbye.

"Stanley?"

"What do you think happens when I remember everything?" he hears himself ask in a shaky voice. The million dollar question is finally out on the table.

Ford frowns, no doubt confused about the sudden line of question. "What do you mean?"

Stanley lowers himself back down on to the couch. He licks his dry lips. "I mean, what do you think…will happen to me?"

Will Stanley cease to exist and become someone else entirely?

Ford stares at him for a bit, clearly trying to understand what was unspoken. For a second, Stanley is almost convinced that Ford has heard his thoughts with how intense his gaze is. Finally, he looks away with a soft, inquisitive hum.

"Well," he starts and rubs his hand on his chin. "I think you'll rediscover some of the interests you've had and opinion you've held in the past. The new memories may cause you to relive the stronger feelings you've had, things like pride, happiness, sadness, shame." He cringes and adds in a small voice, "You may or may not like me as much as you do now."

"Aw, Ford."

"But ultimately, you're still going to be Stanley."

He smiles at Stanley's flummoxed expression. "The important things that have defined you hasn't gone away with the memory loss, they haven't changed when you start getting your memories back, and I doubt that will change when all your memories are restored."

"How are you so sure?" Stanley asks in a hush.

"I remember what you're like as a child," Ford answers, his tone warm and fond, all good things that Stanley isn't sure he deserves right now. "I can definitively say that you have been, and always will be, the same savvy, big-hearted, unfailingly loyal, opportunistic pain-in-the-ass I've known all my life." His smile widens. "And let me tell you what an absolute privilege that is and has been."

"Oy, enough with the sap already," Stanley protests weakly and he will deny it to his dying breath that his eyes are watering a little.

"Not to mention, your other characteristics that have stubbornly clung on to your person. Things like how you're stupidly brave to the point of recklessness," Ford ticks off the point on his finger, "or how you're surprisingly crafty and clever with all things related to money, you're alarmingly blunt at times with hilarious results, and don't get me started on how you can get disturbingly creative. I don't think I will ever understand or want to understand how you've come up with Sascrotch, of all things."

"Alright, alright, stop. I get it, I get it." Stanley waves dismissively, biting the inside of cheeks to stop the massive grin from spreading across his face. He turns away briefly to discretely wipe his eyes. "So nothing changes? That's your bright answer, smart ass?"

"Nothing changes that matter," Ford confirms with a punch to Stanley's shoulder. "Memory or no, you're my brother. Always are, always will be."

"So, you're that certain, huh?"

"Mm-hmm." Ford leans back against the sofa and lets his head tilt back to rest against the seat. His eyes are opened at half-mast and his hands are on his stomach, his fingers interlaced. A picture of sleepy relaxation.

"But what happens if I become – "

"Not possible."

Stanley frowns. "I didn't even finish my sentence."

"You're asking about all the hypothetical ways you will somehow transform into someone horrible with your memories restored, or maybe into someone unrecognizable from who you currently are. My answer stands – not possible. Whether you like it or not, Stanley Pines, at your core, you have a heart of gold which will remain untouched," he cracks a smile, "or at the very least, a heart of passable gold substitute."

Stanley chuckles and takes a page out of his brother's book by making himself more comfortable on the couch. His brother is humming a little tune under his breath and for all intent and purpose, he looks completely peaceful and unguarded in the same way he once was as a growing boy, playing on the beaches of New Jersey.

Who would've thought Poindexter would grow up to become such a sappy old man?

Stanley decides to leave him alone for now. He has lot to think about.

(The decision comes down to be a simple one at the end of the day: he'll bite the bullet and place his faith in his brother. After all, what's the point of living if he can't even trust his own twin?)

(He also figures that maybe, it's high time for him to stop making the same mistakes over and over again. There are some things that are worth facing your fears for. Ford's well-being will always be one of them.)

"Hey, Ford. You remember how you offered to tell me about what happened when we were younger, about that fight that split us apart?" A deep breath. Here goes nothing. "Do you mind telling me what happened in detail?"

Everything's going to be okay.

The perpetual motion machine was a thing of pure brilliance. That was clear to everyone even to someone as scientifically-inept as Stan. There was no doubt in his mind that Ford would impress the college committee.

"Well then, I guess you better come visit me on the other side of the country," Ford had say as his parting words, but Stan doubted that his presence would be welcomed. Ford may initially be happy with his twin visiting, but with every passing year surrounded by those who share his passion, his brilliance, Ford would only continue to rise, inevitably drifting further and further away until Stanley can no longer reach him. Meanwhile, Stanley would be left to stagnate in a dying town with his dying dreams, growing greyer and wearier and emptier with time, dreaming about all that could have been and all that was lost.

He wouldn't make it without Ford. He wasn't about to delude himself into thinking that he could either.

Stan shrugged off his dark thoughts and looked up. Somehow, his feet had taken him back to school and into the classroom where they were displaying the science fair exhibits. Determined, he stalked along the rows and rows of projects until he was standing in front of Ford's.

It was all this machine's fault. Because of this stupid machine, he was going to lose his brother forever. Because of this stupid machine, he would have to kiss his dreams of sailing around the world goodbye, the one dream that had kept his spirits up when things got tough at school and at home.

"This is all your fault, ya dumb machine!"

He didn't even realize he had punched the table on which Ford's machine was sitting until the machine rattled violently and a metal panel from it fell to the floor with a small clang.

Stan stared at it in stunned silence.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Of all the dumb things he had done, what the hell did he have to go and do that for?!

He can fix this. The machine was still moving, so no harm no foul, right?

He picked up the metal panel and popped it back on the machine. See? Nothing to it. "There. Alright. Good as new. Probably."

He picked up the tarp under the table and gently put it back on the display. Then, he got the hell out of dodge.

He thought that had been the end of it until Ford stormed into the living room the next evening.

"Hey, what's the word, Sixer?" He took a look at Ford, and his words stilled.

Ford looked furious in a way that he had never seen before, not even when Crampelter had insulted Ford's nerd crush on Tesla, and Ford had ended up punching the bully so hard that his nose broke. "Can you explain what this was doing next to my broken project?!" Ford snarled and thrusted the bag of Toffee Peanuts towards Stanley.

Stan felt his blood run cold.

Broken. He had broken Ford's project. But not on purpose! It was an accident. Ford would understand, right?

"Ho-okay," he heard himself stammer, "I might have accidentally been horsing around –"

"This was no accident, Stan!" Ford pointed at Stan with blazing eyes. "You did this! You did this because you couldn't handle me going to college on my own!"

The accusation stung something fierce in Stan's heart. Sure, he hated the idea that his brother was leaving without him but he would never actively sabotage Ford's chances to get into his dream school. He could never do that to Ford.

"Look, this was a mistake!" He backed up a little and tried to calm his twin's rage with a weak smile. "Although if you think about it, maybe there's a silver lining. Huh? Treasure hunting?"

Ford's glare turned deadly. "Are you kidding me?" he spat out, "Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?!"

Stan felt himself shoved into the couch, but all he could register was the numb disbelief that his twin honestly thought he would actively sabotage him.

He thought I did it, he thought I did it, he thought I did it –

The front of his shirt was grabbed and he was violently yanked upwards. It was enough to jerk him out of his thoughts. "You did what, you knucklehead?" his father, oh God his father, screamed into his face.

Distantly, he heard his mother asking what was wrong, but he didn't have time to worry about that. He had to convince Ford that he would never in a million years – "Wait, no, I can explain! It was a mistake!" he screamed.

He didn't stop shouting, not when his father roughly shoved him against the wall with the order to 'March!', not when he was frogmarched out of the living room and into his and Ford's shared bedroom where his father haphazardly grabbed random items into a duffle bag, not when he was subsequently forced down the stairs, through the front doors and was roughly thrown out on his ass.

Nobody believed him.

"You ignoramus! Your brother was gonna be our ticket out of this dump! All you ever do is lie and cheat and ride on your brother's coattails. Well this time you cost our family potential millions! And until you make us a fortune, you aren't welcome in this household!"

He caught the duffle bag that was thrown at him by pure instinct. "What?! Stanford," he looked up and saw his brother peering down at him from their bedroom window, "tell him he's bein' crazy!"

But Ford only spared him a passing glance before looking at the West Coast Tech pamphlet in his hand with utter heartbreak.

Then, his brother drew the curtains over the window.

"Stanford?" he pleaded, "Don't leave me hanging' High six?"

His father slammed the door.

Nobody believed him. Ford did not believe him. His own twin thought he'd be cruel enough to do something like that.

He felt something in his chest break. "Fine! I can make it on my own! I don't need you, I don't need anyone!" He was raving like a lunatic at this point but he didn't care. He will show them. Those bastards will regret the day they tossed Stan Pines out like unwanted garbage. "I'll make millions and you'll rue the day you turned your back on me!"

Oh, so that's how all this started.

Something clicks into place like a final piece of puzzle, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Finally, for the first time since the mind wipe, he feels like he could breathe again.

He opens his mind's eye and stares at the completed tapestry of his memories, at the pieces that make up the whole, the good, the bad, and the ugly. They each glow bright and beautiful, shimmering and shining like the inside of a clam shell.

At its centre lies a framed photograph of his family – his niece and nephew, Ford, his employees, even the damned pig and goat. Everyone is beaming up at him through the unbroken glass.

He reaches for it and cradles the picture in his rough hands. He smiles.

And he feels completely at peace.

His first thought as he drifts to consciousness is how warm and light he feels, almost like he's floating in a warm bath.

He opens his eyes to the welcoming sight of the Dipper mark in the wooden beam above his head. The mattress beneath him is a little lumpy, but he's feeling far too comfortable and relaxed to care given how snugly he's been bundled up in his comforter. The air around him smells faintly of pine needles and sandalwood.

He breathes it in, and runs through his thoughts.

His name is Stanley Pines. He's currently in Gravity Falls, Oregon, in his home of over thirty years that also serves as a tourist trap, which is his main source of income. Recently, he left it in charge of his long-term employee who also happens to be the closest thing he has to a son. He has a nephew and a niece whom he adores to pieces and for whom he had punched too many creatures, mythical or otherwise, in the faces. He also employed a spunky teenager who reminded him too much of himself when he was young.

"Stanley, are you awake? How are you feeling?"

He turns his head and sees a man staring back at him, nervous and worried.

Oh, and he's a recovered amnesiac who saved the town from an interdimensional Space Demon and had spent a good nine months slowly collecting the memories he lost, most of the time, unwillingly.

The person staring back at him is the original owner of the house and a continuing source of pain in his backside, the same person who went through hell to win his forgiveness back for his past wrongs, who stuck by him and cared for him when he was at his most vulnerable, who refused to give up on him when he was more than happy to hermit his days away at home.

He's also the same person who, unknowingly, convinced him that facing his fears was a good idea.

He isn't wrong.

"Hey Sixer," Stan Pines breathes out with a soft chuckle, "you owe me a boat trip around the world. When can we leave?"

The smile that blossoms on his twin brother's face is a sight to behold. "Anytime," he breathes out, "anytime you want, Lee."

XVI. After Credits

He drove aimlessly through his watering, stinging eyes, his mind still reeling at the fact that he had just been tossed out by his family for nothing more than a stupid mistake. A mistake that he wasn't even give a chance to explain.

"Stupid family," he sniffed and wiped away his tears with his hand. His palms were still stinging from how they scraped against the asphalt when his father had unceremoniously shoved him out the door, but he did his best to ignore it. "Stupid brother."

He'll show them. He'll show them how wrong they were to look down on him. He was going to make millions and when he does, he'll rub it in their big fat faces.

Maybe then, they'd listen. Maybe then, they'd believe him.

He pulled to a stop when he saw the familiar park by the beach. Might as well do his thinking by the swings. It wasn't like he was getting any sleep that night anyway.

The sound of the crashing waves grew louder with every step he took in the sand. It was a nice night; the stars were out and shining, and the air was cool but not too cold to freeze someone like him, who was out in a flimsy cotton tee and a pair of thin jeans. Still, he wrapped his arms around himself as he slowly trudged forward until he could see the set of swings in front of him.

Only, the swings were occupied by a familiar figure.

"Mom?" he cried out in surprise and scrubbed the tears off his face with the back of his arms. "What are you doing out here?"

His mother whipped around and jumped up. "Stanley!"

He has never seen his mother move so fast, and before he could blink, his mother had wrapped him in a tight, desperate hug.

"Stanley, my poor baby," his mother's distressed cries were muffled against his chest. Stanley barely held himself together from breaking down into sobs but tightened his hold around his mother instead. "My poor, sweet Stanley."

"Ma," he choked out, "I didn't mean it! It was an accident! I would never sabotage Ford's project. You believe me, right?"

"Oh, my little bubbe." His mother pulled away from him, her hands still gripping his forearms in a death grip as if she was afraid to let go. Even in the dim moonlight, Stan could make out his mother's heartbroken expression, and it made his heart twist unpleasantly. "I believe you. I know my Stan. You may get angry and frustrated, but you would never do something that cruel."

The relief that crashed into him was palpable.

"Nobody believes me except you, Ma," he said hoarsely. "I don't understand. Why won't they believe me?"

His mother scowled and reached up to smooth down his flyaway hair with gentle, reassuring strokes. "That's because Pines' men are stubborn and pigheaded," she muttered. "I will talk to them and get this sorted out once everyone has calmed down."

"I don't think that will work." Sudden tears pricked his eyes and he blinked them away. "Pop and Ford probably hate me now, and Pop will never let me back until I make that fortune. You know how he gets when he's made up his mind."

His mother shook her head, "They don't hate you, though you may be right about your father. But where will you go? Where will you stay?"

"Aww, don't worry about me, Ma!" he plastered on a wobbly smile. "I'll stay on the beach in the boat. I'm tough! I can take anything Pop throws at me. The old man won't know what hit him."

His mother did not look pleased with the answer, but she nodded anyway. "Alright, I'll bring you proper supplies so you won't freeze to death. I'll also bring you some more money. I know where your father's stash is."

She pulled him down for another fierce bear hug. Stanley could feel her thin arms wrap around his middle and fingers run through his hair. Slowly, he relaxed into the hold and buried his nose against her neck, soaking in the warmth of her body and the comforting scent of vanilla soap and baby powder.

This time, he didn't bother to stop his tears from falling.

"Oh, Stanley," his mother said soothingly over his sobs. "You're strong and capable and resourceful. You'll do just fine on your own. I believe in you. Everything's going to be okay, you see?"

"Everything's going to be okay," she promised as she gently rocked him in her arms. "Everything's going to be okay."

The End

AN: Oh man, I can't believe this thing is done. I have no words to describe how amazing this feels. Cellular Memory has been a journey, and at times, it has been incredibly challenging to write, mainly from the unrelenting writer's block that would get me every now and then. (I have also typed and scrapped over 40 pages of scenes and dialogues from the original story. Never before has any of my fanfics been edited down this thoroughly, to say the least.)

But here we are.

A million thanks to the readers and reviewers. You guys are amazing for sticking by this story to its very end. I know I've said this before, but your reviews are amazing sources of motivation that have gotten me over my writing slumps on numerous occasions, so thanks to everyone who's commented whether it'd be on AO3, FFnet, or tumblr. I do read everything, so rest assured, nobody goes unnoticed. ;)

With that said, please do let me know what you guys think and as always, thanks for reading.

Credit goes to Gravity Falls wiki for their immensely useful transcripts. I've probably gone through the transcript for "A Tale of Two Stans" over fifty odd times already. Also, credit goes to the YouTube video "Is Gravity Falls Really That Great? - Absolutely" for describing Stanley as "a con man with a heart of passable gold substitute", which has got to be the most beautifully hilarious description used for this character ever.