Archive of Our Own

Barreling headfirst into the bubble, Stanford’s body pierces the surface seamlessly. He slows, his inertia running out as he eventually finds himself floating slowly through an infinite-seeming white void. He blinks once, and when he opens his eyes whiteness is starkly replaced by a world of color and forms. The change is so jarring at first he can hardly make anything out besides brown and forest green smudges and dusty-purple colored smears on a rich orange canvas. He stumbles back a step on the ground that had just miraculously materialized beneath him, trying to regain his bearings. After recovering from the sudden shock to his senses, he recognizes his surroundings.

He’s greeted by an idyllic facsimile of the Shack, planted upon the image of an impossibly perfect summer evening. Even the air smells sublime, like dewdrops and pine needles and moist mulch. For a moment he swore he could smell something salty and nostalgic - but it would make little sense for that to have been so, the observation is quickly discarded. The creatures of the forest sound sweetly. He can feel the sound of the chirping of the crickets lower his blood pressure a tad. A breeze whispers by to caress his skin. He almost loses himself to the siren song of serenity for a second, but he knows better. This whole too-perfect-world is a meticulously crafted facade, honey laced with strychnine being poured down the throat of his brother. He knows has to get a move on.

Not knowing what sort of security protocols Cipher implemented into this thing, he ducks behind some nearby foliage with a plan of action. He produces a small star shaped object, a piece of technology clearly not earth-made. He slips it under his sweater and presses it into his sternum as he clicks a button on the face of the object, wincing briefly as the device activates and the tendrils that grow from it break his skin, attaching itself to him. A small blue light glows through his sweater uneventfully three times, upon the fourth, Stanford disappears. The only evidence of his continued existence is the way the simulated light refracts imperfectly at the visual edges of his person, giving him a slight wiggly outline.

He moves out from behind the bushes, slinking quietly towards an open window on the first floor. Stanford was prepared for the worst. After all, this was a fantasy world contrived to be so deeply attuned with Stanley Pines’s mind that it knew him far better than he could ever hope to know himself. Any place made to feed his twin brother's truest desires and fantasies would end up being some sort of grueling nightmare world for Ford. He pictures in his mind a cartoonish image of Stan sitting on a throne built of gold bars and bundles of cash, being served fancy drinks by pretty ladies and hot guys clad in bathing suits who were fervently complimenting him, losing to him at poker or something equally as obsequious. All the while he would be using a sad pathetic Ford who was begging to be forgiven for his wrongdoings, as a footstool. That being the case, what Ford really saw through that window was quite surprising to him. It was simple, and small, and warm, and kind. Two sets of twins relaxing on the couch, watching movies in their pajamas. The older twins sitting with their shoulders touching, each with a little nibling dozing off in their lap. Ford stood there for a few moments, absolutely befuddled. That's it? He was awoken from his brief stupor by the sound of a gravelly voice trying to sound as soft as possible,

“Kids are totally conked out, we oughta get them to bed.”

A Faux-Ford hums in agreement, small smile on his lips as he looks fondly down upon the young boy softly snoring in his lap. The two of them gently scooped up their respective nibling and began towards the stairs. Once Ford- the real Ford- could no longer hear footsteps, he sprang through the living room window as quietly as he could manage. As much as this mission was supposed to be just ‘get Stanley and get the heck out’, Ford couldn’t help but wonder about the nature of this world now. There had to be more to it. It seemed all too saccharine thus far, too selfless.

So Ford finds himself sneakily poking around this place which is so much like home, but still slightly not. He finds a few previously broken things magically fixed. Familiar water stains on the ceiling vanished, rusty hinges un-rusted, ratty carpet softer than before. No Gnomes in the toilet tank or the ac unit or hiding in the ceiling tiles. Despite all the fixups, the place still had the charming and distinct feeling of having been lived in. It's perfectly imperfect. There is no true masterpiece without a loose thread, Ford knows this all too well himself. Eventually he finds his way to his own room. Ah, this should be telling, should it not be? Surely in Stanley’s wildest dreams Ford concedes to being weighed down by his brother, and is dragged into the throes of mediocrity to be chained up there and rot in obscurity forever! And the evidence of that life- one lived wholly in the shadow of his brother would be right behind this door.

Stepping into the darkened room, Ford noted that at first glance it was mostly identical to its real life counterpart. Most of his trinkets were arranged in the same way, on the same old furniture. The only major difference being that Faux-Ford did a lot more decorating on his walls. He gingerly takes a few steps into the dark room. Needing to shine a light in order to really make anything out, he struggles to find his flashlight at first as it was rendered invisible by virtue of being on his person. Eventually a light that seemed to come from nowhere flashes on the wall, making it appear as if it were glowing. The first thing that caught Ford's attention made him roll his eyes. A photo of him and Stan on the deck of a large boat, sea and sky in the background, arms around each other and smiling brightly. They looked middle aged in the photo, maybe mid forties? Moving along, he saw more pictures of family, Sherman and his kids, Dipper and Mabel, more of the Stan twins together with other friends. Even Mabel's little pig (who Stanley “hated”) could be found pictured on the wall. Ford was struck by one photo in particular, one of his mother and father, both with silver hair and more wrinkles than he'd ever seen them with, smiling wide. It must have been some sort of psychic trick played by the bubble, but somehow he knew with conviction the Filbrick he saw here was one who would never raise a hand to his own child. The happy-seeming photo sent a chill down his spine.

All in all, the wall told the story of Faux-Ford's life having been well lived, full of love, joy, and Stan himself. Ford turned to examine the opposite wall now, the light encircling the first thing it found like a halo. It was a diploma. A diploma from West Coast Tech no less. Several, actually, Surrounded by plenty of miscellaneous, nondescript prestigious awards. Ford feels something raw and hot breathe inside his chest, though he isn't quite sure what to call it. It feels like a water balloon full of acid had been placed right between his lungs, and it had just burst. Acid slowly seeping into the surrounding tissue. Eating it away. He was taking only shallow breaths now, folding his arms and balling his fists tightly around the fabric of his sleeves. Was he mourning what could have been if not for his oafish brother's interference? Was he angry at Stan for wanting something for Ford now that he had intentionally inhibited him achieving then? Were his beliefs about Stan's intent even reflective of reality? Ford had been dogmatically certain on this for 40 long years now. Accident or not, Stan is clearly deeply remorseful, doesn't that count for something? He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them deeply with the heels of his hands. He fills his chest with a lungful of air and slowly lets it out. When he opened his eyes they landed on an open black case with a large gold medal resting in the rich velvet lining inside. Ford lazily flicked the light at it. He couldn't help but release a terse bark of surprised laughter. He picked the medallion up to examine it further. Yep, that's a Nobel Prize. Corny. Not in a bad way! Ford found himself smiling.
Perhaps he was wrong about his brother. Ford usually can't stand to be wrong about something, but he finds in this moment he's uncharacteristically cowed by this evidence to accept his brief intellectual failure. But make no mistake, the sour burn of his failure and remorse is still present. After all, he wasted 40 long years being mad at his brother, his twin. Who as a child and adolescent had foolishly flung himself between Ford and whatever impending danger befell him countless times. Who spent 30 years working tirelessly to bring him back home. This revelation that Stanley isn't a complete jerk doesn't absolve him of all sin, of course. But it certainly has opened Ford's eyes to the nature of his brother's real heart of hearts, buried deep under all that ugly old man gruffness. The harsh burn of anger in his chest becomes just warm, but bitter guilt creeps in from elsewhere to supplement the energy lost.

Ford tenses up when he hears two sets of footfalls padding down the hallway. He acts quick in turning off his flashlight and listening in to the banter going on. He can't make anything out in particular, he does glean through happy sounding intonations and airy laughter that his brother seems more than happy to be playing along with this fantasy. This revelation makes some unfamiliar feeling roll around in his gut, he frowns and furrows his brow. Ford stands still as a wax figure as he watches two shadows glide across the floor. Much like most wax figures that have found residence in the Mystery Shack, he becomes animate again as soon as the coast is clear. 30 years of surviving in the multiverse (as a human no less) has taught him how to tail or evade a moving target undetected like it's nothing. This kind of thing is a cakewalk to Ford. he slips out the door and down the hall to pursue his twin and his twin’s “twin”.

Reaching the kitchen, he peeks around the door frame to see Faux-Ford sitting down and setting up a game of chess on the table. He's wearing a cozy looking set of solid navy flannel pajamas with gold colored trim and accents, including a six fingered hand symbol embroidered on the breast pocket. Stanley stands by the stove, pouring hot water into two mugs already adorned with tea bags. He's wearing a similarly cozy outfit consisting of some well loved sweat pants and a handmade-looking red sweater with a golden fish symbol emblazoned on the front. Ford notices the odd choice of clothing considering the summer weather. He suddenly registers that the temperature had dropped in the house, it must've been happening gradually. He glances out the window to see that at some point it had not only become dark out, but a thick layer of snow had materialized itself on the ground outside. Fat, picturesque snowflakes were drifting from a deep blue-black sky, moving slowly as if they were sleepy little creatures settling down to rest. Stan places a mug in front of Faux-Ford, then moves to sit across from him with his own.

Since when has Stan liked chess? Ford really should be grabbing his brother and getting the hell out of this bubble, but being his naturally curious self, he can't help but stay and observe. Ford steps deeper into the room, making sure only to move when the sound of his shuffling would be obscured by one of their voices. Idle chatter and playful ribbing is easily exchanged between the two “twins” as they begin their game. The way Faux-Ford behaves reminds him of his teenage self, which makes sense. That's the version that Stan probably remembers best and or most fondly. There are some differences though, as this Ford seems so unabashedly confident. As Stan lets Faux-Ford tell him of some exciting scientific revelation, Ford notices how not-Ford lets himself fidget, drumming his fingers, humming, and occasionally flapping his left hand around as if shaking it out. The sight of that particular mannerism makes Ford's blood run cold with embarrassment. That was one of those things he couldn't help but do as a child, he had successfully curbed the habit of letting himself do in front of anyone when he was 16. That was the age when his father enforced that he cut the, as he would say, “retard shit”. His schoolmates wouldn’t hesitate to call him out on the habits too, using the same vile, venomous language as his father. He has always felt deeply ashamed of his mannerisms and fought to keep them stringently repressed. Why in god's name would Stan want him to act that way? Maybe Ford still somewhat was right about Stan's need to stand above himself, and this was some sick way that Stan was hedging his ego- a reminder to himself that he wasn't the autistic one. Maybe that's what the chess was for too, beating Faux-Ford at something “smart” to feel superior. Ford’s knuckles would appear white now if they were visible at all, his eyes were burning and he felt as if there was a stone lodged in his throat. Maybe none of that was the case though. Maybe Stan just wanted Ford to be happy with himself, his real, whole self. Ford moved to glance at the board to quickly glean the state of the game, and realized that Faux-Ford was currently wiping the floor with Stan. The whirling mass of confusing, unnameable feelings swimming around in his body was coming to a boiling point.

He’s done enough observing, time to fulfill his mission. Figuring there was no real way to kidnap his brother unnoticed with this toy version of him present in the house, he figures it best to just speak directly with Stanley.

“Ahem”

Both “twins” that sat at the table snapped their neck to face the source of the sound. Faux-Ford was quick to rise from his feet and aim a blaster (seemingly appearing out of thin air) at around where real Ford was standing, still invisible.

“Show yourself!” Faux-Ford bellows.

Stanley stands up and stares through Ford now too, brow furrowed, knuckle dusters appearing on his hands from nothing. Ford reached up to the device planted into his sternum and clicked the button on the front of it. Ford seemed to blink into existence again as the device retracted its tendrils, and fell out of a now visible Ford's sweater onto the floor, landing with a clang. Hands raised defensively, eyes trained on the blaster, Ford otherwise ignored his copy, and addressed his twin directly.

“Stanley, if you might, please call off your plaything” He spoke derisively, though still holding his hands out placatingly. His eyes then fell squarely on his brother, who looked nonplussed and a bit flushed.

“That's enough out of you- show us your true form, monstrous scum!” Faux-Ford bellowed with a heroic bravado. Stan placed his hand on his false brother's shoulder,

“It's okay Sixer, I can take care of this, go to bed.” Stan spoke with an apparent kindness that would make one think he really believed he was speaking to a sentient creature. (did he?) The usage of the nickname, and the intuitiveness of the physical touch had the feeling Ford felt but couldn't name earlier when he heard the two laughing together return to him. It came in the form of a nasty pang in his chest, like a gash in his heart. He suddenly pins it as jealousy.

“Allright Stan, I trust you.” Faux-Ford stood down remarkably easily and walked off. Stan seemed to cringe sheepishly as if embarrassed by his not-brother nature, knowing it to be reflective of his desires. The true brothers made eye contact. Ford was shaking. Stan looked remorseful. Ford composed himself enough to speak,

“We need you Stan, you’re a crucial piece of a prophecy- the Cipher Wheel- the only thing that can bring an end to the destruction of this entire reality. You have to come with me,” Ford spoke succinctly, almost like a drill sergeant giving orders, if not for the near imperceptible tremor in his voice. Stan only sighed in response. Looking quite forlorn, as if he knew this were coming eventually. He took a look around him, at the half finished chess game, and at the chair Faux-Ford had sat at. And then he looked at Ford without quite meeting his eyes.

“Alright Six, I think I understand. I mean that crap you just said to me sounds crazy and makes no sense, but it’s no more crazy than whatever the hell this place is” Stan gestures broadly around them.

His real family is waiting for him somewhere out there. Stan’s silently kicking himself now falling into contentment here, not knowing what was going on out there, or even where “here” was or how he ended up in this place. But when he tried to leave, Pseudo-Sixer was quick to stop him, he said that he loved him and wanted him to stay here more than anything. That's how he knew the thing he was speaking to wasn’t really Ford. He figured he may as well live it up while it lasted though.

“Let's just hope my back don’t start hurtin’ again once we get outta here, huh Sixer?”

“It’s ‘doesn’t start hurting’, Stanley… not ‘don't’”

Ah, now there’s the Stanford he knows.

Stan sneers at the comment and rolls his eyes, but secretly he’s glad his real brother finally showed up. The worry for what the hell his family was up to in the real world that had been simmering in the back of his mind this whole time had been nearing the point at which it would boil over and spoil any fantasy this glorified playhouse could throw at him. There's no fantasy on earth that could ever keep him from his real family (for more than a few days.)