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The Stan O’ War II rocked gently on the open ocean. For once.
Typically, she was involved in some kind of hull-shattering action that beggared belief (even for Stanley Pines’ incredibly high weirdness threshold). Most recently, the Pines brothers had fended off carnivorous sentient sea-potatoes from the Arctic Circle. That had left some nasty scratches in her paint. But they’d made it to dock, patched her up, and set out again. It was a freezing February night, six months since they’d last seen their niece and nephew in person.
Six months since Weirdmageddon.
Stanley was sitting out on a foldable deck chair, iPad propped on his lap with its blue glow reflecting off his glasses. It had been a gift from Ford—one of many. Recently, Stan had put a sliver of masking tape over its camera. Ford had laughed at him when he’d first noticed it, called Stan a paranoid old bastard; but Stan kept it there.
“Honorable Saunterblugget Hampterfuppinshire, you must reconsider your stance on my proposal to your daughter!”
“Yeah, get ‘im, Count Berbelddythorpe,” Stan muttered at the screen. “It’s freaking ridiculous he’s stopping you from marrying the Duchess.”
Ford was relaxing in his own deck chair, scribbling in his journal. No doubt it was some hyper-realistic self-portrait complete with a six-pack fighting the sapient salt ooze they’d encountered last month—Ford had mentioned wanting to record that particular encounter.
“Careful, Ford. If you draw yourself any cooler, I’m going to have to check you into the hospital for an enlarged head.”
“Hm?” Ford frowned, then looked down at his drawing. “How’d you know what I was drawing?”
Stan laughed. “I didn’t, smart one. Thanks for confirming.”
Ford’s cheeks went red, just faintly visible in the moonlight.
“I’m not the one who’s all keyed up while watching The Duchess Approves for the fifth time.”
Stanley scoffed. “Weak, Ford, that was weak. Be better. I’ve still got that recording of you crying over her moving monologue to Count Lionel in the third act. The email is drafted—I can send it to the kids anytime.”
Ford threw his hands up in surrender. “No need to bring out the nukes just yet. Although, if you insist, I happen to have a few photos of you being accosted by sea potatoes.”
Stan looked down at his iPad. The Duchess was now speaking with Count Berbelddythorpe about how they could never be together, as she was of a higher class and it was unseemly for a woman to marry down. “You paused to take photos during that? I was picking potato out of my teeth for a week!”
Ford sniffed. “It was for science,” he said. They stared at each other.
Then they cracked up, both doubled over in laughter. It helped heat them despite the freezing wind—so much for their space heater. In the midst of their laughter, Stan jerked his knee just a little too hard… and his iPad toppled a foot to the ground. A measly twelve inches. The thing cost hundreds of dollars. Surely it could handle a twelve-inch fall.
The expensive screen completely shattered on the Stan O’ War's deck. The Duchess was horribly warped by the dozens of spiderweb cracks shooting through her body.
“Hot Belgian waffles,” Stan cursed. “Shoot. Holy Moses.”
“Are you okay, Stanley?”
All mirth gone, Ford was immediately next to Stan, hands on his shoulders. Stan blinked.
“I’m fine. The iPad isn’t.”
“What?”
Stan pointed at his destroyed tablet. Ford waved a hand at it.
“Who cares? We can get another one. Are you okay?”
Ford’s complete emotional 180 was pretty disturbing. This had been happening more and more—Ford treating Stan like a piece of fine china. It was as if he expected Stan to shatter every morning, and his remaining pieces to be scattered every night. Hell, he hadn’t even been this paranoid when Stan didn’t remember his life.
“Lay off, Poindexter,” Stan said, gently removing Ford’s hands from his shoulders. “Hey. Look. I’m fine. The Duchess is having more trouble than me.”
That got a smile out of Ford, but it was weak. Stan needed to go bigger. Bigger always impressed Ford; got him distracted. Stan paused for a moment, then crossed and unfocused his eyes, trying to look feeble.
“Who’s the Duchess again? Hm. I don’t remember watching this movie.” He pointed at the cracked Duchess. “Might need to experience the joy of watching it for the first time again. Do you have it downloaded?”
It was a pretty poor attempt at humor, but he could not stand this fragile flower attitude from Ford anymore. They needed to be able to joke about it at some point. Everything became funny with enough time, right? Funny, funny, funny. Blame his weak shot on it being 10 at night anyway. Old men like him went to bed at what, 8:30?
Ford’s jaw dropped. And not in a good way. Goodnight, Stan—that had not been the right thing to say.
“Stan? Do you know where you are?”
“Yes, Ford. My name is Stanley Pines, I’m on the Stan O’ War II in the Arctic Circle, I think it’s February 16th, and I just dropped my tablet like a fool. My memory’s fine. I was just cracking wise. Get it? Cracking?”
From his crouching position on the floor, cradling the tablet in his lap, Ford spluttered. “W—cracking wise? About your memory? Stanley, that is no laughing matter! You had me,” Ford took a deep breath, clearly attempting to center himself, “you had me worried. Let’s get you inside. It’s cold out here anyway.”
Stan frowned. “Hang on. No. Did you hear what you just said to me?”
Ford’s eyes blew wide with worry again. “Do you need me to repeat myself?” It was asked in all earnestness.
“No, Ford! I don’t need you to repeat what you just said! You said ‘let’s get you inside’ to me, like I’m some kind of diseased-ridden grandpa with Swiss cheese for brains. You’re old too, remember? Why am I getting the dementia treatment?”
There it was—the word they kept not saying. Dementia.
Ford wasn’t concerned anymore; he was getting angry, and Stan welcomed it. Better anger than sickly-sweet anxiety. “I am not giving you ‘the dementia treatment,’ Stanley. You had a traumatic brain injury six months ago and I’m simply monitoring your wellbeing!”
Stan stood to match Ford. No way was he taking this sitting down. The wind whipped around them, blowing Ford’s scarf around his head. Stanley’s hat, which was the ugly kind with earmuffs and long woven braids, battered against his chin. Ford had gotten it for him in Newfoundland and he’d worn it every day since. Stan had gotten Ford that scarf in Argentina and he’d worn it nearly every day since.
“‘Monitoring’ my ass. You’ve been surveilling me! I found the little cameras you put all over the Stan O’ War, Ford, and don’t think I didn’t notice that they went up after my last memory lapse! Only reason I haven’t taken ‘em all down was to…” He paused to catch his breath, realizing he wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t taken them all down.
“To avoid a confrontation like this?” Ford finished, as cold as the water in which they traveled. “I don’t watch you, Stan. I just have the cameras up in case.”
“In case of what?” Stan exploded. “In case I forget again? In case I fall and can’t get up?” He wasn’t sure where all this was coming from, now, but it tasted like his nightmares. “How do I know you aren’t lying to me about the memory gun? How do I know I really don’t have fucking dementia? Because you sure as shit keep treating me like I do, and I gotta say—having an evil demon living in my brain sounds a lot less likely than an old guy with a high alcohol intake going senile.”
He hadn’t even realized he was scared of this until it was out in the open, but the ocean had pulled it from him and it wasn’t giving it back. The words hung in the air, suspended by moonlight, and Ford could do nothing but stare at his brother.
“You aren’t senile, Stanley.”
Stan snarled. “Coulda fooled me. You’re a stone’s throw from babyproofing the ship.”
“That is not true,” Ford protested. Yeah, right.
Stan did indeed have real memory lapses; he’d admit that. They’d been at their worst when he was still trying to recover huge swathes of his life. He’d be cooking eggs, and next thing he knew, he didn’t recognize his own hands or know how to find the bathroom. They were terrifying, but they always ended. And he hadn’t had a serious one in four months—when Ford put up the cameras.
It wasn’t just the cameras that gave Stan nightmares. Every time he accidentally spasmed, or moved too quickly, or stuttered, or forgot something normal, Ford looked at him like he’d sprouted three heads and was about to smash the ship with a snap of his fingers. He couldn’t stand Ford looking at him like that. Not anymore.
“Cut the bull. You know it’s true. Man of science, right? Can’t deny the truth.” Stanley laughed, and it tasted like freezer burn. “So I’m left asking, what’s wrong? If I’m following the empirical evidence you’re giving me, Dr. Pines, all signs point to me being fucked in the head and you not saying shit about it.”
Ford didn’t respond. He just stood there, holding the stupid tablet with the Duchess’ face on it. The moon shone on his skin and he looked like a ghost. He barely looked real. With the blue glow of the night sky and the sea, he could still have been in the portal for all Stan knew.
“Say something!” Stan commanded. Or begged. He wasn’t sure which.
“You aren’t senile,” Ford said again. He sounded like his tongue was in active rebellion; every word a chore. “I’ve been—paranoid.”
“Oh, come on. Come on. Paranoid? Of what?’
“Bill!” Ford shouted right back. “I’m terrified of Bill, Stanley!”
Bill.
That single innocuous name represented almost everything bad that had happened to the Pines brothers—almost. And it was even more inclusive than Weirdmageddon. Weirdmageddon had just been the past summer; Bill had been the past thirty years.
“Stan, I don’t know if you understand—” and wow, did that hurt, “—but I shot you! It was… it was the culmination of all of Bill’s machinations! It was the ultimate punishment, my greatest sin made manifest! My ego, my selfishness, my narcissism and pigheadedness, and you paid the price. And even worse,” Ford laughed, but it was dry and eerie, “even worse, I only realized after. After it was done. And you were gone.”
Ford stared at Stanley. Stan could tell his brother didn’t see him.
“I’d been the multiverse’s biggest idiot for sixty-two years, and I only realized how much of a fool I was after you were gone,” he repeated, and that word made Stan feel sick. Gone. Gone. He’d been gone. There was room for someone else to crawl in.
“I killed you,” Ford said, and Stan could hardly hear him over the words he said next. “And I’ve been scared I replaced you with Bill.”
“What.”
“Bill was in your mind, Stanley.” Ford lunged forward, far too reminiscent of his thirty-year-old self, mad with exhaustion and gripping a crossbow. “Then there was no one. Not even you. Do you understand? Bill is a god. He has a far better chance of recovering his life than you. Even if you survived, that means he would survive as well, he has to, and I know what it’s like to have him in your mind, and I just condemned you to a life with Bill eternally trapped in your—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ford. Back it the fuck up.” Now it was Stan’s turn to put his arms on Ford’s shoulders. “Bill’s dead. I suckerpunched that chucklefuck through the nine circles of Hell. Anything I’ve been forgettin’ is just that—I forgot it. Bill ain’t playing me like a fiddle.”
Not like you went without saying.
“But—he could still be there,” Ford said weakly. “You’re back. He wouldn’t let you be back without him being back too.”
Then Ford folded into his older (by twelve minutes) brother and cried.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Stan whispered as he tried to figure out where, exactly, the conversation had gone so wrong. He’d just meant to get Ford to stop treating him like spun sugar. Not for—this. This ugly zit-pop of pure, undiluted fear.
“I’m not Bill,” Stan tried, but the declaration sounded weak even to Stan, and Ford just cried harder. Shit.
“Hey, I think you were right earlier. We really should go inside.” Ford’s snot was freezing on his face, dribbling into his scarf, and it didn’t look comfortable at all. Ford went without complaint as Stan corralled him into their tiny galley kitchen. The blast of heat was overwhelming but not unwelcome.
“Sit down. I’m gonna make some warm milk and vanilla.”
He hadn’t pulled out that recipe since Dipper had gotten the sniffles. But it was a Caryn Pines classic, and her sons always kept a few vanilla pods on hand. It was a sign of how disturbed Ford was that he neglected to say anything about Stan’s choice of beverage.
When the milk was heated and the scent of vanilla began to fill the kitchen, Ford found it in himself to speak.
“I know you’re not Bill,” he said. It was spoken as an unvarnished truth of the universe. “You’re Stanley Pines. My brother. My family.” Ford looked down. They existed in simple silence until the milk was done. Soon, the kitchen was filled with the clatter of tin mugs and scraping chairs. Stan sat across from Ford, close enough to touch if needed but far enough to prevent crowding.
“I haven’t been a good brother,” Ford said, and there were a million rebuttals on the tip of Stan’s tongue. There were. But it seemed like Ford needed to speak without interruption, and the longer Stan didn’t say anything, the more crushed Ford looked.
“What happened to us?” Ford asked. Questioning. A scientist to the end.
Stan sipped his milk. Yeah, he still got it. Caryn Pines coulda been in the room with them.
“Hell if I know,” Stan said. Remarkably, Ford laughed, hard enough for tears to come to his eyes. Stan didn’t find it particularly funny.
“Stan, I’m sorry.”
“Oh God, Ford. You keep on saying that, and it’s not gonna mean anything anymore.”
Ford had apologized so much the first month after Weirdmageddon that they’d had to instill a Mabel invention, the ‘Ford Apology Tracker’, just to stop him from apologizing. If he apologized too much (more than five times a day) to anyone for any reason, he had to put a dollar in the Sorry Jar for every uttered apology.
Stan had been able to treat himself and Ford to breakfast at Greasy’s with the Sorry Jar’s earnings. And then some.
“But I mean it,” Ford very predictably said, and Stan nudged the milk closer to him. “You could have died. You could have had a fate worse than death.”
Stan smiled at his own mug. “Well, we’re lucky that didn’t happen then, right? Besides, you can’t con a con man, and you can’t out-punch Stanley Pines. Bill never had a chance against this one.” He tapped his temple, and Ford cracked a smile—the first real one of the night. Good.
Ford shook himself. “You’re right, Stanley. I’ve been ridiculous. I’ll take down those silly cameras. And I’ll be more honest with you about my fears.” A hard glint shone in his eyes. “‘Trust no one.’ The rantings of a madman. You’re my twin. If I can’t trust you, I can’t trust anyone,” he said, and gripped Stan’s arm.
“Likewise,” Stan said, milk curdling on his tongue.
Ford breathed out. “Well, that was enough excitement for one night. I’m headed to bed. You coming?”
“Oh, I think I wanna step out and enjoy the stars for a while,” Stan said. He neglected to mention that he still had to clean up the shattered iPad.
“Okay, Stan. Whatever makes you comfortable. My life vest's right by the stairs; you can wear it. I think yours is still on the deck.”
“I think you’re right,” Stan echoed. He had no intention of wearing any life vest. Ford stood, unaware of this fact. Stan rose to meet him.
“I love you,” Ford said, and he pulled Stan into a massive hug. Stan felt Ford’s damp scarf tickle against his jaw, annoying and itchy. He wouldn’t have traded the feeling for anything in the world.
“Love you too, Sixer.”
The Stan O’ War’s deck was still cold and still beautiful. Moonlight swirled around Stan, crystal-clear and glistening in the effervescent sea spray carried by the wind. His and Ford’s chairs were abandoned around the space heater. Grunting, he leaned over and turned it off—no point in letting a fire hazard grow. Alone in the winter air, Stan folded up the chairs and put them away, silent as he worked. The boat rocked beneath his feet. If he wasn’t careful, he could fall into the depths.
After staring out at the black water for a minute, Stan returned his attention to the deck. His broken tablet was still on the floor, the Duchess’ ruined face long since gone dark. He staggered over to it and sat down, uncaring of the frost leaching through his pants.
There was a reason he was scared he was going senile—no. He wasn’t scared. He hoped he was going senile, hoped Ford would crack and admit the Stan O’ War II was some elaborate nursing-home ruse, because the alternative was a hell of a lot worse.
Stan hadn’t just gotten his memories back after Weirdmageddon. He’d gotten Bill’s, too.
Naturally, he had not told a single soul. He doubted he ever would. After all, it could easily be part of some nightmare construct he’d invented in his mind. Seriously—how likely was it that he had the memories of a trillion-year-old god rattling around in his head? No doubt it was some post-traumatic side effect from experiencing the apocalypse. Even so, he never went to Ford to confirm their truth. It was one of those things he’d rather have plausible deniability for.
Every time he had a memory lapse, he came back terrified—not because he didn’t know where he was, but because he could have only been left with Bill’s memories and not Stan’s. Every time he returned to himself with both sets, he told himself it could have been worse. And since the memory lapses had stopped, that mantra had begun to apply to his nightmares. Dreams where Dipper and Mabel were crushed in his fist as he decided which one to kill first. Dreams where planets he didn’t recognize in dimensions his mind couldn’t fathom burned to atomic dust.
He woke up retching from these dreams. Told Ford his sea-sleeping legs clearly needed to be stretched. That excuse was wearing thin after five months at sea.
Stan fiddled with the broken glass on his tablet. Silver light bounced off the screen and lit up his hand, encasing it in a crisp, blue glow. He dropped the tablet again. The Duchess’ face lit up the screen once more, her tears mingling with shards of glass.
He regretted what he’d said to Ford earlier. Nothing in the world could make him want to have another memory lapse—not even the chance to rewatch The Duchess Approves.
Not when someone else could slip in and take his place.
“Stan?” Ford called from the cabin. Stan nearly jumped from his skin. “Are you out there without a lifejacket? What did I tell you?”
“Sorry, Ford!” Stan called when he was certain his voice would sound like his and not someone else’s. “I just forgot.”
“Ha. Very funny. I’m out of the shower if you want to take one—there should still be hot water.” And Ford lumbered back into the Stan O’ War.
Stan picked up the tablet; it wasn’t safe to leave hazardous material out on deck. Once again, moonlight made his hand glow blue. He tucked his hands behind his back—a trick he’d learned from Ford—and made his way down to the cabin.
He had nightmares again.
They disposed of the broken iPad at their next stop. When Ford offered to get him a replacement, Stan declined. All he needed technology for was to call the twins, anyway, and Ford’s computer worked just fine for that.
When Ford asked what his nightmares were about, Stan made stuff up. Once a mark, always a mark, and Ford wasn't difficult to lie to. It was the right thing to do, anyway. Hopefully.