Archive of Our Own ^beta

Stan was always just that. Stan. Occasionally, Stanley, and sometimes even Lee, but in the end, he was Stan. And Stan had a twin, Ford. His other half, with lofty dreams that always extended so far away from Glass Shard, and an extra finger on each hand. Stan and Ford, Ford and Stan. Who took on the world together and were eventually outcast as a pair. Ford for his hands and Stan for his fierce protectiveness of those hands, and maybe for something else, too. 

What many people did not know was that Stanley was just as much a freak as Ford when you got down to it. You see, Stan’s freakishness was not as visible as his brother’s, and that came as both a blessing and a curse. 

When Caryn Pines left the hospital with her newborn boys in her arms and her husband by her side, nothing was amiss. Sure, they hadn’t been expecting twins, and maybe Stanford being born with six fingers on each hand was a shame, but she loved them all the same. Everything was as normal as it could be in the Pines household for many years, until the boys were four. There had been a few hiccups here and there, but nothing she and Filbrick couldn’t handle with a bit of elbow grease, that was, until her beautiful boys came to her with a question. 

“Ma?” A young Stanford asked, his voice so small but his big dark eyes wide, looking up at his mother. Stanley stood by his side, hands behind his back, looking surprisingly bashful for her normally rambunctious and hyperactive toddler. 

Caryn smiled, and a small chuckle left her red-painted lips, not resisting the urge to pinch both twins’ cheeks, still large with baby fat, and oh so cute. Stanford gave a small noise of protest, trying to push the offending hand away, but his small giggle gave away his true feelings on the matter, while Stanley squawked indignantly.

“Yea’, sweetheart? Whatcha need?” Caryn questioned, releasing her boys from their torment. Both went to rub their slightly red cheeks in perfect sync, forcing Caryn to hold back yet another chuckle at their antics, lest Stanford forget what he was going to ask.

“Well, we was wonderin,” Stanford paused, glancing at Stanley, who had taken to staring at his feet while rubbing his hands together in front of him. “Lee and I were in the bath and we wanted to know why we look so different. Since we’re identical twins, shouldn’t we look the same?” He questioned, tilting his head up at his mother. 

Caryn's heart squeezed, her thoughts immediately going to Stanford’s hands.

“Well, honey, you know that your hands-” Stanford interrupted his mother with a shake of his head. “No, Ma, I know why my hands are different, but we mean- um.” Stanford’s checks heated a bit as he averted his eyes. “Down there. Why are we different down there?” 

Caryn’s head whipped down at her son. Confusion and concern made war in her brain. Both her boys had been potty-trained for a good year now. They tended to prefer to take baths by themselves now, usually still together (they got scared when they were by themselves) but without their mother present, because ‘they were big boys now, they knew how to wash!’ All this being as it was, Caryn had not been privy to any new changes in either of her boys. Caryn’s concern only grew, and she kneeled to be on eye level with her sons. 

“What do ya’ mean, baby?” She asked calmly, aiming not to scare the twins in case it wasn’t something serious. Stanford glanced at Stanley and grabbed his hand, nodding at him. Apparently, this signalled to Stanley that it was his turn to do the talking, because he shuffled forward hesitantly.

“We was in the bath playing pirates like ‘usual and I noticed that I’s got parts that Ford don’t,” He said, one hand playing with the hem of his striped shirt, the other still clutching Ford’s hand. 

Caryn paused, completely taken aback, still not sure what her boys meant. “Parts?” She questioned lightly.

Stanley huffed, frustrated that his mother didn’t understand what he meant, but stayed quiet, the four-year-old not having the words to explain himself. 

Caryn signed and motioned for Stanley to come to her, which he did after reluctantly letting go of Ford’s hand. Caryn placed her hand on his small back and tried her best to give him a reassuring smile. 

‘Why dontcha show your Ma what you’re talkin’ bout?” She pushed, and Stan glanced at her and shrugged. He was at the age where he wasn’t yet embarrassed to be naked in front of his mother, so he started to shimmy out of his pants, and Caryn’s hand flew to her mouth in shock, making the twins stare at their mother in fear that something was seriously wrong with Stan.

Caryn’s eyes widened, and she took a deep breath past her fingers to keep herself calm. Her son had both sets of genitalia between his legs. How this came about, she had no idea, and she was stricken with fear for what this would mean for her ‘son’. 

And that changed almost everything, Stan thinks. His Ma had ranked up his pants in a tizzy and rushed to Pa, telling him they needed to go and see a doctor right away. But Pa had just looked down at his child, a look of disgust visible, even with his ever-present sunglasses, and with a gruff tone told his Ma, ‘Well, he’s got a penis, don’t he? Then he’s a man.’ Stan had never seen his father look at him that way before, the way he looked at Stanford sometimes when he had his back turned, like there was something wrong  with him. Stan didn’t understand at the time, but his father’s decree would change his life, and not for the better, never for the better whenever Pa was concerned, really, Stanley mused. Caryn had looked at her child and said, ‘You can’t tell anyone, baby. This needs to be this family's little secret.’ And Stanley and Stanford had looked at each other, confused, but excited. A secret just for them! And life continued.

The first time Stan didn’t feel like Stan was when he and Ford were 12. Almost a teenager and filled with so much life that sometimes he wonders where that all went as the years passed. It had been a long day at the beach, and Stan’s chest was sore. He complained loudly to his brother, who had suggested it was from when he had jumped off the Stan ’O War and fallen face-first into the glass-infested sand, which, duh, Sixer, that was his face, not his chest. 

So they went home, sure to get back before dark lest their Ma get worried, or their Pa lecture them until his face turned purple. Again. Ugh.

With a quiet huff, Stanley continued to rub at his chest, trying in vain to ease the pressure. His twin noticed with a quiet look of concern and took one of Stanley’s hands in a gesture of silent comfort. Their Pa would have their heads if he knew that they still did things like this instead of manly punches and arms slung over shoulders, which they also did, but sometimes they needed something softer. 

Once home, Stan immediately collapsed into bed, hoping that his chest would ease after a nap. Ford glanced at his brother’s dramatics and shrugged, getting out a book to read at their shared desk. 

And that was only the beginning of Stan’s troubles. His already unstable mood became even more erratic, and his chest hurt all the time. His Ma had attributed it to growth spurts, and as the years went on, both twins steadily began to grow, when one day at age 14, Ford was awoken to the horrified screaming of his twin. 

“Stanley! What? What’s wrong?” Ford exclaimed frantically, scaling down their bunk in record time just to see his brother looking up at him hysterically, his bed sheets covered in a sickly red sheen, which Ford realized with a sickening jolt was blood. 

Doing what any reasonable person would do, Ford screamed, “Maaaa!” 

In a few seconds, their mother burst through the door and gasped. Ushering a protesting Ford out of the room, Caryn kneeled by the bed and took Stan’s terrified face in her hands. “Oh, my free spirit. My little Stanley.” In a tone so defeated and so, so sad that Stan couldn't decipher it at the time. Looking back now, he knew his mom was scared for him, scared for his future, and the world without a place for people like him in it.

Puberty was one of those things that Stan would put in the category of  “Stanley would rather have had to chew his way out of the trunk of a car, until that actually happened, so maybe not”.  While he and Ford had been growing steadily for the past couple of years, Stan began to stagnate while his twin continued to grow an extra two inches. Stan began to notice the… curves that he got that his brother did not. Slightly wider hips and a fuller chest, compared to his brother’s slim waist and flat figure. It was no secret that Stan was chubby, and for once, it served him well, hiding most of the curves that began to appear as he grew. His face didn’t lose the baby fat that his brother seemed to burn like particularly dry paper, and Stan’s jawline stayed soft for longer as opposed to his twins’. It was just another thing that kids made fun of him for. Levying their ire at him for something other than his lack of brains for once, and instead teasing him for being so ‘feminine’ and looking like a fairy or whatever brand of insult they could think of next. 

So he got better at punching, not just defending his brother’s honor but his own now, too. He took boxing and got stronger, grew more muscle to counteract the ever-present softness of his frame that seemed to never leave, no matter how much he worked. Kept his hair short and refused to acknowledge what was between his legs; if he didn’t think about it, it wasn’t real. 

It wasn’t just the kids that grew worse, and his fists would not help him here. His father, who he knew never liked him in the first place, became yet another thing to endure. He would look at Stan with so much disgust, so much hatred that he often wondered if maybe. Well. Maybe, it would be better not to exist at all than to see Pa look at him that way. Ford would reassure him that Pa didn’t hate him; he was their father, and surely that meant something, right? But Stan knew better. He knew better, and wasn’t that something? To know something that Ford didn’t. 

He always had his brother, even when the things everyone said about him started to show in the slump in his shoulders and tension behind his smile. Curled up on the bottom bunk together, knees brushing, and Stan was desperately trying to hold back the heat that threatened to spill from his eyes. Ford knew the pain of being different all too well. 

“You’re a freak.”

Stan’s head shot up, his expression one of shock and a flash of hurt. But Ford only smiled sadly, taking Stan’s hands in his own, interlocking six with five. 

“You’re a freak, Stan, but so am I,” Ford stated simply, looking into Stan’s eyes. Both pairs of dark brown, the exact same shade, were shiny with tears unshed. 

“And maybe we’re different, and maybe we’ll never be normal, but you have me and I have you,”  His brother was never one for profound words or conversations that held emotions so starkly, so to say Stan was shocked would be the understatement of the century. Stan was the loudmouth, the overemotional one, but for once, he was silent. 

“We’re freaks.” 

And Stan let that comfort him. He let the words soak into his heart, and he let out a breath. He and his brother were never normal, never what the world wanted them to be, but they had each other, and that was enough. It had to be.

It wasn’t enough. The day Stan’s life turned upside down, his brother wasn’t with him anymore. When he felt the gravel on his back and the bag hit his chest and saw his own broken expression reflected in the sunglasses that he knew hid the eyes of a man who had never truly cared for him. He had ruined the one thing, the one relationship with the only person who understood him. He had been blinded by his need to leave. To get out of this godforsaken town that may not know the truth, but persecuted him anyway.

He got in the El Diablo and tried to forget the burning anger, the stab of betrayal, and the feeling of loss that he knew he had no right to feel. 

He found himself lost. He doesn’t tell anyone more than they figure it out. He’s in year four on his own, and he’s tried and failed to start his own business, gotten into debt, gotten out of it, and gotten back into debt the very next day. He’s been on the end of shitty deals and back alley dealings, and he’s been stabbed and beaten and used, and he’s so, so tired.

He quickly learns that people pay a lot for things they think are unique. Some fake gold chains he steals and resells that he swears are real to whoever asks, some brand new drug that gives you a great trip (when in reality it’s just some Tylenol he managed to snag from some random corner store), and himself. 

Stan never really felt one way or another about selling himself. If some John wants a quick blow in exchange for a ten, who is he to judge? It doesn’t matter how dirty he feels afterwards, or how badly he feels the need to scrub his skin raw in a shower, and when was the last time he got to have a good, honest shower? Moses, way too long.

But in the end, Stan keeps doing it, and eventually the newest John is a man named Rico, and he’s pouring sweet, sweet sugar in Stan’s ears and telling him he can save him, and Stan has never needed saving, but a bed and warm meal sound so nice. So what if he’s peddling some drugs across the border? And maybe he’s gotta suck off a fucker or two, because apparently he’s good at it and word got around, but Rico is fair and he gets a decent cut. But then he’s asking for more and more and more.

“Oh, common, think of how much more you’ll make,” Rico says, his accent thick, and Stan can hear that he’s nearing the end of his rope. He doesn’t know how he did it, but Rico seems to like him enough to ask him before forcing him to do what he wants. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of Stan’s neck, because what happens if Rico finds out? He could beat the shit out of him and make him leave the gang, or worse. He could see an opportunity. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, jefe. I’m plenty good with my mouth, doncha think?” He says, trailing off with a chuckle that doesn’t come out half as naturally as he hoped.

“Not a good idea?” Rico questions. That dangerous edge that follows all of his words, cutting through the air and piercing Stan in the heart.  Stan backtracks immediately, knowing he fucked up, and isn’t that a surprise? Stan thinks sarcastically. “I’m not-not trying to question ya’, yeah? Just think s’not worth the hassle.” Stan settles on, hoping it’s enough.

It’s not. Rico strides up to Stan, who was leaning in the doorway of whatever motel Rico had dropped him at so he could do his business, and grabs his face in a punishing grip, forcing Stan to look up at him. Stan barely forces down the yelp that threatens to rise in his throat at the action, and Rico’s dark eyes are burning when he looks into them. “You’re getting too comfortable, Pinesfield. What I say goes. You’re mine to use how I please.” Rico’s voice is smooth and sure, and his expression morphs into a smirk that Stan sees often directed at other men who crossed Rico in one way or another, but rarely at him anymore. 

“I’ll be your first customer, how does that sound, bebe? Get those first-time jitters out?” Rico says, voice dropping low. Stan’s heart plummets, and Rico releases his face with a sharp jerk, and even though Stan is not small by any means, the force throws him to the ground near the ratty motel bed. 

And Stan can’t do much to stop what happens next, unless he wants to end up with so many new hurts tomorrow that he can’t stand for the next week. He lets Rico undress him, something he has never done, not even when servicing other men. To Stan’s credit Rico does pause, his eyes going wider than Stan has ever seen and mutters a short ‘bueno seré condenado…’ Stan is breathing heavily and he thinks maybe he’s floating because this doesn’t feel real, one of his most well guarded secrets is out and Stan; big strong, tough-as-nails, Stan, has never felt more scared in his life. Then Rico grins, not unlike a certain ocean creature, and it takes everything in Stan not to start crying then and there. Rico runs his calloused hands along Stan’s sides, making him shiver. Draping his large body across Stan’s, Rico chuckles into the crook of Stan’s neck, the warmth of his breath making something in Stan recoil so violently he’s surprised he doesn’t flinch. 

“Oh, I can work with this, bebe.” 

And Stan has no illusions about purity or any of that pretentious bullshit, but he feels a piece of himself scrape away.

It goes like this for a few months. He gets called a freak and every other insult under the sun, but they still fuck him all the same. Some come to Rico specifically because he’s got an honest to God hermaphrodite? Eventually, Stan fucks this up, as is what he does best, he supposes. He borrows a bit too much from the gang, he refuses Rico too many times, and the final straw is when he botches a deal so important that it’s a shock that Rico didn’t shoot him on the spot.

When he finally breaks free from that godforsaken trunk, minus five teeth and a new fear of enclosed spaces, he thinks that, maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t have fought so hard to survive this time around.

Stan eventually learns to live again. He avoids Rico’s men, and he can never stay in one place for too long, but he makes it work, just as he always does. He steals and he lies, but by some miracle from a God he no longer believes in, he finds himself with an honest job for the first time since he was 16 and saving up for the El Diablo. One day, he stumbles into a bar and he’s chatting up this pretty blonde, who he’s not really sure is a man or a woman, but who is he to judge? Turns out they’re one of the owners, and that’s how he finds himself a bouncer at a gay bar. Maybe not technically legal by police standards if they knew what kinda bar it actually was, but shockingly steady for someone like him.  

Stan found himself drawn to the queers and the trannies of the world, always has. He never put much thought into how he fit into that crowd; he fucked who he wanted, and whatever he had going on downstairs had to put him in with these kinds of people in some way, right? It had bothered him when he was still in high school, constantly telling himself that the glances he gave to the other guys in the locker room were completely normal, and that when he couldn’t look away from Brock Chambers' sophomore year, it wasn’t a crush. He liked Carla, so what’d it matter, anyway? But he eventually found himself on his bed, head in his hands, and thought, Oh God, I’m a fag, and added it to the list of things that made Stanley Pines a freak. 

He wasn’t exactly screaming it from the high heavens, unless he was itching to get his ass beat, but he couldn’t care less anymore. So he’s a queer, what difference does it make? A big one, apparently, but not always in a bad way. Working at the bar was, well, Stan could almost call it great. He could flirt with whom he wanted, he got to punch some jerks when they got too handsy, and best of all, he got to watch the drag shows. 

Stan never thought he’d be one for the flashy makeup, outlandish outfits, and raunchy songs played on shitty speakers, but every night he found himself entranced by the drag queens on stage and the performance of it all. Stan was a showman at heart, and he found himself thinking, I want to do that. 

A few weeks later, one of the queens he chats to after hours is coming up to him with a hand on her hip and a look in her eye that has Stan flashing her a smile to counteract his nerves. Her name is Cassy, and she’s always been one of Stan’s favorites, with her long blood-red nails, bright gold makeup, and bright blue sequin dress that’s cut so low it reaches mid-belly but trails off behind her in an elegant sweep.

“Well, Stannie, I've got a proposition for ya’,” Cassy says in her typically deep, smooth voice with a hint of southern twang. “I need someone to cover for me next weekend, got some family stuff see, and I know you were talking ‘bout giving drag a try, how’s ‘bout it, shug?” 

And that’s how Stan finds himself in blue eyeshadow, a bright red sparkly dress, four-inch heels, and decked out in so much fake gold that he’s sure he could blind a man. When he’s done putting himself together, he looks in the small, cracked mirror that all the queens use in the back room, and he sees someone pretty. Stan has to sit down because he-she looks so good. So right. She didn’t know she was missing out on something so amazing until she indulged. And when she went out on stage to dance to a song she can’t even remember picking, she had never felt more alive. She performed like her life depended on it, and by the end of the song, her bra was stuffed full of dollar bills and an unfathomable amount of sweat. When her song finally finished, Stan glanced up as she heard a familiar voice cheering. There was Cassy, sitting in the back of the bar, clapping and hollering louder than anyone else. Sly bastard, Stan had thought fondly. 

And so Stan found a new hobby. She would bounce during the weekdays, perform on the weekends, and get drinks at a different bar with the other queens whenever they were free. It was almost perfect. Finally surrounded by people who Stan could be Stan around. Maybe she wasn’t fully honest, but Stan was never honest, but she was so much closer to the real thing since high school that it shocked her. One of the other queens asked Stan one day when they were drunk and shooting the shit, ‘So what do you wanna be called? You a transvestite or just a man in a dress?’ and Stan had paused, unsure how to answer, because she was supposed to be a man, she was a man all her life, but she was never really a man, was she? No matter what her Pa had said, it didn’t change how she was born, but it didn’t really make her a woman, though, did it? So Stan had shrugged and said, ‘You can call me what ya’ want, makes no difference ta’ me.” And she meant that. If someone thought he was a man, then he was a man; if they thought she was a woman, then she was a woman. 

And Stan thinks this may have been one of the best periods of her life until it all went to shit, and really, she should have seen it coming with how prone she was to every good thing in her life being ripped away from her. She had been performing one night, done up to the nines and feeling on top of the world, when the police burst through the door and raided the place. Stan did her best to give the other queens time to hightail it outta dodge. She fought with fists and teeth, but in the end, she was taken in along with half the residents of the bar. And when she was called an ‘it’ by the police who forced her hands behind her back and were none too gentle, well, it supposed it was that too. 

Stan found herself locked up after that. She was 26, but she wasn’t. She was 17 again and begging for her brother to look at her through the curtain. It wasn’t her first time in prison, but that had been only two days when she got busted for prostitution. Sitting on the cold, wet floor of her cell, in week three, she could only think. I want my brother back. 

Stan used her one phone call. He didn’t pick up.

When Stan got out five months later, she went back to the bar to find it completely destroyed. With no way to contact any of the people she had come to care about, Stan did what Stan does best and ran away. 

Stan was alone again, the gnawing loneliness that had faded with the connections he had nourished came back with the rushing force of a tide, not unlike those he used to wade through when he still dreamed of sailing away with his brother at his side.

…

Stan felt spit land on his cheek, and he thinks, maybe I should wipe that shit off, but he’s so tired and he’s hurting so bad, and he may just pass out. He thinks they hit him in the head, but he can’t really tell with the way his vision is blurring and all his limbs feel like they are filled with lead. When he comes back to himself, it’s to the sight of someone kneeling in front of him, one of their hands on his shoulder and before he can process it he’s reeling back and kicking out with his legs, because fuck why does his arm hurt so bad, and hits the person square in the chest sending them both hurtling in opposite directions. Stan scrambles to gain his footing and puts his arms up in a boxing stance he remembers by heart. 

“Ow, man, fuck!” He hears a deep shout and looks to see who was the unlucky victim of Stan’s boot to the breast. A man with long bleached blonde hair pulled out of his face with a red bandana, a leather jacket adorned with studs, and most notably, a killer mustache. 

Stan is breathing heavily; he can taste the blood from where he bit into his cheek during the fight he had just moments prior. A bat to the cheek tends to do that, Stan muses. The man draws up to his full height; he easily has a good three inches on Stan, and he’s far more built. Stan tries not to let that intimidate him.

“I don’t want any trouble, man. Just saw you looked like hell had been raised over and wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.” The man spoke softly but clearly, his hands up in a placating gesture. Stan felt a bit patronized and maybe a bit turned on (seriously, who just has a voice like that-) but his thoughts quickly turned to the fact that he was currently struggling to stay conscious and upright.

Stan wobbled, teetering to the side dangerously, and this time he let the man reach out and steady him without protest. “What happened to you?” The man mumbled, more to himself than to Stan, but Stan answered anyway, his brain too full of fuzz to even think about lying. “Tried t’ rob a guy… or he tried t’ rob me? Don’ really ‘member. He had a bat.” Stan broke off with a small giggle, definitely about to pass out.

Once he returned to consciousness, Stan found himself in a bed, which was a rare occurrence in itself and put him on edge immediately. The man from earlier strode into the room, a glass of water clutched in his hand, which he held out to Stan. With a healthy amount of hesitation and inspection of the glass to make sure it wasn’t laced, he took a sip, which quickly turned into a chug. The man chuckled softly, and Stan took note of the laugh lines that appeared around his eyes when he did so. 

The man’s name was Jimmy Snakes, which Stan had called bullshit on immediately and had gotten a resounding laugh for his totally justified questioning, because who the hell named their kid Jimmy Snakes? When Stan asks how Jimmy found him in the alley, Jimmy says he had heard some commotion outside the biker bar he frequents and went to investigate and found Stan beaten and bloody. Stan doesn’t understand why this absolute mountain of a man would go out of his way to help a clearly homeless stranger, but Jimmy just says, ‘Well, I wasn’t just gonna leave you there,’ and Stan is still confused, but he does his best not to let it show. Jimmy then offers to let Stan stay until he’s healed enough to stand without stumbling, and against his better judgment, Stan agrees. Maybe it was the sincerity in those pale blue-green eyes or the way Jimmy had smiled so softly, showing off his small snaggletooth, but Stan finds it hard to resist him.

Stan ends up staying with Jimmy for much longer than it takes him to regain his strength. He finds the El Diablo right where he left it a week later while searching with Jimmy, but he doesn’t get in and drive away, no, Jimmy takes his hand and simply says Stay. 

So Stan stays, and Jimmy becomes a boon. He’s clever and snarky, but oh so sweet. A bit of a temper when pushed and a protective streak a mile wide. He runs a small biker gang, although maybe gang is the wrong word. They mostly just drive around, hopping from place to place and chatting at bars, and occasionally beating up the guys who get just a bit too handsy with girls in the clubs, but who’s to say? Stan is treated to rides on Jimmy’s bike, and he loves the feeling of his front pressed against Jimmy’s back as they go racing down the freeway, hair flying and laughing so loud they can hear it over the rushing of the wind in their ears. 

They’re in Jimmy’s living room when it happens. The apartment is small and worn, but it’s homey and alight with all things Jimmy. Stan is sitting on the threadbare couch, nursing a beer in one hand, the other draped across the couch behind him. Jimmy sits directly next to him, close enough that their thighs touch and their knees knock every time they shift. He’s holding his own beer and clearly relaxed, and his eyes keep flicking to where they are pressed together. With a quiet thunk, Jimmy sets down his drink on the side table, motioning for Stan to do the same. Stan complies with a subtle tilt of his head in question. 

“Stan,” Jimmy starts turning to face the other man. He gently raises his hand to hover beside Stan’s cheek, and when Stan does not protest, he cups the brown haired man’s face, his hand large enough to cup the side of Stan’s neck along with the bottom half of his face. He leans forward, and the air is thick with tension as their breath begins to mingle. “Is this alright, baby?” Jimmy questions, voice low and soothing. Stan doesn’t need to think; he nods immediately, but Jimmy does not close the distance like he had hoped, instead looking Stan directly in the eye. “I need you to tell me.” He says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and Stan is starstruck. 

“Yes, please.” Stan does not beg, but it sounds dangerously close. And then Jimmy is kissing him, and Stan had never believed those cheesy romance books he swore to Ford he didn’t read, but it was so perfect he could practically see the sparks. Jimmy’s lips were slightly chapped, and he’s sure his were the same, but they were so warm and inviting that Stan practically melted against the other man. With a gentle but firm grip, Jimmy pulls Stan closer by the waist and pulls him into his lap. Stan’s hands find the back of Jimmy’s hair, and he opens up eagerly when Jimmy’s tongue runs along his lower lip. They both waste no time exploring each other’s mouths with vigor. Their mouths move in sync, and when they finally pull away for breath, Stan says,

“You were holding out on me, Snakes.” Jimmy chuckles, and Stan is enamored with how he can fit so much joy in a single sound. “Look at you,” Jimmy says softly, taking a hand from Stan’s waist and cupping his face again. Stan is sure he looks a mess, hair ruffled, face flushed, and lips red from the earlier treatment, but at least Jimmy doesn't seem to mind. Stan looks into Jimmy’s eyes, and the tender look he receives is too much, so Stan fixes that by forcing their mouths together once again. 

They somehow end up on Jimmy’s bed, and then Jimmy is reaching for the hem of Stan’s shirt while mouthing at his neck. Stan’s brain screeches to a halt because Jimmy doesn’t know. Stan couldn’t handle Jimmy hating him, or thinking he was a freak; he just couldn’t. Jimmy seems to notice Stan’s inner dilemma and stops his ministrations, a look of concern crossing his face. 

“We can stop if you want, babe,” Jimmy says reassuringly, and Stan is quick in response. “No! No, I don’t want to stop, I just…” Stan trails off, avoiding Jimmy’s eyes. “I’m-I’m different, Jim,” Stan states plainly. “I’m not normal.” 

“Well, that would just be boring then, wouldn’t it?” Jimmy jokes lightly, but Stan winces. 

“Not like that, Jimmy, I mean- physically.” Stan is trying to keep his voice steady, projecting a confidence he does not feel. Jimmy is running his hands up and down Stan’s sides soothingly, and he hums. “Can you show me, baby?” Jimmy asks, and Stan needs to rip the band-aid off before he loses his nerve. With some shimmying and help from Jimmy, he gets his clothes off and is laid bare in front of Jimmy’s appraising gaze. Jimmy pauses for a long second, and Stan feels the heart he swears he doesn’t have, break. 

“Oh, baby, you’re beautiful.” And Stan’s relief is so palpable and instant that he nearly collapses into the sheets.

Stan learns that night that Jimmy is gentle. He doesn’t push even though he could. He lets Stan set the pace and isn’t that something? He can tell that Jimmy is holding back, restraining himself, and he lets that comfort him, because when has someone ever cared enough to do that for him? Jimmy kisses him, hot and needy but not demanding, not cruel. And when Jimmy finally pushes in, it doesn’t feel like an intrusion; it feels like connection. Stan will deny it, but the tears had spilled over in that moment, and Jimmy had just held his face in his hands and kept them there.

The grief that had made home in his ribcage starts to ease with every day he spends with Jimmy. He laughs more, his smiles become less forced, and he becomes lighter. 

He spends two years like this. They have their fights and disagreements, but nothing so bad that they cannot work it out. That is, until Stan is cornered by some of Rico’s men while he is out running errands. He’s barely able to escape, only able to do so with the help of a smoke bomb he’s taken to carrying around and a well-placed distraction in the form of a particularly feisty alley cat. He realizes in that moment that Jimmy will never be safe with him. He was a fool to think he could outrun Rico for long, and soon, one of the only people Stan cares about more than himself could be in danger. Stan had to protect him, and he knew only one way to do that. 

 He knows what this will do to Jimmy because, well, Jimmy cares. He cares so much that it hurts, and maybe that’s the real reason why Stan needed to leave. Because Stan cared too. He cared so much he could almost call it love if he let himself. But he couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t love someone so wholly and have it thrown back at him when he inevitably fucks it up. He couldn’t put someone so dear to him in so much danger. So he leaves. He takes his car and drives until his eyes blur and he’s forced to pull over before he falls asleep at the wheel. A new Polaroid makes its home next to another older and more faded one in the visor of his car. 

He calls his Ma more after that, twisting tall tales about his daring exploits as a traveling salesman (always leaving out the numerous failed attempts and being run out of multiple states for faulty products). She’s relieved to hear from him, Stan can tell. Stan’s calls have always been few and far between, never really having the quarters to spare, but more importantly, not wanting his mother to know what a screw up her child had become. With the hurt of leaving Jimmy so fresh, he almost doesn’t notice the car that slowly pulls up next to the phone booth. When he does, he gives his mother a hasty goodbye, slamming the phone into the receiver and booking it with a speed he did not know he was capable of to the El Diablo. 

Stan starts to move. Where he would normally give himself at least a day or two to settle, he cannot afford that now. Rico’s men are onto him, and they will not rest until he is dead; this he knows. 

The days pass by in a blur, and eventually Stan finds herself in yet another seedy motel, brass knuckles on her fists and a weight in her gut. The postcard that she picks up from the dirty motel floor only reads, 'Please Come,’ in handwriting so distinct she would have known the sender even if he hadn’t taken the time to sign it.

Then she’s racing to her brother, her twin, after ten years. Her mind is fuzzy with sleep deprivation, but she doesn’t make one pit stop lest she lose her nerve and turn tail.

Ford looks so worn, she’s almost sure he’s on drugs. But it isn’t drugs, it’s something so far out of her depth she’s not sure what to do with herself. 

And then Ford is gone. The devastation she feels is more painful and bright than any brand staining her shoulder could ever be.

Gravity Falls is a bit of a nutcase, but nothing he hasn’t handled before. Well. That’s a lie. He’d been on the wrong side of a few hauntings before, maybe a witch or two, but nothing like what he finds in this small Oregon town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Gnomes, gremgoblins, and a fucking hawktopus that Stan would rather donate his entire life savings than ever have to think about again.

Stan slips so easily into the skin of his brother that it scares him. He’s always been a performer, but never like this. Never with another life on the line that’s not his own. But not anymore. He has a brother to save. 

Stanley Pines dies in the ditch like he always knew he would. He feels a strange satisfaction in finally doing something right for once. 

He becomes Mr. Mystery, the Murder Hut becomes the Mystery Shack, and Stan is downstairs every night learning advanced physics and code breaking because his brother just always had to be extra, didn’t he? 

Gravity Falls has a larger population of freaks than anywhere else he’s ever been, and Stan finds it’s easy to understand why Stanford settled where he did. Stan was always drawn to oddities, too. Maybe that’s why Soos finds him. He’s an odd one. He fits right in with the rest of Gravity Falls and falls in place in the Mystery Shack like he was made for it. And Stan never wanted to be a father or a mother (he would just end up like Pa-), but if he had, Soos is exactly what he would want his kid to be. The short stack is a wiz with a screwdriver and has a sense of humor so convoluted that Stan can’t help but be endeared immediately. The kid ends up spending so much time at the shack that his Abuelita storms through the doors one day, demanding to know who he is and what he wants with her Soos. All shouted in loud, angry Spanish. When he responds fluently in a language he hadn’t spoken in years, she is quick to level him with another glare, still just as distrusting, but softer around the edges, and he knows he’s won her over. 

He learns her name is Maria, and she invites him for dinner, and Stan is helpless to the puppy eyes Soos shoots his way. He knows he shouldn’t have taught the kid that. Damn. It goes surprisingly well, and Stan is bullied into attending bi-weekly dinners with the Ramirez family that he doesn’t hate as much as he should. 

Stan buys Soos his first car at 16, not because he cares, but because he doesn’t want Soos to keep asking to borrow the El Diablo, obviously. He attends Soos’ graduation in a seat meant for someone else, and he will deny the slight wetness in his eyes when Soos walks across the stage and beams at Stan when he catches his eye in the crowd. 

Soos is about 19 when he comes to Stan one night. It’s after hours, and he should’ve gone home forever ago, but this is Soos, and he comes and goes as he pleases. Stan has stopped pretending that it bothers him anymore. Soos is fiddling with the pipes in the kitchen for no reason other than he can, and Stan is sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in hand, mustering up the will to start another long night of portal work. 

“Mr. Pines, are you a dude, dude?” Soos asks suddenly, and Stan nearly spits out the coffee he’s sipping. He manages not to choke and glances at his employee, who has since started cleaning his tools with one of Stan’s washcloths. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” It comes out harsher than he intends, but he supposes that’s right. Stanford Pines had always been a man.

“Well, I’m not sure if I’m a dude, and I know you don’t ever get weirded out when customers get your whole thing wrong,” Soos says with a shrug. Stan’s face had become more masculine over the years, but every once in a blue moon, he’ll get a tourist who gets their wires crossed and suddenly he’s a she (sometimes it’s nice to be a she again, even for just a moment). But Stan is struck by Soos’s first statement and how much he relates. He probably understands more than anyone. He doesn’t think Soos has the same thing he has going on; he’s almost 100% sure Soos was born a full-fledged male, but he knew people like Soos back in the day, and he knows just how isolating that can feel.

So Stan tells someone. For the first time, they don’t figure it out; it doesn’t happen because of an accident or against his will. He forces the words from his throat, just so he can reassure Soos that he’s not alone. Not like Stan had been. 

In turn, Soos tells Stan that h-they were a dude but not a dude, dude. Stan is quick on the uptake, although he doesn’t fully understand what they/them really means, he understands the feeling of other. In a rare moment that surprises both him and Soos, Stan pulls the kid in for an embrace, and when Stan feels a wet spot start to gather on his shoulder, he doesn’t mention it and instead pats Soos’s back and mutters a short, “I’m proud of ya’ kid.” Soos is Soos, just like Stan is Stan, and not being alone is a wonderful thing.

After Soos leaves, Stan is left in an empty house with his shirt still drying and the realization that maybe he did become a parent after all.

After Soos comes Wendy. She doesn’t give a damn, and she’s just as aloof as he remembers being when he was her age. Maybe that’s what gives him the smallest sliver of respect for her. She knows what she’s about, and she lets people know it. She’s 14 when he first hires her, and she somehow manages to do absolutely nothing yet get all her work done. He can’t help but be begrudgingly impressed.

The day it happens, Stan is in the middle of a tour, swindling the suckers as one does, and he needs an extra hand to help lift a tarp off his latest exhibit. 

“Wendy! Get over here.” Stan shouts from across the room in between a spiel about whatever is under the tarp (he hopes he’s on base; he may have forgotten what he spliced together last night in a drunken stupor). Wendy does not shout back, “In a minute!” or “I’m busy,” like he expects. Instead, she stays standing behind the counter, a look of panic quickly settling over her features. She tries to hide it, but Stan can see the tenseness of her shoulder and the furrow of her brow, even with his shit eyesight. 

Stan glances at the tourists and pastes on a wide smile, walking over to show them a different exhibit, to which they ooh and aah, giving him ample time to sneak away to Wendy’s side. He tries for casual, “So, what’s up?”

Wendy whips her head to look at him, and he can see her cheeks heating in clear embarrassment. Stan gives her a brief once over and sees a small stain on the back of her pants, and knows what it is immediately.  The stab of empathy hits him square in the chest, and he lets out a sigh. He looks around for the coat rack he keeps for tourists and snags a plain black jacket before returning to Wendy, holding it out expectantly. Wendy eyes him for a moment before grabbing it quickly and tying it around her waist. 

Stan gestures for her to follow him into the house, which he had never done up until this point. Wendy follows quietly; he can see her looking around curiously while Stan leads them to the bathroom. From the look in her eyes, he knows that Wendy is dying to ask questions, but he doesn’t say anything when he rummages through his cabinets and hands her a box of feminine hygiene products that he keeps for himself. You would think that he would’ve gone through menopause with how ancient he is, but his body loved to fuck him over every chance it got, he supposed. The redhead looks up at him, thankful, but he can see the slight confusion in her gaze.

“Do you know how to use these?” He asks, and she averts her green gaze. Stan is hit with the realization that this is her first period. He was not equipped for this. This was for parents to teach their kids, just like how his Ma explained it to him. Although he had made Ford go to the library with him to learn the ins and outs because their Ma had gotten so weepy and hadn’t been able to finish her explanation. With a slight jolt, Stan realizes that Wendy doesn't have that. He knows the loss of the Corduroy family, just like everyone else in town. He knows that Wendy doesn’t have a mother anymore, and she lives in a house full of men to boot. 

So in a low voice, Stan tells her how to use what he just handed her, his voice still gruff but quieter, so as not to make her any more embarrassed than she needs to be. He gives her a brief rundown of the whole thing, and when he finishes his explanation, Wendy is looking at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Thanks, man.”  The relief in her voice is palpable. “Maybe you’re not so bad for a dinosaur.” Stan snorts despite himself. 

And Stan is not soft. He never has been, but he finds himself filling a role for Wendy the same way he did with Soos. She comes to him when she can’t figure out the whole makeup thing, and eventually, for boy and girl advice. She never asks what his deal is, but she picks up on Soos’ occasional “Ms. Pines,” and if she messes up one day and apologizes with a “Sorry, Mom.” Stan never mentions it. 

Stan does not call his family often, if ever, except for his older brother, Shermie. Shermie had taken to calling him once a week after the funeral. Stan doesn’t understand why, but he picks up all the same. One day, Shermie calls and says, “It’s twins.” So Stan drives down to California with his hands stuffed in six-fingered gloves and leaves with a new photo in his pocket and a promise to be there next Hanukkah.

Shermie eventually wore him down and convinced Stan to let the kids spend the summer at the Shack when the kids turned 12. He knew both of his grand nieces prior to them saying with him. He had started coming down for the holidays after they were born, and finally got to know his nephew Alex and his niece-in-law Marcy. They were probably the most normal the Pines family had been in a while, but Alex still had that slight eccentricity that all Pines were born with, and Marcy had a sharpness to her that Stan could appreciate. He couldn’t come down every year, but he made it a point to be there when he could. 

So yeah, Stan knew them to an extent. He babysat when they were small, and he watched them grow up from a distance. Never getting too close but never straying far. He worried. Worried they would be another duo ripped apart by mistakes.

When they first came to the Shack, Stan was sure at least one of them was going to turn out to be a queer. Dipper was as tomboyish as they come, and Mabel had taken to wearing that pink, purple, and blue combo he’s vaguely sure meant something in this day and age. 

Dipper came to Stan just a day after arriving, sweating up a storm and standing in front of Stan, who had planted himself in his recliner. 

“Grunkle Stan, I need to tell you something important.” Dipper starts and pauses to take a breath, and looks Stan in the eyes. 

“My name is still Dipper, but I use he/him pronouns, and I don’t care what you think, it’s who I am! I’m a man and I want you to treat me like one.” The kid finishes with a raised voice and a puffed chest, obviously expecting some kind of backlash. Stan is a bit taken aback; he had bet that Dipper was just a lesbian, but Stan should know that nothing ever really works out how he thinks it will. 

With a chuckle, Stan pats his legs twice and stands before clapping Dipper on the back. The unruly curls falling down Dipper’s back make Stan pause and think for a minute. “You want a haircut or somethin’?” He questions and trails off with a mutter about how he can probably get Bob to give him a discount if he fakes a heart attack again. 

Dipper is frozen, staring up at his Grunkle with a look of pure shock and a hint of relief. Voice tight and quiet, Dipper replies, “I want a haircut.”

And that’s that. Stan worries as he always does. This isn’t like Soos, who doesn’t really care what you call them, like Stan. This is Dipper, who cares so much it’s going to get him in trouble one of these days. He doesn’t know how to tell Dipper that he’s in danger without scaring the kid. The world is harsh and unforgiving for people like them, and sooner or later, it will catch up with him..

Stan doesn’t say anything. 

Mabel doesn’t do the whole coming-out thing like Dipper did. One day, she’s talking a mile a minute about the newest boy of the week, and suddenly there’s a girl or two spliced in there, and Mabel pauses a bit and looks at her Grunkle questioningly, but Stan just shrugs and lets a small smile slip. Mabel beams and talks even faster, something he didn’t know was possible, and that’s the end of that.  

So Stan has acquired every queer this side of the Pacific, it seems, and he has no idea how. The same kind of people who gravitate towards each other is his best guess. He doesn’t dwell on it much. 

As he grows to care for the kids more than he ever thought possible, he knows that he would protect them from anything and anyone, even himself. He keeps the portal a secret and tries to steer Dipper away from the supernatural, but he ends up failing to do both; it doesn’t surprise him when he fails. Seems to be the only thing he’s good at, really. It doesn’t make it any easier to see the tears in his kids' eyes and know that they never did trust him in the first place.

Then Ford is back. His brother is back, and the last 30 years of his life were worth it. He’s socked in the face for the one thing he thought he finally did right. 

Stan is told he looks like Pa, and he laughs it off, even though it feels like Ford just plunged a knife between his ribs and twisted. In the same breath, he’s told he’s going to be kicked out again. Ford is making him leave. Stan doesn’t have anything outside of the shack. He doesn’t have anything to keep him afloat, no savings beyond those hidden around the shack (all the major money he earned went into the portal and Ford’s godforsaken mortgage and his college debt and-). He doesn’t have fake gold or drugs; he doesn’t even have a body to sell anymore. He won’t survive it this time. 

Stan covers his grief with anger and spits venom right back at Ford before stomping to his (not his, never his-) room. He doesn’t cry until he realizes that he’ll probably never get to see his kids again when he leaves. 

Then the end of the world comes a-knocking, and Stan is coping surprisingly well. He takes in the people and the monsters of Gravity Falls into his (his?) home and pretends like every second he doesn’t know where Dipper and Mabel are doesn't tear him apart. When they find him, they fly into his arms, and Stan swears to never let go.

Soon they’re off to save his genius, idiot of a brother, and the kids are in danger, and he needs to make it right. He needs to protect them. It’s all he’s good for.

When he punches Bill, he is vindictive. He is so angry it makes his fake teeth ache, but under it all is the bone-crushing wave of relief. He can feel the sweltering heat. The way it eats at his mind and washes away everything that ever made Stanley Pines, Stanley Pines. 

Sacrificing himself for his family is the easiest thing he’s ever done. 

Then there’s someone hugging them. He’s old with greying hair and wrinkles, but he looks built, and they don’t know why, but a flash of longing and grief hits them square in the chest whenever they look at his face or hands (oh, six fingers, neat-) for a little too long. When the man is touching them (they really didn’t like the touching from someone so unfamiliar- it reminds them- it reminds them-), there’s suddenly a child in their lap. Her eyes are big and brown, and she sports a head of dark, unruly curls, a sweater almost blinding in its shades of neon. She reminds them of the man who is standing to the side, his eyes the same shade of brown. Speaking of look-alikes, the young boy just a few steps away looks so much like the girl that they could be. They could be. Hm. The word doesn’t want to stay, so he lets it fall away.

The girl is looking at them, and her eyes are so lost that they put on their best reassuring smile to try to make her feel a bit better. It feels wrong the way it curves their mouth. She cries anyway and is dragged away by the boy, who looks just as heartbroken as he tips down his hat to hide the expression from their eyes.

When that stupid, smelly, annoying, beautiful, wonderful pig kickstarts their memory, the entire house explodes with tears and so many hugs that their ribs start to ache after all is said and done. They don’t have it all back, and they probably never will, but it’s a start. They can still feel the residual heat that sometimes threatens to rise and take them away again, but it gets easier and easier to fan away the flames every time they play fight with their siblings or tease Ford and all his nerdiness. 

There is one thing that never comes back. The need to present as a man or woman never seems to make an appearance. Sixer is back, so they don’t have to be a man, and no one had ever expected them to be a woman (except maybe Rico, and wasn’t that a fun memory to recover-). Their father always wanted them to act like a man, but those memories are still so fuzzy and burnt at the edges that they can’t muster the connection that used to push them to present themselves masculinely. No matter how hard they tried, they just couldn’t really connect with either gender. Because they were both, but at the same time they were neither, and they supposed that’s just how it was. They didn’t plan on mentioning it to the kids, or heaven forbid Ford (Ford knew, but that didn’t stop him from turning away the first time). Even though they were both freaks, they were supposed to be there for each other. Who’s to say he wouldn’t turn away again-) Because why would they? It wouldn’t change anything. They would still feel the same, and the gnawing indifference in their chest would still be there regardless.

One day, Stan is in the kitchen. The kids still have a week before they leave for the summer, so Stan is trying their best to spend every moment with the little gremlins as they can, even if it’s just sitting and eating dinner together. Stan is making some of their patented stancakes, too lazy to cook up a real meal when their mind still feels a bit like swiss cheese, so breakfast for dinner it is. Both Mabel and Dipper had smelled the food and were bounding down the stairs in an obvious race. Mabel let out a shrill war cry, launching herself into her seat with a triumphant, “Take that dip dop!” Stan chucked at Dipper’s murderous glare aimed at the back of his sister’s head. 

Stan turned back to the pan in front of them, afraid the stancakes might start to burn, humming a tune made up on the spot when they heard a small gasp from behind them. Stan glanced over their shoulder. Mabel was looking at them, and they could practically see the stars glimmering in her eyes, as they widened to an almost comical degree. 

“Grunkle Stan! I didn’t know you owned a skirt!” Mabel exclaimed, and Stan looked down at themselves. It was one of the many things women got 100% right in their opinion. Skirts were just so much more comfortable than pants, and Stan was trying to be more modest after too many complaints from the kids and Ford about walking around in just their boxers and a wife-beater. They hadn’t really worn anything more feminine since becoming Ford, afraid to tarnish their brother’s already spotty reputation. The fabric was a muted burnt-orange and was so long and flowy that it brushed against the top of their sock-covered feet. They hadn’t even thought about it when they found it deep in their closet this morning and put it on. Dipper was looking at them, gaze calculating and a bit taken aback. Obviously trying to reconcile the thought of ‘manly, super tough grunkle’ with the current skirt-laden one standing in front of him. 

“Forget I had it.” Stan shrugged as they answered the non-question, flipping their last stancake and taking them over to the younger twins, ruffling both their hair gently after setting down the plates, earning a squawk of protest from Dipper, and a delighted squeal from Mabel. 

Mabel’s expression turned from one of mirth to contemplation. Stan raised an eyebrow, urging her to ask whatever it is that has her thinking so hard. 

“So, does that mean you’re a woman? Oh. my. gosh. Does that mean I can call you my Grauntie??” Mabel started to shake excitedly, making the table rattle slightly with her enthusiasm. 

“Mabel!” Dipper chided unhappily, “You can’t just ask someone that!” The boy exclaims, angry on their behalf. 

“You can call me whatever you want, pumpkin. I don’t care.” Stan responds nonplussed, going back to the stove to get a plate around for themself and a certain nerd that had yet to show. 

Dipper looks at Stan incredulously, “But…” The kid pauses and looks at Stan questioningly. “But you want to be called something, right? I wanna know what you wanna be referred to as.” He continues. Mabel nods in agreement next to her brother. 

Stan sighs, “Look, kid, I don’t give a rat's as- behind what you call me. Man, woman, anything else, don’t make a difference to me.” Stan grunted out, hand finding its way to their hip, two plates balanced on their other arm. 

Dipper peered up at them from the table. He obviously was trying to understand, but couldn’t. Made sense since the kid cared so much about what you called him; they guessed it was hard for him to reconcile the fact that Stan just didn’t care. 

“I just wanna be respectful…” Dipper grumbles, not upset but a bit put out by Stan’s response.

Stan chuckled, “I’ve never cared one way or another, nothing you can call me’ll make me mad, kid.”

“OH. MY. GOSH. Does this mean I can do your makeup? We should totally do makeovers together, Grauntie Stan!” Mabel shouts. Stan and Dipper don’t even flinch at the volume, used to super sonic levels from extended Mabel exposure.

“Maybe later, pumpkin. Been a while since I did any of that stuff. Last time must have been ‘bout 1970 somethin’ when I was doing drag,” Stan mumbled the last bit mostly to themself. 

“You did drag?!” Mabel questions with a cry of delight, clapping her hands so fast they blur in front of her small body. 

“Yeah, I did. What’s gotcha so interested, anyway? You kids don’t normally like hearin’ me tell ya stories about myself.” Stan says, somewhat perplexed by the sudden interest. 

Mabel pauses her movements and regards Stan with a gleam in her eyes.  “Well, it’s just so cool! You’re like us!” She says brightly, gesturing to herself and Dipper.

Dipper gives Stan a look that they can’t decipher. “I guess it is kinda nice. We don’t see a lot of older queer people.” Dipper says with an ease that punches Stan right in the chest. 

“Yeah!” Mabel adds with a wide-brace-filled grin. Stan just shakes his head good-naturedly. Stan then hears the familiar tip tap of heavy boots, just a bit too quiet for the weight they carry, as if the figure is trying to be quiet unconsciously. 

Stanford walks into the room, a bit rumpled, obviously having just gotten done with an experiment of some kind. 

“Only ten minutes late to dinner, Pointdexter, that’s a new record!” Stan jokes lightly, placing their brother’s plate in front of him, and the older twin sits down with a small squeak from the chair sliding on the wood floor. 

Stan goes to get the syrup from the cabinet, making sure to grab the edible glitter for Mabel as well. They feel more than see Ford’s gaze on their back. When they turn back around, the older man’s gaze is locked on his suddenly very interesting plate of unsyrupped stancakes. 

Stan hands Mabel her glitter and Dipper the syrup and finally sits down, waiting for everyone to start eating before they do. While everyone starts to dig in, Stan notices Ford’s gaze once again.

He’s looking at them, staring, really. It’s starting to get on their nerves, but they don’t say anything. The nerd is pushing his food on his plate, not actually eating anything, which is rude. Stan had worked very hard to remember how to make pancakes, thank you very much.

Dipper and Mabel are deep in whatever convoluted conversation they’ve picked for the evening, and Ford continues to play with his food. 

“I promise it’s not poisoned, might find a hair or two, but that’s the price of letting an amnesiac cook,” Stan remarks, and Ford’s head whips up and meets Stan’s eyes, as if caught.

 “Ah, no, they’re great, really, thank you, Stanley, I’m just-” Ford clears his throat, “Surprised, is all.” 

Stan raises an eyebrow, and Ford continues stiltedly, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you in something like that.” He says, gesturing to Stan’s skirt. “Last time, why, it must have been when we raided Ma’s closet,” Ford says, placing a hand on his chin as he recalls the memory. Oh, that’s a new one, Stan muses. Gaining back their memories is almost never pleasant; they could only equate it to a small zap to the brain, followed by an uncomfortable warmth. Stan feels that very sensation as they recall the time that they had convinced Ford to smuggle some of Ma’s clothes. ‘Just try them on, Sixer, common!’ In the end, Ford had only tried to walk in a pair of Ma’s heels for about a minute before giving up, while Stan had tied one of their Ma’s skirts around his waist with a belt, and tried to put on some of her makeup. They remember the aftermath the best, though, the slap and subsequent lecture from their Pa was a rude awakening. 

They didn’t try on Ma’s clothes again.    

“I thought you didn’t care much for women's fashion. Even being…” Ford trails off, evidently not able to find the words. 

Stan scoffs, taking the syrup from Dipper and drowning their own stack in the liquid. “Things change, Sixer,” Stan replies gruffly. They’re a bit miffed, not really in the mood to explain themselves twice in one day.  

Dipper and Mabel had apparently tuned back into their Grunkles' short conversation because Mabel asks, “Being what?” With the carless naivety only an almost thirteen-year-old could muster.

“Mabel!” Dipper hisses, almost a perfect repeat of their earlier exchange. 

Ford perks up, eyes darting between Stan and the younger twins. “You haven’t told them?” Ford questioned, genuine surprise flitting around his expression. 

Stan shrugged. “Didn’t see a point.” 

“What does Great Uncle Ford mean?” Dipper sets down his fork to give his full attention to the older pair. “I thought you weren’t gonna keep secrets anymore, Grunkle Stan.” A hint of hurt entered Dipper’s tone. Mabel was silent.

Stan sucked in a breath. He was fine with the kids knowing that they weren’t particularly partial to being called anything, but it was different for the young twins to know the whole truth. Honestly, (Hah! Them being honest, must be all the mind erasing finally getting to them), they were shaken. It seemed that no matter how many people they told, there was always a part of them that was scared. Scared that they would be judged or spat at or called a freak. Logically, they know the kids wouldn't care, but that does nothing to assuage their nervousness. 

“It’s not like that, kids, I make a point to not tell anyone about this stuff.” Stan grits out through clenched teeth, wishing Ford had just kept his damn mouth shut.  

Dipper frowned, “You don’t tell anyone, anything, Grunkle Stan.” 

Welp, the kid got them there. 

With a heaving sigh, Stan squared their shoulders. “It has to do with what we talked about earlier.” 

Stan glanced at their twin, who, to his credit, looked a bit guilty. “It’s something personal, I’m pretty sure you gremlins will be more grossed out than anything.” They didn’t think anyone would particularly enjoy talking about their Grunkles' genitals. The thought makes them blanch.

Ford puts his hand on Stan’s shoulder. “I apologize for bringing it up, Stanley. I just was so surprised by your attire, and I assumed you would have told them already.” Ford said sheepishly. Ford had been doing that a lot lately, Stan noticed. Apologizing about the smallest things and thanking them whenever he got the chance. Trying to ‘make up for his transgressions,’ or so he had said. Stan’s not really upset with Ford, more just tired of explaining, and they really wanna eat their stancakes before the syrup makes them all gross.

Stan nods in understanding, and a thought dawns on them with a small spark and flash of heat. “Why don’t you explain it, Sixer. I know you liked doing that when we were younger.” Stan says with a small grin. 

“Were younger, Stanley.” Ford chides.

“Yeah, yeah, can it, Pointdexter.” Stan rolls their eyes and gestures towards the twins, who are looking at them expectantly. 

Ford clears his throat, a gleam forming in his eye. When Stan and Ford were younger, they had gotten curious, wanting to learn more about their bodies and why they were so different from the norm. Ford had all but dragged Stan to the public library, ranting about his theories and this and that. Ford had read so much material on his condition and Stan’s own that he could practically resight full books from memory. Stan had learned their fair share as well, but Ford was always a sharer. He wanted to tell people, but no one was very interested in listening to his unhinged ramblings besides Stan and their Ma. It became a bit of a game for them. Ford would find a new fact about one or both of their conditions and share it with Stan, who would listen with rapt attention, and they would go and tell their Ma in perfect unison. Maybe not the most fun or normal of activities, but the pair liked to learn about themselves and share it with one of the only other people in the world who wouldn’t judge them for it. And even without their game, Ford never passed up an opportunity to flaunt his knowledge on a subject. 

“Stan is what you would call an intersex individual. He’s a simultaneous hermaphrodite or a true hermaphrodite. True hermaphrodites are individuals with both male and female sexual organs that are present and functional at the same time. Some are able to ‘fly under the radar’, so to speak, and don’t show their true traits until young childhood or puberty. Stan started showing signs at ages four and twelve, if my memory serves me right.” Ford finishes with a glimpse at the niblings for their reaction. Stan didn’t realize they were holding their breath until they were forced to exhale or pass out.  

Dipper looks stricken, and Mabel just beams. 

“That’s so neat!” Mabel says, and she leans forward and grabs Stan’s hands in her own small ones.

“Thanks for telling us. Well, Grunkle Ford told us, but thanks for letting him tell us!” Stan’s eyes soften at his niece's sincerity. “Thanks, pumpkin.”

Dipper shifts a bit in his seat. “That is pretty personal… sorry, Grunkle Stan.” 

Stan chuckles, “No problem, champ.”

Stan claps Ford on the back, “Tip top explanation, just like old times, eh?” 

Stanford adjusts his glasses and smiles at his twin softly. “I’m glad you remember, Stanley,” Ford says, his voice low. 

“Alright, enough talk, let’s eat!” Stan voices loudly, flicking both Dipper and Mabel on the nose. They get surprised shouts and edible glitter to the face for their efforts. 

The next week goes by in a flash. They see the kids off with too many tears for their liking, and a promise for the younger twins to come back next summer.

They give the shack to Soos, the kid had earned it after all. They make sure to reassure both of their employees that they’ll call, just to check on the shack, obviously, not because they care about them so much that they feel their heart could burst. 

They finally get their dream, and it’s so much better than they could’ve imagined. Standing on the deck of the Stan’O War II, arms draped over the railing, wind blowing through their hair, which they had let grow out, they breathe out a sigh. Ford strides up next to them, standing close. Stan closes their eyes, content. 

Stan was always just that, Stan. They were always a freak, but they weren’t alone anymore. They were an outcast, but more than that, they were an outcast surrounded by other outcasts. Two employees who towed the line of son and daughter, two eccentric niblings who stole their heart from day one, and their twin. A relationship was finally mended after being torn countless times.  

So, yeah. Stan was Stan, and maybe, just, maybe, that was enough.