Archive of Our Own

The first time his freshman dorm-room feels more like a bug-infested isolation chamber than an intellectual escape from his childhood, Stanford Pines decides to call his mother. 

Fiddleford is at the library—still, in Ford’s mind, blissfully unaware that his roommate has any kind of family at all—and it’s late enough on the West Coast that it feels clandestine, but early enough in New Jersey that Caryn will still be awake. So, he sneaks into the abandoned common room, and utilizes the ancient landline, typing in a number he knows by heart. 

The phone rings once, twice, thrice–

“Caryn Pines speakin’, what can I tell you about your future?” His mother answers in her soothing, fortune-teller tone, the smoker’s roughness smoothed out of her voice. 

“Ma?” Ford asks tentatively. “It’s me, Ford.”

“Oh, Stanford, honey!” There’s that scratch he remembers. “I didn’t recognize the number, sweetheart! Goodness, about time you called home! I was starting to get worried about you, baby!” 

He feels guilty, for a moment, his face flushing. It’s been a month…or three. “Sorry, Ma. It’s been busy, you know, with, er, school and everything.”

“I’m sure you’re about running the place by now, huh? My Stanford, so smart! You’ve probably got those fancy college people eatin’ outta yer hand!” Ford can hear her smile through the phone. 

“Well, I’m not sure about that,” he laughs softly, “but it’s been…it’s been alright. As good as it can be, considering the opportunities I missed out on.”

His mother’s voice strains a touch. “Well, no need to be modest, sweetheart.” She pauses, and for a moment, there’s tension on the line. “So, tell me! Have you made any friends?”

Ford frowns. “One, I suppose. My roommate, he’s from Tennessee. An engineer.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” She sounds surprised. “What’s his name, dear?”

“Fiddleford,” Ford says.

“Gesundheit,” his mother replies, cackling into the receiver. 

“Come on, Ma,” Stanford protests, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Really, that’s his name! He’s quite nice, actually. You would like him, I think.”

Her voice softens. “Well, that’s great, honey, really. I’m happy to hear that.” That odd tension returns, and Stanford’s posture straightens reflexively. He wonders if his father is nearby. 

“Um, is Pa–”

“Stanford, have you called your brother?” Caryn’s voice drops, her tone a bit anxious. “Heard from ‘im at all?”

Ford feels queasy, all of a sudden. “No, Ma,” he replies shortly. “I have not.” Have you heard from him? Has he come home yet? Is he…is he alright?

“Well,” Caryn asks, regaining a bit of authority in her tone, “When do you plan to do that, Stanford?”

When does Pa plan to let him back in the house? When do you plan on mentioning Stanley when he’s home? When does he plan on saying sorry for ruining my life? When does he plan on saying sorry at all?

Ford sighs. “Listen, it’s getting late, here, Ma, and I’m using up my minutes.” He doesn’t have to pay to use the phone. “I’ll call you soon, okay? I hope things are going well there.”

A moment of quiet, in which Ford thinks he picks up a tired sigh. He’s considering hanging up when Caryn speaks again. “Sure you will, honey. It’ll all work itself out.”

“Right,” he replies, trying to keep the doubt from his tone. 

“I…I love you, baby.”

“Goodbye, Ma.” He sucks in a breath. “Love you too.” 

He sets the phone down in the receiver a bit too forcefully, exhaling in frustration. 

Ford shakes his head, chewing at a fingernail. I don’t know why I thought that would help. 

Stanley’s hand shakes as he presses his second quarter into the pay phone slot, his fingers unsteady as he types in the numbers. He reckons it’ll be safe to call this line, that there's no risk of anyone else answering, that Filbrick will snap at his mother to get it if he hears the fortune-phone ringing from across the apartment. 

He hopes someone answers, at least, if only for the sake of his quarters. He can’t really afford to spare them. He just couldn’t take it any more–the questioning, the isolation, the not-knowing. Does she want me to call? Am–am I allowed to call? 

Outside a rural Pennsylvania motel isn’t the greatest place to find out the answer to that question, but anywhere else he’s been would’ve been worse. At least he’s not in his car this weekend. At least he found a place cheap enough. 

The phone rings, and his heart jumps. Once, twice, then–

“Caryn Pines speakin’, what can I tell you about your future?” 

Stan’s eyes are wet, suddenly. The mystic voice, he thinks. His chest aches. 

“Ma?” He asks softly, his voice coming out younger than he intends it to. “It’s me.” 

A sharp gasp. “Stanley?”

His stomach churns. “Yeah.”

There’s a choked-off little sound from the other end, a sharp sniffle. “My baby,” Caryn exclaims softly, “It’s really you!” Her words are thick with tears. 

Stan chuckles weakly. “Surprise!” He pauses, unsure of what to say next. “I–I didn’t know if you’d want me to call.”

“Oh, Stanley, of course I—I miss you, sweetheart! I think of you every day.” She clicks her tongue. “I’m telling you, I had a feeling last week, when your brother called me–”

“You’ve heard from Ford?” The question escapes him before he can stop it. He grits his teeth in regret. 

“Just the other day, he rang from school. Stanley, baby, why don’t you just call him? You two just need to catch up, talk things out, and everything will–everything will be alright.” Caryn seems a bit strained, but pushes through it. “You two were always like that, you know. As kids, you’d fight, make up, and be thick as thieves by the next morning!”

We’re not kids anymore, Stan thinks. At least, I’m not. “I don’t know,” he answers hollowly. “Maybe.”

“Oh, honey, where are you? Why don’t you come and see me one day, huh? Come by the–” Her voice cuts out, for a moment. 

He assumes it’s poor connection. “You know, I’ve been working on putting some things together, I think this next product is really gonna be—” There’s murmuring on the other end. “Ma?”

A faint, gruff voice rings through the speaker. “--about dinner? You said you didn’t have anyone on the line this afternoon! The hell are you talkin’ to?”

Shit. Stan’s stomach drops. Pa. He debates hanging up, his finger hovering over the button. 

Caryn is silent for a moment, on the other end. Then, she answers, her tone having regained a degree of normalcy, her signature soothing cadence, the one she reserves for only Filbrick or breaking up a fight. 

“Oh, Fil, Stanford called! Wouldn’t you believe it?”

Filbrick grunts impassively in the background. Stan feels his face flush, his eyes stinging like he’s been slapped. Stanford, he thinks, Sure. Stanford’s calling. Successful, college-boy Ford’s on the other end. Not your screw-up son, not your dumb son, not your lesser son. Stanford. 

He shakes his head, as if trying to clear water from his ears. Stupid. This was a stupid idea. What was this ever going to do? I can’t go back there. She doesn’t want me, not really. Not at the cost of him. Not while I’m still Stanley. 

And it’s all my fault. 

He punches the End Call button harshly, jabbing at it like an enemy, and tries to forget about wasted quarters and squandered relationships. 

I think I got a fifth of whiskey in my car. He steps out of the phone booth, fingernails digging into his palms. 

Ford can’t remember the last time he slept. It has to have been a week, maybe ten days, since he’s properly and intentionally laid down for a rest. Before the betrayal, certainly. Before everything he thought he knew came crumbling down around him. 

He hasn’t spoken to his mother on a regular basis in years. She really only calls around Hanukkah and his birthday, and their conversations always go the same way. She’ll ask how he is, make a thinly-veiled comment about his failures to reach out, and then Ford, feeling a sudden guilt, will provide her with updates about the accomplishments he’s had since they last spoke. Caryn will feign interest, and in return discuss their various extended family members who have died or had children, and Ford will hum in acknowledgement enough times to appear as though he’s really listening. Then, his mother will lament that Filbrick isn’t home, say that he’s been asking about Ford—another lie, most likely—and Ford will hollowly ask her to say hello for him, trying not to let his resentment show.

Then, Caryn will bring up what always ends their conversations: his brother. It always goes something like this—

“So, you haven’t heard from Stanley?”

“No, Mother.”

“He hasn’t reached out to you at all? You don’t know what he’s up to, lately?”

“Why would he have done that?”

“B-because that’s what brothers do, Stanford! I don’t know how many times I have to tell you to call him, tell him to call you—you two really ought to put this whole thing to bed. Life is long, hon! You gotta learn t’ forgive!”

“Has Dad learned to forgive him yet?” 

“Now, Stanford, don’t be that way—”

“I have to go, Mother. I’ll speak to you soon, alright? I’m quite busy.” He hangs up, sometimes with a brief goodbye.

They’re pointless, unhelpful conversations that move or change nothing. Still, Caryn calls on holidays, and Ford feels obligated to answer. Still, she must ask about Stan, and still, he must issue the very same reply. The calls leave a lingering, unidentifiable, unpleasant feeling behind, sometimes for days.

It’s because of these interactions, as well as the horror-movie situation that is his life at the moment, that Ford reacts to his mother’s incoming call with an apprehensive mixture of shock and dread. 

Last he checked, it’s not his birthday, nor is it Hanukkah, and there’s a mind-warping demon making his very best attempt to destroy anything in Ford’s life that’s ever been good. So, a major family emergency or some further false-Ford fuckery are not off the table in his mind as his shaking hand reaches for the receiver. 

“Hello?” His answer is sharp, but nervous. 

“Oh, Stanford! Thank goodness!” Caryn’s voice is frazzled, pitched-up. 

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” He demands. Speaking hurts his raw, damaged throat.

“I’m sorry to call you out of the blue, sweetheart, I know you’re busy, but—”

“Is he—is everyone okay?” Ford presses his mouth shut, catching his own slip-up.

Caryn goes quiet, and there’s a moment of awkward silence, like always. “Well, honey—that’s what I wanted to call and ask you. I got…I got this feeling.”

There’s this hurt, in her voice, this fear. Stanford has never believed his mother to be a true psychic—she herself went back and forth on that question—but sometimes, as a child, she would claim these grand premonitions. Suspicions, feelings that she had based upon information she didn’t and couldn’t possibly know. Half the time they were just creative ways to exact discipline without revealing her sources of knowledge (i.e, ‘The cards told me you and Stanley ate hot-fudge sundaes and spoiled your dinner, so no, you may not have dessert’), but every once in a while…Stan and Caryn seemed to really believe them.

It used to make Ford roll his eyes, but now—now, could it be that she’s sensed something in his life has gone truly, deeply awry? There was the psychic from that festival, after all, though some days Ford still suspects her of fraudulence, too. But, really, who’s to say what can and can’t be accomplished in the realm of the mind? Bill has certainly demonstrated that. 

Does she know he’s struggling? Does she have some kind of sense, maternal or psychic, that he is as far from himself, as alone and afraid as he’s ever been? Could that, despite their history, be true?

Ford speaks quietly. “Well, perhaps it’s been a bit difficult—”

But Caryn powers forward with her question at the same time. “I think something’s wrong with Stanley. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

Suddenly, Ford feels a splitting headache begin to set in. He leans forward in his seat, resting his forehead in his palm, his stomach sinking in something akin to disappointment. Stanley. Of course. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Mother.” 

“Stanford, you don’t understand—he said he’d try to call, and then—and then, nothin’! He always follows up, even for just a few minutes. It—it’s not like him! Something is wrong!”

Ford rolls his eyes. “Not fulfilling a commitment is unlike Stan?” 

He recalls the commercial he saw air on his television, a few weeks back—the ridiculous, infomercial-scam racket his brother’s apparently running from some other state. Doesn’t seem like the type of man who keeps a promise, he thinks to himself. 

“Stanford, if you would just call—just try to find him, last I heard he was in New Mexico—”

“And I should, what? Call up every apartment building in the state until I locate him? That’s ridicu—” He sucks in a breath, trying not to let his sleep deprivation manifest into anger, to show that the situation has affected him. “Ma, I think your feeling’s off base, here.” Maybe you’ve got the wrong twin. “Stanley is fine, I’m sure. Don’t worry yourself about it.”

“Right,” Caryn replies slowly, doubtful. “I mean—maybe you’re right.”

“He would know to call you if there was a real emergency. I’m sure it just slipped his mind.” Ford’s tone rings hollow, disinterested. His cheeks feel warm, his eyes wet. His hands sting, nails bitten-back, palm aching under its loose, grubby bandage.

“Of course. Of course he would have—I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to—”

“I have some important work to get back to, here,” Ford lies, “But I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Try to get some rest.”

“Oka—” Ford’s hung up before she can finish replying, face burning with resentment, now. 

He looks down at himself, at his disheveled, wrecked clothing, runs his hands over his gaunt, shadowed face. He clears his throat, as if still trying to expel moving legs and bodies from it, then pulls his achy limbs up from his armchair to go make a pot of coffee.

I don’t know why I bother with these calls anymore. She only cares about him.

Just like Bill said. 

Stanley is slumped against the window of the driver’s seat in his car, staring at the red payphone booth across the street, cradling his stitched-up side.

He’s not sure how long it’s been since he said he would call her. New Years was three and a half weeks ago, the day he’d been taken to that motel room, and any number of days could have passed since. He’d said by the end of January, they’d be able to have a proper conversation. On Hanukkah, he’d only had a nickel, only a moment to spare, not nearly enough time to go through the same old routine they always go through, when Stan manages to call home.

Caryn is always taken aback, when it happens. She always starts speaking softly, whispering, her voice only growing louder once Stan’s successfully made her laugh a time or two. That’s always the best part of the call—hearing that again. His mother will go on to say that she misses him, that he should call her more, that he should give her his contact information so she can surprise him with a conversation one day, to which he’ll reply that he’s between places at the moment, and his number changes all the time—perhaps a bit too honest, but always sugarcoated. 

Then, Caryn will start to seem worried again. She’ll ask where he is, why he doesn’t just go stay with Sherman for a while, or come home for a few months, even if he stays somewhere by himself—options which Stan pretends are legitimate, then brushes off due to alleged upcoming opportunity. He might test out a sales pitch, if Caryn doesn’t seem too sad, otherwise might pretend to give into the thought of coming to visit. He never asks about his father, Caryn never mentions him, and Stan always hangs up ashamedly if he hears Filbrick’s voice from a distance. He’ll ask her to catch him up on gossip, to tell him about her life, the ladies at Bingo or bridge club, how so-and-so feels about what’s-her-name leaving her husband, and they’ll chatter for a few minutes until Caryn sighs deeply, and asks the question she’s really dying to know the answer to:

“Have you spoken to Stanford, hon?”

His answer is always the same. “Have you?”

“We spoke over Hanukkah,” she replies, or “Not since your birthday, but he seems fine enough,” or “He just got some big check from that fancy university.” 

“Great.”

“You know you can reach out, Stanley. I’m sure he wants to hear from you.”

“I’m not.”

“He would help you if you got yourself into a pinch, sweetheart. He’s got things figured out, you know. It’s okay if you need a little time. I know it’s been hard for you, but wouldn’t it be better if you just had your brother? Isn’t it about time you put all this to bed?”

If I just had him, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I never would have been kicked out in the first place, if I had him. But I ruined my chance at that pretty damn well, didn’t I?

“I dunno, Ma.”

“Well, you think about it, hmm? When am I gonna hear from my free spirit again—come on, you owe your mother that answer, don’t you?”

“I’ll try to call soon,” he always answers, “Before Hannukah,” or “Before my birthday,” or, foolishly, this time, “I’ll call you before the end of January, promise.”

“Alright, I’ll hold you to that. I love you, baby.”

How exactly would you do that? “Love you too, Ma. Bye, now.”

He does keep his word, as much as he can. Sometimes he’s a few days late or a few cents short of a good conversation, but he keeps his word. He’s called her in varying states of mind, of sobriety, of health, of homelessness, and put on his best possible veneer of normalcy. They both need it, he thinks. Sometimes, to perform is to truly believe what you’re pretending—and he needs to believe for a moment, every few months. Apparently, he’d needed to believe again before the end of January—but looking at the calendar now, that day has passed nearly a week ago. 

So, then, around ten days. That’s how long he was in that hotel room, from the day he was abducted by Jorge’s people to the day he dragged himself back out to his car, sans one kidney. Now, a few hours later, he’s staring down that phone booth, the two quarters he has to his name burning a hole in his pocket.

It’s not enough to drink, for any drugs—so, he’ll take the next best thing. 

He hobbles over to the phone booth, stitches aching in his side, hardly able to hold himself upright. He leans against the wall, pays his quarters, and tries not to slide to the floor. For a moment, he considers calling Ford, listening to him answer, hearing his voice—but he’d done it three days ago from the motel phone, and been so close to speaking that he’d forbid himself from doing so again. Instead, he punches in Caryn’s number, and listens to it ring. 

“Caryn Pines speakin’, what can I tell you about your future today?” She sounds tired, the voice put-on and false.

“Ma,” he croaks out, “It’s me.” His own voice is rough, terrible, screamed-raw. 

“Stanley!” Caryn’s immediately fiery, a mix of relief, frustration, and joy. “My goodness, boy, I was so worried about you! Where on Earth have you been?” 

He swallows. “Travelin’. I’m sorry, I couldn’t get to the phone before now. I…I missed you, though.”

“Honey, you sound terrible!” Caryn frets. “What’d’ja, get sick or something?”

“A little,” Stan replies. “Guess the ol’ frog’s in my throat, eh?”

A nervous laugh. “Guess so.” Caryn tuts. “Where are you, where there’s no phone?”

“Still New Mexico,” He answers honestly. Why lie? Not like you’re comin’ to get me.

“Well,” Caryn scolds, “You had me real worried. I had the strangest feeling about you last week, thought something awful had happened!”

Stan had used to believe his mother was psychic, as a kid. He’d bought the fantasy. Now—he’s pretty sure she’s worried all the time. A coincidence, he thinks, plus me not calling on time. The guilt churns in his gut, and his stitches feel inflamed, feverish. 

“I’m sorry, Ma. Days slipped by me, I guess.”

“Even called your brother about it—he told me not to worry, of course, said you were fine.”

Stan frowns. “Did he?” Guess Ford’s even less psychic than she is, huh? So much for twin telepathy. 

“Yes, though he seemed preoccupied—as usual,” she adds. “Maybe stressed from all that researchin’ he does.”

“Could be,” Stan deadpans. Because books are real life-threatening, right?

“Have you heard from him, at all?” 

“Nope,” he answers plainly. “He doesn’t wanna—” A cough forces its way out of him, phlegmy and frame-shaking, and a wave of dizziness washes over him. “—talk to me, anyhow.”

“My goodness!” Caryn exclaims, “You ought to get that cough checked out, Stanley!”

He feels hot, in a daze. “Will do,” he murmurs. When that million-dollar check hits my account. When pigs grow wings and fly. 

“Good. That’s an order. You need to take better care of yourself, young man.” Her voice is stern. “Can’t have anything happening to you, right?”

It’s all already happened. “Right,” he answers weakly. 

“And—and quit being stubborn and call your damn brother!” Caryn’s audibly exasperated. “This has gone on long enough, Stanley! Go and see him!” 

Stan hardly hears her—his ears have started to ring, his knees trembling, as if his legs are made of gelatin. “I—I—”

“You okay, honey?!” The frustration shifts to fear in a moment. 

“Yeah…” Stan replies, his legs buckling, sending him to the phone booth floor as he desperately keeps his weakening grip on the phone, trying not to collapse audibly. “Yeah, just…just tired…” Black dots start to swim in his vision, his face sweaty, his whole body leached of moisture by the blazing heat. His side is on fire—a ripping, flaming sensation that nearly steals the breath from his chest. 

“Okay, well,” Caryn replies, voice high, thin, and afraid, “You get some rest now, okay? And—and you go get checked out in the morning! Get to feeling better!” 

“Y-yup,” Stan slurs, “‘Kay.” His eyes droop, vision fuzzy, going black. 

“I love you, Stanley.”

“L-love you too, Ford,” He mutters into the phone, watching it slip from his grasp as the world goes black. 

In Glass Shard Beach, spring is milder than Stan remembers. It’s damn near April, and the wind’s still got enough bite that if he had any good sense, he would have brought a jacket. But, he tells himself, anything’s better than the Arctic, in that sense. Can’t ever quite get warm enough, up there. 

He runs his fingers through his shaggy hair again, a nervous tic, and tries not to look overtly stressed as he briskly walks the winding, pothole-ridden sidewalk towards his ultimate destination. It’s weird, being in public without Ford—not unheard of, but rare enough to be mildly uncomfortable. 

Plus, usually when Ford doesn’t come with him, it’s because Stan is headed off to do something social—hit some bar or club, go out and meet locals, stuff along that line—and he’s not in the mood. Ford doesn’t do well with strangers, or anyone, really, beyond Stan, the kids, and Fiddleford. Heck, he sees Wendy every day during the summer and things are still awkward between them.

So, usually, it makes sense, but today, Stan’s ill-at-ease—glancing over his shoulder furtively, dismissing the thoughts of shadows behind him, and trying to press down the guilt from doing something that he tries very hard, as of late, not to do: lying to his twin brother. 

It had started when they’d begun debating about this return trip to Glass Shard—whether or not it was a good idea, if it was worth doing at all, if anything from their childhood still remained. 

Stan, oddly enough, had been in favor of the trip, despite being kicked out from this very place all those years ago. He’d wanted to see what was left of their old haunts, walk through his childhood home and remember what it was like to be Dipper and Mabel’s age, running around with the freak-show performers, searching for their very first anomaly. 

Ford, as he typically does when their parents or New Jersey are brought up, had a more negative attitude. 

“What’s there to see?” He’d asked flippantly. “Most of what we enjoyed about the place is gone now. Besides, it’s not exactly a tourist destination, especially for us. I just don't see the point.”

“I haven’t been there since I was seventeen,” Stan replied.

“Yes, due to the circumstances under which you left,” Ford shot back. “Because of him—”

Stan swallowed. “Let’s not do this again, Six, I don’t—”

“Stanley, what’s the use in denying reality? Pa was awful to you, just awful! The way he treated you, the way he treated us, as mere children—Are those truly memories you want to revisit?”

He shrugged. “I dunno, Sixer, it’s complicated! I mean, Pa could’ve done better, sure, but we were still kids there, we have good memories there, and Ma—”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Please.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Stan looked offended. “Ma did her best, Stanford! She always wanted us to sort things out!”

His brother shook his head. “No, she wanted us to pretend nothing had ever happened! She wanted to pretend like Pa had never done anything, that he hadn’t kicked you out, or—or, you know—and that it was all just some grand misunderstanding.”

“Wasn’t it?” 

“Not on his part! A-and she knew him, she married him, she loved him! She just stood there and watched, j-just like I did!” Ford had become emotional, getting worked up.

“It wasn’t your fault, Ford,” Stan reminded him. “You were just a kid. There’s no way you could have known—”

“She could have known!” His brother shouted. “She could have known, and she could have stopped him, or helped you during the years you needed it!”

“I tried to hide it,” Stan murmured. “She had it hard, already, I just didn’t want to—”

“She was your mother,” Ford replied, voice softening. “She was our mother. And yet, our whole childhood, it was us against the world. Where was she, if not on our side?”

There was a sudden, penetrative feeling of anxiety in Stan’s chest, radiating out through his shoulders, making him hunch in on himself. “I dunno, Ford. I dunno.”

Seeing Stan’s upset, Ford had conceded to a brief visit, but there was a certain tension surrounding it, something unsaid about why, exactly, they’d returned. Stan’s not sure he even knows, until he gets there—Ford certainly doesn’t. 

So, he’s opted not to tell his brother that he’s going to visit Caryn’s grave. 

The day suits it, at least—it’s drizzling and chilly as Stan passes through the humble iron gates of Glass Shard Cemetery, consulting the map at the entrance to find the plot he remembers having his mother interred in—right, as she’d requested, beside his father’s.

Filbrick had gone ten years before her, of a heart attack. One day, he’d gotten up to open the pawn shop, like normal, and the next, he’d been gone, according to Caryn. Stan hadn’t gone to the funeral. He’s confident enough in saying that the real Ford wouldn’t have, either. There’s not a whole lot of love lost between those two. Stan’s feelings are more mixed. He’s no longer sure what was a ‘lesson’ his father taught him, or what he’d been forced to learn to survive in his father’s house—how to hold back tears, how to take a beating, how to do things the ‘hard way’. 

What he is sure of, though, is that the last thing in the world he wants is to become Filbrick. He already sees too much of him when he looks in the mirror. 

He comes up on their side-by-side plots, ignoring his father completely, and squatting beside his mother’s, staring at her headstone.

Caryn Romanoff Pines. Beloved Mother, Wife, Sister, and Friend. The dates of her birth and death are listed below the inscription.

Yep, Stan thinks, that’s what I paid for. 

There wouldn’t have been anyone to come to the funeral, really. All of Ma’s friends and siblings were pretty much gone too, so it had felt…pointless, to hold one. 

Or maybe just impossible to return to Glass Shard without Ford—to return still not having made things right, the way she’d wanted. So, he’s never seen the headstone before—he just bought it, bought the plot, like he did for his father. His parents never had anything saved. 

If Caryn had lived just five more years, maybe Stan and Ford could have told her what happened. Maybe they could have told her that they’re back together, now, best friends again. That everything worked out in the end—if you could call a reunion after forty years of trauma ‘working it out.’

Instead, Caryn died thinking Stanley was dead. Caryn died thinking her last ever conversation with her son who committed suicide was him passing out on the phone with her, and her being too afraid Filbrick would hear to ensure he was alright. 

Stan’s eyes blur, the guilt creeping up his spine, hunching his shoulders. Fuck. He drops to a seated position in the wet grass, feeling the dampness soak into his jeans. 

He stares at the headstone for another long moment, then speaks like he would have, had they been talking on the phone.

“Hey, Ma.” He tries for a grin. “It’s me, Stanley. Surprise!” Stan spreads his hands, as if presenting himself. “I’m alive, Ma. I was never dead, really. A few weeks after we last talked, Ford called me up to his place in Oregon. We got into a huge fight, and…and I really fucked up, Ma. I—he went somewhere else, for a while. A real scary kind of place. A-and it was my fault.” He plucks nervously at the grass beneath him. “So, I figured, you know, I was the one with the shit past and criminal charges. I was the one who hadn’t done nothin’ with his life—so…so Stanford shouldn’t be the one to go, right? I mean, that really…that really wouldn’t make sense. So, I set the whole thing up. The car crash. I’m real sorry, Ma. I—I didn’t mean to hurt you, really. A-an’ I’m sorry we couldn’t talk more, when I was Ford. It was just that I couldn’t have Pa finding out. I couldn’t have you finding out, asking questions about where he’d gone. Could’a put you in danger.”

Stan sighs, imagining the look on Caryn’s face, her reaction to a revived son and an outlandish story. “I know you’re probably pretty ticked off with me,” he grins, “And trust me, I’m ticked off with me too.” He coughs, clearing his throat. “But there is good news.”

Stan’s voice is unexpectedly thick, emotional. “Um, I brought the real Ford back. It took a really, really long time, but I brought him back! I had help—a lot of help, from Shermie’s grandkids, I’m not sure if you ever met them? Dipper—well, Mason, I guess, and Mabel? Oh, Ma, you would have loved them. Twins, just like me an’ Ford. Dipper’s so smart, and Mabel’s so creative, and they’re both such great kids, I—I can’t believe I got lucky enough to know ‘em. I’m sorry you didn’t, Ma.”

He sucks in a breath. “A-and Ford and I are sailing around the world now! Just like we wanted to do as kids. We’re doing his fancy research, and I’m helping him find all kinds of anomalies and shit—stuff you’d tell me you’d dreamed about, when we were younger. Stuff you said you had a feeling Ford and I would find, stuff from ‘somewhere else’. Guess I thought it was bunk for a while, but…you were right. Damn lucky guesser, huh? Or maybe you just told me what I wanted to hear, as a kid. Though, who really knows for sure? Anythin’s possible—I damn well believe that, now.”

He combs his hand through his now-damp hair. “I think you’d be proud, Ma. I think you’d be so happy to see us together again, an’ you’d tell us ‘I told you so’ ‘till you were blue in the face. And—and maybe you had a bit of a shiny view of things, right? Maybe you’d say it was all so simple, but I don’t think you really thought it was. I just think you wanted to believe that it could be—because then maybe there was hope to fix it. So I guess part of the hope I got somewhere along the way came from you. And—and it happened. So, thanks.”

Soft, slow tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. “I’m—I’m sorry it took so long, though. I’m sorry I had to lie, I had to hurt you, I couldn’t see you. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a proper funeral, and I’m sorry for passing out on the phone. I—None of it was s’posed to hurt so bad, you know? I didn’t mean for it to hurt you. I—I know you never meant to hurt me, even though you did, sometimes. Even though I was a secret. I guess—I guess I just don’t understand that. How could you love us so much, and still have loved him?” The words are painful, breaking free from him without permission. “How could you have just stood there and watched? How could you have left me alone all those years? Why didn’t you ever say sorry?” Stan shakes his head, trying to force the emotion down. “I guess you can’t answer now, huh?”

A quiet, thoughtful moment passes before Stan speaks again. “I wish…some days I wish you’d done better. I wish you’d done better, and then I think about the time you took me and Ford to the boardwalk and paid for us to play all the games, or the times you’d let me put makeup on you, do your nails, and you wouldn’t tell Pa I was bein’ a sissy. I think about all the times you bandaged my fuckin’ scrapes, how when you gave me a hug you always smelled like that flowery perfume. I think about how you and Ford are the only people in the world who’ve ever really missed me. I think about my funeral, how you looked—and I really just don’t know.”

He leans back, resting on his hands, tilting his face up to the rainy sky for a moment. “I really don’t know. You’re a mystery, Ma. Guess you always liked it that way.”

Stan sniffles, shivering a bit, tears and rain still trickling down his cheeks. “But, I guess all I wanted to say is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for how…just about everything went.”

Something shifts from behind him, rustling the grass slightly. “I’m sure she would forgive you, you know.”

Stanley sits bolt upright, startled. He whips his head around to see his brother, standing under an umbrella, dressed in a black, waterproof trench coat and a scarf.

“Shit, Ford!” He exclaims. “Quit walking so quiet, would’ja? You’re gonna give a guy a heart attack, here!” He gestures at Filbrick’s grave. “I’m tryin’ to break a generational curse, you know!”

Ford just looks down at him, expression emotional but hard to read, and simply says:

“You’re going to catch a cold out here in the rain without a proper jacket, Stanley.”

For some reason, this causes Stan to laugh heartily. “You sound like her,” he replies, gesturing at the headstone. 

“Yes, well,” Ford sighs, “She wasn’t always wrong, as you’ve said.”

Stan goes a bit red. “How long have you been here, you idiot? How did you know where I was going?!”

“You were acting strange this morning. For a guy who’s spent so much of his life getting followed, you’re surprisingly easy to tail. Plus, it was a simple guess.”

“Unbelievable. Can you believe this guy, Ma?” Stan asks the grave marker sarcastically. “He’s been intruding on our phone call this whole time!”

“I’m sorry,” Ford says, “If I came off as flippant, the other day.” He exhales again. “I was only angry on our behalf—your behalf, really.” 

“S’okay,” Stan says gruffly. “I get it.” 

“I can’t picture our parents in my head without picturing you, seventeen years old and out on the street. Or—or even younger, with…dealing with how awful Pa was towards you. It just makes me so angry, Lee. I think it did even back then.” He shakes his head. “How do you not think about it? How is that not all you see?”

“Spent ten years thinkin’ about it,” Stan responds frankly. “Forty years, really. Got to let it go at some point, Six. They always wanted you—instead they got me.” He shrugs. “Sometimes you disappoint.”

“I think she wanted you,” Ford counters. “You were always her favorite. You two were so alike.”

“Didn’t want me enough to do anything about it,” Stan deadpans. 

Ford doesn’t argue. “No, I suppose she didn’t.” A beat. “You know, every time she called me, she would always ask about you. If I’d spoken to you, when I planned to speak to you—used to annoy the daylights out of me.”

Stan smirks. “I always wanted to know what you’d last told her. What you were up to. Used to be so jealous.”

“It made me feel guilty,” Ford admits. “If Ma hadn’t heard from you, if she was still waiting for us to reconcile, then…maybe, you know, you weren’t doing so well that you didn’t need me anymore.”

“I always would have—”

“I know. That was just my logic at the time. I was always convincing myself you were fine, that you were off doing your own thing, that you hardly thought about me…but somewhere, I knew that wasn’t true. After that phone call, where I convinced her, I couldn’t shake the feeling for days. I was worried Bill had gotten to you already. He threatened to. Pretended to. I think he suspected I wasn’t as resentful towards you as my mind wanted to believe I was. Part of why I called you up to Gravity Falls.”

“Her instincts tended to be correct,” Stan admits. “Got my kidney ripped out of me that week, guy left me to die in a motel bathroom. I was in there for days.”

“I know,” Ford whispers, his voice fragile as he comes to sit beside Stan. “I was there when you remembered it.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, taking a deep, centering breath, visibly trying to  manage his anger and guilt. “And I told her you were fine.”

“How could you have known, Six?”

Ford makes a small, anguished noise. “Why couldn’t I feel it? Why didn’t I just…just sense something was wrong?!”

“‘Cause you’re not magic, and you were being tortured by a demon, Ford. Come on. You can’t hold yourself to that standard.”

“She knew,” Ford whispers. 

“And if you knew, you would’ve actually done something about it,” Stan replies fiercely. 

“I suppose.” There’s a long moment of silence, in which Ford’s shoulder comes to press up against Stan’s. “I never know how to feel about her, either,” he admits. “Dad is so much easier.”

“I think most of the good stuff I got from Dad might actually be complete bullshit,” Stan muses. “At least some of the stuff from her holds up, though. The better parts.”

“Dad was a dick,” Ford says plainly, and Stan laughs. “She was…she was something else.”

“She loved us,” Stan replies. “I think that’s what I’ll choose to remember.” He shuts his eyes again, feeling the rain drip down his face. 

“I’m not sure what I want to remember, yet.” Ford’s voice is conflicted, soft. 

“That’s okay, too,” Stan replies. "You've got plenty of time to think about it. She’s still proud, though, in the meantime.”

“Why?” Ford asks, tilting his head to the side. 

“Because you called your damn brother,” Stan grins. “And he answered.”

Ford smiles back, and for the moment, that’s enough.