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Stanley Pines was not an emotional man. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. That’s how he trained himself to be; how his father trained him to be.
His father.
Mentioning the name Filbrick Pines led to one of two reactions from Stan: either an awkward half-laugh (more of a huff, really), a terse smile and a hand on the back of his neck (he could almost feel his father’s gaze burning holes in his skin), or his entire posture stiffening up, mouth painted in a straight line— clearly holding back a grimace.
If someone were to ask Stan what kind of person his father was, he’d say that the man was hard to impress, stern, demanding, cold. A hardass, who loved his family but was tough on them because the world was tough. Looking back on it, Stan couldn’t think of a single time his father had said anything nice about him. Even with his genius brother, Ford, only once had their father been impressed with him. And then Stan had to go and ruin that, too.
If someone were to ask anyone else who knew of Filbrick Pines through Stan or Ford, they would say that he was an awful father, an abusive asshole, and that they were glad he was rotting in hell.
Stan didn’t see himself as a victim— in fact, he despised the very idea that he was anything of the sort. Even bringing up the topic around him had Stan immediately angry and defensive, talking about how other people had it way worse and how his father cared about him, he was just different in how he showed it.
Like how he signed Stan up for boxing lessons he never asked for because he was too much of a ‘pansy’.
How he never glanced Stan’s way, no matter what he accomplished, because if it didn’t make them money, it didn’t matter.
Or how he pulled a father-of-the-year and forced his son to stand outside for two days straight, holding up a sign saying “Extra Stan, $3 or better offer” all because of an F- on a history test.
Stan wasn’t a victim.
Even when his father tossed him outside for the night because of something he did. Or when he threatened to kick him out for good. Or when he did kick him out for good before Stan even had the chance to finish high school. Because of a dumb mistake.
Because that’s all Stan ever was and ever would be: a dumb mistake.
But instead of believing that to be the truth, Stan took every single chance he could to earn the money he cost his family. He pitched sales and conned people and flew by the seat of his pants for 10 years, and he tried desperately to make something of himself.
And then, another dumb mistake caused Ford, his twin brother, his best friend, to be lost in between dimensions for 30 years.
How fittingly pathetic it was that Stan could truly only make something of himself once he assumed his brother’s identity.
The Mystery Shack was Stan’s pride and joy, and that pride only grew the longer he owned it. The more he renovated, the more he produced, the more money he made, the more he learned about theoretical physics and chemistry and quantum mechanics, the more proud he was of himself.
Not that it mattered. Not to his father, anyway.
Stan didn’t know what the man died of. He just knew that one day, a letter addressed to Stanford Pines landed in the mailbox, printed in his mother’s all-too-familiar handwriting. The only one who had attended his funeral. Stan’s eyes softened upon seeing the scrawl, and he carefully opened the envelope with a dagger-shaped mail opener. A letter and a piece of card stock sat in the envelope, held together by a purple paperclip.
Ford,
Sweetheart, I hate for this to be the first time we’ve talked in so long, but you should know that your father is dead.
We’ll be having his funeral in a few days. Please come over for it. It would mean a lot to me and Shermie. I’m sorry I’ve been absent for so long- I miss you, and I would love to see you again.
With love,
Mom
Any softness was replaced with shock at the contents of the letter. His father was dead? No explanation for how it happened, or even when. Only the date of the funeral, the location and time (per the piece of card stock), and the request that he— or, his brother— come home to Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey for the funeral.
Stan thought about it. He really did. He thought about it for a long time, but eventually he came to the conclusion that he just… couldn’t. He couldn’t stomach seeing his mother and older brother, couldn’t handle being back in New Jersey, couldn’t be near his father again, even as a corpse. And god, did that thought make him want to vomit. His father was dead. Gone. He had never been a particularly caring man but jesus christ, it was his father! Stan covered his mouth with his hand as nausea settled in the pit of his stomach. He sat on the steps for hours that day, head in one hand, letter in the other, staring unblinkingly at the letter in his mother’s script. His head was just… empty. But once he was able to actually think it through, Stan realized he didn’t have the money for a round trip to New Jersey right now. He didn’t have the money for a hotel either, and he didn’t think he could handle pretending to be his twin brother that had been sucked into a portal because of him. It’s not like he could just keep his hands in his pockets throughout the whole service either. There was no way he could go without giving himself away.
He never responded to the letter. He rationalized it with the idea that Ford probably wouldn’t have seen it anyway, considering how much of a shut-in his brother was, and how laser-focused he seemed to have been on his experiments before Stan got there. How paranoid he was. (A thought- a memory, echoed in his head.) Really, it was better this way.
It wasn’t for years that Stan even had the slightest opportunity to even think about visiting his father’s grave. By now, his mother was gone too, and Shermie’s kids were now in their late teens. The house in New Jersey had been sold, and now all that Stan had left of his family was a distant brother, an even more distant brother, and the memories that haunted his dreams. But he was making enough money that he could afford a plane ticket, he could afford a hotel room, and he could afford to shut down the Mystery Shack for a day or two. He could afford a small, quick trip to New Jersey.
So he crossed the country, and rented a car, and drove to where his father had been buried. His mother’s grave sat beside her husband, a fairly fresh bouquet sitting against the tombstone. Stan sat down in the cold, ice-crusted dirt, and allowed himself to mourn the loss of his mom. While he and his father had never been close, his mother had always been there for him. But one can only do so much, especially when you’re a Jewish housewife in the late 1960’s who has nowhere else to go and loves her husband. Stan never blamed her.
As his tears dried, and he slowly took a breath, Stan’s eyes drifted to the tombstone beside his mother’s. Here lies Filbrick Pines.
He looked back toward his mother’s tombstone.
Sitting there, on the hard ground, Stan spoke to his mother’s grave, telling her about the Mystery Shack, and how well he was doing, and how he missed her. He told her about Gravity Falls and their weird, backwards rules. How their police force was a joke. He told her about the car, and Ford’s nerd journals, and a dog he saw the other day that had two tails.
At some point, he leaned back against one of his hands and cracked open a beer- some cheap shit from a gas station down the street. He told his mom about all the women he’d met, all the states he was banned from, all the trouble he had gotten into. He told her he was sorry, not only for costing them so much, but for faking his death and causing her so much grief. He talked until the sun began to set, and finally, tipsy and sad, he allowed himself to look at his father’s grave.
Stan hated being considered a victim. He hated it more than anything. Because while his father may have been shitty, he could’ve been much worse. And Stan was doing just fine, thank you very much. So yeah, he hated being thought of as a victim.
But here, sitting vulnerable in front of the remains of his father, tipsy and sad and now a little bit angry, Stan remembered everything his father had done to him. Every slap, every night outside, every skipped meal and boxing class and bruise and lost tooth. Stan thought about how his father had robbed him of his diploma. How, even though he was never studious, or even remotely good in school, he would’ve passed, and he would’ve graduated, and maybe then he wouldn’t be stuck in some bumfuck town with stupid laws and dated traditions and maybe his brother wouldn’t be lost, possibly forever. Yeah, Stan didn’t like school, but he could’ve still done a little more with himself had he been allowed to graduate. Had his father waited just a little longer to kick him out. So yeah, despite how much he hated it, Stan felt a little bit like a victim right now. And hey, maybe if his father hadn’t been so focused on making him a ‘man’, Stan would’ve found something he liked in school. Maybe he could’ve found something he was passionate about.
He was lucky that he had found something he enjoyed. Yeah, scamming people was fun, but running the Mystery Shack allowed Stan a creative freedom that had never been permitted before. Art had always been ‘too girly’ and he was ‘wasting his time if he thought he would ever get anywhere in life with something that nobody gave a shit about’. Well, ha ha Dad, not only is he making art now— albeit weird, fake taxidermy art— but he’s successful doing it. So who needs school? Who needs a diploma, or a fancy university, or a plan in life, when you can scam your way to the top doing what you love? Take that, asshole.
What was wrong with being a victim anyway? Is that another bullshit thought that his father implanted in his head from a young age— you have to know how to fight Stanley, you can’t show weakness Stanley—, passing down one generation of trauma to the next, making sure that fucked up mindset never left the brains of the Pines men?
Stan wasn’t a victim, but goddammit if he ever let men like his father make someone feel invalidated for their experiences ever again. So there he stood, promising to himself that he would never create a victim— that he would never hurt someone so horrifically that they were altered forever. Never again. Making that promise to himself, Stanley Pines took a swig of his cheap, shitty beer, spit on his father’s grave, and started the walk back to his car.
And laying in the backseat of his car, eyelids heavy and limbs weighed down by alcohol, Stan closed his eyes and sent a thought to his twin brother, Stanford, wherever he may be. I hope you’re okay, Sixer. I hope you’re okay, and I’ll never stop trying to get you back. Even if it’s the last thing I do. At least I’ll be able to do one worthwhile thing in my miserable existence. With that, he fell asleep, quietly snoring, blanketed by the sun, and safe.