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Chapter Text

Stan swears that he has a plan. It’s not a particularly thought out plan, (he was never good at thinking), but it was a plan.

Break the decade-long silence between him and Stanford and ask for help.

And that was it. Well, obviously there was how he was gonna get there (the Stanleymobile) and when (in a week’s time– before the next full moon) but past that, he put no thought into it. He couldn’t, because he couldn’t risk chickening out at the last second.

He hadn’t even called ahead. That is how dedicated he was to not thinking about The Plan.

It wasn’t because he was nervous to speak to his brother. At most he was just… skeptical. Ford was a self-serving asshole at the best of times, and there was no doubt in Stan’s mind that he’d rub his plea for help in his face for the rest of his stay in Oregon– if he let him stay at all.

Which he would. He had to. He was an unusualologist after all, and– if Stan knew his brother– a prideful one at that. He would jump at the chance to have a live subject to report on. And Stan was the only person he knew to have– what he had. So that must mean Ford would help him out, even if just because he’d get to slap his name as lead researcher. Hell, maybe he already was an expert on this kind of thing. He probably had loads of dumb nerd books that explained at least seven different ways to cure Stan’s problem, ready to go and eager to put them to the test.

Before he even left that morning, he had convinced himself that Ford would have a cure whipped up by the time he got comfortable.

But, two hours into the intimidatingly long car ride there and that hope was dwindling fast. Stan’s mind reeled at the possibility that Ford would say no, or that there was no cure, or he wouldn’t make it on time and have to suffer through another full moon–

He clenched his jaw. Remember Stan, don’t think about The Plan.

That rhymed.

Now forcing himself to ignore– well, himself– Stan heard more than felt his stomach rumble. Great, just what he needed. Damn curse (or infection? He wasn’t sure) making him so ravenous all the time. He’d nearly eaten up a month’s worth of food budget in just a week alone. Between gas and keeping himself fed, no wonder his bank account tanked.

Just another reason to be cured as fast as possible.

Not that he needed much more convincing. His life had become ten times more difficult in the last year and a half that he had been living as a– well it didn’t need to be said. He hated saying it, even to himself. It sounded stupid, something that Ford would come up with to explain howling at night rather than admitting that their neighbor's dog was just a nightmare to live next to. But the lack of a name didn’t mean he could ignore it. If the transformations once a month weren’t enough, the excess hair growth (annoying by the way, he could never keep a clean shave, perpetually having a five o’clock shadow), noise sensitivity, and sudden allergy to chocolate were. Plus, everywhere he went there was a very obvious increase in household pets and local wildlife being torn into by what the news usually dubbed as a terror to the community. There was no other explanation, but Stan would be damned if he dignified it with a label. So he didn’t. He just focused on driving.

The highway he had taken was close enough to a city that he could see some fast food restaurant’s sign glow against the early morning sky enticingly. He should just power through, before this whole mess he would have been more than able to, but the temptation was too much. Besides, he’ll be able to focus on not focusing if he had a full belly.

He merged without using his signal (it was broken anyway, had been for a while, but the only people who use those are nerds and hippies. Stan was neither) and pulled off towards the greasy burger joint.

It had to be local. It wasn’t any brand that Stan recognized, and he prided himself (not really) on his frequency at fast food places all around the world. But it didn’t matter. If you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all.

A squeaky voice crackled over the speaker and Stan hardly glanced at the menu before he ordered. His stomach wanted more than he could afford, so he settled on two plain burgers and told himself to suck it up. The speaker garbled out his total– way too much but whatever– and he pulled around.

His mouth began to water before he was handed his food. He could smell the kitchen, even from inside his car. He hated it. He hated slobbering like a dog and not being able to control himself, but that’s why he was going to Stanford. That’s why he wouldn’t think about The Plan.

Some teenager handed him his food and Stan was unwrapping it before he got back onto the road. Some may call that distracted driving, but he knew what he was doing. He was a great driver.

Swerving out of the way of a stop sign before he plowed it over, Stan exited back onto the main highway with only some honking and flipping off from his irate fellow drivers. He tore off the bun of his plain burger, tossing it to the side for future him to deal with. He felt like a weirdo, or maybe a monster, as he did so. These days, he only ever craved meat. If he were braver, he’d just order five patties and be done with it– would probably be cheaper that way– but something deep inside him that felt like pride (what little he still held onto, at least) refused to let him. He could only imagine the kind of things those snotty teenagers working the grills would call him. And honestly, he would deserve it. What kind of person would order just straight beef? Some kind of–

The word freak lingered just on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t dare to even think it. Years of schoolyard taunts had ruined the word for him. Now, it only brought visions of six fingers and broken glasses. Something that was just too painful most days to linger on.

He sunk his teeth down onto the mediocre patty, his tastebuds singing and stomach finally shutting up for once. Give it an hour, and it’d start right back up, but for the time being, Stan was satisfied. It was the small things in life.

He hadn’t even fully swallowed his last bite of patty before he got restless again. The town that Ford decided to hunker down in wasn’t exactly well known. It took forever for him to find a map that even listed Gravity Falls as one of the towns in Roadkill County– whatever kind of name that was. Stan hazarded a glance down at his map, stopped at a red light and drumming his fingers in a mindless pattern on his steering wheel. There was always the possibility that he could get lost on the way there. Or that Ford had moved and hadn’t informed anyone. Stan (and he would if he were smarter, or braver, or less stubborn) should call ahead and make sure.

But the very thought made his stomach turn with anxiety. If he called ahead, then Ford could turn him down. And that would ruin the simplicity of The Plan. It’s better to take his chances in person. At least then Ford would have to look him in the eye while he ruined the last small chance he had at having his normal life back.

A car behind him honked impatiently. The light had turned green. Sticking his middle finger out the window and shoving his leftovers under his passenger seat, Stan stepped on his gas and hunkered down to endure another however many hours of endless driving.

It was all going to work out, he assured himself, it had to. He had a week. He would make it. He would cure himself. He wouldn’t think about The Plan and everything would be ok.

***

Ok, so nothing was going according to The Plan.

It was so simple! So easy that even an idiot like him couldn’t have screwed it up! But somehow Stan had managed to run into a few former “friends” and knock himself so off course that he was passing the cheerful ‘Welcome to Gravity Falls!’ sign with only the rest of the day before the next full moon. 

Great, just absolutely fucking wonderful.

He growled– made a sound of frustration and gripped his steering wheel harder. He’d just have to be quick. It couldn’t be that hard to find Ford’s house, he had his address and everything. Ma had been overjoyed when he called. He didn’t want to think about how sad she sounded when he hung up not five minutes later.

He shook his head. Focus. Time was not on his side. 

His head was on a swivel as he drove down the roads of Gravity Falls. It was the definition of a backwater town: small and sleepy with maybe three businesses interspersing uninteresting homes with uninteresting people living inside of them. At least the woods were thick. Just in case he had to make a run for it.

But he wouldn’t need to. He was going to find Ford’s house because a diner styled restaurant called Greasy’s came into view, perfect for any lost traveler to ask for directions.

***

The bell above Greasy’s front door jingled pleasantly as Stan pushed his way inside. It was small, with a few booths lining against the wall opposite from their breakfast bar, and a couple of curious patrons craned their necks to get a look of the new guy that just barged into their local spot.

He sat down at the bar with a huff, joints stiff. Damn moon, it couldn’t wait until nighttime to start being a pain in his ass? 

He glowered hard enough that most other customers politely looked away. Good. He didn’t want to talk to them.

A waitress in a pink uniform walked over to him, her smile bright, “Hello!” she greeted, acrylic nails tapping against the countertop, “Coffee?”

“No thanks. Do you know where Gopher Road is?”

The diner went so silent you could hear a pin drop. The waitress– her name tag read Susan– blinked at him and her smile went tight.

“Why’re you askin’, stranger?”

“I need to see the guy that lives there.”

Her smile dropped, “You know it’s not all that safe up there. That guy does all sorts of weird sciency stuff,” she hummed before her eyes took an interested glimmer, “Unless you’re a scientist too?”

“No, I’m not. I just need to talk to him.”

“You’re working with that scientist up on Gopher Road?” a man who had previously been sipping on a cup of coffee a few seats down from Stan perked up, “I always wondered what he was doing up there. You got any fun stories to share?”

Susan gasped, “Ooh, yeah! I love fun stories. Please do share!”

“I don’t,” Stan insisted sharply, “I just need to talk to him. Do you know where he is or not?”

“But,” a woman sitting at a booth piped up, “If you’re not a scientist, then why would you need to talk to him?”

“Yeah, that seems awfully suspicious. You from the government?”

“Oh my god! I bet he’s from the government! He’s here to shut that science guy down for good!”

Susan’s jaw went slack and turned to Stan with a conspiratorial whisper, “If you do shut him down, Mr. Government Agent, will ya tell me what he has up there? I’d pay just for a glimpse.”

Temper bubbling and then spilling over, Stan slammed his hand onto the wooden counter, “I’m not from the government! Do you hicks know where Gopher Road is or not!?”

The diner was plunged into silence once again.

“So, you’re not from the government?” Susan tilted her head.

“Sweet Moses– no, I am not. I just need directions!”

“Then why would you need to see him if you aren’t trying to shut him down? Nobody ever goes up there,” the man next to him asked.

Stan’s fists were shaking, that’s how hard he was clenching them. This town had to be filled with some of the dumbest people alive. They had maybe thirty seconds to get out of his face before he knocked their jaws clean off–

“He’s my brother. I was supposed to visit him today but I’m kinda running out of time–” he tried to force his words out evenly before the guy next to him spat out his coffee.

“You’re brothers with that crazy science guy?”

Oh, he was going to lose his mind. He opened his mouth to say something horrible, not totally sure what yet, when Susan leaned forward and jabbed her manicured nail in front of his face.

“I knew you looked familiar! You guys could be twins!” she screeched so loud that it made Stan jolt and his ears ring. He grunted, covering them and squeezing his eyes shut to stop the onslaught of pain. Did he ever mention how much he hated full moons?

When he finally looked up and uncovered his ears, Susan’s eyebrows were furrowed in concern, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he coughed, ears burning with embarrassment, “Do you know where it is or not?”

She glanced away from him, expression going unsure, “I don’t know… people have been reporting weird noises and lights up there… it’s not safe–”

“I don’t care,” Stan snapped, reeling himself back in, he rephrased, “I just need to see him and need some directions. Help a guy out.”

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn ya!” she huffed, “You just go down this road, take a hard left, then another one, keep going straight, a right, and then boom you’ll figure it out from there.”

He blinked, “Sure. Yeah. Thanks.” Those were some of the worst directions he had ever heard.

Susan just grinned and winked. Bleh. 

He left, making sure to glare at any patrons that eyed him as he did. It was just the result of living in a small town that didn’t see many newcomers, and especially if that newcomer was the brother of a super genius that held weird experiments in the woods, it was bound to be conversation worthy. Usually, Stan would be understanding. 

But he wasn’t feeling understanding, so instead, he took the time to rant to himself in his car.

“God! Are you from the government? OBVIOUSLY NOT. Are these people even from Earth? Did I– did I end up in some weird– dumb– uh– fuck! You know what I mean!” he wasn’t sure who the you he was referring to was, but he didn’t care anymore, “I fucking hate small towns. They all end up being the same: stupid!”

***

A lot of aimless driving later, and Stan was lost. He blamed that waitress; Susan’s instructions were incredibly unhelpful. If anything, Stan was pretty sure he was more lost than he would have been if he just drove around randomly. He was certain that he had passed the same general store three times in a row and the poor Stanleymobile was starting to run low on gas. He’d need to fill up sooner or later. He glanced at his watch. He had the time, surely.

While he waited for his gas to be pumped, Stan had a while to curse his circumstances. It wasn’t his fault that he had arrived so late. On his way to Oregon, he had run into a few of Rico’s buddies and then gotten himself locked in the trunk of his car (not pleasant), not to mention that he frequently ran out of money for food and gas and had to resort to both theft and siphoning– not that he had any moral problems with that, but it sure was inconvenient when you were on a time crunch.

However, it was definitely his fault that it was nearly sunset and he still hadn’t found where the fuck Ford lived. A part of him wanted to blame the town. The roads were unmarked and frequently transitioned (somewhat randomly) into gravel or dirt that made the wheels of his car complain loudly. The entire damn city was laid out like the mayor had gotten high, picked up a pencil, and then declared that the streets would be modeled in the shape of his favorite dinosaur and then all his redneck employees praised his visionary ideas. But he couldn’t, because ultimately, he was the one that spent his last dime waiting impatiently for the prick that ran the only gas station in town to pump his gas for him and the rest of the day driving a wild goose chase that wasted every spare moment he had.

It was starting to get dark, the sun slowly descending past the trees, and the full moon’s influence over him only grew.

Stan turned down a dirt path that he swore he had been down on before, but he wasn’t thinking all that straight anymore. He should abandon ship, park his car somewhere and then run off to the woods so that he didn’t hurt anything– or anyone. But as stated before, he was an idiot, and a stubborn one at that. He had to find his brother’s house. He had to. His skin began to itch as the sun faded beneath the treeline fully and plunged the forest into a late evening twilight. Stan made a left, praying that he was following Susan’s directions well enough to get where he needed to be.

Where was that again? Oh, right, Ford’s house.

Letting out a wordless groan, he smacked his palms against the steering wheel. He was going up an incline now– that was new– and the sky grew darker. A horrible ache began to radiate from his nose and jaw. He should pull over. There wasn’t enough time and he was lost–

Hope reignited in his chest as his eyes blearily made out a wooden sign posted crookedly in the ground, just at the edge of a fork in the road: Gopher Road.

Stan’s heart hammered, saliva pooling in his mouth and threatening to dribble onto his t-shirt. He swallowed, mind going foggy, a single thought pushing its way to the forefront: he was there. He was so close. Ford was going to help him he was going to see his brother he had time he had time he had time.

The Stanleymobile’s tires kicked up clouds of dirt as he sped down the trail. His head pounded. The sky was fully dark now, twinkling stars blinking under puffy clouds. It would have been beautiful.

The full moon glowed brightly. Stan could feel its pull. He panted, body going warm and sweat beading on his forehead. His legs cramped, hard enough to make him cry out and a familiar pressure behind his eyes made it difficult to keep them open. But he had to.

He was almost there.

A voice snarled in the back of his mind. What are you going to do once you get there? It hissed. Eat your brother? You ran out of time.

Stan slammed on his breaks, getting thrown forward as his car squealed with effort to fight against its own inertia. Not that he comprehended any of that. He threw open his door, car still running, and tore off his clothes in pure desperation.

He was itchy itchy itchy and hot and god did his head hurt owowowow his legs his arms make it stop make it STOP– please god make it stop. Stanford please–

Everything went black.

***

Ford stretched, blinking wearily around at his surroundings. It had been a productive day, the gnomes were conversational enough that he could finish his journal page on them (finally) and he had spent the afternoon inking his sketches. Although his back certainly complained, Stanford himself could not.

He stood from where he had leaned against a tree, gathering his things and starting down the path back home. It wasn’t an ideal time to be heading back. Usually he tried to get back to the cabin before it got dark, purely for safety reasons, but since he wasn’t very deep into the woods, then he’d be fine. Probably.

Best not to dwell on that.

Besides, it was such a beautiful night, he didn’t even need a flashlight. The full moon was bright enough to illuminate the path ahead of him, no supernatural creatures in sight. Ford enjoyed the gentle breeze that ruffled the trees and felt himself relax, the cramping in his back loosening the longer he walked. Up ahead, he could make out the bleary signpost that denoted the road home and sped up. He wasn’t too tired, but he could really do with some food soon. His stomach complained loudly, the last time he ate probably being around morning time. 

(He was a shining example of health.)

The walk to his cabin was a familiar one, with very few anomalies wandering onto it and a lack of traffic from the locals making it so that it was easy for him to space out. He was so lost in thought that it took him entirely too long to realize that he could hear a low rumble, not from an animal, but from a car.

 Ford raised an eyebrow. Just ahead of him, further on down the trail, was a red car with its engine still running, door open wide.

He approached cautiously, the closer he got the more familiar the car seemed. It was definitely an El Diablo, one that had seen better days, it seemed. Its trunk had a weird roughly fist-sized hole that had been duct taped closed, and the red paint on it was scratched horrendously. Its internal components ran just fine though, based off of its still running engine, so whoever was the owner hadn’t run into any car troubles. Ford stepped up to the driver’s side and froze.

“What the devil…?”

There were clothes strewn on the ground, leading in a panicked trail to the edge of the treeline. Ford tsked. It was most likely some teenagers sneaking off to get frisky in the woods and panicking when they heard him. Typical.

“If you’re going to be out here,” he called, agitated and already deciding that he wasn’t going to risk seeing whatever local couple decided to make a lover’s lane out of his driveway, “Then at least make sure you’re somewhere more secluded! Unbelievable.”

He passed up the car, not bothering to close the driver’s side door. That was their problem.

Ford only just made it to the front of the car, muttering to himself about the irresponsibility of the youth, when a different, lower growl cut through the night air. He stopped, brain stuttering, and he turned on his heel to check the hood of the car. The engine still purred smoothly, no smoke billowing from its hood. That hadn’t been from the car, it couldn’t have.

It sounded again, echoing off the trees. A cold shiver ran down Ford’s spine, and he spun around to stare into the dark void that was the woods surrounding him. So maybe it wasn’t a pair of teenage hooligans. Maybe he had miscalculated.

Taking deep breaths and trying to keep calm, his eyes scanned the trees. Facing off against an unknown creature was not ideal, but it was fine. He just needed to find whatever was growling at him. Then he could work on getting back home alive.

It sounded vaguely canine, probably larger in size due to how deep its growl was, and was definitely coming from the woods. Another growl, one that ended in a snarl and the snap of teeth clashing together, and Ford realized that whatever it was had moved from just behind him. It was circling him. He gathered enough courage to actually turn his head (slowly) and just to his right, his eyes caught on the green glow of animal tapetum lucidum glittering back at him. 

It knew it had spotted, it must have, because as soon as their eyes locked it snarled and stepped into the opening clearing of the path.

Definitely nothing local, but Ford had been right when he said it was vaguely canine. Emphasis on vaguely– its quadrupedal form was large and covered in shaggy fur, a short snout pulled back to reveal a row of sharp, shiny teeth. Any other details were lost in the haze his terror, Ford stuck in place and shakily trying to force his legs to move as the creature stared hard at him. It pounded towards him. Ford finally forced himself to leap backwards right as the creature’s jaws snapped forward. It missed him by a hair, and an involuntary scream ripped through his throat. 

There was nowhere to go. There was no way that he’d be able to outrun this thing. He had to think fast. 

It reared its head back and let out a piercing howl. Ford recognized the move. It was about to charge.

Operating on pure adrenaline, Ford’s feet forced him backwards and he stumbled into the car, managing to fumble the door closed right as the beast shot forward. He yelped as it slammed into the side of the car, denting it and causing the whole thing to shake violently, but miraculously not breaking through. It growled restlessly, shaking itself off and sniffing at the car. He cringed at the sound of claws scraping against the metallic outside, gritting his teeth and hunkering down into the seat.

It let out a huff of breath, smacked the door once, and shuffled away. He let out a sigh of relief. No object permanence. Good for him, bad for the beast. Hunting would be incredibly difficult.

There was a heavy thud above his head, an ear piercing screech resounding from the flimsy metal of the El Diablo’s removable top. He had spoken too soon, way too soon. The thing hadn’t given up– it had simply changed strategies. And this one was much more effective. Its claws were quickly making their way through the thin metal sheet and Ford’s heart nearly stopped when he realized that either way– staying put or sprinting from the car– he was going to end up right in front of the beast.

His mind spun, eyes darting around wildly for something, anything, that he could use.

The glove department. Something shiny was sticking out from the glove department. He dove for it, managing to wrap all six fingers around it right as the beast tore its way through the roof. Its metal was cool to the touch, and Ford recognized it for what it was immediately: a revolver. 

He fired up blindly.

The shot connected, the boom of the gun ringing in his ears. The thing howled and fell backwards, its body thumping heavily onto the dirt before it shook itself and ran off, whimpering with each uneven step.

“Oh, thank Moses,” he gasped in lungfuls of air, letting his head fall back and catching a peek at the moon through the clean hole torn through the roof. 

The full moon. 

Ford’s fearful relief morphed into giddy excitement as the puzzle came together in his mind. A full moon, an abandoned car, and a beast that behaved similarly to a wolf? There was no doubt about it.

Stanford Pines had just encountered his first werewolf!

And he was probably in said werewolf’s car, if the scattered clothes were any indication. Straightening up and switching back to scientist mode so suddenly that it made even himself a little dizzy, Ford dug through the trashed fast food wrappers and crumpled up lottery scratchers that covered the passenger side floor for any clues of who this poor soul could be. A local? Not likely, he would recognize this specific model of car even if he didn’t go into town often. It looked exactly like–

Gritting his teeth, Ford focused on the mystery laid out in front of him. The only thing even minorly useful was a farmer’s almanac, the moon cycle section dog-earred and the full moon of the month circled in red marker. He twisted in his seat and peered at the backseats. It was just as messy, covered in old papers and boxes. Whoever this werewolf was had been clearly living in the car for a while, Ford could make out old clothes crumpled in the bottom floor boards and boxes of packed up personal items.

He grunted and forced himself to fit in between the two front seats, torso resting precariously on the middle console. One of the boxes was just in reach to push at with his finger tips, and he managed to turn it around just enough to make out the logo on the front.

Stan Co. A Name you can “Trust”!

Ford reeled back, eyes wide.

That wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right. This wasn’t his car. Whoever this person was was just… a fan of his scammy products. Those people existed. They had to! If Ford had seen gnomes, fairies, living tree people, and sirens in his time living in Gravity Falls then he could also come across a loyal Stan Co. customer.

Yeah, right. He stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut. That was about as likely as him getting married within the year. But he still didn’t want to believe it. This wasn’t his car because… it didn’t have that stupid vanity plate! Aha!

Already patting himself on the back for disproving his own paranoid ramblings, Ford marched around to the back of the car, peering down at the license plate, eyes straining against the dark.

STNLYMBL.

Ford’s stomach dropped.

It was Stanley’s car. Meaning that Stanley was a–

He had just shot at his brother.

If folklore was to be believed, only silver was able to harm a werewolf. So, logically (if that could even be applied to this situation) Stan was fine. Ford scrambled to check the chamber’s bullets. They glinted strangely, definitely not at all like copper. They were silver. Why did a werewolf own a gun capable of firing silver bullets?

Ford cursed, stupid revolver still clutched tightly in his palm, and he shoved it into his inward trench coat pocket as he took off after Stan. His stomach lurched at the name and the fact that he was following his brother’s blood trail, but he had more important things to focus on. Like how the hell Stan was a werewolf, and why he was here, and praying that he hadn’t just killed his twin.

The blood trail steadily led further and further into the woods, deep enough to where Ford had to stomp over low bushes and smack tree branches away from his face. For the first time in his years living in Gravity Falls, he hated its wilderness. He paused periodically to listen for any pained breathing for muffled whimpers, a mantra repeating over and over in his mind: Please don’t be dead. I’ll never forgive myself if you’re dead.

While the blood trail itself stayed steady, the light of the moon was slowly covered up by clouds, plunging the forest in a darkness that smothered any red against the green foliage. Ford was left stumbling around blindly.

What had Stan always said they had? Twin telepathy or some such nonsense. Ford had tested it many times in their youth: could Stan predict what number he thought, could Ford find him in a crowd without calling out, could they finish each other's sentences. Every test failed to show any correlation, and after one too many disappointing attempts, Ford had decided that there was nothing supernatural about the connection between twins.

After the science fair, he had decided there was no connection at all.

But now he was praying that he was wrong. He was going entirely based on luck. It would be so much easier if they had telepathy. Ford wouldn’t have even shot him if he could have intrinsically known that it was Stan–

A low howling caught his attention. He stopped, ears straining against the low whistle of the wind. It sounded again, hushed and pained. He sprinted towards it, trampling the low underbrush, lungs heaving and empty stomach churning.

Curled up between two large trees was a mound of shaggy fur. Its– his– Stan’s chest rose and fell in shallow, shaky breaths. The shot hadn’t killed him, thank god, but it had grazed his side and made movement difficult. Clearly, because as Ford approached, he jolted like he wanted to run off but only managed to scoot himself backwards a meager few inches before slumping back down with a sad whine.

Huh, interesting. His paws weren’t actually paws but instead human hands with nubbed fingers and long claws. Ford made a note to include that in the journal. He shook himself. Not the time.

“Hey, buddy,” he held up his hands as he slowly kneeled just out of his reach, “Please don’t snap at me, I just need to–”

Stan then immediately snapped at him, causing the long shaggy fur hiding his face to be pushed back. Ford gasped, easily dodging the halfhearted attempt to bite him, and stared slack jawed at his brother.

Werewolves, in both stories and more concrete testimonies, had always varied in appearance. Some claimed that they were just large wolves, others completely monstrous. What laid panting in front of Ford was somehow a combination of those two things, more horrifying than legend could ever really say and totally uncanny, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. His brother’s face had elongated, but not completely wolf-like, with his nose shrunken and upturned. The cartilage and skin on his ears had grown but not changed shape or placement, meaning that the useless bits of extra flesh dangled and got lost in the matted hair that grew longer on his head. His face was nearly completely covered in hair, thinner than the rest of his body, and his teeth had sharpened. His posture had very obviously changed to support walking on all fours, and as Ford peered down at the slash where the bullet had grazed, he noticed that his joints had been inverted and stretched to the point of causing nausea.

Taking a steading breath, Ford pushed down any discomfort and soothingly brought his hands up again, “I just want to look at the wound. You biting me isn’t going to help anyone.”

He growled and snapped his jaws again. So there wasn’t any ability to comprehend complex language left after transformation. Great. That would make this ten times more difficult.

Slowly, as to not disturb an angry werewolf that was almost certainly his estranged brother, Ford parted the coarse hair around the wound and waited for Stan to settle back down before getting close enough to actually make out how much damage had been done.

Ford let out a tense, dismayed breath. It was deeper than he’d hoped it’d be. Blood had matted down the surrounding fur and a large gash sliced from right under the curve of Stan’s ribs to right before his spine, nearly right on the fold of his hip. It would make walking difficult. His prodding obviously hurt: Stan’s breathing was hard and his body had a subtle tremor to it that betrayed how badly he wanted to run off. The wound wouldn’t be able to heal on its own. It needed to be clean and bandaged, but that couldn’t be done out in the woods.

He had to find some way to move an irritated and injured werewolf without being bitten or killed.

“Alright,” Ford sighed, sitting back on his heels and eyeing Stan’s horrific face, “I have to move you. Surely you can walk, right? And you won’t try to eat me?”

He didn’t even acknowledge that he had made a sound, eyes half lidded and hazy as they stared off past Ford.

“Oh Moses, you can’t walk. There’s no way I’m going to be able to carry you, how am I going to–” Ford gasped and shot to his feet, “The Stanleymobile! Stay right there! I’ll be right back!”

Stan just whined again and twitched his back legs like he wanted to stand. There was no time to waste, the less that wound was left out the fester, the better. 

Ford sprinted towards where he had left the car, a plan formulating.

***

Stan didn’t want to move from his spot in the trees. Ford couldn’t blame him. To an animal, being in the cover of the woods was the safest place to be while resting.

But this was extremely inconvenient.

“C’mon, Stan,” he patted his leg like he was calling a puppy, whistling, “I got the car all warmed up and everything.”

How he hadn’t been eaten already was a miracle. Stan only glared, drool streaming down the front of his chin and teeth pulled back. He panted, growling, but still did not stand, even as his front limbs twitched. It was almost as if the metal had a paralyzing effect on him.

Werewolf strength tranquilizers, what an idea.

The Stanleymobile was parked right at the edge of the trees, engine rumbling loud enough that if Ford strained his ears then he could make it out over the whistling summer night wind. It wasn’t a long walk by any means, but it wasn’t feasible for Ford to drag him the entire way. He groaned, shoulders slumping. Stan wouldn’t move. He had to improvise.

He jogged back to the car, jerking open the trunk and rustling through all of the boxes he had haphazardly shoved back there to make room for Stan in the backseat. He needed something to roll him onto, like a tarp. 

Ford would feel bad about the invasion of privacy that riffling through his twin’s stuff was if he had time to care. He pulled a box from the very back and, like an offering from the gods, a bedsheet laid folded on the very top of a pile of skimpy magazines. 

Class act, Stanley, Ford scoffed, but tucked the bedsheet under his arm regardless and slammed the trunk door closed. 

He went to run back to his brother, but stopped. If he tried to push him, Stan would bite; if he tried to pick him up, Stan would bite. He needed to somehow lead him onto the sheet.

It hadn’t failed him before. Ford went up to the front of the Stanleymobile. If his brother had this many odds and ends packed away in his car, then he would have to have some food fit for werewolf consumption.

He dug through the console and the glove box. Nothing but trash and a few spare silver bullets for the revolver. Ford grit his teeth, he might have to go all the way home and back for some meat to bribe him.

Before he resigned himself to that fate: a fast food bag shoved all the way under the seat caught his eye.

“Ha! I’ll never complain about your untidiness again, I swear,” he cheered, picking it up and digging through it. One spare patty, not enough to keep a large werewolf distracted but certainly enough to lead one onto a bedsheet. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Now for round two, this time much more prepared.

Once back in front of his brother, he stretched out the sheet right next to Stan, who was huffing and whining again, no longer focused on his surroundings.

Ford held the patty out in front of him, waving it enticingly, “You hungry, buddy? Need a snack?”

Stan sniffed once. Clumsily, he rolled onto his stomach and then his legs, shakily pushing himself up until he was standing. He wobbled, nearly falling before righting himself and shaking his head like he needed to encourage himself. Then, his head slowly turned and his eyes narrowed on Ford, an animal look of predation crossing his altered features. 

Suddenly, Ford didn’t feel like holding the burger anymore.

He dropped it like it was about to explode, right as Stan lurched forward and crashed onto the sheet, clamping his jaws down onto it. He chewed maybe once, before swallowing and letting his head drop with a heavy thunk. He completely stretched out, ironically a little cat-like, and howled lowly. Definitely still hungry.

“When I get you home, I’ll dress your wounds and feed you,” Ford gathered one end of the sheet in a firm grip, “I promise.”

With all of the strength he could muster, he dragged Stan all the way to the waiting car. The lack of friction against the forest floor helped, but it was far from an easy walk. Ford was sweating by the time he was close enough to help Stan onto the leather seats.

From an outside perspective, loading an injured werewolf was hilarious, but when you were the person doing the said loading? Not so much.

“Ok, just one leg at a time, don’t bite me–” he grunted, gently taking one of Stan’s paws and putting it on the edge of the seat. 

He was not a fan of this. He immediately jerked it back and barred his teeth, drool dripping from his fangs and body shaking from the force it took to keep himself upright. 

Ford was tired of being gentle. That clearly wasn’t going to work.

In one motion, cursing and praying that it wouldn’t kill him, Ford lifted Stan from under his hips– jostling the injury and causing him to yelp– and tossed him onto the back seat, slamming the car door behind him.

Stan’s entire body spasmed with pain, his strange misshapen limbs kicking out. He howled and made a few strange guttural sounds, scratching at the leather of the carseats and head whipping around like he was confused as to where the hurt was coming from. The Stanleymobile rocked from all the moving, but a few moments later, Stan collapsed, tired and hurting, and Ford counted to one hundred in his head before deciding that it was safe enough.

He hopped into the front and sped off, careful to avoid any potholes. He didn’t need to be jostling Stan any more than he already had, the man seemed like he was in a lot of pain, and Ford could only grimace at the occasional pained whine that cut through the silence of the car.

His home wasn’t too much farther. He would fix this.

***

Stan had clearly gotten worse. He didn’t even stir when Ford pulled up to his cabin and parked The Stanleymobile and, when he opened the back passenger door to let him out, his eyelids drooped, unfocused and glassy.

Ford’s heart dropped. What if it was too late? What if the silver had entered his bloodstream and poisoned him?

There was no time to be gentle or cautious, and Stan wasn’t exactly in a state to bite him, so Ford didn’t hesitate to manhandle his brother into an improper fireman’s carry. He teetered dangerously for a moment, something cracking in his back that would definitely cause it to be stiff, but he managed to stay upright. God was Stan heavy, and he didn’t even put up a fight, just laid limply over Ford’s shoulder and whined softly, more breath than an actual noise.

Each step was laborious, legs shaking from the effort, and Ford had maybe five seconds once he crossed his front door to decide where the hell to drop him off at before his legs gave out. 

He settled on the living room floor. At least the carpet in there could soften the blow.

Stan didn’t fuss when he was plopped on the living room floor with a heavy thump. He didn’t even move. Ford checked that his chest was still rising, terrified up until he saw his brother’s slow inhale and exhale. Extremely slow.

He raced to his bathroom for his first aid supplies, not wanting to waste anymore time. He dropped to his knees and tore through the cabinet under his sink, gathering all that he could. Arms overflowing with various bandages and sterilizing solutions, Ford sprinted back to his brother, who hadn’t even shifted, limbs still tucked awkwardly under his torso and face smooshed into the shag carpeting.

Was he asleep? Did werewolves sleep? Ford furrowed his eyebrows. It was not the time to wonder about that.

He busied himself with setting up all of his supplies, opening packages of gauze and popping the tops off of half used iodine bottles. Stan awoke when he once again parted the fur, flinching and finally shifting into a more comfortable position on his side. Ford didn’t complain– it made seeing the gash much easier. It had made great progress, somehow already clotting and not nearly as deep as it had seemed in the woods. The wonders of an increased healing factor, he supposed. A quick cleaning and a bandaging would do it wonders, though.

The cleaning was nerve racking, Stan kept whipping his head around and snarling every time it stung– which was often apparently– but Ford managed to complete it without being attacked. In comparison, bandaging was a breeze. Stan had once again fallen asleep, breathing slowly and labored snoring shaking his frame. He even let Ford shimmy his hips enough to where he could wrap the bandage tightly and secure it properly.

After it was all said and done, Ford wiped his forehead, breathed out a sigh, and realized that he was suddenly at a loss for what to do. Stan was asleep, bandaged, and probably would make it through the night now. What was one to do after learning that his deadbeat twin brother was a werewolf, nearly killed said werewolf, performed hasty first aid, and then was left with a passed out cryptid in the middle of his living room floor?

His stomach growled.

Eat. Said person could eat.

Now that things had calmed down, and the adrenaline was depleting, Ford’s body was delighting in catching him up on all the basic needs he had been ignoring.

His knees popped as he stood, and he took a moment to gaze down at the sleeping form of his brother. He wasn’t a bloodthirsty monster it seemed, more similar to an ordinary animal– if a very scary one. So it was fine to leave him alone while he got some food. Not unsafe at all.

Ford scrubbed a hand over his face. It wasn’t a great idea, he had to admit, but he needed something in his system or he would crash. He would just have to make it fast. Compared to his brother– and other male family members in all honesty– he didn’t have a very large appetite. He never had, so most of the food in his kitchen was prepackaged or canned, finding something that would be quick would be easy.

Padding to his kitchen, he beelined for his cupboard. Pushing aside questionably old cans of tuna and ignoring the singular bag of potato chips he had picked up on a whim, his eyes landed on a few ignored cans of soup. They didn’t even need to be heated up (as long as you had a firm constitution and a willingness to eat unpleasant food– Ford had both).

Perfect.

He grabbed a spoon, peeled off the top, and was back in the living room before Stan even had the time to shift in his sleep.

The first bite of cold, mediocre soup hit his tongue and he could have sworn that he felt his mood rise immediately. He shoved another two bites of barely cooked noodles before he swallowed the first and hardly chewed, eating so fast that he was definitely in danger of choking.

But someone else definitely seemed interested: Stan. His head had lifted up, nose twitching and eyes locked onto Ford. He paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, and swallowed nervously.

“You want some?” he asked genuinely, “This isn’t even meat. Are you not a carnivore? Perhaps you’re closer to a weredog if you’re an omnivore–” he turned the soup can around in his hand and stopped. It was chicken noodle soup, and Ford had lopped a large chunk of chicken meat onto his spoon. That’s probably what his brother wanted.

Stan growled, hackles rising and eyes still locked onto Ford. It was probably in his best interest to just hand it over. 

He tossed the can, and the soup splashed all over his carpet. Moses, was that a mess to clean up. Not his brightest idea but fine, because Stan immediately started to lap at the broth and ignore the pieces of noodle, carrot, and celery.

“So, you are a carnivore. Fascinating.”

It hit him that he was sitting there while the best opportunity to catalogue everything he had just learned and sketch a post-transformation werewolf was just sitting in his lap. He smothered a grin. He had so much work to do and so many questions to be answered. It was thrilling.

While Stan ate, he pulled his journal from his trench coat pocket and clicked his pen, already jotting down a few observations and thumbnailing the best way to show his brother’s transformed anatomy. He had so many questions, so many avenues to pursue, it was the most fun a guy could have without his microscope.

If only it hadn’t turned out to be Stan. But he could worry about that by the time morning hit. He had a journal to fill out.

Chapter Text

The first thing that registered to Stan was that his face was itchy. Being the upstanding gentlemen that he was, he had gotten used to waking up in plenty of awful places: in alleyways after a night at the bar; on dirty mattresses, sometimes covered in his own vomit, bugs, or the leftover mess of whatever shithole he was staying in at the time; stranger’s beds, without whoever took him home–

Point is, Stan was used to being disoriented after waking up. What he wasn’t used to was not feeling all that bad.

Sure, he had a headache, and yes whatever he was laying on was a little on the hard side, but in the horror show that was his life: not all that bad. 

He kept his eyes closed stubbornly against the sunlight that warmed his face and let himself take in more sensations as his memory slowly came back to him. It was warm, his mouth was horribly dry and tacky, the air carried a scent that was familiar in a way he couldn’t place, he was nude (uh oh), and his body had that familiar ache after a full moon.

Oh yeah, he had turned. That explained it.

The confusion was the worst part about detransforming. A perfectly blank slate took up the space where his memory of last night should have been, almost like a really bad hangover. He could recollect that he had been in the woods before he blacked out, far enough to where he couldn’t hurt anything that wasn’t wild. That was a relief.

But, if he had been in the woods, and now he wasn’t, then where–

Stan’s eyes flew open and he shot up, heart hammering. He was in someone’s house.

He licked his lips and swallowed nervously, eyes flitting around the room he had woken up in. It was someone’s living room, covered in papers and random science-fiction-esc models and machines. He was on their floor, a thin flannel blanket draped over him and when he looked down to make sure he wasn’t handcuffed or shackled, he noticed a bandage wrapped around his midsection and hips. He scratched at it absentmindedly, slowly standing up and getting a good look at the whole room. A single couch (the only normal thing in the room) was pushed up against a stone wall and a comfortable looking armchair was angled so that whoever sat there could stare down at where Stan had been sleeping on the floor. Creepy.

Welp. Time to go before some hillbilly ate him or shot at him when they realized the wolf that had trampled into their house was actually an adult man. No clue why they had bandaged him though.

Shaking off the pins and needles that shot through his feet, Stan wrapped the thin blanket around his waist as he stumbled towards the window that had been letting the early morning sun in. The homeowner wouldn’t mind him taking a little blanket if it meant he didn’t get arrested for indecent exposure. He refused to have a repeat of the last time that he woke up naked near a neighborhood. Now that had been hard to explain to the cops, and after he stumbled his way through an excuse, they had thought he was a tweaker and arrested him anyway.

Stan fiddled with the lock of the window, and it slid open easily. He hiked his leg up and over the ledge, bare feet hitting the soft grass just outside. It was warm, good enough weather to hike back to his clothes and car. Hopefully, this place wasn’t too far from Ford’s house, he still needed to–

“Um. Hello.”

Stan screeched, flailing and just managing to not fall face first out of the window as he whipped his head around to stare at the voice from the (now open) doorway into the living room. His blood ran cold. 

It was his brother.

There was no mistaking it, despite all the time that had passed since they had last seen one another, they were still twins. It was like looking into a mirror, except his reflection had sideburns, thick glasses, and six fingers.

His mouth opened and closed a few times on its own. Words failed him. What the fuck was he even supposed to say? Hey, sorry about barging in like this, I’m a werewolf and I need you to fix me.

Luckily, Ford broke the silence for him.

He cleared his throat, pointedly not looking anywhere lower than his neck, “Would you like some clothes?”

He had honestly forgotten he was naked, “Uh, yeah, that’d be great.”

“I washed yours for you. They stunk,” he said bluntly, “But I’ll go fetch them. Stay there– well, not in the window, but stay in this room.”

Stan clumsily flung himself from the window ledge, shutting it with a sheepish chuckle, “Yeah, my bad, you go ahead.”

His brother nodded once and turned on his heel, presumably towards his laundry room. That left Stan alone. In his brother’s house. Bandaged and not totally sure why.

This was so not how he pictured any of this.

***

Ford was back after a moment, a folded stack of clothes in his arms that Stan recognized as his own. They were tossed to him, Ford lingering in the doorway like this wasn’t his house and politely turning away when Stan announced that he was going to drop the blanket to get dressed.

His clothes smelled fresh– something they hadn’t been in a while– and Stan focused on that as he tried to shuffle his pants over his bandages before it clicked that he still hadn’t been told what they were for.

“Hey–” his brain blanked on what he should call his brother. Sixer felt too casual, like they hadn’t spent a single day apart and were still two naive teenagers sharing the same dream about adventuring, but habit was habit: “Six– Ford.” 

Nailed it.

“Hm?” his brother hummed, back still turned to him and ignoring the stutter. Thank Moses.

“Why am I wrapped up like a mummy?”

“You had… hurt yourself and got a pretty nasty scrap on your side. I patched it up for you.”

“And I didn’t attack you?” Stan asked, stunned, nearly smacking himself for the slip up. But Ford had to have seen him during the full moon if he was in his home. So, he knew, and Stan knew that he knew, and... basically everyone was in the know. He didn't have to walk on eggshells about it.

His brother cleared his throat, and he could practically see him adjust his glasses– even though the shirt he was wrestling over his head blocked his view, “No, you were quite docile actually.”

“Huh,” he shrugged, fidgeting with his bandages, “I’m decent now, by the way, you can turn around.”

Ford spun around and watched as he undid the (very tight) dressing around his waist, mouth opening to stop him before his eyes widened at the sight of perfectly healthy skin where at the very least a scar should have been. “What? How?”

“Ever since I… turned, no matter what I get myself into, I don’t end up with a scratch on me,” and he had tested that out vigorously. A phantom ache pulsed at his jaw at the memory of chewing through the sheet metal of his trunk, one that he shook off, “But thanks for the bandages, I guess.”

Ford’s eyes had a glimmer to them that he was intimately familiar with: scientific fascination. He stepped forward, getting close enough to where he was in arm’s reach and even half raising his hand like he was going to inspect the now fully healed area (Stan braced himself– he hadn’t felt a friendly touch in… way too long) before seemingly thinking better of it and shaking his head, “Now that you’re awake, may I ask how you’re a werewolf? And why in god’s name are you here?”

He stared hard at Stan, who in turn curled in on himself. Maybe he should have called ahead, maybe he should have thought a little harder about The Plan. But whatever, he was here now, and hindsight was 20/20.

“For sure, both totally reasonable questions. But I’m super hungry, do you got any food here or what? Can’t share my tragic backstory on an empty stomach.”

Sue him for dodging the question. Conman habits are hard to break.

Ford’s face dropped, the glint in his eye gone and replaced by flat indifference, “Of course. I can imagine that it takes a lot out of you. Follow me.”

It felt strange to speak with someone about his condition. As Stan trailed behind his brother, peering at the lackluster decorations lining the hallway walls and the amount of clutter in every room, he ignored the instinct to bolt. Ford knew, he had seen him transformed, and both of them were on the same page. He didn’t need to worry. There was going to be no awkward and desperate convincing that what Stan was experiencing was real. Just some basic information was needed– nothing too personal– and then he could hop on the cured train and get out of there for good.

(And he didn’t think about the fact that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to get out of there. The hard part had been done: he had spoken to Ford and hadn’t been cursed at or pushed away. They were together again, sharing a space, and a small ember of hope embedded itself deep in his chest that maybe he could right his mistakes. He could have a family again without the millions.)

The kitchen was a mess, just like the rest of his house. Dirty dishes were stacked haphazardly in the sink and the trash can was so full that the lid bulged with empty containers and half eaten leftovers. It wasn’t a health hazard so Stan couldn’t complain, but he had to smother a smile at the fact that his brother lived as a total bachelor, not too far off from how he was as a teenager. Some things never change.

“Take a seat,” his brother gestured to the dining room table pushed up against the wall, covered in papers and pens, “I’ll make some eggs.”

“Fine by me.”

He seriously wondered if his brother had any other food to make. When he opened the fridge, the thing was nearly empty.

An awkward silence stretched on, the only sound present was the clattering of a pan on the stove and the sizzle of eggs being scrambled. Absentmindedly, Stan began to drum his fingers on the table and hum under his breath.

“Stanley,” Ford said sharply. Apparently, he still found that annoying.

Stan huffed but stopped, rolling his shoulders and leaning back in his chair. His stomach rumbled. Couldn’t Ford go any faster? He had been right: transformation took a lot out of a guy.

Not being able to stand the silence any longer, Stan spoke up, “You don’t get many visitors up here, huh?”

“No.”

“Cool, cool. Must be… nice to have all of this uh– privacy.”

“It’s certainly not disadvantageous."

“Ha, big– big word you used there. You practicing for Scrabble or something?”

“No,” Ford basically slammed a steaming plateful of scrambled eggs in front of him, the clatter startling him.

At least it gave him an excuse to cut off the stilted conversation. He didn’t wait for Ford to sit down in front of him before digging in.

Ford wrinkled his nose, watching him eat wearily, “Glad you enjoy them.”

They were overcooked and dry– not that Stan mentioned that. He was too busy inhaling every last bite.

“So,” he started, but was given no mind, “Stanley.”

“Let me eat. I’ll answer your questions in a second. Damn.”

“My apologies,” Ford snipped irritably.

(Inwardly, Ford admitted that he liked his brother much more when he was a wolf. His charming personality hadn’t changed one bit.)

After Stan had licked every bit of egg off his plate, then and only then, did he look up and lean back languidly in his chair, “Alright, ask away. I’m an open book.”

He was not.

Much more formally this time, Ford took out some kind of red book and clicked his pen, “So, let’s start at the beginning. How did you become a werewolf? Bitten, cursed, deal with a demon?”

“Um, Bitten. What was that about a demon?”

“Who bit you?”

He rubbed the side of his jaw, thinking. It was a hazy night. He had been in London at the time, still in Rico’s crew and following his every word like a lapdog and had wandered off from his hotel room for some reason. Probably to smoke or maybe get a hit of something stronger.

His life hadn’t been in the best place. It was never really in a great place, but those days were especially dim.

He remembered the fog. How it was cool on his skin and made his hair frizz from all the moisture. The streetlights hardly did anything to cut through it, and the road he was on was abandoned. It had been late, the full moon shining above him, and Stan actually thought to himself that he had made it to the big leagues. He was traveling the world, like some badass mobster off of TV, and it was only a matter of time before he started earning money like someone in the big leagues. Someone like Rico. He remembered the feeling of eyes on him, and then he remembered being tackled. He remembered the feeling of teeth digging into his shoulder and he remembered calling out for his mother as he laid there and bled.

The hospital had said they had never seen anything like it: an animal attack that intense and the person survive. Little did they know that, afterwards, he would wonder if it were better that he had died that night. Would have saved him a lot of trouble.

Stan blinked back to the present, Ford staring at him expectantly, “Don’t know. It’s all a blur really.”

“I see,” he hastily scribbled something down before looking back up, “And how long have you been a werewolf?”

“A year. Give or take a month or two, I dunno, things are fuzzy.”

“A–” Ford blinked, “A year? You’ve been a werewolf for a year? Why just now are you reaching out? You know what, better question, why are you here in the first place?”

Here he goes. Getting down to the nitty-gritty finally. He was just surprised it took this long, “I need you to cure me.”

“Cure you?”

“Yep. Isn’t that what you do here?”

Ford’s mouth fell open, struck silent with shock for a full second before shaking himself out of his stupor, “Stanley, I am not a vet. I have no guarantee that your condition can even be cured!”

“Well, I was hoping–”

“Hoping? Why didn’t you call ahead!? Finding a cure takes research and time and equipment that I don’t have!”

That was not what he wanted to hear. Stan crossed his arms over his chest, “Look, buddy, I just figured that you would be an expert in this typa thing. Didn’t think I would need to.”

“And why did you wait until a full moon to come here? You endangered the entire town!”

“When I started driving up here, I had a week before the full moon. I thought I could make it in time, but clearly, I didn’t.”

“Where did you drive up from?” Ford asked frankly.

“New Mexico–”

Ford shook his head in disbelief, “Let me get this straight, you were so egotistical that you thought you could drive from New Mexico to here in a week and somehow also have enough time for me to cure you of a chronic supernatural condition?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“Stanely!” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “That was an insanely risky move!”

“Relax, man, no one got hurt,” he insisted, indignation swirling in his gut, “You said yourself that I didn’t attack you. No harm, no foul.”

“If it were anyone else then there would have been harm! You didn’t attack me because I–” his eyes bulged and he slammed his mouth shut.

Stan narrowed his eyes, “You what, Stanford?”

“I… well I ran into you in the woods and I panicked and you were just so big and I had no clue what or who you were so I…” he rambled, avoiding eye contact in a way that screamed guilt.

“Stanford.”

He threw up his hands, exasperated, “Why did you have a gun loaded with silver bullets in the first place?”

The pieces clicked together a little too quickly for Stan, “You shot me!?”

“I thought you were going to eat me!”

“You shot me! With my own gun!”

“A gun that you still haven’t told me why you had it!”

“Because–! Just in case.” Just in case you couldn’t fix me.

And Ford (to his knowledge) couldn’t read minds, but his unsaid answer echoed louder than any scream ever could. The two settled into a tense silence, glaring across the table at one another and waiting to see who would back down.

Finding silver bullets had been harder than Stan expected. It took a lot of asking around, a lot of cashing in favors, and a lot of stealing, but he had managed to get a case of them. He considered throwing them out more than once, but never could. Having multiple back up plans was nice and all, but sometimes you just needed one. And like he said, it was a back up, he didn’t think anyone else would ever use them against him. Leave it to Ford to shoot first and ask questions later.

(Stan would have been impressed if his twin hadn’t shot at him.)

Perhaps out of pity, or maybe guilt for nearly killing him, Ford looked away first. His jaw tensed as he clenched it, hand rubbing over his chin in thought, “Fine,” he relented, “I’ll try and find a cure. Only because the research is invaluable to me.”

Yep. Classic Ford. Only thinking of himself. Stan muttered a seething, “The least you could do.”

“The least–” his face contorted in anger before he smoothed it out with a sigh, “You know what? Nevermind. I’m ignoring that.”

He grunted and glared down at the hardwood of the table. There were water ring stains.

“Go gather your things. There’s a spare room in the attic for you.”

His mind went blank. “What?”

Ford fixed him with an unimpressed stare, one eyebrow quirked up, “You might as well stay here while I work. It would be easier than going to and fro town. Less eyes on us.”

“Totally, totally, that makes total sense,” he coughed, trying to hide the elation that his brother would want to share a roof with him again, “You didn’t happen to see my car when you brought me here, did you? I kinda have all my stuff in it.”

“It’s parked out front. I drove you here in it.”

“Oh my god, I was in my car!? Did I scratch it!?”

“Only minorly,” he shrugged.

“Holy shit! My car!” he shot to his feet, not waiting for Ford to crash out of the kitchen with him and frantically searching for the front door. 

The Stanleymoblie was his baby. He still needed to repair his trunk and now he may have completely torn through her? Stan had only transformed inside a building exactly once, and it wasn’t pretty by the time morning came. That place was significantly bigger than the Stanleymobile, he couldn’t imagine how much harm he had accidentally done to her.

He got lost only once, and after Ford’s very helpful, “To your left,” he found his way forward and bolted into the front yard. He scanned for his car’s bright red paint, bracing himself for the worst.

True to his brother’s word, it was parked nearly directly in front of the door to the cabin, but his brother had lied about the extent of the damage. There was nothing minor about it.

“What did I do to you, old girl?” he bemoaned to the open air.

Her paint job was scratched all to hell, a deep dent marring the driver’s side door, and when Stan gathered up the courage to peek into her interior, he held back a gasp as the deep claw marks tearing through the leather.

“I know a mechanic in town that can do the repairs,” Ford said suddenly from next to him, startling Stan and forcing him to bite back a scream.

“Christ! Give a guy a heart attack!”

Ford adjusted his glasses, clearly hiding a smirk. The asshole. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Course you didn’t,” he rolled his eyes, gesturing to his car, “Why’d you even come out? To gawk at the damage to my car?”

“No, I need to head into town for some equipment and look for books on lycanthropy.”

Stan tilted his head, “Lycanthropy?”

“Being a werewolf.”

“Ah,” he nodded, “This town has that sorta thing?”

Ford followed him around to his trunk, speaking so matter-of-factly that it physically hurt to sit through, “Gravity Falls has an extremely long history of the supernatural. Many strange happenings– anomalies more accurately– have been recorded by fellow researchers. Not that any have settled down and dedicated themselves to unusualology like I have–”

“Yeesh, I get it, don’t talk my ear off,” he hoisted the trunk open– ignoring his own racing heartbeat at any unsavory memories associated with the action and the annoyed huffing of his brother– to gather a box of his clothes in his arms. “‘Sides I thought you were an expert. Why’d you need a dusty old book? Didja skip werewolfism in your college class or somethin’?”

Ford’s lips pressed together in a firm line, clearly swallowing down a retort, “I simply want to be thorough.”

“Likely story,” he hummed, nudging his brother and laughing cruelly (because it was just too easy to tease the guy), “I bet someone didn’t do their homework.”

“I always did my homework, you–” he cut himself off with a groan.

“Oooh, tough guy, trust me. We can all tell that you spent a lil too much time doing your homework,” he chuckled, watching in bemusement at Ford’s face go a little red. But he didn’t laugh or joke back. He only took a deep, steadying breath.

“I’ll be back before dark,” Ford informed him stiffly before turning and walking to where Stan could only presum he had parked his (not ruined) car.

He watched his brother go, deflating at the fact that none of his jokes lead to any playful banter like he was hoping they would. Stan clicked his tongue, “Prick.”

Nobody could take a joke these days.

***

When told that he would be staying in the attic, Stan had imagined a hot, cramped, and unfinished space filled with insulation and fiber glass. Which would still be a punch up from some of the spaces he had lived in before. But, upon stomping up the stairs with a box gripped tightly to his chest (because of course he would have to go one at a time, when has his life ever been easy) and opening the door, he was greeted by a relatively spacious room. One with a barebones bedframe and mattress already waiting for him. Not too bad.

He couldn’t find his usual bedsheets, but thankfully, Ford had a linen closet. That’s how well off he was. He had a linen closet filled with spare sheets.

Slowly and painstakingly, Stan unpacked himself and made the room livable. He put his clothes up in the closet, took out his toiletries in the upstairs bathroom, and made the bed with his favorite thin throw blanket and the one pillow he allowed himself. Once he was finished, he had to admit, it wasn’t a bad set up.

But Ford still wasn’t home, and that left him time to explore. If Ford got mad at him over that, oh well, he’d get over it. Because apparently Stan’s condition made him invaluable. And he could only go bored for so long before he had to do something about that boredom.

The upstairs– where the attic was, because his brother’s cabin had three floors that he knew of and Moses did that make his head spin– was clean. Except for the occasional cobweb, which really only added to the sense that Ford never went up there. No need to poke around, Stan had just filled the only two rooms with his own stuff.

The floor below that, the second floor, was substantially bigger than it seemed to be. It was free of any cobwebs but absolutely overflowing with clutter. Random bookshelves and chairs filled with papers, folders, and books of every kind filled up the hallway. None of them looked too interesting (because he wasn’t a dork) so he skipped over them and opened the first door at the end of the hall, planning to make his way down in order. One had to have a system while they snooped, otherwise they were a maniac with no regard for others. At least this way Stan could pick up after himself without accidentally retreading old ground.

The door turned out to lead to his brother’s bedroom. Stan took one sweeping look– unmade bed, dresser pushed up against a wall, curtains drawn to prevent any sunlight from breaking into the room, closet door left half open with a few sweater vests visible from the doorway– and decided that was enough of that. He felt bad being that invasive.

Next room was a hallway bathroom. Boring.

Bingo, the third door that Stan opened seemed to be a study. Probably his brother’s personal one, if the moth pinnings were anything to go off of. He let a small smile slip through as he looked at the collection. When they were younger, Ford would pour over butterfly and moth species, by the time he was thirteen he could recite most by heart, and by the time he was seventeen he had begun to learn pinning methods. Good to know that he still enjoyed them.

Stan probably shouldn’t stay in there too long though, the shit looked extremely delicate, and he didn’t exactly trust himself these days.

Slipping out quietly, he wandered back into the hall. The rest of the rooms were uninteresting to anyone that had a flourishing social life in high school. Most had scientific equipment or random models and nicknacks that (while cool to simply glance at like a tourist) looked too dangerous to actually touch. He went downstairs and found the same story there: crowded rooms with way too much garbage or random clutter, two other studies that seemed a little excessive to Stan, and the living room and kitchen– both of which he had already been in. All and all, he could only gawk at how well his brother had done for himself. The place had damn near science fiction levels of hardware and was humongous. Stan hadn’t allowed himself to even dream of ever owning a place this big. It wasn’t feasible. Well, not without a miracle, it wasn’t.

When Stan had thought up The Plan, it was after a trip to a library near his motel in Dead End Flats. Ironically, not to research his condition, but rather to see if he could pick up any books on how to fake his death– don’t ask. He had found himself in the paranormal section by chance and his eyes had stuck on a thesis that they had displayed on the ancient microfilm readers. Anomalous Activity Present in the Pacific Northwest by Stanford Pines.

It hurt to even read the name of the author. His breath had gotten caught in his throat, forcing him to sit down with shaking hands and skim his way through the way too long article– pausing every so often for the letters to stop doing the cha-cha.

He didn’t know anything about how scientific theses worked, or if it meant anything substantial that his brother had published one– nationally ranked– as young as they were, but he was transfixed all the same. He had figured Ford went into astrophysics, or quantum mechanics, or some other super fancy word for hard math with no reward, but something that felt too soft for Stan’s comfort bloomed in his chest at the thought that his brother became an unusualologist. He always had an intense love for the strange. Ford making something of himself in a field he truly loved made him feel a little too emotional.

Once his heart had gotten done blubbering, however, a second thought pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. He could help you.

And now here he was, at his brother’s home, snooping around and them both pretending that nothing was wrong between them. Now that he actually had time to think about it, the crazier it seemed.

He needed a smoke.

***

Ford pulled up to the cabin just in time to see Stan toss his cigarette butt over the porch railing. He gave him a look that could only be described as disappointment before breezing past him and dropping off a pile of heavy and old books onto his coffee table. Stan followed.

“So, the itinerary as of right now will be for you to get some rest and give me time to assemble some much needed lab equipment,” his brother explained, “But we’ll start baseline tests tomorrow. Then, I can try and figure out an effective treatment.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look as casual as possible, “Building equipment sounds pretty labor intense. I won’t be able to help out with the math, but I could be some extra muscle.”

If his earlier attempts to bond hadn’t worked, then maybe some more forced quality time would.

Ford curled his lip, looking at him like he had lost his mind, "Absolutely not. The last thing I need is you breaking anything.”

“Like I’m some big dumb oaf? How sensitive could it be?”

“I’m simply being cautious due to past circumstances,” he spat. And Stan’s mouth snapped shut.

It was the elephant in the room, what happened between the two of them. It had been an unrecognized mercy that Ford hadn’t brought it up, but now that he had, it settled in the room like a bad smell.

Stan thought about rising to the argument that his brother so clearly initiated, his pride and temper nagging at the back of his mind. But he went blank, because really, what was he supposed to say. Fuck you for bringing up something that I absolutely did?

“Fuck you! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Perfect. That’s exactly what he meant to say.

“You know perfectly well what I mean. You don’t have the best track record.”

“Oh well look at Mr. High-and-Mighty over here. I oughta–”

Ford’s frame was tense, a truly hateful scowl taking over his features, “Stanley,” he growled, “May I remind you that you are here because I said that you could. You have no obligation to stay with me nor to have my aid. I could very well change my mind. Do not test me.”

Stan opened his mouth before he remembered that– oh yeah, he needed to stay there, needed to be cured– and closed it. He had no power here. Picking fights would only fuck himself over, even if that’s always what he was best at: ruining things. He should have known better than to try and mend things. It was best if he stayed a good distance from Ford, clearly that’s what he wanted, living circumstances be damned.

“Tch. Whatever. Have fun breaking your back,” he felt two feet tall under Ford’s angry glare. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“You do that. I’ll be down in the lab,” Ford said coldly, watching Stan’s back as he retreated upstairs.

He has a lab? What? Where? Stan hadn’t seen anything that resembled a lab while he was snooping.

Whatever. He was going to go wash off his shame. It’d be nice to have hot water for the first time in forever anyway.

***

Ford pressed the code into the lab door, descending the stair case, fuming the entire way. He wasn’t sure what to expect after sunrise, his brother had transformed in front of his eyes (something that was mentally scarring but very scientifically fascinating) and he braced himself for many possibilities. One was that his brother was a changed man and had seen the error of his ways, there to apologize but burdened with a heavy curse. Unlikely, but a man could hope. Two was that it was pure coincidence that his brother had come to Gravity Falls, brought by whatever made it a hotspot for the paranormal. Three was the worst option in his mind: his brother was exactly the same and had come knocking for money or to cause trouble for him once again.

He should have known that the third would be the correct one.

Stanley hadn’t changed a bit. He was selfish, rude, conniving, and utterly clueless. Can I help you build this very delicate machinery? In what world would Ford have said yes?

He let out a wordless grunt of frustration, flicking the lights to the basement on and hearing his voice echo against the stone. The scrap and metal components he had picked up in town sat gleaming under the overhead lights. It would take a few hours to get everything set up, Ford cracked his knuckles, good thing he was a diligent worker.

As he let himself get lost in the motions of his work, his mind wandered back to his twin. He was probably fast asleep by now, snoring and laying sprawled out in his bed. Perhaps Ford should have said more. He wanted to. Where was all of his bravado? His chutzpah? He had imagined what speaking to Stanley again after all these years would be like a million times. Ford imagined himself scolding his brother, cursing him for ruining his chances at his dream school, proving that he was doing the right thing by not going on the boat, flaying him with words so sharp that they felt like barbed wire on the back of his tongue.

But that hadn’t happened. Any attempt by him at mentioning their past had gotten lost in translation. He had spoken to his brother like they had no history, like they were strangers, like he hadn’t closed the curtains on a seventeen year old Stanley and been left to wonder what happened to him in the years that followed.

It hurt. And it was frustrating. And somehow, a lump formed in his throat at the thought. His brother was in his life again. He was upstairs, and here Ford was, ignoring him and holing himself away instead of doing anything else.

He deserves it, a bitter voice chimed, he deserves to be ignored. He ruined your life.

But did he? From where Ford was standing, he was doing just fine. He was on track to actually make something out of himself while Stan was a criminal– a lycanthrope criminal. It didn’t seem to be the best situation to be in. Was Ford being too harsh? Stan offered to help, was that his way of trying to reconnect? The Pines men had never been known for their sentimentality.

Ford shook himself. Stan didn’t deserve his friendship, or trust, anymore. He had it, and he broke it, and that was that. Stan was the way that he was through his own choices. So much time had passed and yet, while he certainly looked different, his personality was exactly the same: an immature child that wanted to bring Stanford down with him.

He sighed, resigning to his work. There was no time to ruminate on what-ifs and emotional hogwash. He had a job to do.

Chapter Text

Stan worried that the cabin would be tense after the argument. He dressed slowly that morning, lingering in his room for a bit too long to be accidental, and descended the stairs like he were on a funeral march. But instead of being greeted by a cold, angry Ford that refused to even look at him, his brother actually seemed better than ever. He pranced around the kitchen with excess energy, muttering to himself and jotting things down in that red book of his. Stan greeted him with a half-hearted, “good morning,” and was met by an enthusiastic reply and a promise that after he ate, they would “get started.”

It put him on edge, if he were being honest. Not too many people were that enthused to be in his presence– least of all his twin.

After a hearty breakfast of more overcooked eggs (seriously, did Ford even go grocery shopping?) and a smoke, Stan was led by his brother to his secret lab in the basement. Because that was a perfectly sane thing to have.

Stan really had to wonder how far grant money went because all of this seemed to be a bit excessive. The staircase down to the lowest level of the cabin was winding and poorly lit– a dangerous choice even if it added to the vibe– and there was a secondary door that Ford had to input yet another code into to get it to open. When it did finally open– the hissing of hydraulics making Stan feel like he was stepping into a spaceship– Ford ushered him forward into an equally poorly lit, seemingly man-made cave. Various machines with wires that crisscrossed along the ground were hooked up and either beeping or sitting patiently to be used. The only two items he really recognized were a weight rack and a treadmill. The rest could have just been various pieces to Ford’s futuristic coffee maker, and he would have been none the wiser.

He whistled slowly, spinning to take it all in, “Impressive place. I hope you know I have no clue what I’m looking at.”

Ford grinned, not answering. Instead, he walked over to a control panel of some kind and began to press some buttons. Bright overhead lights flicked on, and Stan realized that they had been standing in nearly complete darkness.

“You just passed the first test with flying colors,” his brother announced, “Your eyesight has improved vastly. I could hardly see five feet in front of me.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, “I thought these would be a little bit harder than that.”

“They range in difficulty, but most of what I’ll be having you do today will not require much effort on your part. I need to get a general idea of what lycanthropy does to the human body.”

“Is that really necessary to find a cure?”

“Depends on who you ask. But I’m a scientist. Bite me for being curious– don’t actually,” Ford’s smile faltered, a look of genuine concern overtaking his features.

He snorted, “Whatever you say, doc. Just tell me where you want me.”

“Right this way.”

***

Stan knew he was a liar, but the longer he spent with his brother, the more he suspected it was a family trait. So far, every test he had been subjected to had been torture.

Ford had led him over to the treadmill first, casually explaining that he would see how far and fast he could run. Fine, it had been a while since he hit the gym, but he had plenty of experience from running away from the cops. It shouldn’t have been that bad. But while Stan found that he was fast, he certainly didn’t have the stamina to go very long. He could only do a dead sprint for at most a minute before he had to take a break, heart beating out of his chest. It didn’t help that Ford would nod and write it down like he was the world’s most interesting science experiment while he was actively fighting for his life. 

And as if that weren’t enough exercise to last him a lifetime, next, his brother cheerily explained that they were also going to test how much Stan could deadlift. He forced his nearly numb jelly legs to stumble towards the barbell, questioning if any of this was actually worth it. It wasn’t too bad, in all honesty, Stan knew he was a strong guy. But after every successful lift, Ford would hum, jot something down onto a clipboard, and then add more weight. Stan’s arms felt like noodles by the end, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Excellent,” Ford hummed, unclipping Stan from the heartrate monitor and other random bits of technology he had put on him. He stepped back and looked over all of his notes, “You wouldn’t happen to know what your previous weight limit was, would you?”

“Um,” he panted, gulping down the water that his brother had provided after he nearly collapsed with exertion. He had sat down against the cool steel wall of the room that held the control panel from earlier, feeling the sweat on his body begin to cool, “Nah. What did I get up to?”

“350.”

He spat out his water, “350 pounds!?”

“It’s quite impressive–”

“I deadlifted 350 pounds!? How come I’m not buff!? I’m still fat as hell!”

Ford let out a surprised laugh, “I suspect that your muscles and metabolism have increased significantly, leading to increased strength–”

And that couldn’t have gotten rid of my beer gut?”

Another laugh, harder this time, “Stan, that’s not–”

“God, no one is going to believe me,” he groaned. Ford was quickly losing the battle at suppressing his laughter. He took one look at Stan’s dejected face and broke out into a cackle, covering his face with a hand. “Just laugh it up. I’m the world’s fattest pro-athlete,” he grumbled.

Ford nearly fell over. And despite his attempt at keeping his bad mood, his brother’s laugh had always been contagious. Their laughter echoed off the stone cavern, Ford having to lean against the wall to support himself.

Eventually, his brother composed himself long enough to clear his throat and explain, “Your increased strength could explain why you weren’t able to sprint for a prolonged period. Your body is no longer adapted to persistence hunting: think sprinting rather than a marathon. Very… wolf-like. Fitting, I suppose.”

“And that’s why I haven’t burned off the weight?” Stan asked glumly.

“It could be,” his brother considered it for a moment before grinning slyly, “But I also suspect that you don’t keep very healthy lifestyle choices.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

Ford snorted and offered him a hand, “Alright, I only ask one more test of you and then we can take a break.”

Stan eyed it suspiciously. Both out of a force of habit and the fact that he hadn’t touched Ford in a little under ten years. It felt… monumental, somehow. Like it was important. And so he just blinked at it, mind ping-ponging between the two choices: take it or don’t.

Being left hanging, Ford frowned, furrowed his brows, and dropped his hand. The moment was gone. 

Stan smothered any disappointment at that thought and stood on his own, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand and wishing that he had remembered to bring a hair tie. The mullet was annoying in so many different avenues. He wished he could just cut it off, but they had been through so much together that he had just come to accept it. He was a mullet guy now.

Ford coolly clasped his hands behind his back and led him over to a simple steel table– one that reminded him of what the doctor used to bring back Frankenstein– and an unassuming chair.

“Take a seat.”

He did, but looked around anxiously like someone was going to scale the cave walls and put a bag over his head, “Uh, what’re we doing now?”

If he was going to get electrocuted like Frankenstein was, then he was out, cure be damned.

“Nothing physically taxing,” he assured, briskly walking over to a storage unit and opening it, pulling out a few petri dishes, “We’ve already established a weakness to silver, so that got me thinking–”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Hardy-har-har,” Ford rolled his eyes, walking back over to the table and setting the dishes in front of him, “These have common allergens and irritants in them– for supernatural creatures that is. Now, and this is very important, do you know of any substance that will kill you if it comes into contact with you?”

Stan thought for a moment, growing more nervous as the seconds ticked on, and shook his head, “Well, chocolate makes me really sick, but nothing deadly. Not that I’m aware of.”

“Perfect. This won’t take long,” his brother opened up the first one. Garlic. The pungent smell hit Stan’s nose immediately.

“Wait!” he put his hands out, “Just to touch base: you have an epi pen just in case I do have a reaction, right?”

Ford slow blinked, and then adjusted his glasses with his free hand, “I don’t believe it would affect you in the same way an allergic reaction would to a regular human.”

Was his brother morally against safety precautions? He ran a hand through his hair, groaning, “You know what? Sorry I asked. Let’s get this over with.”

Ford looked a little too excited at that. He took a cotton swab and dabbed it in the garlic and offered it to Stan. When he just looked at it, Ford huffed, “Well? Dab a little on your tongue, and if it’s not too much trouble, on your arm. I’ll track what happens over the course of thirty minutes.”

This really was like an allergy test. Stan took it and did what he was told. Straight garlic was brutal on the senses, supernatural repellent or not.

The rest of the test went about the same: Ford opening the dish, explaining what was in it (lavender, salt, sage, more that Stan didn’t care enough about to put to memory,) and then eagerly waiting to see if it would affect him. None of them did, causing Stan beginning to feel a bit queasy by the end of it all and Ford disappointed.

“I really thought at least one of them would have an effect,” he mumbled, clicking his pen over and over as he thought. He hummed, looking back up at Stan from across the table, “I know I said that this would be the final test, but would you mind if I got a few samples from you? Just to be thorough,” said like a man who was absolutely doing something just for his own pleasure– or maybe curiosity would be more apt in this situation.

Being a test subject kinda sucked. “Sample?”

“Hair, skin, blood, the works,” Ford smiled like he was telling him about the weather that day, “It won’t take long and won’t be very painful. I promise.”

“And then we’ll be done? I still need to drive the Stanleymobile down to get her repaired.”

“After this, we can take a much longer break,” Ford assured, “And, if you let me, I’ll even pay for the repairs. I was the one who had a hand in your car’s destruction, after all.”

“Wha– seriously?” Stan perked up, “I mean, if you twist my arm about it!”

“Try not to sound so excited,” he teased before standing up, probably to go fetch a scalpel, or needle, or whatever torture device mad scientists use to collect data from their poor unsuspecting brothers.

Now briefly alone, Stan’s mind chased its own tail. Ford actually offered to pay for repairs? And that meant that they would have to drive down together. He doubted that his brother would just hand over his check book (and if he did, they would have to have a serious conversation about trusting people), so did that mean that there was still a chance? That Stan hadn’t fucked everything up the first day? 

The giddiness he felt nearly overshadowed his fear of needles. Nearly.

It was one of those fears that was subtle enough that he forgot about it in day to day life. In fact, he was so not worried about it that he wasn’t aware he still had it up until Ford came skipping back with probably the biggest damn needle Stan had seen in a long time and a few microscope slides.

He tried to play off the rapid beating of his heart and the adrenaline that coursed through him. Ford was none the wiser, prattling off about his theories on how Stan’s blood would look under his microscope and if his hair was of a different texture than purely human hair and if his saliva would have human or canine enzymes–

“I wonder if I could artificially recreate the effect of the full moon on your skin sample? Not sure how I would, it would take some experimenting. Don’t worry, it’ll be dead skin cells so it’ll almost be like a spa day– why are you making that face?”

“What face?”

“Your face– its pale and sweaty and your hands are shaking… wait. You’re still scared of needles?”

“Nope,” Stan squeaked, trying to force his body to stop trembling like he was a child. It didn’t work.

“It’s not even that big of a needle,” Ford tilted his head, looking down at the syringe in his hand, “It won’t even hurt.”

“That is the biggest needle I have ever seen. Are you kidding me?”

“Stanley,” Ford said in a tone that was much too close to a whine for a grown man to use, “You promised you would let me!”

“I didn’t promise shit! And besides, that was before I knew you would use a sword to do it!”

“This isn’t a sword! It’s a very small, dainty syringe that will only feel like a pinch!”

“Bullshit.”

“Stan!”

“Ford!”

“Think of the Stanleymobile. The faster we do this the faster it can be fixed.”

Stan hesitated, swallowing thickly. The old girl was just sitting in the front yard right now, torn to pieces and depending on him. And if he did what Ford asked, he could fix her for free…

He gulped a lungful of air and squeezed his eyes shut, holding out his arm, “Fine. Do what you gotta.”

He felt the warm grasp of his brother’s hand on his forearm and flinched at the sound of a sterilizing pad being torn open. The solution was cold on his arm, and he tensed when he heard the pop of the needle cap being taken off. Then, he waited.

After a moment, Ford quietly said, “There. All done.”

Confused, Stan opened one of his eyes, “What? Already? But I didn’t feel anything?”

“I told you it wouldn’t hurt,” Ford shook his head, pressing a cotton ball and a bandage over the imperceptible entry point.

(And Stan couldn’t know this, but at the sight of how fearful his brother was, Ford had used a numbing solution that he kept on hand down in the lab to clean the area. Gravity Falls was home to a species of extremely useful flora: a plant whose aloe was effective at both sterilizing and numbing. Ford had used it many times on himself, and if it saved his brother some mental stress, then it was worth it to use his last packet. He’d have to make some more eventually.)

He laughed at himself, “Ah geez, I musta looked like a total baby.”

“It’s a common phobia,” Ford shrugged, taking out another cotton swab and some tweezers, “Now time for a hair and skin sample.”

Those would be a cakewalk compared to the needle, “Go ahead.”

“Excellent.”

***

Ford, after safely storing his brother’s samples in the lab, stayed pretty quiet on the walk up from the basement and to the Stanleymobile. Half lost in thought (more or less just trying to force his brain to see if anything that he had learned was conducive to finding a cure) and half examining just what he was feeling.

He had never been good at that second part. Leave it to him to not only miss other’s social cues but his own as well.

The morning spent in the lab was a good one, not just from a science standpoint, but from a social one as well. His brother was funny, and good to talk to, and Ford didn’t realize how stir crazy he had been going all alone in his cabin up until he was forced to take in company.

If only that company wasn’t from a person he decided long ago that he hated.

He stiffened at the word. Hate. It was a strong descriptor. Was it an appropriate one? He had thought so, but settling in the passenger seat of Stan’s truly filthy car and watching his brother nod along and sing to the radio, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He felt… something. And it wasn’t hate.

(A part of him wanted to say fondness, a connection to a person that had at one point been his one and only friend, or maybe even a flicker of deeply rooted brotherly love. But that would be foolish. And Ford was no fool. He wouldn’t be so naive to say that a few jokes and promising tests would be enough to heal the bridge between them.)

“Funny story but I got totally lost on the way here,” Stan didn’t take his eyes off of the winding dirt road into town, still nodding along to the song playing over his radio, “So you’re gonna need to give me directions.”

Ford huffed out a small laugh, “I know the feeling. When I first arrived here, my car got crushed by a tree giant named Steve, and I had to go everywhere on foot while I saved back up for another one. I got horribly lost nearly every day. It was quite the workout.”

His brother blinked, going stone still and slowly turning to give him a baffled look, “Your what got crushed by a what now?”

“A tree giant named Steve. Eyes on the road, a hundred feet and you’ll make a right onto the asphalt road.”

“You give better directions than Susan does.”

“Who?”

“That waitress from Greasy’s. Brown beehive hair? Too much eyeshadow?” Stan made the turn, the car bumping as the road transitioned to being properly paved.

“Oh,” Ford clicked his tongue, ears going a little red, “Yes, I know her.”

Stan glanced at him, smiling slyly and raising an eyebrow, “Oooh, what’s that look for? Somebody gotta lady on the side?”

“No! God, no, nothing like that,” Ford squeaked, “Last time I went down there I totally embarrassed myself. I made a joke and she did not appreciate it. Take a left here.”

“I mean, knowing your humor…”

“Shut up!” he laughed.

He grinned and shook his head, going at least fifteen over the speed limit, “So, let me guess, you avoid that place like the plague?”

“Unfortunately,” he sighed, leaning back in the seat, “But then again, I don’t go into town very often. I’m not exactly popular with the locals.”

“I figured. I stopped by Greasy’s to get directions, and they acted like you were some kooky hermit. Never did get the whole socializing thing down, huh?”

Ford stubbornly looked out the window, feeling just a little embarrassed at his lackluster social life. He had tried, but you set one bird on fire and suddenly you were strange and offputting to even the most socially awkward citizens of Gravity Falls. Not that Stan would understand that.

At his silence, Stan smirked, “Don’t worry about it, bro. I can handle the socializing for the both of us now that we’re–”

Silence. Awkward, horrible silence. Ford turned to stare his brother down in bewilderment, who had in turn turned about as red as the Stanleymobile and whose jaw was tense with supposed embarrassment.

Now that they were what? Speaking? Out in public together?

Reunited?

It was quite presumptuous to say that Ford couldn’t handle himself. And what, did Stan think that after he was cured he could just stay like Ford was some anti-social freak that couldn’t speak for himself?

“Stanley,” he reprimanded, “You know that once you’re cured, we can both go on with our respected lives, right?”

He saw his brother’s grip on the steering wheel tighten, the faintest expression of hurt ghosting across his face before he loudly declared, “Hey, this is the place, right?”

It was not. “That’s a mattress store.”

“Oops, ha. Uh, my mistake.”

The car went back to a deep silence, only the soft buzz of the road underneath the Stanleymobile’s tires and Ford’s occasional guidance present to break it. 

The drive into town had never felt longer.

***

The mechanic said that he would have to keep the car overnight. Stan cursed. Just his luck.

“There’s a bus not too long from now. It’ll take us to the edge of my road,” Ford assured him as they walked out from the shop, his tone stiff and impersonal.

Stan didn’t answer, just made an affirmative noise in the back of his throat and shuffled after his brother towards the bus stop.

He wasn’t sure what he had been thinking on the drive there. Really, he hadn’t been thinking. It was pure instinct. For their entire lives, Stan had been the one to speak up for Ford, from bullies to teachers to employees in restaurants. It felt nice to slip back into it, to be his brother’s protector again. The moment was just so good, and he got his hopes up that maybe yesterday was a fluke, or that it was still salvageable. But he knew better than to say that out loud. Of course Ford shut him down, who wouldn’t? One day back in his life and he was getting attached. If his stupid heart would listen to his brain for once, he wouldn’t have stuck his foot in his mouth and ruined any goodwill that being a good test subject had built up for him. That’s why he was here after all: Ford found him interesting. That was it.

The bus arrived on time, doors squeaking open. The pair stepped on silently and sat down next to each other, jolting with each pothole and angling away so that they didn’t accidentally bump against one another.

It was so, so embarrassing to just exist near his brother now. Stan wanted to sink into the shitty, nasty fabric seats of the bus.

Ford sat pin-straight next to him, eyes focused on the trees rushing past the window. He had always liked the window seat– Stan could remember that much– and from the way his fingers tapped against his knee, he was clearly thinking. Probably about what a fuck-up Stan was, one that kept shoving himself into his space, one that was too stupid to fix his own mistakes–

That was a little strong. Stan itched for a cigarette. He didn’t need to spiral with Ford right next to him.

Somehow, the two of them survived the short ride, and were dropped off right at the edge of Gopher Road.

“Would it kill the town to put in more roads?” Stan complained loudly as they made the trek back up to the cabin. He was huffing against the incline, now realizing just how far Gopher Road was in the woods, while Ford hiked a few feet in front of him. How dare he be in such good shape? He used to be a shrimp.

“I think it adds to its charm. Besides, the last thing nature needs is more concrete.”

“You sound like a damn hippie.”

“I dormed with one for all four years of university,” Stan could hear the smile in his brother’s voice, “I suppose it had an effect on me.”

“Ugh.”

Stan was ready to lay down by the time they stepped through the front door of Ford’s cabin, but inexplicably, Ford beelined towards the door to his secret basement lab.

“What are you doing?” he asked his brother’s quickly retreating back.

He rocked on his heels, spinning around to tilt his head at Stan, “To continue our tests? There’s still plenty of daylight left.”

“How are you not tired?”

“How are you tired?” he gestured him forward, “Come on, science waits for no man!”

“You’re kidding.”

He dropped his arm, frowning, “Stan, I’m not arguing. I have more work to do, and I can’t do that work without testing along the way.”

He didn’t really have a choice in all of this– not if he wanted results by the end of the month. He cracked his neck and groaned, “Fine. But I’m not happy about it!”

“I don’t need you happy, I need you to cooperate,” Ford stated matter-of-factly. He waited for a disgruntled Stan to join him in front of the door before punching in the code and leading him into the dark lab, “I don’t need anymore baseline data anyway. We actually get to test out some cures this time.”

Stan perked up, “Ok, more happy about that. What are the odds that the first one we try works?”

“Low,” Ford hummed, punching in the code for the final door, “But not impossible.”

Instead of pushing Stan towards the area from earlier, they stayed in the smaller room where the console that controlled the light was. Ford pointed to the workbench– piled high with those dusty books from yesterday– and the two chairs in front of it, “Sit here, I just need to find my annotations…” his voice trailed off nearly as soon as he opened a newer looking book on the top of the pile.

Stan sat down heavily, feet complaining about all the walking, and peered over Ford’s shoulder. The text was heavily marked up, Ford’s fancy cursive cluttering the margins. 

“Aha! Here we are– fair warning: this source is quite new compared to the rest. It very could very well be absolute nonsense peddled by urban legends and wistful thinking, but I do think that a process of elimination will be our best chance.”

“Lotta words for ‘throw shit at the wall and hope it sticks.’”

“Ha! That’s one way to put it,” Ford flipped through a few pages before pointing at an underlined paragraph, “Alright, first attempt: anointed water.”

Stan’s hope that the first cure would work instantly died. This would take a while.

***

He got through two tests before he called it quits. Call him lazy, or say that he had a poor work ethic, but he was hungry and tired. Ford’s watch said that it was nearly six in the evening and neither of them had eaten yet. Stan was starving, his muscles were weak from being overworked earlier, and he was really itching for a cigarette. All in all, he wanted to leave that basement and wolf down (hah) any food he could get his hands on in front of the TV.

His brother had to be hungry as well. He was probably just forcing himself to ignore it, something that Stan suspected was a habit. The real mystery was how he hadn’t worked himself into an early grave.

Stan sipped on the plastic cup of water while his brother flipped through that completely useless textbook next to him. He really wanted to call it quits. If only he could convince his brother. Maybe he could distract him long enough for them to run out of time.

“So,” he started, searching for any topic to get Ford yammering, “Is this what you do all day? Read?”

“Occasionally,” he admitted absentmindedly, “But most days are much more exciting.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you do?” Please start to ramble. Please get caught up and lose track of time. Please let him weasel his way out of this.

His brother looked up from his book, twirling his pen in his fingers and an excited glimmer in his eye, “I’ve actually been trying to form a Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness. I’ve catalogued so many strange species that make Gravity Falls their home, and yet I’ve never figured out why. Why here? It’s been the focus of my studies.”

“Is that what your weird red book is about?”

“Weird red…?” Ford trailed off, pulling said book from his trenchcoat pocket, “My journal? Yes, that’s what I’ve been writing. I record any anomalies I come across in my travels. Half the job is just wandering around and investigating strange tracks or sounds in the woods.”

The image of Ford dressed like Elmer Fudd from Looney Tunes beamed into Stan’s head and he chuckled, “So you use your big fancy science degree to hunt monsters? Cool.”

“I don’t hunt them!” Ford admonished, “I study them. I would never harm a creature that didn’t try to harm me first– and even then I feel as if I’m very understanding.”

Very understanding is the last thing that Stan would describe his brother as. But if he wanted to believe that about himself he would let him. What did fit was the hesitance to kill any cryptid he came across. When Pa would take them hunting (something that only happened once or twice in their entire childhood,) Ford couldn’t bear to shoot anything with a heartbeat. It got him a lot of grief. Pa would snarl and snap at him to be a man while Ford shook like a leaf, toting around a hunting rifle that was way too big for either of them. Hunting trips always ended with Ford needing a pep talk and a break as far away from Pa as possible.

“So, you just take whatever they throw at you on the chin and then write in your little nerd book about it?”

“In a way,” his brother’s smile dropped.

Not that Stan realized that. He had leaned back languidly in his chair, grinning, “That sorta thing is dangerous, y’know. You gotta fight back. In my line of work–”

He was cut off with an irritated eyeroll, “Oh, please. I know what you’ve been up to, Stan.”

Record scratch. Stan sat up, voice challenging and irritated, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve seen your info commercials. You’re a scam artist. A criminal! You can’t blame me for not wanting to implicate myself in whatever crime you’re about to describe–”

“You know all about me, yeah? You got it all figured out?” Stan’s expression darkened, “That I’m some big time criminal? You know that I’ve been living out of my god damn car while being chased by the fucking mob?”

Ford’s eyebrows shot for his hairline, opening his mouth, but Stan didn’t let him get a word in.

He slung his shitty plastic cup of lukewarm water down onto the ground, the plastic cracking and spilling water all over their shoes. His temper roared, covering up any hurt– that Stan most certainly did not feel. Ford jumped at the display, staring at Stan in surprise, like he hadn’t just written him off to be some heartless lackey. Someone like Rico, or Jimmy Snakes, or any of the scumbags that Stan has had the displeasure of running into.

“You know that I’ve been homeless and scraping pennies just to get enough food to survive? You know all about that while you live it up in your fancy house in the woods?”

“W-what? No, no I didn’t–”

“Give me a fucking break,” He stood up, “We’ll do your tests tomorrow. I’m so done with your shit. Fucking dick.”

“Hey! You can’t talk to me like that–!”

“Watch me!” he stomped out of the room and back upstairs. He didn’t wait, or listen, for the accompanying steps of his twin. He needed space.

His bedroom door rattled in its frame when he slammed it shut. He pulled his nearly empty pack of cigarettes from his pockets, smoking irritably and not caring if the tobacco stained any of Ford’s probably expensive furniture or stunk up the room.

Downstairs, Stan could hear Ford puttering around. At first it annoyed him, how dare his brother just exist in his own house while Stan toiled away, mad as hell, upstairs? But the longer he listened, the more his anger melted into regret. Good going, Stan, dumping all of your shit onto your brother. He didn’t need to know how much of a loser he was. Ford could have gone this entire time not knowing just how bad his life had gone. Just how right Pa had been about him.

All he ever did was mess things up.

He couldn’t know how much time had passed, but by the looks of it, it was now late evening, and the sun was threatening to dip below the tree line once again. Stan had gone through the rest of his pack; he should have another stashed somewhere–

A tentative knock. It was probably Ford coming to tell him to pack his things. That after two days of Stan causing arguments, he had changed his mind, and his brother just wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Dinner’s ready, please come down and eat,” Ford’s voice was soft, muffled by the thick wood of the door.

Stan’s jaw fell open, but before he could call out to make sure he hadn’t suddenly hallucinated, he could hear his brother’s steps back away from the door and creak down the stairs.

So now he had a decision: stay up here and sulk or go and eat a probably eerily quiet dinner. 

His stomach growled restlessly. Yeah, no way he was going to starve himself for the sake of being petty.

Hunching his shoulders and staring down at his feet, Stan shuffled out of his room and down towards the kitchen. The smell that hit his nose from the bottom of the stairs wasn’t… the most pleasant thing. Pressing his lips into a thin line, Stan held his breath and forced himself to enter the kitchen.

Ford stood with his back to the door, focused on something at the stove. From the way he muttered darkly to himself (and the smell,) Stan could only assume that he had burnt the shit out of dinner.

He turned to gesture towards the table, silently asking Stan to take a seat. He did and forced down any revulsion that was slowly creeping up the longer he took in the smell of whatever Ford had ruined with his poor culinary skills. A plate of what could– at some point– be considered spaghetti was placed in front of him. The sauce had bits of charred… something in it and if Stan was seeing things correctly, the noodles had either been undercooked or somehow lit on fire, because they were crunchy.

Whatever. He was going to choke it down. Ford hadn’t kicked him out for being a homeless bozo and that was more than he could ask for.

But, if Stan continued to not be kicked out, then he’d definitely float the idea of him taking over cooking for the time being. He was put on kitchen duty last time he went to prison and had picked up a thing or two of know-how. Enough to cook spaghetti pretty well.

Ford sat down across from him, his own plate just as horrible looking. The two ate in silence, neither making eye contact.

Stan choked down (at most) four bites before sitting his fork down with a clatter. He couldn’t take it anymore, he was close to gagging, “This food is horrible.”

Ford swallowed his mouthful of spaghetti and was quiet for a moment before cracking a smile, “It is. I burnt it.”

“I could tell,” he cracked a smile back, feeling as if the atmosphere smoothed itself back out, “Say, does Gravity Falls have any take-out options?”

“Yes, why?”

“Wanna throw this shit out and order some edible food?”

Ford sighed in relief, “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

Half an hour later and Stan was enthusiastically opening the door for the pizza delivery guy, shoving a handful of bills into his hands, and scampering to the living room.

After they had trashed their dinner, Ford sheepishly explained that he never used his dining table to eat, and if Stan were fine with it, then they could just eat in front of the TV. Fine by him, that was the best way to have dinner in his opinion.

Ford was channel surfing, sitting slouched on the couch and only looking up when Stan thundered through the open doorway. Stan, ever the showman, made a big deal out of opening the pizza box and gently placing it onto the coffee table with a flourish. That grace was nearly completely abandoned once the greasy smell hit his nose and he was reminded just how hungry he really was. He grabbed two slices and was already through the first by the time Ford got around to placing a single slice onto his paper plate.

“You weren’t exaggerating when you described an increased appetite,” Ford shook his head, watching Stan devour his second slice just as fast.

He collapsed onto the couch, just far enough from his brother so that there was a good six inches between them and no chance that they’d accidentally brush one another. He didn’t want to bother him. Reaching for another slice (and planning to actually breath in between bites this time), Stan nodded, “It sucks. One of those things that makes me hate bein’ what I am.”

“You… hate being what you are?” Ford asked quietly, eyebrows furrowed in what almost seemed like concern. Or maybe pity.

“Not what I meant,” Stan said gruffly around a mouthful of cheap cheesy goodness, “Pick somethin’ out to watch.”

Ford cleared his throat, head snapping back to the TV and away from him. Good. He hated being pitied.

His brother settled on some straight to cable action (or maybe science-fiction? It really towed the line) movie, not the best quality but easy enough to let play in the background. Not like it would interrupt any thrilling conversation, the two of them had collapsed back into silence. 

It was odd to be so quiet. Stan made a lot of noise: he was boisterous and loved to move and speak even if it meant making an idiot out of himself. Ford was a quiet guy, sure, but when they were younger he was never like that with him. The two of them used to balance each other out– Stan’s rough edges being softened and Ford’s timid demeanor being outshined by his rarely seen (by others) personality.

They had lost that balance. The scale was all fucked up now, constantly teetering and threatening to spill over on itself. It was easier being quiet.

“I really didn’t know, Stanley,” Ford admitted, tone entirely too honest and open.

Yeah, it definitely would have been easier just to be quiet.

“Didn’t know what?” 

Please don’t start getting sentimental on him now, not if it meant that they would just have to go back to fighting.

“That your life wasn’t– well, I had assumed that you were doing fine for yourself. It sounds stupid said aloud, but I had thought that you were some criminal mastermind, earning a killing off of… whatever criminals do.”

Stan refused to look at him, even as Ford turned to stare sympathetic daggers at him.

“You’re right, that does sound stupid.”

He didn’t want to have this conversation, he didn’t want to open those wounds, he didn’t want to look his brother in the eye and admit that he wasn’t going to make those millions and that he was going nowhere in life.

Ford rolled his eyes and nudged him playfully, the first friendly contact the two had shared in years. Stan tried not to lean into it.

Instead, he rolled his shoulders, staring hard at the TV, “Yeah well, no use in crying about it now. Shit sucked, can’t really change that.”

“I suppose you’re right, but I swear that if I had known I would have–”

Nope. Nope. No, not doing that. “Cut it out. I’m trying to watch something here,” he had no interest in hearing whatever comforting lie his brother was about to spew.

Silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Stan saw Ford frown and turn back to stare at the TV. Stan wasn’t even sure what was going on at that point in the movie– something about hiding in a refrigerator from a bomb? Real exciting stuff.

He felt his resolve crumble. The movie wasn’t that great anyway.

“But thanks for the sentiment, poindexter. ‘S more than I've gotten in a while.”

“Of course,” Ford shuffled closer to him, close enough to where their shoulders brushed up against one another and the contact left Stan’s eyes a little misty.

It was super dusty in there. He wasn’t crying.

“What do you do for work?” Ford asked suddenly. Stan finally looked at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “You’re right. I don’t know anything about you or your life. So tell me: what do you do for work?”

“Uh, well I’m gonna be honest, you weren’t too far off when you said I was a crook,” Stan rubbed the back of his neck, “Not super proud of it. I’ve done a bunch of shit. Started out as a salesman… got mixed up in the mob… been to jail… gambled to try and get enough money to get out of the mob, then gotten myself so bad into debt that I was actually banned from Vegas. I’m banned from a lot of states, actually.”

“You can get banned from states?”

“If you get enough warrants, you can. Always been an overachiever,” Stan laughed hollowly. Ford echoed it, a bit livelier.

“Um, on the bright side you have a lot of stories to tell?” he offered.

“I don’t have too many that I’d actually wanna share.”

Ford sucked a breath in through his teeth, “Then I don’t think there is a bright side.”

“You tried your best. Hard to find the silver lining in the kinda life I live.”

“In the life you lived.”

“Huh?”

“You,” Ford pointedly looked at the wall just behind Stan’s head, face a little flushed, “You know what I mean. You’re here now. Away from it all. You could get a fresh start, leave it all behind.”

“I could,” he said, knowing that he wouldn’t. He didn’t exactly have anything he was good at. And Ford made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t welcome to stay here in Gravity Falls with him. “What about you?”

“You already know what I do for work.”

“I mean, what’ve you been up to all these years?”

Ford took a deep breath, working his jaw as he thought, “Let’s see. After– hm. After high school, I went to a college named Backupsmore–”

“That’s what it was actually called?”

“It was as poorly as its name implied,” Ford chuckled, “But it wasn’t too bad. I had a roommate named Fiddleford– he was a genius. We did so much in the time I went there… he actually forced me to go to my first party.”

“Really? Even I couldn’t get you to go to one. Didja have fun?”

“God, no, it smelled and there were so many drunk young people, it was a nightmare,” he sighed dramatically, “I never went to another one. I hunkered down and finished my studies, got my PhD, and then moved here. Not all that exciting, but I can’t complain. I’m living my dream.”

Stan’s heart glowed in his chest. Despite his mistake, Ford turned out ok. That’s all he could really ask for. “I’m glad, man.”

Ford looked down at his paper plate, laying forgotten on his lap, and his still untouched pizza slice. Stan had blown through the rest of it.

He gave him a meaningful look and offered up his plate, “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite. Would you want the rest of it?"

“Course I do. Gimme,” Stan grinned.

Ford handed it over. Stan shoveled a bite into his mouth, chewing loudly. Ford watched his brother eat with a wrinkled nose but a fond glimmer in his eye.

“Despite less than ideal circumstances, I’m… actually glad you came here, Stan. For treatment,” he added hurriedly.

“Yep, for treatment,” Stan agreed just as quickly, “But me too. Couldn’t have found a better guy for the job.”

Ford preened and– if he scooted closer– neither mentioned it. They just sat in comfortable silence, enjoying the first movie they’ve watched together in a decade.