Archive of Our Own

Stan was going to kill his brother. 

Ford had promised-- promised --that all the rifts had been closed. He'd spent half a day hidden away in his basement looking at his nerd computers and muttering to himself. He'd dragged the family around the forest to seal everything. He’d nearly lost Mabel through one of the last of the rifts. He'd scanned and double scanned and yet Stan found himself stumbling through nothing and landing hard on a featureless ground. 

He lay on the ground for a moment, every part of him aching and not feeling any desire to get up. The ground was comfortable enough and he was far too old to be flung through space-time-dimensions-whatever. 

Then he cracked a smile and laughed, his voice sounding oddly small. 

Ford had been wrong . All his big brain and big computers and perfectionism, and he'd been wrong. There was a rift still open. 

He was going to rub that in his smarty-pants brother's face so hard once he got home.

Finally, Stan gathered the strength to push himself up, grunting as his bones complained and muscles ached. He felt lightheaded for a moment, and just sat, trying to regain his bearings. 

Except there was nothing to orient himself to and the dizziness worsened for a second. He was sitting on a flat, featureless white ground. Above him was a pale blue sky--or maybe it was a ceiling. He couldn't tell where the sky turned into ground, it was just a strange white-blue…space.

For a moment he wondered if the rift could be reusable. Void-Room would make a brilliant attraction, he'd sell so many tickets! For people to see nothing! 

Because there was nothing here. It made him uneasy, like he was looking out over an empty world. 

A blank mind. 

The back of his neck prickled and he scrambled to his feet, ignoring his body's protests. He spun, hands raised in a boxer's stance. 

There was no yellow behind him, though his mind had provided a clear enough image. Instead, there was a boy. Maybe eleven years old, bandages on his face and legs. Stripped red and white t-shirt and a gap tooth frown. For a second, he thought the boy was Dipper, then he looked a little closer. 

He felt a strange jolting sensation, like he'd been hit in the face by a water balloon. The boy standing in front of him was the spitting image of Stan himself, nearly fifty years ago. 

“Who're you?” the kid asked, eyes narrowed, suspicion clear in his expression. Stan…wasn't really sure how to answer that. Wasn’t really sure how to do anything but stare at the child standing before him. “And where are we?” 

That felt like a slightly more comfortable question, though he suspected the answers to both were tied up in each other. Some kind of in-between time mind place? Ugh, he'd been watching too much sci-fi with the kids. 

“Dunno, kid,” he said, turning slowly. There wasn't much to give him clues, except maybe the younger version of himself. But as he turned he made out something, a dark spot in the whiteness. He started towards it, and from the slap of bare feet his younger self was following. 

What was this place? A blank white world with nothing but an echo of Stan’s past self in it. Sixer would be having a field day here, probably. Babbling all about science fiction with his long winded words. He'd have some kind of explanation. 

“Wow. Ford'd love this place.” Little Stanley's thoughts seemed to be running along the same lines. “It's like a giant. Nothing.” Out of the corner of his eye, Stan saw his younger self's face screw up into a frown of deep thought. 

Before Stan could figure out if he should say anything, Stanley noticed the lump on the ground ahead of them. He took off running, and Stan had to bite down the instinct to call him back. Knowing how he'd acted at that age it wouldn't have done anything at all to deter the kid, but he'd spent a whole summer trying to keep two kids out of too much trouble, the response was instinctual. 

Stanley slowed as he reached the lump, frowning down at it and resting his hands on his hips. He looked up as Stan approached.

“Is he dead?” he asked. Stan frowned, looking down at the lump--a body, as it turned out. A man, dressed in thread-bare, ragged clothing, his face covered with long, shaggy hair. 

Stanley reached out a hesitant foot and jabbed the man in the side. 

He groaned and rolled over. Stan somehow wasn't surprised to recognise the face.

And had he really looked that bad? His stomach rebelled at the sight--stains on his shirt, scars on his face, bags under his eyes. A drawn, thin look to his face. Overweight in all the wrong places. Uneven and unkempt stubble on his chin. 

Something inside Stan twisted at the sight, woke up too many bad memories. 

The third Stanley Pines sat up with a jolt and a curse, looking around wildly. He caught sight of Stan the elder and scrambled backwards, hands looking for something, expression haunted. Then he caught sight of the young Stanley and the haunted expression faded into one of shock. 

“Ford?” 

The word was barely a whisper, a choking exclamation that seemed entirely involuntary. From the expression on the man’s face, it had been. 

Stanley let out a long suffering sigh and spread his hands out, fingers splayed, like he’d done it a million times before. He had, Stan remembered with a strange jolt in his chest. If they hid their hands, he and Ford had been indistinguishable as children, before they’d grown into their different lifestyles. Sometimes they had used that to their advantage, but by the time they’d been thirteen it was starting to get annoying. 

He hadn’t thought about that for years . 

The middle Stan--Lee, Stan decided to go with, for his own sanity--was staring at the youngest, eyes darting from fingers to face. Then he looked down at his own hands and back up again. 

“You’re me. ”

The kid stared back, confusion written plainly on his face. He'd never been good at hiding his emotions at that age. It had been a skill he'd had to learn. Quickly. Painfully. Lee was putting that lesson into action right now, the confusion in his face fading into a carefully schooled expression of mild interest.

“You're me?” little Stanley echoed. He rocked back and forth on his feet, swinging his arms. “This place is weird .”

“Then who the hell are you?” Lee demanded, scrambling to his feet and glaring at Stan. Stan spread his hands slightly, grinning. His best Mr Mystery smile on display for all.

“Think about it.” 

Lee did, for just a few seconds. Then he swore, loudly, and Stan fought down the urge to scold him for that in front of the kid. What had he become? Those twins really were a bad influence on him if he couldn't handle a bit of swearing. 

“This is crazy,” Lee muttered. “This is crazy. What did I take? ” 

He ran his hair through that stupid mullet and stumbled a few paces away. Stan let him go, though there wasn't really anywhere to go, a strange aching sensation in his chest. He tried very hard not to think about those years. The blur of running, always running. The mistakes he had made, the vices he had experimented with. Sometimes he wondered how he had even survived.

He tore his gaze away and looked down at the youngest him. The boy was staring between the two older versions of himself, eyes slowly widening. 

“Wait. Hold up. Does that mean…he's me old. And you're me super old ?” 

Stan tried not to take offense at that. He crossed his arms and glared down at his smaller self. The boy echoed the pose, glaring up at him.

“In the flesh,” he said. Stanley's mouth fell open. 

“Woah!” he cried. “Does that mean I'm in the future? Time travel is real! Just wait until I tell Ford!” He spun in a circle, eyes practically glowing. The glow faded very quickly as he took in their surroundings. “The future kinda sucks.” 

“Yeah I'm not sure where exactly we are,” Stan said. He started walking in the direction of where Lee had wandered off, not really wanting them to be separated. Stanley followed, still looking around in wonder. “It ain't the future though.” He paused a moment. “Least, not where I'm from.” 

“What is the future like? Are there flying cars and spaceships? Have you been to the moon?! What’s it like? Ford says the future will have travel at the speed of light--what’s that like?” 

“Easy kid,” Stan said, holding a placating hand up. The questions were fast and rapid fire and Stan couldn’t help but be amused at how hopeful he had once been about the future. He tried to pin down one of the questions, having learned that often worked when Mabel piled him with questions. Less so with Dipper--he kept a much better track of what information he actually wanted. “Ain’t so much like that. No one’s been to the moon for years.” 

“What? Ford was gonna go--he said he’d take me with him. He said there’d be a colony on the moon and be able to go there and see moon rocks. I think it’d be a bit boring though. No sea on the moon.” 

He swung his arms as he spoke, walking in a half run, skipping pace a few steps ahead of Stan. Stan wasn’t quite sure how much he should say--if this really was his younger self, snatched out of the past, would talking about the future change the timeline? But surely then he would remember this, meeting future versions of himself? And he certainly did not. 

Then again, his memory wasn’t the most trustworthy. 

Lee was still walking ahead of them, shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets. He was scanning--Stan could tell without even seeing his head moving. Eyes always darting from side to side, always on alert. 

Stan felt exhausted just remembering that. 

“Mr Me?” Stanley said, grabbing his wrist with both hands. Stan started at the contact, glancing down at the small figure. He really did look a lot like Dipper, and the thought brought a curl of concern. He still had no idea how to get home. 

Maybe this was some strange dream and he’d wake up again, but from what Ford had said about the multiverse it could just as easily be real, somewhere he’d be trapped forever. 

He pushed the thought down and decided the only thing he could do for now was keep walking. 

Stanley was still talking and he forced himself to pay attention. 

“If this isn’t the future what is it?” he asked. “It’s kinda creepy.” He screwed his nose up, letting Stan’s arm go and bounding forward a few paces. 

“Not sure,” Stan said. “Might just be a weird dream.” 

“If it’s a dream can I fly? ” Stanley jumped a few times, squeezing his eyes shut and clearly trying with all his might to will himself into the air. His eager attempts brought him close enough to collide into Lee, knocking him forward a pace. 

The man startled, jumping forward and spinning, hands raised. Stan could almost feel his itch for a weapon, a baseball bat, brass knuckles, anything. He seemed to calm at the sight of Stanley, running a hand through his hair and cursing under his breath. 

“What the hell is this place?” he asked aloud. Stanley bounded a few paces ahead, still trying his absolute hardest to will himself into the air. 

“Dunno,” Stan said. “Some weird void space. He thinks it’s a dream.” 

“Probably is,” Lee muttered. He stared at Stan for an uncomfortably, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “You’re old.” 

It was an innocent enough statement, and from anyone else might have had Stan scoffing. But he remembered --maybe not as well as he once might have, but he could remember being that age. Spending his youth surviving . 

Old age was never an attainable goal. 

“Far too old for whatever this is,” he said lightly. He didn’t miss the way Lee’s chin lifted, the slight shift in his eyes. 

“This is all just some drug induced dream though,” he said finally to himself, and the change faded, slumping back into tiredness. Stan…wasn’t sure how to break through that tiredness. He didn’t know what would have helped back then. 

No, that was a lie. He did know. It was the one thing that had him drive non-stop from New Mexico to Oregon. 

“Woah! What’s that!” 

Stanley’s shout drew both of their attentions, and they turned to see him standing on his tiptoes, pointing. 

On what might have been the horizon stood a faint outline. Stan squinted at it, wondering dimly if he needed to update his glasses prescription--it looked almost like a tree. 

“Seems a good enough landmark to aim for as any!” he said. 

“Yeah!” little Stanley cried, bounding with eagerness. Lee shrugged, narrowing his eyes in the direction of the landmark. 

“You sure there’s something there?” he asked. 

“Yeah! Can’t you see it?” Stanley grabbed Lee’s hand, pointing as he did. Lee squinted, shading his eyes with his hand and shrugged again. 

“I can follow you I guess,” he said. Stanley grinned, tugging him forward. 

They continued walking, Stanley filling the silence with animated chatter as they did. It was strange to watch him, to be reminded of beaches and adventures and sunburn. At the same time, every gesture, every voice crack, even the way the kid stood--it reminded Stan so much of Dipper and Mabel. 

The thought only grew his unease about this place. It was so empty --he wouldn’t even know how to get home. Was it even possible? 

Surely if he couldn’t get home, Ford would find some way to come after him. 

The fact that he was uncertain was concerning. A few weeks ago, the uncertainty would have been a lot larger, yes, but despite the last week of Ford’s apologizing and clearly doing his best to make amends, Stan still wasn’t sure. 

He didn’t know if that said a lot about him, or about Ford. Either way, he really hoped that this tree they were steadily getting closer and closer to would have some answers. 

He turned his attention back to his two younger selves, wondering again if they were actually here, or if they were just some echos of his own memories. Maybe this was actually his mindscape. 

He didn’t like how empty it was if that was the case. 

Stanley was still chatting away to Lee, and Lee--Lee was clearly uncomfortable. His shoulders were tight, and Stan was pretty sure he still had aches in his shoulders that came from carrying that tension for over ten years. He was still scanning, eyes darting side to side, clearly only paying half attention to what Stanley was saying. 

Stan really didn’t like thinking about those years. Those memories were still faded, half lost after having his memory erased, and if he was being perfectly honest, he didn’t mind all that much. 

But seeing his younger self, so trapped in the worst period of his life, brought them to the forefront of his mind. Memories that weren’t in their proper place swam in his mind, making him feel off balance. 

His memories had settled a lot over the past weeks--the first few days had been horrible, migraines a constant, the memories taking over and then fading back to where they belonged again and again and again. But those, on the whole, had been good memories. His childhood with Ford. The summer with the twins. The strange and unique inhabitants of Gravity Falls. 

Now, he remembered less than pleasant memories. He remembered cold nights shivering in his car. He remembered the fear of crossing the wrong person. He remembered knives. Gunshots. Dark, small spaces. 

Running, running, always running. 

“Mr Me!” 

A hand grabbed his hand and he jumped, unable to keep a curse in. His heart was pounding almost as much as his head and for a moment, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. 

“Watch it,” he snapped, memories still swimming in his mind. He blinked a few times, the white expanse of the world coming into focus, and little Stanley standing in front of him.

The kid…deflated.  Everything about him became suddenly small. 

“Sorry Sir,” he muttered, a small tone of defiance in his voice, but hidden behind a layer of…fear. 

Stan felt sick. He had forgotten…forgotten what it was like to have larger men tower over him. Forgotten that helplessness of being small. He had almost forgotten his father's voice, filling his ears, making him feel smaller than dirt. 

His head was pounding . 

“Ah, sorry kid,” he tried. 

But Stanley had clammed up and he had forgotten that too. The desperate need to cry, but knowing he couldn't let anyone except Ford see those tears. Don't be a sissy. Man up. Be strong. Men don't cry, Stanley. 

It twisted inside him, words that he had carried with him since he was younger than even this version of himself. 

“Hey, kid. D'you think you can make it to that tree thing in thirty seconds?” Lee challenged. Stanley lit up at the challenge, eyes shining and he nodded.

“You betcha!” he shouted. 

“Go on then,” Lee said, and the kid bolted, sprinting across the white landscape, smallness forgotten. Stan watched him go, shutting his eyes as he waiting for his mind to settle again. 

Too many memories coming too quickly. He and Ford had figured out very quickly that was always a sign to slow down, make some snacks, watch a movie. 

His headache faded slightly, the newly disturbed memories starting to settle, and Stan opened his eyes again, rubbing his forehead. 

 Lee walked a few paces, then paused, turning back to Stan with his hands in his pockets. “You're too much like Pa to be yellin’ at him like that,” he said. Casually. Conversationally. 

The words stopped Stan in his tracks, knocking all the air out of his lungs. 

“Don't say that,” he managed. He would never--he couldn't even imagine--

He clenched and unclenched his fist at his side.

Lee eyed his fist but didn't comment on it. 

“Don't mean it in a bad way,” he said. “Just. If y’really are… me . You should know better.” 

“Y-yeah,” Stan said. He felt nauseous for a moment, headache and the implications of the words slamming into him. “Sorry.” 

Lee raised his eyebrows, turning around again as he did to walk towards the tree. 

“Still not sure you are me,” he said under his breath. Stan let out a long breath and followed, rubbing his forehead again. 

“Woah!” Stanley was staring up at the tree, towering high above them. His older counterparts stopped beside him, echoing his stance and taking in the majesty of the plant. It was a good three stories high, branches twisted and knotted and a huge swath of leaves towering above them. The sight of it was enough to distract Stan from the last of the memories that still pressed against the back of his eyes. How it grew here, he had no clue. The white world around them wasn't anything like soil. 

“Hey look!” Stanley darted forward, reaching out to snatch up something. He cupped it carefully in his hand, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration. 

“What is it?” Lee asked. 

“Bug!” Stanley cried, opening his hands. Indeed it was a bug, but nothing like anything Stan had seen before.

“How much d'you think that'd sell for?” Lee mused, stepping closer. 

“No way!” Stanley cried. “I'm taking it home for a pet! Ford'll know what it is.” He cupped his hands protectively sound the bug, making a small hole with his fingers and peering into the makeshift cage.

Lee watched him with a guarded expression, hands buried deep in his pockets. He stepped a hesitant half-step closer to Stan. 

“Something on your mind?” Stan asked, though he suspected he knew what it might be. The guarded expression dropped minutely--not enough for anyone but the best people reader to be able to notice. 

“He…I forgot how close we were,” the younger man said finally, voice sounding forced and hard. Stan hummed in agreement, watching their younger counterpart walk around the tree, one eye still pressed to his hands. “Every sentence, everything he says. It’s all…” 

There was no bitterness in his voice--there had never been any bitterness Stan thought. Not until Ford was actually in front of him. Self loathing in plenty. Angry and grief and betrayal and guilt. 

But no bitterness. No grudge. Stan had ruined his brother’s life, and his own life had been ruined in return. 

“No come back!” Stanley’s shout again distracted them and Stan looked up to see him chasing after a small, green creature as it fluttered into the tree. He started to climb, scrambling into the trunk of the tree, but his small stature soon meant he couldn’t chase the creature high enough. “Aww man.” 

Stanley sat dejectedly a few feet above Stan’s head in the tree, staring up at the bugs. With a slight hesitation, Lee pulled his hands out of his pockets and began to scramble into the tree. 

“I am way too old for that,” Stan called. He stepped back, watching with some amusement as his two younger counterparts scrambled up the tree, Lee’s appearance giving Stanley another burst of enthusiasm. 

It didn’t take long for them to reach where the bug had settled and they managed to tease it into Lee’s pocket. Then the two of them--Lee watching and carefully helping the younger--began to scramble down again. 

They made it back down safely, much to Stan’s relief, and Stanley reclaimed his prize. He trotted towards Stan, eying him warily for a long moment. Stan lowered himself to his knees, making an effort to be smaller. Less intimidating. It seemed to do the trick, and Stanley pranced forward proudly, holding out his hand.

“Ta Da!” he cried. Stan leaned forward to see the bug--it was a strange little creature, a pale green with a wide, flat body and flecks of silver shining. Something about it seemed oddly familiar. 

“Pretty neat, kid,” Stan said, pushing himself up to stand again. Stanley grinned. Lee stood beside the tree, trying to hide a smugly satisfied smile. 

“Ford’ll love it,” Stanley said. “He’ll know what kind of bug it is and all kinds of smart stuff about it!” 

“Hmm,” Stan mused, the kid’s words sparking an idea. He began digging through his pockets, rummaging past some random pieces of craft supplies, a loose sticker, and a pen Dipper had broken before pulling out a plastic bag. It was half full of glitter--which now meant his pockets were entirely full of glitter--but it would serve a purpose. 

“Get me one of those bugs, would'cha kid.” He could see a few more now, fluttering around the trunk of the giant tree. 

“Gonna take one back to sell,” Lee said approvingly. Stan shook his head, watching as Stanley attempted to catch another bug with only one hand, the other gently cupping his first prize. Eventually he gave up on that and shoved his bug into his shorts pocket. Stan didn’t want to think about how the bug would handle that.   

“Not a bad idea,” he said. “But the kid's got a point. Sixer'll wanna know all about this place--if he doesn't already--and bringing him something back will at least keep his questions off my back a bit.” He lifted the zip lock bag to his face, frowning at the pink glitter. “If it doesn't get completely Mabel-ised first.” 

He'd spoken without thinking, but when he glanced back at his younger self, the young man had frozen, a barely hidden expression of…something on his face. 

“Ford?” he said softly. “You--you see him?” 

It was hesitant, uncertain, almost as if he didn't want to know the answer. Stan looked back at him and was once again sharply reminded of those hotel rooms and lonely cars. Running, always running. Always wanting. 

His headache pressed back against his eyes and he let out a long breath, lowering the bag. Again, he wasn’t sure how much he should say, wasn’t sure how much of this was actually real. 

“I--” 

“This is all some sick dream,” Lee muttered. He ran his hands over his face, then shifted to hug himself, gripping his arms, hunching into himself. “This can’t be real . I don’t--I’m never going to become you . Ford won’t--” He trailed off, mouth a tight line. 

“I can’t tell you your future,” Stan said finally, the words surprisingly hard to force out. Lee glanced back at him, eyes glassy, then scowled, pressing the backs of his hands into his eyes. 

Then he lowered his hands and all the emotion was gone, locked away. Stan felt a swoop in his chest at the sight, remembered doing that for over thirty years. Smile on, push everything else away. It was how he had survived. 

“Yeah,” Lee said, his voice light. Forced. Always an act. “I guess I’ll find out. If I ever make it that far.” 

He was silent again, and they both watched as Stanley began to scramble up the tree again. But there was a tension in the air; something left unsaid. 

“Why would he want to see me again?” 

The question was so quiet, so soft, Stan almost didn’t hear it. He wasn’t sure if it was directed at him, wasn’t sure if it was spoke aloud. 

Stan…still didn’t know the answer to that. He thought of Ford, thirty years ago. Paranoid and terrified and unable to trust. 

The burn on his shoulder throbbed. 

A shout drew their attention, and Stan couldn’t help but be relieved he didn’t have to address that question. They both looked up to see Stanley straddling a tree branch, both arms raised in excitement. 

The leaves were moving . 

With a sudden shock, Stan realized they weren’t leaves --they were all bugs . And now the whole hoard of them was buzzing, lifting into the air and flying . The air filled with the sound of buzzing, fluttering wings, Stanley laughing. And the whole swarm lifting into the air, flashing with green and silver, gusting past Stan with a surprising amount of force. 

He raised a hand against the sudden wind, feeling out of breath and exhilarated. The swarm buzzed, flashing past him and then…silence. 

The tree stood above them, bare and empty, Stanley still sitting on his branch. 

“Woah,” Lee whispered, staring at the swarm as it twisted in the air. It began to spiral, circling in on itself, bugs flashing past each other not far from the tree. 

Stanley scrambled to the ground, and the three of them stared at the swarm as it began to spin in on itself and slowly, Stan realized it was creating a portal. 

“That’s our way home!” he cried. 

“Bug portal!” Stanley shouted, clapping his hands excitedly. 

“This is so weird,” Lee muttered. 

Stanley ran towards the bug portal, and the older two followed him. Sure enough, the swarm buzzed in on itself, creating a circle in the space absent of bugs. Through that space, Stan could make out the blurry shape of a room. 

“This feels way too easy,” Lee said, squinting suspiciously at the portal. 

“Bug portal!” Stanley repeated, bounding closer. “Oh! Here.” He held out two cupped hands to Stan. Stan blinked, remembering his request for a bug. “I found a shiny one for you!” 

He dug through his pockets for the bag, and together he and Stanley managed to slid the bug into the glittered coated bag. It was shiny--gold more than silver. Still green though. 

Stan wondered if maybe picking that up had been what triggered the swarm’s flight. He felt a strange urge to sit down with Ford and puzzle it all out. It had been a long time since the two of them had worked on a mystery. Would they be able to come back here? 

“We’re really trusting this weird…bug portal?” Lee asked. His arms were crossed and he was glaring at the portal. 

“Weird dream, right,” Stan said. Lee snorted, but the angle to his eyes softened slightly. 

“Guess it’s worth a try.” 

There was a tension behind his words--more than just disbelief. Stan couldn’t quite pick up on what it was. Didn’t want to try to think about what it might be. 

“Even if it doesn’t take me home I’m going through the bug portal!” Stanley cried. Stan laughed, ruffling the kid’s hair. 

“Well, I think it’s your stop,” he said, gesturing towards the portal. “You get to go first.”

Sure enough, through the portal Stan could make out his childhood bedroom. The sight gave him a nostalgic buzz, accompanied by a strange sense of relief that it wasn't his room anymore. 

Stanley stepped in front of it, his eager grin fading just a little. Lee took a turn at ruffling his hair. 

“Take care of yourself,” he said, voice stiff. He was hiding, Stan knew. Knew because he'd have done the same. 

But now he had been trained well in the ways of goodbyes and greetings, so he stepped forward and dropped to a crouch and pulled his younger self into an embrace. 

“What! Ew no! Get off, hugs are for sissies!” Stanley complained, but he didn't fight it very hard. Stan held him tightly, feeling his heart beat, remembering what it was like to be small and scared and wondering if he'd ever really stopped.

“You're a good kid,” he said, because he knew the words he had needed to hear once upon a time. And he thought back to rolling sands and a house full of smoke and lies and standing beside his brother no matter what. “And life's gonna get real cold before you're ready for it. But you'll do okay, I know you will. And I'm-” his voice caught. “I'm proud of you.” 

He pulled back and Stanley wriggled out of his embrace. He seemed more subdued, and wiped a hand across his face. 

“See you later!” Stanley cried, voice a little forced and hey--maybe he was learning to hide already. He turned and charged into the portal. 

The bugs buzzed and the image shifted as Stan forced his complaining knees to stand again. Now it showed a motel room, bed unmade, blinds drawn. Dingy and cheap and no doubt smelling of smoke and liquor. 

“I ain't hugging you,” Lee said, crossing his arms and glaring. Stan paused for just a moment, considering, then held out a hand. His younger self also hesitated a second, then shook it. For a moment, they just stood there. 

Then something shifted in Lee's face. Almost imperceptible, but Stan had made a living out of reading people and well, it was his face. 

A desperation. A hope, a fear, a need . 

“Do…” he scratched the back of his head with his spare hand. “You said--I mean do you…Does…do I ever get to go home?” 

It came out in a tumbling gasp at the end, words stumbling over each other, sharply reminisce of Dipper’s rambling babbling. Stan was suddenly struck by just how young he was--how young he had been. This past version of himself was only a few years older than Soos, barely an adult. 

He hesitated a moment, unsure how to answer. He thought of the last time he had seen his father, yelling and angry and eyes flashing and the cold of the street and the cold knot in his heart, a knot he wasn't sure he had ever fully unraveled itself. 

“Ah kid,” he began, thinking of that old New Jersey house and a mother who never told the truth next to a father who had never loved him. 

Something shone in Lee's eyes. The desperation was there, the tiniest, faintest hope that had kept Stan alive for years, through jail cells and across state lines and over thirty long, dark winters. All for the desire for home. 

And then he thought of Ford, stepping through that portal. And he thought of Soos, eagerly explaining his latest idea for the Shack, and Wendy, smiling in that way she did when she pretended not to care. 

And he thought of Dipper and Mabel and pancakes and hot chocolates and watching cartoons and matching sweaters and teaching boxing and setting off fireworks and glitter.

And he smiled, and squeezed his younger self's hand tightly.

“Yeah,” he said, and the hope in Lee's eye shone bright. “Takes a long time, and a lot of stupid mistakes.” One in particular. “But you'll get there eventually.” 

Then he tugged and pulled Lee forward and wrapped his arms around the young man's shoulders and he thought of jail cells and deals gone wrong and cold winter nights and hunger in his belly and a broken science fair project and a broken portal. 

“It's not your fault,” he said, and he wasn't sure who he was saying it to. He wasn't sure if he even really believed it. But he knew it needed to be said.

Then he pulled back and he didn't miss the way Lee's eyes were shining. 

“Be seeing ya,” the younger him said, roughly. Then he hunched his shoulders and stepped through the portal. 

And Stan was alone. He let out a long breath as the portal buzzed and changed again, turning to take in the full expanse of white nothingness. His head was still pounding, but it was manageable. 

Was this place even real? He'd have to ask Ford about it, see if he had come across it. How possible even was it to run into your past selves? 

The portal had settled to a familiar view of the forest outside the Shack and he grinned to himself. He didn't hesitate once before stepping back through and going home. 

~*~

Stanley Pines woke with a jolt, the strange dream lingering in his mind for a moment. He furrowed his brow, trying to hold onto it. Pa had been there, he thought. But not Pa--he'd been nice. Had seemed to actually care. 

A crash from across the room drew Stanley's attention and he sat up in bed. 

“What're you doing ?” he demanded, voice a quiet hiss because he knew it was late. 

“Experimenting,” Ford muttered, waving a hand in his direction. Stanley rolled his eyes, shifting so his legs dangled off the edge of his bed and wrapped his blanket around him like a super hero cape. 

“Experimenting with how to wake the whole house up?” he asked. Ford shushed him, which was rich , coming from him.

Stanley jumped off the bed and padded to where his brother was working on some strange contraption. 

“Is this going to blow the whole house up?” he asked with mild interest. Ford glanced up. 

“Probably not.” 

“Aww that's so boring.” Stanley dropped to the floor, lying on his back. For a moment, there was silence. The dream drifted back through Stan's mind, and he frowned again.  “D'you think there's other universes, like this one but different?” he asked. 

Ford looked up, adjusting his glasses.

“Yeah. The multiversal theory,” he began. “It's the idea that there's-” 

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Stan said, waving a hand in the air above him. “Blah blah blah, nerd stuff. Do you think there's a different universe…” he hesitated. “One where Pa likes me?” 

Ford was silent for a while, poking at his experiment for a long while in that way he did when avoiding uncomfortable conversations. 

“If there are an infinite number universes then it stands to reason that yes, there is at least one,” he said finally. 

Stanley smiled, the idea giving him a strange sense of satisfaction. 

“I think I dreamed it,” he said. Ford cast him a strange look but turned back to his experiment. Stanley didn’t pay the look any attention, just rolled onto his stomach to grab a piece of a paper and began to draw a bug. 

~*~

Stanley Pines woke with a jolt, reaching instinctively for the baseball bat he kept by his bed. His hands closed over the familiar worn wood as he re-orientated himself. 

It had just been a dream. A very strange dream, but just a dream nonetheless. He lay on his bed, one hand wrapped around the baseball bat handle. Bugs, he thought. Lots of weird bugs. 

And also…his thoughts drifted to Ford, as they often did. But this time the thoughts weren’t accompanied by the immediate stab of guilt and hurt and pain. He held onto the thought of his brother for a moment, far longer than usual. 

Usually, he would think of Ford, and then push away every single thought of Ford and every accompanying emotion. Unless he’d found his way to the bottom of a bottle, he couldn’t stomach remembering his brother for long.

This morning though…the dream left a strangely warm sensation. He let go of the bat and pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a little dizzy and hungry, but that was normal. 

He felt hopeful , he realised. That…that wasn’t something he’d felt for a long time. It had been a long time since he’d thought about going home, about earning enough money, about reuniting with his family. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere survival had become all encompassing, the only thing he could focus on. 

There was no room for hope when you were trying to fill your belly. 

But that dream…He thought about the bugs again, and thought about bug hunting with Ford as kids. 

A knock at the door banished the dream entirely from his mind and sent him scrambling for his baseball bat, survival once again taking over. 

Not even a week later, he found himself lying in the shell of a house that wasn't his, halfway across the country. His shoulder burned with a pain that was only overshadowed by the pain in his chest as he gripped a journal close to his chest. He wanted to just lay there, clasp the book close and let the world finally pass him by.

But the glow from that dream came back to him, just for a second. And he thought of bugs.

And he somehow, he managed to pick himself up. Somehow, he managed to begin fixing what he had broken.

~*~

Stanley Pines sat on the porch couch, can of soda in one hand, arm stretched out as he surveyed the dark forest. He was still thinking about his strange trip through the rift, sorting through the memories it had shaken up, trying to make sense of the experience. 

His head still hurt, but it had faded to a dull background pain he could ignore. 

A shadow slid out of the door from inside, silent feet padding across the deck. One of the loose boards creaked, and the shadow paused. 

“That’s new,” Ford said softly. He stepped to the edge of the porch, the dull light making a silhouette of him. 

“Half the boards here creak now,” Stan said. “Bit like me.” Ford chuckled, but before the still moment could continue, he turned to face Stan, face in shadows. 

“Are you sure that bug was alive?” he asked. 

Stan hid a grin with a swing of his soda. 

“Yeah, told yah. There were thousands of ‘em--that was the most fancy one though.” 

“Fascinating.” Ford started pacing, making a small loop of the space in front of the sofa. “It’s thoroughly dead--though I’m not convinced it was ever alive to begin with. If you hadn’t told me, I would have thought it was a toy of some kind.” 

“I felt it buzzing,” Stan said. “Saw the whole swarm.” 

“And you said past versions of yourself were there as well?” Ford asked, pausing in his pacing. When Stan grunted in affirmative, he began moving again, muttering to himself. “Strange bugs…past versions of yourself…I’ve never heard of anything quite like it. You sure it was a rift?” 

“Pretty sure,” Stan said. “Didn’t feel like a mindscape, didn’t feel like a dream--and well, there was something. Showed you the bug.” 

“Yeeess,” Ford mused. “You didn’t just…” He hesitated, seeming to catch his words before he spoke them. 

“I ain’t lying, Poindexter,” Stan said. He couldn’t really blame Ford for considering that--it would have been a fun joke. “Messed all my memories up too much anyway,” he added. Ford nodded, continuing his pacing. 

“I’ve heard of a few things like that--we saw when we went after Mabel, many different versions of her were drawn to the same space. Perhaps it was something like that?” 

“No, it was me,” Stan said. “Same memories, same… same me. ‘Sides, I think the bugs were familiar, like I’d seen ‘em before.” He frowned, trying to remember. It did nothing good for his headache. 

“Stranger and stranger,” Ford mused. He fell silent, continuing pacing until Stan let out a long sigh. 

“Sit down Sixer. You’re making me out of breath just watching you.” 

Ford started guilty, then chuckled softly and moved to sit beside Stan. He didn’t sit still , his leg bouncing, fingers fidgeting in his lap, but it was marginally better. 

“You sure that thing is dead?” Stan asked. 

“Yes. But not just dead--almost like it’s been turned to plastic or something.” 

“Can you figure out what that somethin’ is?” Stan asked. 

“Yeeess, I suppose I could. I’m not sure if that would give us any more answers though,” he admitted. “Are you sure you can’t go back through the rift?” 

Stan shook his head. 

“Nah, closed up behind me.” 

They fell silent again, and Stan shut his eyes. He was going to have to head to bed soon, before the headache got worse. Maybe take some painkillers as well. It wasn’t as bad as his headaches had been when he was first regaining his memory, but it still wasn’t pleasant. 

And the shadows made him more uneasy than they had for a long time. Ford's fidgeting was putting him on edge as well. 

Ford seemed to pick up on his discomfort, perhaps because of the stretching silence. His fidgeting stilled, and that was a sure sign he was thinking very hard about something. Stan glanced sideways at him, unable to make out any features in the darkness. 

“Are you…alright?” Ford asked finally, hesitantly, in that awkward way he did whenever he wasn’t sure if he was asking the right think. Stan sighed. 

“Yeah, think so,” he said. “Lotta memories got mixed up. Remembered somethings I’d rather have stayed gone.” 

He usually wouldn’t open up so quickly. But he couldn’t help but think of the desperate hope in his younger self’s eyes, and the darkness of the night made it easier to be vulnerable. 

Ford was quiet for a long moment. 

“Do you…want to help me research this?” he asked, hesitantly. Then, in a rush. “Of course, it may not interest you at all, it would be a lot of time spent in the lab and doing what you call ‘nerd stuff,’ though I would find your insight valuable as you were the one who experienced it, but if you were opposed to the idea, of course you--”

“Calm down, Ford,” Stan said, holding up a hand. “Sounds fun. And I do wanna know more about those bugs.” The more he thought about them, the more he thought he’d definitely seen them before today. In a dream, in a picture he’d drawn, in some faint memory that didn’t quite take root. 

Ford bounded to his feet far too easily for a man of his age and clapped his hands together. 

“Wonderful!” he said. “First, you are correct in saying that we need to figure out what, exactly that bug is made up of. Then I shall have to look through my notes and possibly even memories of my time traveling, to see if--”

“Hey, slow down,” Stan said. He drained his soda and stood as well, groaning slightly as he did. “It’s late, an’ I’m tired, an’ still have a headache.” 

“Oh. Of course,” Ford said, and the disappointment in his voice made Stan feel a little guilty. 

“Tomorrow, Sixer,” he said. “ Both of us need to get some sleep tonight.” He fixed Ford with a long glare he knew his brother couldn’t see in the darkness. 

“Yes. Yes of course,” Ford said. He was distracted and Stan decided he needed to play dirty. 

“I wanna do it with you ,” he said, turning to move inside. “So don’t go start doing all your sciency stuff while I’m catching my beauty sleep.” 

“Oh yes. I will wait.” Ford said. Again, he sounded disappointed. Stan hid a smile as he moved inside, glad to hear Ford following. His brother was prone to getting laser focused on one particular thing--it was likely he would actually get some sleep if he couldn’t work on what caught his attention in the moment until the morning. “I supposed I should get some rest as well,” he said finally as they stepped fully into the warmly lit interior of the Shack. Stan's hidden grin grew. 

“Tomorrow, we’ll figure it out,” he said. Ford smiled, eyes alight with that nerdy excitement. 

“Yes!” he said. “Together.” 

The word filled Stan with a warm glow as he made his way upstairs and prepared for bed. It chased away the misery of a headache and made the old bed in his room more cozy than it had seemed in years. It banished the last of his misplaced memories and maybe, just a little, unraveled that cold knot he carried in his heart. 

He fell asleep quickly that night, and dreamed of bugs.