Work Text:
Link to the German original: https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/6707f4fc000863de2d4c07f6/32/Momentaufnahmen
Snapping
“This is unbearable… What kind of garbage songs do they play on the radio these days? Where did all the good old classics go?”
Ford looked up from the railing he was scrubbing and turned toward Stan, who was glaring accusingly at the little radio on the workbench beside him, as if it were personally responsible for the songs the radio station was playing.
It was a beautiful, sunny autumn afternoon in Gravity Falls, and the two brothers were tinkering with the Stan O’ War II — or rather, the old trawler that was supposed to become the Stan O’ War II. They had bought the dilapidated boat about a week after Dipper and Mabel’s departure, for a very small price, and had been working on restoring it for two weeks now. Just the two of them on an old boat, fixing it up together in perfect teamwork… It was almost like old times. Sure, there was no beach and no sea, but the sounds of hammering, sanding, and fixing were the same. They had a shared project again, a shared goal to work toward. Old dream, new attempt. And this time, it was going to work; that’s what they had promised themselves and each other.
Most of the hard work was already behind them — replacing rotten planks, repairing the damaged steering, swapping out old engine parts, cleaning and refurnishing the cabin, installing the newest navigation tech and a whole bunch of other modifications Ford and Fiddleford had designed… All that was left were simpler tasks, like cleaning and painting. Tedious and repetitive, maybe, but still necessary, considering the dull, grimy windows, the railing crusted with salt and dirt, and the chipped paint along the hull.
That’s why Stan had suggested listening to some music: to make the boring parts of the workday a little less boring. Now they just needed to find the right kind of music.
“Try changing the station,” Ford suggested.
“I already did. Three times!” his brother complained, throwing his arms up. “It’s all the same junk — rappers or boy bands, either swearing every other word or drowning in cheesy love songs. It’s like there’s nothing else anymore…”
“We could always turn it off,” Ford said with a shrug. “I don’t need music.”
Stan hesitated, weighing which was worse — bad music or boring silence — then shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll give this station one more chance. If the next song’s garbage too, I’m turning it off.”
With that, he went back to work, and Ford followed suit. They worked in silence for a while as the current song — apparently some (admittedly very cheesy) track by a boy band called Backyard Boys — droned on, Ford scrubbing the railing while Stan cleaned the windows of the wheelhouse.
And after the cheesy song was finally over, the next song seemed to be one that Stan apparently knew and liked much better.
“Now this is a good song!” he exclaimed happily after the first few notes, turned up the volume and immediately started humming along once the singer came in.
Ford glanced over his shoulder with an amused smile, watching his brother hum and sway to the beat, moving his cleaning rag in time with the music. He didn’t recognize the song — probably released sometime during his years in the multiverse — but seeing Stan so cheerful and caught up in the moment lifted his own spirits, too. And truth be told, the song wasn’t bad at all.
Accompanied by Stan’s humming, Ford returned to scrubbing the railing, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. The upbeat rhythm gave his movements more energy, even making his foot tap a little as he worked away at the stubborn grime. Everything was good.
But then the chorus started — and beneath Stan’s humming came another sound: snapping fingers.
Ford flinched violently, as though struck by a whip, freezing in place. His hand tightened painfully around the brush and his blood turned to ice.
It was like a switch had been flipped in his mind. The cheerful melody was drowned out by the echoing snap, swelling and reverberating through his skull. The sunny afternoon around him twisted, blurred — and suddenly Ford wasn’t on the Stan O’ War II anymore, but back in Bill’s Fearamid, his wrists and ankles were shackled in glowing blue chains and the triangular demon was hovering in front of him, his single eye gleaming with sadistic delight.
“Do you know how many bones an adult human has, Fordsy?” Bill asked, not waiting for an answer. “Two hundred and six! And with those six-fingered hands of yours, you’ve got even more!“, he said gleefully, wiggling his fingers before his tone dropped into something dark and threatening. “Tell you what — I’ll break every single one of them, one at a time, unless you let me inside your mind. And since we’re already talking about your hands, why don’t we start with those bones?”
Then he snapped his fingers, once again without giving Ford a chance to respond.
Blinding pain exploded through Ford’s pinky and raced up his arm, ripping a tortured scream from his throat that echoed through the throne room, accompanied by Bill’s mocking laughter…
The brush slipped from Ford’s fingers, hitting the deck with a dull thud as the echo of the pain surged through his hand. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the images in front of his eyes. His whole body was trembling uncontrollably, his breathing shallow and fast, his mind a chaos of panic and fragmented memory, all triggered by that one brief sound.
And Stan didn’t seem to notice. He was still facing away, humming along, and then he snapped his fingers again, right in rhythm with the music —
“Still not feeling talkative?” Bill taunted after the last bone in Ford’s hands had been broken with a snap of his fingers. “Maybe I should try a bigger bone. Let’s see if a broken rib will loosen your tongue!”
Snap.
A hideous crack. Pain.
Ford gasped sharply. He couldn’t breathe. A crushing pressure clamped down on his chest; his lungs burned and stabbed with every breath. Panic surged as he clutched at his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his sweater. Was that his broken rib? But no… No, it couldn’t be. Nothing was broken. He wasn’t in Bill’s Fearamid. He was on the Stan O’ War II, with Stan. Stan, who was snapping his fingers to the beat…
Another snap.
Ford sucked in a sharp breath, though hardly any air seemed to make it past his constricted throat, and his entire body went rigid, waiting for pain, punishment, suffering.
“Don’t,” he hissed through clenched teeth, but his voice came out rough and strangled, far too quiet for Stan to hear over the music. His brother kept snapping his fingers cheerfully in rhythm with the song, and with every snap, Ford’s throat tightened further and another image flashed before his eyes.
He was thirty years younger again, trapped in a nightmare after losing control of his utterly exhausted body for only a second and falling asleep, and now he was running, running through an endless forest whose black tree trunks were studded with glowing yellow eyes while Bill chased him, laughing maniacally — and with one snap of Bill’s fingers, the bare branches shot forward, curling around Ford’s arms and legs, digging into his flesh, holding him fast until Bill reached him and stretched out his claws…
He was back in the Nightmare Realm, just shoved through the portal, facing Bill and his horrifying army of monsters, all eager to tear him apart — and a single snap from Bill’s fingers sent a grotesque creature made of fingers and teeth charging at him, howling and snarling…
He was back in Bill’s Fearamid, suspended in blue chains, helpless in front the demon, and every snap brought fresh agony, fresh torture, but Ford couldn’t give in, he couldn’t let Bill into his mind; but it hurt so much and he was so tired and he just wanted it to stop…
A strangled sob caught in his throat. “Stop…” he gasped, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.
But the snapping didn’t stop. Bill Stan didn’t stop. Stan couldn’t hear him.
Ford dropped to his shaking knees, clawing at his hair and pulling hard, trying to drag himself out of the phantom pain and memories through the real sting on his scalp, but the next snap shattered those efforts instantly. Even when he pressed his hands over his ears, the sound of the snapping echoed inside his skull, Bill’s crazed, mocking laughter growing louder and louder until Ford ripped his hands away again. His mouth opened again, he wanted to shout, to scream, but the invisible pressure on his chest and throat was so suffocating that only a weak, broken whimper escaped his lips, lost beneath the music.
He had to find his voice. He had to get enough air to speak up and drown out the song, Stan’s humming, Stan’s snapping, before he completely lost control, lost his mind…
Another snap. More images. More pain. His mind screamed, but his voice was silent.
No. Not again! Stop…!
Snap. Bill’s cruel laughter.
“No one can hear you, Sixer! No one will save you!”
Snap. Ford’s mouth opened again.
Stop!
“It’s useless!”
Snap.
STOP!
Snap.
“Stop!” Ford’s voice finally cut through, sharp and commanding, slicing through the song and Stan’s humming like a blade. “Stop! Please, I-I…”
The rest of his words broke apart, dissolving into ragged gasps as Stan finally stopped snapping and spun around. His eyes widened in shock as he saw Ford trembling, gasping for breath, kneeling on the deck with his fingers knotted in his hair. All trace of cheer vanished instantly, the song completely forgotten.
“Whoa, Ford! What’s wrong?” Stan asked, alarmed and confused. He dropped the rag he’d been using and rushed to Ford’s side, crouching down in front of him. “Hey, hey, breathe! Breathe, buddy,” he urged, resting a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “Deep breath, in and out. Do it with me. In… and out.”
Stan demonstrated, inhaling audibly through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Ford tried to ground himself through Stan’s touch on his shoulder, blinking away the last flickers of the flashback and trying to match Stan’s breathing — but he couldn’t. His breaths came too short, too fast, too uneven. No matter how hard he tried to shut out Bill’s laughter and the phantom sound of snapping, no matter how hard he tried to focus only on Stan, he couldn’t find the rhythm.
A desperate, helpless whimper escaped between his ragged breaths, and he clawed at the collar of his turtleneck, as if tearing it looser would ease the suffocating pressure around his throat. But it didn’t. The invisible pressure remained. The fear remained.
“Easy now. Don’t panic. We’ve got this,” Stan said firmly but gently, giving his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Then, with his free hand, he took Ford’s hand away from his collar and placed it flat against his own chest — right over his steadily beating heart — so Ford could not just see, but feel the slow, even rise and fall of each breath.
“Okay, one more time: in…” Stan inhaled deeply and steadily through his nose. Ford could feel the expansion of Stan’s chest beneath his hand and tried to fill his own lungs with air, only half-successfully.
“Out,” Stan said, exhaling slowly through his mouth. His chest fell beneath Ford’s hand, and Ford released his breath too — shorter, shakier, but steadier than before. The direct contact helped, feeling the rhythm beneath his palm helped. Bit by bit, Ford began to mirror Stan’s breathing more evenly — still not perfect, but improving with every cycle — until, at last, he was breathing in sync with his brother, and the crushing weight on his chest gradually started to lift. Even his racing pulse had slowed down and was now matching Stan’s soothing heartbeat.
“Good. You’re doing great, Ford,” Stan said approvingly, smiling as he stopped the breathing exercise once Ford could breathe properly on his own again. “You okay now?”
Ford just nodded and let his hand drop from Stan’s chest into his lap before clearing his throat. There was still a bit of tightness, a lump in his throat, but this time, it wasn’t one of panic. It was one of shame.
“I’m sorry…” he murmured, avoiding Stan’s eyes and suddenly feeling incredibly stupid and pathetic.
Stan tilted his head in confusion. “Sorry? For what? What even happened?”
Ford hesitated, nervously kneading the hem of his turtleneck as the lump in his throat grew. “Th-The snapping… I couldn’t…”
His voice failed him and he broke off, shaking his head in frustration.
“My snapping? To the song?” Stan asked, and Ford gave a small nod. “What about it?”
“Bill,” Ford forced out, and the way Stan flinched at the name made guilt and fresh shame stab through him. Still, he pushed on haltingly. “H-He always snapped his fingers when he wanted to… inflict pain on me. At his pyramid during Weirdmageddon… and even before that… in the weeks leading up to the portal incident. Ever since he showed his true face, his snapping never meant anything good. It meant… torment. Torture… And when you suddenly started snapping just now, I…”
“Oh, Ford…” Stan breathed, full of sympathy, and pulled him into a hug. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t think anything of it…”
Although the embrace felt good, Ford gently pushed back so he could look at his brother and shake his head. “No, I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “You couldn’t have known. And now I ruined the song for you with my stupid fears.”
“Don’t,” Stan said firmly, meeting his eyes. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. Fear is fear.”
“But it’s ridiculous that I lose it over a harmless finger snap!” Ford exclaimed in frustration, wriggling out of Stan’s arms entirely. He hated that such a petty thing could control him — that Bill could still control him because of it! It was just a stupid sound! Bill had conditioned him to react to a simple finger snap like a freaking Pavlovian dog! He’d conditioned him so deeply that Ford’s body still flinched and braced for pain that wasn’t even coming! He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be ruled by Bill anymore. Bill was gone, he shouldn’t still have this much power over Ford’s life!
Stan, however, just shrugged at his words and gave him a crooked, understanding smile. “Oh yeah? Well, I freak out in small spaces. Sounds pretty pathetic too, but that’s just how it is.”
“What? No, that’s not pathetic!” Ford protested. “There are good reasons for that!”
“And for you not?” Stan replied, raising an eyebrow. “Every time you’ve heard that sound, something awful’s happened to you — no wonder your body and mind react accordingly. So if my fear isn’t pathetic, neither is yours.”
“But it’s just a sound!“ Ford snapped, annoyed and angry with himself. “A sound that’s not even particularly loud or long or dangerous!”
“I know,” Stan said gently, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “And that’s okay. There’s no shame in that.”
“For me there is,” Ford muttered, lowering his head in embarrassment. But Stan lifted his chin again with a finger, meeting his gaze with steady resolve.
“Alright, then we’ll do something about it,” he said with determination. “You’re scared of that sound and you don’t wanna be? Fine, we’ll fix that. Come on, snap your fingers.”
Ford blinked in surprise, then shook his head. “That’s not… When I do it, it’s fine. In that case I know I’m doing it, and I know nothing’s going to happen. But when it comes out of nowhere — when someone else does it…” He sighed, defeated. “I don’t think there’s anything that can be done about that.”
Stan frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then forced a small grin. “Well, at least now I know. I’ll make sure not to do it around you anymore.”
Ford made a face, clearly unsatisfied. “But you shouldn’t have to hold yourself back because of me and my stupid fear.”
Stan rolled his eyes. “It’s called being considerate, Ford. Totally normal. That’s what family does. You make adjustments for me all the time — when we go hiking and I can’t keep up with you, you slow down. When I don’t understand all your science babble, you explain it in simpler terms. So I can darn well stop snapping my fingers for your sake. Honestly, that’s not much of a loss. I’ll live.”
Then his eyes lit up as an idea struck him, and he got to his feet. “Look, instead of snapping, I can just tap my foot along with the beat!” he said, immediately demonstrating by tapping his boot to the rhythm of the new song now playing on the radio. A moment later, he added a few loose dance steps.
“That’s even better! Gets the whole body moving!” he laughed, swaying to the beat in front of Ford — and suddenly grabbing Ford’s hands to pull him up too. “Come on, try it! Dance with me, Poindexter! We’re gonna dance those bad memories away!”
Ford couldn’t help but laugh as he began to move with Stan to the music, feeling slightly awkward and silly. But it did help to chase away the tension, the negative thoughts and feelings. Especially when Stan’s own laughter joined his, and they began to spin around together, faster and faster, until they were both dizzy and stumbling — just like when they were kids, whenever a good song came on the radio or the record player and joy took over completely.
Still laughing, they stopped their spinning, leaning against each other for balance as they caught their breath — though this time, the breathlessness didn’t feel bad. This time, Ford had no trouble breathing. His chest and his heart felt free.
He let out a long, relieved sigh. Maybe his fear of snapping wasn’t as unshakable as he’d thought. Maybe they could handle it. As long as Stan was there to ground him, to calm him or to cheer him up, Ford didn’t feel nearly as helpless or pathetic. As long as Stan was there, everything was okay.
Full of warmth and gratitude, Ford smiled at his brother. “Thanks, Stan.”
Stan smiled just as warmly back and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Anytime, Ford.”
A comforting sense of safety welled up in Ford’s chest. Yes. As long as they were together, everything was alright.