Here are the things that Ford is unaccustomed to.

He’s unaccustomed to sleeping.

He’s not used to having a bed— or a couch, or a cot, or even an armchair. He’s not used to pillows and blankets. He’s not used to night and day following each other in order, steady and predictable. For so long, sleep was a snatched, desperate thing— three or four hours stolen where he could, before he was thrown into wakefulness and forced to flee threats, real or dreamed, both equally dangerous. His brother and the children— they sleep for so long. Six, seven, eight hours! Ford cannot do it. He’ll pace, or work, or worry, or else go outside and breathe in the scent of pine trees.

He’ll look up at the sky. Black void, speckled with stars. The constellations exactly the same as they were in that astronomy book he got when he was eight years old. He’s not used to that either.

He’s not used to food. Not having to scavenge, or hunt, or at the very least, trade. People call him into the kitchen with surprising frequency, for breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks. There’s so much food, and he never has to check to make sure that it’s not poisonous for humans. It’s (almost) all delicious, and Ford makes himself eat everything that’s put on his plate, even though it makes his stomach feel uncomfortably full. Every time someone tosses something like a barely eaten apple or a burnt slice of toast in the garbage, he has to clamp down on the instinct that says 'wasteful'. He can't help but pack an easy-to-reach backpack filled with non-perishables, just in case.

His absolute favourite food growing up was ginger snaps. Mabel makes them one day, turning the kitchen into a disaster area, with batter all splattered on the walls. When the cookies are done, Ford bites into one, and finds he forgot what they tasted like. Spicy, sweet crispy soft heaven.

He’s not used to showers. Or bathing, in general. There was never a lot of opportunity, and when there was, it always still seemed too risky, taking off all his clothes, equipment, weapons. He sees some of the looks the others give him, however— little wrinkles of their noses— and figures that he better get used to it quick.

He stands in the bathroom, staring at the shower. It takes him a few minutes to work up the nerve to take off all his clothes. He feels so exposed, unprotected. But when the first jet of hot water courses over him... he remembers how nice it feels, to be clean. He works quickly, but efficiently, lathering himself in soap and shampoo, trying not to think about how it’s his brother’s stuff he’s using. Later, the twins do tease him about having ‘old man smell’, just like Stanley, but Ford doesn’t mind too much. He no longer reeks of ashes, ozone and sweat.

At least, not after he changes his clothes. That’s something else he's not used to. All his old clothes are right in the drawers where he left them. Most of them still fit. He can put on fresh underwear, fresh pants, shirts, sweaters, gloves. He keeps his trench-coat, though. He’s been through too much with it, at this point.

It feels strange, being back in his old house. Or research station, rather: he never really considered the place a house, even then. It’s big, and filled with so much stuff. Inventions, books, research material, tools, mugs, toys, stationary, glitter, bauble heads, an endless amount of kitsch merchandise. So much of it junk, accumulated over thirty years by his brother, but so much of it his own, from before.

He's not used to having things. At least, not having more than he could carry by himself. He spends hours organising it all.

“Grunkle Ford, Grunkle Ford!” the kids call, asking him to come back up, and Ford is most certainly not used to that.

He's not used to being around kids. He’s not used to them hanging around, wanting to be with him. He's not used to being a role model, to being looked up to.

But… he adjusts quickly. Surprisingly quickly, he thinks.

The twins-- his great niece and nephew— are genuinely good kids. Mabel is bright and chipper. When he came out of the portal, she’d shook his hand firmly, saying that his sixth finger was friendly, and that immediately made her nicer than about 96% of all the beings Ford has met in his long life. She has an unbridled optimism, and she throws herself into adventure without hesitation. Dipper is the same, in that regard— eager for excitement, discovery. He’d been studying the Journals long before he knew the history behind them. He’s fast on his feet, incredibly clever, properly paranoid. Ford sees himself in him, and he hopes he can give the boy everything that he was denied.

He sees a future spreading ahead of him. He’s back on Earth. The rift is contained, Cipher’s powers are limited. He doesn’t have to keep running, fighting, surviving. He can live in his house, fix his mistakes, go back to his research, take on an apprentice—

Then everything comes crumbling down.

The portal is torn open. Monsters flood in. The sky turns red. People scream, and then, are silenced.

It’s contained to Gravity Falls. Bill and his chaos cannot spread past its borders. Not without knowing what Stanford knows.

Bill offers him power. He offers him immortality. He offers him the universe. The demon fails to realize that the universe is exactly what he’s been fighting to protect, for so long. Ford refuses.

And then he threatens the kids.

Something inside Ford twists. Panic and fear show on his face. Bill’s eye widens in a smile. He’s found his leverage.

The kids. The kids. Ford’s known them for barely a month, and already— already, he would trade the universe for them. He would trade his own life, his own mind.

But ultimately, none of those things are his to give away. So his brother will have to stand in his place.

Ford is the one who holds the memory gun, who adjusts it, and wipes the mind of Stanley Pines.

There was nothing he could do, no alternative. But still, he hates himself for it. He’s sorry. He’s so, so sorry.

But the apocalypse ends, and recovery begins.

Here is what Ford is unaccustomed to.

He’s still unaccustomed to sleep, and regular meals, and clean clothes. He’s not used to cell-phones, and satellite television, and the internet. He’s not used to blue skies and tranquil forests.

When the dust has settled, he goes through his old study, and smashes every single triangle he can see- every picture, rune, and depiction of Bill Cipher he can find, burning what remains. He tells himself that the demon has no power now. He finds a picture of the Cipher Wheel, carefully copied off a cave wall by his own six-fingered hand. He stares at it, and after a long moment, folds it up and places it between the pages of his new journal.

He is not used to there no longer being a prophecy hanging over his head.

The children laugh, and squabble, and ask for his help blowing up birthday balloons. Or making dinner, or with scrapbooking, or catching a monster, or packing up. Ford watches over their antics fondly.

He's not the only one.

Stan smiles at him, and Ford smiles back. They’ll be sailing on a boat soon, having the adventure they’d always dreamed as children.

He’s not used to his brother having his back.

But he's getting there.