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Chapter Text

Ford has stopped shivering when Stan finally hauls him onto the deck. He’s curled into himself, stiff-jointed and unmoving, and somewhere in the back of Stan’s head there is screaming. He can’t lose Ford again, he can’t, he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he won’t—

Ford breathes.

“Stanford!” Stan’s voice splinters around the edges, and tears fracture his vision. He shakes his head, slinging them away, and hooks his hands under Ford’s arms to drag him further onto the boat. “That’s it, buddy, that’s good, just keep breathing. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay.”

He has to be okay. There simply isn’t another option. 

Ford cracks an eye open, squinting up at Stan—his iris is a wet gleam, his pupil blown black-hole wide in terror and his sclera shot through with burst blood vessels. Then he shudders all over and claws at the deck with his fingertips, like he’s trying to scramble up onto hands and knees. He doesn’t have the strength for it. Not even a half-second later, he sags back to the ground and retches up an awful blend of saltwater and bile, then gags and coughs and retches some more. 

“Oh, Ford, Ford—” Stan makes wordless, senseless sounds of comfort, keeping his brother’s face turned to the side so he doesn’t choke. When he finishes vomiting, Ford gasps in a breath and lets it out on a thin, miserable wail. “I know, I know, shh, I know. You’re okay, you’re done. C’mere.”

Stan loops one arm around his shoulders and hooks the other beneath his knees, then scoops him up. His back will complain tomorrow, but that’s the furthest damn thing from Stan’s mind, right now. Ford slumps into his grip, and his hair leaves patches of icy water where it brushes Stan’s neck. He carries his brother below deck, kicking the door shut behind them to cut off the chill of the arctic wind. 

“Okay, okay, there you go,” he murmurs, setting Ford down on the bottom bunk. Ford curls up on his side again, his breath coming in choppy rasps and his eyes squeezed shut. Stan grabs a tissue from the bedside table, using it to wipe the water and vomit away from Ford’s mouth and nose. “There, that’s better, huh? Now we just gotta get you warmed up.”

He pulls Ford’s trenchcoat off first, letting it drop to the floor in a heap of heavy, sodden fabric. Ford’s lifejacket joins it next (fat lot of good that did, although Stan supposes it really wasn’t rated for a giant squid attack), along with the rest of his clothes. Stan unlaces his boots last, setting them next to the bed to dry. Somehow, despite the water, they remain perpetually muddy. Stan has to chuckle at that, but it’s a chuckle that borders dangerously on a sob, so he cups a hand over his mouth and takes a big, deep breath. 

Ford first, freaking the fuck out later.

Stan snags a towel from their bathroom, tousling Ford’s hair with it before wiping the icy water from his brother’s body. Once he’s sure Ford is dry, Stan piles on the blankets: blankets from Ford’s bed, from Stan’s bed, from the chest against the far wall. He bundles Ford up until all he can see is his brother’s eyes (still squeezed shut) and nose (bright red and drippy from the cold). Then Stan wavers on his feet for a second—but only a second—as he tries to decide what to do next.

Hot towels first, he decides. Ford’s not conscious enough to drink anything without choking. 

They’ve run through contingency plans for missteps like this (run over and over and over them, because they’re two old men in the middle of an ocean that wants to kill them more often than not). Ford’s well-versed in wilderness survival, but Stan? Stan’s good at this—at warming people up when they get too cold. He had to learn the hard way when he was seventeen and living on the streets of New Jersey in the dead of winter. Nearly lost a finger to frostbite, but hell, he made it. 

So it’s with years of practice that he moves through this next vital step: heat the core before the limbs. He shoves a few towels into their bathtub, soaking them in warm water before wringing them out. He shoves two into the oven to dry, then wrings out the third. He tests the temperature against the skin of his wrist—not too hot, or he’ll scald Ford. He knows how unpleasant any heat feels when you’re a damn icecube. 

“Alright, buddy, here we go. This’ll help.” Stan takes a seat on the bunk and unwraps some of Ford’s blankets, exposing his chest. Ford doesn’t stir, but he’s breathing hard, and he’s not shivering yet, and Stan is so fucking scared. He takes his own deep, shaky breath before plastering the warm towel to Ford’s chest. Ford squirms uncomfortably, but it’s a weak struggle at best, and he stills as soon as Stan tucks the blankets back in around him. 

As soon as the other towels are done heating, he snags them from the oven. He wraps one around Ford’s back, tucking it beneath his arms, and folds the other close to his stomach, trying desperately to ignore the way his brother’s breath shakes as he does. As soon as the damp towel starts to cool, Stan tosses it into the oven, too, and returns it once it’s warm and dry. A few seconds later, Ford starts to shiver.

“There, there we go,” Stan breathes, relief crashing into him. Ford’s teeth chatter violently, and Stan’s never been happier to see his brother shaking so hard. “You’re gonna be okay, Sixer. You’re doin’ just fine. Just get warm, that’s it, you’re alright.”

While he waits for the towels to cool again, Stan sets a pot of water on the stove to boil. As soon as it does, he pours it into a pair of uninsulated thermoses. He tucks these beneath Ford’s arms after he tosses the towels back into the oven. Once the towels are warmed through, he packs two of them against Ford’s chest and back again. The third he rests against Ford’s throat. The whole damn cabin swelters, now, and Stan has to pause to wipe the sweat from his forehead. 

Huh. He’d make a pretty good heater right now himself, wouldn’t he?

“Budge over,” Stan mutters, unwrapping Ford’s blankets just long enough to squeeze himself into Ford’s cocoon. He sheds his own heavy jacket, then wraps his arms around his actual iceblock of a brother holy shit that’s cold. “Jesus, Ford!”

Ford mumbles something incoherent, unmoving save for the pathetic shivers that wrack his frame. Stan rests his chin against Ford’s forehead, bringing a hand up to rubs his wind-chafed ears. His curls, where they brush Stan’s fingers, are stiff with salt—but they’re almost dry, now, and that’s what matters. As soon as Ford’s ears are warm, Stan moves up, digging his fingers into his brother’s scalp to knead the warmth back into it. Ford relaxes against him, pressing his face to Stan’s neck. His nose, Stan would swear, is an actual icecube.

“Lee?” Ford slurs. 

“Hey—hey, Ford, I’m right here,” Stan says, rubbing warmth into the back of Ford’s neck. The muscles there feel cold and tight, unyielding beneath his touch. “I gotcha.”

“Lee? ‘s it you?”

Stan presses his mouth to Ford’s hair. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, it’s me. It’s Stanley.”

“What’re you doing here? Why are you…?” Ford stirs in his arms, the distress in his voice rising. “You shouldn’t—you s-shouldn’t—”

Stan tightens his grip, sitting up and tucking the blankets more snugly around his brother. He begins to rock, slow and steady, and Ford sags against him with a miserable whine. “Don’t think about it,” Stan says, swallowing hard. “Don’t think about, buddy, it’s alright. You don’t have to.”

“‘m sc-scared, Lee, ‘m so—so sc-scared—”

“Don’t be. I’m not gonna let anything hurt you.” 

“I can’t sleep. I’m so tired, I can’t sleep.”

Stan hates this. He hates it. He’s never one to encourage Ford’s shitty sleeping habits (or lack thereof), but right now? Right now, Ford’s actually right. “No, you can’t sleep. You stay awake, okay? But you stop thinking about that stuff. Think of—of—you remember Dipper and Mabel?”

Ford’s quiet a moment, shivering hard. “Dipper,” he says slowly, “Mabel. Y-yes. Yes, I—yes.”

“You just think about them, Ford. Nothin’ else. Nobody else.”

Ford falls silent again, but he brings his hands up and curls his fingers into Stan’s shirt. Stan reaches down, gently tugging loose of Ford’s grip so he can rub Ford’s hands between his own. His fingers are still red and locked with cold, but they don’t look discolored or waxy. They’re still alive. Ford’s still alive.

Thank god, Ford’s still alive.

The towels cool, again, and Stan has to worm his way out of the cocoon to reheat them. While he waits for them to warm, he brews a pot of strong black coffee. He pours it into another thermos—insulated, this time—and dumps in a metric ton of sugar to appeal to Ford’s sweet tooth. He shakes it up, then goes and sits next to Ford. He loops an arm around his brother’s shoulders, guiding his head up so he won’t choke.

“Here,” he says, showing Ford the thermos. “It’s coffee. Think you can drink some for me?”

Ford reaches for the thermos, but his hands are shaking too badly to grasp it. Stan reaches out, pushing his hands back into the blankets before pressing the thermos to Ford’s mouth himself. Ford drinks in shaky, spluttering gulps, and Stan has to stop several times for fear he’ll choke. He manages a quarter of the thermos before he turns his head away, and Stan doesn’t have the heart to push him anymore.

“Good, Ford, good job. Thank you.”

Stan sets the thermos aside, wrapping himself around Ford again. The next hour becomes a rhythm: warm the towels, massage Ford’s limbs, curl up in the blankets, get fresh coffee. The caffeine, at least, seems to help Ford stay awake. By the end of the hour, his eyes are brighter and sharper, and his shivering is finally beginning to wane.

“Stanley?” he says, at last, his voice raw but lucid. “What happened?”

“Squid pulled you under,” Stan murmurs, hooking his chin protectively over Ford’s head. “I  got you back, but you were—you were in a bad way. You nearly drowned, and you were colder than ice. I still don’t think you’re out of the woods yet. We need to head for shore. Inhalin’ all that water, you’re probably gonna want antibiotics or—”

“‘m okay.”

“We are going to shore, Sixer. It wasn’t a damn request.”

Ford glances up at him, eyes narrowed—but his gaze softens when he sees Stan’s face. “How long has it been? Since I fell in?”

“Two hours.”

“That bad, huh?”

Stan’s mouth tightens around a grimace. 

“I’m sorry.” Ford presses his face to the crook of Stan’s neck. His nose is warm now, finally. “I scared you.”

“Hell, you don’t have to be sorry. It’s not like you were planning to get dragged down,” Stan mutters, ruffling Ford’s hair. “How are you feeling, anyway? Better?”

Ford nods. “I’m tired, but I’m warm, and I can breathe, so it’s definitely an improvement.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Stan says, snorting. He worms his way out of the blankets, ignoring Ford’s half-hearted complaints, and grabs a knit sweater from the closet. He tosses it to his brother, then follows it up with clean boxers, pants, and thick wool socks. “Take a shower and get dressed, would you? You smell like fish.”

“Squid aren’t fish.”

“I’m going to e-fish-erate you if you don’t get to the bathroom in the next two minutes.”

Ford giggles, cupping a hand over his eyes, and a smile finally crosses Stan’s mouth. “E-fish-erate. That’s stupid.”

“You like that, huh? Well, what can I say?” Stan shrugs. “My jokes are fin -tastic. Don’t feel gill-ty if you can’t match my level.”

“Stanley!”

“Kraken you up, am I?”

Ford’s laugh, breathy and rough though it is, has never sounded better to Stan’s ears. He waves a hand at Stan, a wide grin on his face. “Get out, get out get out get out. I’ll call you if I need you and your puns.”

“You’d better. Don’t push yourself, Six.”

Stan steps out of the bedroom to let Ford shower and dress, slumping into his seat at the kitchenette table. He rests his face in his hands, and when he hears the shower begin to run he finally, finally lets himself cry.

Chapter Text

Stan jolts awake with the dregs of a nightmare in the back of his throat, bleak and sour and confusing. He can’t remember what it was about, not clearly, but his heart thunders in his chest and his breath comes in short bursts, so it must have been something horrible. 

Ford is moving almost immediately; he’s a light sleeper, now (too light—Stan tries not to think about why very often) and a few seconds later, he hangs his head over the side of his bunk to peer down at Stan. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I’m—” Stan clears his throat, raking his hair out of his eyes. The tangles cling to his fingers, damp with sweat. “I’m fine.”

“Bad dream?”

Stan nods, jerky and sharp. Ford springs off of the bunk like the show-offy asshole he is, landing neatly on the floor of the cabin. He holds a hand out, watching Stan expectantly. 

“Well?” he says. “Come on.”

Stan rolls out of bed, taking Ford’s hand and letting his brother drag him onto the deck. It feels better out here, cool and clean and open. The sky stretches endlessly above them, swathed with stars, and a breeze tugs their hair. The waves lap against the Stan o’ War, rocking her gently. Stan leans against the bow, still trembling.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ford asks, leaning next to him. 

Stan shakes his head. “Don’t remember it.”

“Alright.” Ford tilts his head up, breathing deeply. Stan copies him. “Do you need me to stay with you?”

“No. ‘m okay.”

Ford touches his shoulder, then turns back towards the cabin. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to fetch a few things.”

Stan closes his eyes once Ford is gone, grateful for the space. He loves his brother—god, does he ever—but nightmares usually leave him feeling trapped and stifled. It’s nice to have room to simply breathe, to exist without the pressure of another person even for just a short while. 

But he doesn’t want to be alone for long—not ever for long—and so he’s grateful when Ford returns several minutes later, their coats slung over his arm and two mugs of warm milk in his hands. He hands one to Stan, and Stan drinks. It tastes mild, laced through with honey and cinnamon, just like their ma used to make when they couldn’t sleep. It’s the same concoction, too, that Stan makes whenever Ford works himself up into a panic and balks at the idea of the sleeping because what if he comes back Stanley what if he’s still in my head what if he never went away and he hurts you again what if—

“Hey.” Ford nudges him. “What’re you thinking so hard about, old man?”

“Ah, nothin’. Just milk and honey, I guess.”

A smile flickers across Ford’s mouth. “Is it good?”

“It’s great, Ford. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Ford likes this routine of theirs—he likes knowing what steps to take and what responses those steps will get him, and Stan is more than happy to oblige. The predictability comforts him, too. Next, he knows, Ford is going to ask—“Think you can get back to sleep? Pretty chilly out here.”

“Just a little longer.”

Ford hands him his jacket, and Stan pulls it on and zips it up. He rummages through the pockets until he finds his knit hat, then tugs it down over his ears. Ford, too, puts his own jacket on before leaning against the rails again. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Stan says. He already has Ford’s response memorized, but it feels like a necessary out to offer anyhow.

“I know,” Ford says, simply. “I want to.”

The boat rocks gently, carrying the two of them steadily north. Their breath clouds in front of them, hazy in the moonlight, and Stan watches as the waves crash over one another. He breathes deeply, and the air stings his nose and his lungs—fresh, clear, free. The stars gleam overheard, hard and sharp, and Stan’s eyes pick out the constellations Ford has taught him: Orion, Ursa Major, Gemini. 

Castor and Pollux, he notices, look particularly bright tonight.

“Do you remember the story?” Ford asks, following Stan’s gaze. “Of the Gemini?”

“I do.”

“Would you tell it to me?”

Ford already knows the story, of course, but this is one of his favorite grounding techniques—and Stan’s got to admit, it works wonders. “Uh, so—Castor and Pollux, right? They were twins, but Castor was a human and Pollux was a demigod. They got up to a lot of shit.”

Ford chuckles. “That they did.”

“They stole some cattle, once, with their cousins,” Stan continues, “and then they made a bet.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

Stan elbows Ford gently. “They bet that they could eat their dinner faster than their cousins, and whoever ate the fastest got all the cattle. You remember who won.”

“Naturally.” Ford sniffs. “The cousins.”

“The cousins! Anyway, they made off with all the cattle, and Castor and Pollux got nothin’. ‘course, they weren’t too happy about that arrangement, so they got into this huge fight with their cousins over these stupid cows, and Castor got killed. Zeus stopped the fight before Pollux could get himself killed, too, but I guess the damage was done.”

Ford’s mouth twists—he never did like that part of the story. Stan doesn’t, either.

“Pollux was all torn up about it. Thing is, he was immortal, so he came up with this plan. He asked Zeus to share his immortality with Castor, and Zeus agreed. He split Pollux’s immortality between the twins, and now they spend half the year in hell and half the year—” Stan gestures up at the constellation. “—in the heavens.”

A smile flickers across Ford’s mouth as he studies the stars. “Do you know what they’re the patrons of?”

“Gambling?”

Ford laughs, shaking his head. “No, although that would be apt, wouldn’t it?”

“It would be. But nah, I remember.” Stan jams his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Sailors. They’re patrons of sailors.”

“Exactly. They keep people at sea safe. So since they’re up—” Ford yawns, touching Stan’s back. “Why don’t we go settle down?”

Stan follows his brother below deck again, shedding his hat and his jacket on the way in. He takes a seat at the kitchen table to finish his milk, and once he’s done, Ford gathers both of their mugs and rinses them out. He reaches for the dish soap, next, and soon the air smells sharply of lemons. Stan’s jaw cracks around an enormous yawn, and he slumps over the table and buries his face in his arms.

“Hey.” Something soft touches his head, and he grumbles. “You can’t sleep here. You’ll throw your back out.”

“I’m comfortable.”

“Yes, well, you won’t be tomorrow morning.” Another gentle tap to his head. “Come on. Are you ready to go back to bed?”

Stan lifts his head, and several iridescent bubbles collapse from his hair and land on his nose. He goes cross-eyed just tryin’ to look at ‘em, and Ford grins impishly at him. He still has bubbles on his hands. That’s an act of war if Stan’s ever seen one. 

“Playin’ dirty, Six,” Stan says, then lunges for the sink and snatches a handful of bubbles for himself. Ford laughs, scrambling backwards to keep the kitchen table between them. His eyes glint merrily as Stan circles the table with him, and as soon as he nears the bedroom door he makes a break for it. Stan chases after him, and when he gets Ford cornered he rubs a handful of soap into his brother’s ashy curls. “Bam! Justice has been served.”

“Justice, huh?” Ford wrinkles his nose, bringing a hand up to touch his hair. “At least it’s clean.”

“That’s right! Good, clean justice.”

Ford shakes his head, splattering Stan with the rest of the soap. Prick. Stan can’t stop grinning. “So now that you’ve had your justice, are you ready to go to sleep? As much fun as having bubble fights at two in the morning is—” Ford yawns, rubbing one of his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah, yeah, get to bed already,” Stan says, trying his damndest not to copy Ford’s yawn. Ford catches his eye and yawns again, very pointedly, because he’s nothing if not a bastard.

Then Ford heads for his bunk, but he pauses and glances back as he sets a foot on the ladder. “Stanley?”

“Mm?”

“Are you really okay? I’ll stay up with you if you need me to.”

“I’m okay,” Stan says, and to his surprise, he actually means it. Against the sea, against Ford and warm milk and lemon soap fights—against all of that, nightmares really don’t stand much of a chance. He smiles, and he sees Ford’s gaze soften in response. “I feel a lot better. Thanks, Six.”

“You’re welcome.” Ford scrambles up into his bunk. “G’night. I love you.”

Stan’s heart rolls over in helpless affection as he burrows into his own bed, still smiling. “Yeah, I know. Love you too, nerd.”

Then he yawns, and he scrubs his eyes, and he can practically hear the smugness radiating from his brother. 

“Heh,” a voice says from the darkness looming above Stan. “You yawned. I win.”

Stan lifts a foot, sets his heel on the mattress between the slats of Ford’s bunk, and pushes.

“Stanley! Stanley stop it! How am I meant to sleep with all of your pestering? Honestly, you’re such a sore loser. Don’t make me come back down there—”

 But there’s laughter in Ford’s voice, and a warm, gooey feeling in Stan’s chest that won’t go away. He falls asleep with that feeling held close, his brother (his brother and the stars) curled up protectively above him. He doesn’t dream again that night.

Chapter Text

“I said no, Stanley,” Ford says, his voice laced with acid. “I’m busy.”

“Oh, fuck that! It’s been two days, and you need sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m done here. I don’t need you to tell me what I have to do and when I have to do it. I’m an adult, and I’ll decide when I sleep, thank you very—”

“You aren’t in a place to decide,” Stan spits, jabbing a finger at him, “and you know it as well as I do. Come on, we’ve talked about this. We agreed you’d sleep more once we were sailing.”

“And I have been!”

“Yes, alright, you have been.” Stan takes a deep breath, rubbing his temples. Ford has been sleeping better since they set sail; he’s usually down by midnight and up after sunrise. It’s not a lot, but it’s damn well more than his usual, and Stan’s grateful for every second of hard-won sleep his twin gets. “And thank you for that, Sixer, really. I appreciate it.”

Ford blinks in surprise, some of the animosity in his eyes fading. “Oh. Well, er, you’re welcome, I suppose.”

“But you know this isn’t good.”

Ford’s mouth twists, and he looks away again. 

“Six, come on, you know. Forty-eight hours without sleep isn’t healthy.”

“I’ve lasted longer.”

“And that is exactly why you can’t do this. You’re spiraling already.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Stan scrubs his face with his hands, groaning. “It’s my fault.”

“What? No!” Ford scrambles up, his eyes wide. He crosses the room, taking Stan’s shoulders and shaking him gently. “No, this isn’t your fault. Why would you think that? I told you, I’m just busy. I—I’m almost at a breakthrough, I can feel it.”

Stan shakes his head. “I let you get started with this whole not sleeping thing. You stayed up the last two nights because of me, and now—”

“You were sick, Stanley, you can hardly blame yourself for that,” Ford says, exasperated. “It wasn’t as though you chose it. But you can’t be mad at me for staying up with you, either! I wasn’t going to let you suffer alone. I won't let you suffer alone, not anymore, not ever again.”

“I know, I know.” Stan brings his hands up, resting them over Ford’s. Ford studies his face, a glint of worry in his eyes. “I can’t say that I’m glad you stayed up all that time, but I understand. Don’t you see, though? That’s exactly what triggered this.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No. It’s just my work. It has nothing to do with the last couple of nights.”

Stan’s brother could give a mule a run for its money in the stubborn jackass department. “It has everything to do with the last couple of nights. You got tired, Six.”

“I—”

“You got tired, and you’re still tired, and now you’re not thinking straight, and sleep suddenly seems like some big awful thing, right?”

“No! No, I’m not even tired. I’ve had coffee.”

“Too much coffee,” Stan grumbles. “We’re almost out.”

A flash of near-panic goes through Ford’s eyes, then, and Stan feels like he’s swallowed ice. Jesus, this has already gone too far, hasn’t it? Ford’s terrified, no matter how well he’s hiding it, no matter how many stupid excuses he comes up with, and Stan can’t stand it.

“Okay, come on, come here.” Stan reaches out, bundling his brother into his arms and holding on tight. Ford likes to feel small, when he’s scared—small and sheltered and hidden. He burrows into Stan even now, pressing his face to Stan’s shoulder with a mumble of gratitude. Stan tries to rock him, to sway them both on their feet (it’s a surefire way to get Ford sleepy), but Ford resists. “You don’t have to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Ford grumbles.

“You’re not, huh?” Stan arches an eyebrow, tugging one of Ford’s errant curls gently. “So you’re not thinking about all the bad things that could happen if you fall asleep? You’re not thinking about Bill possessing you? You’re not thinking—”

Ford hisses out a sharp breath, and Stan falls silent. After a moment, Ford speaks, his voice small enough to break Stan’s heart: “Please don’t.”

“Oh, Ford.” Stan’s voice cracks at the edges. He hates this. He hates that his brother has to feel so afraid of something as benign as sleep. “Buddy, none of that stuff is going to happen ever again. Bill is gone. There’s nobody in your head but you.”

“You can’t know that for sure.”

“I can. I saw him die, Ford, I killed him. He shattered into a billion pieces, and he is never, ever, ever coming back. And even if he did—” Stan knocks his knuckles gently on the side of Ford’s head. “You’ve got this metal plate, right? That’ll keep him out. Your head’s safer than a doomsday bunker.”

“I know that, logically, but I still—“ Ford tightens his fingers in Stan’s shirt, swallowing hard. “I just can’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry, but I can’t.”

Stan takes a deep breath, resting his head against Ford’s. “I’m not angry.”

“You are,” Ford says miserably. “You’re angry at me.”

“No. I’m just frustrated, that’s all—and not at you, at the situation. I’m upset that you have to feel this way. I’m upset that Bill made you feel this way.”

“I let him.”

“You did not.”

“I let him into my head. It’s my fault.”

“You didn’t know what he was capable of. He tricked you.”

“I was stupid.”

“No, you know what’s stupid?”

Ford glances uncertainly at him. “...what?”

“Arguing with me, you knucklehead,” Stan says, hooking an arm around Ford’s head and noogying him. “Shut your trap and listen already. Bill was an asshole, and you didn’t deserve what happened to you. It sucked. It was bullshit.”

Ford huffs, prying his head from Stan’s grip and patting his hair down. He opens his mouth to protest, but Stan plunges forward before he can. 

“And it’s not happening again. Bill’s dead and gone. You’re gonna be just fine while you sleep. Hell, I’ll stay up and keep watch, if that’s what you need.”

“What? No. No, no, no, you’re not going without sleep just because of me and my—” Ford flails his hands. “No.”

“Then what do you propose?”

Ford opens his mouth. 

“Staying awake until you pass out is not an option.”

Ford closes his mouth.

“Oh, what am I gonna do with you?” Stan asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can’t help but feel a little bit fond, even in spite of his brother’s obstinate paranoia. “Can you just try to sleep? For me? I’m worried.”

Guilt flashes through Ford’s eyes, and he hunches his shoulders. “You don’t have to be worried. Really, I’ll be fine.”

“You know I can’t let you do this to yourself, though. I won’t.”

“...why not?” Ford looks at him, a hint of sudden suspicion in his eyes. “Why do you want me to sleep so badly, anyway? What do you have to gain?”

“Nope! Nope, nope, nope, we are not going there,” Stan says, flicking Ford in the forehead. Ford scowls at him. “You know me, Ford. I’m your brother. I’m not here to hurt you or trick you. Don’t even start thinking that bullshit.”

Ford at least has the decency to look abashed, hunching his shoulders and glancing away. “Sorry.” 

“Forgiven. Now, if you’re done trying to weasel your way out of this, let’s go.” Stan steps aside, swinging an arm towards the bedroom door. 

Ford, predictably, balks like a five-year-old at bedtime. “I said I don’t want to.”

“Yeah, well, you need to, so get over it. Bedtime, Ford.”

“No. Is that—are you hearing me in there? N-o, no. I’m busy right now and I’ll sleep later and that’s final. You’re just being stubborn,” Ford says grouchily. “That’s your problem.”

Stan refuses to rise to the bait—he knows this is his brother’s last line of defense. If he can’t reason or guilt Stan into siding with him, he’ll resort to petty bickering. Stan tries not to let it get to him; Ford’s unmoored and terrified and sleep-deprived, and it’s hard to be mad at someone so wretched. “Don’t be an asshole,” Stan says, sighing. “Your pajamas are on the bed.”

“You’re being an asshole,” Ford says. Not his wittiest comeback, but hey, he’s running on fumes. Stan won’t hold it against him. “You—you think it’s so easy. You act like you understand. You don’t. You couldn’t possibly.”

“Then you can explain it to me once you’re in bed. I know you’re scared, and I want to help you, but I can’t do that unless—”

“I don’t need help. I told you, I’m just working!” Ford flails his arms, anger sparking in his eyes. “Sometimes I do that, Stanley! Not everything has to be because I’m some traumatized, melodramatic freak.”

“Don’t,” Stan says, his voice sharpening. He’ll tolerate a lot when Ford is spiraling, but he won’t tolerate that bullshit. “Don’t say that.”

Ford must recognize the tone—undoubtedly he does, since Stan’s used it before—because he slumps slightly, turning his face away. 

When he’s sure Ford won’t continue, Stan adds, “You know you don’t get to say things like that anymore, just like you know you don’t get to keep yourself awake for days on end. I’ll grant you the last couple of nights, since I was sick, but there’s absolutely no reason for you to keep doing this. You’re done.”

Ford’s jaw tightens. “You don’t under—”

“—stand, yes, I know, you’ve mentioned,” Stan says, scowling. “I’ve offered to let you explain it to me, but you don’t exactly seem keen to. I know you’re scared of Bill. I know. But I’m not letting him hurt you anymore. He doesn’t get to keep you awake like this. He’s dead. He has no fuckin’ right.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Easy? You think this is easy? There’s nothin’ easy about this.” Stan gestures between the two of them. “I hate arguing with you like this. As soon as you’re thinkin’ straight, we’re gonna sit down and have a long talk about what to do the next time this happens. But right now, I don’t feel like I have much of a choice. You need to sleep. If you’re not gonna do it willingly, I guess I gotta make you.”

Ford scoffs. “Make me? Don’t be so arrogant, Stanley. You can’t make me do anything.”

“You’re right,” Stan says, his mouth twisting, “but I’m not sleeping until you do.”

Ford stiffens all over, and Stan watches his hands curl into fists. “You can’t do that,” he hisses, his eyes narrowing sharply. “You can’t manipulate me like that.”

“I can. God knows I don’t want to, but if that’s what it takes to get you down for the night...” Stan rubs his temples, swallowing hard. “I mean, what other choice do I have? Just logically speaking? If you’ve got any other rational plans, I’m all ears.”

“You leave me alone,” Ford spits. “You leave me the hell alone and let me figure this out the way I always did before. I don’t need your interference. I don’t need—I don’t need—”

He stops before he finishes, breathing hard, and the words unsaid echo painfully between them: I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone!

But Ford didn’t say it. Ford very purposefully didn’t say it and that, Stan thinks, is more telling than anything.

“Yeah,” Stan says softly. “You do. You need help, and that’s okay.”

Ford bares his teeth, beginning to pace. Stan can see the panic rising in him—and with it, the anger. “Shut up,” he says. “Just leave me alone. I just want to work. Why won’t you let me work? Why won’t you let me stay away from him?”

“He’s not here,” Stan says, as patiently as he can. He knows it’s hard for Ford to rationalize through his delusions when he’s panicking, and it’s a thousand times harder when he’s panicking and exhausted. “He won’t hurt you.”

“You don’t know that! You can’t know that. You don’t even remember what happened.” Ford spreads his arms, looking wildly at Stan. “You don’t know anything.”

Well, that’s insulting. “I remember enough. I remember watching him die.”

“I don’t,” Ford snaps. “How do we know that isn’t something you misremembered? A fantasy? A delusion? What if he made you remember that? What if he’s still here, just biding his time, just waiting for us to let our guards down—”

Ford wraps his arms around himself, his eyes darting across the cabin. His breath comes ragged and fast—too fast. 

“He’ll kill us,” Ford whispers, horror suddenly spiking in his voice. “He’ll kill us. He’ll kill us, Stanley, he’ll kill the whole world and he’ll make us watch, he’ll u-use me if I let him he’ll use me to hurt you to hurt everyone I can’t Stanley I can’t I can’t—”

“Ford, woah, hey, hey—”

Ford’s legs buckle under him, and he drops to his knees. He brings his hands up, clamping them over his ears. His eyes are wide, pupils swollen with terror as he watches something Stan can’t see, can’t even fathom. “I won’t let him do it again, I promise I won’t,” Ford says, his voice cracking. “Not again. I won’t let him hurt you, I won’t hurt you, I swear I won’t I’ll be good I won’t let him in I won’t sleep I can’t sleep I can’t sleep—!”

“Stanford!”

Ford’s eyes snap to him, wide and terrified. 

“Breathe,” Stan says, standing up slowly in spite of the urge to run to his brother’s side. He can’t rush Ford, not when he’s like this. Everything needs to be slow and careful. He inhales deeply himself, gesturing for Ford to do the same. “In for five, hold for three, out for seven.”

Ford gulps in a little breath—it’s not quite right, but it’s an effort. Stan crosses the room carefully, hands out and open, watching his brother’s reactions. Ford doesn’t move away from him. In fact, as soon as Stan’s close enough, Ford reaches out, and Stan doesn’t waste any time dropping to his own knees and pulling his brother into his arms. He hugs Ford tightly, but he has to loosen his grip after a second so they can focus on their breathing.

“In for five—”

Ford sucks in another quick breath.

“Five, Ford, come on, you can do it. Try again. One, two, three, four, five.”

This time Ford makes the inhale linger, his fingers clutching desperately at Stan’s back. 

“Hold one, two, three.”

Ford presses his face to Stan’s shoulder, shivering as he holds his breath.

“Out one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.”

Ford exhales in a whoosh, his breath warm and shaky against Stan’s throat. 

“Good, really good, buddy. Let’s try again.”

For several minutes, they sit and they breathe and they do nothing else. Only once Ford has his breathing under control does Stan dare to move, shifting off of his knees to sit against the kitchen cabinets, instead. He hauls Ford along with him, and his brother tucks himself tightly against Stan’s side.

“You’re okay,” Stan whispers, carding his fingers through Ford’s hair. “We’re both okay, we’re just fine. Nobody’s here but you and me. We’re safe.”

Ford squirms, looping an arm over Stan’s stomach and resting his head against Stan’s chest. His eyes are open but unseeing—he’s listening, Stan realizes with a knot in his throat, to Stan’s heartbeat. His breathing stays slow and quiet as Stan continues to speak, rubbing soothing circles across his scalp and behind his ears. 

“We’re on the Stan o’ War. Nowhere else, okay? I don’t want you goin’ anywhere else. I want you here, with me,” Stan murmurs. “Can you do that? Can you stay here?”

Ford offers him a tiny nod.

Stan exhales in relief. “Okay. Alright. We’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you, and I’m not gonna let anybody hurt you—not gonna let you hurt anybody, either.”

Stan rubs wide circles between Ford’s shoulders, feeling out the tempo of his breathing—it stays steady, with the exception of a few hitches that Stan quickly evens out with a soothing word. Ford clings like a limpet, his cheek smooshed to Stan’s chest and his fingers locked into Stan’s sweatshirt. His eyes are still dazed and unfocused, but hell if unfocused isn’t better than fucking petrified. 

“There we go, that’s it, that’s better.” Stan sweeps Ford’s hair off of his forehead, and Ford blinks wearily at him. “You’re doin’ good. I’m proud of you, you know that?”

Ford squeezes his eyes shut.

“Yeah, I am,” Stan murmurs, beginning to rock him slowly. This time, Ford allows it. “So proud of you, Six. You’ve been through so much shit, and you’re still so strong.”

Ford sniffles, and Stan hugs him even tighter. He hates to see Ford cry, but he knows tears are far better than shouting or panicking. 

“Shh, shh-shh-shh.” Stan closes his own eyes, bringing a hand up to cup the back of Ford’s head protectively. Ford burrows into him, his breath hitching around a whimper. “I’m right here. You’re okay, you’re doin’ just fine. Watch your breathing, that’s it.”

Ford scrubs his eyes, taking a big, shaky breath. “...Stanley?”

Stan hums quietly. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.” Ford’s voice cracks, and he hunches his shoulders. “I’m really sorry.”

“Hey, no, no, no.” Stan pushes his brother up, taking him by the shoulders. Tears line the rims of his bloodshot eyes, and he sniffles miserably at Stan. God, seeing Ford like this puts even ASPCA commercials to shame. Stan’s throat feels tight. “You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for. You’ve been through hell, Ford, and I’d say you’re handling it pretty well.”

Ford laughs weakly. “Well? You think this is well? I can’t even sleep right, for god’s sake.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t say I blame you. Bill really fucked you over.”

“But you’re right. He shouldn’t still be fucking me over. He’s been gone for over a year, so why am I still…?” Ford brings a hand up, covering his right eye. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not.” Stan draws him into a hug again, rubbing a hand up and down his back—partially to soothe him, and partially to monitor his breathing, which is beginning to pick up again. “Nothing he did to you was fair or right. And Ford, you’re allowed to still be fucked up because of it. Stuff like that doesn’t just go away.”

“...you’re really not mad? That I still can’t sleep?”

“No. I was never mad at you. Of course I wish things were easier for you, but I know they’re not, and that’s okay. We’ll work through the hard stuff together. We’re not gonna let him win. You can be scared, but you’ve gotta face it. If it was something else—anything else—maybe you could get away with avoiding it, but sleep? Six, you need sleep.”

“I know,” Ford mumbles. “Dumb human body.”

Stan laughs, ruffling his hair. “Hey, c’mon. It’s kept you going this long. Show some respect.”

“Perhaps,” Ford says dubiously. “I suppose I wish I could sleep, but I’m frightened. I don’t think I even can.”

“Yeah, I gathered as much. Can you tell me why? I mean, I get that it’s because of Bill, but if I knew some specifics, maybe we could do some problem-solving.”

Ford gnaws his lower lip in thought. “It’s just—I’m afraid that if I fall asleep, he’ll possess me again.”

“And what happens if he possesses you?”

“He hurts me,” Ford says, tucking his hands close to his chest. “He used to—to do that, sometimes, you know. He thought it was novel. The pain, I mean, the sensations.”

Stan takes a very deep breath. He’s not going to get pissed while Ford is opening up. He’s not. “Okay. Well, he isn’t going to possess you, because he’s dead—but I know just hearing that isn’t enough right now.”

“I know it’s stupid. Stupid paranoia, stupid stupid—”

“Hey, that’s enough.” As frustrating as Ford’s paranoia can be for both of them, Stan also recognizes it for what it is: his brother’s last, desperate attempt to keep himself safe after years of trauma and betrayal. He can’t hate it, not really. “It’s alright. Even if Bill was alive and did somehow possess you through your doomsday bunker skull, I wouldn’t let him hurt you.”

“But what if he hurts you?” Ford glances up at him, his lower lip wobbling. “What if I hurt you?”

Stan shakes his head. “I won’t let you. We’ll put all the weapons up so you can’t get to them.”

“We should—um, rope, I have some rope so you can tie my hands and—”

“No, we aren’t going that far. I’ll stay awake so I can keep an eye on you. The second I think something’s wrong, I’ll grab the rope, but I’m not puttin’ it on you beforehand.”

“He works fast,” Ford argues. “We could attack you before you had time to tie us up. We could—could smother you, or strangle you, or—oh, Stanley—”

“No more of that.” Stan pokes Ford in the nose. “I won’t let him. I’m old, but you know I can hold my own.”

Ford rubs his eyes again, nodding slowly. “I—yes, I know you can, I’m sorry. I just worry.”

“I know, and I appreciate your concern, but it’s gonna be alright. You’ve gotta trust me. Think you can handle that?”

Ford peeks up at him. “...maybe?”

“I’ll take it,” Stan says, grinning. Maybe is far, far more than Ford’s usual for most people, especially when he’s buried under his paranoia. Stan stands, stretching himself out before hauling Ford up after him. “Now c’mon. I want you to at least try to get some sleep.”

Worry still creases around the edges of Ford’s eyes, but he follows Stan without protest. They change into their pajamas, and Stan invites Ford into his bunk without a second thought. There’s no way he’s making Ford sleep alone tonight—and besides, he promised to keep an eye on him, didn’t he? 

Stan snags Ford’s weighted blanket from the top bunk, tucking it in around his brother before sprawling out next to him. Ford curls into the tiniest possible ball, squashed between Stan and the wall. Stan flicks the lamp off, then removes his glasses, along with Ford’s, and sets them on the bedside table. 

“You shouldn’t have to stay up,” Ford says, but it’s a weak protest, and one Stan needs to nip before it gets any stronger.

“I want to,” he says, firmly. “I slept most of the last two days, what with the whole bein’ sick and all. Besides, I need to look after my brother. I’ll take a nap tomorrow if I’m tired.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Now be quiet, okay? Close your eyes. Try to sleep.”

Ford takes a shivery breath and then lapses into silence. Stan moves his fingers through Ford’s hair, scratching lazily across his scalp in an attempt to relax him—and, for a few minutes, it seems to be working. Ford’s breathing slows and deepens, and he stretches out some. Then, several seconds later, he flinches and curls up again, and Stan hums a question.

“Sorry,” Ford whispers. “Sorry, just—just thought about it for too long. ‘m okay.”

“That’s alright. I know it’s hard, but you keep trying, okay? Are you tired?”

Ford nods weakly.

“Good. That’s good, Ford.” Stan shuts his own eyes, breathing deeply to try and coax his brother into doing the same. “You're allowed to be tired. You don’t have to be scared. You can sleep.”

“Stanley?”

“Hm?”

“Can you talk?”

“I don’t want to keep you awake.”

“You won’t. I’m not trying to get you to, promise. I just—it’s easier, if you’re talking. It’s easier not to think.”

So Stan talks. He talks about little nothings—about breakfast tomorrow, about their next adventure, about the weather and the route and how much he misses his car. Ford gradually begins to relax again, and this time he doesn’t shy away from the feeling. Instead, he sleeps. 

Ford finally, finally sleeps.

Stan tips his head back against the pillows and breathes a sigh of relief. “There we go, Six,” he murmurs. “There we go.”

He knows Ford will feel infinitely better in the morning, once he’s had a chance to rest and recover. They’ll get up, and they’ll eat breakfast, and then they’re going to have a talk— Stan’s never letting it get this bad again, but if, through some horrible chance, it does, they’re going to have a plan. Until tomorrow, though?

Until tomorrow, Stan’s content to keep watch while his brother sleeps.

Chapter Text

Ford is sitting on the deck, the full moon arcing high above him and his breath coming in fast, billowing clouds of silver, when something warm and solid and furry pushes itself into his arms. He grasps it instinctively, digging his fingers into thick fur and burying his face against a wiry ruff. He smells smoke and sea and dog breath. 

Ford had never wanted a pet. As a child, the idea of all the noise and mess had made him wrinkle his nose (Stanley had been quite enough of each, thank you very much). The dorms at his undergrad university had forbidden pets, of course, and Ford simply never had the time for one in grad school. Then he’d moved to Gravity Falls, and he hadn’t wanted some silly animal running amuck and getting into his experiments. Then there was—

Well. He really hadn’t had the ability (or the desire) to care for anything—any one— else, after Gravity Falls. He still feels as though he barely has the ability. Some days he feels like he doesn’t have it all. This is one of those days. 

“Sorry,” Ford whispers, his voice ragged. He leans away, swiping at his eyes. “Just a bad dream, that’s all. I’m alright.”

Two warm, worried brown eyes peer back at him from the pale gray face of a wolf—or at least as near to a wolf as Ford can tell, although even he knows that the term isn’t quite accurate. Like all of Ford’s anomalies, there are oddities about this creature. He’s too big, his fur too rough, his eyes too intelligent. He pushes his triangular ears forward as Ford speaks. There’s a notch in one of them, and Ford’s heart aches to see it. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and the wolf whines at him. Shit. Shit, he can’t do anything right tonight. This is why he hadn’t wanted a pet! When things rely on him he just messes it all up! He’s unreliable and irresponsible and—and—

And he’s crying again. His breath hitches, and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and stem the flow. There’s a sharp ache behind his right eye, and it grows in time with his heartbeat. It reminds him of Bill, it reminds of having his mind torn away from him, of watching helplessly from the passenger’s seat of his own body. A terrified whimper catches in his throat, and he gulps it down. 

Then that big, furry body shoves itself at him again. Ford yelps as the wolf bowls him over and sprawls out on his chest. Stars, he’s massive—Ford hasn’t weighed him, yet, but he must be near two hundred pounds (if not more). His paws are larger than Ford’s hands. It’s harder to breathe, with the wolf on top of him, but the pressure is soothing. The wolf rests his head next to Ford’s, sighing softly, and Ford wraps his arms around his neck again. 

It’s like hugging the world’s biggest teddy bear.

Also, the wolf’s fur is very good at absorbing all of his tears, even if it does smell a little like wet dog. 

“Did I wake you?” Ford mumbles. The wolf rumbles at him. When he turns his head, his muzzle thunks against Ford’s temple. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sor—”

The wolf growls softly before he can finish. 

Ford cuts himself off, bringing one hand up to fiddle with the wolf’s notched ear. The wolf flicks his ears, once, but Ford thinks it’s out of surprise more than anything else, because he doesn’t try to move away. If anything, he stretches and settles more comfortably against Ford’s chest. He closes his eyes, and when he yawns, Ford gets a glimpse of jagged yellow fangs. He’s really glad, for whatever it’s worth, that this wolf isn’t his enemy.

“I dreamed about Bill,” Ford confesses into the silence between them. The wolf’s ears flick again, listening intently. “It wasn’t a bad dream. I mean, it was, but, um. It wasn’t like it usually is. He was being sweet. We were having dinner and he was just—he was just being really, um—”

Ford cuts himself off, bringing his hands up and scrubbing angrily at his eyes. He hates Bill. He hates Bill. How much easier it is to dream of blood and blue fire and shackles! How much easier to dream of hate and anger and pain! But to dream of the times before, the times when Bill told him he was smart and wonderful and good, the times Bill looked at him like he held the world, the times—

The wolf paws at Ford’s hands until he stops digging his nails into the skin above his right eye. Then he whines until Ford hugs his neck again, burying all twelve fingers safely into his pelt. 

“I hate that I miss him. Missing him makes me sick,” Ford says, vehemently, like if he doesn’t hate himself enough for missing Bill it means he wants Bill back. He doesn’t. He doesn’t ever want that monster back in his life. He tells the wolf as much. “I don’t want him back, not ever, not in a million years, but sometimes I still feel—”

He feels sick and sticky and gross. He feels lonely, because Bill was so much for so long. He was praise, he was intelligence, he was witty banter and jokes and lazy Sunday afternoons spent playing chess. He was another world, another dimension, another reality altogether. He was sharp and strange and brilliant. He was everything.

He was god.

Losing him aches. 

Ford’s breath hitches, and he gulps around a sob as he buries his face against the wolf’s fur. The wolf turns his head, nuzzling Ford’s hair gently. 

“I’m glad he’s dead,” Ford says, his voice cracking, because he needs to convince himself of it. “I’m glad he’s dead. I’d kill him all over again if I got the chance.”

And he would. He knows he would. He spent thirty years knowing that he was destined to kill Bill Cipher, but now that it’s over—now that it’s over, what is there? What’s left? A muddle of good memories and bad, a muddle of chess games and gaslighting, a muddle of miss yous and hate yous and Ford’s not sure he can ever reconcile the two. 

So he cries, there on the dark sea, and the wolf simply licks his hair and lets him. 

When he’s done, he sags back against the deck of the boat and sniffles up at the sky and the full, milky eye of the moon. The wolf cocks his head in question. “‘m okay,” Ford says, and he’s—well, he’s not, but he’s going to be. 

The wolf wags his tail, then licks Ford’s face.

“Ew! Seriously? You’re so slobbery,” Ford says, pushing the wolf’s muzzle away—but there’s a wobbly smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, now, and laughter in his voice. The wolf offers him a doggy grin, tail still wagging, before scrambling off of his chest and dropping into a play bow. Ford wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Come on, it’s too late to play.”

The wolf huffs at him. When Ford arches an eyebrow, unimpressed, he bounds a few feet backwards before dropping his elbows to the deck again and whining hopefully. 

“Oh, alright,” Ford says, pushing himself to his feet. “Race you to the cabin!”

He takes off, and the wolf yips in joy and races after him. It’s not much of a contest—the wolf’s got four legs in place of two, and his strides are much longer than Ford’s. He launches himself down the stairs and into the cabin ahead of Ford, skidding to a stop in the kitchen and bonking his head very gracefully on the table. Ford points and laughs. 

The wolf sniffs haughtily, wedging himself under the table like he meant to do that.

“You want some water before we go to sleep?” Ford asks, peeking underneath the table. The wolf lifts his head, eyes narrowing in thought. He begins to squirm towards Ford, which Ford interprets as a yes, please. 

Ford fills a bowl of water and sets it on the floor, and the wolf laps readily at it. Then he looks pointedly at Ford. Ford doesn’t get the message, apparently, because after a moment the wolf starts pawing at his legs. 

“What?” Ford asks. “What do you want now?”

The wolf looks at Ford, then looks at the cabinets.

“Oh, alright. Worry-wart,” Ford mutters, ruffling the wolf’s ears fondly before going to get himself a glass of water. He takes a seat at the kitchen table as he drinks, and the wolf comes to sit beside him. Ford reaches down with his free hand, his fingers stroking absently through the wolf’s fur. They fiddle with the thinner strands near his shoulder, where the fur has worn thin around a twisted tangle of scar tissue.

The wolf shakes him off before he can linger too long there, and Ford draws his hand back.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, for what feels like the millionth time tonight. The wolf licks his fingers. Forgiven, he supposes. He reaches out again, and the wolf pushes his head against Ford’s palm. Ford scratches between his ears, then lets his fingers drift down to run over the gold chain of his collar. The links are warm and familiar. “You ready for bed?”

The wolf pushes himself up, stretching with a long whine before ambling towards the bedroom. Ford drops their dishes into the sink and follows along. The wolf hops into the lower bunk, curling up and resting his head on the pillow. He looks questioningly at Ford. 

“I think I’ll be okay,” Ford says, bracing his foot against the ladder of their bunks. He climbs into his own bed, burrowing in under his weighted blanket. “Hey, and Stanley?”

The werewolf whines from the bunk beneath his.

“Thanks again.”

Ford can’t see Stanley’s tail from here, but he hears it thumping against the mattress as it wags.

Chapter Text

“Ford, we’ve gotta get outta here,” Stan hisses, his fingers digging into the cold, packed dirt wall next to him. They’re surrounded on all sides, save for an exit straight ahead: a thin sliver of light outside of which looms fresh air and freedom and yeah, okay, maybe an enormous Lernaean Hydra, but at this point Stan is willing to take his chances. He hates this. He feels like a rabbit trapped in a burrow (he feels like a thug trapped in a car trunk with a mouthful of broken teeth). “Come on, what’s the plan, Poindexter?”

“Working on it.” Ford glances desperately at the exit, then further back into the tunnel. “Maybe if we travel farther along, we’ll find another—”

“Nope.” There is no way in hell Stan can make himself move further into the dark and the dank and the trapped. “Try again.”

Ford lets out a sharp, short breath of frustration. “Stanley, we don’t have a lot of options, here.”

“Can’t you just shoot it already?”

“What? No!” Ford looks at him, aghast. “That hydra is a prime specimen of its species, and very possibly one of the only ones left on Earth.”

Stan grits his teeth. “Ford.”

“Also, its scales are impervious to my laser gun,” Ford adds in a mumble. “I tried shooting its leg earlier and the beam was reflected. Killing it is out of the question, unless you think you can punch it to death.”

Stan drops his head back against the wall and groans. “I’m just about willing to try. Come on.”

Stan starts forward, but Ford grabs his arm before he makes it more than a few steps. “Absolutely not,” he says. “I was kidding. You can’t just punch it to death. It has eight heads and weighs at least twenty tons. You’re impressive, Stanley, but not that impressive. Come on, let’s just travel farther back. As soon as we’re out of its territory, I’ll use the laser gun to blast a hole in the tunnel wall and we can—”

“I told you, I’m not going any further into this hellhole.” Stan wrenches his arm away from Ford’s hand, scowling. “I’ll take my chances with old eight-ball out there.”

“No you will not. Be reasonable! You don’t honestly believe you’re going to survive if you—”

The hydra shrieks, suddenly, and something slams against the dirt and stone above their heads. A tremor rolls through the entirety of the tunnel, and seconds later it begins to collapse. Stan scrambles towards Ford as heavy, damp dirt cascades around them. Dust floods his lungs, and he buries his mouth and nose against the crook of his elbow. Ford’s fingers grip his shoulder, and they stumble blindly backwards. For a moment, Stan fears that the whole tunnel will crumble around them—he fears they’ll be buried, trapped, killed here in the dark. 

Then the rumbling stops.

Ford swears and doubles over into a coughing fit. 

“Shit—shit, Ford, are you okay?” Stan demands. His throat feels dry, coated in grime, and he muffles his own coughs against his palm.

Ford gulps in a ragged breath. “‘m fine,” he says. “What about you? Are you hurt?”

Stan shakes his head, then realizes they’re engulfed in absolute darkness. “No,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m fine.”

Of course, he supposes as he looks around, fine is probably the farthest thing from what he is. A slow, creeping panic begins to fizz in his chest as he realizes exactly what’s happened to them. The entrance to the tunnel is gone, now, and they’re stuck beneath feet of thick, stifling mud. They’re trapped.

 Mother fucker.

The air is stifling, suddenly, and the collar of Stan’s shirt feels fit to choke him. He tugs at it, trying to remind himself that he can breathe, but the air is too hot and too thick and his lungs feel like vices. His chest aches, and he rubs the heel of his hand across his sternum hard enough to hurt. He can’t feel his fingers. 

“We need to get out,” he says.

“I know, I know. Come on, grab onto me, we’ll go—”

“No, we need to get out now,” Stan says, gulping in a sharp breath and fumbling for the side of the tunnel. His hands hit dirt, and he digs his nails in. Forward. He’s got to go forward, towards the entrance. They can use Ford’s laser gun to shoot their way out—they weren’t that far back, they weren’t, they weren’t. “The entrance was this way, right? Ford?”

Stan takes a few stumbling, shaky steps in the direction he hopes, desperately, to be forward, but a hand on his back stops him before he gets too far.

“No,” Ford says. “I told you, we can’t go that way. As soon as we get out, the hydra will attack us again, and I can’t risk—”

“I don’t care!” Stan shouts, whipping around and knocking Ford’s hand away. “I don’t give a shit about the hydra, Stanford, I want out!”

“Oh,” Ford says, which is not a very helpful response at all.

More than a little annoyed with his brother’s hesitancy to get them the fuck out of this place, Stan snatches for Ford’s laser gun—but Ford has always been ruthlessly quick. He darts back, out of Stan’s reach, and Stan is suddenly very much alone and adrift in the darkdampdying—

“Damn you, Ford!” he snarls, reaching for the wall again so he can anchor himself to something. His heart thunders painfully in his chest, and the roof of his mouth buzzes with each short, sharp breath he tugs in. “If you won’t get us out of here, give me the goddamn gun. I’ll kill that hydra myself.”

“No,” Ford says firmly. Then, more gently, he adds, “Stanley, please, I know you’re scared, but just listen to me—”

Stan lunges in the direction of his brother’s voice, teeth bared. They collide, and Stan grapples for the gun—but his fingers meet an empty holster at Ford’s hip.

“Where is it?” he shrieks, his panic multiplying tenfold. If they don’t have the gun they’re stuck here forever, they’ll never get out, they’ll die—“Where’s the gun?!”

Ford grabs his hand and yanks him forward, throwing him off balance. At the same time, he twists around and slams his shoulder into Stan’s back. Stan crashes to the ground, scuffing his palms against the tunnel floor, and almost immediately finds himself pinned with his brother’s knee in the center of his back and two strong hands on his shoulders. 

Needless to say, this does not soothe him any.

He bursts into a flurry of swears, trying to throw his brother off of him with all the vicious energy of a trapped animal. His fingers rake across the ground, and he can’t breathe with Ford’s weight on him, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he’s going to die here he’s going to die—

“Stanley! Stanley, please stop, please. I’ll get us out of here, I promise, but you’ve got to listen to me. I can’t give you the gun when you’re acting this way, you know that. Breathe, you’ve just gotta—”

“Fuck you!” Stan snarls. His teeth ache. He remembers what it felt like to lose them, he remembers shredded gums and sore jaws and swallowing mouthfuls of his own thick blood. He remembers being trapped. He remembers wondering what death would feel like. “Get the hell off of me, you goddamn bastard, I’ll kill you, I’ll—”

Ford makes a wretched, pained sound above him, but Stan doesn’t care—he can’t care, not about anything but getting out out out.

The longer Stan struggles, however, the more certain it seems he’ll never escape. Ford isn’t the scrawny pushover he once was—his time in the multiverse has turned him into one of the most powerful enemies Stan’s ever had the misfortune of coming up against. He’s an insurmountable, immovable force, and in the moment he is everything Stan hates. He’s speaking, still, but the ringing in Stan’s ears refuses to let anything else through. 

“Get off!” Stan howls. “Get off get off get off!”

He reaches forward, clawing at the dirt in a desperate attempt to scramble out from under Ford, and feels one of his nails snag and tear. He cries out in painpanicfury and snatches his hand back; the feeling of his own blood curling down his fingers makes everything a thousand times worse. 

“Stanley!” Ford cries, his voice sharp and fearful. “What’s wrong, what did you—?”

Stan seizes his moment of distraction and digs his fingers back into the dirt— fuck his nails—to hauls himself forward. For a moment, Ford wobbles, and Stan feels a flicker of hope. As soon as he’s away from Ford, he can find the gun and make an exit and escape this hellhole and—

Ford’s hands clamp down around his wrists, suddenly, and pin his arms to the ground beside his head. Stan wants to be furious about it, but his fear suddenly supercedes every other emotion, crawling through his gut and his chest and his throat and choking him. He tries fervently to wrench his hands from Ford’s grip, but to no avail. His brother’s never giving up. His brother’s never leaving. His brother’s going to hold him here until the whole world collapses around them and they’re buried together under tons of dirt and crushing darkness.

Stan stops shouting, after that. He’s too far gone to think in words, let alone speak them. Images superimpose themselves across the darkness in front of his eyes—images of blood and cracked teeth and fingers clawed down to shreds against the back of a trunk. He’d been so convinced he was going to die, then. He’s equally as convinced now. 

For a moment—just a moment—he slumps against the ground with a breathless whimper. He doesn’t want to die, not here, not like this. He just wants out. 

“...Stanley?”

Stan whimpers again, trying to drag his hands back so he can clamp them over his ears. He doesn’t want to hear anymore. He doesn’t want to exist anymore. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll pass out. The way he’s hyperventilating, it’s starting to seem more likely than not. He can’t think. He can’t think. 

Above him, Ford croons in animal comfort, and his forehead bumps the back of Stan’s head. Stan can hear the hitch in his breath—it’s a painfully familiar one. He’s crying. Ford is crying, and everything is worse because of it. Stan’s own his eyes sting with the threat of tears.

“It’s okay,” Ford says, his voice wobbling. “Shh, Stanley, please, it’s okay. Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you. You just—you just have to stay still, okay? You’ll hurt yourself.”

Stan shudders weakly, pressing his forehead to the dirt. His stomach turns. His skin flashes hot, and he can feel sweat gluing his hair to his temples and cheeks. 

“I’m going to get us out of here, don’t worry. I just need you to calm down.”

Calm down? Calm down? How is Stan supposed to calm down when he’s stuck in this miserable, dark, breathless place?

“C’mon, Stanley,” Ford pleads. “Breathe with me, okay? In five, hold three, out seven.”

Stan struggles to haul in a breath, but the all-consuming darkness doesn’t let him—and Ford’s weight on his back isn’t helping, either. Ford seems to realize that, after a moment, because he scrambles to readjust himself. He doesn’t leave Stan entirely, but he moves to kneel next to Stan, instead. His hands stay firmly on Stan’s shoulders, but he loosens his grip, and Stan sucks in another rattling breath. 

He thinks, briefly, about turning on his brother—but he’s so tired, and Ford’s voice is so gentle.

“That’s it, you’re doing great. Just keep breathing with me.”

For several minutes, breathing is all Stan can do. He struggles for air around the fear laced tightly through his ribs, and every exhale sends a tremble down his spine. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries, hard, to pretend that he’s anywhere but here. Ford—once he’s convinced Stan isn't going to attack him again, presumably—releases his shoulders and sits down, close enough to touch but not trapping him any longer. 

“Stanley?” he whispers through the dark, and Stan reaches out to grab his hand. Ford squeezes his fingers. “It’s okay. We’re getting out of here. We aren’t stuck.”

Stan forces himself to nod, to believe—even if only for a moment—that it’s true.

“I know you hate being in here, but if we try to leave this way, we’re both going to be killed. I need you to follow me further down the tunnel—just a mile or so. After that, I’ll blast a hole in the wall, and we’ll both climb out. Do you think you can handle that?”

Stan can’t. He can’t handle anymore of this—but he has to, doesn’t he? He makes a soft, helpless sound and curls up on the tunnel floor, shaking his head. It’s a futile response. Ford can’t see him, and even if he could, it wouldn’t matter, would it? There’s no changing his mind. 

They’re going further into the dark, for better or for worse.

Ford squeezes his hand again. “I’m going to go get the gun. Please don’t try to take it again. You know I can’t let you, but I don’t—I don’t want to fight you, Stanley. I hate fighting you.”

Stan stays put as Ford moves away, his muscles locked tight. He can’t imagine picking himself up, let alone lunging after his brother again. He thought he would be relieved to have space, but it’s—worse, it’s infinitely worse to be alone in the dark. He muffles a whimper against his palm, and Ford’s voice rings out almost immediately: “Stanley?”

Stan opens his mouth to reply, but the words won’t come. He curls up tighter, burying his fingers into his hair. Ford’s here. Ford’s just a few feet away, even though Stan can’t see him, or hear him, or feel him, or—

A hand grips his shoulder, and he jumps.

“It’s alright,” Ford says softly. “It’s only me. Come on. Up you get.”

Ford snakes an arm under Stan’s, hauling him onto his feet. He moves forward before Stan can even think to protest, guiding him further into the tunnel. Stan’s breath hitches in his chest, and he shrinks into his brother’s side. The nothingness that surrounds them feels physical, a weight against his chest and shoulders.

“Close your eyes,” Ford instructs, and Stan does. It isn’t as though it makes a goddamn difference in this darkness. “Keep them closed. Did I ever tell you about the two-dimensional dimension I visited? Now, imagine this, if you will—”

Ford tells him about impossible things and impossible places and impossible people. Stan tries his best to imagine them all, but some are too difficult to wrap his mind around. Ford tells story after story after story as the darkness falls away beneath their feet, and Stan finds himself thinking about glass rain and pink moons and planets made of diamonds. The air grows cooler and easier to breathe as they travel farther into the tunnel, and Stan almost feels better—until, that is, his head begins to scrape the ceiling.

“Oh, no no no—” He stumbles back, then crouches and wraps his arms around his knees. “Ford I can’t. I can’t.”

“Hey—hey, hey, it’s okay.” Ford crouches beside him, their sides brushing. “We just have to go a little bit farther.”

Stan shakes his head rapidly. He’s not one to beg, not normally, but this is about as far from his normal as it gets, so he grabs Ford’s arm and says, “Please. Please, I don’t want to. Don’t make me, Ford, please.” 

Ford’s breath shakes as he exhales. “...oh, Stanley,” he whispers, grief lacing his voice. He bumps their heads together. “Okay. Okay, no more. We’ll try to get out here.”

Relief surges through Stan so quickly he could sob, and he clamps a hand over his mouth before he does. Ford touches the back of his head, then straightens up and moves forward. When Stan makes a panicked noise—didn’t Ford just say they weren’t going any farther?—he pauses.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises. “I’m just going ahead a little ways. I don’t want the tunnel collapsing on you.”

“I don’t want it collapsing on you, either!”

“It won’t. I’ll run back as soon as I fire.”

Ford’s gone before Stan can protest again, disappearing into the narrowing tunnel. He doesn’t go very far—Stan can still hear his footsteps before he stops. A low whine fills the air as the laser gun charges, and a split second later a bolt of light sears Stan’s eyes. He hisses and ducks his head, covering his ears as the tunnel booms! around him. A low shuddering rolls through the ground, and he hears Ford’s footsteps pelting back towards him.

“Move!” Ford shouts. “Stanley, move!”

Stan scrambles backwards, his heart thundering in his chest. Ford slams him into a second later (with a yelp that tells Stan he very much did not mean to) and they both go sprawling. The tunnel collapses again, a flood of dirt and stone crashing inwards, but this time—

This time, Stan sees sky. 

With a cry of relief, he drags himself back onto his feet and runs forward. The pile of collapsed earth has hardly settled before he’s climbing it, climbing up, climbing towards fresh air and sunshine and freedom. Ford rushes after him, calling his name. He catches up to Stan at the top of the pile, and they both gaze up at the fresh blue sky. Only a few feet separate them from their freedom, and Stan shakes as he tries desperately to think of a way to cross the gap. 

“Here.” Ford drops his rucksack, rummaging through it. Stan sees granola bars, trail mix, water bottles, bandages, a grappling hook, ibuprofen, journals, a—wait, a grappling hook! Ford tugs it out, aims it at the outside world, and pulls the trigger. As soon as the hook buries itself into the soil, Ford pushes the gun into Stan’s hands. “You can go first. Toss the gun back once you’ve over.”

Stan doesn’t waste time arguing. He retracts the grappling hook and swings himself over and up and out of the goddamn tunnel. His feet hit solid ground, and he quickly pries the grappling hooks out of the soil before tossing the gun back to Ford. A few seconds later, his brother joins him outside of the tunnel. They look at each for a moment.

“Never,” Stan says, very decisively, “again.”

Then he flops out on the ground and groans, relief and fear and pain all rolled into one. 

Ford sprawls out a few feet away, staring up at the sky and tipping his face into the sunshine. “Never,” he agrees, “again.”

For several minutes, they lay there and breathe and bask. Then Ford stirs with a groan, dragging his rucksack towards him and pulling out their first-aid kit. Stan looks sharply at him—was he hurt? did Stan actually hurt him, down in the tunnels?—but Ford looks unharmed. He ushers Stan closer. 

“Come here. Let me see your hand. You’re bleeding.”

Stan glances at his hand—blood sticks to his fingers, and his nails are cracked. One of them hangs loose. He winces, his mouth curling into a grimace. 

“I’m sorry,” Ford says quietly, taking his hand and beginning to rinse the grime from it with the water from his thermos. 

“Don’t be,” Stan says, his voice equally quiet. “It was my fault.”

“It wasn’t—”

“It was. I tried to take your gun. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You were panicking,” Ford argues, setting the thermos aside and reaching for their hydrogen peroxide. He pours it across Stan’s fingers, and Stan hisses through his teeth at the sting. “You didn’t know what you were doing, and I just made things worse.”

“You did what you had to do. You were right—if we’d have gone out the other way, that hydra would’ve eaten us for breakfast.”

“Hm.” A sad smile flickers across Ford’s face as he bandages Stan’s hand. “I wish you’d have come to that conclusion about an hour ago.”

“Sorry. I just—god, Ford, I couldn’t stand it. Being in small spaces, it—” Stan shudders all over, tucking his hands close to his chest once Ford is finished with them. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I should have known going into the tunnels would scare you, but I didn’t see any other choice. That hydra was quite, er, territorial.”

Stan laughs wryly. “You can say that again. But nah, you did alright, Six. I don’t blame you.”

“How come—?” Ford clears his throat, taking a seat beside him and bumping their knees together. “How come it scares you so much? Being in small spaces?”

Stan takes a deep breath, and the vestiges of panic stir in his chest. “Let’s talk about that some other time.”

“Of course. Come on, let’s get back to town; I think we’re both in need of a very long rest.”

Ford stands, offering his hand, and Stan allows his brother to pull him onto his feet. His knees still feel weak beneath his weight, and he’s sore all fuckin’ over, but at least he can see and move and breathe. He’s not trapped, anymore. He supposes he hasn’t really been trapped in a long, long time—it’s just taking his body decades to get used to that fact again. Sometimes he doubts it ever will, not really, not fully.

That’s alright, though. As long there’s a sky somewhere in the world, he’ll find it. He’ll be okay. (And if he can’t find the sky on his own, well, he’s got a pretty good brother to help him search.)

Chapter Text

In the end, Stan blames himself. He should have been paying attention—he knows Ford’s signals, now, can read them as easily as anything. He’d seen the way Ford had shied away from him, backing further into the corner of the cabin and keeping his blind side pressed defensively against the wall. He’d seen the way Ford’s eyes had darted across the room, the whites of them flashing wide. He’d seen the hitch of Ford’s chest, seen the anxious curl of his fingers, seen the way his teeth glinted as he growled.

He’d seen Ford all but screaming for him to stop, to back off, to go away, and he hadn’t responded.

Of course, the fact that Ford was bleeding profusely from a gash across his temple probably had something to do with Stan’s distraction. His mind was a whirl of panic as he approached his brother—how deep was the cut? had he dented the metal plate in his skull? had someone (some thing) attacked him? 

“Shit, Sixer, let me see,” Stan says, distress lashed tightly into his voice. Blood mats Ford’s hair to his head, and Stan reaches forward, pushed along by the need to help, to heal, to fix. Ford goes very still, for one very brief second, and Stan’s heart stops. He recognizes that stillness. 

Shit.

Then Ford lunges at him. The two of them crash to the floor. Stan is, however briefly, grateful that Ford is unarmed—then twelve fingers lock around his throat and he thinks actually, no, this is a much worse way to die. 

But there’s no way in hell Stan’s just gonna lay here and take it. Brother or not, Ford is attacking him, and Stan’s body knows exactly how to react to that even if his mind doesn’t. He reaches up, clawing at Ford’s fingers and trying desperately to get a grip on them so he can pry them away from his throat. At the same time, he wedges a knee against Ford’s stomach, resolutely ignoring Ford’s furious snarls as he does. 

Abruptly, he realizes that he doesn’t stand a chance of prying Ford’s hands away—not unless he’s distracted. At the same time, he realizes that his chest is really starting to burn for air. Gritting his teeth, Stan draws a hand back and slams his knuckles into Ford’s nose. Ford reels back with a howl of pain, clutching his face, and Stan hauls in an enormous breath.

Oh, thank fuck.

Stan doesn’t dare lose his advantage—Ford’s a powerful and ruthless enemy when he wants to be—so he scrambles away before his brother has the chance to regain his bearings. Ford turns on him almost immediately, teeth bared around a vicious snarl. Blood smears his nose and mouth, now, and his pupils wobble unevenly in his irises. 

“Ford,” Stan says, holding his hands out. He doesn’t want to fight his brother. God, he doesn’t want to. “Stanford, come on. It’s me. It’s Stan.”

Ford licks the blood off of his teeth, his hands curling into fists at his sides. There’s not a single hint of recognition in his eyes, and Stan feels his heart crumbling in his chest.

“Stanford?” he whispers. “Sixer? Please, you’re scaring me.”

Ford…hesitates.

“Yeah? Yeah, come on, you know me. It’s Stanley. It’s your brother Stanley.”

“...Lee?” Ford says, his voice a wobbly rasp. “What are you…?”

“It’s okay,” Stan soothes. “It’s okay. You had a flashback. You’re hurt, but you’re gonna be okay. We’ll get you fixed back up.”

Ford reaches up, touching the side of his head. He winces and hisses between his teeth as his fingers brush the wound there. 

“I can help, Ford. Can I come take a look at—?”

“No!” Ford stumbles backwards, his eyes wide with terror. “No, n-no, don’t come any closer.”

Stan takes a step back, holding his hands up. “Okay. I’m staying over here, it’s okay.”

“I hurt you,” Ford says, his voice cracking. He looks at his own hands. Stan can see his fingers trembling. “I hurt you, I hurt—I h-hurt—”

“Ford, I’m okay,” Stan promises. “I’m just fine.”

Ford slides down to sit against the wall, his back against the wall and his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’m sorry, I’m so—so fucking sorry, I’m— fuck—”

“I told you, it’s okay, it’s not a—”

“It’s not okay!” Ford says, burying his fingers into his own hair and yanking. “It’s not okay, Stanley, it’s not okay for me to hurt you like that! Don’t say things like that, don’t say it, don’t!”

“Ford! Hey, take it easy. Can’t I just—” Stan takes a step forward, and Ford snarls at him. “Alright! Alright, alright, alright.”

“Stay away,” Ford repeats, his eyes hazy and unfocused. “Stay away, you s-stay away from me. Don’t come any closer.”

“Are you afraid of me right now? Or are you afraid of you?”

Ford drags his knees to his chest, wrapping himself around them and shaking his head. “I can’t hurt you, I can’t, I won’t, I—”

“No, you won’t,” Stan agrees softly, taking another step forward. A growl rolls through Ford’s chest, but Stan’s watching, now. He’s paying attention. He’s listening. He won’t push his brother too far too fast, this time. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re here now, aren’t you? Ford? You know where we are?”

“The—the boat,” Ford says, tugging his hair again. “The Stan o’ War? The Stan—we’re on the Stan o’ War.”

“That’s right. We’re on the Stan o’ War. What year is it?”

“Two, um—twenty? Twenty thirteen?”

“See, you’ve got it. You’re back, you’re with me. You don’t wanna hurt me.”

Ford’s eyes widen with panic as he looks up at Stan. “I never wanted to hurt you. Never. I never—”

“I know. Shh, I know.” Stan takes another slow, careful step forward. “You didn’t want to. I scared you.”

“You didn’t mean—”

“No, I didn’t mean to, but I did it anyway, huh? You were fightin’ somebody else, Ford, not me. You didn’t know it was me. You know it’s me now, don’t you?”

Ford nods jerkily.

“Who am I?”

“Stanley,” Ford says, taking a shaky breath. “You’re Stanley.”

“I’m Stanley,” Stan agrees, “and I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re safe. Can I sit next to you?”

“You s-shouldn’t—”

“You’re not gonna hurt me. Do you want me to sit next to you?”

Ford hesitates, then nods again.

Stan takes a seat next to him, leaving several inches of space between them so Ford won’t feel crowded if he decides he needs to bolt. “You’re hurt,” he says quietly. “Are we in danger?”

Ford shakes his head. “I dealt with it.”

...Stan has so many questions. They’ll have to wait until later. “Alright. We need to get you cleaned up. You’re bleedin’ quite a bit.”

“You’re hurt too,” Ford says, peeking over at Stan. His eyes fix on Stan’s throat, where Stan’s sure bruises will be forming come tomorrow. “I hurt you.”

“Just a little sore, that’s all. You stopped.”

“Not willingly. I would have—I could have—” Ford swallows thickly, then scrambles to his feet and backs away from Stan again. Shit. “I could have killed you, Stanley, I could have killed—”

“Easy. Deep breaths, big guy.” Stan rises slowly to his feet. “You didn’t.”

“But I could have,” Ford whispers. “I wanted to.”

“You didn’t want to kill me, you wanted to kill whatever you thought was attackin’—”

“It was you, though. I didn’t hurt some—some flashback, Stanley, I hurt you .” Ford shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, hunching his shoulders. “I think I need to be alone.”

Goddamnit, no. 

“You’re hurt,” Stan protests. “Come on, I can’t leave you like this. At least let me fix you up, and then we can talk about it.”

Ford hesitates, wavering on his feet.

“Ford, please,” Stan says. “I’m gonna be worried sick if I leave like this.”

Ford deflates, and for a moment, Stan thinks he’s won. Then Ford turns back towards the bedroom and strides inside; Stan drifts after him, baffled. His brother returns after a moment, shoving something into Stan’s hands. It takes a moment for the weight to register, and when it does, Stan nearly drops it out of surprise—and out of horror.

He keeps himself from dropping the gun, but only barely, and only because he’s certain the safety is off.

“No,” Stan says immediately. “I don’t want this. I don’t need this.”

“Well, I feel better if you have it,” Ford insists, setting his jaw. “If I attack you again, you need to be able to—”

“What? To kill you?” Stan laughs, but the sound is cracked and warped. “Fuck no! I’m not some—some brother-killer, Ford. I’m not gonna shoot you. What kind of monster do you think I am? I’d rather die than do somethin’ as evil as—”

Stan realizes, abruptly, the same thing he has realized so many times in his life: he should really think before he speaks. Ford is looking at him now, eyes dark and miserable and ashamed. He looks away when Stan meets his eyes, rubbing his own arm. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“Shit. Shit, Ford, no, I’m sorry, I—”

“No. You’re, um. You’re right. I mean, I agree. Killing your own brother is—” Ford’s mouth twists, and he swallows hard.

“You didn’t kill me. You didn’t.”

“Might as well have. I knew the memory gun would destroy you and I—” Ford brings a hand up, pinching the bridge of his nose and clearing his throat. “Anyway.”

“No, not anyway, Ford, you were only doing what—”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Ford says abruptly. “Do what you need to do to feel better and then leave me alone, please.”

Stan grits his teeth against the urge to argue; he’s got Ford where he wants him, right now, and he doesn’t dare push him away. He tucks the gun into his waistband, then grabs Ford’s hand and tugs him along to the bathroom. Once there, he wipes the blood from Ford’s face with a damp washcloth, mumbling apologies whenever Ford winces. The gash along his head isn’t deep, and it’s already gummed shut with clotted blood. Stan takes care not to disturb the clot as he smears antibiotic ointment over the gash, then plasters it with a couple of bandages.

“Do you think you have a concussion?” he asks, gently grasping his brother’s chin so he can study his eyes. Ford’s pupils are dilated (though out of fear or injury Stan can’t tell) and uneven, his irises trembling as they try to focus on Stan. “Your eyes don’t look good.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s not serious.”

Stan fights the urge to sigh. “Ford…”

“It’s not,” Ford insists, pushing Stan’s hand away. 

“And your nose?” Stan frowns at Ford’s nose—the bridge is swollen and red, and blood rings his nostrils and crusts his upper lip. “Jesus. Sorry I hit you so hard.”

“I deserved it.”

“Don’t say that,” Stan says sharply, rinsing the washcloth out before beginning to wipe the blood away from Ford’s mouth and nose. Ford winces but doesn’t pull away. 

“I’m glad you did it, anyway,” Ford mumbles. “I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t.”

“No point in thinking about what-ifs, Poindexter.”

“Guess not.”

“There.” Stan draws back, dropping the bloody washcloth into the sink. His brother looks a little less like something out of a horror movie, now. “You’re not hurt anywhere else?”

Ford shakes his head. 

“Good. Then let’s go sit down and talk all this—”

“Later. I told you I want to be alone.”

“Ford, come on.”

“Alone,” Ford insists, pushing Stan towards the door. “Just—just go fish or something. I need a few hours to calm down.”

“We need to talk.”

“You need to get away from me while I’m like this.”

“That’s the last thing I need to do.”

“Goodbye, Stan,” Ford says, and then he kicks the cabin door shut behind Stan. His walls are all the way up, now, and Stan’s—

Stan’s on the wrong side again.

Groaning, Stan drags himself further onto the deck and slouches into his chair. He doesn’t want to push Ford too much—just look how well that worked out the first time!—but he doesn’t want his brother to hole himself up and sulk, either. He’ll just give Ford a few minutes to calm himself down, he decides, and then they’ve gotta talk. This can’t fester between them. Stan won’t let it.

So, about twenty minutes later, Stan picks himself up and heads back to the cabin. He raps his knuckles on the door and calls, “Ford?”

No one responds, which is not a great sign. Stan pushes the door open and scans the cabin, but Ford’s nowhere to be found. Jeez, of course not—he’s gotta be hiding somewhere. Stan checks his favorite place, first, and lo and behold, there his brother is. He’s tucked up underneath the beds with his back to Stan, curled into a tiny ball and buried under his jacket. Stan can’t hear him crying (he learned to cry quietly when they were both young; Pa wasn’t much on his boys bein’ sissies, after all), but he can see that familiar hitch in his brother’s shoulders.

“Oh, Ford,” Stan says softly. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Ford shakes his head.

“Yeah, it is. It’s gonna be okay. C’mere.”

Ford doesn’t move. Of course not. That would make it too easy.

“Sixer…” Stan lays down next to the beds, looking up at the ceiling. “I know you’re scared. I, uh. I am, too.”

Ford glances back at him, eyes red-rimmed and wide in surprise.

Stan smiles at him. “Yeah, alright, I’ll admit it. I’m scared.”

“...of me?”

“Of what could happen,” Stan says softly. “I mean, I don’t like it when people hurt me. Who does?”

Ford rolls over to face Stan, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t.”

“I know, bro.” Stan glances over to meet his brother’s gaze. “But I don’t blame you for what happened. You warned me.”

“No, I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking enough to warn you.”

“You did, though. I saw the way you were acting. I should have known better than grab at you like I did,” Stan says. 

“You shouldn’t have to—to play guessing games about whether or not I’m going to attack you,” Ford says, frowning. “That isn’t fair to you. You shouldn’t ever have to be worried about whether I’m going to hurt you or not. I want you to feel safe with me, and I just—I just don’t see how you can, now.”

Stan exhales, dragging a hand through his own hair. “Yeah. We gotta make sure somethin’ like this doesn’t happen again.”

“How are we going to do that?” Ford asks bleakly. “I can’t even control myself properly. I’m a threat. I’m dangerous, Stan. I thought I was okay around you, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe the only way for you to be safe is for me to—”

“Don’t even say it,” Stan says, his voice darkening. “You’re not goin’ anywhere. This boat’s your home as much as it is mine, and I ain’t lettin’ you out of my life again.”

Ford makes a small, miserable noise. “I don’t want to leave, but if I can’t assure your safety and wellbeing, then—”

“We’ll figure something else out.”

“Like what?”

“Like—” Stan waves a hand in the air. “Uh, the kids, they got, uh—therapists?”

Ford laughs—a short, sharp bark of surprised noise. “Therapy? That’s your solution?”

“Well it’s better than yours!”

“Maybe so,” Ford admits. 

“Plus, they got medication, if you need it,” Stan says, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket. “Stuff to help you calm down if you get all riled up.”

“What, like a horse tranquilizer?”

This time it’s Stan’s turn to laugh. “Hell, maybe. It’d do the trick.”

“Suppose it would.”

“Better than a gun, anyway.”

“But…” Ford’s eyes flick away again. “I don’t want you to have to rely on things like that. Why should you need a—a tranquilizer just to manage your own brother? It’s not fair to you. You’ll just be worried all the time, about—about what if I make him angry or what if turns on me or—”

“Ford, listen. You listenin’?”

Ford looks intently at him.

“Good. This was a one-time thing. It’s been over a year, and this is the first time somethin’ like this has ever happened,” Stan says. “You were hurt, you were terrified, and I rushed you. The chances of all that happening again at the exact same time? Slim to none. I, for one, am gonna be a helluva lot more careful when you’re worked up.”

“But that’s not fair!” Ford blurts. “It’s not fair that you have to walk on eggshells around me, like I’m some kind of—of bomb that’s gonna go off if you do something wrong.”

“I’m careful because I want to be,” Stan insists, “and because you deserve someone who is. After everything you’ve been through, I’m frankly amazed that you’re adjusting as well as you have. One little goddamn accident doesn’t erase a whole year of progress. Besides, I don’t walk on eggshells, you dumbass. I treat you with respect, and a very healthy sense of space when you’re all jumpy. Grabbing you when you’re makin’ it pretty clear you don’t wanna be grabbed? That’s disrespectful, and that’s on me.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Ford grumbles. “I should be normal. I should—”

“Should what? Should be able to tolerate being treated like shit? Hell no,” Stan says.

“Should be able to tell you please don’t touch me instead of just attacking you like some kind of lunatic!” Ford glares at the floor, folding his arms tightly across his chest. 

“You did tell me,” Stan insists. “You tried to move away from me. You gave me the old crazy-eye. You growled. I’d say you made yourself pretty damn clear. And what the hell did I do anyway?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not all of it, but let’s lay blame where blame is due.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“And I don’t blame you, so we’re even.” Stan laces his hands behind his head, satisfied. “Of course, uh, therapy might still be a good idea. Dipper and Mabel think it’s helpful, anyway. Maybe they’re onto something.”

“...do you think I’m crazy?”

“No, Six,” Stan says, fond and exasperated all at once. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re traumatized, and maybe you need somebody more professional than me to help you through it. You know what they say.”

“No, actually, I don’t think I do.”

“Family members make the worst therapists.”

“Is that true?”

“Hell if I know.” Stan cracks a grin at his brother. “I’ve never met an actual therapist.”

“Do you want to?” Ford cocks his head.

“What?”

“Do you want to meet a therapist?”

“What is this? An I’ll go if you go thing? Jesus, we really are attached at the hip, aren’t we?”

“We can have different therapists,” Ford offers, “but I think if I’m traumatized than so are you.”

“Man, Sixer, you really know how to compliment a guy.”

Ford snickers.

“I’ll think about it if you will,” Stan offers, and Ford nods slowly. “Until then, I still trust you. I do feel safe around you, you know.”

Ford fiddles with the buttons on his jacket. “...really?”

“Yeah. Even when you’re a little weird in the head.” Stan reaches out, ruffling Ford’s hair playfully. “You’re always respectful towards me, and if you don’t want me around you make it pretty obvious. As long as I’m listenin’, we got a pretty good thing goin’.”

“You’d tell me if you didn’t feel safe?” Ford looks intently at him. “You promise?”

Stan hesitates, if only for a moment.

“Stanley,” Ford insists, squirming towards him. “Promise me. I need to know how you’re feeling. Do I need to remind you that your feelings matter? Because I will. I’ll sit here all night and I’ll tell you how much they—”

“I promise, I promise! You’re a menace, you know that?” Stan holds an arm out, and Ford burrows against his side.

“I know.” A small smile flickers across Ford’s face. “Hey, I’m sorry I choked you.”

“I’m sorry I grabbed you and punched you in the face.”

“I forgive you.”

“I forgive you too, knucklehead.” Stan drags himself up off of the floor, hauling Ford up after him. “Now come on. Let’s go make some dinner, because all these emotions are making me hungry.”

Chapter Text

Some days, it’s hard to get out of bed, so Stan doesn’t. He lays curled up under his blankets instead, staring hazily at the wall even as Ford begins to stir in the bunk above him. He listens with a distant, slow sort of attention as his brother hops out of bed, then pads towards the bathroom. It’s not uncommon for Ford to be up first. Stan should still be asleep, really, but he’s too uncomfortable to rest. It’s not physical discomfort. It would be easier if it was.

Ford begins to rummage in the kitchen. Pots and pans clatter. The smell of strong, dark coffee suffuses the air. Now is when Stan would usually get up and stumble bleary-eyed into the kitchen; Ford will already have a mug of coffee ready to push into his hands. For a moment, Stan considers trying to force himself up. He knows he’s more than able to. He did it over and over and over, every morning for thirty years while he worked on that goddamned portal. 

But he doesn’t have to do that, now. He has his brother back. Everything’s okay. He can just stay here and—and rest a little while.

Stan closes his eyes and curls up tighter.

Several minutes later, he hears Ford re-enter the bedroom. “Stanley?” he whispers. 

“Mm?”

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” His voice is louder, now. Brighter. “I made breakfast.”

“Okay,” Stan says quietly. “Thanks, Ford.”

Ford doesn’t move away. Stan can hear him shifting his weight uncertainly, and in some distant part of his mind he feels bad. He hates confusing his brother, and he knows how much Ford relies on their routines. He won’t appreciate Stan messing their morning up like this. Maybe Stan should just get over himself, get up and—

“One of those days, huh?” Ford asks, his voice gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t have to get up. You can go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

Ford’s footsteps vanish from the bedroom again, but they return a few minutes later. He deposits something onto the bedside table with a gentle click. Stan expects it to be coffee, but the smell of it isn’t any stronger, now. Instead, he smells...toast? 

“Here’s some water, and some toast if you get hungry,” Ford explains. “I made it with Nutella. I thought you’d like that.”

...Stan does like that. His eyes ache, but the feeling is dull. He doesn’t think he could cry if he wanted to. The whole world feels removed, washed out and tepid—but at least he still has Ford, and warm toast, and Nutella. 

“Rest as long as you want, Lee. I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

Ford’s footsteps retreat for a final time, and Stan takes a deep breath. He can’t bring himself to move for another hour, and when he finally can, the toast is cold and the Nutella is gummy and thick. He takes a bite, but the food sits uneasily in his stomach. The water he downs more quickly, and it soothes the dry scratch in the back of his throat. He drags himself out of bed long enough to piss, then hides himself beneath his blankets again. 

For a long, long time he stays there. Bleak thoughts hum just below the surface of his mind, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to think, to feel, to exist. He just wants to rest. When he closes his eyes, bright and vicious images flash through his mind, so he keeps them open and studies the whorls in the wood of the walls instead. Sometimes he forgets to blink, and his eyes burn, but even that feeling is muted.

He doesn’t feel very real.

Still, he blinks, because real or not it does sort of sting after a while.

Ford returns a couple of hours later and takes a seat on the edge of Stan’s bed. Stan feels the mattress dip underneath his weight, and he feels Ford’s hand brush his shoulder. He’s aware, dimly, that Ford is speaking to him. “Hey, Lee,” Ford says, and Stan struggles to drag his focus back to the present. “How are you feeling?”

“‘m okay,” Stan murmurs. His body, he realizes, doesn’t feel like it’s here. Where are his hands? He finds them in front of himself, and he curls his fingers, and he feels like he’s watching the movement from a great distance. Is he the one doing that? Weird. 

“Yeah? You seem kind of out of it,” Ford says, reaching out to brush Stan’s hair off of his head. The touch barely registers. “Are you just tired, or is something else going on?”

“I’m tired,” Stan says, and he is. He’s exhausted. But that’s not the whole truth, is it? Stan’s good at half-truths, but he doesn’t want to tell Ford half-truths—not anymore. “I don’t feel good.”

“I didn’t think so,” Ford says sympathetically. He rests a palm against Stan’s brow. “You don’t feel feverish. Are you sick to your stomach?”

Stan shakes his head. 

“Just not hungry, huh? What about your head? Your back? Are you hurting anywhere?”

Stan shakes his head again.

“Okay,” Ford murmurs. “Are you here? Are you with me?”

Stan hesitates. Is he? He knows where he is. He knows who he’s with. Despite that, he doesn’t feel here. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly.

“Oh, Stanley.” Ford touches his shoulder again. “Okay, that’s okay. You think you’re dissociating?”

“I’m sorry.” Stan knows he should feel bad for inconveniencing Ford this way, but reaching for the feeling is so hard. His apology sounds flat even to himself.

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault, and I’m glad you told me. We’ll get through it together.” Ford reaches out, taking one of Stan’s hands and squeezing. “You’re here, with me. You’re on the Stan o’ War and everything is going to be okay. Do you need help grounding?”

“I don’t want to.” Stan knows it’s not good, not right, to feel so distant—but god, it’s so much safer. He’s afraid (as afraid as he can be, anyhow, in this dismal state) of clawing his way back to reality. What if he doesn’t like what he finds, what he feels, who he is? It’s easier to just stay here, on the fringes of existence, slow and calm and quiet.

Ford brings Stan’s hand up, tucking it protectively beneath his chin. Stan feels him swallow. “I know you’re scared,” he says softly, “and that’s alright. I don’t want to push you into anything you’re not ready for. But when you are ready, you let me know, and I’ll help you back. I think you’ll feel better after.”

Stan shuts his eyes and nods slowly. 

“Until then, you still have to take care of yourself,” Ford says, reaching for Stan’s plate and cup. “I’m going to get some lunch.”

He retreats once more, and Stan stares blankly at the wall. In the distance, he hears Ford cooking. He’s humming quietly under his breath—it’s a familiar tune, and it’s quick to wedge itself into Stan’s head. He finds himself humming the tune in his own mind, over and over and over. It makes it easier not to think. 

Soon, Ford returns with another plate and cup. “Up, up,” he prompts, jostling Stan’s shoulder gently. “Drink this and eat something and I’ll let you rest.”

Stan doesn’t want to, but he knows his brother well enough to know how stubborn he can be. The ensuing fight if Stan didn’t eat would be harder to endure than simply eating. So he rolls over and sits up, wincing at the sudden ache in his stiff muscles. Ford’s hands find his back and rub slow circles across it as Stan reaches for his glass of water.

He eats and drinks slowly, and the food feels no better in his stomach than it did this morning. Still, watching him eat eases the worried creases at the edges of Ford’s eyes. That’s worth something. As soon as he’s done, Stan lays back down, and Ford lets him. He gathers Stan’s dishes and vanishes, but he’s back a few minutes later. 

“I’ll stay with you,” he announces, “until you’re ready.”

Then Ford wedges himself into Stan’s bed, persistently pushing Stan’s limbs out of the way to make himself comfortable. Stan grumbles weakly at him. He finally gets himself situated, his back pressed to Stan’s, hogging all of the blankets. 

For almost another hour, Stan lays and listens to his brother breathe. Ford doesn’t talk, or prod him, or try to force him back into the present moment, which Stan appreciates. Eventually, however, he realizes he’s going to have to drag himself back to reality. Stan doesn’t want to feel this way forever. He doesn’t want to feel whatever’s on the other side of his detachment, either, but—

But it would be worth it, if he could feel happy again. (If he could make Ford happy again.)

Stan takes a deep breath. “Ford?”

“Yes?” Ford asks.

“Can you help now?” The words stick in Stan’s throat, but he forces them out anyway. He’s gotten better at that, this past year—and anyway, he’s still too numb to really register the shame of the thing.

Ford rolls over, burrowing against Stan’s back. “Of course I can. Turn over and look at me, please.”

Stan obeys, and he finds his brother watching him with—with pride. That was not the emotion Stan was expecting to see, and his eyebrows arch slightly.

“Thank you for asking for help,” Ford says, a smile on his face. “I know that’s hard for you.”

Stan should probably say something polite in return, but all he manages is a weak nod.

“Come on.” Ford takes his hand, then tugs him out of bed. “Let’s go.”

Ford leads him into the kitchen of the cabin, then props open the door to the deck. Sunlight and warm air stream in—not enough to overwhelm, but enough to make Stan squint and wince. Jesus, what time is it? He feels like it should still be dark outside. “What time…?”

“It’s a little past one,” Ford explains, pushing Stan to sit down at the table. Stan wants to drag his knees up to his chest, but he resists the urge. He knows Ford would just make him put them down, anyway. “Stretch out. You’ll feel better.”

Stan stretches as Ford rummages through the freezer. It does feel good, working blood and warmth back into his muscles, and his spine pops several times in approval. Once he’s done, he slumps over and sets his chin on the table. Ford slides him an icecube. He grips it, rolling it between his palms and hissing at the cold.

“Here. Try this, too,” Ford says, tossing him a small green candy. Stan squints at it. “Come on, it’ll help. Trust me.”

Stan pops the candy into his mouth. It takes about two seconds to realize ah, this was a mistake. A sour film coats his tongue and teeth, and his eyes begin to water almost instantly. Holy hell. That isn’t human candy. That cannot possibly be human candy. Stan hacks, scrambling up to spit the candy into the sink and then sticking his mouth under the faucet to wash the flavor off.

Ford laughs at him, the prick.

“You,” Stan says, through mouthfuls of sour water, “are a world-class jackass.”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it? You’re looking livelier already.”

Stan flings the half-melted icecube at him. 

For all Stan’s growling, though, the damn candy did help. He’s feeling things, now (annoyance, mostly, but it’s something), and the mad scramble to the sink got his blood moving. Plus, it’s awfully hard to ignore reality when reality tastes like hideously sour green apples.

“I really did think it would help,” Ford says, touching Stan’s back as he gargles water. “I promise I’m not just bullying you for fun.”

Stan spits water into the sink and gives his brother the stink-eye.

“Really!” Ford insists.. “Come on, now, Stanley. What are five things you can see?”

“Your dumb face,” Stan says, pushing his palm to Ford’s face just to smoosh it. Ford bats him away. Stan’s eyes drift over the rest of the cabin as he sits down at the kitchen table again. “The table, the stove, the cabinets, the floor.”

“What about four things you can hear?”

This one is harder. Stan narrows his eyes and tries to focus outside of himself. “Your voice. My voice. The, uh—the waves, and the wind, and my breathing.”

“Three things you can smell?”

“The sea, and coffee, and that rice you made for lunch.”

“Very good!” Ford beams, and damn it all if his brother’s delight with him doesn’t coax Stan back towards himself. He wants to be the person who makes Ford proud, who makes Ford happy. “How are you feeling now?”

Stan looks at his hands, flexing his fingers. “Better…?” he says. “I mean, better, yeah. I feel like I have a body, so. That’s cool.”

“Yes, it is,” Ford agrees. “And emotionally?”

Stan shrugs.

“Come on, focus. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Stan...tries, he really does. He focuses inward, and he feels uncomfortable, but nothing more specific than that. “Weird,” he answers, finally. “Bad, I guess? But not bad-bad, just, you know. Ick.”

“Ick, okay. That’s a start.” Ford starts another pot of coffee. “Have you been feeling like this all morning?”

“Yeah. I thought I was just tired, but.” Stan’s mouth twists. “I guess it’s a little worse than that.”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not one that I remember.”

Ford leans back against the counter, clicking his tongue thoughtfully. “Well, it would be nice to know the trigger, but I don’t suppose it’s a must.”

“Sorry.” Stan rubs his forehead. “I know this is dumb.”

“Don’t say that,” Ford says, his voice sharpening some. 

“I’m sorry.” The apology feels more sincere, this time. His feelings are always quick to respond to Ford’s, good or bad.

Ford reaches over and ruffles his hair, humming. As soon as the coffee is done, Ford pours him a mug and pushes it into his hands. Stan cups it in his palms, savoring the way the warmth leeches into his skin and inhaling the dark, rich scent. He drinks, and the warmth curls into his belly. Coffee, he decides, is a miracle.

“Better?” Ford asks.

“Yeah, actually,” Stan says. “This is great.”

Ford’s eyes light up, a smile on his face. He pours himself a glass, then grabs his laptop and sets it down in front of Stan before taking a seat next to him. He pulls up a video—some comedian Stan doesn’t know the name of—and presses play. Before long, they’re both chuckling, and the world feels very warm and very real and very present. Why would he want to be anywhere else, after all, when he could be here drinking coffee and listening to stupid jokes with his brother?

Once they’re done with their coffee, Ford scoops up their mugs and deposits them in the sink. Stan follows him over, and Ford steps aside to let him wash their dishes while he rinses and dries them. The soap smells sharp—lemons—and the bubbles cluster softly against his skin. As soon as he’s done, he gives Ford a bubble hat. His brother grimaces but lets him. 

“How are you feeling now?” Ford asks, brushing the bubbles from his hair once their dishes are put away. 

Stan thinks about it. There’s still a sticky, bleak ball of ick in his chest, but above that he feels…“Happy,” Stan says, a small smile on his face. “I’m happy you helped me.”

Ford beams, nudging him gently. “Anytime, Stanley, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Stan reaches out, ruffling Ford’s soap-damp hair. “I’m pretty lucky.”

Ford ducks his head, but Stan doesn’t miss the pleased smile on his face. “When’d you get so sentimental?”

Stan hip-checks him, then settles back down at the kitchen table. 

“But you’re...really happy now?” Ford asks, sitting across from him. There’s a concerned furrow between his brows. “That was a quick change.”

“I mean, not completely,” Stan says, waving a hand dismissively, “but a helluva lot happier than I was before.”

“What else are you feeling?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t we try to figure it out?”

“I don’t want to.”

Ford looks sympathetically at him. “Are you scared?”

“I just…” Stan makes a soft, frustrated sound. “I don’t want to feel it. It’s not going to be any good.”

“Ignoring it won’t make it go away. Has it ever before?”

Stan traces the wooden grains of their table with his fingers. “No,” he grudgingly admits. “Alcohol usually fixed it, before.”

Ford sighs in exasperation. “Okay, well, that’s not the route we’re taking this time. Can’t we just try this, Stanley? I’m right here. Whatever you feel, you’ll be safe and here with me. I won’t let you face it alone.”

Stan grimaces. “I know, I know, but I—ugh. I wish it would all just stop.”

“I know,” Ford murmurs, reaching out to take his hand. “That would be easier, but I’m afraid it’s not how this works. All the bad stuff doesn’t just go away. You have to work through it. That’s the hard part, but I’m here to help, so you don’t need to be scared. Let’s try again. What are you feeling, Stanley?”

Stan takes a deep breath, trying to focus. He doesn’t want to let Ford down. He doesn’t want to be stubborn, or weak, or afraid. Maybe it won’t actually be that bad, right? Maybe he’ll be able to push through it. He studies the knot of emotion in his chest, but it seems no clearer to him now than it did this morning. “God, I don’t know, Ford. It’s all muddled.”

“Okay. Let’s try something else. Are you angry?”

Stan tries to make the emotion fit that mold, but it doesn’t quite work. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What about scared?”

“Mm, a little,” Stan says. That one is easier to feel. He’s nervous just poking around at his own feelings like this; it’s not something he does very often, introspection. 

“What are you scared of?”

Stan spreads his hands helplessly. “This? Not being able to do this? Disappointing you? Being able to do this and then freaking out? Losing control? Everything?”

“Hey.” Ford reaches for his hand again, squeezing it. “You’re not gonna disappoint me. I know this is hard, and if you can’t do it, that’s okay. If you can do it, then yeah, maybe you’ll feel worse for a little while. Emotions are hard. They’re even harder when you let yourself feel them. But I’m right here, and I’m not gonna let anything go too far. If you start getting overwhelmed, I’ll do whatever I need to do to settle you down again.”

Stan nods slowly. It doesn’t completely assuage his fears, but it does soothe him some. He takes another deep breath to settle the jitters in his stomach. “I just—I don’t want to have a flashback, or a panic attack, or anything like that.”

“I know.” Ford laces their fingers together. “If you feel that starting to happen, you don’t have to keep going. If dissociating is gonna help keep you safe, then dissociate away. We can try again when you’re calmer. Do you want to keep going right now?”

Stan hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. It’s not bad right now, it’s just—I’m just anxious.”

“Okay. Well, we can deal with that. Deep breaths.” Ford breathes deeply, and Stan copies him. They fall into a familiar rhythm (five-three-seven), and Stan’s heart begins to slow. His emotions are louder, when he peeks in at them again. “How are you feeling now?”

“Still nervous, but better,” Stan murmurs. He tugs at the emotions in his chest, gingerly beginning to unravel them. There’s his fear—slowed, now, soothed by Ford’s words and careful breaths. It isn’t as overwhelming as he thought it would be. There’s his shame, strong and constant, but tolerable. The next emotion, though? The next is much worse. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Ford prompts. 

Stan pulls his hand away from Ford’s, pressing his knuckles to his eyes. He takes a deep, shaky breath. He doesn’t want to feel this. He doesn’t want to deal with this. It’s so tempting to slam that emotion back into the dark, where it belongs, where it can fester and writhe and leave him the hell alone. “Ford—”

“Shh. Shh, hey, it’s alright. Come here.” Ford reaches out, pulling Stan towards him. Stan turns his chair to face Ford’s, slumping forward until he can rest his head on Ford’s shoulder. His brother’s hand cups the back of his head, fingers lacing through his hair and tugging just enough to ground him. “You’re alright, Stanley, you’re safe.”

“I don’t—Ford, I don’t—” Stan swipes at his eyes. His chest aches. His chest hurts. “I don’t like it.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“I don’t know. I just want it to stop hurting.” Stan presses his forehead more firmly against Ford’s shoulder. 

“What’s hurting you, Lee?”

“Everything. I’m—” Stan’s voice cracks, and he feels his tears spill over. He hates this. He drags in another breath, trying furiously to rub the tears away. “Fuck.” 

“Okay, shh, okay.” Ford’s fingers run over his scalp, tracing absent patterns. He begins to rock slowly, and Stan wraps his arms around him and clings. “You’re sad, is that it?”

Stan nods miserably, and he can’t stop fucking crying. Tears roll down his cheeks and wobble precariously on the edge of his jaw, and he stops trying to wipe them away. It’s pointless. Everything he does is pointless. He’s pointless, and worthless, and stupid, and—

“Oh, Lee.” Ford leans his head against Stan’s. “It’s okay to be sad. You’re allowed to be sad. I hope you don’t feel like you have to hide that from me.”

“But I don’t want to be sad! I want to be happy, I should be happy, I—I’m here with you, and this is our dream and everything’s perfect and I don’t know why I can’t—” Stan gulps in air around a sob, and Ford nuzzles his temple. “I don’t want to be sad anymore.”

“I know, I know,” Ford soothes, “but nobody’s happy all the time, not even if everything seems perfect. Besides, you’ve still got a lot of trauma to process. Even if you’re not sad about things that are happening now, you’ve got decades of sadness from before to deal with. Emotions like that don’t just disappear overnight.”

“They should. It’s not fair,” Stan says, trying to ignore how much he feels like a sulky toddler. “All this work to make everything better and I still feel like shit.”

Ford makes a soft, sympathetic noise and pats his head. “I know it’s not fair. I wish you didn’t have to be sad, but—Lee, the fact of the matter is that you are, and that’s okay, and we can deal with it. But blocking it off? Ignoring it? That’s just gonna make it worse.”

“Well what the hell else am I supposed to do?” Stan says, leaning back and looking wretchedly at Ford. 

“You cry,” Ford says, taking Stan’s hands and enfolding them within his own. “You cry. Then you—you get up, and you wash your face, and you eat some chocolate.”

Stan’s lower lip wobbles. “Do we have chocolate?”

“Well…” Ford’s brow furrows. “We have cocoa powder. I’ll make brownies.”

A shaky smile crosses Stan’s face, and he laughs, but it’s a laugh that tips quickly into a sob. Ford hauls him into a hug again, his hands running over Stan’s back, and Stan cries and cries and cries. It’s exhausting, but Ford was right (as per usual). The tears wipe out every other feeling he has and leave him numb again—but it’s a warm, peaceful sort of numb, this time. The knot in his chest is gone; a raw, sore wound has replaced it, and Stan’s thoughts move very gingerly around and through it. 

Ford holds him for several minutes, simply letting him cry, until his tears have finally trickled off and left him bone-tired. Then Ford nudges his overheated temple, making a small, questioning noise. Stan hums in response, and Ford relaxes against him. Stan’s in no mood to move, after that, but his back is starting to protest his slumped position. Eventually, he has to push himself upright.

“Better?” Ford asks hopefully, cocking his head.

Stan nods quietly, wiping his face with his sleeves.

“Okay. Go wash your face and I’ll get the brownies started. Then we can talk.”

Stan heads to the sink, splashing his face with cold water and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He sits back down at the table once he’s done, listening as Ford mixes up a bowl of brownie batter. He yawns, then rubs the edges of his sore eyes. Despite having done exactly nothing all day, he could really go for a nap right about now.

Ford next to him again once the brownies are in the oven, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He leans their heads together and sighs softly. “I’m sorry you’re sad,” he says, “but I hope you know that it’s okay. You’re not bad for feeling sad. You aren’t ignoring all of the good things we have now just because you’re not satisfied for one day. And, you know, I’m here if—if you need to feel sad with somebody.”

“Thanks, Ford,” Stan says, his voice a soft rasp. “I appreciate it. Sorry I—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Ford says firmly. “I’m glad to help you however I can.”

“I ruined our morning.”

“You did not, you knucklehead. I like spending time with you.”

“Even if I’m getting snot all over you?”

Ford sighs deeply through his nose. “Yes, Stanley, even if you’re getting snot all over me.”

A small smile flickers across Stan’s mouth. “Okay.”

“Do you want to talk about why you were sad?”

“I don’t know that there’s a specific reason,” Stan admits, scratching the back of his neck. “It just sort of felt like everything at once…? It didn’t really make sense.”

“That’s okay. Emotions can be confusing sometimes.”

“You would know, Mr. Emotionally Constipated.”

“Oh, hush. I’ve gotten better.” Ford knocks their heads together playfully. 

“You have.” Stan snakes an arm around Ford’s back, squeezing him. “Proud of you.”

Ford kisses the top of his head. “And I’m proud of you. Come to me next time you feel like that, okay? We’ll work through it together.”

Stan nods his agreement. For a moment, they sit together in silence, watching the timer on the oven roll down as the brownies bake. The air smells like coffee and warm chocolate. Stan’s glad he’s here to experience this, fully and entirely present, even if there’s an open wound in his chest and his eyes are red-rimmed and sore. Those hurts will heal, now that he’s noticed them, and in the meantime? 

In the meantime, Stan’s gonna eat brownies.

Chapter Text

Ford wants a hug.

This is a problem, because Stanley does not want a hug. 

Well, alright, perhaps that’s not entirely true. Stanley loves hugs from their niece and nephew. He’ll laugh and grin, as happy as Ford’s ever seen him, any time Mabel launches herself into his arms (once daily, at the very least). His smile is a little softer, albeit no less happy, when Dipper leans against him and wraps an arm around his leg. He doesn’t mind the backbreaking hugs he gets from Soos, either, despite the way he grumbles. 

The only person he really doesn’t want a hug from, so it seems, is Ford.

The evidence is concrete: Stanley doesn’t ever stand too close to Ford; he doesn’t ever open his arms for Ford; he jams his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders whenever Ford gets too near him. From the evidence flows the natural conclusion that Stanley simply doesn’t want to hug him. 

Ford doesn’t blame him. Stanley’s still piecing his memories back together, and sometimes he looks at Ford like Ford is a stranger to him. That’s alright. That’s what Ford deserves. That’s what Ford chose, when he pulled the trigger on the memory gun, when he made a deal with the devil and brought the apocalypse home. If this is to be his punishment, then so be it. It’s a far more merciful punishment than some.

Still, it’s odd. Stanley was always the clingy one, out of the two of them. He was jostled shoulders and elbow nudges and tight hugs. He was noogeys and ruffled hair and shoulder punches. He was high sixes. Now, he exists in a sort of limbo: there visually, there audibly, and yet he doesn’t ever feel quite real. Sometimes Ford fancies that he’s a particularly vivid hallucination. 

(Sometimes Ford fancies that he’s still in the Fearamid on his knees, and Bill is pulling strings in his mind the way he always always always does. Look, Sixer! Here’s a Stanley for you. Look, listen, enjoy your stupid little brother while you can and GIVE ME THAT EQUATION BEFORE I RIP HIM FROM YOU AGAIN.)

But the world stays.

Day after day after day, the world stays.

Stanley even agrees to go sailing with him, so he must not hate Ford—maybe he’s just nervous. Ford can’t blame him for that, either. Ford wasn’t exactly the kindest brother, before, and Stanley’s undoubtedly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Ford hates that he made his brother feel that way, but there’s nothing he can do to rewrite the past. He can only try to move forward and give Stanley the respect and the love that he deserves. If that means no hugs, then so be it. What is a hug worth, anyway, compared to his brother’s happiness?

So that works, for a couple of months.

Then, one day, Stanley gets sad. Ford brings him coffee, and cookies, and fishing magazines. None of it gets Stanley out of bed. The cookies earn him a small smile, but it doesn’t reach Stanley’s eyes, and Ford paces the deck in frustration for most of the day. It’s normal, he knows. Stanley’s been through so much—of course he’s not going to be happy all the time. Ford just wishes he knew why. 

He asks. 

Stanley answers rather immediately, which Ford had not been expecting. “You,” Stanley says, waving a hand in the air and looking wearily at the bottom of Ford’s bunk.

That is a remarkably unpleasant answer. “Me?” Ford asks, alarmed. “I—did I do something? I didn’t mean to upset you. I—”

(I don’t want your APOLOGIES, SIXER. I want you to stop running your mouth and DO IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME. Jeez, you’re lucky I like you. I DON’T THINK I COULD PUT UP WITH THESE IDIOSYNCRACIES OTHERWISE.) 

“No, no no,” Stanley says. “I didn’t mean it like that, Ford, I’m sorry. I’m not upset with you. I just—you make me sad sometimes, that’s all. Thinking about what you’ve been through, it—you know?”

“Oh.” Ford does know. He feels the same way, when he thinks about Stanley. “I’m...sorry?”

Stanley laughs weakly. “C’mon, you’ve got nothin’ to be sorry about. It wasn’t like you chose to go gallivanting off in the multiverse for thirty years. That’s on me.”

“We both made mistakes,” Ford says firmly, “and they cost us dearly. But that’s all behind us now. I don’t regret the time I spent in the multiverse; it was utterly fascinating. Of course I regret not spending enough time with you, or our nieces and nephews, or Ma or Shermie. I don’t need you to feel bad for me, though. We can’t change the past. We have to make the most of our present.”

“But see, that’s the thing,” Stanley says, looking miserably at him. “I don’t feel like you’re very happy now, either. Do you actually like spending time with me?”

“What? Of course I do!”

“Sometimes I feel like you’re just doing all of this to make up for, you know, erasing my whole identity and starting the apocalypse and stuff.”

“Stanley,” Ford says, more than a little exasperated. He wants to take his brother’s shoulders and rattle some sense into him. He refrains. “I love spending time with you. You’ve made this trip so much more fun. Your insights into the anomalies are invaluable, and your work with the radar? Stellar. I couldn’t have done it better myself. You’re funny, and you make really good food, and—”

“Oh, that’s it. You just keep me around for my cooking,” Stanley says, but there’s a small smile on his face, now. 

Ford scoffs. “Nonsense. I keep you around for your cooking and your puns and your manual labor.”

Stan’s smile blossoms into a full grin, then, and Ford’s heart warms through.

“What made you think I wasn’t enjoying our time together?” Ford asks cautiously. “Was it something I did?”

“No, it’s just my brain.” Stanley waves a hand weakly towards his head. “You know.”

“Yeah, I know. Tell your brain I love having it around, okay?”

“Okay,” Stanley says, impossibly fond. Then: “Hey, Ford?”

“Yes?”

“Can my brain make a request?”

(A REQUEST? Sixer, ol’ buddy ol’ pal, you know you don’t get to make requests. I’LL TELL YOU WHAT WE NEED TO DO AND WHEN WE NEED TO DO IT. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about corporeal stuff like that. Besides, don’t you have more important stuff to be thinking about? How about that portal, huh?) 

Ford smiles. “I suppose my brain would be amenable to that.”

“Sometimes, when I’m sad, uh.” Stanley looks like he’s pulling his own teeth out. Ford blinks nervously at him. How bad is this request going to be, to make him look so pained…? Maybe he agreed too hastily. “Sometimes, when people are sad, it’s—well, just, and I heard this from Mabel but—”

“Mabel, hm? Then I’m sure it’s sound advice.” Ford looks hopefully at him. “Tell me?”

“Sometimes sad people like hugs,” Stanley blurts. His cheeks are pink. “Sorry. Shit, sorry, I know it’s stupid and you don’t like stuff like that—seriously, if it makes you uncomfortable, don’t. But I just—if you’re okay with it, sometimes, maybe I would like a—a hug?”

Ford stares at him. 

Stanley swears again. “Okay, okay, I just—forget it, okay? I get it if it’s too much. You’re probably, like, super not cool with people touching you after everything that’s happened and that’s completely understandable and I don’t want to upset so just—just forget about it, alright? It’s fine. It’s really not a big deal.”

“I—what?”

“Oh my god.” Stanley drags his hands down his face. “Never mind, I—I’m gonna go.”

Stanley rolls out of bed, heading for the door, but Ford reaches out and grabs his wrist. Stanley flinches, and Ford snatches his hand back. “Wait,” he says. “Please. I’m just confused.”

“What’s there to be confused about?” Stanley sighs softly. “I get it. I’m really not mad, Six, I promise. Some people hate being touched, and that’s okay. I’m gonna respect your boundaries.”

“I don’t!”

“Don’t what?” Stanley’s eyebrows furrow in concerned.

“I don’t hate it,” Ford says, hunching his shoulders. “I don’t.”

(And what do you want me to do about it? WANT ME TO HUG YOU? WANT ME TO KISS IT ALL BETTER? AHAHAHA, YOU’RE A FUNNY GUY WHEN YOU WANNA BE. I’m a god, Sixer, not your teddy bear. You know better than that. Hands off the merchandise.)

“But you—” Stanley’s eyebrows get even furrow-ier. “You do?”

Ford shakes his head. 

“What? Ford, you punched me the first time I tried to hug you!”

Ford winces. “Yes, and I was cruel to do so. I was angry, and frustrated, and scared, and I—I’m sorry, Stanley.”

“You won’t come anywhere near me!”

“You won’t come anywhere near me,” Ford counters. “You looked at me like I was a freak the first time I tried to hug you after—after—”

“I didn’t know who you were! You were some random old dude and you smelled like mothballs!”

“My clothes had been in my closet for thirty years, Stanley, of course I smelled like mothballs,” Ford says hotly. 

Stanley opens his mouth, then closes it, then bursts into laughter. Ford stares at him. “This is so—so stupid,” Stanley says through his giggles, wiping his eyes. 

(Don’t be STUPID, SIXER. Come on, I thought you were special. I thought you were the one. Hey, stop it, don’t freak out. I SAID DON’T FREAK OUT. UGH, YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT TEARS.)

“What are we even arguing about?” Stanley asks. “I want a hug, Six, even if you smell like mothballs.”

“I don’t smell like mothballs anymore.”

“Missing the point there, buddy. Do you want a hug?”

Ford blinks at him. “...yes?”

“Then come here!” Stanley opens his arms. Ford stares some more. “Come on, this is the part where you—”

Ford lurches forward and hugs him. Stanley’s arms wrap tightly around his back, and Ford burrows into his hold. It’s warm. It’s so warm. His brother is warm and solid and strong and real in a way Ford hasn’t properly felt in months. He smells like aftershave and cigar smoke and salt. His back expands against Ford’s palms with every slow, even breath he takes, and each one of those breaths stirs the hair next to Ford’s ear. 

Stanley, Ford realizes abruptly, is an actual physical creature.

His eyes sting, and he laughs wetly and shoves his face into the crook of Stanley’s neck

“Oh, Ford,” Stanley says, hushed (his voice sounds dangerously thick, like he’s about to cry, too). “Okay, it’s official.”

Ford makes a soft, questioning sound.

“I’m never letting go,” Stanley answers, and Ford has absolutely no complaints to make.