Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Was that all of them?” Stan had asked months ago, maybe even a year ago. Ford had nodded.

“That’s all of them,” he had said, meeting Stan’s eye for a fleeting second before both looked into the flames. They watched as paper curled into itself, alight and dying, burning in their bonfire. Other memorabilia, things that had been made of everything but wood, bubbled and congealed into a mess on the floor of the fire. Those that had been wooden kept the flame alive. The wooden pyramid that he had used as a paperweight had caught but never truly burned down. He had slid it into his pocket.

He had lied, of course, about that being all. Ford couldn’t help himself, not when it was Him. Not when every last memory of Him was already etched under his skin, that reminders were something to keep that awful itching feeling away. Ford couldn’t understand his own logic half the time, not about this at least, but it made him feel better. No, not quite better, maybe satisfied. Maybe decent? It made him feel something, something that wasn’t bad, and that made all the change in the world. So of course he hadn’t burnt everything flammable, broke every last bit of glass, tipped everything unbreakable into the pit. He had to keep it. He had to. He promised he would.

As if He had returned, the nasally whine of ‘you promised’ echoed inside his head. Begging Ford to keep Him close, show Him just how loyal he was. And there was a part of him, as there always would be, that would never want to disobey that notion. A sick, twisted section of his brain that yearned every moment for some semblance of what they used to be, who they used to be. He hated that corner of himself, though if Ford was being honest, he hated most of himself. His fingers curled around the railing of the boat, watching as the lazy rolls of ocean hit the sides of their home, their legacy. A nicer part of himself smiled.

There was so much to look forward to, in the future. In the present. In the world they had saved, time goes on without interruptions, as if they had done nothing at all. Nobody congratulates them in the streets, thanks them on harbours, or claps them on the back in bars. Nobody knows a thing of what they did, and Ford was more than grateful for that. Because he couldn’t dream of being the man responsible for worldwide suffering, it was hard enough being the man responsible for just one town. Even if they didn’t hate him, even if they had all pitched in on repairs to the shack and helped on the boat. Even if they saw them as heroes. Ford couldn’t be a hero. He still clung to the villain.

It was devotion, worship. There was a point in time that Ford would bend over as far as he could to bow to Him, get on his knees and pray to Him, cut open his palm and bleed for Him. He wanted to leave every last inch of that behind, that’s what he told himself, but when his life had been filled with Him for thirty three years, it was hard to suddenly let Him go. Who was Ford, if he didn’t belong to Him? Who was Ford, if he wasn’t running from Him? Who was Ford, if he wasn’t trying to kill Him? He hadn’t an identity outside of Him, hadn’t one for a while, was only a part and a piece of His life. His games. A pawn. A vessel. An enemy. A friend. So many words, too many labels.

“I hate you,” he said to nobody but the ocean, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

That ugly part of him that wanted His praise told him he was lying. Lying like he had lied about destroying all those incessant triangles, lying like he had to do to survive in the multiverse, lying like it was just second nature after three terribly long decades. Lies, manipulation, trust, heartbreak. Ford’s teeth ground together at the thought, there was more similarities than differences between them. If he wasn’t careful, then he would hurt those he loved like He had hurt him. Liars, both of them. He gulped down something rotten that had settled in his throat.

He grabbed at his neck, feeling the outline of a chain, knowing why he lied, who he lied for. He completely ignored his family, time and time again, all for Him. Because of Him. Because he missed Him. No, he didn’t miss Him, did he? This was missing Him. He pulled out the chain, silver painted gold, holding a wired triangle. He clasped the shape tightly in his hands as the boat toppled in the water slightly. Ford could feel it burning, branding him, even if it couldn’t. Even if He couldn’t. He could feel someone staring at him, too, but it wasn’t the tickling sensation of the All Knowing, not like it always was.

Stan. He tucked the necklace back into his sweater, and closed his hands around the railing once more. He heard him sigh, though it wasn’t anything malicious.

“I knew you still had them,” he said without having to explain himself, “some of them, at least.”

“Sorry,” Ford said and refused to meet the eyes he could feel burrowing into his skin, “I’m- I don’t know why I can’t let Him go.”

“He’s still playing you,” Stan said, “I know the tricks. You spent far too long running around for Bill, and now-“

Ford flinched at the name, Stan fell silent. He had the same ideas that Ford had gone over far too many times.

“And now I don’t know who I am. Stanley, I have no clue who I truly am anymore. I’m just a shadow.”

“Come off it, whose?”

“His. Yours, maybe.”

“My shadow? Really? Ford, look at who you’re talking to.”

Ford laughed drily, but neither of them found it funny. He pulled out the necklace again, gazing at it, wondering why he couldn’t just get rid of it. There was nothing else in him that wanted to appease Him, but he had claws that dug into that awful part of him that did, and he couldn’t pull himself out of it. Right? There’s no other explanation. There couldn’t be. He was still part of His sick game. His thumb ran longingly across the triangle on his chain.

“Stanley, I’m scared that I miss Him,” he said, “scared that I miss a being so terrible, a monster who tried to tear all of you apart.”

“Of course you miss him,” Stan said causing Ford to finally look at him, “I miss Pa, doesn’t mean he was any good to either of us.”

“It’s-“

“It’s not different,” Stan said with the confidence of a man declaring the colour of the sky, “trust me. You miss him and that’s fine, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. If you’re scared of it, then you’re starting to move on, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”

Ford nodded. He said nothing else, eyes averted to the seas once more.

“You know why we burned them, though, yeah?”

“I do. But it helps,” Ford said aimlessly, “sometimes I look at them and-“

“And you get stuck in your own head.”

“No, I… Stanley, it helps keep Him from getting in.”

It was Stan’s turn to not say a single word. He simply looked at Ford expectantly, as if he had any idea on how to explain his own feelings. He breathed in, then out again.

“Without them all I have is the feeling of Him in my bones,” Ford said with a shudder, “as if He was still there, still pulling my strings. It’s as if I look at them, if I have them, it’s as though He’s satisfied. As if I keep this promise, He might stay away.”

“He’s dead,” Stan said simply and far too flatly, “you know he’s dead.”

Ford shrugged. He was dead, and he hated that. He hated it more than anything. It was finally over, he was more than ready to submit to a quieter life now. For such a long time, he had expected to die on the battlefield, but here he is. Retired and on a boat. Even if he hadn’t deserved it. Even if He had made sure it was once impossible. But as Stan had said, as he knew all along, really, when he wasn’t spiralling; he was no longer obliged to Him. Because He was long, long gone.

“I miss Him,” he said again because that’s all he could think to say. He didn’t even know if he believed it himself anymore.

“I know,” Stan said, “but you have a life outside of him, remember? You’re fishing, you’re exploring, you’re just Stanford, you’re not the man destined to save the world anymore.”

“That was you,” Ford said with a light smile. He was suddenly very tired. “You were destined to save the world.”

“Yeah, well, you helped,” Stan said and threw an arm around Ford’s shoulder, “you killed that son of a gun. Shot him point blank.”

Ford smiled and pulled the chain off his neck. Stan went to take it off him, but he pulled his hand back. No, this one was for him. He had never had a good arm, but the necklace went far enough for him to call it a good shot, barely causing a ripple in the ocean as it breached the surface. It was spectacular, the feeling that it brought on. It shot down his body within a second, relief and freedom all in one, no longer collared. A broken promise that he had no desire to keep, a snapped deal that no longer had any merit. He had lied once, but now he was making up for it, and in that way, he was nothing like Him at all.

He was free. And He was dead. Ford would get rid of Him piece by piece, throw away every lie and every trick, because all of them were right. It helped, it helped to no end. He took in a deep, salty breath of air, and truly for the first time, started to look forward to moving on. Ford was looking forward to breaking more and more awful promises.

“Better?” Stan asked, once he stepped away from the railing. Ford nodded.

“Yes. I hate that guy,” Ford said once more. This time, he didn’t feel as though he was lying.

“I hate him too. Anything else to throw overboard?”

“We don’t want to pollute the ocean, Stanley, it would probably be better if- what?”

“Nothing,” Stan said with a boyish smile, “just glad to see you back to yourself again.”

Ford smiled right back at him.