Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A pen taps, anxious and absentminded, against the journal's paper. The ink leaves little marks each time it strikes the surface, dotting the upper corner. The holder of the pen is staring off into the middle distance, tired brown eyes lost behind thick frames. 

He knows he shouldn’t be hung up on this, he knows. He just… can’t stop the thoughts from coming. Ford’s mind swirls with a million different thoughts, running a million miles a minute. The hurt left in his chest from Fiddleford’s departure was fresh, stinging and slapping his face each time he felt it. 

Why would his friend, his partner, leave in the middle of their research? Ford just can’t wrap his head around it. They had been working together so well, despite some of Fiddleford’s… nerve problems. The man would get a little fidgety and antsy sometimes, sure, but he was always able to come back around to Ford’s side. It was how they worked.

Not this time, Ford reminds himself. 

It had already been four days since his friend-- his assistant had left in a rage. Four days since they ran the last test for the portal. Four days since Fiddleford had seen inside the portal, laid eyes on what Bill had been promising. 

He had seemed so scared. Terrified, even, of what he had witnessed. 

Something unpleasant curls in the back of Ford’s skull, settling at the top of his spine like an oil slick. It whispers to him that Fiddleford must be right about something, that his anxious babbling had been true. 

Ford shoves the oily voice away harshly, a new sort of thrill running up his spine at the idea that Bill would know he was doubting him. 

No, not doubting-- never doubting. He wouldn’t doubt his muse, he wouldn’t even dream of it! 

Not again. 

He was simply… analyzing different points of view. That was all. 

The pen taps away, marring the paper underneath.

True scientists always keep their options open, even if they do happen to have a divine source of information. Ford was just keeping in good practice, is all. That would be a viable defense if Bill became angry again. And that’s a big if, because Bill only became angry when Ford did something wrong-- and he’s not doing anything wrong. 

He’s not doubting Bill, or his plans.

He’s not. 

The pen clatters to the surface of the desk, breaking its hypnotic rhythm. Ford’s fingers find his hair and pull, focusing on the pain in his scalp to ground him. His heart rate had spiked with his line of thinking, and he needed to calm it down. He zeroes in on his breathing, counting the seconds until his lungs fill with no tremors.

His hands feel weak when he lowers them. When was the last time he ate?

“Need help there, Fordsy?”

Ford feels like he nearly burst out of his skin in fright, pulling back to look up at the hallucination of his muse. His pulse, just barely calmed down to a decent resting rate, shot right back up. 

“Bill!” he exclaims before he can stop himself. Slightly embarrassed, he clears his throat and tries again. “Bill. No, I… I think it might be time for a break, unfortunately.”

Bill says nothing, his single eye staring down at Ford long enough that he is overcome by the need to squirm.

“My, uh… my hands,” he offers instead. He raises them, palm-up in surrender, and watches as they tremble in the air. “M-my blood sugar must be too low. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

The longer his muse is there, silently scrutinizing him, the more Ford is afraid (no, not afraid, he’s not afraid of his muse) that Bill will see the oily fear in the back of his mind. He can imagine it-- Bill’s long fingers reaching into his skull, through his skull, wrapping around the seed of doubt (not doubt, scientific inquiry) and pulling it out like it was a worm in mud. 

Ford suppresses a heavy shiver. 

Bill’s voice sounds heaven-sent when he speaks.

“Well, it’s only natural. You humans are so poorly made!” 

His entire body has a chance to relax for just a moment, before Bill tacks on: 

“I know you’re not doubting our work, after all! You haven’t been thinking of quitting on me. I trust you, Sixer.” 

Ford’s mouth is running before he can think better of it. 

“Of course not!” he near-shouts, raising on his feet to get closer to his muse. The distance, as always, feels far too great. “I would never doubt you, my muse. I know what we’re working on is the right thing to do, I know that.”

It sounds like I’m trying to convince myself more than him.

…shut up.

“It’s just…” 

What? Why am I still talking?

“It’s just what, Sixer?” Bill asks, voice light and conversational. He mimics checking his cuticles, even though he doesn’t have any. 

Ford knows it’s a trap, that he is walking on very sharp glass shards. 

He knows if he doesn’t say something, those shards will pierce his mind to find their answers. That is much, much more dangerous territory. 

“Without Fiddleford, it’s… difficult,” he confesses. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on my own.”

With the words out in the open, he realizes just how lonely he’s been. 

Bill’s hands find the sides of his face, fingers curling under his jaw to keep his head up. His hands are neither warm nor cold, soft nor hard. Ford knows it’s merely a hallucination, Bill’s real form safely inside his mindscape and toying with his sensory input neurons to broadcast himself. He finds himself leaning into Bill’s touch, anyhow.

“Oh, Ford, you know that’s not true,” Bill coos at him, speaking softly.

Ford’s mind, sharp and quick as a whip, expects him to continue with, You’re never truly alone. I’m right here, even if we can’t talk. I’m always with you. He feels the nervous tension in his brow loosen, just a bit, in anticipation of the reassurance.

Instead, Bill says:

“You’ve been alone for a long time.” 

The glass shards he’s been standing on turn to ice, piercing into his skin and infecting his blood with cold. 

“...what?”

“You’ve always been alone, Ford,” Bill repeats. His voice is still just as soft, hands just as gentle against his jaw. His eye curves with sympathy, looking down on Ford. “We geniuses often are, unfortunately. How lucky it is that we found each other, huh?”

The implication is hung in the air that, even with Bill, Ford is still alone. That seems almost insurmountable to tackle right now, and is pushed to the side of his psyche. Instead, he focuses on the other wrongness of that statement. He hasn’t always been alone.

He hasn’t always felt alone, at least. 

Even if it’s been almost a decade, he used to have Stanley. They were conceived together, born together, and grew up together. Ford felt like the sum of a whole with his brother at his side.

Reading his thoughts, Bill tsks  softly. “And how well did that turn out?” 

The words stung. Bill knows how much Ford hates reminders of senior year. It was nearly impossible not to, with how securely guarded that time of his life was in his mindscape. Even in the material world, Ford rarely mentions his brother because he doesn’t want to answer where Stanley is now. Sure, he’d occasionally watch a home video or look at a photograph, but…

Bill was always there to remind him. Always there with condolences and soothing words to ease the pain of betrayal. 

Ford knows he doesn’t say these things to hurt him. Bill wouldn’t hurt him with no purpose, Ford needs to hear these things. 

Still, a part of him, deep and stubbornly rooted in his heart, pulls back from Bill. 

“I wasn’t alone with Stanley,” he mutters. The bigger part of him, the part so intertwined with Bill that it hurts, curses at him for speaking up. 

He feels himself teetering over a ledge. 

“Not… not until the end. It just… didn’t work out at the time.”

Bill surprises him when he laughs into the quiet of the lab. His thoughts run with every way this interaction has gone wrong, every way that Bill will surely lay into him and berate him for being so stupid. He holds his tongue, finally, and waits for the shame.

“You think it’ll go better now, brainiac?” Bill asks through his chuckling. “C’mon, IQ! I know you’re smarter than that!” 

Something in him bristles. Ford doesn’t know what he bristles at, though, and is left with the discomfort. His hands clench by his side at the force he uses to not speak up.

The laughter dies down before abruptly stopping. Bill looks down at him, and tuts as his hands find Ford’s form again, one hand settling on his shoulder. The other begins to stroke his hair in a simulacrum of comfort.

“That two-bit twin hasn’t thought of you for ten years, Stanford,” Bill tells him. His voice is so gentle now, holding none of the amusement from before. It’s worse. “He doesn’t care that he left you alone. Trust me.”

Ford can’t meet his eye. His breath hitches, just for a moment, and Bill latches on.

“You’re much better off with that parasite, Ford, he only looks out for--”

“He’s not a parasite.”  

The outburst surprises both beings. It startles Bill into silence, his hand still from where it was petting Ford’s wild curls. It startles Ford into silence as well, stock-still and frightened. Ford recovers first, clamboring to regain his earlier composure. 

“I’m sorry, m-my muse, I-- I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“You don’t believe me?”

Shit. He’s done it now.

Bill’s angry, he knows. He’s not red at the edges, and his voice is still the same pitch. But he’s angry, and that means Ford made a mistake.

“It’s-- it’s not that, my muse,” he tries, repeating the moniker he knows Bill likes. He feels dirty for it, the praise mere manipulation instead of devotion. “It’s just that, he’s-- he’s my brother, and--”

“Ford.”

His teeth click with how hard he shuts his mouth. He stays resolutely quiet, forcing himself to make eye contact with Bill.

Bill drags on the silence, watching as Ford can barely suppress the urge to squirm and writhe under him. Ford desperately wants to break eye contact, to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, but he knows that would only make it worse. He’s made too many mistakes during this encounter. Bill will scold him like an unruly child, and then leave him to be alone again.

He feels tears nearly about to well up when Bill finally speaks again.

“I know I can’t ask it of you,” Bill sighs, heavy with something Ford can’t place. He feels small. “You simply can’t imagine it-- I get it. You’ve got this grand idea of your brother built up in your head, and you wanna stick with it. It’s almost admirable.”

His single eye squints down at him.

“ Almost, ” he repeats. “See, Sixer, I’m not telling you this because I think it’s funny. I’m telling you that Stanley doesn’t care about you because I do. I care about you, Stanford, and I’m the only one who does. 

“I mean,” he says with a hint of a chuckle. “Look at the hillbilly. You thought he was your friend, but he ditched as soon as things got ‘scary.’ What kind of a friend does that?”

Ford knows the question is rhetorical, and remains silent.

“What kind of brother,” Bill asks then, “betrays his twin, ruins his whole future, and runs away? Honestly, Sixer, I’m not even sure why you’re still entertaining the idea of him.”

Bill lets his words hang between them for a moment, lets them wriggle their way under Ford’s skin. 

“But,” he sighs again. “I’m not a dumb human. I know things like feelings can get in the way of intellect and reason.” His nails scratch lightly against Ford’s scalp, as if he was petting a puppy. “I can’t really hold that against you, can I?”

Ford doesn’t know what Bill wants to hear, so he does not open his mouth. He feels so small standing here being pet and admonished, coddled and chided. His muse does this often-- pointing out Ford’s human flaws like needing to eat and sleep, or the fact that emotions come hardwired in his brain. Always reminding him that he’s less than, that he will never be as perfect as Bill is.

“Tell ya what, Poindexter,” Bill says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I’ll give you the chance to see for yourself. How’s that?”

Under most circumstances, Ford is elated whenever Bill offers to share his vast knowledge with him. The proposition of an experience firsthand is something Ford always accepts with a bright smile. 

Now, his brow twists in confusion and worry. 

“H-how, my muse?” 

He wonders if it’ll be in his dreams, like most of Bill’s shared experiences. It’s certainly the easiest way, but requires him to be asleep for it. Other times, Bill digs around in his neurons until he can display a visual hallucination for Ford. That usually leaves his brain sore and aching, though. 

“I know where he is,” Bill says with a nonchalant shrug. “I can send you to him, and you two can work out the details from there.” 

Bill doesn't wait for Ford to agree or disagree, instead disappearing from in front of Ford in a blink. From inside his mind, Ford hears him say, I’ve just gotta go get a friend of mine to help us out. I’ll be right back!

.

His muse didn’t appear for the rest of the night. Ford had paced around the lab for about an hour before his knees began to shake. His mind was racing while he ate a small snack, and while he did menial chores around the house to pass the time. His skin itches with anticipation still, as he tries to settle in for the night.

He just needed to sleep, Ford tells himself. After he falls asleep, he can talk to Bill again. Maybe Bill will have more information about what his plan is, and Ford won’t feel so antsy about it. 

Exhausted, Ford lays down flat on his bed. He’s feeling much too claustrophobic to cover up with even the thinnest of his blankets, so he remains uncovered. He sets his glasses down on the nightstand, interlacing his fingers to rest them on his stomach. He feels ill, almost, and he convinces himself it’s not dread.

It happens almost without him noticing. If the sense activated was sight, the stimuli would be in his periphery.

As it were, he could feel something around him and in him shift in the far reaches of his perception. 

Startled, he opens his eyes and sits upright. He’s not met with the sight of his room, darkened and cool, but instead with a bustling, blurring, bright room. His heart rabbits in his chest as he sees giant legs move all around him, just barely avoiding kicking him where he sits on the ground. 

He hurries to his feet, and finds that he is still vastly overshadowed by the bodies around him. Their words and distant music make his head buzz with overstimulation. His hands find and cover his ears quickly, his eyes squinting against the bright lights and flashing colors. 

Ford’s eyes dart around his immediate space, desperate to find an escape or respite of sorts. He sees a wall and quickly maneuvers himself to press his back against it. His breath is ragged in his chest, lungs straining against the adrenaline pumping through his system.

He looks up and around, trying to make sense of the new scene.

There are human people as far as he can see, but they tower over him by at least a foot. They’re decked out in various clothes, glittering dresses and nicely pressed suits. The room has a high ceiling gilded with gold ornaments and velvet walls. He hears upbeat music only slightly louder than the other ambient noises: conversational talking, excited shouting, shuffling clicks, and dings of machines. 

When Ford looks to his right, he sees an opening in the wall. Hoping for an exit, he makes his way towards it, shuffling along the wall so he isn’t lost in the sea of legs. 

He feels small again, but in a different way than with Bill. His legs don’t carry him the same way, and his reach isn’t as long as he feels it should be.

It feels… wrong.

He reaches the hallway and is thankful to be away from the crowd, but disappointed that it is merely a hallway to a set of bathrooms. There is a mirror at the end of the velvet-lined hall, and he pauses.

Ford sees a ghost of himself, from many years ago. 

Curious and telling himself he is not afraid, he approaches the mirror. The ghost in the glass approaches as well, face twisted with panic.

He reaches out and touches the reflection with his six, small fingers. Against his mind screaming that it is not him, he knows, somehow, that it is. 

“Bill, what did you do?” he asks the mirror. His voice is not as deep as it was mere minutes ago, still light with youth. 

This is the only way I could think to show you, IQ, the voice in his head answers. Bill does not show himself. If he turned you away as an adult, you’d probably just chalk it up to the fight. We can’t have that, now can we?

Ford’s face in the mirror frowned in confusion. 

When he turns you away as a kid, Bill continues. Ford does not miss the way he emphasizes the first word. …you’ll realize he was never really with you. Not like I can be. 

“I don’t know if I want this,” Ford confesses to the reflection and the divine being in his mind. His fear turns the edge of his visions blurry and dark.

Don’t sweat it, Sixer! It’ll be over quickly. Just spend a few days with him, and you’ll see I was right all along. 

Before he can get anything else out, Bill speaks over him.

I’ve gotta go now. We still have a lot of planning to do before you open that portal. Gotta make sure everything’s perfect, right, Fordsy? He laughs, and Ford feels like he’s missing an important piece of the puzzle.

See you later, Sixer.

“Wait--” he cries, but it’s too late. He feels his muse’s presence dissipate from his consciousness, and he knows Bill is gone. 

He takes a shaky breath in, and is left alone yet again.

Ford meets his reflection and takes inventory. He’s not wearing the same clothes he wore to bed, instead donning clothes he remembers having when he was young. His hair is clean, albeit messy, and his glasses are the same from his childhood-- including tape around one of the arms, keeping the frames from falling off his face. 

He’s never really felt at home in his body, but now he feels like an unwanted guest.

He turns away from the mirror.

Okay, he thinks to himself. Bill was talking like Stanley is here. I just have to find him, explain what’s going on, and get home. 

A part of him knows it won’t be that simple. Even if Bill isn’t currently sitting right next to him in the mindscape, his muse is sure to be watching. Besides, Ford is supposed to be learning a lesson. Bill never lets him cheat his way out of learning a lesson. Never.

Dread settles deep in his gut, and he tries to push it down further. Whether he’s going to try to weasel his way out of this or stick it out for Bill’s sake (for his own sake. Bill wouldn’t do this to torture him, he’s trying to help him), he’d need to find his brother first. 

In this giant casino.

He could do that. 

No big deal.

He looks back out into the seas of bodies. He can’t even make out individual faces from his current vantage point.

… no big deal.

Mustering up any courage he could find in him, Ford looks around for something to climb on. There’s a bench about a dozen feet away, next to some slot machines. He pulls his arms close to his body and darts into the crowd, weaving between legs and praying to his muse he doesn’t get stepped on.

Thankfully, Bill must be listening because he makes it to the bench with no issue. He climbs up, and is just barely tall enough to peer over shoulders. He stands on the tips of his toes to get as high as he can. 

Ford strains where he is, looking for any sight of curly brown hair he can find. At least, he hopes Stan still has his brown hair. He never really seemed like the type to dye it, but he had shaved it quite frequently when they were teens. 

Something hollow empties out his chest. 

Was he really doing this?

He hasn’t seen Stanley in ten years. 

Stan hasn’t reached out in ten years. Ford didn’t have a choice in the matter, not knowing where he’d run off to after their Pa kicked him out of the house.

He’d tried, of course. He never found anything beyond a few courthouses with arrest warrants out. 

Stan Pines hadn’t been seen for the last seven years, though. There were no records anywhere.

At least with this, Ford had confirmation that he was alive. 

But what does that mean for him? 

That Stan has been alive this entire time, and has avoided Ford like the plague? 

Bill must be right, after all.

Of course he is, Ford is just being silly.

He’s being childish, holding on to youthful affection that has served him nothing. 

He’s an awful, selfish man, not believing his muse about something so important. For denying Bill, betraying him with his doubts.

He feels hollow inside.

Then, he hears a loud bark of laughter.

It’s warm, pleasant, and familiar. The triumphant sound lights something, long forgotten and covered in dust, deep inside his bones. Even though he cannot see Stan, not yet, he knows the laugh belongs to him.

It sounded like it came from his left, near the poker tables. Fingers curled into a tight fist, he hops down off the bench and weaves his way through the crowd, closer and closer to the voice he’s now zeroed in on. 

Stan is saying something, some loud joke that cracks his table mates up. He’s within Ford’s sight in moments, and Ford finds his feet frozen to the carpet. He hears murmurs around him, adults confused that a child is in the casino, and the bodies around him avoid knocking into him.

From here, he can watch Stan without being seen by the man. His brother is big and broad, long hair tied into a ponytail at the base of his neck. The smile across his face is as bright as his gaudy suit jacket, glittering under the lights of the casino. 

Stan throws his head back with laughter, movement a little clumsy and sluggish. His head lolls to one side, hands looking like cumbersome gloves where he holds his cards. Ford wonders, briefly, if he also looks so dopey when he’s drunk. Then, once Stan’s face returns to the table, he sees something too sharp in Stan’s eyes. 

He’s not drunk, Ford realizes as he watches Stan carefully watch the other players at the table. By all means, he seems drunk, complete with a martini glass at his elbow, words slurring, and weight propped on his arms. But when his gaze rolls over the table, his eyes are too clear to be anything but sober.

He’s tricking them.

And he’s doing it well, too. 

There is a hefty stack of chips by his side, and Ford would wager that it would equal a pretty penny. He’s… doing well, it seems. 

He’s not sure if he’s happy or hurt by the thought. 

“Is that a kid?” one of the men at the table asks, looking directly at Ford.

The table turns to face him, but Ford only has eyes for his brother. Stan turns his head at an odd angle, pretending that his head is too heavy, before the mask suddenly drops away. Ford watches as he sits up just a bit straighter, eyes clear and bright under his bangs.

He mouths something, too quiet for Ford to hear. 

“You know that kid, Hal?” a gambler asks. She’s looking between the two rapidly, piecing the dots together faster than Stan can.

When Stan does not answer, questions obvious in his eyes, Ford steps forward and answers her.

“He’s my brother,” he says easily. Ford hopes Stan doesn’t notice how close he doesn’t get, still several steps away from him.

There’s a few teasing jabs and coos thrown Stan’s way, but the man doesn’t seem to notice. He’s scrutinizing Ford, nearly scowling until Ford raises his hand and wiggles his six fingers at him in a wave. Almost imperceptively, Stan’s eyes widen.

As fast as it fell, the mask slips back on and he turns to the woman. He gestures to Ford and leans into her, speaking low as if sharing a secret.

“So I’m not hallucinating?” he asks, a grin settling across his face like it belongs there. “You see ‘im too?” 

“Sounds like someone’s in trouble, boys,” she grins back, blinking blearily through her own drunken haze. She wiggles her eyebrows at Stan and tips the rest of her drink back. “Looks like I might win the night after all!” 

A man across the table jeers, spilling his drink as he leans to clap a hand on Stan’s shoulder. Ford pretends he doesn’t bristle at the sight.

“C’mon,” he slurs, jostling Stan far too roughly. “One more round ‘fore you call it quits, eh, Hal?”

Why are they calling him Hal?

“Nah,” Stan laughs low in his throat, shrugging the man’s hand off. When the stranger protests, he doubles down. “See, especially since you’re puttin’ up a fight! I bet you’ve got somethin’ up your sleeve, and I don’t wanna find out what. I’m tappin’ out.” 

The table erupts with boos and protests, and Ford wonders if Stan knows these people outside of the casino. Or, if he’s really that good at making friends now. He watches as his brother stands and pulls his chips towards him, scooping them up to go cash out. 

“Come on then, kid,” he mutters Ford’s way, ushering him away from the table. Ford doesn’t miss the way his hand, though hovering over his shoulder to protect him from the busy crowd, does not touch him.

They quickly cash out Stan’s winnings, Ford’s nerves slowly mounting to a peak the longer they don’t talk. It’s not until they’re outside in the cooling, humid summer air that Stan turns to him.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Ford fidgets with his hands as his brother, towering over him, simply stares at him. All pretense of being drunk is long gone, Stan’s eyes clear and sharp. 

“What… How are you here?” he finally splutters out. “What-- why are you-- how are-- what’s going on?” 

Two choices lay before him, now. He could either tell Stan a semblance of the truth, that he’s still an adult and just in a puppet body to obtain information. Or, he could play along with Bill’s plan and be a spy, of sorts. 

There’s one option he wants to do significantly less, even if it’ll mean he’s not in trouble with his muse.

He hates being in trouble with Bill, though. Even just the thought...

Ford panics.

“I’m… I’m not sure,” he tells his twin. “I went to bed, at home, and then I woke up on the floor of the casino. I’m meant to find you.”

He waits for Stan to say something, nerves alight with the idea of Bill being upset with him.

He’s already made his muse so angry in the past few days, has already made too many mistakes since Fiddleford left. 

Stan remains silent, and his anxiety spills out of his lips.

“There was a being,” he starts in a rush, “H-he said that I needed to see you. That I needed to learn…”

He trails off, not sure what lie he needs to spin. He’s not sure he can fabricate a proper lie and have Stan not immediately see through it. Stan has always been able to see through his lies, and he hopes the same isn’t true now.

Thankfully, his brother does not question him.

He’s different than before, less confident and smiley. Stan’s face is soft with concern as he kneels on the uneven pavement, warm hands finding Ford’s shoulders. 

“Hey, hey,” he’s saying. His voice is rougher than when Ford last heard it, so many years ago, but it carries a certain light lilt to it now. “It’s alright, take a deep breath. We’ll figure it out, huh? Why, uh-- why don’t we head back to my motel room, and you can tell me what happened when you’re ready? How’s that?”

Something in Ford pulls him towards his brother, and he wants nothing more than to snip it in two with scissors. He wants to bury his desire to find comfort in his twin six feet under the ground, and pour cement over top so he never has to face it again.

In the back of his mind, Bill is chiding him for being too sentimental. 

But, he supposes, Bill’s lessons are never easy on him.

He nods his head, and Stan leads him to his car. It’s the same car he left with, for worse or for better. It beeps twice as it unlocks, and Ford is ushered into the passenger seat. 

With the click of the door’s latch, Ford feels his fate for the next few days sliding into place.

Oh, how he hopes he won’t regret this.

Chapter Text

The car is silent on the way to the motel. The brakes squeal, just a small bit, as they pull to a stop in the parking lot. Ford’s skinny leg has not stopped tapping the entire time, even though he could barely reach the floorboard. 

Stan wordlessly puts the car in park and sits there for a moment. Ford feels eyes on him in the dark, but does not look over at his brother. His eyes remain forward even as Stan pulls something out of his wallet and stuffs it somewhere above him.

Stan clears his throat, and says, “We’re, uh… we’re here.”

Ford expected nothing in particular, so it's surprising that he’s disappointed in the choice of motel. It’s an old building, decay and nature taking over most of the walls. As they walk in, he notices the door hinges are more rust than metal. 

He does not miss how Stan triple-checks the surroundings before he closes the door, and pulls against the locks before turning away from the door. He flips on the lights, and the two finally face each other.

Ford refuses to speak first, and remains silent. His fingers fiddle together in front of him. His brother looks just as uncomfortable, his hand running through his hair nervously.

“So… do you… wanna tell me what’s going on? A-at least, what you know.” 

It’s very tempting to deny everything, to tell Stan he’s just as lost as him. With that thought, however, something ugly settles in his gut. He doesn’t like the idea of lying to his brother, beyond what he’s already done. He never has liked lying to him.

“I…” he says weakly, breaking eye contact. “I… talked to someone named Bill. He said he wanted to show me something… about you.”

There. That’s not a lie, and it should still allow Bill’s wishes to play out. He could pretend that he doesn’t know what Stan did, like Bill wants him to. His muse said that Stan would react poorly if their last interaction was the fight, so… he would simply pretend that it wasn’t the last time he saw his brother. 

That should be easy enough, right?

When he looks back at Stan, his resolve is incredibly fragile. The man is not looking at him, something heavy in his eyes as his hand covers the lower half of his face. His other hand is on his elbow, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm. When he looks closely, Ford thinks he sees his fingers trembling. 

He tells himself he imagines it.

“Did he, uh,” Stan tries. Ford cannot tell himself he does not hear how shaky his voice is. Instead, he tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. “Did he say what he… wanted you to see?” 

Something deep in his chest aches. It’s similar to how he feels after upsetting Bill enough that he’s ignored for months on end, hollow and empty. It’s just different enough that he doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Just… how you live now, I guess?” he offers quietly. He feels as if he’s treading on dangerous territory.

He’s suddenly struck with the realization that he doesn’t know the man in front of him.

It’s his brother, sure, but they haven’t spoken in ten years. Ford knows he’s changed so much since he was seventeen, he can’t even fathom what changes Stan might have gone through. He’s already seen how much more charismatic the man is, smiling and interacting with others like it was his first nature.

What else was new in Stanley? 

He liked to gamble, even though it was risky. How many other risky things did Stan get up to?

Would his anger still be present? His mouth always ran before his brain did-- would he snap at Ford if he said the wrong thing? 

It solidifies in Ford that he cannot let Stan know that he remembers everything. 

The anger in his voice from that night echoes in his ears. He doesn’t think he can be on the receiving end of that anger again. Not when his relationship with Bill is so rocky right now.

Across from him, Stan makes a choked sound. He brushes it off quickly, smoothing his hands down the side of his hips. They must be sweaty. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” his twin huffs out. “Is there, uh… Like, an end goal?”

Something in Ford twinges at the question. He already wants to get rid of me.

He doesn’t know if Bill laughs somewhere in the back of his skull, or if he’s imagining it. 

Stan continues.

“I just, uh… well, my lifestyle ain’t really… y’know, good for kids,” he rambles. “I travel, y’know, and there’s a lot of… unhealthy food and bad motels.”

His words do not soothe the sparking in Ford’s veins. He feels, not for the first time, distinctly unwanted where he stands. His hands clench by his sides.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. Bill did not tell him how long this lesson would last, how long it needed to last. 

He hopes it does not last long. 

“Okay, well, uh… where is this Bill guy? Can you ask him?” 

Ford is shaking his head before he fully registers the question. He’s not sure why, but he begins to speak before he can think too hard about it.

“I only see him in my dreams,” he tells his brother. It is not a lie.

He watches as Stan softens. The clock in the hotel room ticks quietly in the silence, allowing both of them to process the conversation on their own. 

Ford desperately wants to run to a bed and fall asleep. It is not a common desire for him, only showing up whenever he craves comfort from his muse.

Would Bill even be there in his dreams?

A knock at the door jolts both Pines out of their thoughts. A glance at the clock tells Ford it is nearly 1 AM-- who would be knocking on Stan’s door at this time? 

He does not get an answer in the way of words, as Stan quickly grabs his shoulders and steers him into the bathroom. Ford’s mouth uselessly moves around lost questions as Stan leans into his space. His brother pulls his wallet out, and shoves several bills into Ford’s hands.

“Be quiet,” Stan instructs quietly. Any shakiness in his voice is now gone, replaced with a firm gravitas. “Lock the door. Do not come out under any circumstances.”

He closes the door before Ford can demand any answers. Ford is left there, sputtering to himself in the dark bathroom. Nonetheless, his fingers find the lock and click it shut.

Waiting a moment, he hears Stan begin to unlock the front door. Ford presses against the door to peer through the crack. To his luck, the door is not properly aligned and there is quite a sizable gap between the frame and the door. He can see the majority of the scene as it unfolds.

The door squeaks as it swings open, Stan’s bulk blocking whoever is on the other end. Stan does not open the door more than halfway, a foot behind it to block it from opening further.

“Hey there, Lee,” the stranger greets. It’s a man, his tone light and friendly.

Ford’s skin crawls, and is unsure why until it clicks-- the man’s tone reminds him of Bill’s. It’s the wrong cadence and pitch, but the personality behind it is similar, even with how little he's said. 

He tells his nerves to settle down.

“Hey, Eddie,” Stan says. He speaks flatly, clearly uninterested in whatever this man has to say. Were they friends? 

“Heard you got lucky at the casino tonight,” the stranger-- Eddie-- says. His voice remains low, almost a purr. “Came to get my cut.”

His cut?

Stan grumbles something, and Ford expects him to come up with a witty remark. Maybe tell the guy to get lost. Stanley never was good at sharing.

To his surprise, Stan reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet for the third time that night. His head is low, ducked underneath the man’s gaze. From Ford’s view, he can barely see the top of the guy’s head. He must be taller than Stan.

“There we go,” he encourages. Ford can hear the slimy smile in his voice. 

He watches as Stan hands over a large wad of cash. He does not speak as the man counts the bills for several seconds, before tutting his tongue disappointedly.

“Now, Lee,” Eddie chides playfully. “I heard how much you won. This is barely enough.”

Ford’s hands itch with something wild as he watches Eddie reach out and pat Stan’s cheek once, twice, thrice before resting it on the back of his neck. He wants to knock the hand off and pull it until it disconnects at the wrist.

“Yeah, well, thought I’d do myself a favor and buy a few more nights in this shithole,” Stan says easily. “So, that’s what I got.”

Eddie sucks at his teeth, the sound dripping with condescension. Ford’s knuckles itch to knock his teeth out. 

What is with me tonight?

“That’s not gonna be good enough, Lee. You owe us a lot,” he says. “Rico’s been more than lenient.”

The tension is so thick in the air that Ford nearly chokes on it. His skin feels tight, stretched across his bones uncomfortably as he waits. His hand clenches around the bills that Stan gave him.

Slowly, moving too sharp to be anything but passive aggressive, Stan begins to dig more money out of his wallet. Ford has to bite back a shout when Eddie snatches his wallet out of his hand. 

The man pulls more than half of the remaining money out of Stan’s wallet before tossing the thing at Stan’s feet. He counts the bills, slowly, almost as if he were teasing his brother. He wants to make Eddie bleed.

“C’mon,” he hears Stan say quietly. His voice is soft, pleading. “I gotta eat at some point, Eddie.”

The sound Eddie makes is hard to describe, but it sends Ford’s stomach twisting with something akin to fury. What was this man doing that made Ford so angry? 

“You could always do a job for us,” Eddie offers, cloyingly sweet. His hand raises again, twirling a lock of Stan’s hair between his fingers. “Or do some work for me. ” 

Stan finally snaps then, knocking the man’s hand away from his face. Ford wonders if he’d step back, if only it wouldn’t allow Eddie a chance to enter the motel room. As it were, Stan resolutely stands still. 

“Not a chance,” he growls. 

“You sure, princess?” Eddie continues, unphased. “You said it yourself. Gotta eat at some point.” 

Ford watches as Stan leans closer, voice almost too low for him to hear.

“This place has got free breakfast. I’ll be fine.” When Eddie didn’t have an immediate comeback, he spits out, “Now leave. You got what you came for.”

Ford can see Eddie’s mouth move, but can’t hear what he says. He feels his brow tighten when he sees the smarmy smirk across his face, and worries that they’ll be able to sense the boiling agitation coming off him from where they stand. 

He swears he sees Eddie kiss Stan’s cheek, but somehow convinces himself it was a trick of the eye. Still, he promises himself that he’ll find a way to free this man from the burden of having hands, if they ever cross paths again.

His nerves do not settle down once the door is shut, locked, and a chair is stuffed under the door handle. Ford quickly glances in the mirror and he can see how red his face is, both his brow and jaw set in hard lines. 

There is a quiet knock on the bathroom door.

“Hey, Stanford,” Stan quietly says through the door. “You can, uh… You can come out now. Sorry about that.” 

His feet do not move for several moments, letting the silence hang in the dark bathroom. Blood continues to pound in his ears, anger simmering only just under his skin. He closes his eyes, willing his breathing to even out.

“Ford?” 

Stan looks worried when he finally opens the door. Ford wordlessly holds out the crumpled bills over to him, but Stan doesn’t seem to notice. Brown eyes are carefully cataloging his face, instead.

“You okay?” he asks gently. 

Ford isn’t sure what to say. He feels like he’s losing a game of chess, several moves behind his opponent. 

He doesn’t know what to think. About Stan’s question. About what just happened. About being here.

He doesn’t want to think anymore.

“I’m tired,” he says simply. He drops his gaze from Stan’s face, crossing his arms to shield himself off from his brother. “I want to go to bed.” 

“R-right,” Stan sighs. Something in his tone, heavy and raw, settles uncomfortably in Ford’s gut. He chooses not to analyze it. “You can, uh, take the bed. I’ll take the floor.”

His mind continues to race as the two move in silence. Stan takes the money back with no words, securing the cash in various places-- some in his wallet, some in his boot, and some in the inner lining of his jacket. If it were not for the interaction he just witnessed, Ford would wonder why he needed so many hiding places. 

Stan shuts the bathroom door to change out of his fancier clothes, leaving Ford alone with his thoughts for a few minutes. To his detriment, his heart has not calmed down. His fingers twitch where they lay in his lap, and his tongue is thick in his mouth.

Ford remains confused about his reactions to Eddie. Clearly, Stan was an adult man and could handle himself. Ford knew this-- so why did he get so protective of him? 

Was it even a feeling of protectiveness, or was it something else? Surely he’s not jealous, and the hair on his arm still raises whenever he imagines Eddie’s face or voice. He hasn't seen Stan in years, either, why would he get protective?

Maybe it’s something else entirely, he tells himself. He has no reason to be jealous, and Stan doesn’t need his protection. It must be something new or misplaced. Perhaps he’s just tired, too wrung out from too little sleep over the past several days. 

And whose fault is that? a voice asks him, from the back recesses of his mind. It presents Bill as a culprit, bitter that his muse had pushed him so hard for far too long.

He immediately feels like a traitor, shame flushing his cheeks. A frustrated grunt crosses his lips, and Ford distracts himself by crawling under the covers. Glasses are hastily thrown onto the bedside table before he all but shoves his face into the lumpy pillow. It smells too much like smoke and cheap shampoo to be pleasant, and he focuses on it to not spiral into his mind.

Ford is not facing the bathroom door when it swings open. He hears Stan’s footsteps pause before the man calls out softly.

“Are you asleep?” 

If I was, I wouldn’t answer you, Ford thinks childishly. He closes his eyes, forcing his face to relax to mimic sleep. He feels young again, pretending to be asleep after Ma or Shermie comes in to check on the twins, while he secretly hides a book and flashlight under his covers.

Stan sighs, mumbles something, and moves to turn off the lights. Something in Ford tightens once the lights are off, but he does not move.

He listens carefully as Stan shuffles around, imagining what he’s doing based on the sound alone. He does not want to be alone with his thoughts anymore.

He pictures Stan checking the peephole again, jiggling the door to ensure the lock will hold. He imagines him laying a blanket on the floor, pausing only to move his duffle bag out of the way. He takes his shoes off next, placing them quietly next to Ford’s by the door. 

It doesn’t take long before he hears Stan settle on the floor. He wonders if Stan still pulls the blankets up to his chin, worried about pretend monsters biting any exposed limbs off. 

Ford pangs, slightly, when he wonders how many childish beliefs Stan might still have.

They were seventeen the last time they saw each other. Ford thinks they were too old to be considered children, but he would admit that he still had some childish beliefs at that age. He didn’t unpack a few of these beliefs until college, when he and Fiddleford would laugh about certain folktales they’d heard growing up or what lies their older siblings told them. 

He wonders if Stan still believes in cryptic creatures. They had seen the Jersey Devil in the flesh as children, but Stan had been quick to write it off as a teenager. He’d told Ford it was just their imagination, back when Ford had brought it up. 

Would he still believe that, if they encountered it again? Would he be swayed if he knew the kind of creatures that inhabited the forest around Gravity Falls? 

Stan had never been religious like their Pa or spiritual like their Ma. Ford couldn’t say he was, either, but Bill had changed that. Once he had definitive proof of a divine being, he changed his tune rather quickly. It probably helped that said being took quite an interest in him.

Would Stan be the same? Would he also want to talk to his muse, start to believe in some cosmic power?

The thought of Bill and Stan connecting to each other sends a thrill of something cold up Ford’s spine. His hands clutch at the sheets as his nerves light up. 

What was that?

It feels similar to how he felt when Eddie had reached out to touch Stan. Cold and hard, pressing ruthlessly against his insides and screaming something loud and indecipherable. 

No, not indecipherable. He could decode and understand nearly anything. 

He didn’t want to understand this, though. Something about processing this feeling made red warning signs flare up, alerting him to the danger behind it. 

Just from simply thinking of Bill and Stan together? 

Surely there’d be no danger to that. They weren’t dangerous people, they’d have no reason to pose a threat to each other.

Well…

Ford supposes he couldn’t say that. It feels wrong, somehow, like when he’s looking at an equation he made a mistake in somewhere. Incorrect, but he doesn’t know how.

Would Bill--

No.

Not Bill.

Bill wasn’t dangerous. 

He wasn’t.

So, by process of elimination, he’s worried about Stan being dangerous.

It makes sense, he reasons. He hasn’t seen his brother in a decade, and he’s already shown to be a little… riskier than before. With gambling and whatever business he has with that Eddie character.

That must be it, he decides. He’s simply looking out for Bill. He doesn’t want Stan to lose his cool and blow up on his muse, is all. 

Not that Bill couldn’t handle himself, of course. 

(He resolutely ignores the trail of dread that thought starts to inspire.)

Stan was the wild card in this situation, and that’s what has Ford so on edge. Bill shouldn’t have to face danger or dissent. He was a divine being, a muse, and Ford shouldn’t inconvenience him like that. 

He knows this, deep inside, and that’s why he’s so uncomfortable with the thought of the two meeting.

That’s all this is.

That must be all this is.

Sleep does not come easy for Ford.

Chapter Text

When he finally manages to fall asleep, Ford immediately wakes up in his mindscape. It is not an unfamiliar sight, but it feels… different. Emptier, somehow.

He sits up and looks down at his hands-- they are large and calloused from years of use. He stands, and is thankful that he is returned to his adult height. Here, it seems, he can remain an adult. 

Ford looks around his mindscape for any sign of his muse. It’s not unheard of for him to be here without Bill present, but it’s rare. He’s hoping, deeply and truly, that he will be able to see Bill tonight.

He does not get an answer for what feels like hours. Resignation begins to settle over him as time drags on without an appearance from his muse. Ford has nothing to do but think, but his line of thought is too jumbled to get anything productive out of it. 

It’s not until a small seed of loneliness begins to take root in his ribcage that Bill’s voice sounds throughout the space.

“Sorry for the holdup, IQ!” his muse greets. Ford cannot hide the way he immediately perks up in his presence. He hopes Bill does not call him pitiful for it, again. 

“You fell asleep so early today! How am I supposed to be on time when you keep changing it up on me?”

“S-sorry, my muse,” Ford mutters, cheeks flushing a bit. He’s never really had a consistent schedule, but that’s hardly a topic of conversation. There are much more pressing matters to attend to.

Bill must agree, because he asks in a lilting tone, “Sooo, how’d it gooo?” 

Ford had prepared himself for this question, but all previous answers seem to slip away from him. His thoughts are too tangled. A phantom feeling of rejection chills his neck.

“...not well,” he admits openly. Bill would be able to tell if he were dishonest, so there is no use in trying to downplay it. “I… think he already wants me gone.”

Despite Ford’s tone being downcast and heavy, Bill’s response is nothing short of elated . He cackles and throws himself back, twisting in the air playfully. 

“See, what’d I tell ya?” Bill asks brightly. His eye curves in what Ford has come to recognize as a grin. “That didn’t take very long at all. Man, he must really not want to see you!” 

Ford’s gaze drops sharply, shame spiking in his chest. He should have expected his muse to be so blunt, but… it hurts. He cannot lie to himself and say that it doesn’t. 

His arms cross protectively over his chest, as if that will keep Bill from seeing how raw he is.

“So now that that’s settled, why don’t we leave him in the dust and get on our way? Huh, Fordsy?” 

Ford watches as Bill extends a hand toward him, offering a way out of this ordeal, offering him a way home to his isolated cabin... where he’ll have nobody to talk to. 

Not until Bill comes over, he reminds himself. That’s the whole reason for the portal. To bring Bill here. To Ford.

But...

Would Bill choose to stay with him?

Stanley and Fiddleford didn’t choose to stay. Why would Bill?

He aches.

Bill grows impatient.

“It’ll be easy, Sixer,” he pushes, drawing in closer to Ford. “Just abandon your brother like he did to you, and we can go back to Gravity Falls. That’s what you want, right?”

There is a tonal shift at the end of Bill’s question that Ford does not miss.

Is this what he wants, though?

He certainly does wish to return to Gravity Falls, he cannot deny that. He yearns for the familiarity of his cabin.

He also yearns for his brother.

He feels dirty for doing so, as if it is the deepest type of betrayal. He’s betrayed Bill and, by proxy, himself.

He hesitates for too long. Bill drops his hand, and the facsimile of a smile is gone from his face. 

“I see,” he says plainly. He's disappointed.

Ford has the distinct realization that he has made a mistake. He turns cold all over, and forces himself not to squirm in place.

“Well, if you still need time to admit that you were wrong and I was right,” his muse continues harshly, “then I can be gracious enough to give that to you.”

There is silence, heavy and waiting, and Bill leans closer to him. 

(Ford tells himself that he does not want to lean away from him. That would be silly.)

“What do you say, Ford?” he prompts, clearly searching for something.

It dawns on him that Bill is offering him something, reaching out with a generous hand. He stumbles over it but manages to get out, “Thank you, my muse.” He ignores how shaky his voice is, how his lips tremble around the words.

Bill observes him for a few moments and they feel like eternities. Ford remains still, unwilling to break away and show weakness. His heart is fluttering inside his chest.

He cannot find it in himself to relax when his muse reaches out to him, hand finding his cheek. It is gentle, Bill’s thumb softly brushing against his skin, and Ford feels awful. 

How lucky must he be, for having such a forgiving and kind muse?

He does not deserve it.

Ford prepares himself for a lecture or admonishment, something that will let him know that Bill sees how ugly and imperfect he is inside.

Bill does not say anything when he leaves. 

That is almost worse.

.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. The lights remain off, the only light coming through the window. He hears the shower running.

His hands are buzzing, fingers numb, when he sits up. His lungs ache for air as if he’d been deprived of it in his sleep. 

Ford tells himself to get a grip.

The shower squeaks off and he hears the slide of the curtain. Stan will likely step out soon, and Ford will have to continue this charade. 

Leftover shame from his conversation with Bill remains wedged in his throat. 

His feet are light when they land on the carpeted floor. He quickly pulls his shoes on and decides that the sooner they leave this hotel room, the better. Ford can almost smell the man from last night, all cigars and gasoline.

Stan steps out of the bathroom, wearing what looks like dirty clothes. There’s a stain on the front of his white tee shirt and mud on the bottom of his jeans. Ford forgets to hide his staring.

“I, uh, don’t have a change of clothes for you,” Stan says bashfully. “You gonna be okay in those for now?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ford asks. He’s no stranger to wearing old clothes-- changing clothes once a day is so inefficient. If Fiddleford didn’t complain, he’d wear the same clothes until they fell apart. 

The look Stan gives him is… odd. There’s no other word for it. His brow twitches down and his lips do a weird curl, but the expression is gone as soon as Ford notices it. 

“Right… Well, there should be breakfast in the main building,” Stan says as he shoves his sweatpants from last night into a duffel bag. “We can grab something to eat, maybe a bit more for the road.”

He pauses, then, and turns to face Ford.

“Did you… talk to Bill?” 

It touches a raw nerve, and Ford tries his best not to flinch. He turns his face to his shoes as he ties the laces together.

“Yeah,” he tells his brother. He knows Stan will ask what they talked about. “He said I still haven’t learned anything, so… it might be a few more days.”

He doesn’t know why he’s being so candid with Stan. Old habits, perhaps.

Ford doesn’t like it being left so open-ended, though. He wonders if there’s anything he can do to speed this up.

An idea flashes.

“He said you’ve gotta take me to Gravity Falls, Oregon,” he says. 

Maybe-- just maybe -- getting closer to where Bill “is” (metaphorically speaking), Ford can prove that he is still loyal to him. Even if Stan is the one to take him, it’ll be a show that Ford wants to be with Bill. 

He hopes it’s enough.

“Oregon?” Stan asks, voice cracking in disbelief. “That’s on the opposite side of the country, it’ll take us a few days.” 

His words sting. 

Ford ignores it.

“It’ll be a few days anyway,” he reasons. “But that’s where I live now. I guess.”

Stan does not reply. Ford watches as he stares at nothing, getting lost in his thoughts. He notices that Stan still chews on his bottom lip when he’s thinking. He must be doing mental math, too, if the way his fingers flick in the air still means the same. 

“Okay,” he eventually sighs. “Okay. I bet I could do that. I can get you there.”

Ford has a distinct feeling that this was too easy. He was expecting more of a push or some passive-aggressive comment that would spear him through the chest. For Stan to agree to this without either seems weird.

He suddenly feels nauseous, and his stomach growls loudly.

Stan chuckles from across the room, and Ford wants to hear him do it again.

“Breakfast first, then?”

.

The main building is nothing more than two offices, a front desk, and a large area where food has been set up. It doesn’t smell particularly appetizing, the scents of scrambled eggs, cheap over-brewed coffee, and body odor mixing. 

Still, Stan pushes Ford to fill a plate. He notices Stan grabs two plates, but does not mention it. He focuses on finding the morsels of food that seem most edible, settling on a few slices of buttered toast. The eggs are too yellow, with specks of something black throughout. Ford doubts it’s pepper.

When he goes to reach for a coffee mug, Stan’s hand stops him.

“Woah there, kiddo,” he laughs warmly. “We’ll be in the car for a while. Maybe don’t fill up on coffee.”

Ford hates it when he’s denied coffee. Fiddleford had learned that very quickly, even if the man still disabled the pot after Ford’s third time refilling it. He almost bites an angry remark out, but holds his tongue. Looking at Stan’s hand vastly overshadowing his own, he reminds himself that he’s supposed to be a child. 

“Uh… good idea,” he says instead. 

He waits for Stan to turn around before filling a mug and quickly downing it. 

It’s too hot to do anything but burn his mouth, but he doesn’t mind. He finds a table to sit at, unsurprised to find it uneven on its legs. He’s halfway through his toast when Stan approaches him again, adjusting his jacket over his hip.

“Alright, c’mon,” Stan urges. “That’s finger foods, you can eat it in the car.”

Ford blinks in surprise but is spurred into action before he can argue. He’s distantly reminded of the times Stan would suddenly pull him into his shenanigans-- Ford always follows immediately, only asking questions later.

It seems to be a similar situation. Once they’re back in the motel room, Stan pulls a paper sack from under his jacket. It looks full.

“What is that?” Ford asks plainly, staring at the sack. A small grease spot is starting to stain the bottom.

“Extra food,” his brother answers. “Nothing that’ll go bad quickly, don’t worry. I nabbed some biscuits, some toast, a few jelly packets, and one of the good apples.”

Ford stares up at his brother, wholly unimpressed. Stan looks back, expression completely free of any shame. He even winks, causing Ford to roll his eyes.

He’s suddenly reminded of Stan’s wallet. Or, more specifically, the cash that had been stolen from it. Ford tries to remember what types of bills and how many Stan tucked away, but he can’t recall anything solid. He also can’t remember how many credit or bank cards he’d seen.

His stomach feels funny when he wonders if that’s all the money Stan has. If Stan has to sneak his food often… or how often he goes hungry.

Stan shoulders his duffel bag and nods at the door.

“You ready?” he asks, unaware of how uneasy Ford feels.

Ford nods, and the two get packed away in Stan’s car. Stan has a right mess in the back seats, tossing his duffel bag to add to it. As it did last night, it smells faintly of cigarette smoke. Ford is briefly reminded of Fiddleford’s truck before he pushes the memories aside.

“So where are we anyway?” he asks as his brother starts the car. 

Stan answers as he begins to pull the car out of the parking lot. “Texas.”

Ford looks at him then, curiosity worming its way into him. “What are you doing down in Texas?”

His brother doesn’t say anything immediately. His hands flex on the steering wheel before he opens his mouth. 

“ Up in Texas, actually. I was in South America before this.” 

“You have a passport?” Ford isn’t sure why that’s the first question that came out, but whatever.

“Technically, I don’t,” Stan says, smiling something conspiratorial. 

Ford recalls the odd name from the gamblers last night and the various arrest warrants for Stanley Pines.

“Does… Hal have a passport?” 

Stan’s hands tighten for a moment, before he relaxes and chuckles. “Oh, right, I was Hal last night. Yeah, I have a passport under that name.”

He also recalls what Eddie called him last night. He’d been calling him Lee, a common nickname from their childhood. 

“Who was that man?” he asks suddenly. He feels a bit silly-- he’d wanted to ask how Eddie had found Stan if he was using a different name. Why wasn't his mouth cooperating?

“Carl? Not sure, met him last night. Seems like a friendly guy.”

Ford knows, simply by looking at Stan’s face, that he’s avoiding the question he knows Ford asked. He turns to face him more fully, hiking his leg up on the bench seat.

“Eddie,” he says simply. His tone is firm.

(Possibly too firm for how old he’s supposed to be, but it’s not like they were ever in a situation like this to compare it to.)

“Ah, him,” Stan stalls for time. He clears his throat and adjusts in his seat. “You could say he’s a boss of mine. Not the big boss, mind you, more like… a manager or a supervisor. A bad one, at that.”

The laugh that comes out of his mouth scrapes against Ford’s nerves. It’s not sincere, and Ford wonders what sort of darkness lingers underneath it. 

“Why’d he take your money?” He hopes Stan will forgive his prying-- he was always a curious child.

His fingers begin to tap on the steering wheel. Ford catalogs it as a new nervous tick of his to look out for. When he looks at Stan’s face, however, the previous nervous tick of scrunching his nose is gone. 

(When he looks at his face closely, he thinks he can see the faded lines of scars. He doesn’t want to.)

“Like I said, I work for him. They helped me get back to Texas, so… I owe some money.”

Ford knows that it’s not the whole truth. He doesn’t need to know Stan’s nervous ticks to see that. 

“I don’t like him,” he says, surprising himself. 

The bark of laughter Stan lets out surprises him too.

“No, I don’t either. He’s an assho-- uh, a jerk.” 

Ford lets that hang in the air for a bit, before something else clicks. His eyebrows furrow when he asks, “Wait, he helped you get back up from South America? Did he follow you?”

Now, Stan seems to be surprised. He glances at Ford.

“Oh, uh. No, probably not me specifically. I’ve been in the area for a few weeks, probably heard that I was here and was nearby.”

“Only a few weeks?”

“ Only?” He laughs again. “That’s a pretty long time for someone like me, bud.”

Ford’s gut feels uneasy and bad. He doesn’t like it.

“Ten years is a long time, Stanley. Not a few weeks,” he lectures. 

Is this what Stan’s life was like now? Constantly moving from hotel to hotel, waiting for some asshole to show up and take his money?

Why did that make him so upset?

Ford doesn’t listen to Stan’s reply, if he has one.

Why would he be doing this? Does he like this kind of life?

Surely that must be it, Ford tells himself. He wouldn’t be doing it otherwise-- Stan never liked doing things he didn’t want to do. 

He also hadn’t been the type to not call his family every once in a while. The last time Ford spoke to their Ma, she hadn’t heard anything from him in years. 

(He used to be jealous that Stan would occasionally call the home phone. He’d talk to Ma only, quickly hanging up if Shermie tried to talk to him.)

(Pa never tried to talk to Stan.)

(Ford never got the chance to try.)

His unease quickly turns to bitterness. 

Stan was so busy running around, gambling and getting mixed up with assholes, that he completely forgot his family. There was no other explanation. 

This must be what Bill wanted him to see.

What Bill thinks will finally allow Ford to let Stan go. 

Ford’s cheeks and eyes burn hot. 

He does not speak to Stan until they stop a few hours later.

Chapter Text

Stan hadn’t needed to stop and look at a map before deciding what route to take to Oregon. Ford wonders how often he’s traveled the interstate system through the years to obtain this level of confidence. He wasn’t much of a traveler himself, frequently becoming too overwhelmed and overstimulated by travel. The planning, the packing, and the going; none of it was desirable to Ford.

When he thinks back, Stan had always been more adaptable than him. On the rare road trips their parents would take them on, Stan was never bored. Whether it was comic books, talking until Pa told him to shut up, or playing games with Ford, he was always doing something. Once reaching their destination, he was quick to find the best places to have fun. 

He thrived on it. 

Ford tells himself that’s why Stan moves around so much now. That the man didn’t stay in one place because he didn’t like it-- he was an adventurer, filled with wanderlust and a hefty desire to see the world.

Even if the world was comprised of run-down motels, old clothes, and stolen food.

The view outside of the car window was nice, he admits. His chin is propped up in his hand, elbow resting on the door, watching as green whizzes by. Texas had more trees than he thought it would. 

As time goes on, however, everything becomes less enticing. His bones begin to buzz under his skin, and tapping his foot rapidly does nothing to help. His thoughts race faster than usual, screaming too loud inside the confines of his head.

When Stan asks him a question, his head shoots around fast enough to make his neck sore. His glasses slide down his nose from the sudden movement.

“What’d you say?” he asks, the words coming too quickly out of his mouth. His heart rate is rabbiting in his chest, fast enough for Ford to feel it.

Stan bites his lip for a long second, cheeks straining with something, before his expression returns to neutral. 

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” he repeats. 

“No,” Ford answers without thinking. “I’d tell you if I did.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t go when before we left,” Stan reasons. “I didn’t think about it until now.”

“I’m fine,” Ford insists. 

Stan glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Really? You always have to pee when you first wake up.”

“I--” he stops himself. He thinks back in time and realizes Stan is right. Even if he would use the bathroom right before bed, he would wake up with a full bladder. It wasn’t until he lived on his own that the habit stopped.

Still, he’d know if he had to use the toilet. He’s not actually a child.

“There’s a gas station on up here,” Stan tells him, voice warm and patient. “I’ve gotta go anyway, so we’d be stopping regardless.” 

It took only ten minutes before Stan was parked at a gas station convenience store. Ford’s leg had not stopped bouncing the entire time, nor had his heart settled.

The trip inside does nothing but annoy Ford. Stan had insisted he went first, despite Ford telling him he didn’t need to go.

At least, he didn’t think he did. To put it lightly, he has much more liquid in him than he thought. He comes out grumbling, not looking at the grin he knows is on Stan’s face. He can’t block out the light chuckle his brother gives, though.

“Why don’t you pick out a snack for the road, huh? I think I saw some jelly beans around the corner.” Stan’s warm hand pats his shoulder before Ford can get out of reach.

Standing under the fluorescent lights, Ford feels entirely too on edge. The colors are much too bright, and he can hear the electricity in the lights and walls. When the teenager at the counter coughs, he nearly shouts. 

He realizes he’s taken far too long when he hears the restroom door open. He quickly grabs a bag of jelly beans and toffee peanuts and heads to the front. Stan meets him up there with two bottles of water in hand.

“Will that be all?” the teenager drawls, bored, as the pair sets their goodies on the counter.

“Uh--” Stan pauses when he sees what Ford’s grabbed. “Why don’t you go put these back, bud?”

Ford’s brow furrows when Stan hands him the toffee peanuts back.

“Why? They’re your favorite,” he says plainly. He used to always jump on the chance to enjoy the nasty things.

“I, uh… broke the habit.” To the clerk, he says, “Just the water and the jelly beans, please.” 

A little seed of something heavy settles in the pit of Ford’s stomach. He takes the toffee nuts in hand and walks back to the aisle he found them in.

He knows he didn’t misremember Stan’s favorite snack. The incident solidified the knowledge, after all. Why did Stan want to put them back?

He feels silly and guilty all at once, remembering the burgeoning lack of cash in Stan’s possession. His stomach twists and his cheeks heat up. How could he have already forgotten?

Peeking over his shoulder, Ford checks that he’s out of view of the clerk. Slowly, careful not to crinkle the plastic bag, he opens a small slit in the top of the bag. He folds it to let the air out before stuffing the treat into his pocket. His pulse picks up, and he schools his face into a calm expression.

Nonchalantly, he makes his way back up front.

“You ready?” Stan asks. He hands the bag of jellybeans to Ford.

Ford’s mind screams at him as he takes the bag, the sound of crinkling too loud. He swears the clerk will be able to hear how loud his heart and thoughts are.

He quickly makes his way out of the store, making it to the car several moments before Stan.

Waiting for Stan to unlock the doors, Ford is nearly vibrating where he stands. He rocks back and forth on his feet, the motion big enough for Stan to catch on.

Biting his lip again, Stan comes to stand in front of Ford.

“Stanford,” he says. The twinkle in his eye betrays his neutral tone.

Ford feels about to burst, energy simmering in his viscera and behind his eyes.

I won’t get in trouble with him, he reasons quickly. He did the same thing at the hotel.

Instead of mentioning the stolen food in his pocket, Stan surprises him with a grin.

“Did you drink the coffee I told you not to?” he asks. 

“No,” Ford says too quickly. His eyes flit away from his brother. “Yes. Maybe.” 

Stan’s laughter comes as a surprise, but it’s too loud for how stimulated Ford is right now. He flinches, wanting to cover his ears. 

“Do you think it was, maybe, a bad idea to drink it?”

Ford’s ears turn red with indignation as a first response, eyes snapping back in a glare. His brother’s face is too soft to be scolding, though, smile warm and wide. He feels like he’s just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

“...maybe.”

He wants to throw up, and he blames it on the cheap coffee.

“Why don’t you go run a few laps while I get some gas?” 

Stan doesn’t seem interested in Ford’s answer, already turning to walk to the opposite side of the car. Ford’s excuses are coming fast anyway, spilling out of his mouth like water bursting from a pipe.

“I don’t need to. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It’s just coffee. I’ve had coffee before. This is nothing. It’s just because everything is so new. I don’t need to run. Maybe you need to run. I’ll be-- ugh!” 

The bubble of energy in his skin finally pops and he lets out a short scream. He doesn’t want Stan to be right, but he hasn’t felt this pumped up since Bill accidentally sped his brain up too much. 

His feet are hitting the pavement before he can think about it. He doesn’t know where he’s running to, but he runs. There’s nothing here except for the gas station and trees, the road empty on either side for as far as he can see. He picks a direction, and sprints.

Why was coffee having this effect on him? It was one cup!

Why was Stan right about this? 

Why did Stan’s face look so weird when he told him to put up the toffee peanuts?

Why didn’t Stan have more money?

Why did Stan just let Eddie steal from him?

Why did Stan need a fake passport?

Why was Stan in South America? Where was he in South America?

Why was Stan back in the States?

Why was Stan gambling for money? If he did truly work for Eddie, why wasn’t Eddie paying him?

Why did he let Eddie talk to him like that?

Why was he so worried about all of this?

Why was he so upset about all of this?

Why does he care?

Why does Stan not care about him anymore?

Ford’s heart is pounding in his chest, lungs aching as he catches his breath. He doubles over, hands on his knees, and vomits. His vision is blurry and he suddenly feels so cold. 

But the energy finally yields, bleeding out of his pores slowly. 

Ford looks behind him and finds that he ran quite a good distance away from the gas station. He can still see Stan’s body, but he’s too far away to make out any details. Stan is standing still at the back of the El Diablo. 

Is he waiting for me?

What if I… didn’t go back?

Ford considers that thought for a moment. 

Bill’s voice calls him a coward for not finishing out his punishment.

Taking a deep breath, he turns back to the gas station. He doesn’t run as fast, but he makes it back to the car in little time. As he approaches, he realizes Stan was indeed waiting for him. His expression is pinched.

“Hey,” his brother greets awkwardly. He does not move as Ford comes to a stop in front of him.

“H…hey,” Ford pants. Sheepishness flutters across his shoulders. “Sorry. I… did drink that coffee. I thought…”

“That it’d wake you up a bit?”

“...yeah.”

“Yeah, it’s good for that,” Stan sighs. “But when you can’t move around, it’s a bit too much.”

Ford presses his lips into a hard line. He doesn’t want to agree with Stan, but he knows he’s right. Even in his regular body, he’s always moving when he drinks anything caffeinated. 

“Do you feel better?”

The softness of his voice makes Ford look up. His brother is looking down at him, eyebrows curved up. He looks worried, almost.

But he wouldn’t be worried. Not about me.

“Yeah, I’m better.”

The two get back into the car and pull off. Ford waits until the gas station is fully out of view before reaching into his pocket.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he presents it to Stan, but it’s not whatever he receives.

Stan’s face hardens as soon as he sees it. He doesn’t pout the way he does when he’s angry, but his expression is all hard lines. Ford watches as blood leaves his face, the faint blush on his cheeks disappearing. Stan’s eyes look distant for just a moment, but Ford catches it.

“You shouldn’t have done that, bud,” he says softly. Ford wonders if he imagined the way it cracked.

“Why? You stole food from the motel.”

“It’s not--” Stan’s eyes find the road again. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel. “I don’t eat them anymore, is all. And you hate them, so they’re just gonna go bad.”

Ford can’t help but think that’s a stupid reason. His breath comes out a bit huffier than he intended.

“You don’t want them at all?” he pushes. “You just said that you hadn’t had them for a while, why does that mean you can’t have them now? You didn’t have to pay for them.”

Ford gets the impression he’s trying to use a hex screwdriver on a slotted screw, achieving nothing but stripping the metal. He doesn’t like it.

Stan sighs, shoulders slumping into a low curve.

“Look, I’m not… I don’t want ‘em. I haven’t had them in ten years, I don’t even think I like them anymore.”

Something with the way Stan says it, low and defeated, punches Ford right in the ribs. He stares at Stan, long and hard, before unceremoniously throwing the bag into the back seat. He feels raw with it, something ugly simmering in his guts.

He doesn’t have it in him to eat his jelly beans.

The cabin of the car is silent for a long time, the static-filled music from the radio and the purr of the engine the only sounds between the brothers. Ford’s thoughts won’t shut up, but thankfully they’re not screaming at him like they were before.

Bill’s punishment soon becomes too pressing to ignore. 

The dread of disappointing him again encourages him to open his mouth.

“What do you do for work, anyway?” 

The question lingers as Stan hums thoughtfully.

“A bunch of stuff, really. I was a businessman for a while,” he offers with a faint smile. It does not reach his eyes. “I sold stuff like vacuums, wash rags, bandages. Designed it all myself, too.”

“Really?” Ford asks. He feels his lip curl up in a small sneer, and tries to fight it down. “I didn’t think you were smart enough to do something like that.”

He feels cold as soon as he says it.

Stan has that odd look again, for the barest of seconds, before his entire demeanor falls flat. Ford notices that Stan's  leg stops tapping to the music, and his chest tightens. 

His brother shrugs, and his shoulders look heavier than before.

“Yeah, well, it probably didn’t work out for that reason, then.” His tone even sounds darker.

Ford wants to take it back, to scoop the words into his mouth and spit them out the window. He’s not sure why the words even left his lips-- he doesn’t think Stan is stupid. He’s never thought that.

Unless maybe he has?

He’s known that Stan struggled in school, but he always chalked it up to him not caring about academics. 

Is that the same thing as being dumb?

He always feels lousy when he’s not actively working on his research. Bill tells him, constantly, that idle minds soon grow idiotic. 

Ford’s never agreed, though.

He knows how smart someone can be, even if their grades don’t reflect it. He knows how creative and imaginative someone can be, their mind overflowing with powerful ideas. 

He has Stan to thank for that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His teeth burn with it. 

He’s not sure if Stan can hear him over the rumble of the engine. 

He does not say it again.

.

They just cross the border of New Mexico when Stan declares that they’re done for the day. The sky is a light violet, the sun starting to set on the horizon. Stan pulls the car to park somewhere on the main street and turns to look at Ford.

“There’s probably a secondhand shop around here,” he says. “We could stop, get you a new change of clothes or two, and wash the ones you’ve got?”

Ford looks at him, and thinks of his wallet.

“Do you have enough money for that?” 

Stan shrugs, and he’s got deep blue circles under his eyes.

“For you? I have plenty.”

Ford’s ribs flutter quietly, filling with a kind of warmth he hasn’t experienced in a long time. He tears his eyes away from his brother. His head is full of cotton and shame, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“Or,” Stan interrupts his thoughts. “I can let you borrow some of mine, and wash what we’ve got. Either way, it’s time to hit the laundromat.”

Ford’s hands fist against the denim of his shorts. He wouldn’t disagree that Stan smells a bit ripe, but the idea of Stan spending money on him again, especially after getting insulted, makes the back of his neck burn hot. 

“I’ll be fine,” he tells his brother. “I promise. I’ll just… hang out while you wash your clothes.”

He glances over, keeping an angle where his glasses obscure his eyes, and watches Stan. The man sits in silence as he considers Ford’s offer, before his lips turn up in a small grin.

“You callin’ me stinky, kid?” 

The surprise sends a snort of laughter out of Ford’s nose. 

“A little, yeah,” he admits with a shy smile. “I think it’s just your clothes, though.” 

Stan doesn’t seem offended, if the way he playfully shoves at Ford’s shoulder is any indication. His small, rumbling chuckle fills the cabin and momentarily soothes Ford’s frayed nerves.

The laundromat is close to a motel that Stan chooses for the night, so it’s easy enough to pay for the room first. The evening air is nice, and their legs are sore, so they decide to walk to the laundromat. Ford doesn’t miss the way all of Stan’s clothes fit into one duffel bag.

A bell rings as they open the door. It’s humid inside the building, and the low thrumming of the machines is constant. Ford is reminded of late nights in college, Fiddleford and him spending the night discussing theories while waiting. 

Stan empties the duffel bag into one of the free machines, tossing a ragged red jacket in after it. He gives one final look at Ford.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna wash your clothes?”

When Ford nods, he shuts the door and plugs a coin in. Something on it shines in the light, leading Ford to step closer for a better look.

It’s floss. 

His brother notices him watching, and winks at him before starting the machine. Once it’s up and going, he twirls the floss around his finger and starts to pull. 

There’s no way this is going to work. There’ll be too many mechanisms inside for it to-- oh sweet Moses.

Stan shows off his retrieved quarter, the round disc laying flat in his hand. 

“Learned that about nine years ago,” he explains. “Comes in handy quite often.”

Ford spares a look up at Stan’s face. He’s grinning, but there’s no twinkle in his eyes. Instead, something more downcast is swimming in the brown.

He tells himself that eleven-year-old him would ask questions. It’s not prying if he’s expected to be curious.

“Why’d you have to learn it in the first place?” 

“I wanted to save some money,” Stan answers too easily. Like it’s rehearsed.

Ford wants to stamp his foot and demand full answers.

He does not.

“How… how often do you have to do it?” 

“Worried that the laundromat police are gonna be after me?” His joking tone does not meet his eyes.

When Ford does not reply, Stan shrugs for what feels like the hundredth time today. 

“More often than not, though it’s probably mostly out of habit. I’m a bit of a penny-pincher.” 

Ford doesn’t want to understand why. He blames it on their Pa, whose frugal ways were often a point of contention in the family. 

The energy of the laundromat is stale and heavy, and it cannot all be blamed on the running machines. The brothers stand in silence for several moments before Stan suddenly moves away from his chosen machine.

Ford watches as he pulls two chairs over. He pushes one next to Ford and sits in the other so they’re facing each other. With a wave of his hand, he motions to Ford to sit.

“I can tell you have a lot of questions,” he says simply. “I… don’t know if I’ll answer all of ‘em, but you can at least ask them.”

His skin prickles at the idea of having answers. 

He tries to think of what he’d ask in the role he’s been playing. 

“First question,” he starts as he sits. “Why won’t you answer all of them?”

“Easy,” Stan drawls. “Some things I don’t want to answer. I… don’t think you’ll like hearing them, anyway.”

“Why not let me decide? If I’m asking, it means I want an answer,” Ford tries to reason.

“Nah.”

Ford frowns at his brother.

He tells himself if he wants answers, he’ll have to let some things go.

Anxiety burrows in his stomach, and he feels Bill’s hands on his shoulders.

“What do you actually do for work?”

“I told you. I was a businessman. I still sell stuff sometimes, when people wanna pay.”

He continues when Stan does not elaborate further.

“Why were you in South America?”

Stan shifts in his seat once, twice, before settling down. “I, uh… Had some stuff I had to do down there. Don’t worry, I won’t be going back any time soon.”

Ford decides it’s best, for his sanity, to avoid the topic of Eddie for now.

“Why don’t you have any bank cards?”

“It’s harder to get them than you’d think,” Stan answers with a smile.

Wrong. They’re frightfully easy to get a hold of.

Ford remembers the arrest warrants. 

“I doubt that,” he pushes. “Why not at least one?”

Stan’s mouth does something funny before he swallows. “Banks won’t let you open an account if you don’t have a permanent address. When you move around a lot, it’s easier just to have cash.”

He’s not telling the whole truth, Ford thinks. Stan's fingers are tapping against his knee. 

“Why do you move around so much?”

This takes Stan longer to answer. He breaks eye contact with Ford for a few long moments, clearly thinking about what to say. 

“It’s… safer, for me,” he says, surprisingly vulnerable. He’s not as closed off when he looks at Ford again. “Eddie’s not the only jerk I know.”

His spine alights with a thrill, and Ford sits up a bit straighter with it. The palm of his hand itches to grab onto something. 

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Stan quickly continues. “I’ve dealt with it for a long time now. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“For how long?” Ford asks without thought. He doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Eh, about eight years now,” his brother says. 

Eight? 

Ford aches.

“...why?” His voice is soft, scratchy in his throat. If he were to speak more, his voice would be too wobbly.

Stan’s features soften. 

“I’m… I got into some trouble, is all. Really, you don’t--”

“Don’t tell me not to worry,” Ford snaps at him. 

He was right, his voice is wobbly. 

He tries to tell himself he’s not worried, but he’s too smart to believe it.

He wants to hide from it.

Cold chains squeeze around his chest, holding him in place and forcing him to face this.

“Why?” he asks, sniffing harshly. He tries again, “Why don’t you tell anyone?” 

Ford isn’t certain who “anyone” is. He’s not certain Stan hasn’t told their mother or Shermie. Maybe he's called them, asking for help or money at some point. But... Ma hasn't talked to him in so long...

Would they tell Ford if Stan was in trouble? 

Would Stan tell them not to?

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt, Ford.” 

Stan’s tone is so fragile and urgent. Ford can feel it tug at the chains, and he doesn’t understand. 

“I don’t understand,” slips from his mouth. 

Stan’s head drops, and Ford is left to look at the top of his head. He thinks he sees a scar there, too.

“I know, bud, I’m sorry,” Stan tells the tiled floor. “A lot has happened, and… I’d explain it if I could, but…”

The sigh he lets out is long-suffering, low, and gravelly. It rattles the foundation of Ford, shaking him up. He wants Stan to look at him.

The voice in his head that sounds a lot like Bill tells him to ask it. His fear begs him not to.

He knows which one he’ll listen to.

Which voice he has to listen to.

“What about me?”  

I’d help you.

Always.

Stan raises his head. His lips are pulled into a shallow smile that leaves Ford feeling empty. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he tells him. Ford wants to scream. “Are you hungry? There’s a diner across the street.”

Chapter Text

The events of the past week weigh heavily on Ford’s shoulders. The walk to the all-hours diner is brief-- a quick jaunt across the street. It had begun to sprinkle lightly, raindrops kissing the top of Ford’s head. 

The diner is quiet this late into the night, the fluorescent lights casting orange over the tables. It’s retro-themed, with bright teal accents and red table tops. Ford can’t help but think it’s quite run down, with the silver chairs and table edges starting to rust. There are only two tables with occupants, and a single waitress on staff. 

“Give me a moment,” she calls from behind the counter. “Sit wherever you like.” 

Stan acknowledges her with a short wave and ushers Ford toward the back of the diner. Ford does not miss how he places himself where he can see all the exits.

It sits oddly with him.

He ignores it.

Ford sits in the booth chair across from him. He remains quiet, not having said a word since Stan suggested getting dinner.

Stan’s voice echoes in his head, begging him to stop worrying and stop asking. 

He will not do either. 

His chest aches.

The waitress comes over within a few minutes of them sitting. She and Stan greet each other with cheery, albeit tired smiles. 

“How are you two this evening?” she asks. Her accent places her somewhere on the West Coast, not the South. 

“Doin’ just fine,” Stan replies easily. His own natural accent is gone, replaced with something a little more like Fiddleford’s. His mouth moves around it as easily as air.

Ford wonders how many accents he can do.

They exchange pleasantries, commenting on the night’s weather, as she passes out three menus. She hands two to Ford: one laminated like Stan’s, the other paper and clearly a child’s menu. He can’t help but make a face at it.

“I didn’t know which you’d prefer,” she admits. “Can I get you two anything to drink?”

Ford’s tongue suddenly craves something carbonated, but Stan is quicker to answer.

“Two waters, if you’d please.”

Oh. Right.

“Of course,” the waitress grins. She leaves shortly thereafter, and the boys are left in silence.

Ford looks between the two menus in front of him. He’s tempted not to order anything, but his traitor stomach twists slightly in hunger pangs. He's having a harder time ignoring it in this body.

His pride tells him to order something off the regular menu, and his eyes find an entree that seems appetizing. It’s a mixed green salad topped with chicken, a specialty dressing, and fries offered on the side. It would meet his nutritional intake requirements, plus some, and his mouth waters when he imagines how it would taste.

Another voice, gentle and whispering, tells him to order off the child’s menu.

It’s cheaper, it beckons. You don’t have the same digestive system, anyway, as the coffee has proven. It’ll be alright. Do your brother a favor.

He picks up the child’s menu. 

He cannot ignore the sigh Stan lets out. He does not miss that Stan has waited to pick up his menu until this moment.

Ford doesn’t get very far before Stan swears under his breath.

“Shit, they’re not kosher. Is that going to be okay?” he asks with a small grimace.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Ford answers awkwardly. He hasn’t eaten kosher in years, hardly given it a thought. “It’s more of Pa’s thing anyway.”

“...right,” he hears Stan mutter. When he looks up, Stan has turned his gaze to his menu.

Trying to brush it off, Ford returns his attention to the paper menu in his hand. It does not offer a wide variety of food. Chicken tenders, macaroni and cheese, and a plain hamburger. Ford’s eyes automatically find the prices, and he chooses the cheapest.

As soon as he sets his menu down, Stan leans forward a bit.

“Mind if I take a look?” he asks. 

Ford is confused for a moment, eyebrows twitching, before Stan slides the paper menu a bit closer to him.

He aches as he watches Stan read the menu.

Maybe… maybe he’s just making sure I don’t order anything too expensive. That must be it.

He knows it is not.

Stan must choose an option quickly, and sits back upright. He and Ford catch each other’s eyes for a moment. When Stan opens his mouth to say something, Ford averts his gaze. 

His brother does not speak.

The waitress returns with two tall glasses of water and two plastic straws. She pulls a small notepad from her apron.

“You two ready to order?”

Stan gestures at Ford, giving him a small nod.

“Uh, can I have the hamburger?” he asks. His voice sounds too small.

“Sure thing, hun. Fries come with that, is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Ford replies after a quick glance at Stan. He seems fine with it.

The waitress meets his eyes and smiles warmly. It’s pretty.

“We also have a special going on right now,” she says, looking between the two of them. “Shakes are half off. We got chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla. You want one?”

Despite his mouth begging him to say yes, Ford looks at Stan to take over.

His brother looks a little taken aback, eyes darting to Ford before the menu on the table. He’s quick, and is looking back at Ford within seconds. If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t have caught Stan finding the price. 

Stan leans closer to him, a hint of a teasing smile on his face.

“Only because I get to steal some of your fries,” he tells him, before turning to the woman. “Yeah, he’ll have a chocolate shake.” 

She seems pleased, likely hoping that she’s made some kid’s night extra special. Ford understands, but can’t give her an excited reaction.

“And you, hun?” 

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

Ford feels sick all of a sudden, his stomach turning sour. 

Stan looks too casual, nothing in his expression betraying his thoughts. It’s like he’s slipped on a well-worn mask, now that there are other people here. 

The waitress tells him he can change his mind whenever, and takes her leave.  As soon as she’s back behind the counter, Ford leans over.

“Why didn’t you order anything? We didn’t get lunch.”

It’s not entirely true. Stan had pushed the bag of stolen breakfast items on Ford, and munched away on a biscuit and apple while he drove. With nothing better to do, Ford had eaten most of the items, including the jelly beans from their only other stop. 

Ford knows, instinctually, that it was not enough to sate Stan’s hunger.

“Eh,” Stan waves him off with a lazy grin. “I’ll be fine. Like I said, I’ll steal some of your fries.”

It’s as he sits there, looking at his brother, that his illusion shatters as peacefully as a hurricane. 

His mind races with the past 24 hours, pieces slotting in their proper places, no longer tied in the wrong spots by Ford’s stubborn repression.

He thinks of the various places Stan hides his money, even if it’s small amounts. He remembers the trick with the quarter, something that allows him to save even just the barest amount of money. He thinks of the laundry itself, the small assortment of clothes fitting into a lone duffel bag. How the clothes smell worn already, like they hadn’t been washed after a few uses.

He recalls the night before, peering through the crack of the bathroom door. It suddenly clicks why he was so on edge upon the first sentence of dialogue. He didn’t realize it before, but looking back, he realizes how every line of Stan’s body had gone stiff the moment he opened the door. How his hands clenched at his side, and how he had to lock his knees. His voice was either soft and light, or heavy and gruff-- hiding any wavering it might have carried. He had nearly begged Eddie to not take so much money. 

He thinks of Stan’s face, especially the deep, dark circles under his eyes. He finally looks a the state of his hair. It’s clean, but unkempt and far too grown out to be purposeful. His skin is dry and his knuckles are cracked, and everywhere Ford looks he can see the phantoms of scars. Across his lip, above his eyebrow, on the crown of his head, on his palms, and he even sees a particularly gnarly line in the middle of his forearm. 

His eyes, Ford realizes, are the worst.

He remembers, long ago, when Stan used to confide in him. It was usually after a creative punishment from their Pa or a particularly cruel day at school. It didn’t happen often, and it rattled Ford every time it did.

Stan used to cry. He’d tell his twin what was bothering him, with a weak and weepy voice, and let the tears fall. Ford never knew what to say, but it never mattered-- he listened, and that’s what Stan needed. He’d get out what he needed to, and wipe his eyes.

But, Ford remembers, he’d always have a haunted look in his eye for a while. It never stuck around more than a few days, at most. The length of time didn’t make a difference in how much Ford hated seeing him look so crestfallen. 

He remembers the emptiness in Stan’s brown eyes, how the vibrancy and life had been struck out until only dullness was left.

Looking across the table, he sees those same eyes.

Stan is present, not stuck in his head like he can get during times like that, but there is nothing bright in his eyes. 

No vibrant ray of light.

No exuberance that tells of his free spirit. 

No joy bursting at the seams of him.

“Are you happy?” 

The question surprises both of them.

Stan blinks at him for a moment, before there is a smile that does not reach his eyes.

“Of course I am,” he says. “I’m sitting in a cool little diner with my favorite person in the whole world.”

Liar. Don’t avoid the question.

Ford presses, desperate for the truth. 

“Are you happy?” 

He knows Stan is aware of what he’s asking. He can see it in his eyes, those lost brown eyes. 

There is a moment where Stan looks at him a little harder, a little different. Ford wonders if he knows, if he can see past this meat-puppet and knows that it is his brother asking. 

If he does, Stan does not mention it.

“I guess that depends on your definition of happy,” he says evenly. He’s stalling for time, Ford knows.

He continues, “Do you mean happy as in… I’m having a good time? Or I’m grateful for something? Because if so, then… yeah. I’m happy.”

There’s a small glint of something when he says this and looks at Ford.

It’s not enough.

“I mean… happy with your life? Satisfied?” Ford clarifies. He doesn’t like the game Stan is playing with him.

The sharp, hard look returns and Ford feels old and small all at once.

“Are you?” Stan asks simply.

The silence is loud between them. A spear strikes Ford in the chest, pinning him to the seat.

Am I?

The moment ends as quickly as it began, before Ford can properly find the answer. 

“That’s a dumb thing to ask you, huh, kiddo?” he says with a shake of his head. His tone carries something knowing in it. 

Ford does not say anything, and lets Stan have the space to continue.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Stanford,” he finally says. It is not the beginning of an answer; it is his answer.

With a huff, Ford bites out, “Tell me anyway.”

His brother meets his eyes.

He looks tired. 

“You’re not gonna like the answer, so I’m not going to tell you. There’s no point.”

That means he’s not happy. 

The thought is as loud as thunder, and Ford wants to scream. He swallows the urge, and uses his eyes to plead with Stan. 

“Why not?” 

He doesn't know if he's asking why there's no point, or why he's not happy. 

The question makes Stan pause. Ford watches as he gets lost inside himself, eyes distant and unfocused. He returns with a heavy sigh, and he seems years older than he is.

When he returns Ford’s gaze this time, his eyes are infinitely more hollow than they were before.

“Because I did this to myself,” is his answer. 

Ford’s vocal chords strain with a suppressed shout. He wants to throttle Stan, demand answers, demand reasons. He wants to cry, promise him that he doesn’t deserve this. 

He doesn’t. 

At the beginning of the decade, after it was clear that his twin was not returning to him, Ford had wished many things upon his brother. 

Never this. 

He wants to tell Stan now, confess that he remembers everything. 

In his mind, however, that conversation takes a dark twist. It turns into Stan asking why Ford lied to him this entire time. Why Ford was truly here now, opening old wounds.

Stan asking why Ford didn’t come after him all those years ago.

His heart cannot handle it.

Ford is a coward, and he does not speak.

The clicking of heels draws him out of himself. He forces the heavy frown off his face when the waitress approaches with his meal. 

Only his meal.

His stomach growls, and he feels sick.

As soon as the plate is set on the table, before she can even turn to leave, Ford slides the oval plate to be in the middle of the table. The side with the fries is closer to Stan.

To avoid Stan immediately arguing, he turns to the waitress. “Can we get mustard?”

“Of course, hun,” she says. Ford sees something in her expression, her gaze lingering on Stan a bit too long, but he cannot decipher it quite yet. She is gone before he can gather more information.

“Mustard?” Stan chuckles from across the table. “You hate mustard. What gives?”

Ford levels him with a steady look.

“I do hate mustard,” he answers. “But you don’t.”

When Stan’s eyebrows raise, Ford feels his cheeks and hands grow warm. He deflects some of it by playfully scoffing.

“Don’t know why you like it, though, the stuff’s nasty.” 

The short bark of laughter is music to Ford’s ears.

“ Hey. Tell that to Shermie, he’s the one that got me hooked on it,” Stan bites back with a grin. His foot nudges Ford’s under the table.

When Ford looks again, there is a little more light behind his eyes.

“Do you still hate chocolate shakes?” Ford asks as he picks up the hamburger. 

“Yup,” his brother says, popping the p. “Strawberry’s the best.”

“Blegh.” 

The two share a small laugh that jumps the past decade. Ford feels like a child again, laughing with his brother as they bicker about superior foods. 

He misses this, he realizes. 

There is a small commotion across the diner that catches their attention. The waitress is speaking with another table, picking up a plate of food. The older man seems disgruntled despite her apologizing. 

“So sorry about that,” Ford can hear her say. “I’ll get the right burger out to you right away.” 

Ford’s mouth twists down in a frown when he hears the man’s rude remark. Stan must have heard it too, scoffing into his water glass.

“Rude prick,” he hears him mutter. “World doesn’t revolve around you, buddy.”

Ford watches the waitress for a few more seconds. She gives some sort of signal to the older woman in the kitchen before turning back towards them. She immediately makes eye contact with Ford, and he finds himself straightening up a bit as she comes over to them with a bottle of mustard and the plate of food in her hand.

“Hey,” she greets shyly as she comes to a stop at their table. “Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if either of you would like an extra dish? I, uh… put in the wrong order, and since it touched the table, I can’t bring it back.”

It’s a large burger on the plate, big enough to make a grown man struggle to get his mouth around it. She’s obviously offering it to Stan, and there’s a persistent look in her eyes that says she’s hoping he says yes.

Stan must catch it too, or he’s really hungry.

“I mean,” he starts with a friendly chuckle. “I definitely won’t say no to free food. Do I look like an idiot to you?” 

Ford can tell she’s biting back a grin as she sets the plate down in front of him. She mouths a quick “Thank you” before throwing a quick wink at Ford. He has to bite back his own smile. 

Stan waits until she’s gone before picking up some food. He had nabbed a few of Ford’s fries, but had clearly been holding back-- Ford can tell he’s barely restraining himself from shoving the whole burger in his mouth. When he catches Ford watching him, his eyes narrow.

“Eat,” he says around a huge bite. “‘S late.” 

He does, and the unease that’s been gnawing at him for the past day unravels little by little.

Chapter Text

It is close to midnight when the pair finally make it back to their motel room. The clothes are still warm from the dryer, with wrinkles slowly setting in where they were shoved into Stan’s duffel bag. 

Now that Ford’s eyes have been opened to Stan’s quality of life, he sees his behavior in a new light. If Stan had stolen a few clothes from an unmonitored dryer, he doesn’t think he’d hold it against him.

As he watches Stan close the door, he wonders how long Stan has felt the need to triple-check the locks on his doors. He refuses to let his thoughts trail to what happens when Stan doesn’t check.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the bed when Stan tells him to go shower.

“Why?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at his brother. “We didn’t do anything to get sweaty today.”

“Yeah, but you still smell like a stinky little boy,” Stan retorts. His nose crinkles dramatically. “Gotta tell ya, Stanford, I’m not a fan.”

Ford pouts, leaning back to grab a pillow to chuck at his brother. It hits Stan square in the chest, ripping a few cackles from the man. Ford feels a smile spread across his face. He’s heard Stan laugh more times in the past few hours than in the past decade, and he aches with it. 

“I’m serious, go shower,” Stan tells him through laughter. “We might need to spend a few nights in the car, if we can’t find wherever this Gravity Falls is fast enough. I couldn’t find it on a map.”

He wanted to reassure Stan that they’d find it easy enough, but he knew it’d give him away.

Instead, he says, “I’m sure you’ll find it.”

He doesn’t say, you’re good at finding things. You’re smart enough to find it. I trust you to get me home. 

Regardless, he’s in the shower soon enough. The water is too cold before it’s suddenly too hot, and the whole ordeal is unpleasant enough to prevent him from getting lost in thought. He’s thankful for it. He can feel a spiral on the periphery of his mind, threatening to send him plummeting into dark waters.

Whispers of blame and regret nip at the corners of his consciousness. Questions swirl behind his eyes, begging to be asked. There is hurt, old and raw.

He suddenly hopes that he does not see Bill tonight. 

It pains him to hope for that, tearing at his innards. He can’t help it, knowing that Bill would ask those painful questions, force Ford to face the hurt. 

He doesn’t think he could handle it right now.

He knows Bill would not care.

Something ugly squirms just behind his collarbone. 

It feels dangerous. 

Ford steps out of the shower and stands, dripping onto the tile floor, until the adrenaline eases out of his system. He eyes the dirty clothes, and an old part of him wishes he’d let Stan wash them. 

Redressed, he opens the bathroom door to a quiet scene. Stan is propped against the bed, sitting on the floor, staring at nothing. Ford’s first reaction is panic, wanting to know what was wrong. 

His second reaction comes quickly, and is much more relaxed. He sees Stan’s toes wiggle with a rhythm, something he’s always done when stuck in his mind. Tension drawing out of his shoulders, Ford stands there and simply watches. Stan hasn’t noticed him yet, face slack and empty. 

In his hands, he holds the uneaten bag of toffee peanuts. 

The past crashes into him, and Ford remembers what Stan had said.

“I haven’t had them in ten years.” 

There was no way it was merely a coincidence. What were the chances he would just happen to ditch his favorite snack in the same year that they had their big falling out? When Ford found an empty bag of the same treat next to a ruined science project? When he’d thrown that bag in Stan’s face, leading to Stan being thrown out of the house?

Something in Ford softens, just a bit.

Had it really been ten years since he’d eaten them? Ford remembers a time he’d go through a bag a day, and that was shortly before their fight.

Why would he have given up something he liked so much?

The answer is right there, he can feel it. He does not have the words for it, not yet.

He sighs, deep and tired, and finds a spot next to his brother on the floor. Stan finally looks over at him, registering his presence, and nudges him with his arm.

“Take all the hot water?”

“It was hot for all of thirty seconds. Negative five stars.”

Stan’s chuckle is low and warm, and he jostles the bed with it. He reaches over and flicks a damp curl away from Ford’s forehead.

“You ready for bed? We should probably get an early start tomorrow.”

Ford wants to say no, despite a yawn curling up under his jaw. He wants to stay up, talk with his brother, and spend all his time with him. 

(He does not want to risk seeing Bill.)

“Yeah,” he says instead. 

“Good. Hop in, then, you’ve got the bed again.” 

Ford does not fight, but the bed feels too large and lonely. It’s a full bed, the same as his bed at home-- even so, his own bed did not feel so empty. 

He blames his current size.

He tells himself that Stan wouldn’t want to share the bed, anyway.

He hasn’t shared his life with me for ten years. 

Ford watches as Stan peeks out the peephole one more time, checks the locks, and turns off the lights. The blanket is light on him as he curls up under the covers, not doing much in the way of protection. 

After Stan finishes getting settled, the room is quiet. In the stillness of the night, Ford falls into a dreamless sleep.

In the stillness of the night, Stan sleeps deeply on the floor.

In the stillness of the night, yellow eyes open.

Bill cannot make out much, cursing human eyes for not being well-adjusted for dark places. He stays where he’s at, head resting on a musty pillow, until he could make out shapes in the shadows.

Pulling himself up into a sitting position, he takes note of how this small body feels. It’s not as sore and stiff as Sixer usually is. It’s almost boring. 

He scoots forward far enough to peer down at Ford’s brother. Bill hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting the man yet, aside from rifling through his pet’s memories. The impression he’s left was far from pleasant.

Bill does not do anything, not tonight. He simply sits there, watching Stan, until light begins to come in through the slit in the curtains. He waits for a few moments more, until the man starts to stir on the floor. 

When Ford wakes up, he has a familiar dryness in his eyes. A thrill of something ensures that he is wide awake, subtly taking note of how he feels. He keeps his eyes closed as Stan moves to the bathroom, until he can sit up and visually check himself.

Confusion sets heavy in his brow. He doesn’t… notice anything off, aside from his eyes feeling less rested than they should. Could he be wrong? Maybe he didn’t sleep well. Tired eyes don't necessarily mean that Bill took his body for a spin, he supposes.

It doesn’t mean that Bill was around Stan.

Ford’s insides hollow out as he thinks about it. 

That same fear, that same coldness, is there when he thinks about Bill and Stan meeting. He does not want that. 

He does not want Bill to hurt Stan.

He freezes.

That’s… not right.

It can’t be.

Bill’s not bad. He’s good, even.

But he can no longer pretend that he’s worried that Stan will hurt Bill.

So why was the fear still there?

His head hurts.

Stan opens the bathroom door and interrupts him. 

“Good morning,” his brother greets with a yawn. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine, I guess,” Ford lies. He does not remember dreaming. “You?”

Stan answers with a grunt and a shrug. Ford listens to the popping of his joints as he stretches. He wonders how sore he is. 

“We should head out. Pee before we leave,” Stan tells him. Ford shoots him a glare, but heeds his advice.

It’s easy enough to pack up their meager belongings into Stan’s car and head out. Before Ford can say anything about breakfast, Stan is pulling into a small convenience store lot. When he goes to open the passenger side door, his brother stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Why don’t you stay in here? I’ll, uh. I’ll be back in a few.”

It’s all he says before he reaches into the back and grabs his ratty old jacket. 

Is that the same jacket from high school?

Stan leaves the car, tossing the keys onto Ford’s lap. Ford feels his face set into a soft scowl as he watches Stan disappear into the store. 

He doesn’t bother disobeying, though, and crosses his arms as he settles back into his seat. Why would Stan ask him to stay in the car? Surely it’s not because he pocketed a single bag of toffee peanuts.

The store has a large window that Ford can see through. He watches as Stan looks around once, twice, before going between the aisles. His face is neutral, a careful mask as he moves through the store. Ford can only see his head and shoulders from this angle. 

He notices Stan glancing towards the front once more before moving on. He walks out of Ford’s sight for a few moments before he reappears, heading towards the front.

When he walks out the front door, all he’s carrying is a couple of water bottles and a single sandwich, which he tosses in Ford’s lap as he climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Hope you still like turkey and cheese,” is all he says. 

Ford watches as he carefully watches the front doors as he turns the car on and pulls away. Before they’re at the end of the block, Stan shifts to tear off his jacket.

“Sweatin’ bullets in this thing,” he grumbles as he peels his arms out of it. 

Ford is about to comment on it, ask why he bothered putting it on, but something hitting the seat interrupts him.

It’s a packet of crackers.

His brow furrows and he looks at his brother.

Stan meets his eye and a devious little grin stretches across his face. He tosses the jacket at Ford, then, and winks at him. Ford looks down at the red lump, and starts to rifle through it.

He finds another pack of crackers, two granola bars, and three small bags of mixed nuts. He turns to say something, but Stan is reaching into his jean pocket and handing something else to him.

It’s a pack of jelly beans. 

“Eat breakfast first, then you can have those,” he says with a soft smile. 

Ford cannot meet his smile.

Skipping meals, stealing food…

His realization from last night slaps him across the face again, and he feels the weight of it on his shoulders. 

“Thanks,” he says. He hopes Stan knows what all he means by it. 

Thanks for breakfast.

Thanks for making sure I can sleep in a bed.

Thanks for driving me, even when you have to pay for gas. 

Thanks for helping me.

Thank you.

The silence stretches on.

He hands a granola bar to Stan and opens the sandwich for himself.

(If Stan liked turkey and cheese sandwiches, he'd readily share with him. He'll offer anyway.)

They drive in the quiet, the rumble of the engine and the light music on the radio keeping them company.

.

It’s a few hours in when Stan takes a sharp intake of breath.

The sound sets Ford’s nerves ablaze, and he looks over at his brother. His scarred knuckles are white, the bones peeking through thin skin with how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. Looking at his face, he sees that the color has drained from his cheeks.

“What?” he asks, finding his voice breathless. His heart stutters in his chest.

Stan’s mouth twitches, but he does not say anything. His eyes keep flashing to the rearview mirror. Ford twists to look behind them.

There is a faded blue car behind them, one of the old fancy ones that Stan used to drool over in high school. He cannot see inside the cab. 

“Who is that?” he asks in a rush, looking back at his brother. 

Stan licks his lips and takes a shuddering breath before he answers.

“It’s Eddie,” he answers.

Ford can feel the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He has to bite back the irrational fury that seeps into his blood.

“Why?” he demands, looking back.

“Wait-- don’t,” Stan urges, pushing Ford back into his seat by the shoulder. “Don’t let him see you.” 

“Why?” 

Stan shoots him a dull look. “Why do you think, brainiac?” 

A growl rips itself out of Ford’s throat. He remains in his seat, but keeps an eye on the car in the rearview mirror.

“What does he want? Could it be a coincidence?” 

Stan’s grumble is answer enough.

“I… don’t know. He usually leaves me alone for a week, once he knows where I’m at. This isn’t like him.”

The air inside the car is suffocating. Ford wonders if Stan can hear his heartbeat, too. The seconds tick on at a snail’s pace. 

Stan shifts next to him, getting more comfortable in his seat before he glances at Ford.

“You might wanna hold onto something.”

It’s Ford’s only warning, his hands barely having time to find the overhead handle before Stan floors it. The engine roars underneath their feet as the car picks up speed. The car behind them gets smaller for a few seconds before a dull revving of an engine sounds, and it begins to keep pace.

“Hold on,” Stan grits out a moment before sharply veering around the car in front of him.

Ford’s heart pounds loudly in his ears as he holds on tight, jostling around in his seat as Stan swerves between cars at high speed. 

He really shouldn’t be so unnerved by all of this. It wasn’t like he hasn’t been chased, running for his life through a forest.

This feels different, though.

It’s not just his life on the line.

He feels weak when he looks at Stan. When he watches the hard lines of his face, the fear in his eyes. The way he looks like a hunted animal. 

Ford knows that feeling-- it’s etched deep into his bones. 

He wants to vomit.

He nearly gets thrown out of his seat when Stan makes a hard turn, speeding down an exit ramp. Ford thanks everything he can think of that there are no cars nearby when he runs the stop sign, quickly heading into the surrounding town. 

Ford can still see the faded blue car behind them, though it is currently stuck behind a semi-truck right before the exit.

Stan speeds through a few streets and turns before suddenly slowing. His eyes flash across street signs, quickly looking for any viable direction. 

Ford cannot feel his hands.

The buildings blur into each other before they’re gone altogether. Red bricks turn to green trees, asphalt turning to gravel. 

When he looks back, he sees a blue car swerving onto their dirt road.

“ Stanley, ” he gasps. He can’t breathe.

“Fuck.”

It’s not long before Eddie’s car is gaining on them, both cars going far faster than is safe on the dirt roads.

When they hear a loud pop through the air, Stan shouts and pushes Ford’s head down. He knows, somewhere inside his head, what it was that made the sound. But it’s not until there’s a second pop and the back window shatters that he has the words for it. 

He’s fucking shooting at us?!

Ford’s panicked eyes look up at his brother, only to find Stan already looking down at him. 

He’s seen Stan in a variety of dangerous situations, especially involving bullies. He was there the first time Stan took a swing at someone much bigger than him. He witnessed the few times Stan got in their Pa’s face during a screaming match. He remembers their first car accident, finding each other in the back seat.

Nothing compares to this. 

His brown eyes are blown and wild, his chest stuttering with his ragged breathing. He’s too pale, all the blood having drained from his face. 

Ford has no time to wonder what that look means before he throws on his hazard lights and slows the car down.

“Stanley?!” he nearly shouts, hands beginning to tremble against the leather seats.

“Hush,” Stan bites out. He sounds hoarse.

He leans over to dig in his boot as he pulls the car into a large, grassy clearing. He tosses something in Ford’s direction.

A small utility knife.

“Take that. Don’t use it unless you have to,” he breathes out. As the car stops, he levels Ford with a hard look. “ Hide. Don’t get out of the car.” 

Ford watches as Stan’s hands tremble against the steering wheel before Stan takes a sharp breath in, and steps out of the car. The door slams too loud in his ears.

He can hear the car behind them pull up, softly squeaking to a stop. 

Shifting lower on the seat, Ford’s eyes find the rearview mirror. He can’t breathe, and he has a clear view of everything.

“What the hell, Eddie?” Stan yells out as soon as the man steps out of his car. Ford knows what he’s pointing at Stan, even if he can’t make out the details. 

Eddie saunters away from his car like he’s taking a lazy Sunday stroll and not pointing a gun at his brother. His mouth moves, but Ford cannot hear if he says something or makes one of those annoying noises with his tongue.

Hurt him, and I’ll rip that fucking tongue right out of your skull, Ford thinks in a heated blaze. His hands clench so hard his nails leave red crescents in his palms.

“I shoulda known, honestly,” he can hear Eddie say. “Can’t trust a conman, can you?” 

Stan opens his mouth to say something, fists remaining still by his side, when Eddie shushes him.

“You fucking ran, you slippery little prick,” he hisses at Stan. His tone does not match the sleazy grin on his face. “Again. Man, someone should put a fucking collar on you.” 

His brother does not speak. 

“Lucky for you,” Eddie says, a sudden sweetness returning to his voice. “I’m the one in charge of finding you. You should be grateful it’s not Josef or Sergei.” 

Ingrained habits scream at Ford to thank him for his generosity.

He wants to tear this man’s throat out. 

“You want a thank you, asshole?” Stan growls. 

He can hear Eddie hum a short, considerate note. The hand holding the gun waves between Stan to the car as he talks.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Eddie drawls out. He sounds bored, and Ford knows how dangerous that can be. “You’re gonna get that kid to come out of the car. Then we can talk.”

Ford feels caught in a steel trap, pinned to the seat of the car. 

“Look, Eddie, I--”

“Don’t play me for stupid, Lee,” the man snaps before Stan can get much out. “Get the kid out here.”

He can almost see the way Stan’s back muscles tense for a fight. He knows, if Stan were to swing on Eddie, how this would all go down. 

He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

It only takes a moment to slide the knife into his pocket.

Quick enough to avoid his brother starting a fistfight with a gunman, Ford crawls over to the driver’s side and swings the door open. He feels impossibly small, skinny limbs shaking as he climbs out of the car. His nerves would be frayed in this situation regardless, but knowing that he is at a significant physical disadvantage is daunting. 

“Kid, get back--” Stan tries to say, turning in panic as Ford's feet hit the ground.

He’s silenced with a bullet striking the ground between them. The rest of it happens in a blur.

Ford feels a chunk of displaced dirt hit his face. 

The click of the gun’s hammer rings through the air.

Stan is on him in seconds, blocking Ford from Eddie’s sight. Acting as a human shield. 

“ Please, Eddie,” he begs, arms forward in a display of surrender. “Don’t do this.” 

From underneath Stan’s raised arms, Ford watches as the man levels the gun with his brother’s chest. His jaw tenses hard enough to grind his teeth together. 

Eddie continues to ignore Stan, and presses on. 

“He’s going to come stand over here by me,” he explains evenly. “Once he’s over here, you and I are gonna have a talk about what’s gonna happen.”

Stan barely waits for Eddie to finish speaking. “C’mon, Eddie, he’s got nothing to do with this. Leave him be.”

His voice, weak and desperate, reminds Ford of the night he got kicked out.

“I know,” is all Eddie says. His teeth flash with a smirk. “Now, get him over here.” 

An arm swings down behind him, and Ford is blocked from moving forward. How Stan knew he would obey ( anything to avoid Stan getting hurt ), he’s not sure. He’s forced to stay put.

A loud sigh grates against Ford’s eardrums. 

“Lee, Lee, Lee,” he groans. “I know how you feel about kids, man. It’s annoying as hell. But trust me, I don’t wanna hurt the kid.”

Somehow, Ford doesn’t believe him.

“I just know you’ll actually fucking listen to me if I swing a gun around him.” His voice drops, low and threatening. “Don’t make me come back with more men. Just ‘cause I don’t want to hurt him, doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Stan cuts back. The venom in his tone makes Ford jump, just the slightest bit. 

(He wasn’t aware that Stan could sound like that.)

Eddie clicks his tongue, testing him. “I could just shoot you in the arm or leg. It’d be hard to keep me from kickin’ the shit out of him if you’re bleeding out.” 

The thrill of panic, of a flash of Stan bleeding on the ground, makes Ford take a step forward. He’s visible, out from behind Stan’s bulk, when his brother’s hand grips onto his shoulder.

“You’re not gonna shoot me,” he counters. Ford can clock the false confidence in his tone. “You need me to do your dirty work. Can’t do that if I’m hurt or dead.” 

The grin on Eddie’s face is slimy and wide. It twists dreadfully in Ford’s stomach, and he knows he’s felt this way before.

“I like you, Lee,” he admits. “But not that much. You might be doing us a favor by dying.” 

Oh, how Ford wants to tear into this man.

When Eddie clicks his tongue again, Ford knows that he’ll have to act on their behalf. He pushes Stan’s hand away from him, slowly, and moves to step out from behind him. 

Stan’s eyes immediately find him, and it freezes Ford to his core. 

He looks so scared. 

Ford gives him a short nod, trying to convey to his brother through his eyes alone that he’ll be okay. His only response is a long, hesitant look, but Stan does not grab him again. Ford takes this chance to inch his way into the open. His hands are up, despite how hard he wants to grab the borrowed knife. 

“Smart kid,” Eddie praises, and it grates against every one of Ford’s nerves. “Over here.” 

Eddie keeps his gun focused on Ford, and fuck if it doesn’t make him nervous. He gestures to a place about a foot away from him, and Ford dutifully makes his way to that spot.

The seconds tick too slowly, eternities stretching on until he’s rooted in the spot Eddie wants him in. 

“Eddie,” Stan tries again. It’s hard to hear, the air stolen from his lungs. “Please, please, don’t hurt him.”

Eddie’s eyes remain on him, fixing him to the spot. Once he’s satisfied with whatever he was looking for, he returns his attention to Stan.

“Shit, I didn’t know you had a kid, Lee,” he says easily. “He’s your spittin’ image.” 

His brother has no clear response, repeatedly pleading with him until he’s inaudible. Ford wants to reach out and hold his hand, assure him that it’ll be okay, lie and comfort him. 

“Maybe now you’ll be a good boy and listen,” Eddie says, paying no heed to Stan’s begging. “Don’t try any stupid fucking tricks again.”

Stan’s nodding along. Ford tries to ignore the shaking in his knees.

“I just-- I need to take him home,” he pleads softly. “I’ll take him home, make sure he’s squared away, and I’ll come right back. I promise, please.” 

“No,” Eddie stresses. “I’m not letting you out of my sights again, Lee. I’ll follow you there. As long as you play nice, kid gets to stay cozy at home.”

Ford’s heart aches as Stan all but crumbles at the orders. His face pinches, head drooping down as it settles over him. The moments drag on, until Stan takes a deep breath and looks back up. 

Making eye contact with his boss-manager-whatever, Stan slowly lowers to his knees.

“Okay,” he yields, and it freezes Ford’s blood. 

Don’t.

“Whatever you want, I promise. Just-- don’t hurt him.”

Don’t do this.

“Anything I want, whatever I want,” Eddie begins to list. “Whenever I want, however I want… Why-ever I want. Did I miss anything?” 

Please, Stanley.

“Fine,” he agrees all too easily. “All of it, whatever, I don’t care. Just let him go.” 

“Drug running, fencing, intimidation, all of it. Everything I ask.”

“Y-yes-- yes, Eddie.”

With a pleased hum, Eddie adds on, “Good. Who knows-- if you’re a good little pet, maybe I’ll even pay off your debt to Rico for you.” 

Ford feels like he is about to fall apart at the seams. He cannot bear watching Stan anymore, so he turns his gaze to Eddie. 

Ford watches as he turns his gun towards Stan, aiming low.

Ford listens as he says, “Now, to make sure you don’t try running again.” 

Ford hears a loud, distinct pop . 

Ford flinches when Stan screams. 

And Ford

Sees

Red.

Chapter Text

Stan’s scream and groans of pain echo in Ford’s ears as he lunges at Eddie. With a strong grip on the knife, he crashes into the man at full force.

The two go crashing to the ground, Eddie knocked off balance-- he certainly wasn’t expecting this child to tackle him. Ford plans to use it to his advantage as much as he can. 

The silver exterior of the gun glints under the sun as Ford wraps a hand around it. His blood is pounding in his ears, deafening everything else. He pulls at the gun, but Eddie does not budge.

Keeping his grip on both the gun and the knife, Ford swings down. 

The first contact of the blade slices through the top of Eddie’s hand, but he does not let go of the gun. 

Ford stabs down again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Everything is a blur, but eventually, he’s able to tear the gun away from Eddie with a sickening crack of something. Risk be damned, he flings the gun somewhere behind him. All he can see is red, staining the knife and his clothes, as he grips the knife with both hands.

He thinks of Eddie’s hand patting Stan’s face, and he plunges the knife down.

He thinks of Eddie’s hand resting on the back of Stan’s neck, pinning him in place, and he slashes across the man beneath him.

He thinks of the kiss Eddie planted on Stan’s cheek, and he aims for his face.

He thinks of the way Eddie spoke to Stan, sinister grins and twisted demands, and he jams the knife into his throat.

He thinks of all he’s asked of Stan, how cruel he’s been, and he stabs the knife past Eddie’s open, screaming lips.

Ford thinks he can hear Stan behind him, but his voice sounds as distant as a dream.

Looking down at the man, bloody and torn up, Ford thinks about how terrified he’s made Stan. He looks into Eddie’s eyes, barely cracked open, and he sees yellow. 

With a scream ripping from his sore throat ( has he been yelling this entire time? ), Ford aims for his eyes. He has to get that yellow, that  cursed  color, out of them . 

He cannot stand it.

His skin crawls with the yellow watching him, judging him.

How the yellow makes demands, ever increasing and always too much.

He hates it. 

He cannot trust it.

He cannot trust Bill.

Two large arms wrap around his middle from behind, pulling him up and away from his muse. A growl tears itself from his throat as he tries to reach for Bill one last time, anything to get him to stop. 

It’s not until he’s all but slammed into the side of Stan’s car that he comes back to himself. Stan is talking to him, eyes frantic as he grips Ford’s face.

“--ord, calm down,” he’s saying. “It’s okay, calm down.”

“Stanley?” he croaks, voice shot. 

“Yeah, I’m here,” his brother soothes. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?” 

Stan does not wait for an answer, instead letting his hands poke and prod at Ford until he’s satisfied. When he finally stops, his hands are soaked with blood. 

Eddie’s blood, his mind supplies. Not Bill’s.

Bill is still out there.

Bill is still a threat. 

His head hurts, but he feels like he can finally see clearly. 

Stan is pulling him around the car. He’s limping heavily, but Ford still stumbles behind him as he struggles to keep up. His limbs feel numb. He’s all but shoved into the passenger seat, the door slamming shut behind him.

It’s too quiet all at once. The only sounds Ford can hear are his ragged breathing and pulse, both slowly calming.

When Stan does not immediately climb into the driver’s seat, he turns to look out the window.

His brother kneels over Eddie. The man does not move as Stan pulls something from his face. Ford belatedly realizes that the knife has been lodged into his eye socket. He faintly remembers it slipping out of his grip on a swing.

The car jostles when Stan finally returns, his brother hissing as he pulls his wounded leg into the seat. He says nothing as he turns the car back on and peels out of the clearing, heading away from the town behind them. Ford sits in silence, unable to speak through the adrenaline making its way out of his system.

He’s not sure how much time passes before Stan suddenly pulls over to the side of the road. There’s nothing around them but trees. The quiet offers a semblance of privacy.

His brother does not look at him when he speaks.

“How… How old are you, Ford?” 

He feels weak when he looks over at Stan. His actions are slowly filtering in through the haze. He stomach twists with nausea.

“...I’m 27,”  he answers honestly. There is no point in lying.

“What,” Stan says, voice low and slow. “The. Fuck.”

When he finally turns to look at Ford, there is fire in his eyes.

“Are you going to explain what the hell is going on?”

“I haven’t lied to you,” Ford spits out before he can think. “Not about everything.”

Stan splutters, incredulous in the face of this new truth. “Are you-- are you serious, Stanford? You want me to believe you just woke up as a kid?”

“Yes! That’s what happened!”

“That doesn’t just happen, Ford!” Stan yells. His voice booms in the car, the frame shaking with it. 

“What do you want me to say?” Ford yells back, twisting in his seat to face him fully. 

“I want you to tell me the truth, Ford!” his brother cries, face twisting from fury to agony. “You just killed a man! Don’t you think I need to know what’s happening?”

His anger wants him to shout back that no, Stan doesn’t need to know, that he doesn't deserve to. It wants him to bite back that Stan has been absent for a decade, that he can’t just worm his way back into Ford’s life by demanding it. It wants to throw his mistakes back in his face and watch what Stan does.

It almost wins, Ford’s mouth forming the words.

There is sunlight reflecting across Stan’s face, his brown eyes glowing golden. 

He’s reminded of how much shit he’ll be in.

He just imagined killing Bill. He let his anger overcome him, tearing down the protective walls that he’d been building up for years. 

Part of him expects everything to crash around him, falling apart and crumbling into pieces he’ll have to pick up. 

There is nothing so dramatic-- it is simply a vindictive voice in the back of his head whispering, “I told you so.” 

(It sounds like Fiddleford.)

Ford looks down at his hands. They are small and covered with someone else’s blood.

He sees phantom images of his own hands in the mornings after Bill used him. Always covered in welts, cuts, and bruises. Always hurting.  

Why didn’t he see this sooner?

Why did he let Bill get away with hurting and manipulating him for so long?

“Ford?” 

His name suddenly pulls him back. 

“I-- I shouldn’t have yelled,” he hears Stan mutter. “I just… I’m worried, Sixer. Please, just tell me what’s going on.” 

When he looks up, he sees the brother that left him ten years ago. The ever-present ache in his chest turns into a sharp wound, twisting at all his insides and pulling.

“Why didn’t you come back?” he asks weakly.

The question settles slowly across Stan’s features, and the haunted look from the night before returns to his eyes.

“You think I didn’t try? ” he croaks. “I tried to come back after a week, when I thought it would just be Ma at home. But…”

He pauses, and has to look away from Ford. His face wrinkles under the weight of the memory.

“Pa was home instead. He beat the shit out of me and told me he’d call the cops if I ever came back. I…” He sighs, tight and painful. “I tried.”

The stubborn, hurt part of Ford wants to deny it, shove it away from him. It doesn’t fit with the narrative he’s told himself, and it stings.

Stan speaks before Ford can say anything.

“You didn’t come after me, either.” It’s not bitter, but resigned. 

“You had a car,” Ford tries to reason. He wants to reach out to Stan, but his hands remain in his lap. “I… didn’t know where you went.

“I thought… I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore,” he admits quietly. 

There is a long pause, the confession hanging heavily in the air. The rumble of the engine keeps Ford from floating away.

“Is that what this Bill guy told you?” 

The question sends a shock through his system. Guilt immediately follows, threatening to swallow Ford whole.

He’d thought it long before Bill, but it was what Bill wanted him to see. He’s sure of it. Bill wanted him to see that his fears were true-- that Stan was thriving, happy, doing great without Ford. 

Bill wanted Ford to abandon Stan.

But Bill was wrong.

Looking at him now, down to the bullet hole just above his knee, he can’t believe he even entertained the idea. Stan was so quick to jump between Ford and a gun, willing to give up his freedom to ensure that Ford walked away unscathed.

He feels rotten.

Some brother I turned out to be.

“Kind of,” he mutters ruefully. He doesn’t know how to put the entire thing into words.

Stan deserves an attempt. 

“I think… he wanted me to see that you were fine without me,” he says. “That you never looked back.”

A chuckle surprises him. It’s not the same warm, joyful sound that Ford has missed all these years. Instead, it’s short, bitter, and carries something painful with it.

“Sorry to disappoint, but he’s wrong,” Stan tells him. 

Wordlessly, he flips down the sun visor above the driver’s seat. Ford looks up, and his lips automatically tug into a deep frown. His eyes well up with tears as he looks at an old photograph, brown with age and stained at the edges.

It’s of the two of them in boxing gear, hanging off each other and laughing. It reminds him of his own photograph at home, of the twins on their Stan'o'War, tucked away in one of his journals. 

“I’m… sorry, Ford,” Stan continues, eyes stuck on the photograph. “I was so caught up in my own shit. I didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.”

He says something else, but Ford doesn’t catch it as he all but throws himself at his brother. Skinny arms wrap around Stan’s neck, squeezing tight as Ford hugs him. He has to raise up on his knees to do it, but he doesn’t care.

“I’m sorry too,” he whispers against Stan’s shoulder. His heart lodges itself in his throat, and he cannot elaborate. 

Stan wraps his arms around Ford for the second time that day. Ford presses his face into him, glasses pushing awkwardly into his nose. He can’t find it in himself to care.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” Stan asks quietly, holding him close. “Doesn’t have to be right now. Just… sometime.”

Ford’s throat is too tight still, so he settles on nodding. Stan understands, and falls silent.

He still feels small and vulnerable, but tucked away into his brother’s arms, Ford feels safe. He aches with it, trying to remember the last time he’d felt truly safe. It has been a long time. 

He wants to stay here forever.

Much too soon, Stan pushes him away. 

“We need to get going. We can’t be seen around here,” he offers as an explanation. Ford is reminded of the blood on his hands, staining both of their clothes. He's reminded of the body they left several miles back.

He nods and returns to his seat. 

As Stan begins to drive again, Ford finds his voice.

“We still need to go to Gravity Falls. I’ll tell you how to get there.” He pauses. “I have someone I need to apologize to.”

Chapter Text

Stan has not been able to stop shifting in his seat. One hand remains on his wounded leg, attempting to keep pressure on the bleeding hole. The other keeps a firm grip on the steering wheel, slowly losing color from the fingertips.

“We should stop,” Ford eventually says. “We need to get that patched up or you’ll bleed out.”

Stan grumbles, but doesn’t come up with an argument. He starts scanning for an off-road or flatter ditch to pull off into. It takes a few minutes, but they finally find something and pull over.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” Ford asks.

“Yeah, in the trunk. Blue fanny pack,” his brother answers. Ford doesn’t wait before leaping out of the passenger seat to go retrieve it.

He’s at the driver’s side door, fanny pack in hand, as Stan swings the door open. Ford protests a bit, unable to help as Stan shimmies to sit on the footrest. 

“Oh, hush,” Stan chides him. “It’ll be easier if I’m down here.”

Ford grumbles but agrees, once again realizing that his current size will put him at a disadvantage. He shakes off the mounting dread and opens the pack, finding clean gauze, a small towel, a plastic case with needles, fishing line, bandages, clear alcohol, iodine…

“Why do you have so much?” he asks in awe. Minus the quality of supplies, it almost rivals his own at home.

His brother shrugs nonchalantly, but Ford can see the ghosts swimming in the brown of his eyes. 

“Not my first time in trouble like this,” he says, and Ford wants to invent time travel so he can go help Stan in each of these scenarios. He aches with the lost time, now more than ever.

Ford watches as his brother removes the leather belt from his thigh, thinking to himself that it was too loose to make a good tourniquet. Still, he reminds himself, it was a good idea. 

Stan then reaches for the first aid kit and yelps when Ford slaps the back of his hand. 

“Don’t. You sit back, this is going to hurt,” he instructs. “I’ll handle it.” 

“I know your doctorate isn’t in medicine, Ford,” Stan teases. Regardless, he leans back against the seat and lifts his hips to remove his bloody jeans. Ford ignores the hiss when the denim peels back from the wound.

He’s about to toss the blood-soaked clothes away before Stan stops him. 

“Keep ‘em. I’ll turn them into shorts.”

You shouldn’t have to, Ford thinks as he looks up at his brother. I’ll buy you anything you want. I’ll make sure you won’t have to scrap together anything anymore. 

He puts them aside for him, anyway. 

He gets to work then, wiping his hands as clean as he can before dousing his hands with alcohol. Stan gets a word of warning before he’s using the alcohol to clear away the blood around his wound-- he’s careful to avoid the exposed muscle, but some alcohol brushes against the edges of it. 

“Hand me my water bottle, it should be unopened,” he orders as he works. Stan twists to retrieve the bottle, cracking it open. He hands it off to Ford before stuffing a finger in his mouth to bite on.

Ford gives him a moment to brace himself before pouring the clean water over the gunshot wound. It hit right above his knee, a few inches to the lateral side of his thigh. The bleeding is consistent but slowed, and doesn’t pulse in a way that makes Ford think it hit anything too important. 

“I shouldn’t bleed out any time soon,” Stan grits out, as if reading his thoughts. “Hurts like a motherfucker, but I’ll be fine.”

“I agree, but… we should get you to a doctor in Gravity Falls,” Ford relents. He already hates the oily dread that seeps into his guts as he thinks about this wound festering. 

The iodine is running low, so Ford focuses on coating the inner parts of the wound. It’s easy enough to pack some of the clean gauze into it, stuffing it in close to where the bullet must still be lodged. He has to give Stan several pauses as he works, despite his brother urging him to move faster. Ford doesn’t like the paleness of his face, or the way he keeps looking down the road with poorly hidden paranoia. 

“There,” he says finally, securing the bandage wrap around a square of gauze. 

“Good,” Stan grunts. He quickly shuffles back into the driver’s seat. “Hurry and get in the car. We gotta go.” 

Ford does just that. He’s barely buckled in before Stan is driving away. He tries to ignore the blood drying under his fingernails. 

They drive for hours, watching as the sky turns dark around them before Ford truly starts to worry. Stan seems awake and aware at the wheel, but Ford wonders how much of that will come crashing down. 

“Should we--” he tries to ask, the words barely out of his mouth before Stan is shaking his head.

“We can’t stop.” His gruff voice is firm. “If you gotta pee, we’ll stop somewhere on the side of the road. Otherwise, we keep driving until we get to Gravity Falls.” 

Something akin to irritation twinges in Ford’s stomach.

“Can I reach the pedals?”

The question throws Stan off enough to get him to look over at Ford. 

“What?” 

“Can I reach the pedals?” Ford restates. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, Stan. I don’t know if you can keep--”

“Of course I can,” his brother bites back. There’s enough venom in it to make Ford pause. The air is heavy, oppressive. 

The twinge turns into a consistent pull. 

“Don’t be stupid, Stanley,” he starts. “You can’t drive if you’re passed out.”

There’s a harsh scoff that scrapes at the edges of Ford’s nerves. He can see Stan’s mouth open to say something before the man shakes his head and cuts himself off. 

“What?” he asks. It’s difficult to keep the irritation out of his tone.

“Don’t start,” Stan says, too sharply to be anything but an order. “I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Then don’t,” Ford replies plainly. He doesn’t see what’s so difficult about this. 

Stan’s jaw flexes at the same time his hands grip the steering wheel tighter. Ford braces for a fight, despite his brother saying he doesn’t want to argue.

“I’m fine, Ford,” he says instead. “It’s not the first time I’ve pulled an all-nighter.”

“An all-nighter while injured like this?” 

“Yes, actually.” 

The quick reply holds no indication that he’s lying, and it strikes ice through Ford’s core. His teeth click as he shuts his mouth too quickly. 

Not for the first time, he wonders how often Stan’s been shot at like this. How often a bullet has grazed or pierced his skin. How often a knife has sliced or dug deep into him. How often his clothes have been stained red with his blood. How often he’s depleted his first aid kit and has had to steal more supplies.

Shame burns hot in his chest.

He thinks back to his own life in the past few years. How he’s had to hide cuts and bruises under his long sweaters. The various wounds he’s woken up to, had to patch up in learned efficiency before Fiddleford saw. Each morning, sitting below low lights, a first aid kit spread out in front of him.

His mind supplies him a similar image, except it’s Stan sitting in front of the supplies. He’s bleeding from his side, hissing as he pulls a needle and thread through his skin. 

Ford’s gut twists itself into knots as the image shifts again, and now it’s the two of them. They’re in Ford’s bathroom, sitting on the cold tile as Stan holds onto Ford’s hand. He’s pulling a nail from his palm, saying something indecipherable in this mirage. Ford feels warm in this imaginary memory, soft and vulnerable in a way he was not allowed to be in the true memory. 

He looks over at his brother. 

“I’ll… tell you what’s been going on, then. To keep you awake.” He wants to tell Stan. He chases the imagined feeling, hoping it doesn’t leave him as empty as he is now.

The edges of his brother soften, just a bit, but he does not speak. Ford takes that as an invitation to continue.

Looking out the window, watching the distant oranges shift to a deep indigo, he begins. 

“I met Bill a few years ago. There was a cave painting, foretelling of a muse that could grant man untold secrets and knowledge. I summoned him, then, and we began to work together.

“He was… wonderful.” It hurts him now, looking back. He wants to scream until his voice is hoarse.

“He’d praise me, promising to lead me to great discoveries for humankind. He gave me several new findings, allowing me to continue receiving grants. He gave me so much, in those first few years, and I felt… like I was important. ” 

Now, he feels so, so foolish. 

His eyes sting. There is a stone in his throat.

“One day he showed me his dream of a portal. A way that he’d be able to come to our reality, to me. He said…” 

He has to swallow several times before continuing. 

“He said that once he was with me, I wouldn’t feel so alone anymore. That we could be weird together. I was so… stupid.” 

He swipes at his face before the tear can stain his cheeks. 

“I bought into everything. I made his portal with the help of a college friend of mine. We’ve worked endlessly for almost a year now. And then… during a test, my assistant, he saw inside of it.” 

His mind supplies the memory unbidden, of the furious terror in Fiddleford’s eyes. Of his warning, so clear and meaningful in this new light.

“He told me it would ruin us,” Ford confesses, voice weakened to nothing more than a whisper. “That Bill wasn’t what he said he was, that he’s just been… using me. I just… I couldn’t see it until now.”

His throat is too tight to say more. A part of him wants to tell Stan how Bill has hurt him, dug various household items into his flesh until he’s blistered with pain. Wants Stan to comfort him, assure him Bill can’t hurt him anymore. The rest of him, however, knows that is not true. He knows that the moment he falls asleep, Bill will return and will continue to cause him so much pain.

A quiet, resentful part of him tells him that he’ll deserve it. 

Stan is silent for a long time. If it weren’t for his fingers tapping anxiously against the wheel, Ford might have believed he’d fallen asleep. Each second the silence stretches, Ford imagines another nail being hammered into his coffin.

“I thought you were gonna say this Bill guy was some… I don’t know, wizard or something,” Stan eventually speaks. “Some regular guy who conned his way into your life with magic tricks and ancient tomes or something. Not… Moses, not that. ”

His tone does not convey his true feelings. It doesn’t call Ford a liar, necessarily, but does not say it believes him either. 

A bitter smile tugs at his lips.

“That seems a little too normal for me, don’t you think?”

Stan’s bright laughter surprises him. “Yeah, that’s a good point. You just can’t do anything half-assed, can you?” 

The little spark the laugh had given Ford quickly fizzles out, and he slumps back into his seat. He didn’t realize just how tense he’d gotten. For the hundredth time, he feels impossibly small.

“Good thing I’m an expert at getting out of trouble, huh?” 

Ford’s head whips around, eyes finding Stan. He desperately tries to tell himself off, to tamper down this building light in his chest.

When Stan looks over at him, a lopsided grin gracing his face, he knows it’s a lost cause.

“You helped me with my problem. S’only fair I help you with yours,” he says. There’s more to it, brown eyes betraying how much this truly means to Stan, but Ford does not mention it. His brother looks away far too quickly, shaking his head. 

“Sweet Moses, you better not be pulling my leg. If this is all… I don’t know, some elaborate attempt to get back at me…” he trails off, unable to finish his thought.

“It’s not,” Ford quickly says. Desperate, pleading. “I’ll… I’ll be able to prove it, once we meet with my assist-- my friend in Gravity Falls. He can help us.” 

The short look he gets is long-suffering and tired, but Ford can see the same determination in his eyes that he’s admired since they were young. His brother, brave and strong in ways he could never be, facing down his challenges even when he didn’t understand. 

The years crash into him, the pain and misery and loneliness crushing against his shoulders. 

“...I missed you,” he says under his breath. He’s not sure if he says it more for Stan or for himself. 

The only indication that his brother heard it is a sharp sniff and a tightened hold of the steering wheel. 

It’s not much, but Ford will take it.

Chapter Text

Despite their “reunion” going smoother than Ford feared, the rest of the drive was not entirely pleasant. He can tell that Stan is still on edge, but he supposes it’s a good thing that Stan now feels comfortable enough to take his mask off. Ford has a feeling that before, when Stan believed that Ford was about eleven years old, he’d hidden the bulk of his emotions. That he’d crammed everything down to appear level-headed and as a source of stability for him (and, he supposes, eleven-year-old him would have greatly appreciated it. Even now, he appreciates it). 

Now, however, Stan is not hiding how stressed he is. He tenses every time headlights appear in the distance. He mutters under his breath about how much bad luck he has. Ford cannot fault him for that-- he did just stab a man to death in front of him, after all. A man he hates, sure, but someone he knew nonetheless. 

What Ford can fault him for is the snide remarks Stan sends his way every once in a while. He’ll comment on how they shouldn’t be in this mess in the first place with a poorly-hidden look over to the passenger seat. He’ll mention that it would have been quite helpful if Ford had been honest with him up front. 

Ford tries to let the comments slide off of him, not eager to bicker, but it’s getting increasingly difficult. He feels heat simmering just under the skin of his hands and cheeks, begging to be set free. He’d taken a lot of his pent-up anger out on Eddie, but every time he thinks of Him, he feels it flare up. Stan’s occasional comments do not help, and more often than not, nearly send him spiraling. 

It’s not until they’re an hour away from Gravity Falls, in the very early hours of the morning, that he finally snaps back.

“If you have such a problem with me, you could have left me back there,” he hisses after Stan mutters about this all being a bad idea.

“What?” Stan bites back in response. “What the fuck do you mean? I’m not just gonna leave you.” 

The heat under his skin is a steady boil. “Well, you’ve had no issue letting me know that you’ve regretted it.”

His brother guffaws, coarse and disbelieving. “Me? I have done nothing to regret, mister.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Ford grits out, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know, maybe it has to do with all the bullshit stunts you’ve been pulling lately?”

“Seriously, Stan? You think I want to be in this mess?” 

“I don’t know what you want, Ford! You had to resort to trickery to finally talk to me after ten years! How am I supposed to know what you want?” 

“I didn’t want this!” Ford all but cries, voice shrill and too high in the cabin of the car. It rings painfully quiet for a moment, Stan white-knuckled and glaring at the road in front of them. “I just wanted-- I wanted to--”

What did he want? 

Two weeks ago, he wanted to finish the portal with Fiddleford and place both of their names in history. 

A week ago, he wanted to forget Fiddleford’s name and run crying to Bill. 

Four days ago, he wanted the comfort of his muse, only to be met with scorn and disappointment at every turn. 

Three days ago, he wanted to see his brother again, whether it be to cut ties and reaffirm his devotion to Bill or… otherwise. 

Now…

“I don’t know,” he admits softly. He feels wrung out. “I guess I just… needed to see if you were okay. I thought I needed to prove to myself that you had wanted this life.” 

There is silence again, but it is not as sharp as before. The seconds are slow before Stan, voice softer, asks, “Is that actually what you wanted, or is that what Bill told you that you wanted?” 

The question strikes a chord in his hollow chest.

“I’m not going to lie, Stanley,” he sighs, heavy and deep. “Most of what I’ve wanted in the past few years has all been him. Whether he told me to want it, or because I thought it’d make him… I don’t know. Happy? Proud?”

A bitter laugh from the driver’s side pulls his attention. 

“Sounds a bit like Pa.” 

The comparison twists something weird inside of Ford, and he flinches as a laugh rips out of his throat. 

“Don’t say that!” he cackles, face turning red as he covers it with his hands. “I kissed him, I don’t want to think about them being similar!” 

“What, you never heard the phrase, ‘you end up marrying your parents?’” Stan asks. When Ford looks, he has a wide, shit-eating grin spread across his tired features. 

“That’s a widely misunderstood conception, and you know it.” 

“Still gotcha to laugh, though.”

When Stan looks over to him, his whole face has softened. He looks tired and weary, and Ford knows he wears a similar look. The fatigue spans many years for both of them, he’d imagine. 

The moment passes quickly when Stan returns his eyes to the road. It feels wrong, like an off-key note, to end the conversation there. Still, Ford doesn’t know how to continue it in any natural way. That seems to happen a lot between them-- sudden ends with no knowledge of how to repair or continue. 

“We’re about an hour away,” he says instead. He just wants to fill the silence, to hear Stan talk. He’s gone so long without his voice. “My friend lives on the far side of town, so you’ll get to see some of it on our way through.” 

Stan’s hum in return is a short, bored thing. Ford holds onto it like a song for the rest of the drive.

.

Fiddleford had managed to find a run-down home near the lake when he’d first arrived. He’d bought it for nothing more than a place to put equipment, extra supplies, and a bed. (Ford remembers he had been quite willing to stay in the cabin until he overheard an argument on the phone between Fiddleford and Emma-May. Fiddleford had bought the home within a week.)

He’d done quite a lot of work to patch it up and make it liveable. There was a garden out front, though Ford couldn’t identify what all was growing in it for the short amount of time Stan’s headlights illuminated it. There are no longer holes in the exterior walls, and the roof looks like it’s in one solid piece. It looks good, all things considered.

Now, as for the man living inside… that remains to be seen.

His jaw aches with the uppercut Fiddleford had left him with.

“I will warn you now,” Ford says, taming down the shakiness in his voice. “He may not be… pleased to see me.”

“Didn’t you say you were friends?” Stan asks warily.

Ford doesn’t know how to answer him, but his expression must be answer enough. He does not miss the way Stan tucks his cleaned knife into his boot.

They had considered waiting until the sun rose from beyond the horizon, but both agreed that their current situation was a bit too dire to leave unaddressed for much longer. The moon glints off the surface of the lake as they approach the front door.

Ford knocks a familiar tune against the grain of the wood. It was something they used to do in college whenever one of them would accidentally lock themselves out. He waits, ears straining for any noise, but hears nothing. 

“His truck is here and he’s got nowhere to go,” Ford says lowly. “He should be home.”

Bill can’t hurt him, he reminds himself as his stomach twists in anxious knots. Not here. 

Stan grunts softly next to him as his hand finds the doorknob. With a twist, the door gently swings open. 

“Well… he fixed the creaking,” Ford notes dully. He takes a step forward, only to be stopped by Stan’s hand on his shoulder.

“Let me go in first. Wait here.” 

His brother pushes the door open all the way, and the two peer into the darkened hallway. There are no lights on, and Stan’s headlights flood in to provide only a small amount of light. They give each other a look before nodding. 

Stepping quietly ( too quietly, like he’s done this before ), Stan makes his way into the home. Ford watches as he carefully appears around corners before crossing them. He passes the closet, the entrance to the kitchen, and is just getting to the base of the stairs when something flashes from the living room.

Ford’s heart stutters violently as Stan is hit in the head with a crackling bolt of blue electricity. He’s running forward as the pieces quickly slot into place.

That bastard, I thought I told him to get rid of that thing!

Stan shouts, ducking his head and swinging his arm out and up. Ford sees his hands close around the memory gun. He yanks, tearing it away from a shadowy figure’s hands. 

“What the hell?” he growls. It’s the only moment he spares towards the device as he swings it towards the nearest wall, bulb-first. 

“Wait, don’t--!” 

The gun splinters into pieces, glass flying everywhere with a loud crack. Ford shields his head as Stan reaches back out and grabs Fiddleford by the collar of his shirt.

“How are you--” his friend is stammering. Ford can see how wide his eyes are in the dark. “You should be--”

“Did you just try to kill me with some-- funky science thingamajig?!” Stan all but shouts into his face. 

“ Kill? God, no!” 

Ford only needs a second to see Stan’s fist raise before he’s flinging himself at the nearest wall, hands fumbling for a light switch. He’s a moment too late-- he hears Fiddleford cry out in pain before the overhead lights flash on.

“Stop!” he yells, hands up to the towering men. “That’s Fiddleford!”

Stan’s face is red and absolutely bewildered. He doesn’t seem to know what to look at, eyes flicking between Ford and his friend. Fiddleford, for his part, drops all hostility right away. His hands are up as his nose bleeds sluggishly, glasses askew from where Stan clocked him. 

“You didn’t say he was gonna try and kill you!” his brother shouts. 

Fiddleford begins to protest again, but Ford drowns him out.

“He didn’t!” he defends. “It was his stupid memory gun!” 

Speaking of.

He shoots a hard glare at his friend as Stan drops his hold on him.

“You said you got rid of that damned thing!” he seethes. He remembers when he first found out Fiddleford had regularly been using the thing, and it makes his chest ache something painful. “You promised!” 

“St-Stanford?!” 

Oh. Right. 

“Why-- Why are there two of you? What happened to you?” 

Here comes the freakout. It’s alright, I was expecting this.

“This is Stanley, he’s my twin brother.”

“You have a twin?” 

That’s not the most concerning thing here, Fidds.

“Ouch, Ford,” Stan cuts blandly. Ford quickly shoots him a look that tells him to shut it. 

“Why are you a child?” Fiddleford then asks. His voice is getting increasingly shrilly, similar to when he had many, many questions about the alien spacecraft. “What happened?”

“I’ll explain everything,” Ford starts, trying to speak evenly to bring down the tension. “Everything is fine--”

“Is that blood?” Fiddleford’s face pales as he looks at their clothes. “Good Lord Almighty. Is this Bill’s work?” 

Ford’s voice is easily overpowered by Stan’s.

“You know Bill? Is that-- is blood a common thing with Bill?”

Ford flinches as Fiddleford makes a face, grave and serious. He nods twice, and Stan sputters.

“The hell? I thought Bill was some cosmic weirdo. Where does he get blood?”

Don’t-- “Stan--”

“Ford’s blood? You haven’t seen him yet?” Fiddleford asks, a tad confused. “My goodness, the damage he does to Ford when he’s an adult is already bad enough. I can’t imagine--”

“ To Ford?!” 

Oh no. “Boys--” 

“Yes?? Is that-- is that not Ford’s blood??” 

“No! It’s someone else’s!”

“Oh God, did he use Ford to hurt someone else? I’ve been tellin’ him that Bill is bad news, I knew--”

“HEY!” Ford finally shouts loud enough to grab their attention. He’s breathless with it, face hot under the sudden attention. The two grown men are now looking at him, angry and aghast in equal measure.

“Can… I… explain?” he says, drawing out each word as slowly as possible. He cannot have them continue to spiral each other out of control. 

“Ohh-ho-ho,” Stan replies, brow furrowed and tone low. “Yeah, buster, you got a lot of explaining to do.” 

Fiddleford crosses his arms then, expression mirroring Stan’s. “I think so too, Ford. Go right ahead.”

Ford flounders, suddenly feeling like a teenager who’s snuck home after curfew. With Stan’s hands on his hips and Fiddleford’s crossed arms, they sure do remind him of Pa and Ma. He quickly stamps the thought down, returning his attention to the present. 

“Look-- Fiddleford,” he starts, turning to his friend first. “Yes, this was Bill. Yes, Bill is bad news. I… I see that now.”

It feels much heavier to say it out loud, the words dooming him further. Though… It feels good to admit it, like he’s finally peeled the wool off of his eyes.

“You were right, Fiddleford,” he confesses. He needs Fiddleford to hear that, to see how the taller man softens with the words. “I didn’t see that until today. This,” he gestures to his current body, “came a few days ago.”

He lets the information settle a bit and catches his breath. 

“Bill wanted me to isolate myself completely. He sent me to Stan so that I could finally cut things off. I don’t think he expected this outcome.”

“That y’all would be breakin’ into my house at four in the mornin’?” Fiddleford cuts in. Thankfully, his tone is more sass than spite.

“No-- yes, actually,” Ford corrects himself. “I don’t think he expected me to realize how…”

He balks, not sure how to put everything into words. Terms like “bad,” “awful,” and “horrendous” don’t do what Bill’s done justice. He’s manipulated, abused, demeaned, and isolated him on levels far too grand for regular human words. His head swirls.

“So,” he restarts. “We need your help. I… don’t want to help Bill anymore. We need to destroy the portal and find a way to keep him from possessing my body.” 

With that, he quickly turns to Stan. He watches as his brother opens his mouth to butt in, and holds up his hand to stop him.

“Yes, possession, Stanley,” he says shortly. He’s sparing much less time for this explanation. “He’s a dream being that can travel between minds and possess someone’s body if given permission. My deal to get knowledge included him using my body whenever I’m asleep.”

He turns away from Stan, who has now thrown his hands in the air in dramatic disbelief. He looks to Fiddleford, leveling him with as much seriousness as he can.

Memories of the day Fiddleford left cross his mind. The man’s face, cheeks red and pupils blown wide, as he shouts at Ford. He cannot remember the words but knows that they struck something cold and painful through him. The feeling echoes in his chest.

“I know I’ve wronged you, my friend. But… can you help us?”

Ford feels as if he’s been down on his knees for far too long under Bill’s thumb. Shame and anger heat his guts and swirl through his bones, and he cannot bring himself to be angry with Fiddleford’s decision to leave anymore. He’ll shout apologies from the rooftops, tattoo confessions into his skin, crawl until his knees are bloody if only it could mean that Fiddleford believes he is sorry.

The man is much taller than him now, even as Fiddleford moves to kneel on the floor. His brow is hard-set above his eyes, wrinkling his forehead under his bangs. Ford is afraid to find his eyes at first. When he does, however, he finds a swirl of emotions he can recognize. 

The first to stand out is the same fear that had been present the last time he’d seen him. The feral terror that shook him to his core.

The second is pain. Something deep and indecipherable, just barely coming to the surface.

The third, and most shocking to Ford, is forgiveness. He’s always known that Fiddleford is a good man, with a heart as big as his brain, and much better than he’ll ever be. He’s never been on the receiving end of his mercy. 

He wants to crumble under it and hide in it, tucked safely away from the world. 

“Of course I forgive you,” his friend tells him, even though Ford did not ask for it. The words soothe something that Ford didn’t know was burnt. “And of course, I’ll help you.”

Fiddleford stands, giving another look at their clothes.

“First, though, y’all need to get cleaned up. You will not be getting blood all over my home.” 

The unyielding knot in Ford’s chest finally loosens the slightest bit, and he feels himself deflate. He looks to Stan, who’s already got his eyes on him. 

“You go first,” his brother says. “You got the worst of it.” 

His hands agree, dried blood still caked into the creases of his fingers and under his nails. Itches across his neck and face map other places blood has landed. 

“Does Tate still have clothes in the guest room?” he asks Fiddleford. When he gets an affirmative, he’s off to gather what he needs. (It’s easy work. Fiddleford has a system that Ford knows well.)

When he pokes his head into the living room again, he pauses. Fiddleford has seemingly fetched a wet washcloth from the kitchen, handing it to Stan. His brother does not immediately wipe his own face or hands, but instead mutters a quiet apology.

“Here, let me,” Ford hears him say as he steps forward. 

Getting into Fiddleford’s personal space, Stan is gentle as he raises the towel to his friend’s nose. He seems surprised at first, but then amused. Ford cannot see what Stan’s expression is, but he can see the twinkle in Fiddleford’s eyes as Stan cleans the blood off his upper lip. 

Face heated and feeling like he just witnessed something too fragile to interrupt, Ford makes his way to the bathroom. Cleaning up is quick work, especially given the motivation to work as fast as possible. He can already feel his body start to sag with exhaustion. 

On his way back to rejoin the others, he hears Fiddleford’s laughter. It’s melodic and lively, and Ford realizes he hasn’t heard it in months. His heart curls around the sound. 

“I swear, it’s constant!” he’s saying. There’s a fondness in his tone that reminds Ford of whenever he talks about his son. “If you take your eyes off of him for a second, he’s wrapped up in something else crazy!” 

Stan’s low chuckle, a perfect complement to Fiddleford’s, resonates through the hallway. “Glad to hear that hasn’t changed. It’d be boring otherwise.”

“I s’pose you’re right. I just wish he’d open up a bit more, is all. It’d make things a whole lot easier.”

There is a short pause, and Ford’s feet are glued to the hardwood floor.

“Maybe one day he’ll trust someone enough to let them in,” he hears Stan say. “Someone who isn’t some dream maniac.”

“Or a siren that tried to drown him when they first met.”

“A siren? Like, the singing monster?” 

Another warm chuckle and Ford cannot find it in himself to be upset about the disclosure. “Yeah, managed to woo ‘em enough to let him live.”

Stan’s laughter is from the belly now, loud enough to fill the entire lower floor. “There’s no way that nerd bagged a siren. Not before me, at least.”

“You in the market of ‘baggin’ sirens often, Stanley Pines?” 

There’s a short noise, a mixture of a hum and a chuckle, that sends Ford into motion. It only briefly makes him think of his early conversations with Carla McCorkle, and he’d really rather not make unnecessary connections. 

Stepping through the doorway, he clears his throat. “I would, uh, appreciate it if you left some of those details out of the picture.” 

Thankfully, Fiddleford doesn’t seem bothered by his sudden reappearance, though he does take a moment to reorient himself to Ford’s new stature. (Stan, on the other hand, looks like he got caught with a hand in the cookie jar as he leans away from Fiddleford.)

Stan does seem much cleaner than before, his face and arms now clear of blood. He’s also changed into his spare shirt and pulled on some sweatpants. 

Ford feels suddenly taken out of the moment. The atmosphere is warm here, both in temperature and temperament. He’s stood in front of the two most important people in his life, and he feels galaxies away from them. The distance stretches between them, threatening to swallow him whole, and he’s suddenly overwhelmed. 

The second the overwhelm rears its head, however, it’s accompanied by a burning. He’s not sure if it’s hatred, exactly, as much as betrayal. It heats his bones to molten lava and threatens to spill from his eyes. 

He’s not sure what he’ll want tomorrow, or even within the next few hours. But for right now, he wants nothing more than to watch Bill burn. 

“We have a lot of work to do,” he tells the others. “We have to find a way to get my body back, keep Bill from possessing me, and effectively destroy the portal.” 

Fiddleford and Stan meet his gaze unwaveringly. Fiddleford’s eyes still carry the same fear, but Ford knows above all others that fear is a great motivator. Stan, on the other hand, has the confidence that only a cheating gambler can wear.

He smiles, lopsided and familiar. “Good thing we got two geniuses and a conman, huh?” 

Ford bites his lip to keep his own grin from spreading too far. They’ll have a long way to go, but the two men in front of him are good . People he can rely on and trust. Of anyone in the world, he knows that these two have his back. 

He doesn’t have to be alone anymore.