Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stan squinted through his filthy, dirt-streaked windshield, the blizzard outside swallowing everything in a thick, endless white. It was hard to make out anything in the storm, but, according to the postcard, this was the right place. It didn’t feel right. It felt… not at all like Ford. 

He’d always thought his brother would be living somewhere sleek, somewhere modern, by now. Some sort of swanky, government funded bunker. Or a penthouse overlooking Area 51. But this? A random, run down shack in the middle of god-knows-where, Oregon? It was wrong. 

A sharp pain flared in his side as he shifted, a hiss forcing its way through his teeth. It had been three months since Rico took his kidney, and it had mostly healed. But had healed sort of… wrong. The skin was pulled tight, uneven, every deep breath stretching it wrong. And it still throbbed— a sick ache he’d had to train himself to ignore. Whatever. At least he’d gotten away before Rico could get the other one. And he'd been on the run since.

Thank God you only needed one kidney to live. 

He gripped the steering wheel tight, like a lifeline. He knew, in the back of his mind, that there was a huge risk in coming here. Rico could have followed him. Anyone could have followed him.

But it was Ford. He had asked him to come after ten years of silence. And selfishly, Stan had listened. 

Please come! 

That was all it had said. No explanations, no apologies. Just raw, panicked urgency. And that was enough. If Ford was willing to break the silence after ten years, it had to be bad. Really, really bad. And if his brother needed him, he had to go. That was all there was to it. He couldn’t live with himself if Ford needed him and he didn’t show up. If he ruined his brother’s life. Again. 

So, now he was here, in his shitty car, staring at the cabin from the end of the driveway. His chest felt too tight, his breaths short and shallow. The longer he sat here, the worse it got. His side burned. His head pounded. The cold was creeping into his bones. 

Okay. One step at a time. First, gotta get out of the car. 

He obeyed his own instructions, his hands fumbling with the door handle. He forced his shaking legs to swing around and get on the ground. He blinked in the white outside, the wind nearly knocking him over.  He caught himself against the car, his vision blurring slightly. Jesus. Had the world always been spinning this much?

Now walk to the door, Stan. Even you can’t fuck that up. 

His legs felt like lead. Each step took more effort than the last. It was like there was some sort of invisible force physically holding him back. His heart was hammering too fast, slamming against his ribs. 

He reached the door, checking the postcard again. As if the address would’ve changed in the last twenty seconds. 

Come on. Knock on the door. 

He reached his fist up the door and froze, his hand hovering in front of the wood. He had no idea who would be waiting on the other side of the door. Ten fucking years. 

Was he still mad? 

He certainly deserved to be. 

Did Ford forgive him? 

Stop. Stop thinking about all that. He had called Stan here, that had to be enough for now. He couldn't let fear get in the way. This was his one chance. His only chance. 

Get it together. 

Before he could think about it any longer, he knocked on the door. 

The silence stretched. Then— 

He heard the click of at least five different locks, then the door was yanked open. 

“WHO IS IT? Have you come to steal my eyes?!”

Stan yelped and stumbled backward, his heart pounding. He was face to face with a crossbow. Which wasn’t all that concerning. He had been face to face with a lot of different weapons in his lifetime. 

What was more concerning was who was holding it. 

Ford. 

But not at all the Ford he remembered. 

No, his bright eyed brother was gone, replaced by… something else. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, pupils blown so big they nearly swallowed his irises. A deep bruise bloomed around one, an ugly swirl of purple and blue. His breaths came fast and ragged, almost wheezing. And— was that dried blood on his cheek? 

“Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome,” Stan muttered. Damn it. Be nice. This is Ford. 

His brother blinked, something like recognition flashing in his eyes. He dropped the weapon to his side and tilted his head, leaning against the doorframe. “Stanley…” he muttered. The word was more like a breath. “Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?” 

What the fuck? 

“Uh—” Stan hesitated. “Hello to you too, pal?” 

Suddenly, before he could say anything else, Ford grabbed him by his shirt collar and yanked him into the room, shining a light in his eyes. Stan blinked, his pupils dilating from the brightness. 

Stan jerked back, shoving his brother on instinct. “Hey, what is this?!” 

Ford stumbled, gripping the stair railing for support. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before forcing himself upright. 

“Ford, are you—” 

“Sorry,” Ford interrupted, blinking rapidly. He put his hands up in surrender. “I just had to make sure you weren’t—” He paused, shaking his head. “Uh, nevermind. Come in, come in.” 

Stan followed, his stomach twisting as his brother led him around the house, dodging all of Stan’s questions. The moments passed in blurs. His head was too full, his body too drained. 

Eventually, they were downstairs, and Stan had no idea when the hell they gotten there. 

He barely registered Ford’s panicked rambling— something about science, portals, danger. As usual, it all sounded like a foreign language to Stan. But then—

“I have something to ask of you: remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?” 

Stan froze. 

Something in his chest ached. Yeah, he remembered that. Of course he remembered that. The memory of them building the Stan O’ War had gotten him through his worst moments, the ones that were a blur of lights and pills and booze and touches and—

Was Ford… about to ask him to sail the world together? 

No. That would be ridiculous. 

Right? 

He wasn’t sure. It had been ten years. That was a lot of time. A lot of time for his brother to realize that the science fair had been an accident. That Stan would never, never actually try to sabotage his brother’s future. 

Perhaps foolishly, Stan felt hope blossoming inside of him. He nodded faintly as Ford continued. His brother held out a thick journal and gestured for Stan to take it. 

“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the Earth! Bury it where no one can find it!” 

Oh. 

God, he was stupid. 

He should’ve known. Why had he— no. How could he have allowed himself to hope? He should’ve learned his lesson by now. 

People like him didn’t deserve hope. 

“That’s it?” He croaked out as the journal was shoved into his hands. He tried to mask the hurt in his voice with anger. He wasn’t sure it was working. “You finally wanna see me after ten years and it's to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?” 

Ford reached both his hands up and pulled at his hair, pacing. “Stanley, you don’t understand what I’m up against! What I’ve been through!” 

Jesus, of course Ford would think Stan wasn’t capable of understanding what it meant to be in deep shit. That was the one thing he could understand. 

Something in him broke. Cracked. Fractured. 

Ford thought he had it hard? Stan glanced around. Ford was wrong. It wasn’t Stan that didn’t understand. It was him. 

Ford had a fancy cabin in the woods. Ford had a place to sleep. Food, water, clean clothes! He had money for God’s sake! He still had their parents in his life! And Shermie! He had everything he could possibly need. Everything he could possibly want. Stan knew he wasn’t among that list. 

And what did Stan have? A dingy hoodie. His nearly-broken car. And at least three separate gangs after him. What he wouldn’t give to be in Ford’s position right now. 

“No, no—” The words spilled out before he could stop them. Years of hurt and rejection and fear, all at once. “You don't understand what I've been through! I've been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! The Italian Mob, the Mexican Mafia, and the Irish Mob all want me dead! You think you’ve got problems? Really?! I’ve got a fucking mullet, Stanford!” 

The last one was a reach, he knew it. But he was running on fumes at this point. And everything he said was true. He stormed toward his brother, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods! Selfishly hoarding your college money, because you only care about yourself!” 

Ford’s expression darkened. He waved his arms around as he talked, his voice cracking with anger. “I'm selfish? I'm selfish, Stanley? How can you say that after costing me my dream school?! I'm giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't even listen!”

Stan stopped in his tracks, his brother’s words echoing in his head. 

The first worthwhile thing in your life. 

His brother thought he was worthless. That his life had no point, no meaning. 

The worst part was that it was true. Stan knew it. But that didn’t mean he needed his brother throwing that in his face. He had thought— hoped, fucking stupidley hoped— that maybe Ford had forgiven him. Come to understand him. Understand that he’d never meant to break the stupid project, that he’d never meant for—

But he didn’t. Ford didn’t understand him. Ford didn’t trust him. And Ford didn’t love him. 

Stan was done. 

He held up the book. “Fine. You want me to get rid of the book?” He pulled his lighter out from his pocket and flicked it open. “I’ll get rid of it right now!” 

“NO!” 

Ford lunged at him, grabbing for the journal with feverish intensity. Stan held it out of his reach. “You don’t understand!” 

“God, I get it! I’m too stupid to understand what your precious research is for!” Stan spat, swiping the book back from his brother’s hands. “But you said you wanted me to have it, so I’ll do what I want with it!” He held it dangerously close to the flame. For a flickering second, he thought that maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he could ask his brother what was really going on. He could help. They could come to some sort of truce. They could—

“My research!” 

And with that, Stan dismissed everything he was thinking. Actually, it was sort of hard to think about anything when his brother was literally pinning him to the ground. Over a goddamn book, too.

They were all over the room, fighting without pulling any punches. Stan tried, god, he tried, but he could feel his strength fading. It had only been three months since his surgery— he didn’t have his usual strength. If he did, this would’ve been over much faster.

Their fight spilled into a smaller section of the lab, a cramped, cluttered space with flashing buttons, latches, and shelves stacked with creatures floating in clouded jars. Stan barely had time to process the weird surroundings— he was too busy trying to avoid Ford’s hands clawing at the journal. 

Suddenly, Ford had him against the same counter, the breath knocked from Stan’s lungs as one of the jars shattered and the glass stabbed into his back. He cried out and shoved his brother off of him, but Ford just grabbed him by the collar and brought Stan down with him. 

They were literally playing tug-of-war. 

Stan pulled with all of his might at the book. “You left me behind, asshole! It was supposed to be us forever! You ruined my life!” 

Ford pulled back with equal strength. “You ruined your own life!” 

Suddenly, Ford kicked Stan in the chest, pinning him to the side of the counter. 

Then he felt it— sharp, searing agony exploding across his shoulder. At first, he thought Ford had stabbed him. Or maybe he’d been shot. The pain worsened, impossibly hot, like a thousand needles digging into his flesh all at once, burning deep, deep, deep into his skin. 

Stan screamed. 

He didn’t mean to. But the pain ripped through him like fire. Ford recoiled immediately, his eyes wide with horror. 

“STANLEY!”

Stan crumpled to the ground, curling in on himself, his body shaking. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming. It hurt. God, it hurt. 

Ford stood there, frozen, his hands hovering in the air. “I’m so sorry— oh God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— Stan, are you—?”

All the fight was gone from Stan. He didn’t take Ford’s hand, but instead used the counter to aid his getting up, his muscles trembling with the effort. His skin burned. He could feel hot tears slipping down his face, but didn’t bother to wipe them away— his hands were too busy keeping him upright. 

“I’ll take the damn journal,” he muttered, letting his head drop. He held his hand out. 

When nothing was placed in his hand, he glanced up. Ford was staring at him, his face pale, his mouth slightly open, like he was struggling to find the words. There was something like guilt in his expression. A raw unguarded kind of horror that made something twist in Stan’s guilt. But it wasn’t just guilt. There was something else. 

Suspicion. 

“I’m not gonna burn it or anythin’,” he said, rolling his eyes weakly. “I’ll— I’ll hide it somewhere safe, like you wanted. I will.” 

Ford hesitated, then slowly bent down, picking up the journal from where it had landed on the ground during their fight. He clutched it tightly, his knuckles white. “Y-you’ll hide it somewhere safe?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry.” Stan exhaled shakily, lowering his voice, his words barely above a whisper. “First worthwhile thing in my life, right?” 

Ford’s face twisted. If Stan didn’t know any better, he might say it crumbled. “Stanley, I didn’t mean—”

“PINES!”

Both brothers froze. 

“PINES, I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE!” 

Stan clenched his jaw, his entire body tensing. That voice. He knew that voice. 

Rico. 

His heart pounded, nausea curling in his gut. Rico had followed him. And knowing Rico, he probably hadn’t come alone. 

He’d put Ford in danger. 

—oh god oh god oh god—

“Stanley—” 

“Shut up.” 

Stan focused, listening. There were two sets of footsteps alongside Rico’s— three men total. He was outnumbered. 

“Stan, who—” 

Stan turned his head sharply. Ford was trembling, his breath uneven, his fingers twitching at his sides. He looked awful. Pale and worn. God, he wasn’t gonna pass out, was he?

He certainly wasn’t in any condition to fight. 

Neither are you, his brain hissed at him. But that didn’t matter. He couldn’t let Ford get hurt. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. 

“Stay here,” Stan muttered. It wasn’t a question. He started toward the stairs. 

“What?— Stan, wait—” 

Stan whirled back around, already halfway up. “I said, stay here.” 

Ford hesitated before following him. Stan cursed under his breath and hurried back down, gripping Ford’s shoulders. His brother flinched under the touch. 

“Just let me—”

“Sixer, I need you to stay here.” The footsteps above grew heavier, more insistent.“Please.”

Ford wavered. His lip trembled. But then, slowly, he stumbled backward, leaning against the counter, his breathing coming in short, shallow bursts, he looked like he was on the verge of collapse. 

He gave Stan a pained, desperate look. “Please be careful, Lee.” 

Stan swallowed. He nodded, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Yeah.”

Then he turned and climbed up the stairs, his heart hammering in his ribs. 

Ford couldn’t get hurt. He couldn’t. 

Stan wouldn’t let it happen. 

Chapter Text

Stan’s heart rattled as he made his way up the stairs. Every step sent a fresh jolt of pain through his body, radiating from the raw burn seared into his shoulder. His shirt clung to it, the fabric sticking to him like a second layer of skin. The pain was enough to make his vision flicker at the edges. 

You’re in no condition to fight one asshole, let alone three. 

He didn’t have a choice. He would not allow them to get anywhere near his brother. 

He stopped at the top of his stairs, hesitating only for a moment before swinging the door open then closing it softly behind him. He reached into his jacket pocket and hooked his brass knuckles on, curling his hand into a fist. He looked around the room for any possible weapons. All he saw was the stupid crossbow. He didn’t know how to use that. The knuckles would have to do. 

He took a deep breath before entering the kitchen. 

All three men turned to face him. 

Rico leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a knowing smirk stretched across his face. The two men flanking him, neither of which Stan recognized, straightened at the sight of Stan, their hands hovering near their holsters. 

“Pines,” Rico drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “Took you long enough.” 

Stan forced himself to stand straighter, ignoring the way his shoulder screamed in protest. “Leave me alone, Rico.” He raised a fist, letting the brass knuckles catch the light. “I paid you back already.” 

Rico let out a low chuckle. “You forgot about the interest. You still owe me a kidney.” He tilted his head. “And you forgot somethin’ important: once you’re in, you don’t get out.” He shook his head. Like he was disappointed. “Runnin’ was a bad idea.” 

Stan squared his shoulders. It hurt. “I don’t wanna fight here.”

“You don’t wanna fight?” Rico’s smirk deepened. He glanced around, his eyes flickering toward the doorway Stan had come through. His expression shifted, a realization dawning. “Oh… that’s right. I forgot there’s someone else here, isn’t there?” 

Stan’s blood turned cold. “Don’t— how did you even find me?” he demanded, trying to divert Rico’s attention to something else. 

Rico exhaled sharply, amused. “It’s not hard to track you down, Pines. You’re not exactly subtle.” He jerked his head toward the window. “The car kinda stands out, y’know? All it took was keeping an eye on you until you reached… whatever the hell this place is. Just had to wait for the right time.” He grinned. “But I’m not very patient.” 

Stan clenched his jaw. He should’ve painted the damn car, or at least parked it further away. He was an idiot. 

The pain in his shoulder sent a sharp stab throughout his body. He could feel his pulse hammering against the burn, the way his skin stretched too tight. If he got thrown around too much, if someone hit him in the wrong place—

He couldn’t think about that. 

Stan’s hands curled into fists. “I don't wanna fight,” he repeated. 

“Yeah, you do.” Rico smirked. “You don’t know any other way.” 

Then he lunged. 

A punch landed directly on Stan’s cheek, sending him stumbling backward. His head snapped to the side, pain bursting across his jaw. He barely had time to recover before Rico nodded at one of his men. The guy rushed at him, slamming into Stan’s already battered body and tackling him against the bookshelf. 

The impact jarred his shoulder. 

White-hot agony shot through him, stealing the breath from his lungs. For a split second, he couldn’t think, couldn’t move. All he felt was searing, nauseating pain that spread from his shoulder like wildfire. 

The bookshelf tipped. 

It crashed down around them, sending books and wood splinters flying. Stan hit the floor hard, the guy still on top of him, and for a moment, all he could register was pain. 

But there wasn’t time. 

The guy’s weight pressed against his shoulder, making the burn flare up so intensely that black spots flickered at the edges of his vision. He clenched his teeth, shoving the man with everything he had. 

With a grunt of effort, he kicked the guy off, then pulled the fallen bookshelf as hard as he could and shoved it over the man’s legs, pinning him down. 

Stan staggered upright, his fists raised. He forced himself to focus on Rico. His shoulder burned like hell. 

Then Rico pulled out a gun.

Ford couldn’t sit still. 

He paced the room, hands clenching and unclenching. His nails dug into his skin, drawing blood. He didn’t care. 

His mind raced. 

He needed to help. God, he needed to help. 

Stan seemed to recognize the voice of the intruders, but that meant nothing. It didn’t mean they were real. 

It didn’t mean they weren’t Bill. 

Bill could be anyone at any time. He’d proven that before. He wasn’t limited by human capacities. He could use a body until it broke. Until it died. It didn’t mean a thing to him. 

The only person he cared about keeping alive was Ford. And that was only because he needed him to finish the portal. 

Which was not going to happen. 

Ford squeezed his eyes shut. His lungs hitched, stuttered. His hands flexed, his fingernails drawing blood from his cuticles. He was vaguely aware of the feeling of blood dripping down his fingers. 

It’s not him. It’s not him. 

The memory burned— Stan pinned to the rune, his face twisted in white-hot agony, his scream tearing through the basement. 

Ford squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

It was his fault. All his fault. 

God, how could he have been so careless? 

He was angry, yes, but he hadn’t wanted to hurt his brother. At least not that much. Not that permanently. 

But he had. 

His stomach twisted. 

And what if Bill knew? 

What if it was a trap? What if he’d lured Stan into it because he knew Ford would have to listen if Stan pleaded with him to stay downstairs? What if—

His breathing was getting too fast. 

Just breathe. Deep breath. 

It wasn’t fucking working. 

Stan told you to stay here. 

—Breathe—

It’s Stan, he knows what to do. 

—Breathe—

Ten years and you’re still letting your brother fight your battles.

—Breathe—

STAY HERE!

That’s what he would do. That’s what he had to do. 

He forced himself to the desk chair, gripping the arms like an anchor. His chest rose and fell too quickly. The room was becoming blurry. The walls were getting closer. Breathe, damnit! Why are you so weak—

Then he heard it. 

CRASH. 

His heart stopped. 

The whole ceiling shook above him. He heard a splintering crack of wood breaking, then—

A choked, guttural cry. 

Stanley. 

What was he doing just sitting here?

Ford was on his feet before he could think. 

— Move, move, move, MOVE— 

The alarm bells were blaring in his head— it’s a trap, it’s a trap, don’t play into Bill’s trick—

He ignored it and ran anyway. 

His stomach flipped at the sight he was met with. 

Stan was still on his feet, but he was fading fast. He wavered, his fists raised weakly in front of him, trembling with exhaustion. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his face was slick with sweat. There was something off about the way he was holding himself. Like he was one wrong move away from collapsing. 

A man lay crushed and unconscious— but breathing, as far as Ford could tell— beneath the toppled bookshelf— there goes my copy of Lord of the Rings, Ford thought vaguely, the absurdity of the thought hardly registering. Another man stood near the kitchen, his posture tense and expectant. 

And there was the ringleader. Standing in the center of the room. 

Holding a gun. 

A pistol was raised in his hands, aimed directly at Stan. 

Ford didn’t think. He acted. 

He lunged toward the basket by the door, fingers locking around his crossbow. He spun, raised the weapon, and fired. 

CRACK. 

The bolt slammed into the gun, knocking it from the man’s grip, sending it flying across the room with a clatter. 

The man snarled, jerking his hand back with a curse. His head snapped towards Ford, eyes widening for a moment before narrowing, burning with fury. 

The other man— the one not currently pinned under a pile of wood and post-modern literature— immediately whirled to face him. 

A mistake. 

Because Stan was already moving. 

Stan caught him mid-turn and drove his fist into the man’s ribs. A sharp, wet crunch rang through the air when his fist collided. The man staggered backwards, choking on his breath. 

Stan didn’t risk giving him any time to recover. He grabbed the man by the collar and hurled him across the room. 

Ford watched, incredulous, as the man slammed into the kitchen table. The wood splintered under his weight. Dishes crashed to the floor, shattering on impact. 

Stan was fighting like he didn’t care if he made it out alive.

Ford hesitated. He had seen Stan fight before, of course, but that was just boxing matches in high school. Those were different. This was… more dangerous. This didn’t have the guarantee of both parties leaving alive. 

But Stan wasn’t just holding his own here. He was outnumbered. And he was still winning. 

And here Ford was, just watching, letting his brother do his dirty work. As he’d always done. 

And then— 

Ford turned. 

The ringleader was aiming right at him. 

A gunshot. 

Everything slowed. Ford’s whole body locked up. His heart stuttered. He waited for the raw, guttural pain to stab through him. 

Suddenly, something slammed into him, hard. The world tilted as he stumbled— then his back hit the ground, the breath punched from his lungs. 

Stan had shoved him. 

And in the same instant, Stan jolted, letting out a pained, agonizing cry, his body snapping back as the bullet hit him. 

Stan took the bullet that was meant for him. 

Ford could barely process what was happening. All he could see was the red blooming across the bottom of Stan’s side, staining his shirt. He doubled over in agony, staggering backward. 

He took a hitched breath. 

And then, like nothing happened, he kept fighting. 

Ford’s stomach lurched. For a moment, he thought he might be sick. 

He should’ve been the one who was hit. He should be on the floor, bleeding out, crying in pain— 

But no. 

Stan grabbed the ringleader by the collar and slammed him against the wall. Droplets of blood hit the floor with each movement he made. 

The man snarled and reached for something in his coat— 

A blade. 

But it didn’t matter. Stan reacted immediately, his fist crashing into his face, a crunch sound echoing through the cabin. The man’s head slammed against the wall. His whole body slumped and crumpled to the floor. 

Ford didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. 

The man was still. Not dead, his chest still rose and fell, but he was out cold. 

The fight was over. 

But the danger hadn’t left. 

Ford finally snapped his head to his brother. His stomach dropped. 

Stan was still on his feet, but barely. His breathing was ragged, his shoulders hunched. He was wavering, all the fight and adrenaline having left his body.

Ford shot to his feet.

“Stan,” he said, carefully. He took a shaky step forward. “You’re hurt—”

Stan backed away, eyes wide. “I’m fine,” he muttered through gritted teeth. His voice was uncertain. 

His hands shook. 

Ford snapped his eyes to the wound. 

There was so much blood. It covered the bottom of his shirt, dripping onto the floor. There was a tiny puddle below him. 

Stan took another step back, then stumbled. 

Ford moved forward on instinct—

Pain exploded across his face. 

A fist slammed into his nose. 

His vision whited out. A sharp, crunching pain shot through him, followed by hot, sticky blood pouring down his face. 

Damn it. The remaining lackey. The one Stan had thrown across the kitchen. 

Ford barely had time to process before the guy grabbed his arm, yanking him forward. 

Instinct kicked in. Ford swung his elbow up, cracking against the man’s jaw. His attacker stumbled, disoriented long enough for Ford to grab the nearest thing off the counter and swing it. 

A frying pan. It would have to do. 

It collided with the man’s skull with a resounding thud. 

The man dropped. 

Ford staggered back, gasping. His head spun, his nose throbbed. Blood dripped down his chin, probably running down his neck and staining his shirt. 

He didn’t care. His attention snapped back to Stan. 

His brother was staring at him, his whole body trembling, eyes wide. 

“Sixer, your nose—” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

Ford blinked through the pounding in his skull, forcing himself forward. He was by his brother's side in an instant, but Stan caught himself against the counter, bracing his weight. His left hand clutched his side, just above his hip, fingers slick with blood.

He sucked in a sharp, painful breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He was losing the fight to stay on his feet. 

“Stan, sit down,” Ford ordered. He reached out again, but Stan flinched back violently, hissing as his body hit the counter hard. His left side jerked at the movement. His fingers clenched over the wound, like pressing hard enough might stop the bleeding. 

The bullet had torn through near the bottom of his stomach, just shy of his side. Low. Left. Ford didn’t know what it had hit. God, what if—

“I’m— I’m fine,” Stan repeated, but his words slurred. His knees buckled. 

“No, no, no, wait— just—”

Stan tried to take another step away. His legs gave out from under him. Ford barely caught him before he hit the floor. 

Stan’s eyelids fluttered. Ford held him tighter, tighter, so tight, like that alone would keep him conscious. 

“Lee, stay with me—”

Stan’s fingers twitched weakly against Ford’s sleeve, like he was trying to hold on. God,  he was trying so hard. 

“...Not that bad,” he muttered. 

Ford blinked. “Not that bad—?” He forced himself to look at the blood soaking through Stan’s shirt, at the wound still oozing. 

“What the hell do you mean, ‘not that bad’?” Ford’s voice cracked, shaking. 

“Had— worse…” 

Ford’s chest cracked. 

Had worse. 

Worse than a gunshot?

He wanted to demand what he meant. Wanted to know. But at the same time, he really, really didn’t. 

Stan’s fingers twitched again. Then his whole body went limp. 

The room went silent. Stan’s ragged breathing was the only sound that filled Ford’s ears. 

“Lee?” Ford’s voice broke. “C’mon—”

He shook him gently, sinking to the floor with his brother still in his arms. No response. Ford’s lungs locked up. 

No. No, no, no, no—

“STANLEY!” His voice was louder. He was shaking, his grip turning desperate. A wet, broken sob wrenched from his throat. “Lee, please —”

Still nothing. 

Ford’s pulse pounded in his ears. His hand cradled the side of Stan’s face, searching, praying, for a response, for something beside the faint sound of his shallow breathing—

“Please, please, wake up—”

But Stan wasn’t answering. And the blood kept coming. 

Chapter Text

Static. 

Stan heard static. 

It filled his ears like a swarm of flies. Buzzing. Endless. 

He blinked, barely cracking his eyes open before slamming them shut again. The dim light was somehow still too sharp, slicing through his skull. He tried a deep breath— it hurt. 

A ragged cough tore through him, setting fire to his ribs. His throat burned. His skin was damp. Cold. His head swam. 

He wrenched his eyes open again, blinking away the bleariness, and glanced around. The room was dimly lit, but he could make out glass jars lining the shelves and counters. They were filled with plants and floating, twisted things. Something in one of them clicked and whirred, the noise scraping his nerves. 

Where was he? 

He sat up slightly— pain. A white-hot, crushing bolt of pain ripped through him. He bit back a strangled, animal sound as he crumpled back onto the cot. His breath hitched and stuck in his throat. 

What the hell—?

Stan skimmed over his own body, searching for the source of the pain. His fingertips found stiff bandages over the bottom of stomach. They were fresh. Someone had patched him up. 

His gut twisted. 

He pressed a gentle hand to it and bit back a hiss. 

What the hell was that? 

He looked around again, his breathing speeding up. Too fast. Too shallow. 

— Where am I where am I where am I— 

His head swam. His chest squeezed. He didn’t know. He didn’t remember. He didn’t remember getting here. He didn’t remember what happened. The walls felt like they were closing in. 

Then something flashed across his mind: 

Rico. A fight. 

Oh god, Rico had gotten to him. He’d found that shitty motel and dragged him out of it and put him right back in that trunk and oh god Rico was gonna take his other kidney. 

He was going to die. 

A broken sound clawed its way up his throat. He breathed. He tried to breathe. The breaths weren’t coming in right: short, shallow. Not enough, not enough, never enough. His vision blurred. His fingers tingled. 

He reached for his side again— white-hot pain. This time, from his shoulder. He gasped sharply, the pain blotting out everything for a moment, white spots flickering in his vision. He curled in on himself, shaking. 

If Rico or any of his goons came down here right now, he wouldn’t be able to fight back. He was too weak. Too broken. They’d kill him, for real this time. 

He never got to apologize to Ford. He never got to make up for ruining his brother’s— 

His brother. 

Something else flashed across his mind. 

Ford. A crossbow.

Stan latched onto the image. Desperate, drowning. But the pieces were all scrambled. Rico. The fight. The motel. Ford. His side, his shoulder— pain, pain, pain. 

It didn’t make sense. 

His breath hitched. The walls pressed in tighter, impossibly tight. His fingers dug into the cot, gripping for something, anything. Anything real. His chest wouldn’t expand. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t—

A hand. On his shoulder. 

It hurt. 

He cried out and jerked away. Rico? His vision swam as the room lurched violently around him. A face, close and blurred. 

— He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe— 

A voice came through the static— faint, desperate: 

“—an you hear me? Please, just—”

Stan stared. The blurry face got clearer, just a tiny bit. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like— 

No, that couldn’t be right. 

“—Lee, you need to breathe—” 

Stan knew that voice. He remembered that nickname. 

Ford?

“—at me— in for four—” 

Stan tried. He tried so hard. He dragged in a breath. It was a thin, useless gasp that didn’t fill his lungs. He shook his head, gripping the cot harder. His nails dug into the sheets, bending painfully. 

“—alright, try again—” 

Ford waited. 

Stan tried again. A little deeper this time. But still embarrassingly shallow. 

“—good! Keep going—!” 

Warm, steady hands wrapped around his own, peeling his fingers away from the cot. Ford was holding his hands. Stan let him.  

He forced in another breath. And another and another and another, all with Ford guiding him through. Slowly, the walls stopped closing in. The static in his ears faded. Everything came into focus. 

He remembered. Ford. The postcard. The fight. Rico. The gunshot— then blank. Nothing. 

The dropping feeling in his gut settled, but the exhaustion and pain left in its wake was crushing. His shoulder, his side, his head— everywhere, if he was being honest. It was so much that white spots leaked into his vision, making him dizzy. 

It hurt. God, it hurt so bad. 

He was vaguely aware that he was crying. He couldn’t help it. But that didn’t make it any less embarrassing. He hugged his knees closer to his chest, curling in on himself. 

Then he noticed it. 

The fabric against his skin. 

It wasn’t the shirt he’d been wearing before. His own shirt had been ruined— blood-soaked. Ford had to have taken it off, change it out for a clean one. Stan swallowed hard. Ford had seen.  The scars. The weakness. His stomach twisted as he squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in knees. He didn’t look at Ford. He knew what was coming. 

He was a fucking mess— a shaking, weak, scarred-up disaster. Ford had seen everything. The way he’d crumpled like a kicked dog. The way he couldn’t even breathe on his own. 

Ford would be disgusted. He should be disgusted. 

“Stanley?” 

Damn it. 

Stan couldn't ignore him. He forced himself to look up. 

Ford was suddenly at his side, hovering, hands twitching like they couldn’t stand being still for even a moment. His face was tight with something— concern? 

No, that wasn’t right. Was it? 

“Are you— how’s your breathing?” The questions were quick, breathless. “Does anything hurt? Do you— do you need water, o-or—” 

Stan quickly swiped at the tears on his cheeks, even though the movement sent a jagged pain down his shoulder and through his arm. “M’fine,” he muttered, throat raw. “Quit fussin’.”

Ford hesitated. His hands clenched at his sides. He was watching Stan. Intently. Carefully. Stan felt like an experiment. 

He braced himself for whatever Ford was going to say— a lecture, a comment, a look that confirmed everything Stan knew Ford was thinking. Great going, Stan, you fucked everything up again! 

Ford had every right to be mad. It was Stan’s fault that those guys got into the house, that Ford’s living room and kitchen were utterly destroyed. 

The moment stretched too long. 

Ford swallowed, hesitating. He shifted back, leaving a distance between them. 

“Stanley, are you—” He stopped himself. His voice was soft. “You’re awake. That’s good.” 

Stan blinked. 

That was it?

“Uh— yeah.” 

“How are you feeling?” 

Stan let out a hollow chuckle at that. “How do you think?” 

Ford’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I figured you—” A pause. “Yes.”

Silence stretched. Ford’s fingers twitched. 

“How long was I out?” 

Ford glanced at the floor. “About a day and a half. You were completely out at first, but earlier today you woke up once or twice. You were never fully lucid, until now. Do you—” he paused. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Yeah, mostly. The fight and all, yeah?” He thought about it for a second. There was a blank spot, after he was shot. Nothing— just static. “I remember this—” he pressed a gentle hand to the bandaged wound on his side. “What else happened?” 

Ford exhaled sharply and finally sat down in the chair next to the cot. He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then laced his fingers together. 

“Yes, after you were—” he wrung his hands together. “After that, you collapsed. I removed the bullet and applied a hemostatic dressing to control the bleeding, flushed the wound, and applied an antibiotic ointment. Then, clearly, I dressed the wound a final time.” 

His voice was clinical. Stan recognized the tone. It was the same one Ford used when he was skirting around something. 

“The bullet should have hit your small intestine, but the impact shifted things just enough that it missed. It only tore through muscles and soft tissue. Painful, yes, but not fatal. All things considered, you were quite lucky.” 

Huh. Stan didn’t feel lucky. 

“I would have brought you to the hospital, but it’s storming, and I-I don’t have a car. And I figured with the— nature of the wound, there might be questions we didn’t want to answer.” Ford exhaled slowly. “I also bandaged the—”

A long, heavy pause. Ford’s eyes dropped to the floor. 

“The burn on your shoulder. But I should check it again later.” 

Stan’s fingers twitched against the table, his stomach dropping. Ford had seen everything. And now Ford couldn’t even look at him. And he knew why, even if Ford was too polite to say it— he was disgusted. Horrified. 

“...Yeah. Makes sense.” Stan forced the words out, voice rough.  “Er— thanks. For that. Sorry you had to deal with— it.” 

Ford’s head jerked up. His expression shifted. Not annoyance, not frustration, not even anger. He looked— well, Stan wasn’t really sure. 

“What—” Ford’s voice was quiet. “Why— why are you apologizing?”

Stan blinked. He gestured vaguely to his bandaged side. “You— you had to fix me up and all. Again. I led those idiots right to—” 

“You took a bullet for me, Lee.” 

That damn nickname. Ford remembered it. 

Stan shifted, uncomfortable. “Well— yeah, but—”

Ford shook his head. His hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly. “You took a bullet for me and you’re— you’re apologizing?”

Of course, Ford didn’t get it. It wasn’t about the bullet. Stan had led those bastards straight to Ford’s door. He’d ruined his house, his work. All that research Ford had spent years working on, locked in his cabin— gone. Because of Stan. 

And it wasn’t even the first time. 

Stan could still see it: Ford, standing there in the gym, clutching his science project with a look of hope. And Stan had destroyed it. He’d ruined everything. And he’d just done it again. 

Ford had finally built a life for himself, and now here he was, forced to patch up his screw-up of a brother. Again. 

Stan could feel it— his brother’s frustration, his exhaustion. He was tired of cleaning up Stan’s mess, tired of taking care of him. 

And rightfully so. Stan had ruined Ford’s life.

What was a bullet compared to that? 

Still, Stan faltered. Ford turned away. His gaze was locked on the ground, his breathing rougher, deeper.

“Lee,” Ford murmured, strained. 

Stan swallowed. “Mhm?”

Ford opened his mouth. Then— nothing. He snapped his mouth shut again, twisting his fingers together. 

“...Forget it.” He shook his head. 

Stan hesitated, tilting his head. Observing. Ford sniffled, then winced slightly. To anyone else, it wouldn't have been noticeable. But Stan noticed. Then it hit him— Ford’s nose was crooked. 

“Ford, your— your nose is—” 

“It’s fine. It was just broken is all. I reset it.” 

On top of everything, it’s your fault your brother has a broken nose. 

“Oh.” 

Another stretch of painful, awkward silence. 

“What happened to Rico?” 

Ford blinked. “Who?” 

“The— the guy.” Stan shifted, pain traveling up his side. He gritted his teeth. “Who attacked us. Him and his buddies— what happened to ‘em?” 

“Oh.” Ford shrugged. “They’re in my padded room in the basement.” 

“WHAT—” 

Stan choked on his words, jerking as a violent coughing fit tore out of him, cutting him off short. A white-hot knifing pain rocketed through his ribs, spreading to his gut, his chest, his shoulder—

He gasped, curling in on himself, but it didn’t stop. 

“Hey— easy, easy, it’s okay.” Ford was at his side in an instant, placing a gentle hand on his back. “You’re alright. Just— uh, breathe.” 

Stan tried. 

The coughing rattled through him until it finally died down, leaving him aching, his body slumped forward. He let his forehead rest against his knees, catching his breath. 

“Stan—”

“M’ fine,” Stan muttered, cutting him off. 

He glanced up again. Ford looked less than convinced. Stan could feel his eyes on him, burning with— something. The same look. The same thing he was refusing to say. The thing he wouldn’t say. 

But he didn’t have to. Stan knew— Ford was ashamed of him. But it was okay. Stan knew that. He had always known that. It shouldn’t still hurt. 

But it did. 

He cleared his throat. “So— Rico and them are— where?”

Ford blinked. “Oh— yes. They’re downstairs in my padded room. Don’t worry, it’s completely secure. It requires a retinal scan to enter.” 

What the fuck— 

Why did he have a padded room? Why was he being so casual about having three men locked in his basement? 

“Ford, why—” 

“They’re not tied up. Like I said, the room is secure. I’m not cruel, I’ve been giving them two meals a day, water—” 

“Ford—” 

“I figured as you seem to know them, I should wait until you were awake to—”

“Ford—”

“Stan, how do you know them?”

Stan paused. He didn’t need Ford to know about everything that he got into after he was kicked out. It was— it was disgusting. The things he had done. The things he had taken. Even if it was to survive. Ford would be even more disgusted by him, even more ashamed. And Stan didn’t even like thinking about everything he got into. It was painful. And it was— easier to just try and forget it all. 

Forgetting hadn’t seemed to work yet. But Moses, would it be nice. 

“I don’t— wanna talk about that.” 

Ford furrowed his brows. “Stan, I—” He exhaled softly. “Look. These men broke into my house. They would’ve killed us, had you not stepped in.”

Ah. Of course. Ford was angry they wrecked his house. 

“They hurt me, and they shot you. I need to know who they are. And, more importantly, I need to know why they were after you.” He got quiet, softer. “Have they— does this kind of thing happen a lot?”

Stan didn’t want to say anything. And he was sure if Ford really knew the truth, he wouldn’t want to know either. But his house was destroyed, he at least deserved to know who had done it. Besides Stan, of course. 

“They— yeah. Yeah, I knew them.” Stan rubbed an exhausted hand down his face. “I— uh, I ran with them for a while. Did some deals, made a living.” 

“I see. I assume you had some sort of falling out?”

Stan nodded. 

Ford was deep in thought, with that familiar sciencey, tunnel-brained focus that Stan knew all too well. “What went wrong?”

“I was an idiot,” Stan said, his voice low. “I— a deal went bad. And it was my fault. To make things worse, I didn’t— I ran. And Rico found me, at one point, but—” 

Don’t tell him about the kidney. He doesn’t have to know what that scar is from. 

“But I got away. Think that made him angrier. He’s been chasin’ me since.” Stan shrugged. “He, uh— found me.” He finally looked at Ford. 

Ford furrowed his brows. “I don’t understand. How did he find you here? How did he know where to—” 

“Could’ve been anyone. He has eyes everywhere. But I didn’t— I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to lead ‘em here.” He paused, exhaling softly. “I’m sorry.” 

Ford gave him an odd look. Part frustration, part confusion, part… something else. 

“It’s— it doesn’t matter.” Ford shook his head. “We need to figure out what to do with them. They can’t stay down there forever.”

“Er—yeah.” 

Ford cleared his throat. He didn’t meet Stan’s eyes. “I think…” He sighed. His voice wavered, uncertain. “I think we need to— kill them.” 

“WHAT—”

Stan coughed again, choking on his words. It only lasted a moment, but it sent shockwaves of pain through him. He clutched at his side, as if that would do anything. God, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt—

He was dizzy. He was so dizzy. He felt his body swaying, but he couldn’t do anything to stop it. 

“Stan, are you alright?!” Ford reached out again, his hand clutching Stan’s shoulder. It hurt. He couldn’t help it— he let out a stifled yelp and flinched away from the touch. He slumped against the cot, trying to catch his breath. 

“Stan—”

“I’m fine.” 

Stan gritted his teeth and forced the conversation to continue, trying to ignore the look on his brother’s face as Ford backed away slightly, pressing his hands behind his back.

“Ford—” Stan cleared his throat. “We are not doing that.”

Ford sighed. “I don’t want to either, of course.” His voice cracked. “I really don’t. But I don’t— if we just set them free we risk—”

“No!” 

Ford ran a hand down his face. “Lee, please understand. I don’t want to kill anyone. But, logically, it’s our only—” 

“I’m not doing that!” 

“Can you just listen to me?!” Ford was getting frustrated now. Angry. “We’re putting ourselves in danger if—” 

“There’s gotta be something else—” 

“THERE’S NOTHING ELSE WE CAN DO! HOW CAN YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT?!” 

Stan flinched. Hard. 

The next thing Ford said was quiet, hardly more than a breath: 

“Of course you don’t understand.” 

God. 

Ford was angry. Seething. His fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides, his whole body fidgeting in the chair. His chest rose and fell rapidly, like the anger was trying to pry its way from him.

But his brother was right— Stan didn’t understand. There had to be another way. If there wasn’t, they would have to… make one. 

But still, seeing Ford like that— It reminded him of Pa. Stan was shaking like a fucking child again, his knees pulled tight against his chest. He didn’t dare take his eyes off of his brother. 

Ford exhaled slowly, coming back to himself. He wrung his hands together. His eyes flickered up to Stan and widened. 

“I—” He hesitated. “I didn’t mean— I just think it’s our only—”

“Ford.” Stan cut him off and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. “We are not doing that. I know— I-I know there aren’t a lot of options, but there has to be something else we can do.” 

Ford hesitated a moment, his eyes studying Stan intently. Stan shriveled under his gaze. 

Ford suddenly grabbed one of Stan’s hands. Stan tried, God, he tried so hard, to not flinch away. He forced his shaking hand to stay where it was, enveloped in both of his brother’s. 

“They tried to kill us. They tried to kill you.” Ford looked angry. He looked hollow. “No one is allowed to— they— they deserve—” 

“I don’t care what they deserve. I—” Stan’s eyes stung. He blinked rapidly. “I’m not— I can’t do that. I just can’t. I can’t kill someone.” His voice wavered. “Please don’t ask me to do that.” 

How was he supposed to say what he was thinking? 

I’ve done bad things. I’ve done horrible things. I’ve ruined lives. I’ve ruined my own life. I’ve hurt people. I’m not clean. I’m not good. I’m broken. And I don’t know if I can be fixed. 

But killing. Killing was a step further. Even if you could skew the situation to seem like self-defense (which, in a way, it would be), he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. That would be crossing a line. It would mean he was really irreparable. For good. Beyond repair. 

Yeah. How was he supposed to explain that to his brother?

Ford’s face fell. “Lee, you’re—” he hesitated, his fingers twitching. “Crying.” 

What—?

He reached up and felt his face. Oh god. He was crying. He quickly swiped at the tears under his eyes, rubbing at them frantically. 

God. What was wrong with him? As if Ford wasn’t already embarrassed of him enough. Now he was crying. 

He stared at the ground, unwilling to meet his brother’s eyes. A long, painful moment of silence stretched between them. 

“It’s—” Ford squeezed his hand. It took everything in Stan not to pull his own away. “Okay. We won’t do that. I shouldn’t have suggested it. I—” He sighed. “I didn’t want to do it. You have to know that. It was a last resort. I just want to keep us safe.” 

Stan nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yeah. We’ll figure something out.”

Ford stood abruptly, dropping Stan’s hand. Stan finally looked up again to see his brother staring forward, stone faced. 

Stan’s head pounded. 

God, he thinks you’re pathetic. 

Ford’s voice was distant. “We won’t kill them. But we have to figure out what to do instead.” He wrung his hands behind his back and began to pace the length of the room. “At one point, I heard tell of these fascinating crystals that can grow and shrink what their reflection catches. Those would solve our problem quite quickly. But I haven’t— I haven’t been able to get my hands on them. The gnomes are the only ones who know where to find them, and they’re being…” he sighed, clenching his fists. “Difficult. They’re frustrating creatures.” 

Stan blinked. “You’re— wait— gnomes?”

“Yes.” 

“Like— like the little garden statues?” 

“They look like those, yes, but these are living creatures. Tiny men. Like the ones from European folklore.” 

Yes, because Stan had an extensive knowledge of European folklore. 

“Yeah, okay.” Stan chuckled. “Perfectly fucking normal.” 

Ford narrowed his eyes. “If you were really listening when I was telling you about the portal, you wouldn’t be so surprised by mere gnomes.” 

“I was listening,” Stan snapped. “You were bein’ super vague.”

“No, I—” Ford stopped himself. He sighed. “I suppose you’re— yes. I didn’t really… elaborate on a lot of the danger I was facing.” His gaze became distant, the next words coming out like he didn’t mean to speak them outloud. “A lot of the danger that’s still— a threat.” 

“Whaddaya mean?” 

“What—?” Ford’s eyes flickered back to Stan. He didn’t seem to realize he’d been speaking aloud.

“What’s still a threat?”

 “It— Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” His response was immediate. Avoidant.

“If it’s a threat to us, I think it does.” 

A long silence. 

“There’s a—” Ford paused, reaching a hand up to his hair, pulling at it. “Well, it’s— okay. The reason I built the portal— it’s—” 

“Take your time,” Stan muttered. He wasn’t sure if it was sarcastic or not. 

Goddamn it be nice. He’s literally waiting on you hand and foot right now. 

“I hit a dead end in my research a year or so back. Then, I met someone. I— I thought he was my friend. My— muse. He tricked me, got me to build the portal. Then I found out his plans weren’t what I thought they were.” 

“What happened?” 

Ford moved back to the chair, slumping into it with an exhausted exhale. 

“I was working on the portal with a friend of mine from college. There was—” He winced. “An accident. It shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let it happen.” Ford’s expression hardened. “He tried to warn me, and I didn’t listen. And he got hurt. Because of me.” 

Ford pulled harder at his hair.

“After that, I confronted Bill—” 

“Bill’s the… muse?” 

Ford cringed. “Er— yes. I confronted him, a-and I found out what he’d been planning. I shut everything down, but he didn’t take that very well.” 

Stan’s throat tightened. “So, did he— what, blackmail you? Hurt you?” He paused. “Why didn’t you just use your crossbow on him? Or any of the weird science shit in here, for that matter.”

Ford sighed. “It doesn’t work like that with him. I can’t just beat him up, that won’t— that won’t solve the problem. He’s— not human.” 

What the fuck? 

Stan had been imagining a gang leader, some sort of grifter or con artist. Someone like himself. What the hell did Ford mean, ‘not human’? 

He kept his voice as steady as possible. “Whaddaya mean?” 

Ford’s voice was low, barely more than a rasp. “He’s an— interdimensional… dream demon.”

Stan sat up, his eyes widening. “He’s what?”

“He’s a demon,” Ford choked out. “And he told me that he was a muse, a god. He lied. And I let him— I let him—” His voice cracked, and he buried his head in his hands. His shoulders shook. Shit. 

“Hey, hey, it’s—” 

Ford sniffled and raised his head again, swiping quickly under his eyes. “I don’t want to go into detail about it. Essentially, I gave him permission to enter my body— to possess me. At first, he didn’t do it very often, and he can’t do it unless the mind’s barrier is down.” He swallowed. “Whenever I sleep, basically. If I sleep, he can take the wheel. And he’s— dangerous. Very dangerous.” 

“Jesus, Ford.” 

“That’s why I have the padded room.” Ford didn’t meet his eyes, keeping his gaze on the floor. “I try not to sleep. But if I must, I do it in there. He can’t use the retinal scanner.” 

God, this guy possessed him? Kept him from sleeping? Stan felt his stomach twist painfully. God. God. At least that explained why Ford looked so… unraveled. So paranoid. 

But Stan wasn’t an idiot. He could tell Ford wasn’t telling the full story. This… thing had done something to him. It had done a lot to him. Something he wasn’t willing to talk about.

“You—” He sighed. What to tackle first? “You need to sleep, Sixer.” Shouldn’t that be obvious? 

Ford’s head shot up. He gave Stan a look. “I’m doing just fine without it.” 

“You answered the door with a crossbow.” 

Ford opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but no words came out. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Finally, he said, “I’m handling it, okay? I don’t— want to talk about it anymore.” 

Stan had questions. So many questions. And he really thought about ignoring Ford and asking them. But— the look on his brother’s face. It was hollow. It was ashamed. 

Stan thought it best to drop it. 

“So— uh, gnomes. Really?” 

Ford’s shoulders dropped slightly, clearly relieved Stan wasn’t pressing. “You’d be surprised. This town is—” His eyes sparkled, reminding Stan painfully of when they were children. “It’s amazing.”

A thought hit Stan suddenly.

“So— okay, wait— we can’t use the crystals to solve our problem,” Stan mused, “but is there something— like them?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Like— some weird shit. In the town. You said there were gnomes and weird crystals and stuff. Is there other stuff we could use? To disarm Rico and them? Or scare ‘em off?” 

Ford considered this. “Yes, it might be possible to scare them off with some of the towns… weirder aspects. But that won’t stop them from coming back with more people, stronger people from the— er, organization you worked with.” 

Stan slumped on the cot. “You’re right. I didn’t—  yeah. That was stupid.” 

“No, no. I think there was something there. There just needs to be more than that, some way to ensure that they don’t just come back with more weapons or more people.” 

“Yeah, knowing Rico, he would.” Stan shifted on the cot, stifling a hiss. God, his side burned. “He’s damn good at holding a grudge. He doesn’t just forget shit.” 

Ford didn’t say anything. Stan could practically hear all the gears cranking in that giant brain of his. 

Stan blinked. God, all of a sudden, he was really dizzy. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. What he wouldn’t do for some damn painkillers right now. But Ford had already given him enough. He didn’t deserve to ask for anything else. He’d been through worse, he just needed to power through it. 

“Stanley?” 

Stan’s eyes flickered to his brother. “Hm?” 

“Are you listening to me?” 

“Er— yeah. Sorry.” 

Ford tsked but didn’t call him on it. “I was saying I might have an idea. I have this—” He hesitated. “Invention. This gun—” 

Fuck—

“I thought we weren’t killin’ ‘em!” 

“We’re not!” Ford shoved his hands under his thighs, clinging to his chair. “Just— let me explain. It’s not an actual gun, it’s a memory gun.” 

“A what?” 

“It removes the memories you choose from your intended target. Like— if I pointed it at you and selected ‘Summer of 1975,’ you wouldn't remember anything that happened that summer.” 

“So… like— you could make Rico forget I existed?” 

“Yes, in theory. My— um, my partner, the one from college, sort of took the lead on that project. B-but after what happened, he left his original prototype with me. I’ll have to fix it up, make a few tweaks, but— yes. It should work.” 

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“It has some…” Ford hesitated. “Unfortunate side effects on its users. But it’s far better than taking a life.” 

Stan felt relief blossom in his chest. He wasn’t beyond repair yet. 

“Okay, so, we hit ‘em with the memory gun, then we scare them off with some of the weird shit in the town?” 

Ford raised an eyebrow. “We’ll have to work out some of the finer details, but, essentially, yes. That sounds like a good plan. Or at least a starting point.” 

Stan slumped back on the cot, some of the tension leaking out of him. “Okay. Yeah.” 

Ford stood up. “We can start planning soon. You should rest right now.” 

“Ford, I’m fine. We should start plannin’ now.” 

But Ford ignored him and moved towards the door, opening it slightly. 

He’s leaving you alone, he’s leaving you alone—

Stan’s chest tightened painfully. He shifted upright, ignoring the bolt of pain shooting through him. 

“Wait—!” 

Ford turned suddenly. “What? What do you need? Do you— do you want water? Oh, I didn’t even think— how are your bandages?” 

Stan scooted forward on the cot. A mistake. The movement sent a stabbing pain through his shoulder. A small, wounded sound escaped his throat. Still, he forced himself to look his brother in the eyes. 

Ford’s widened. “Stan, you’re shaking, are you—” 

“Just— can you stay here right now?” 

Ford blinked owlishly. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then: 

“Oh.” His voice was soft, gentle. “Yes. I can do that.” 

Ford hesitantly sat back down in the chair. Stan slumped back on the cot, curling back in on himself slightly, content to sit in his brother’s presence, awkward as it was. Even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve anything from Ford. 

God, his head was swimming. He rubbed his temples and let his eyes close, trying to stop the world from feeling like it was spinning. It didn’t seem to work. He let his forehead rest on his knees, willing his body to stop shaking. 

“Stan, are you—” A pause. Stan opened his eyes and tilted his head up. “Are you alright?” 

Ford was giving him the same look from earlier. Frustration, confusion, exhaustion. And something else, as equally baffling now as it had been before. The look made him feel… small. 

Stan flashed his best smile, hoping it wasn’t obvious that a third of his toothy grin was actually dentures. Ford didn’t need to know about that. 

“Yeah, Sixer. Golden.” 

Ford didn’t need to know about a lot of things. 

Chapter Text

Ford adjusted the dial on the memory gun again, trying to ignore the way Stan was staring at the thing. 

It wasn’t working. His brother’s eyes were burning holes in it. 

“Stan?” 

Stan didn’t say anything, just tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brows. 

“Stan.” 

Stan flinched, his head snapping up. “Yeah, what?” 

Ford clenched his jaw, suppressing an eye-roll. He was trying to be patient. Trying. But Stan had been like this since their conversation after he woke up. In these past three days of planning and preparation, he’d been distant, more irritable, more stubborn. Downright rude, even. Ford had expected that even Stan of all people would accept a little aid while recovering from a gunshot wound. Instead, his brother was pushing himself too hard, refusing help, snapping at Ford whenever he got too close. Ford tried not to hold it against him. But it was grating on his nerves. After he did all that work to patch Stan up, his brother could at least be a little thankful. 

Though Ford was the reason his brother got hurt in the first place. 

“Would you stop staring at the memory gun while I’m trying to make the final adjustments, please?”

Stan rolled his eyes and chuckled humorlessly, the sound bitter and dry. “You’d think you’d know how to work under pressure.” 

“Even I have limits.” 

Stan shifted in his seat, but he wasn’t fast enough this time to hide the way his body seized up the movement, his breath catching for just a moment before he forced his shoulders out of their tension. He was pale. A fine sheen of sweat clung to his forehead. He surely was hoping that Ford wouldn’t notice.

Ford noticed.

“Are you alright?” The words came out sharper than he’d meant. He softened his tone. “Do you need me to check your bandages?”

Stan tensed. “I told you I can change ‘em when they need to be changed. Stop hoverin’.” He shifted again, deliberately not wincing or hissing or anything else, though it was clear it took quite a bit of effort. 

Stop hovering. As if Ford had a choice. As if he didn’t see his brother bleeding out on the floor, barely clinging to consciousness, every time he closed his eyes. As if Stan’s wounds weren’t constantly at the back of his mind, plucking at his nerves like guitar strings. 

“And have you?” Ford asked. “Changed the bandages?” 

“Yes.” 

Ford wasn’t sure if he believed him. A few hours after Stan woke up, Ford had tried— god, he had tried— to get Stan to let him change the bandages. But Stan had insisted, stubbornly (as usual), that he could do them himself. And while he was certainly more mobile than he was yesterday, he still wasn’t recovering very quickly. In three days, he should have been doing better. Though, to be fair, he probably would be recovering more quickly if he’d actually been taken to a hospital. But that hadn’t been an option. Not then. And now— Ford couldn’t ignore how pale he looked, how shallow his breathing was. 

Stan was under a lot of stress. Perhaps that was behind it. Perhaps not. Ford made a mental note to insist on checking the wounds himself once this was all over. Stan would have to push through until then. Ford was concerned, yes, but not overly so. Stan would alert him if there was something seriously wrong. 

Right now, there was a more pressing issue. A problem sitting in the next room, waiting for him. 

“Before we wipe their memories, I have a few questions I need to ask Rico.” 

Stan frowned. “What questions?”

“Tying up loose ends,” Ford said simply. “You’re welcome to listen in, if you want.” He gestured to the red intercom button. “Or you can stay out of it.” 

Stan glanced at the button, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Ford stopped at the door, his hand hovering over the knob. He glanced back. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Will you—” he paused. Hesitated. “Will you be alright?” 

Stan scoffed. “Yeah, Sixer, I’ll be fine. Jeez.” 

Sighing, Ford stepped into the padded room and closed the door behind him, sealing himself in the room with the man who nearly killed his brother. 

He hated the place. It was where he would go when he had to sleep, but it wasn’t a peaceful place. He’d usually wake up, his hands and arms covered with self-inflicted scratches, his throat burning, and his head pounding. He would use the retinal scanner to make sure that his eyes— and his body— were, in fact, his own. It would take days for all of Bill’s experiments on him to heal. Even with the empty, softly padded room, he would end up hurt. If Bill was controlling him, Ford couldn’t stop him from using his own body against him, he couldn’t even stop Bill from—

No. More pressing issues. 

Rico looked up from where he sat, eyes wide and sunken, jaw clenched. Ford glanced at the plate on the ground— it still had three pieces of toast on it. The ones he had delivered this morning. It seemed the men were attempting some sort of hunger strike. 

Fine. Let them starve. 

Rico swallowed. “Pines?” 

Ford shrugged. “One of them, yes.” 

It occurred to Ford that Rico wasn’t sure which brother was standing in front of him. Ford had no intention of clarifying. 

Without another word, Ford walked over to the lackeys sitting in the corner. He pulled out a small spray bottle from his pocket, flicked off the cap, and gave them each a spritz in the face. One inhale, and both of their bodies sagged instantly, slipping into unconsciousness. 

Rico's eyes widened, darting between Ford and his men. 

Ford scoffed. “They’re not dead. I just don’t need to talk to them.” 

Rico glared. “Talk away.” 

“Who knows you’re here?” 

Rico said nothing. 

Ford exhaled slowly, pacing in front of him. His hands ached before he even threw a punch. His anger was a physical thing— burning through his veins, uncontrolled and unpredictable. 

He stopped pacing and knelt in front of the man, his voice low. “You broke into my house,” he hissed. “You shot my brother.”

Rico didn’t say anything, but the ghost of a smile flickered on his lips. 

Ford’s hand curled into a fist and connected with Rico’s cheek before he could say anything. A sharp crack, a muffled cry. Rico jerked sideways, clutching his face. 

“Who knows you’re here?” Ford repeated, keeping his tone level. 

No answer. 

Ford grabbed his collar and yanked him up to his knees. Then his fist crashed into the man’s face again. And again, and again, and again. His knuckles stung, but he barely noticed. He wasn’t done. 

Finally, he let Rico drop again. He hit the floor, curling inward. Tears welled in his eyes, but, to his credit, he didn’t make a sound. Ford flexed his fingers. He took a step back, breathing heavily, and forced himself to level his voice. 

“I get the feeling,” Ford began, beginning to pace again, “that this wasn’t a sanctioned mission. I get the feeling that it was, in fact, the opposite. Am I close?” 

Rico whimpered slightly. Ford rolled him over with his foot and pressed hard on the man’s chest. 

A beat of silence. A wheeze. 

Then Rico finally spoke.“Yeah.” It was barely more than a whisper. Ashamed. 

Ford’s lip curled. “So this was— what? An unsanctioned petty revenge plot? Something your superiors explicitly told you not to do?” He let out a humorless chuckle. “And, I assume, based on your track record, that you went anyway. Is that right?”

Rico nodded. 

Ford pushed his foot down harder. Rico wheezed. 

“So—” Ford hissed, “who knows you’re here?”

Rico shook his head and let out a low growl. 

Ford exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine, let Rico make this difficult. 

In a swift motion, he yanked Rico up and slammed him against the wall, the impact punching the air out of his lungs. Rico gaps, his hands flying up, but it was pointless. 

Ford had a knife to his throat. 

Rico stiffened. 

“Tell me who knows you’re here.” Ford pressed the metal into his throat. 

“No.” 

Goddmanit. 

Ford didn’t want to do this. He didn’t like to hurt people. But he wasn’t like Stan— he couldn’t talk his way out of a situation, get what he wanted with nothing but words. This was the only way he could find out what he needed. And Rico was being difficult. Quite difficult. 

He tightened his grip, trying not to let his hesitation show as he drew the blade across Rico’s skin— not enough to kill. Not deep enough to cause any real damage. Just enough to draw blood. A shallow cut appeared, beads of blood lining it. It was only enough to be a threat. 

“TELL ME WHO KNOWS YOU’RE HERE!” 

The words came out louder than he intended, raw and sharp. His voice didn’t sound like his. 

Rico flinched. His whole body shook— fear, exhaustion, hunger, Ford didn’t know. Maybe all of the above. 

“NO ONE!” He rasped. “No one but them.” He jerked his chin toward the men on the ground, still passed out. 

No one else. That was good. 

Ford loosened his hold. Rico immediately slumped back to the ground with a dull thud. 

He spun on his heel and walked out, leaving Rico gasping on the floor. 

He closed the door, checking the lock three times, just to be sure. He exhaled sharply and turned back toward the desk. 

The moment he sat down, he felt eyes on him. 

His gaze flickered to the left. Stan was staring. 

Stan’s hand was still pressed against the intercom button, but his expression was frozen. Eyes wide, shoulders tense. His fingers twitched slightly against the console. 

If Ford didn’t know any better, he might’ve thought Stan was impressed. But there was something off about the way he was looking at his brother. Something uneasy in his gaze. 

Ford shifted, suddenly aware of how much space his own body was taking up in the room. He hadn’t noticed how tight his knuckles felt, or how fast his breath was coming. He cleared his throat, forcing steadiness into his tone. 

“Do you need something?” 

Stan startled, almost as if he’d forgotten Ford could see him. His eyes darted away. “Er— no. Sorry.”

Ford frowned. Odd. Stan didn’t get skittish like this. 

Ford studied him closer. His brother was pale— too pale— save for a flush of pink spreading across his cheeks. His posture was off. He was slumped deep in his chair, one arm bracing his side, one rubbing absently at his temple. 

Something about the sight made Ford’s stomach twist, but he tried to ignore it. Tried to push the feeling down. Stan had been shot. Of course, he’d still be a little weak. That was normal. Expected. 

Still—

Ford shook his head. There were more important things to worry about. 

“Will you be alright to haul them into the woods?” 

Stan blinked sluggishly, the words processing slowly. Then he turned toward Ford, his movements slow. 

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. Too soft. 

Ford hesitated. Then he nodded. 

“Then let’s go.” 

Ford and Stan crouched low, hidden in the dark of the evening and behind a dense wall of bushes and tree skeletons. The forest was quiet, save for the rustling of branches, the quiet howl of the wind, and Ford’s own hyper breathing. He forced himself to calm down, watching the three unconscious men stir slightly on the forest ground. 

This has to work. This has to work. 

Ford had knocked Rico out and wiped all three of the men’s memories, and then he and Stan had dragged the men deep, deep into the forest. Ford had done the majority of the work. Stan had tried— really tried. He only made it about ten feet, carrying the lightest of the men, before his arms gave out. The man had hit the ground, and Ford had barely caught Stan in time, saving him from toppling over on top of Rico’s lackey. 

Thank God the stuff he’d given the men was strong enough to keep him knocked out. 

Ford had then abandoned the plan to carry them. He grabbed a wheelbarrow from the shed and piled all three men into it to roll them out. Stan had kept up beside him. Barely. He clearly was struggling to keep himself upright. His breathing was off, his eyes glassy. Ford told himself it was just a slow recovery. 

But still, even now, Stan wasn't just sluggish. He was barely upright, bracing himself against the bushes. Even with the support, he swayed. 

Ford’s chest tightened. 

They had to focus. Stan could wait. He’d have to. 

The air felt wrong. Off. It always did in this forest. It was— heavy, almost. 

Rico and the men stirred again, this time letting out soft groans as their limbs began to twitch. Ford had left them with a little— the vague sense that they three knew each other, though they probably wouldn’t remember how or why. He had left them with the sense of danger they felt trapped in the padded room. But he had completely removed their memories of the organization they worked for, and, most importantly, their memories of the cabin, Stan, himself, and Gravity Falls. 

He had also taken all of the electronics and weapons the men came with— they were completely defenseless. No way to communicate with the outside world or even get their bearings. 

Rico, true to form, was the first to be fully awake. His voice was hoarse and raw. “— the hell?” 

The other men sat up and looked around, confusion evident.

Ford’s fingers tightened around the button in his pocket. He waited until all three were standing shakily before pressing it. 

A flicker of ultraviolet light. 

The carvings on the trees flared to life. 

The symbols— some he had carved and painted with bio-luminescent paint, some that were already there— glowed in the dark. A few well timed flashes, and the carvings appeared to shift, crawling up the bark like living things. 

One of the men flinched, his eyes narrowing as he approached a tree. His fingers traced one of the carvings. “The fuck is this?” 

Ford listened attentively, his body tense, until he heard another sound— ragged breathing. Too close. Too familiar. He snapped his head to the side— to Stan. His brother was keeping low, folded into himself, but he looked… unsteady. Even crouched, he couldn’t stay still. He was pale, except for that same blotchy pink spreading across his cheeks and his neck. His whole face was damp with sweat— it was the dead of winter. 

“Stan.” Ford kept his voice low. “Are you alright?”

Stan’s eyes flickered toward him, fast and sharp. “I’m fine.” 

Ford’s stomach twisted. “You’re recovering from a bullet wound. If you’re not able to—” 

“I said I’m fine.” 

The defense was harsh and immediate, and not convincing in the least. Anyone could see that his brother was running on fumes, struggling to stay upright. 

Ford’s fists clenched and unclenched. He wanted to press. He wanted to make him go back to the cabin and rest. But they didn’t have time. The men were growing restless, shifting uneasily. 

They had to wait. Ford forced himself to nod. 

He clicked another button on the remote. The whispering started. 

Ford had carefully placed speakers throughout the woods, running on an isolated power source. They weren’t overbearing, just unrelenting. Soft enough to worm into the men’s brains, to make them question whether they were even real or not. 

Rico’s men stiffened. One’s head twisted sharply, checking over both shoulders. But, of course, there was nothing there. 

“Stay together,” Rico ordered. “Someone’s fucking with us.”

He nodded, and all three men began their trek out of the woods. They walked. And walked. And walked. Eventually, they circled back again— exactly as planned. Ford had mapped the path meticulously, setting up subtle markers that led them in a continuous loop. They’d ended up exactly where they started, with Stan and Ford following close behind. 

One of the men stopped suddenly. “We’ve been here before.” 

Rico and the other lackey turned, observing. They reached the same conclusion, their faces hardening. 

Ford fingers twitched against the remote. He was about to raise the volume and density of the whispering, let it sink deeper into their minds. 

Then the temperature plummeted. 

It was already cold, but this was different. Bone chilling. It hit fast, slicing through Ford’s coat, like a physical attack. It was an unnatural cold. 

And Ford hadn’t planned for it at all. 

His gut twisted when he glanced at Stan. His brother was rigid, unfocused eyes snapping into something sharp and aware. He was shivering violently and uncontrolled. Each inhale he took hitched, like his boy wasn’t able to keep up with itself. 

He raised his eyebrows in silent question.

Did you do this? 

Ford shook his head, securing  his grip on the remote with shaking hands. 

Something moved in the trees. A flicker. 

Then—

One of Rico’s men was gone. 

Ford blinked. His brain buffered for a moment, unable to process. He craned his neck, silently peering between the trees. His eyes had to be betraying him. 

But— no. 

The man was gone. No struggle. No sound. 

A scream echoed through the forest. 

But it came from far away. It was— twisted. Distorted. 

Ford felt sick. The sound was wrong, stretched almost. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Rico’s remaining lackey was shaking now, wringing his hands together. His boots crunched against the snow as he shifted on his feet, like he was considering making a break for it.

Stan let out a quiet, breathless chuckle. It almost sounded like it took effort.  “I don’t think we need to do much more, genius,” he whispered. “This place is doin’ the work for us.” 

Stan was right. 

Ford should've felt relief. Should’ve been pleased and satisfied that the plan was going as expected— better than expected. 

Instead, he couldn’t tear his eyes from his brother. Stan’s shivering had only gotten worse. He was so pale he almost blended in with the snow. His breaths weren’t steady, weren’t strong. 

Ford shouldn’t have involved him in the plan in the first place. He could’ve done it himself. All he was doing was over-exerting his brother even further, when he was still recovering. 

His chest tightened, but he forced himself to look back at the men, who were starting to walk again. He nodded absently towards Stan to indicate to follow them. 

Suddenly—

A branch snapped. 

Loud. 

Ford’s heart lurched violently and painfully. He whipped his head around, panic surging in his body. 

Stan. Frozen. His boot pinned down on a fallen branch hidden under the snow. 

Rico’s froze, his head snapping toward their hiding spot. 

—Goddamnit he’s going to find us he’s going to hurt us—

Ford didn’t think. 

He seized Stan’s arm and yanked him down, fast and hard, quickly and quietly, and dragged him back down to the cover of the bushes. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” His voice was sharp and angry— too angry. And he knew it. 

Stan flinched, hard. Like he’d been shot. His entire body jolted backwards. 

Before Ford could correct, Stan wrenched his arm free, stumbling backward into the snow. He landed hard, half buried, but, thankfully, still hidden behind the bush. His chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes wide. He wouldn't look at Ford. Wouldn’t even acknowledge him. 

Ford’s throat tightened, a sinking feeling washing over him. 

He hadn’t meant to— 

“Lee—” His voice was quieter now. 

The bushes rustled suddenly. Cutting off his apology. 

Ford’s pulse spiked. His head snapped up at the next sound. 

Loud, echoing foot falls. 

Then he saw it. 

A massive, angular black creature. Barely visible in the darkness. Its form shifted unnaturally to hide behind a tree, hollow eyes digging into Rico and his remaining man.  

That wasn’t supposed to be there. 

Rico stiffened. He whipped his head around. The other man followed suit. 

But they couldn’t see it. They could only feel it. 

A few more steps. Another sharp head turn. 

Again and again, the pattern continued. They could never get more than a few feet before glancing over their shoulders. And each time, they were met with nothing. 

Ford had set up noisemakers to rustle the bustles, create phantom footsteps. Nothing real, just enough to make them feel paranoid. This wasn’t that. This was real. And Ford had no control over it. 

Stan must’ve seen it too. He was staring past the trees, his shoulders squared. Still trembling. Still swaying. But eerily silent. 

It must not have seen Stan and him, otherwise, Ford supposed, it would be hiding from them too. It trailed behind Rico and his man. Always behind them, clinging to the shadows. 

It was fascinating. Ford made a mental note to add the thing to his journal when he got a chance. 

Suddenly, a short scream cut through the forest. 

It cut off. 

Ford stiffened. The last man was gone. 

Stan’s fingers curled into Ford’s sleeves, his shaky hand gripping tightly. His breathing was uneven, each inhale dragging through his throat. He still didn’t look at Ford when he spoke. 

“I thought we were just tryin’ to scare ‘em.” 

“I did too.” Ford swallowed hard. “This— isn’t me.” 

Then the forest spoke.

Not from the speakers. Not part of the plan. 

“Leave.” 

It was a harsh whisper, low and guttural and— physical. It crawled up Ford’s neck, like cold hands gripping him. It was felt, weaving through the trees and digging into his chest. 

Stan sucked in a sharp breath, his grip tightening further. 

That was all Rico needed. 

He bolted. 

He slipped and stumbled through the snow, weaving between the trees. His boots pounded against the frozen ground as he made a break for the road—

The forest shifted. Glitched, almost. Unbearably bright, then—

The road wasn’t there. 

Stan’s voice was hoarse. “Ford, is this—”

“No.” 

Rico was running full speed, but he was going in circles. Every turn only got him back to where he started. He stopped suddenly, hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. 

Then the forest shifted again. A groan echoed through the woods, like wood bending and snapping. The air compressed, now heavy and suffocating. 

Rico was gone. Swallowed. 

His screams tore through the woods. They were real. Raw. Piercing. 

Ford saw Stan flinch hard, his breath catching as he covered his ears, his face twisted in discomfort. 

The forest lurched. 

Ford’s stomach turned, nausea hitting him violently. His vision blurred, the world tilting. Almost curling in itself. Stan’s eyes squeezed shut, his fingers digging into the ground. Ford squeezed his own eyes shut. 

And then— stillness. 

Ford blinked his eyes open. 

The road was back. 

Rico's car sat on the side of it, like it had always been there. 

Ford didn’t have time to process before Rico was there, yanking the driver’s door open. He stumbled inside, fumbling with the keys. The engine roared, and Rico floored it, tires kicking up slush as he tore down the road. 

Gone. 

Ford saw his brother rising to stand and followed suit, crossing his arms over his chest, a dull relief washing over him. But it was fragile, uncertain. He tried to ignore the fact that Gravity Falls had done most of the work for them. There was clearly a lot about this place he had yet to discover. 

And instead of that exciting him, it unsettled him. 

“Ford…?” Stan’s voice was far too low. Far too quiet. Too shaky. 

Ford snapped his head around. 

Stan was swaying. 

He was bracing himself against a tree, his hands shaking, knuckles white. His head hung forward, breath coming in short, jagged bursts. 

Ford’s stomach clenched. 

“Stan—?

Stan’s eyes were squeezed shut. His whole body trembled with deep, violent shivers, like his body was failing him all at once. 

Ford stepped closer, reaching out. “Wait, don’t move—” 

Too late. 

Stan’s knees buckled. His crumpled, hitting the ground hard, and Ford wasn’t able to catch him. A raw, broken cry escaped his throat. It burned into Ford’s ears. Stan curled in on himself tightly, his arms wrapping around his stomach. 

“LEE—!” 

Ford was at his side, his hands hovering uselessly over his brother’s barely conscious, shaking form. 

Stan was crying. 

Ford’s chest shook, a heavy weight falling over it. Tears leaked from Stan’s eyes, trailing down his face. His breaths hitched at each inhale, sharp and painful sounding. 

“Stan, what— what’s wrong? What—” 

“Hurts…” His voice was slurred. 

Ford shoved his hesitation down. He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t. He had to fix this. 

He let his hands hesitate for a fraction of a second before he forced them to move. He lifted Stan’s shirt and jacket slightly, just enough to see the bullet wound. He expected blood. Infection. Something. But the bandage was mostly clean. His brows furrowed. 

“Where?” Ford demanded, his voice wavering. “Where does it hurt?” 

Stan didn’t answer, just let out a weak, low moan and curled in further. Then Ford saw it— a dark spot on the back of Stan’s thin sweatshirt. God, he wasn’t even wearing a proper coat. 

“Alright, just— hold on.” Ford’s shaking hands fumbled with Stan’s sweatshirt, trying to get it off without aggravating him further. But the moment he moved Stan’s arm—

Stan screamed. 

Not a grunt, not a flinch— a strangled, guttural cry. He snapped his head back, breath catching. The sound was so raw, so helpless that Ford physically felt it, like someone was strangling him. His hands shot back like he’d been burned. 

“I’m sorry— I’m so sorry, I know, I know it hurts—”

Stan gasped, his body shuddering. But he didn’t fight it. He didn’t move, didn’t make any attempt to run. He just laid there, all the fight gone from him. Like he’d accepted his fate. 

Ford swallowed down his nausea. Keep going. He finally got the sweatshirt off. The back of Stan’s shirt was wet. Not sweat— blood. 

God, Stan was shivering so hard. Ford didn’t have time to pull the t-shirt off his brother. Stan didn’t have time. Ford pulled out his pocket knife and cut out a jagged, circular hole in the back of the shirt. He peeled— peeled— the fabric of the shirt away. 

Oh God. 

The brand. 

He’d forgotten.

He’d had so much on his mind— Rico and his men, the ambush, the plan. The gunshot wound had seemed more immediate, more pressing. He’d shoved the brand to the back of his mind. He’d bandaged it once, then ignored it. Forgotten it. Like it would just go away, no longer burned into Stan’s skin, no longer festering. 

And— God. 

It was bad. Really bad. So much worse than when he’d bandaged it. It was raw and red, swollen at the edges. Skin peeled where it had split open again— Stan had pushed himself too hard. Blood leaked from the cracks, mixing with something thick and greenish-yellow. It was already infected, spreading and angry, radiating a feverish heat. 

Ford swallowed against the bile in his throat. 

Stan hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t said anything.

He hadn’t complained. He hadn’t done anything to draw attention. He— he’d hid it. 

Of course he hid it. Why would he say anything when Ford had barely even looked at him these past few days? Ford was too focused, as usual, on anything else. Anything but his brother. Ford hadn’t even bothered to make sure his brother felt safe. 

Stan had been suffering. And he’d just taken it. Like he thought he deserved it. 

Ford felt sick. It was all his fault. 

Stan let out a weak, pained hum. “Mmfgh— Ford…?”

Ford blinked, pushing it all down. He couldn’t afford to lose it. This wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be. 

“I’m right here, Lee.” 

“S’ cold…” Stan curled in further, body trembling like a leaf. 

Ford swallowed his feelings down. Later. He could hate himself later. Right now, he had to fix this. He had to fix his brother. He owed Stan that. 

Ford shifted, scooting closer beside his brother. He gathered Stan up and laid the jacket over his shoulder. He pulled him close, cradling him in his arms and rocked him gently. Stan barely reacted. His head rested weakly against Ford’s chest, breath coming in shallow. His body was heavy— dead weight. His muscles were not engaging at all. 

“I know, I know.” He brushed a hair out of Stan’s face, trying his best to shield him from the wind. “Let’s— let’s get back to the cabin. You’ll be alright. I’m right here. Stay with me, okay?” 

Stan slumped further into the hold, his body going limp.

—no no no no no no—   

“NO— Wait, stay with me—”  Ford jostled him slightly. “Stan—!”

Stan’s eyes slowly blinked shut. “M’ sorry…” 

Sorry? 

Then he went limp. Unconscious. 

Ford’s arms locked around him, panic twisting into his ribs. Two fingers to Stan’s neck— a pulse. But he felt no relief. Nothing could touch Stan like this. Nothing was allowed to hurt him. 

Ford would fix this. 

He had to fix this. 

Chapter Text

“Ford… can’t—” Stan slurred his words, stumbling precariously in the snow. “Please… can we stop…?”

Ford stared out at the sea of white in front of them both, his chest tightening painfully. “I know it’s hard, Stanley, but it’s getting dark. We really should get back to the cabin. Just a bit more.” 

Stan nodded and hummed miserably, leaning further into Ford’s hold. It seemed like they had been walking for days. In reality, it was probably more like an hour and a half. Why did they have to take Rico out so far? Ford’s whole body trembled in the cold, his muscles painfully tight, but he didn’t really notice. He was more concerned with Stan, who he was practically carrying at this point. He was trembling violently, barely able to keep upright, his rasping breaths deafening in the silent winter scene. 

Suddenly, Stan stumbled over his own feet, and he fell towards the ground. Ford was barely able to catch him, barely able to keep his brother’s face from being drowned in snow. 

“Whoa, whoa, hey— it’s okay. It’s alright,” Ford murmured. “Okay, we— we’ll take a break.” 

He gently lowered Stan to the ground, leaned his back against the nearest tree and followed suit himself, sitting with his shoulder securely against his brother’s.

Stan hummed in appreciation and blinked his eyes shut, letting his head tip up in exhaustion. He coughed, a harsh, grating sound, and his body shook with the force. Ford brushed a stray hair from his damp forehead. 

God, why hadn’t Stan said anything? Why had he pretended to be fine, insisted on doing his own bandages? Him and Ford might not have been on the best of terms, but did he truly think he couldn’t tell Ford about a raging, infected, third degree burn? Did he really think he couldn’t ask for help? 

Ford, to put it simply, felt like utter shit. This was his fault, and he knew it. If he’d been more tactful about asking Stan to take the journal, if he hadn’t resorted to something as juvenile as a fistfight, if, if, if. Guilt was pounding against his ribcage. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he was angry. Angry at himself, at Stan, about the science fair and fucking Backupsmore. If only Stan hadn’t broken the machine, if only he hadn’t let his Pa kick his brother out. 

He could dwell on the what if’s forever. 

But not right now. 

The cold and raging snowstorm was getting to both of them. Ford could tell. Neither of them were shivering properly anymore. Stan was limp, essentially a bag of breathing bones at this point, and Ford just trembled with an occasional shiver. They needed to get back. But it was an arduously slow process. 

“Ford…” 

Ford glanced toward his brother. “What is it, Lee?” 

“M’ sorry…” Stan murmured. “Don’t be mad—” 

“It’s not your fault. Don’t be sorry.” The words felt like they stuck in his throat.

“...Didn’t mean to—” 

“Save your strength,” Ford interrupted softly. “It’s alright.” 

Stan went mute. 

A few minutes passed, and Ford shifted, ready to continue. “We should really keep going now. We're so close.” 

Without waiting for a response, he began to help Stan up, gently pulling him up from under the arms. Stan immediately wavered, swaying dangerously in Ford’s arms. 

“Woah, woah, easy.” Ford quickly swung one arm around Stan’s waist and swung Stan’s arm around his own shoulders. “It’s alright.” 

Stan blinked rapidly and let out a soft, wounded sound, something similar to a whimper. Ford felt his throat tighten as he gave one of Stan’s hands a quick squeeze. 

They took slow, labored steps in time with each other. Ford was shaking, just a bit, but Stan was completely limp. Wonderful. He could add hypothermia to the list of every bad thing he’d done to his brother. 

Ford glanced over to Stan. He tried to ignore the tears he saw streaming down his brother’s face, and tried to ignore the likely identical ones on his own face. 

Finally, finally, the cabin came into view. Ford could sob in relief if he wasn’t still so terrified. He was dragging Stan at this point, uttering constant reassurance and encouragement even as they labored up the porch stairs, through the front door, and into the living room. 

Once inside, Stan’s glassy, unfocused eyes met the couch. He stumbled forward slightly, looking ready to collapse. 

Ford tightened his grip before Stan could black out. “Wait, wait, not just yet.” 

Stan said nothing, just let out a miserable hum. Ford’s heart clenched. Stan wanted to rest. He deserved to rest. But he had to heal first. Ford’s eyes flickered towards the window. It was still snowing outside, a harsh blizzard. A hospital was out of the question. The nearest one was an hour away, and Ford didn’t even have a car. He’d have to handle it here, himself. 

“Come on, let’s get downstairs.” Stan groaned in soft protest and let his head lean against Ford’s shoulder. “You’re doing so good, Stan. We’re gonna fix this, okay?”

They trekked down the stairs slowly and precariously, with Stan letting all his dead weight lean against Ford. They finally got down to the lab. Ford set Stan down in a chair and quickly shoved everything on the table onto the floor. He stared at the table for a moment. It was flat and hard. It wouldn’t be comfortable in the least. 

“Stay right here, I’m going to go grab some padding.” 

He didn’t wait to see if Stan responded before darting up both sets of stairs, grabbing some thin pillows from his bed, along with some throw blankets he hoped would provide some semblance of comfort in what was about to be a very painful process. He grabbed dry socks from his room for warmth before heading back to the lab. On the way, he turned the thermostat up as high as it could go, hopeful to ease Stan back to a safer temperature. He stopped at the kitchen when he remembered fluids could also help with hypothermia. He hurriedly microwaved a glass of water until it was slightly warm— no extreme temperatures, but enough to be comfortable.

Back to the lab. He deposited the socks and water on the side table, then arranged the pillows and blankets as best he could, leaving one blanket for when the process was over and Stan could rest. Then he turned to his brother. 

Ford worked quickly, stripping off Stan’s shoes and damp socks (why did his boots have holes in them?) and replacing them with the socks he’d grabbed from upstairs. After that was done, he grabbed the cup of water. It was difficult to grip it correctly, with the way he was shivering. But that meant it would be near impossible for Stan to hold it, so, with shaking hands, Ford gently tipped the glass to his brother’s lips. 

“Drink, please,” he instructed softly. Stan obeyed, drinking the whole cup. Ford placed it back on the nearest surface, and it hit the metal with a soft clink. 

“Alright, up you get.” Ford gently eased the near-unconscious Stan out of the chair and helped him onto the makeshift operating table, lying on his stomach. 

Stan groaned softly as Ford pulled out his pocket knife and cut a clean line down Stan’s shirt and pulled it completely off his back. 

He nearly threw up. The wound was sickening to look at. Under the light, close up, and without the barrier of the snow,  it was even worse than he’d thought. It was inflamed, radiating a feverish heat, with tiny pockets of yellow-green pus spotting it. There was visible dirt and grime in it. And its shape. It was… the rune. The protection rune, one that was meant to keep the cabin from harm. It had hurt his brother. 

No. Ford had hurt his brother. 

He stared at the wound helplessly, his hands hovering, unsure what to do first. You’re a doctor, for god’s sake. THINK. He took a sharp breath. Clean the wound first. 

Thank god he’d had the sense to keep the first aid kit and medical equipment in the lab. It came in handy having it so close when he had to deal with Bill-related issues. He quickly filled a bowl (thank god he also kept dishes down here) with cool, nearly room temperature water. Then, he grabbed a washcloth and dunked it in the bowl, then squeezed it out. 

He hesitated. “This might hurt. I’m— I’m sorry.” He pressed the cloth down on the wound. 

Stan let out a harsh, guttural yell and thrashed. 

His eyes flew open and he whipped his head around, a choked sob escaping his lips. “Please— don’t…” His words were quiet pleas, contrasting sharply with the sound he’d just let out. He twisted and turned and shook his limbs every which way. 

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry…” Ford grimaced as he used one hand to hold down Stan’s back, and, with the other, continued to clean the wound, working as gently as possible. “Stan, please, try and relax.” 

Stan was still fighting, but it was a weak struggle at best. He could barely push himself upright, especially with Ford’s hand holding him down. 

“Ford—” Stan choked out harshly through his movements, “M’ so sorry…” 

Ford blinked. This again? 

“It’s alright, this isn’t your fault.” It’s mine. 

“I didn’t mean to—” he paused, letting out a sharp groan and twisted again as Ford continued to dab at the burn. “I didn’t mean to break it…” 

What? 

Ford’s hands hesitated, lifting up from Stan’s back. His brain stuttered. He said the words as if he was… receiving punishment for something. 

“Lee, what are you—”

“Was an accident…” Stan continued. Without Ford’s hand in the way, he rolled slightly onto his side, curling into a near fetal position. “Didn’t want you to go… but I didn’t mean to… break your machine—” he cut himself off, stifling a sob. “God, you’re so smart, Sixer…” 

Oh. 

The science fair. Ford bit the inside of his cheek. He had been angry about it. Still was, in a way. But it didn’t matter right now. It was nothing compared to his brother’s very life. He could be angry when Stan was fully recovered. It was hard to be angry at him when he was so… helpless. 

Ford squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his head pounding. He paused in his efforts, forcing himself to look at his brother. 

God. 

Stan was crying, shaking with full force. His breathing was getting rapid, his chest rising and falling too fast, hitching on each inhale. Ford cursed and dabbed again at the wound, and Stan let out a near-yelp, squeezing himself up even further.

“Ford, please— just let me…” he trailed off, his voice wavering. “I’m sorry, please… it hurts…” 

There was no one else around to see it, and Stan was clearly too out of it to tell, but Ford bit back a choked sob. He was hurting his brother. 

“I’m so sorry, Lee, I’m so, so, sorry.” Stan didn’t register the words that Ford forced out, his voice cracking. “This is my fault—” He meant to say more, but it dissolved into a sob. 

Get a hold of yourself. Crying won’t help Stan. 

Ford set the washcloth down, trying to get his bearings and keep himself from having a full meltdown. They didn’t have the luxury of Ford taking his time to get his shit together and stop acting like a child. Stan needed help now.  

At least Stan was shivering now. That was a good sign, a sign that the hypothermia was slowly leaking out of his body. 

But he looked utterly destroyed. He was fully on his side, curled into a ball, shaking and trying desperately (and failing) to stifle choked sobs. Ford couldn’t look at him a second longer. He needed a clinical mindset, an objective mindset. What next? 

Ford turned his head to the side, swiping under his eyes, and his eyes drifted to the counter on the far wall. Then he saw the bottle. Ignoring the burning question of why the fuck was this only hitting him now, he grabbed the tiny spray bottle. The same one he’d used to knock out Rico. 

He grabbed it and tried not to think about how amoral it felt to knock his own brother out cold. He kneeled down next to Stan and brushed a hair off of his forehead. 

Stan blinked blearily at him, his eyes rimmed in red. “Ford… I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”

“I know, Lee. It’s alright. Relax.” 

With that, he gave Stan a spritz to the face, and watched, guilt swirling in his chest, as his brother slumped against the table, his unconscious body still wracked with shivers. 

In the silence, he took a sharp breath. But he didn’t have time to stay in the moment. Stan needed him. 

He worked efficiently, finishing cleaning the wound, then applied fresh gauze. Stan hardly stirred, just letting out a soft, involuntary hiss when Ford applied the burn cream. It didn’t feel like enough. Without a skin graft, it would leave quite the mark. At best, people would think it was an odd tattoo. More likely, it would be recognized for what it was— a brand. A brand that Ford inflicted upon him. 

Stan’s shivering had mostly evened out, and was now just the occasional tremor, but Ford knew he had to watch to make sure Stan was getting proper warmth and fluid. No more of him pretending to change his own bandages. He clearly couldn’t even handle that. 

Ford tried not to be angry. He tried. But if Stan had just listened — 

That sentiment could apply to a lot of areas, actually. 

Ford shook his head, trying to physically fling the frustration from him (it most certainly didn’t work) and washed his hands thoroughly, before grabbing the spare blanket he had grabbed to cover his brother. 

Then he saw it. 

He had seen it when he’d been treating the gunshot wound. But he’d forgotten about it until now, the urgency making it slip from his mind. It was an odd, uneven scar across Stan’s side, with another, smaller one next to it. They were both messy, elevated on Stan’s skin, pulling his skin tightly. He wasn’t an idiot. The scars spoke of a hasty operation, possibly an illegal one. They spoke of pain. Of desperation. 

Ford couldn’t possibly feel any worse. 

What had Stan had been doing to receive a scar like this? In fact, Stan was covered in scars. Ford, of course, had his own scars— one in the middle of his palm from when Bill experimented with nails, for example— but not nearly as many as his brother. Some were bigger, some smaller, some shaped, some lines. They littered his body. 

Ford’s stomach churned. 

What the hell had happened to his brother?

Ford waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

Every shift, every stir that Stan made, Ford’s head would jolt up, ready and expectant. Then Stan would go right back to sleep. Maybe Ford had given him too much of the stuff. However, perhaps he was even worse off than Ford thought. But Ford chose not to think about that right now. He’d just have to wait for Stan to fully wake up. A few times, Stan had seemed like he might be waking up. He’d jolt slightly, mutter something that was incomprehensible. One time, Ford made out the word “please,” and, another time, he could’ve sworn that Stan was speaking Spanish. But that would be ridiculous. Ford figured it was a combination of Stan’s slurred speech and his own sleep deprivation. 

Speaking of which, he was exhausted. But he couldn’t move. If Stan woke up, he needed to be there. To let him wake up alone, injured, and in an unfamiliar space seemed to Ford like a betrayal of the highest order. So he waited. And desperately wished for coffee. 

He thought multiple times how much easier it would’ve been if he could’ve taken Stan to the hospital. He would have certainly received better care there. Ford hated that it hadn’t been an option. Even if there wasn’t a blizzard outside, he didn’t have a car. 

Fiddleford used to give him rides. 

But Fiddleford wasn’t here anymore. And he wasn’t coming back. 

Yet another life Ford had ruined because of his arrogance. 

His eyes flickered to the side, catching his journal, freely scowling at the thing. Some good it brought him. The world could end today, and it would be his fault. For believing Bill’s tricks, for playing into Bill’s flattery. His muscles tightened at the thought of his former muse, a sudden urge to be alonesmallsafe coming over him, his hands shaking at the very thought. But he couldn’t. Not with Stan here. 

He knew he couldn’t ignore the Bill problem forever. If he slipped up just once, Bill would take over. And if he took over, he could stay in control. He was getting stronger, impatient. He wanted the portal done. 

He sighed and snatched the journal off the counter, flipping through it rather aimlessly as he’d done many times before, hoping for some sort of solution to jump out of him. He paused when he got to the page on unicorns. He had stopped on it before. He knew their hair had healing properties. They could easily serve as the primary active ingredient in a concoction that would enable him to exorcize Cipher. The problem was that unicorns were incredibly difficult, temperamental creatures. He’d been hoping for a better solution, one that didn’t hinge on the relative concept of human morality. But it seemed his options were limited. 

He knew he should get the hair today. Now, even. 

But, with Stan still sleeping… 

No, he had to wait. 

As if on cue, Stan, still curled up under the blanket, stirred. Ford whipped his head up yet again, making his way to the table. He gently adjusted the blanket so it was tucked in securely. 

Stan suddenly made a noise. A small, pained whimper. He flinched in his sleep, his hands beginning to shake just slightly. His head twitched toward his neck, and his eyes suddenly blinked open. 

“Stan?” Ford prompted softly, “Are you awake?” 

Stan opened his mouth to answer, then closed it suddenly, his eyes widening. In an instant, he flung the blanket off of him and scrambled off the table to the nearest trash can, and puked. He shuddered over the trash can, painful retches tearing their way through his body, punctuated by harsh coughs. 

Ford was quickly kneeling at Stan’s side, rubbing his back in what he hoped was comforting reassurance. “It’s alright, you’re okay…” 

Stan retched again, his body heaving over the trash can, and did so for the next few minutes. Ford murmured soft comforts under his breath until it seemed Stan had gotten everything out of his system. 

Stan let out a tiny, weak sound and slumped against the side of the counter, the trash can next to him. It was then that Ford noticed the sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

That shouldn’t be there. He was hypothermic just a few hours ago. 

Ford shifted so that he was on his knees, directly in front of his brother. “Stan, are you with me?” 

Stan sort of responded, giving a faint, barely-there hum. 

“Okay, I— I’m going to feel your forehead.” Ford gently pressed a hand to Stan’s forehead and, as he suspected, it was hot to the touch. “Oh, Stan, you— you’re burning up…” 

Stan suddenly pitched forward, his head hitting Ford’s chest. Ford wasted no time in wrapping his arms around him, absently running a hand through his matted hair, trying to untangle it as best he could. 

“It’s alright, I’m right here,” he murmured. He traced slow, steady circles into Stan’s back. 

Stan shuddered slightly under the touch, his whole body radiating with feverish heat. “...D-don’t feel good…” 

“I know,” Ford said, his voice wavering. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” 

God, how had Ford not realized Stan would get sick? How had he not prepared for it? Of course he’d gotten sick, he had an infected third degree burn, for fuck’s sake. 

Antibiotics. That was what Stan needed. Something to break the fever. But Ford didn’t have those. He had basic, generic fever reducers and cough syrup. And with the blizzard, he wasn’t able to get anything else, at least for now. 

Ford shifted slightly, still absently rubbing Stan’s back. “I’ll be right back, alright? I’m going to go get you some medicine.” 

“NO!” Before he was able to move, Stan wrapped his arms around Ford, throwing himself at him, curling against his chest. Stan was shaking badly, his arms tight around his brother, his grip stronger than Ford would’ve expected, what with the fever and all. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” To Ford’s surprise, and horror, Stan’s shoulders began to shake with silent sobs. “Don’t leave again…” 

Ford tightened his hold. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.” 

Stan didn’t really seem to accept this, his shivering only worsening. He finally choked out an unrestrained sob, and Ford felt the tears soaking his shirt. Stan was clutching his shirt with shaking hands, burrowed in his brother’s chest like a child. Ford’s heart twisted. 

You did this to him.  

“It’s okay, Lee, I’ve got you.” He swallowed thickly. “What can I do? Whats—” 

“M’ sorry,” Stan repeated, “Ruined your life…” 

Ford hesitated. 

Yes, at one point, he would have agreed with that statement. But, looking at Stan now, it was hard to justify any anger he held against his brother. Stan had destroyed the machine, preventing him from getting into college. Ford had been so convinced that Stan did it on purpose, with intentional malice, because he simply couldn't accept that Ford was going to be successful and prosperous. 

Stan continued. “...Was an accident…” 

Stan was so many things, but he wasn’t cruel. Ford was convinced of that. If he had done it on purpose, wouldn’t that have come out when he was delirious with fever, all of his defenses down? 

That was it. It had been an accident. 

“I know, Stan,” Ford said definitely. “It’s alright. Really. I— forgive you.” 

Stan didn’t utter another apology. Instead, he just crumbled. He clung to Ford urgently, pressing in close, his face buried in Ford’s chest. Like his big brother could shield him from the entire world. His breath was hot and shallow against Ford’s shirt, his skin radiating feverish heat. Stan’s fingers twisted into the fabric of Ford’s coat, desperate and clinging, his nails digging into Ford’s sides. Ford didn’t care. He would let Stan hold on as long as he needed, even if that was forever. 

Stan’s whole body shook with a sob. Then another. Then he was trembling in Ford’s arms, crying in broken gasps, barely even breathing between them. They were near silent. Hoarse and tiny and defeated. 

Another coughing fit overtook him, dry and harsh. His throat was probably raw from the crying and fever. Each one made him curl tighter against Ford’s chest. Ford could do nothing but rock him back and forth, and try to keep him from slipping away. 

—Your fault your fault your fault—

“Ford…” Stan murmured, his words muffled in Ford’s chest. “Love you…” 

“I love you too, Stanley,” Ford choked out. 

With that, a sob escaped Ford’s lips, strangled and sharp. He rested his chin on the top of Stan’s head, trying desperately to keep himself from falling apart. This wasn’t about him. This couldn’t be about him. A hot, heavy guilt settled in his stomach. This was his fault. His actions, his consequences. Consequences that were being dealt to Stan. 

Ford kept rocking him. There was nothing else he could do. 

Chapter Text

Stan blinked his eyes open. The first thing he was aware of was a sharp, pulsing throb radiating through him. He wasn’t sure where it started or where it ended, just that it was there, and it hurt. 

His stomach rolled. He looked around, desperate for a flash, a fragment, anything to help him understand where he was and what was going on. His eyes caught something: a journal. Sort of a maroon-ish brown, with a gold, six fingered hand on the front. 

Ah. Now he remembered. 

Ford. The fight. Rico. The gun. The burn. All of it. 

He could’ve sworn he had been in the lab. But he was in the living room now, enveloped in pillows and blankets. He could hear the wind howling outside, see how the snow obscured the entire outside world. The blizzard had gotten worse. 

His stomach rolled again, this time harsher. The feeling was all too familiar. Goddamnit, do not puke in Ford’s living room. 

Yeah, too late. He looked around, desperate to avoid actually barfing on the carpet, when he spotted the trash can at the edge of the kitchen. Ignoring the way it made his head pound and his stomach turn violently, he forced himself up and, against the dizziness, stumbled over to the trash can and heaved. 

He coughed, retching up not much more than bile and held desperately to the trash can, his hands shaking. 

He didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching. 

“Stanley—!”

In between retches, he was vaguely aware of the feeling of a firm hand rubbing slow, steady circles on his back. When the heaving finally, finally stopped, he let his body slump to the ground, against the side of the counter, dizziness overtaking him. He closed his eyes and let out something that sounded a bit like a whimper. He would be embarrassed if he wasn’t so damn dizzy. 

“It’s alright, you’re okay. You’re okay.” 

Suddenly, Ford was helping him up, strong and safe, and placing Stan’s arm around his waist, and throwing his own over Stan’s shoulders. Without another word, he led him slowly back to the couch, sitting him down gently. Then he turned on his heel and left. 

Shit. He’s probably mad. At least you didn’t get any on the carpet. 

Stan’s mind reeled. How should he make this up to him? He should at least take out the garbage; Ford didn’t need to deal with all that. With trembling arms, he forced himself up again. 

His head spun. The world tilted suddenly and violently, blurring at the edges, he reached out to hold the edge of the couch, his legs threatening to buckle. 

“Stanley, what are you doing?” 

Stan turned. When did Ford get back? And why did he look so damn tired? His whole face was pale, the bags under his eyes looking more like bruises. 

Before Stan had time to think about it, Ford set something down on the side table, then he was by Stan’s side, holding him steady. “You should be resting.” 

He lowered Stan back onto the couch, grabbing a blanket from the arm of the sofa and draping it over Stan’s shoulders. Ford sat down next to him, handing him a cup of water. 

“Drink, please. You need to hydrate.” 

Stan obeyed, too exhausted to argue. Not to mention, Ford was probably right. He downed the entire glass, the cool water working absolute wonders on his dry throat and mouth. Ford took the glass back and set it on the table. Then, beside it, he set an old-looking bucket on the coffee table. 

“If you need to throw up, do it in here. No sense in you getting up if you don’t have to.” 

Something about it all reminded Stan of when he was sick as a kid, when his mom would let him stay home from school, make him chicken soup. He’d complain that he didn’t need to be babied, but it was clear to both of them that he enjoyed it. 

But he didn’t feel the same way right now. 

Ford shifted awkwardly. “How are you feeling?” 

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Just peachy.” 

To Stan’s surprise, Ford didn’t chide him for the sarcasm. Instead, he chuckled softly. “Yes, I figured as much.” He offered a small smile. “But you’re up, and you’re lucid. That’s good.” 

“Wait— how long was I out?” 

Ford shifted again. “Two days. Your fever broke late last night, but it’s still high. You’ve been in and out of consciousness. I woke you up a few times to get you to eat or drink, but, other than that, I let you sleep.” 

“I remember bein’ down in the lab,” Stan mused. 

“Oh, you— yes. Once you were bandaged, I brought you up here. I figured it would be more comfortable.” Ford glanced out the window, his eyes tired. “Do you— remember the past few days?” 

Did that mean— did Ford carry him up?

Stan blinked, trying to sift through his own memories. He could recall pieces. Fragments. Nothing real or exact. He remembered feelings, mostly. Pain, fear, the usual. Then he remembered something else. 

Ford. Holding him. Keeping him safe. 

He didn’t know if it was real. It could’ve been a fever dream, something inspired by his stupid hope that his brother still wanted him in his life. It probably was that. 

So he lied. “Not really. Just feelings, mostly. Like—” he gestured to his shoulder. “I felt this the whole time.” 

Ford nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn’t say anything, his eyes darting about the room. Why was he being so awkward? Why wasn’t he getting mad? 

He finally cleared his throat. “It was bad, Stan. Inflamed, infected. Why didn’t you—” he paused. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Stan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “We had more important things to worry about. ‘Sides, it wasn’t a big deal.” 

“Yes, it was.” Ford sighed. “We’re going to be very diligent about changing the bandages. Twice a day, no exceptions. And I’ll be changing them from now on.” 

“What—? No, I can handle changin’ my own bandages.” 

“No, you clearly can’t.” Ford’s voice was sharp. He didn’t leave room for argument. 

Stan huffed. “Fine.” 

There was a long, awkward silence. What Stan wouldn’t give to know what was going on in Ford’s head. He had already been ashamed of his screw-up brother. Stan couldn’t imagine how ashamed of him Ford was now, with all that had happened. 

Ford glanced out the window. “Well— er, now that you’re really up, I should get going.” He stood up, heading for the door. 

Stan scrambled. “Wait— Ford, wait, where are you going?” 

Ford turned around and ran a hand through his hair. “While you were asleep, I was doing some research about what the best possible solution was to the… problem that I was talking to you about. I found that the best solution would be to use the natural healing properties found in unicorn hair to make a sort of— well, antidote would be the best way to describe it. The unicorns hide out about two miles from here.” 

Stan didn't even question that Ford casually brought up going to see unicorns. If there were gnomes and demons and weird shadow monsters, sure, why not unicorns? Instead, he focused on the second thing Ford said. 

“There’s a blizzard outside. You can’t—” 

Ford didn’t seem to hear him, just continuing in his monologue as he made his way back to the couch and sat down again. “Not to mention, the hair’s healing properties would also speed up your recovery. Your fever is still quite high. Last time I took it, it was at one hundred and three.” 

Stan felt his chest tighten. He could not let Ford risk his life to go out in a blizzard because he got sick. He’d been enough of a burden on his brother. He’d ruined his fucking life. 

“Wait, don’t—” his words were cut off by a harsh cough, one that wracked his whole body. He was trembling, shaking, and, suddenly, Ford’s hand was on his back again, steadying him. 

“Easy, it’s alright.” 

He coughed until, finally, he was able to get in a full breath, albeit a shallow one. 

Ford stood up for the second time and took a step back. “I’m going, Stan. This is important.” 

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of dizziness rolling over him. He needed Ford here. He needed him to stay. 

“Can you just—” he sighed. “Please stay. I know you gotta handle this demon thing, but gettin’ the unicorn hair won’t matter if you die doing’ it.” 

Ford crossed his arms in front of his chest, his feet unmoving. “This is more serious than you’re comprehending.” 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“I won’t! But I need—” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his temple. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.” 

Goddmanit, how many times was Ford going to say that to him? Stan felt a familiar frustration coursing through his body. Yet again, his genius brother was too smart for anyone like him to understand. 

“Then explain it to me!” His voice was sharp, louder than intended. 

Ford threw his arms in the air. “It’s not that simple!” 

“Yes it is!” Stan shot back. “You just don’t think I can understand it!” 

“That’s not what I’m saying, Stanley, it’s just that—” 

“It is what you’re sayin’!” 

Ford moved closer, his footsteps pounding against the hardwood floors. “No. It. Isn’t! Would you let me speak? God, you are insufferable!” 

Stan’s chest tightened. Insufferable? Ford thought he was insufferable. Ford didn’t think he had done a single worthwhile thing in his life. Ford didn’t care about him. 

Maybe he never did. 

Stan finally stood up, despite the dizziness, holding onto the couch, anger pulsing through him like a physical thing.  “You think I’m an idiot! You always did! An idiot who just ruins things!” 

Ford sniffed. “Well, you did ruin my project.” 

Stan fumed. Yeah, obviously he knew that. He’d ruined Ford’s project, ruined his future, ruined his fucking life. And, looking around, Ford had done well for himself anyway. Far better than Stan had. He had money, he had family, he had a career, for fuck’s sake! And how many PHDs did Stan see on the wall in the lab? 

“That was an accident!” 

“I KNOW it was an accident!” 

Stan stuttered. Ford knew? 

He spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable. “You knew it was an accident and you still let me get kicked out?” 

Ford’s eyes widened. He clenched his fists at his side. “I didn’t—” He sighed. “I didn’t know it was an accident then. It was a recent revelation. But, Stan, y-you didn’t even seem sorry! You have to understand, that accident cost me my future!” 

Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know that. You’re forgettin’ it cost me mine, too!” 

“You cannot possibly understand how hard I had to work! I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, I was working all the time—”

“I’m sure that was damn hard, Ford, but lemme ask you somethin’! You ever been to prison? You ever been kidnapped? You ever had to chew your way out of the trunk of a car?!” He was pacing with heavy, sluggish footfalls now, unwilling to look Ford in the eyes. “I know it was a stupid mistake! You don’t think I think about it everyday? I wish I could go back and fix it, but I can't!” 

The words were coming out choked and cracked, his throat dry. He couldn’t hear anything else, just the grating sound of his own voice. 

“So I’m sorry you had to spend so many late nights at the library! I’m sorry that you had somewhere to live and got a career! I’m sorry! I ruined your life, and I’m fucking sorry, okay?!”

He was vaguely aware of his body hitting something cold and hard, his breaths clawing their way out of him. 

The words came between gasps, scratching his throat as he forced them out. “I’m s-sorry, I-I’m so—” 

“STANLEY!” 

Stan flinched at the volume. Blinked. Looked around. He was on his knees. When had that happened? His breaths were coming in short and sharp, his chest hitching with each one. Ford was kneeling in front of him. The room was spinning, tilting. Or maybe that was him. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—

Ford grabbed one of his hands. “Breathe.” His voice was muddled, but audible. 

Stan obeyed, trying to breathe. It was a strangled, sharp inhale, and didn’t do much to fill his lungs. He shook his head frantically, desperate for an anchor. 

“It’s alright,” Ford said softly. “Try again.” 

Stan tried again. Over and over, until the room was back on its axis and air flowed through him. He closed his eyes, willing the dizziness and the heat away. 

“Stan.”

Stan opened his eyes. Ford was still in front of him, still holding his hand. Concern was etched into every line of his face, swimming in his eyes. Suddenly, Ford reached his free hand up and wiped gently under Stan’s eyes. Had he been crying? 

“You’re okay. I’m right here.” 

Stan slumped, curling in on himself slightly. He didn’t say anything. 

“I’ll stay here. I’ll wait until the blizzard passes to go out.” 

Stan hummed in appreciation, the closest thing to a word his brain was able to produce at the moment. Ford shifted so that he was sitting next to him, instead of in front of him, and leaned his head on Stan’s shoulder. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it, seeming to change his mind. They just sat there, Ford still holding his brother’s hand. 

Minutes passed. Finally, Stan knew he had to say something. To make things right. 

“I am sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to break it. It was workin’ again when I left the gym, I didn’t think—” He sighed. “I wouldn’t ever do somethin’ like that on purpose—” 

“I forgive you.” 

Stan blinked. His chest felt like it was caving in. “You— why?” 

“You’re my brother,” Ford answered simply. “And I— I shouldn’t have let him kick you out. That was wrong, and it was unkind. And— I’m sorry. I can’t—  the perpetual motion machine was a-a… thing. You’re my brother.” He sighed. “I was… too angry to think straight. At the time, it didn’t seem like you cared.” 

Stan looked at the floor. A thick silence stretched between them before Stan continued his own apology. 

“I did care. I was just— I didn’t want you to go. Thought you’d get all successful, realize I was holdin’ you back. Didn’t wanna be alone. Plus, with you gone and Shermie in the army, all Pa’d have to focus on would be me, and you know how he gets.” He let out a hollow, humorless chuckle. “Can’t blame all those bruises on boxin’ if I’m already graduated.” 

Ford lifted his head, giving Stan an odd look. “Bruises? What do you mean?” 

Realization hit him like a train. His stomach flipped. Ford didn’t know. Ford didn’t know about their Pa, how he had treated Stan and Ma. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If Ford didn’t know, it had to stay that way. The last thing Stan needed was pity. The last thing Ford needed was his brother throwing more weight into the burden already pressing into him. 

Stan offered the best smile he could offer with what little strength he had. “Er— yeah, you know, from gettin’ into fights with bullies and shit.” 

Ford looked far from convinced. “Stan, did Pa… hurt you?” 

Stan looked at the floor. “No.” 

“Be honest with me.” 

Stan let the pause go on as long as he could before Ford repeated his question. 

“Stanley. Did Pa hurt you?” 

“...Yeah,” he finally muttered. “Sometimes.” 

“Pa hurt you.” 

Stan didn’t say anything. What was he supposed to say? He had honestly thought Ford knew. Though, now that he thought about it, he didn’t know why he’d thought that. It’s not like he’d ever said anything. He just assumed it was an unspoken thing between them and Ma. 

Did Ford even know about Ma? 

“How—” Ford’s words came out choked and hoarse. “How long? W-when did it start?” 

Stan brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.” 

“Please.” Ford’s voice was soft. Barely audible. “I need to understand. How long was this going on?” 

Stan sighed and shrugged. “Dunno. While we were growin’ up, I guess.” 

“The whole time?” 

“Mhm.” Stan didn’t look up, keeping his eyes locked on the ground. He knew what Ford would think. He didn’t need to see it. He didn’t want to see it. 

“I can’t— how did— why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Thought you knew.” 

Ford didn’t say anything. But Stan felt the shoulders against his start to tremble. Then they shook, rising and falling. Stan finally lifted his head. 

Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

Ford was crying. Ford wasn’t supposed to cry. 

Oh fuck. Stan had made his brother cry. 

“Shit, Ford, what did I—”

“You thought I knew? A-and what, just let it happen?” 

Well, when you put it like that. 

“N-no, I guess I just—” he paused. Sighed. “I don’t know. Guess I just thought it was somethin’ we didn’t talk about?” 

Ford brought his knees up to his chest and let out a sound. Something like a wounded animal, painful and raw and strangled. He slapped a hand over his mouth, trying desperately to muffle any sound he made. He squeezed his eyes shut and rocked slightly, like he was trying to physically will himself away from the moment he was in. 

Suddenly, Ford collapsed into Stan, wrapping his arms tightly around him, one hand hitting the burn directly. Stan flinched and hissed, the pain suddenly reigniting and radiating throughout him. Ford flinched back immediately and violently, eyes wide and locked on Stan.  

“Shit— I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—” He scooted away, putting physical distance between them. “Are you hurt? Do you need—” 

“I’m fine,” Stan said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Take a breath, okay? You’re alright. It’s all okay.” 

His words only seemed to make things worse. 

“No, it’s NOT!" His chest rose and fell rapidly, his hands shaking violently. “How did I not— I-I can’t— I let him hurt you and then I let him k-kick you out! Over a mistake!”

Stan reached out tentatively, but Ford flinched away, his eyes wide and unfocused, staring out at some distant point. 

“It’s okay, Ford,” Stan needed to lighten the mood. Calm his brother down. “I mean, hey, on the bright side, livin’ in my car was a lot better when he was the alternative.” 

Ford froze. He didn’t say anything. 

Shit. What did he say? 

“Ford? Can you hear me?” 

Ford’s voice was eerily quiet when he answered. 

“You… lived in your car?”

Stan frowned. “I mean, yeah?” 

Ford sniffled and tilted his head, still looking out in front of him. “W-why?” 

Stan tried to be patient. Clearly, his brother and him had lived a very different 10 years. 

“It’s not like I had another choice. I was an 18 year old kid with no degree, no money, and no skills. Where else would I have gone?” 

“But I sent the postcard to a motel!” Ford was desperate, grasping at straws. 

“Yeah, sometimes if a job went well and I got some extra cash, I’d splurge. I’d only been stayin’ at that one for two or so days.” 

Ford suddenly narrowed his eyes. His face went hard, becoming a face Stan had seen many times before. He had switched into his clinical, scientific mode. All facts, no feelings. Stan hated when Ford got like this, when Ford turned him into an experiment. Or, at least that’s what it felt like. 

“Stan, what did you do for work?” 

Shit. Stan’s stomach flipped. “Lots of different stuff.” 

“Like what?” 

“Sold vacuums for a while.” 

“You know what I mean. You know what I’m asking.” 

Stan swallowed against the lump in his throat. He took a sharp, shaking inhale. “I don’t wanna talk about that.” 

“You said you went to prison earlier.” Ford’s voice was barely more than a breath, trembling and hoarse. “Y-you said you were kidnapped? Had to… kick your way out of the trunk of a car?” 

“Chew.” 

Ford gaped. “What?” 

Stan shrugged. “Chewed. Not kicked.” 

Fuck. What was wrong with him? Why did he tell Ford all that? The last thing Ford needed was to feel worse. What was his endgame here? Did he want to hurt his brother? 

“Ford, s’ not a big deal, okay?” 

“I-I mean I figured from meeting Rico you were mixed up with some dangerous people, b-but I thought—” He paused, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “What happened to you in the past ten years?” 

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“Stan, please.” 

“I told you about Pa already, what more do you need?” 

“I just—” He let his voice drop to a whisper. “How did you get that scar on your side?” 

It was Stan’s turn to freeze. Jesus, didn’t Ford know not to ask about stuff like that? That kind of thing was personal. If Ford had reacted that badly to hearing about Pa, Stan couldn’t imagine what Ford would say if he knew his brother had his kidney stolen. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” His breathing was getting faster. He brought his knees in closer to his chest. 

“Stan—” 

“No!” His voice cracked on the word, and he tried to will himself to stop shaking like a child. “I don’t— I can’t— I don’t even wanna remember it! I just wanna forget it all ever happened! Can you— just leave it alone, Ford!” 

He finally let his forehead hit his knees, taking deep, gasping breaths that got deeper on each go. 

“I’m—” Ford hesitated. Stan looked up expectantly. 

God. 

Ford’s face crumbled. His eyes were wide and rimmed in red, his entire face contorted in pity.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I-I can’t believe I let— I never even—” his voice dissolved into a broken sob that he tried desperately and pointlessly to stifle. He reached his hand out through the divide, letting it hover in the air for a moment. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened and he yanked it away. 

He stood up quickly, brushing off his pants and running a hand through his hair. His body swayed, just slightly, and he gripped the edge of the couch. 

“I’m sorry, I—” He sniffled. “I need to think.” 

Without waiting for a reply, he spun on his heel and headed down the stairs to his lab, leaving Stan still curled up in a ball on the ground, staring at him as he left. 

Shit. Stan let his forehead hit his knees once Ford was out of sight. 

Ford said he forgave him. He repeated that over and over in his head. Ford forgives you, Ford forgives you, Ford forgives you. 

Stan wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it so badly. But he couldn’t. He didn’t deserve it. He knew that. If Ford really forgave him, would he have left just now?

But then, why had he been so upset about Pa? None of it made sense. Ford didn’t make sense. 

Another bout of nausea came on suddenly and violently. He forced himself upward, using the couch as support as he stumbled over to the table and yanked the bucket into his lap. He barely sat down before he was heaving into the bucket, the retches tearing through his body. 

This time, no steady hand grounded him, no one murmured words of comfort. He just had to push through it himself. 

He was used to it by now. 

Chapter Text

Ford slammed the door to the lab shut, his hands shaking violently. It felt like his very body was turned inside out, caving in on itself painfully. He paced the length of the room, his head spinning. He felt like he might be sick. 

How could you let that happen to him? What is wrong with you? 

Their whole childhood. Their whole childhood, and Stan had said nothing. How awful of a brother was he— no, how awful of a human being was he that he never noticed? Never once picked up that something might be wrong? It didn’t make sense. It didn’t compute. But he knew one thing: he wanted to kill his father. If he ever saw that man again, he was as good as dead. 

But even that wouldn’t fix what happened. Nothing could. This was one of the only problems Stanford had faced in his life with absolutely no solution. 

It’s your fault he didn’t feel safe enough to do anything about. Your fault, your fault, all your fault. 

And it was his fault. Stan had been suffering, Stan had been abused. And Ford didn’t even notice. He was too busy being the center of his own universe. What did school matter, what did science matter, what did the universe matter if he failed his little brother? 

It’s not as if you ever let him know you cared about him. He was always in second place. 

And all of that was just while they were kids! Who knows what could’ve happened while Stan was out on his own. Ford only had fragments, theories. His mind reeled as he recalled everything Stan had said. 

You ever been to prison? 

You ever been kidnapped? 

You ever had to chew your way out of the trunk of a car? 

If Rico had been any indication, Stan hadn’t even disclosed the worst of his past. The scar on Stan’s side kept flashing in his mind: raw, pulled, uneven, elevated. What the fuck was it from? 

Ford felt like his body was on fire, his stomach churning with guilt. He was shaking, trembling, the guilt rolling and rolling in his stomach— 

No, that was real, raw nausea. 

Without warning, a retch tore through him and he barely made it to the trash can, his body collapsing onto the floor as he grabbed it. There was nothing to expel. He could barely remember the last time he had a true, proper meal that wasn’t just something fast enough to take the least possible time away from his work. Good. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve anything good. All he deserved was the guilt and the bile and the hate. 

He coughed violently, his throat burning as he leaned against the counter and pulled himself into a ball, arms wrapping around his knees as he rocked back and forth. He had no right to demand anything of his brother, no right to expect anything of him. He deserved no kindness, no favors, nothing. Ford didn’t even deserve to speak to Stan, to look at him. 

He’s too good for you. 

He certainly couldn’t ask Stan to take the journal anymore. In fact, now that he was more removed from the portal situation, asking Stan to take it was a horribly stupid idea. He should just destroy it. That was what he had to do to keep his brother safe. His work didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t matter anymore. 

He let his forehead hit his knees, his breaths coming quick and shallow. His whole body shook and he was powerless to stop it. He just stayed there, shaking and hyperventilating, as dizzy and as guilty as he had ever felt in his life. He was crying, miserable, silent sobs tearing their way through him. 

And he deserved it. He deserved it all. 

What had he done that could earn him the right to any happiness? He had never put any good into the world. In fact, he’d actively brought evil into it. Bill’s presence was his fault. What Bill did to him, how Bill touched him, whatever Bill made him do— he deserved it. He’d ruined Fiddleford’s life, ruined his brother’s life, and he failed at every turn. 

He was nothing. 

Ford coughed into his sleeve again, still painful and wet sounding. His body shook until he finally sucked in a breath. Then he kept going, his shaking hands delicate and gentle as he applied the burn cream on Stan's shoulder. 

“You good?” Stan kept his voice soft. 

“Mhm,” Ford answered quietly. 

It had been two whole days and Ford had barely said a word to him. He was either holed up in his lab or changing Stan’s bandages, and, if it was the latter, he was practically mute. And Stan had tried, really tried, to get his brother to talk to him, but it seemed Ford had made up his mind. He didn’t want anything to do with Stan anymore. He was just trying to get Stan healed and out of here as soon as possible. He probably still wanted him to take the damn journal too. Even if Ford had really forgiven him, it’s not like he would still want Stan around. Stan knew he didn’t deserve much more than that.

Though, Stan figured, it would take a minute before he was even able to leave. The blizzard had only gotten worse. He couldn’t even see the trees outside, and the wind was louder than Ford’s speaking voice. 

And, god, Stan had no idea what Ford thought about Pa. His best guess was that Ford was mad at him for not saying anything. Stan had honestly thought Ford knew. It wasn’t like he thought Ford hadn’t cared, he just assumed Ford knew what Stan had always known: there wasn’t a way to stand up to Filbrick Pines. He was unbeatable, there wasn’t a point to dwelling on it. That was simply the way it was. 

Stan might’ve been mistaken, but he could’ve sworn his brother also seemed… guilty. Like he’d wanted to help. The thought that he’d made his brother feel guilty, made his brother cry, was even worse than Ford’s anger. Jesus, why had Stan even said anything? Ford could have continued on being blissfully unaware, and Stan could’ve saved his brother this burden. It wasn’t Ford’s shit to deal with anyways. 

Abruptly, Ford placed too much pressure on the burn. Stan flinched away on instinct, restraining a hiss behind his teeth as his body turned. 

Ford froze. 

“Fuck, I didn’t— I-I’m so sorry—” He stumbled over his words, his eyes suddenly wide and his trembling growing stronger. “Are you alright? Do you need—”

“It’s fine, Ford.” He tried to keep his voice calm and comforting. He wasn’t sure it was working. “I’m just fine.” 

Ford hesitated for a moment, his hands hovering in the air, unsure what to do. 

“Sorry,” He whispered again. It was barely audible. 

Stan just turned back around to let Ford resume his work. He coughed again, this fit going on longer. He scooted away from Stan, just a bit, until it subsided. He took deep breaths to regulate himself, his body trembling, before turning back to his brother. 

“Hey, Ford?” 

“Yes?” His voice was soft. Clipped. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m alright.” 

“You just seem…” Stan searched for the right word as he stared at his brother. Ford’s face was pale and drawn, save for a pink flush on his cheeks, his whole body screaming exhaustion. “Tired.” 

“I’m fine.” He made a motion for Stan to turn around so he could finish with the burn. 

Stan didn’t really believe his words. Ford had been out in the cold and snow as long as Stan had, he’d stayed up for god knows how long to bring down Stan’s fever. And Stan certainly hadn’t seen him eat anything. But it seemed like the wrong time to press. 

When Ford was done, he turned to the gunshot wound. He made a soft gesture with his hand, indicating for Stan to lift his shirt enough to get to the bandages. Ford gently removed the old bandages. Then he stopped. 

“I need to go get more bandages, I don’t have enough here.” He stood up slowly, wobbling. “There are some upstairs. I’ll be right back.” 

He took a single step before stopping. He swayed for a moment, then shook his head and continued, but his steps were slow and clumsy, and he held onto the railing far too tight. 

Stan waited, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to calm the dull pounding in his head. He was certainly getting better, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still feel like shit. The infection was going down, but it wasn’t gone yet. 

He waited still, messing with the edge of his shirt. He tried to avoid looking at the bullet wound. He didn’t like looking at it. Ford said it was healing well, but it still looked… gruesome. He didn’t even like thinking about it.

He glanced toward the stairs. 

Jeez, how long did it take to grab some bandages? 

“Ford?” He called. No response. 

Then there was a clatter from upstairs. He turned his head sharply. Damnit, he knew Ford looked unsteady. He probably fell. Stan made his way to the stairs, calling out again. 

“Hey, Ford? You alright?”

No response. 

Another clatter. More like a crash, loud and chaotic. Stan jumped at the noise, gripping the edge of the railing. 

He took a step onto the first stair. 

Then the lights went out. 

Suddenly, it was pitch black, and Stan stumbled over the step, sending himself crashing onto the stairs. His chin hit the edge of the stair and he cried out, shockwaves of pain radiating through him. He groaned, rolling over to assess the damage. He didn’t taste blood. That was good. He tentatively reached up and touched his chin and bit back another cry, the pain doubling with the slightest touch. That was definitely going to bruise. 

He forced himself up, his arms shaking, until he was standing, gripping the railing tight for support. 

“Ford?” he yelled again, “think the power’s out!” 

Silence, for a minute. Then he heard the faint, creeping sound of the wood floor creaking under heavy, sluggish footfalls. A moment later, they were accompanied by labored breathing. A sinking feeling came over him, his nausea growing by the second. Where was Ford? Why hadn’t he come down yet? 

The creaking grew louder. Closer. The breathing was nearby, ragged. 

“Ford? S’ that y—” 

Before he got a chance to finish his sentence, he was shoved down the stairs by a pair of strong, six fingered hands. He yelped as his body tumbled backwards, back hitting the ground. White hot pain radiated through him, pulsating through his veins. He wheezed, the air knocked out of him momentarily. 

He heard the footsteps pass him. Without thinking, he scrambled and reached out, grabbing onto the ankles, anchoring himself to them. 

“LET GO, STAN.” 

What the fuck? 

The voice. It was Ford’s, but it was… different. Almost like multiple voices at one, all piled on top of each other. They sliced through his ears like thin metal sheets. It was hypnotizing yet entirely off-putting. But it was Ford. Right? 

“What are you doing?” He demanded, using Ford’s legs to aid him in getting up. He reached out and found Ford’s wrist and latched onto it. “I know things are weird right now, but you can’t just—” 

“LISTEN, DISCOUNT PINES, THIS CAN GO TWO WAYS.” Ford used his other hand to grab Stan by the chin, pulling him close to his face. Stan still couldn’t see a thing. “YOU CAN LEAVE THE CABIN AND LIVE, OR YOU CAN GET IN MY WAY AND DIE. CAPICHE?” 

“Ford, what the fuck?” Stan yanked his brother’s hand off his chin. “The hell are you talkin’ about?” 

Ford didn’t say anything, just tried to yank his wrist away, but Stan held firm. 

“Tell me what’s goin’ on, Six, you’re not makin’ any sense! I’m not leavin’ until you tell me what’s happenin’ right now!” 

Ford kept pulling. 

Alright, maybe a tactic switch would be beneficial. 

Stan softened his tone. “Ford, it’s okay. Just tell me what’s happenin’. I can help! Please.” 

Ford erupted in laughter. It was a dark, sharp, humorless chuckle, one that was almost layered. It was unnatural and piercing. Stan flinched.  

“WOW, FORDSY WAS RIGHT! YOU REALLY ARE DUMB! I HONESTLY ALWAYS THOUGHT HE MIGHT BE EXAGGERATING, BUT, JEEZ. YOU ARE EXACTLY HOW HE DESCRIBED YOU!”

What the fuck did that mean? 

Stan staggered, his grip loosening, and Ford took the chance to yank his arm away. Stan reacted instantly, reaching out again, but Ford was gone. Lost in the dark. Shit. Shit shit shit— 

CRACK. 

A fist slammed into his cheek. A loud, wet crunching sound echoed through the room. Pain exploded through his face and he yelped, his hands flying on instinct. He reached out and found Ford’s body and slammed into it, taking both of them down to the ground. 

“WHY DO YOU CARE SO MUCH ABOUT SIXER? HE DOESN’T EVEN WANT YOU HERE!” 

Stan ignored his brother and sent another punch to his face. Ford cried out, then growled. Like an animal. He pushed hard, flipping them over so he was on top of Stan, then locked his hands onto Stan’s neck. He was choking him. Stan thrashed, twisting his limbs all over, scratching at Ford’s arms and kicking upward, but nothing seemed to deter him. 

He didn’t want to hurt Ford. He couldn’t hurt Ford. He’d only stayed in the first place to protect him. For a moment, he stopped fighting. It wasn't worth it. He'd let Ford squeeze his neck until he couldn't breath, let his body slump and give in to the pull of unconsciousness. It was a long time coming. It was what he deserved. And if it was what Ford really wanted— 

Ford squeezed harder and harder and harder.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t—

Goddamnit, NO! He was not dying yet, not when he just got his brother back. Not when Ford needed him. 

He wound his arm up and slammed Ford’s face with his fist, sending his brother flying. A sharp crack echoed through the dark room. Ford cried out, tumbling across the wood. Stan heard him scramble to get back on his feet. 

Stan curled in on himself, gasping and coughing and trying all he could to suck in just a bit of oxygen. He clawed at the air, as if he could physically grab it to breathe with. When he had just enough, he forced himself up against the dizziness and the nausea. 

Before Stan could get to him, Ford was already making a beeline down the stairs toward the lab. Stan followed, skipping every other stair as practically flew down them. 

Light. 

Right, Ford had mentioned some sort of independent power source that had to power the portal. It must not have been affected by the blackout. Thank fucking god. 

He looked around, scanning for his brother. He didn’t see him anywhere. 

Fuck. How was he supposed to figure out what was happening if Ford wouldn’t even talk to him? 

His eye caught something. The padded room. It gave him an idea. 

He blew past the entrance to the lab closer to where the portal was. It would seem ironic to him that it was his second time fighting Ford in here, if he had enough mental capacity to recognize irony right now. 

He was silent, listening carefully. In the silence, he heard a soft, barely audible clang. He made a beeline for the portal, running behind it. 

And there Ford was. Except, it wasn’t Ford. Not entirely. It was his body, most definitely, but he was holding himself so strangely. His balance was off, his whole body looking off kilter, his neck bent too far to the left, like it might break if he bent it any further. And he was smiling. It was a wide smile, one that pulled and stretched his mouth unnaturally. 

But what was the most unsettling was his eyes. They were… glowing. Glowing and yellow, will thin black slits in the center. The color was unnatural and nauseating and it made Stan want to turn away, look at something, anything else. He knew at that moment that this was absolutely not Ford. Not his Ford. 

“JEEZ, YOU’RE PERSISTENT, I’LL GIVE YOU THAT! I MEAN, HE REALLY WOULDN’T PUT UP THIS MUCH OF A FIGHT FOR YOU!” 

Ford’s mouth moved as he spoke, but it wasn't quite right. Like when the audio on the TV doesn’t exactly line up with the actor’s mouths moving. Like he was lagging. 

Stan didn’t glorify his words with a response, instead running straight at Ford and tackling him, sending them both to the ground. Stan was on top of him, slamming his fist into Ford’s face. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” Stan’s words were stuttered breaths. “Ford, if you’re in there, I’m so sorry—” 

Finally, Ford slumped, though still conscious. He made a weak attempt to fight back, but his body was exhausted and defeated. There wasn’t much more he could do. 

Stan stood, trying to shake off the dizziness and stop the floor from tilting violently under his feet. Before Ford could make an escape attempt, Stan was yanking him upright and dragging him towards the padded room. He made tiny attempts to get Stan to stop, scratching and biting at his arms, but they were pointless. Stan knew there was blood dripping down his arms where Ford’s nails and teeth (what the fuck?) had broken skin, but he didn’t care. 

Ford had said the padded room was only able to be entered with a retinal scan. His bright yellow eyes probably had something to do with that. But, Stan figured, if he and Ford were twins, his eyes would do the trick. 

He was right. There was a tiny pad with a camera and some sort of scanner next to the door. He put his eye as close to it as possible, and the door slid open. He shoved Ford in with a grunt, and the door slammed shut automatically. Good thinking, Sixer. 

His knees immediately buckled and he collapsed to the ground, a coughing fit tearing through him. Each one racked his body, and he curled in on himself, trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the dizziness that the light only seemed to aggravate. 

Finally, he was able to get a full breath. He made no attempt to get off the floor. 

Everything hurt. Absolutely everything. The gunshot wound and the burn had both been aggravated, and they were throbbing, like his skin had a pulse. His chin was tender and pounded, a bruise no doubt forming. And his neck burned from where Ford’s (Bill’s?) hands had choked him. He was dizzy, the whole room was spinning, and he was nauseous, and for a moment, he wanted to give into the pull of unconsciousness. 

“STANLEY…” 

He flinched violently. How was Ford’s voice getting through to him? 

“STANLEY, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!” 

He forced himself up, leaning on the door for support, his legs trembling violently. He held onto the counter as he made the short trip from the floor to the rolling chair, sinking into it gratefully. 

Then he saw the glowing red intercom button. For some goddamn reason, it was on. He hit it hard, hopeful to rid himself of the voice, but it didn’t stop glowing. 

“Come on, come on—” He slammed it again, but it didn’t turn off. 

“YEAH, THAT’S NOT GONNA TURN OFF.” 

How did he— 

“LISTEN, I FEEL LIKE WE GOT OFF TO A BAD START. HOW ABOUT WE START OVER? I’M BILL.” 

Stan’s blood turned to ice. How had he only realized this now? Of course it was Bill! He felt guilt churn in his stomach. Ford had said the Bill situation was serious, that he needed the stupid unicorn hair to fix it, and Stan had forced him to stay, because he was too weak and afraid to simply be on his own for a few hours. It was Stan’s fault that Bill was… in control now. 

“I FIGURE YOU’VE HEARD OF ME. ALL HORRIBLE THINGS, I HOPE!” 

He tried to remember everything Ford had said about him. He didn’t remember a lot, but he knew one thing: Bill was a liar and a cheater. He shouldn’t engage. He just needed to wait it out. But god knows how long waiting it out would take. 

“I’M GONNA OFFER YOU A DEAL, STAN. IF YOU LET ME OUT AND LET ME WORK ON THE PORTAL, I WON’T BITE OFF SIXER’S TONGUE!” 

His stomach dropped. Would Bill do that? Wouldn’t it hurt him too, if he was inside Ford’s body? 

“WHADDAYA SAY?” 

He couldn’t resist. Stan pulled the mic towards him and answered. 

“I’m not takin’ any deals from you.” 

“YOU SURE ABOUT THAT?” 

Suddenly, Bill screamed. The intercom squealed and Stan scrambled, trying to find some sort of volume dial, messing with all the buttons, any button to make the sound quieter. It was an ear-piercing, unnatural scream, one that didn’t sound quite human. 

He finally found the volume dial, turned it down significantly— but still enough to hear— and slumped back in the chair. The screaming continued, on and on and on and on for several minutes. 

Finally, Stan found himself more incredibly annoyed and frustrated than he was afraid anymore. He grabbed the mic again. 

“Can you shut the fuck up? I’m not lettin’ you out!” 

Bill laughed, sharp and unnatural and multi-toned. 

“FINE, BUT WHEN SIXER WAKES UP WITH BLOOD ALL OVER HIS ARMS, WE’LL ALL KNOW WHOSE FAULT IT IS!” 

Stan fought against the nausea rolling through him. What was he supposed to do here? There were no options, and he had no leverage. Ford was going to get hurt one way or another, and he had no idea what to do about it. 

He flinched when he heard a dull thud from inside the room. God, he couldn’t even see what Bill was doing to Ford! And Stan didn’t know if his imagination would be better or worse than the reality. He squeezed his eyes shut again, taking deep breaths. Panicking wouldn’t do anything to help Ford. 

His breathing got shallower anyway. 

“OKAY, WHAT ABOUT THIS? IF YOU LET ME OUT, I’LL GIVE YOU EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT!” 

Stan stiffened, trying to steady his breath. He tried to force nonchalance into his tone when he answered. 

“Oh yeah? What do I want?” 

“YOU WANT SIXER TO LOVE YOU AGAIN!” 

Stan clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, his mind reeling. Could Bill really do that? Fix their relationship? How would that even— 

What the fuck was he thinking? He couldn’t listen to a demon. 

“AND, TRUST ME, I’M THE ONLY WAY YOU’RE EVER GONNA GET THAT! HE HATES YOU, STANLEY!” 

Don’t let him get to you. 

“Oh, does he?” 

Stan’s whole body was shaking. He didn’t want to hear anything else, but if he at least distracted Bill with questions, it would momentarily stop him from hurting Ford any more. 

“I LITERALLY LIVE INSIDE HIS HEAD! I KNOW EVERYTHING HE THINKS! AND, LET ME TELL YOU, HE DOESN'T WASTE A LOT OF BRAIN SPACE ON YOU! PERSONALLY, I WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE MORE ON YOUR SIDE. I MEAN, COME ON, HE LET YOU GET PUSHED AROUND BY YOUR DAD YOUR WHOLE LIFE! HE LET YOU GET KICKED OUT! OVER A STUPID SCIENCE PROJECT! ALWAYS WAS DRAMATIC, MY FORDSY.” 

Stan clenched his teeth. Bill was just trying to get Stan to let him out. It was a lie. It was.  

Was it?

No. Bill was right. And why should Ford waste any brain space on him? 

“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” 

Bill didn’t respond right away. 

Then— 

CRACK. 

A loud, wet, crunch sound echoed over the intercom, filling Stan’s body with sinking dread.  

“THERE WE GO. WHO NEEDS SIX WHOLE FINGERS, ANYWAY? SEEMS GREEDY.” 

Stan gasped sharply, his breathing coming in too quick, too shallow. His shirt collar was suffocating, and he yanked at it, but it did nothing. A hand to his chest to steady himself. Nothing. 

Did Bill just rip one of Ford’s fingers off?

He didn’t know. He had no idea what was going on in that fucking room. His stomach churned. He thought he might be sick. Fuck fuck fuck— 

All he could see was Ford’s hand, his beautiful, unique hand, with a finger ripped off, blood pouring out of it down his arm. He heard Ford’s anguished, pained screams when he eventually came to. It was Stan’s fault. His fault his fault his fault. 

“YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I DO THAT ALL YOU DO IS HOLD HIM BACK, DISCOUNT PINES. I HAVE AN IDEA! LET’S BET ON HOW LONG HE’LL LET YOU STICK AROUND AFTER HE WAKES UP! MY GUESS IS AN HOUR, TOPS.” 

Stan knew all this. He knew Ford wanted him out, he knew Ford was ashamed of him. But that didn’t mean it was easy to hear. 

“IF YOU JUST LET ME OUT, YOU’LL HAVE FORDSY ALL TO YOURSELF ONCE I USE HIM UP TO FINISH THE PORTAL! ALL I NEED’S A FEW HOURS WITH HIS BODY! I CAN MAKE HIM LOVE YOU, STAN. DON’T YOU WANT THAT? DON’T YOU MISS HIM?” 

“Shut. Up.” 

“HE DIDN’T MISS YOU. HE WAS GLAD YOU WERE GONE.” 

Stan covered his ears, but, somehow, Bill’s voice broke through the barrier, slicing through him. 

“YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE, STANLEY! YOU WERE ALWAYS JUST A BURDEN TO HIM! SOMETHING TO FIX! YOU MEAN NOTHING TO HIM!” 

Shut up shut up shut up shut up— 

“HE WOULDN’T CARE IF YOU DIED!” 

“SHUT UP!” Stan’s voice was louder, sharper, shallower than he had wanted, and the words tore their way out of him. He covered his ears as tight as he could, his whole body shaking violently, his breaths coming in sharp and quick and wrong.

He couldn’t listen to Bill for one more second. He’d go insane. He couldn't, he couldn’t, he COULDN’T. 

Suddenly, Stan was sobbing— gasping, hiccuping sobs that took over his entire frame. He couldn’t catch a single breath between them, he was just shaking and shaking. He curled his legs up in front of him, holding them tightly, rocking himself back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. 

Bill just laughed, unnatural and ringing and wet, over and over and laughing and laughing and never stopping. The laughter was never ending, going on and on and on. He didn’t know if it stayed laughter or turned into screaming or a weird, demonic mix of both at the same time, but it was deafening, creeping under his skin and making his veins itch. 

The only thing that pushed its way through the laughter was the same thought, over and over and over again. 

Your fault, your fault, all your fault. 

Chapter Text

Stan sat stagnant in the chair, knees still curled up to his chest, trying to quiet his body and his brain. He stared forward lazily, unable to pull his eyes from the memory gun, sitting precariously at the edge of the counter. A gust of wind could blow through and it would tumble to the ground and just… shatter. 

God. How many times had he wished he could forget about his shitty life? How many times had he wished he could start over with a blank slate? 

The thought swirled in his brain, over and over and over. It would be easy. It really would. 

But right now, he couldn’t even get up. It was like he wasn’t at all in control of his body. His only choice was to sit and shake. He could feel the dried blood crusting on his arms from where Ford (Bill?) had bitten him, sunk into his skin. His throat ached, the ghosts of Ford’s hands still on it. Every time he swallowed, a dull pain pulsed through him. 

But he didn’t care, he didn’t care about any of it. 

He just wanted to know if Ford was okay. 

Bill had screamed and laughed for a long time, stopping only to try a new tactic to get Stan to let him out of the padded room. Which, of course, Stan never did. But that didn’t stop the demon from trying. And trying and trying and trying. 

Eventually, his pleas and his screams had tapered out, and the room was silent. And it had stayed that way for the past twenty or so minutes. Stan didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t know how the whole demon possession thing worked, but maybe Bill had a limit? Like, if Ford’s body ran out of fuel, Bill couldn’t use it? And, based on everything that happened, it would make plenty of sense for Ford to run out of fuel. Even before the whole fight, he was clearly running on fumes. 

So Stan waited. 

And waited. 

Eventually, the twenty minutes turned to forty minutes, and forty minutes turned into an hour. His body was screaming at him to go the fuck to sleep, but he couldn’t. Not when the situation could change at any second. He needed to be alert. He needed to be ready. Ford might need him. 

As if on cue, a hoarse voice called out through the intercom. 

“Mmfgh… Stanley?...” 

Stan snapped his head away from the memory gun. The voice was all he needed. It wasn’t the piercing, multi-toned, wrong voice from before. This was all Ford. 

Stan jumped up, ignoring the dizziness that was still plaguing him, shoved his face at the little pad, and let the door to the room woosh open. 

Oh god. 

He thought he might be sick. He might actually be sick. 

Ford was on the ground, still curled up in a semi-fetal position, blood smeared on the floor, on the walls, on his body. His sleeves were half rolled, half ripped up, revealing long, vertical, bloody scratches up and down his arms. There was crusted blood all over his arms, but the cuts themselves were still bleeding freely. His face was bruised, his pupils blown wide, and his whole body was shaking violently. He let out a quiet, choked whimper. 

Then Stan saw his hand. 

Oh thank god. 

Ford still had all six fingers on both hands. Stan breathed a sigh of relief at that, but it was short lived when he took a closer look. Ford’s left pinkie was bent horribly and unnaturally, in a way no finger should ever bend. It was going backwards and sideways at the same time somehow. Ford cradled his left hand in his right one, holding them close to his chest. 

Stan stood there, staring, taking it all in, until Ford let out a small, wounded sound from his throat that broke Stan from his spiral. 

“Fuck—! Ford, what— what do I do? How can I—” He cut himself off. He had no idea what to say. Instead, he kneeled down next to his brother, putting as gentle a hand as he could on his shoulder. 

Shit. Wrong move. 

Ford flinched violently at the touch, his breathing speeding up. 

“No… don’t— please…” Ford’s voice cut off and he coughed violently, his body shaking with each one. He curled in on himself further, slumping to the ground when the fit subsided, his breaths coming in shallow and rattling. 

Fuck. All that screaming Bill did couldn’t have been good for Ford’s throat. 

“No more…Bill, please…” Ford’s voice was low and hoarse, barely more than a rasp. His body moved sluggishly, but his eyes were wide, full of fear, and rimmed in red. “No, no, no—”

“Stanford, it’s just me, okay? I’m right here.” He moved in close but didn’t dare touch him. “You’re safe.” 

Ford lifted his head, just slightly, and blinked blearily up at him. 

“...Lee?” His voice cracked, and his shoulders seemed to untense, just a bit. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. It’s me. You’re safe.” 

Before Stan could say anything else, Ford let out a raw, choked sob, his face absolutely crumbling. He left his injured hand tucked securely near his chest, but his other hand tentatively reached up to pull at his hair. He pulled and pulled so hard Stan thought he might rip out a chunk. His sobs were loud and unrestrained, tearing through him, his body shaking hard with each one. 

“...H-hurts…” 

God, Stan’s stomach was churning. Seeing Ford like this, it was… he couldn’t even properly put it into words. His big brother had always been strong, smart, capable. In Stan’s mind, there was no problem too big for Ford, nothing he couldn’t handle. Seeing him so defeated, so broken… it was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Stan was the one who deserved this, not Ford. Never Ford. 

“I know it does,” Stan murmured. He carefully put a hand on Ford’s shoulder, and, when Ford leaned into the touch, Stan scooped up his brother’s shaking frame, cradling him in his arms. Ford just curled in further, sniffling miserably. 

“Okay, um—” Stan held his brother tight, unsure of his next move. “Let’s get you up and sittin’, okay?” 

Between sobs, Ford let out a soft, miserable hum, but, if Stan wasn’t mistaken, there was agreement in it. Stan tentatively braced Ford’s back, gently easing him up into a sitting position. Almost immediately, he swayed and pitched to the side, blinking rapidly. 

“Woah, woah, easy.” Stan eased him back up. “How about— oh, here.” 

He hesitated for a moment before simply grabbing Ford under his arms and dragging (there really wasn’t a gentler way to say it) him until he was able to lean against the wall. All the while, Ford barely acknowledged it, just stifling a hiss behind his teeth as Stan pulled him. 

Finally, once that was done, Stan sank down beside him, leaving a small distance between them, just in case Ford wasn’t ready for any sort of touch yet. Being closer to him, Stan was able to really take everything in. 

Ford was still shaking badly, his breaths coming quick and shallow. He drew his legs up to his chest, still cradling his injured hand. He wouldn’t look Stan in the eye, keeping his face pressed against his knees as his shoulder’s rose and fell with harsh, raw sobs. The cuts on his arms were deep, some of them still dripping over the blood that had already crusted on his skin. And his left pinkie was deeply bruised along the bone already, purple and blue swirling along his knuckles. The finger bent unnaturally toward the back of his hand. 

Beyond that, Stan noticed, his knuckles were covered in scars. They looked old, and deep. Once he saw them, it was as if the curtain had been lifted, and Stan saw all of Ford’s scars. There was a long, vertical one going down the side of his neck. There was a tiny one near the corner of his eyes, one barely visible through his hair near the top of his forehead. 

God. Did Bill really do all of this?

How long had Ford been living like this? Why hadn’t he said anything earlier? Why hadn’t he tried to get the unicorn hair earlier? 

Stan had no ideas. No theories. 

But he knew that this, right here, was on him. If he’d let Ford out to go get the unicorn hair, none of this would’ve happened. This was his fault. All these years of Ford suffering was his fault. He shouldn’t have let it happen. He’d failed his brother. 

Stan pushed down the familiar feeling of guilt and bile in his throat. This wasn’t about him. It couldn’t be. And how selfish was he that he tried to let it be, for even a second? It was about Ford. Ford, who was still curled up in a ball, sobbing, nearly hyperventilating, reminding Stan painfully of a much younger version of his brother. 

“Hey, Ford?” He spoke softly, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. “It— it’s okay. I’m right here.” 

Ford’s crying stopped for a minute, his breath hitching. He lifted his head, just slightly, seeming to get confirmation that Stan was, in fact, who he said he was. 

Then he collapsed against Stan, another hiccuping sob tearing out of him. He latched on to Stan, squirming to bury his head in Stan’s chest, wrapping his arms around Stan’s middle. Stan bit back any hiss of pain that threatened to escape. It didn’t matter if his injuries were aggravated, goddamnit. His brother needed him. Ford trembled, clinging to Stan’s shirt like nothing else mattered. His breathing was raspy and shallow. He coughed weakly, shaking with each one. Stan fought against tears that threatened to spill. His big brother was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to be successful and happy. 

Stan brought his arms around Ford and wrapped them tightly around him, squeezing his brother close, trying to let him know without speaking that he was safe. Stan would not let anything happen to him, not again. Not ever again. 

“Oh, Ford…” He breathed. “It’s alright. You’re safe.” His voice was barely more than a whisper, his best attempt at something soothing. “M’ not goin’ anywhere.” 

He wasn’t sure if Ford heard him above his sobs that just kept coming. Stan could feel a wet spot growing on his shirt, but he didn’t care. Ford just clung tightly, like Stan was the only safe place in the world. Stan didn’t bother with trying to hurry Ford along. This breakdown was clearly a long time coming and well deserved. Stan let his chin rest on Ford’s head. If Ford wanted to break down for weeks on end, he could. And Stan would be here, the whole time, keeping him safe, rubbing slow, soft circles into his back, running a gentle hand through his hair. 

Eventually, Ford’s sobbing quieted to the occasional wet hitch, and his trembling lessened. It didn’t go away completely, but, hey, progress was progress. He didn’t seem to want to move away, keeping his head securely burrowed in Stan’s chest, and his hands nestled safely in his own chest. 

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet and hoarse. 

“Stanley…?” 

“Right here,” Stan murmured.

“What… happened?” His voice was low, raspy. “D-did Bill—” He cut himself off, coughing weakly. 

Stan hesitated. Did Ford not remember anything? Did the possession work that way? He couldn’t decide if it would be more horrifying or less horrifying for Ford to be aware of what was happening while he actively wasn’t in control of his own body. He knew damn sure that it was probably terrifying to wake up having no idea where you were, how you got there, and why everything hurt so damn bad. 

Not that Stan had been there or anything. 

He cleared his throat. “We can talk about that later. We should get you fixed up right now, ‘kay?” 

“...Fixed up?”

“Mhm. You’re banged up pretty bad right now, buddy.” 

Ford finally pushed himself upright, though still leaning heavily against Stan. He blinked, some clarity seeming to leak into his eyes. He pushed some hair out of his face with his good hand and sniffled miserably. 

Then his eyes locked on Stan’s throat. 

“What— how did— t-the bruise—” His eyes widened and he flinched back. “Did B-Bill… Did— I—” 

His trembling grew, quick and sharp, and he backed up further, putting distance between him and his brother.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m fine—” 

“NO!” His hand shot up to pull at his hair. “Did I hurt— did I try to—” His voice broke into a stifled, choked sob. His next words were soft, barely audible. “Did I do that?” 

Stan squeezed his eyes shut. What could he do here? It’s not like he could tell Ford someone else did it. There was no one here but them. 

“Uh— okay, yes, you did, but, Ford, I know it wasn’t really you—” 

“Fuck— I’m so— I-I didn’t— I’m so sorry—” His words became stuttered and breathy. His eyes darted around until they locked onto Stan’s arms. “No— no, no, no, I— Did I—” 

His breathing was too fast for his words now, and he backed up quickly until his back hit the opposite corner of the room, like there was some unseen monster stalking him. 

Suddenly, he put too much weight on his left hand and he cried out, yanking it up to his chest, cradling it gently. He brought his knees up to his chest again and wrapped both arms around them. His eyes grew wider and they darted all over the room. 

“Ford, c’mon, you gotta—” 

“NO!” The word tore out of him in between shallow breaths. His face crumbled again, and another sob tore through him, but he grit his teeth, like he couldn’t dare allow it to break free. 

Stan tentatively, slowly, inched toward him, arms up in surrender. “Please, you need to calm—”

“DON’T MOVE!” Somehow, Ford pressed himself further in the corner. His eyes were locked on Stan’s. “You can’t— I-I might— I can’t hurt you…again…” 

“You’re not gonna hurt me.” Stan kept his voice low, soft. 

“I already did!” 

“No, no, that wasn’t you.” 

Ford just let out a raw, broken sound. Part sob, part… something else. Something broken and wounded, something animal. He buried his head in his knees. His shoulders shook with each new sob that tore out of him. They were quiet but unrestrained, speaking to years of pain and fear. His breaths came quick and shallow, his chest expanding and deflating rapidly. His breaths were ragged and loud and desperate. It was all too fast, too much. 

Goddamnit. He was hyperventilating. 

“Stanford.” Stan said firmly. He moved closer, positioning himself in front of his brother, but still at a respectable, safe distance for Ford to feel comfortable. “Can you hear me?” 

Ford gave a barely-there nod, still buried in himself. 

“Okay. Good. You need to breathe, okay?” Stan hesitated. What was that breathing exercise he learned that one time? Fuck. “Uh— okay. Breathe in for three seconds, right? You can do that.” 

Stan demonstrated, unsure if he was even doing the correct thing. Ford lifted his head slightly and attempted a small, pitiful inhale. It didn’t work. He shook his head frantically, his eyes wide. 

“S’ okay, just try again, okay?” 

Stan demonstrated again. Ford tried another sharp, quick inhale. It was still ragged, still shallow, but better. 

“Good, now hold that for five seconds.” 

They held their breath together. 

“Okay, exhale for seven seconds now.” 

They exhaled together. 

“Good.” Stan breathed. “You’re— doin’ great. Let’s do that a few times, ‘kay?” 

So they did just that. They breathed in tandem until Ford’s breathing evened out, just slightly. When he seemed more in control of his body, he let his head drop back down to his knees, every breath he took still shaky. 

His next words were quiet, barely more than a whisper. 

“I’m just like him.” 

“You’re— what?” Stan stuttered, blinking. 

Ford didn’t say anything else, just let out another small, miserable sound, refusing to raise his head. 

It didn’t matter. Stan knew what he meant. Ford meant that he was just like Pa. And Stan’s heart shattered into a million tiny shards. Ford couldn’t truly think he was just like Pa. He wasn’t. He was nothing like Pa. Stan felt a familiar guilt swirling in his stomach. He never should have told Ford about any of that shit. It was never supposed to be Ford’s problem. Stan had to face the fact that he’d broken his brother. That this— all of it— was his fault. 

“Ford, you— you’re nothing like Pa. Don’t say that.” He sighed, shifting from in front of Ford to beside him, his back against the wall. “I’m gonna sit next to you, ‘kay?” He finally drew his own knees into his chest. 

And now that he was here, next to Ford, he had no idea what to do or how to help. He’d never experienced anything like this. 

He cleared his throat. “So— you… uh—”

Okay, try again. 

“You…good?” 

JESUS CHRIST. 

He sighed, tilting his head up against the wall, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“Okay, listen, Ford, I’m— I don’t know exactly how the whole possession thing works, but I know that wasn’t you I was fightin’, it was, uh— Bill.” 

Ford just let out a soft, miserable whimper. 

“A-and you’re not like Pa, alright? You’re not— you’re nothin’ like him.” He sighed. “I never shoulda’ even told you about that.” 

“NO!” Ford’s head shot up. “You absolutely should have told me about that! No, what am I— you shouldn’t have had to. I should’ve— know, I-I should’ve— God, I’m so sorry— ” 

“There’s no use in thinkin’ about all that now,” Stan muttered. “And, ‘sides, you’re not like him.”

“I hurt you,” Ford muttered. 

Stan rolled his eyes. “Nah, Bill did.” 

“Because I fell asleep and let him in.” 

“Can’t exactly blame yourself for needin’ to sleep, can you?” 

Ford didn’t respond right away. He slowly peeked his head out, revealing his absolutely broken expression. His eyes were red-rimmed and wide, with dark circles lining them. And, god, Stan forgot about his bruised cheek. It was a swirling, deep purple and blue that spread all the way down to his jawline. 

“Lee, I-I’m so— I’m so sorry…” 

“Not your fault.” 

“It is, I’m—” He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I can’t— I’m—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. “Stanley, I need to know exactly what happened. Walk me through it.” 

“I’m not sure that’s what we should—”

“Now.” 

Stan flinched at the sudden severity in Ford’s voice. Without warning, he had switched into clinical mode. No feelings, just facts. 

“Okay, I, uh—” He cleared his throat. “So you were fixin’ my bandages, and you went upstairs to get more, a-and then I heard this, like, crash. Figured you fell or somethin’. So, I went to head upstairs, then the power went out.” 

Ford blinked. “The power is out?” 

“Oh, yeah. Er— upstairs it is. Down here it, uh. Isn’t.” 

Ford nodded. “Continue.” 

“Cool. Uh, so I tripped when the power went out, that’s how I got this.” He gestured to his chin. “Got back up, and suddenly someone was pushin’ me down again. That was Bill. But, uh, power was out. So I figured it was you. I tried to stop you and stuff, you fought me off, we fought for a while. You— Bill choked me, that’s what the bruises are—”

“Wait.” Ford stared straight forward, his hands trembling. “You— all this fighting was upstairs?” 

“Mhm, yeah.” Stan nodded, unsure of where this was going. 

“So, the whole time we were fighting,” he started slowly, “You thought it was… really me?” 

Stan hesitated. What was he supposed to say? He couldn’t lie. For most of the time they were upstairs, he did think it was Ford. He knew something was up, sure, but— 

“Well, I—”

“You did,” Ford breathed. “You thought— that I would…” 

“Ford, that’s not—”

“It’s fine. I understand why you would—” He cleared his throat, refusing to look in Stan’s eyes. “Continue.” 

A long silence stretched between them before Stan continued. 

“Anyways, uh, we kept fighting, and Bill said some shit. After he choked me, I was on the ground for a bit. He headed for the lab and, once I was able to get up, I followed him down. Found him behind the portal. We fought some more and I eventually just… pushed him to his limit, I guess. Dragged him in here.” 

Ford nodded. “And after that?” 

“Just kinda waited it out. He tried to convince me to let him out, and y’know, I didn’t.” Stan cleared his throat. “He tried a couple of different things. Screamed for a while. Probably why your throat’s all scratchy.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Then he offered me some stuff, and, y'know, just generally was an asshole, and eventually tuckered himself out.” 

Ford furrowed his brows, picking at some of the crusted blood on his arm. He hissed as he hit one of the cuts, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. 

“Ford, we should really clean you up—”

“What did he offer you?” 

WHY DO YOU CARE SO MUCH ABOUT SIXER? HE DOESN’T EVEN WANT YOU HERE!

Stan flinched, rubbing the back of his neck, staring at the ceiling. “Buncha stuff. Threatened to hurt you, offered to— to fix—”

I CAN MAKE HIM LOVE YOU, STAN. DON’T YOU WANT THAT? DON’T YOU MISS HIM?

Ford waited, expectant. 

“He just— he said a lot of stuff. About you. About me. A-and about— uh—” 

YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I DO THAT ALL YOU DO IS HOLD HIM BACK, DISCOUNT PINES.

“…About what?” 

“Just— a buncha stuff, okay?” Stan’s tone was harsher than he’d intended. He clenched his fists, trying to stop the growing tremor in his body. “He— It doesn’t matter.” 

“Lee…” Ford’s voice was gentle. Too gentle. 

Stan didn’t need his brother’s pity. He didn’t want it. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve anything. He dropped his head, letting his face hit his knees. His chest was rising and falling too fast. 

Ford forgives you, Ford forgives you, Ford forgives you. 

No. He couldn’t. He couldn’t have forgiven him. Stan hadn’t earned that. He didn’t do anything to warrant forgiveness. Why would Ford want him here? All he did was break things. Ruin things. Like his brother. 

Bill was right. He was the discount, knock off version of his brother. His brother was right to hate him. He was right to not forgive him. 

Goddamnit, calm down. Calm down. God, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. 

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. 

He took a semi-deep breath and held it, then exhaled slowly through his mouth, his chest aching. He swiped quickly under his eyes, trying to ignore how wet his face was. 

“Lee? Can you hear me?” 

He flinched, snapping his head to the side. “Mhm, yeah.” 

“Where did you just go?” 

“Just… thinkin’.” 

"About?" Ford's voice was soft. Hesitant. 

“About… just stuff. What Bill was sayin’.” 

Ford’s face crumbled, his eyes welling up. He pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes and took a long, shaky breath. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice wavering. “I didn’t— Bill is supposed to be my problem, not yours, not Fidd— not anyone’s. A-and you clearly put up with hours of verbal abuse from him—”

“S’ fine.” 

“NO!” Ford put his head in his hands, absently pulling at his hair. “It’s not fine! I just can’t— I can’t—It’s all my—” He suddenly pulled too hard at his hair, aggravating his finger. He yanked it away, hissing. “Fuck—!” 

Stan sighed. “Okay, Ford, we need to clean you up. Now.” 

“No— we need—” 

“Your finger is broken, Six.” 

“I don’t need—”

“Yes! You do! Please, Ford. I— I heard everything he did to you, okay? I thought he ripped your fucking finger off, and I just— I just have to—”

“Okay, Jesus!” Ford sighed. “Fine, just— do what you have to do, and then I— I need to be alone a-and think.” 

“Okay. Good.” 

Stan slowly, hesitantly shifted upright, bracing his arm against the wall to assist his getting up. He fought against the dizziness and the nausea, steadying himself with deep breaths. 

He reached an arm down to assist Ford. Ford stared at his brother’s outstretched hand and shook his head softly. He braced himself against the wall, slowly— incredibly slowly— forced himself upright. The minute Ford let go of the wall, however, he blinked rapidly, swaying as if his body was underwater. He suddenly pitched to the right, his body hitting the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a tiny, wounded sound. 

“Jeez, okay, easy.” Stan sighed, wrapping his arm around Ford’s waist and throwing Ford’s arm over his shoulders. “You’re okay.” 

Ford leaned his head against Stan’s shoulder, disoriented and overexerted from the sudden movement, and let out a miserable hum. 

 “Let’s just— let’s just get upstairs.” 

“Mmfgh… is the power still out?” 

Shit. He was right. It probably was. 

“Shit. You’re right.” He sighed, shifting to better support the weight of his brother. “Let’s just get into the main room, okay? Not spendin’ another second in this horror movie scene.” 

“…Okay…” 

They slowly made their way to the main room of the lab. Stan hesitated, unsure of where to put Ford, before deciding to sit him down on the same bench he himself had woken up on only a few days before. 

“Where’s all your medical stuff?” 

Ford pointed sluggishly towards a cabinet. 

Stan hurried toward it, grabbing pretty much everything he could see. The supplies weren’t ideal, but he saw a tongue depressor, which would have to do for now. But something else he saw caught his attention. 

Razor blades. Dozens of them. And some of them looked… used. In a familiar way. Stan’s stomach sank, his heart hammering. He recognized. He knew. 

“Ford, why— why do you have—”

“Can we— hurry this along, please?” 

He desperately wanted to keep pressing. He wanted to make Ford explain exactly what they were doing there. But he knew what the answer would be. And, honestly,  he wasn’t sure if he truly wanted to hear it.

Stan sighed, putting all the supplies he needed on the table beside his brother. He tentatively reached out and grabbed his brother’s hand, trying to be as gentle as he possibly could. The finger was bruised, a watercolor of blue and purple covering it and spreading down to his knuckles. His finger was angled very wrong, almost nauseatingly so. 

“Can you move it at all?” 

Ford stared at it for a second, like he was trying to make it move with just his mind. It moved for a tiny, tiny, split second. Then Ford winced, biting back a hiss. He shook his head. 

Stan nodded and grabbed the tongue depressor from the kit, snapping it in half so it would work as a makeshift splint. Then, gritting his teeth, he braced the base of the finger, and gave a quick, harsh tug to realign the bone. 

A harsh crack echoed through the lab. And Ford yelped, yanking his hand away.

“Shit— sorry, sorry, I know.” Stan winced. “Had to.” 

Ford squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “It’s fine. I don’t know why I’m—” He cut himself off, shaking his head and hesitantly holding his hand back out. 

Stan took it, softly placing Ford’s finger into the makeshift splint. He wrapped it securely in gauze and tape, careful not to make it too tight. With the severity of the break, he figured it would also be best to buddy tape it to the nearby finger. Finally, it was done. Stan sighed in relief, backing up to check over his work. 

“Tell me if your finger starts to turn blue. Means it’s too tight.” 

Ford looked up, his eyes wide and questioning. 

“Stanley, how—” He paused, fiddling with the edge of his shirt. “How do you know how to do this?” 

Stan shrugged, gathering the medical supplies up to put them away. “All that time on the road, you break a few bones, get a few knees bashed in.” He placed the bin in the cabinet and grabbed another, one with gauze and bandages for the cuts on Ford’s arms. “You learn how to fix ‘em on your own, y’know?” 

He turned around, ready to attend to the cuts. 

Then Stan saw Ford’s face. He was crying. 

Fuck, again? This was, what, the fourth time he’d made his brother cry in less than 24 hours? Was he competing for the worst brother of the decade award? 

“Ford, I—” He hesitated, inching closer to his brother. “C’mon, what did I say?” 

Ford swiped quickly under his eyes, sniffling. “I— you—”

He was cut off by a harsh fit of coughs overtaking him. He shook, each one wracking his frame as he curled in on himself. Stan was by his side instantly, rubbing his back in his best attempt to be soothing. 

“It’s okay, just, er— breathe…” 

The fit finally tapered off, and Ford took deep breaths, straightening himself up. 

“Ford, are you—”

“When did you get your knee bashed in?” 

Stan hesitated. “Ah, few years back.” 

“Why—” Ford squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. “Why didn’t you call me? When that happened?” 

“Oh— I, uh…” Stan sighed and sat down on the edge of the table next to him. “I guess, I just didn’t— I don’t— I don’t really… know.” 

Ford stared at the floor. “Why did you never call?” 

Stan blinked. “What?” 

“You— you could’ve called. I could’ve helped.” 

“Ford, I was halfway across the country at the time. And I handled it, okay?” 

“I would’ve come.” 

Stan dug his nails into his legs, trying to will himself away from the situation. “I really don’t wanna talk about all that right now.” 

A long silence stretched between them. Stan squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around his middle. 

“I need him out of my head.” 

Stan blinked his eyes open. “Hm?” 

Ford was stirring on the table, starting to get himself off. “I’m going to get the unicorn hair now.” 

“Okay, listen, Ford, I know you’re still kinda out of it, but it’s the middle of the night. We can’t just—”

“Fine, I’ll go at sunrise.” He started toward the door. 

“No,” Stan sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look, I— I understand how serious this whole Bill thing is now. Trust me, I do. But I don’t want you to, like, pass out on the way there, okay? I mean, that’d just let Bill out again.” 

Ford hesitated, one hand on the doorknob. 

“Is there any way we can—” 

“No!” Ford spun around and rubbed both his hands down his face. “There is no way for anything! I can’t let him have free reign here for one second longer—” His voice cracked, and he turned away. “I can’t risk him hurting you again. I just— I can’t. I can’t live with that.” 

Jesus. 

Stan shoved his hands in his pockets. He’d done this to Ford. He’d put all this guilt on him. He’d ruined him. First his project, now his fucking psyche. Ford was blaming himself for injuries Stan had brought upon himself. He had no right to refuse anything Ford asked. Ever. 

“Yeah, I— okay. Okay. Tell you what. We’ll clean up the cuts on your arms and stuff, then we’ll both go at sunrise to get the unicorn hair.” 

Ford frowned. “You don’t need to—”

“Ford, I’m coming, okay? Leave it alone.” He stood up from the table. “And we’re both gonna get some food in us before we go.” 

Ford tsked. “Fine. Sunrise, then.” He hesitantly forced himself off the table, holding onto the edge of it to steady himself. “Let’s clean the cuts on your arms. I can clean mine myself.” 

“C’mon—”

“I’m not arguing about this,” Ford mumbled, his voice shaking. “After we clean yours, I— need to be alone. I need to think.” 

“But—” 

Stan cut himself off, remembering Bill’s words. 

HE WOULDN’T CARE IF YOU DIED!

What right did Stan have to refuse Ford anything? It was clear his brother needed space from him. Bill was right. All Stan was doing was bringing him down. Putting him in danger. Ruining his fucking life. 

Stan stared at the floor. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Chapter Text

The sky was a swirl of pink and orange, the sun barely peeking through. Apparently, when Ford had said sunrise, he’d fucking meant it. Stan didn’t even think Ford had eaten before they left. After he’d patched up the cuts on Stan’s arms, he’d said something about needing to grab supplies and holed himself up in the lab. Stan had happily taken the opportunity to brush his teeth and have some much needed coffee, trying to stop himself from bringing Ford some breakfast. 

But now it was very clear to Stan that Ford definitely should have eaten. His breathing was ragged, his steps unsteady, and his face was pale, except a telling feverish flush on his cheek. More often than not, he would grip the nearest tree in support as he continued through the forest. 

To be fair, Stan wasn’t in tip-top shape either. Every crunch his feet made against the snow made his head spin and pulled at the still-healing burn on his back. But he didn’t care about any of that right now. Ford was his concern. 

Confirming Stan’s worries, Ford suddenly stumbled over his own feet and barely avoided toppling over in the snow. He braced himself against a nearby tree for a moment before resuming. 

“Ford, let’s take a break, okay?” 

Ford didn’t bother turning around to answer. “Don’t need one.” 

“Yeah, but I do,” Stan said, stopping in his tracks. “Five minutes?” 

Ford finally turned around, his expression unreadable. “Five minutes.” 

Stan hummed gratefully and slumped against the tree, his head spinning. He let his back slide down the bark and leaned his head against the trunk, strangely thankful for the chill in the air. 

Ford remained standing, but leaned heavily against the same tree. He coughed, a violent fit that went on far too long. He doubled over until it subsided, blinking rapidly and sucking in a sharp breath. He swayed on his feet. 

“Sit down, wouldja?” Stan muttered. “Don’t waste your strength.” 

Ford didn’t argue, just slid to the ground beside his brother, nodding faintly. 

“How far wouldja say we are?” 

Ford’s voice was hoarse, quiet. “About a mile away still.” He drew his knees up to his chest and let his forehead rest on them, his breaths shallow and ragged. He shuddered slightly in the cold, the wind blowing his hair every which way. Stan eyed his brother’s rather thin jacket in disdain.

He rifled around in his pockets, searching for the granola bar he’d tucked away. He pulled it out and nudged Ford’s arm. 

“Eat somethin’.” 

Ford eyed the bar and shook his head softly. “I’m alright.” 

His tone didn’t leave room for argument. Stan shoved it back in his pocket. 

They sat in silence for the remainder of the break until Ford cleared his throat and sluggishly pulled himself off the ground, bracing against the tree for support. He offered a hand to Stan, which Stan took gratefully. 

He noticed Ford’s hand’s remained unbandaged, the scratches down his arms leaking down to his knuckles. Dried blood was still crusted between his twitching fingers. 

“You never cleaned the cuts?” Stan asked softly. 

“I’ll do it later,” Ford answered, his voice strained. His tone left no room for argument, but the way he swayed, each of his steps uneven, was cause for concern. 

Still, Stan didn’t press. 

Both of them blinked rapidly, trying to get their bearings. Stan closed his eyes and pressed his palm to his forehead. His head was still swimming, his forehead still slightly warmer than it should have been. Every step felt a little bit more like walking through quicksand. 

“Ready?” Ford murmured. 

“Mhm.” Stan opened his eyes. Ford was giving him an unreadable expression. “What?” 

“I’m—” Ford cleared his throat and turned away. “Nothing.” 

They resumed walking, with Ford leading the way and Stan close behind. 

“So,” Stan mused. “Once we get the hair, how’s the whole ‘exorcism’ thing gonna work?” 

“Essentially, I’ll use it as the active ingredient in this… concoction of sorts. I have the recipe for it in the journal. I’ll drink it, then you’ll perform the exorcism.” 

Stan’s eyes widened. “I’m doin’ the exorcism?” 

“Well, yes.” Ford shrugged. “One can’t exorcise oneself.” 

As if it’s that fucking obvious. 

“So— what’ll happen to you?” 

“It’s—” Ford hesitated, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m not entirely sure. It will most likely be painful and invasive. He— Bill— will be physically ripped from my body. It won’t be pleasant. He’ll be fighting to stay. He’s never been one to go easy.” 

Stan thought back to Ford locked in the padded room and shuddered. The image of Ford, coated in blood, curled up in a tiny ball on the floor kept flashing in front of Stan’s eyes. Every time he blinked, he saw the results of Bill’s invasion, and his own negligence. If he’d just let Ford get the hair earlier, it never would’ve happened. If he’d paid more attention, made sure he ate. Fucking if. 

No, Bill didn’t seem like one to go easy in the least. 

“So, is— is the possession stuff always like…that?” 

Ford stiffened slightly. “No. Usually, I’m the only casualty.” 

“No, I mean— is it always that— painful?”  Stan sighed, his words seeming to fail him. “Does he always do… all that?” 

Ford didn’t respond for a moment, but his pace slowed until he was next to Stan. His eyes were distant, staring off at some distant point. He shuddered involuntarily, blinking. 

“Ford?”

Ford flinched, his head snapping to Stan. His eyes widened. For a second, it seemed like he didn’t recognize his brother. 

Then, as fast as it had happened, his shoulders slumped and he returned to normal. 

“Yes, he—” He sighed. “It depends. I’ve had better experiences with him, and I’ve had worse.” 

Stan couldn’t imagine it being worse than the state he found Ford in. He almost didn’t want to know any more. But he had to. He had to know what he’d let his brother endure because of his own stubbornness. 

“So, when it’s— worse…” He said, choosing his words carefully. “What exactly… happens?” 

“It depends on whatever he’s feeling. It varies.” Ford’s eyes flickered to the bruises on Stan’s neck. “It’s all an… experiment to him. He enjoys testing the limits of human capability.” 

Stan furrowed his brows. “Doesn’t it hurt him too? If he’s in your body?”

Ford shrugged, his eyes darting in between the trees. “...Yes and no. Even in a human body, he experiences pain differently than you and I. It’s all very novel to him.” 

“What kind of stuff has he done before, like, specifically? When he was in control?” 

“Whatever he felt might be fun. Once, I—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I woke up…with a nail sticking out of my palm. Another time, I woke up coughing up spiders. Harmless garden ones, thankfully.” 

Stan’s stomach dropped to his feet, his entire body suddenly feeling hollow. He wished, wished, that he’d heard Ford wrong. But the words were clear and echoing in his brain. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t speak, his brain still rushing to process everything he was hearing. A painful, terrifying realization came over him: the visible aftermath of Bill was a pale echo of the experience itself. Images flashed in his mind, fast and dizzying: Ford coughing up spiders, Ford with a nail sticking out of his palm, Ford beaten and bruised and alone. 

But you didn’t know. There was nothing you could’ve done. Right? 

No. 

No, no, no, not right at all. He hadn’t known because he hadn’t cared. He could’ve written. Could’ve actually followed through with one of his phone calls instead of just holding onto whatever few words Ford barked into the receiver before he hung up. He hadn’t tried. 

Guilt clawed up his throat, sharp and stabbing, threatening to make him sick. How long had Ford suffered while he was across the country scamming people out of their life savings? How long would he keep suffering if they didn’t get the unicorn hair now? 

A sickening feeling crept up through his stomach into his throat, and he bit his tongue, trying to shove it back down. He had no idea how far Bill was willing to go. Because he wasn’t there. 

“When I started refusing to continue work on the portal, he—” Ford swallowed again, blinking. “It got more threatening. More… intimate. More…” 

His voice cracked, and he stopped in his tracks, flinching backward just slightly and swaying on his feet. A tiny, barely perceptible tremor went through him, and his arm shot out to steady himself against Stan’s shoulder. His grip was firm, clinging, like Stan was the only thing keeping him upright. 

He sucked in a sharp breath. “Just… a moment.” 

Stan's stomach twisted. He wrapped an arm around Ford’s shoulders and tightened his grip. “Let’s take a quick break, okay?” 

Ford shook his head. “We just took one.” 

“Yeah, but that one was for me. This one’s for you,” Stan insisted. 

Ford shook his head again but didn’t protest when Stan lowered him into a sitting position, his back pressed against the nearest tree. Stan joined him on the ground and shoved the granola bar in Ford’s hands. 

“You gotta eat somethin’ or you’re gonna pass out.” 

Ford gave him a scathing look but said nothing, his shaking hands working to rip the wrapper off. It took him longer than it should’ve, but Stan let him hold onto a small bit of independence, choosing to let him take his time. 

Finally, Stan cleared his throat. “You were sayin’ about Bill?” 

“I can’t— he was—” Ford sighed. “I thought he was my friend. I thought he was even—” He shook his head. “I thought he was a lot of things. It’s not even that he betrayed me. He was lying the whole time . A-and I believed him, wholeheartedly. And I let him— he—” His voice broke. He took in a shaky breath, swiping quickly under his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore. What’s important is that we get him out of my head and away from you.” 

“Yeah, I think I’d be okay with never talkin’ to him again,” Stan mumbled. He could still feel Bill’s sharp, stinging laugh in his throat. And he certainly couldn’t forget the image of Ford curled up on the ground, arms covered in blood. 

“Stanley, I—” Ford swallowed thickly. “Did Bill— what did he—” He hesitated again, shaking his head faintly. “Nevermind.” 

Stan shifted, wincing slightly as his shoulder throbbed. Every movement reminded him that his body wasn’t fully healed. 

He waited a moment before speaking again, keeping his voice level and soft. 

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

Ford raised an eyebrow and hummed in question. 

“Couldn’t you use the memory gun? To get him out of your head?” He wrung his hands together. “I mean, would that even work?”

“I have thought about that,” Ford said between bites of the granola bar. “I believe it could. But, if I’m being honest, I’m not really willing to part with my memories, painful as some of them might be. It would mean saying goodbye to… everything. If it came down to it, I suppose I would have to, but I would prefer to try my hand with the unicorns first.” 

“Dunno,” Stan muttered. “Sayin’ goodbye to everythin’ doesn’t sound too bad to me.” 

Ford snapped his head to the side. “What?” 

Stan raised his eyebrows. “What?” 

“What did you mean by that?” His eyes were wide. Inquiring. “Saying goodbye to everything?” 

“You know, just—” Stan glanced to the side. “Y’know…?” 

“No, I-I don’t,” Ford said softly. “Can you explain it to me?” His voice cracked on the last syllable, and he blinked rapidly. 

Suddenly, Stan felt like he was being interrogated. “It’d— be easier to forget some stuff. I guess.” 

Quick flashes flew through his brain, images of Rico and Jimmy and substances he couldn’t pronounce and nights that were all heat and touching and pain and blurry. Tijuana came to mind, the memory blurring in his brain, along with a thousand other times he’d used the excuse of needing to get by to throw away everything he stood for. All things he’d forget in an instant if he had the chance. If he got the chance. 

Ford didn’t say anything for a while, but he gently took Stan’s hand in his own. Stan flinched under the touch, just slightly, but forced himself to keep his hand where it was. He felt a sharp prick behind his eyes and blinked rapidly. Stupid. He was being stupid. 

“I see.” Ford finally said. “But the gun is— dangerous. If at all possible, steer clear of it entirely. Using it is…” He paused, thinking over his words. “You can’t take it back once you do.”

Stan cleared his throat. “Er— yeah. Yeah, I know. I won’t mess with your science stuff anymore.” He chuckled dryly. “Not makin’ that mistake again.” 

“No, I’m not—” Ford hesitated. “I just— I wouldn’t want you to… say goodbye to me. Is all I meant.”

Stan blinked, the prick in his eyes growing sharper. He reached his free hand up to rub at them quickly, turning his face away. He couldn’t stand to look at Ford any longer. Pity, shame, anger, fear— he didn’t know what his brother was feeling. What his brother meant. 

“Oh.” He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the ground. “Yeah, I— yeah. Okay.” 

With that, Ford squeezed his hand, crumpled the granola bar wrapper, and shoved it in his pocket. He braced himself against the trunk and forced himself up. Stan followed suit, and their walk resumed. 

Another thought floated through his mind, the memory gun still itching at him. What would it feel like to be a new, unburdened version of himself? A version that could learn to behave, to act right. A blank slate. A version of him that wouldn’t ever weigh his brother down again. Ford wouldn’t have to say goodbye to him, not really. Ford would get to have a newer, better version of Stan. 

He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion setting in. Maybe if he was new, he wouldn’t be so tired all the time. He wouldn’t be so jumpy, so angry, so… many things. 

The thought was appealing. 

They continued in silence, slowly but steadily. Ford walked a bit ahead of Stan, seeming to have found a small burst of energy from his snack. Stan, on the other hand, felt entirely exhausted. Each step seemed unending, draining his last remaining reserves of energy. The cold was harsh and sharp, seeping through his clothes and sending stabs of dull pain through the brand on his shoulder. Part of him wished he had chosen to stay at the cabin and took a long nap, safely locked away from the wind and the snow. 

Then the image of Ford’s broken, bloody, crumpled body flashed in front of his eyes, and he forgot the thought entirely. 

“I don’t see a reason why you would need to use it at all,” Ford said suddenly. 

Stan blinked. “What?” 

“The memory gun. Best to let me handle it.” 

Stan felt a familiar pang in his chest. Ford may have claimed to have forgiven him (which Stan still wasn’t convinced of), but he certainly didn’t trust him. Not around his work. Never around his work. 

But it was deserved, wasn’t it? All Stan ever did was ruin the things Ford cared about. Stan couldn’t blame him for being protective. 

“Besides,” Ford continued. “It has some… unpleasant side effects.” 

“Like what?” 

“Fiddleford only used it after—” 

“FIDDLEFORD?” Stan nearly choked. “S’ that— his name?!”

The words quickly turned into a sharp, bubbling laugh that he couldn’t hold in. He doubled over, holding tight to his gut. It felt nice. To be laughing, despite the reality of the situation. He struggled for a moment before the fit subsided, and he wiped the stray tears from his eyes, taking in a sharp breath. He finally turned upwards to meet his brother’s eyes. 

Ford looked less than pleased. 

“Yes.” He said firmly. “His name is Fiddleford.” 

“Jesus Christ, Ford!” He rubbed his eyes, still chuckling. “You really know how to pick ‘em!”

“I would really appreciate it if you would be mature about this,” Ford muttered. “If you’re even capable of that.” 

Well, damn. Any levity Stan felt suddenly leaked from him. 

Fucking idiot. You messed it up with him, again. No wonder he didn’t want to bring you along. 

Stan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sorry,” he muttered. 

“As I was saying,” Ford continued, still bristling, “Fidds only began to use it after the accident.” 

“Why’d you even make it in the first place?” 

Ford turned away, embarrassed. “We— it was a precautionary measure. Most of our research wasn’t exactly… legal. In most senses of the word. We figured it would provide us an out if the government caught word of what we were really up to.” 

“Damn, Sixer, I never thought you’d end up some sort of outlaw scientist.” 

Ford sniffed. “Everything I did was in the name of discovery.” He faltered, any sort of defense draining from him suddenly, “I-I never thought Fidds would use— well, I mean, the accident—”

“What was the accident?” Stan interrupted softly. “You never told me.” 

“He—” Ford sighed, averting his eyes slightly. “Yes. I had called him up to help with work on the portal, and after a long period of work, we were finally ready to test it. We attached this… dummy to a rope and were going to send it through, but when we did—” He paused, his voice wavering. “Fiddleford got caught on the rope. He— he got sucked in.” 

“Fuck.” Stan’s heart dropped. “You’re tellin’ me he’s still in there?” 

“NO!” Ford’s head snapped sideways, eyes wide. “No, he did not— I pulled him out!” 

“Hey, hey—” Stan raised his arms in a placating gesture. “Calm down. I believe you.” 

“Sorry.” Ford backed off, his expression contorting at least five times before he continued. “I’m sorry, I’m just— touchy about it, I suppose.” He sighed. “Anyways, er— oh, yes. I pulled him back out, but he was… different. He saw something in there, something horrible. He told me to shut it all down. He told me it was dangerous. And I should've believed him. But I didn’t. I begged him to stay, to continue our work, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He stormed off, a-and he took the memory gun. I was— I was so self-centered that I didn’t even notice.” 

“So, what, he erased his memory?” 

“Precisely.” Ford rubbed the bridge of his nose. “After he left, I confronted Bill and realized that everything Fidds had said was true. So I stopped working on the portal. A week later, I-I was worried about him. I suppose I expected him to come back, just like I thought maybe you’d c—” He suddenly stopped himself. 

Stan felt his throat tighten, though he wasn’t sure why. “You thought I’d…what?”

“Nothing,” Ford said quickly. He hesitated before continuing. “Anyway— Fiddleford. There’s only one motel in town, so I went there figuring that’s where he would be. I found him in… very bad shape. He was so desperate to forget whatever it was he’d seen that he— I don’t know how much he’d used the gun on himself by the time I got there, but he was— he was having a complete mental breakdown when I found him.”

“Shit.” 

“I wasn’t sure what to do. But, the problem was, my presence actually negated the effects of the gun. He didn’t remember what he saw entirely, but my presence triggered the fear. The panic. Even some of the memories.” 

Stan furrowed his brows. “So, the gun doesn’t actually work?” 

“No, no, it does,” Ford clarified. “But the more you use it, the more you build up a sort of tolerance to it. It actually became easier to trigger the memories the more he used it.” Ford sighed. “There’s some complex science behind it. I can explain it later, if you’d like, but that’s the main idea.” 

Stan was silent for a moment, his mind racing.

They only used it on Rico once, right? Ford said it had to be used a lot to stop working. Rico wouldn’t remember. He wouldn’t. 

Still, Stan felt his stomach clench as he darted his eyes around the woods, checking for any footprints. He knew it was stupid. Ford would realize if they were being followed. But the fear still itched at him, the wound on his side a sharp reminder of what it meant— what Rico could do, could make him do (Tijuana came to mind again) — if he let his guard down for long. 

“Stan?” Ford’s voice was tight. “Are you listening to me?” 

“Er— yeah. Memory gun stops working if you use it enough, right?” He forced a casual tone into his voice, his brain working to catch up to his mouth. “So it’s like crack or somethin’?” 

“What—” Ford coughed sharply, doubling over. Stan reached out instinctively, attempting to hold him steady until he forced himself upright through the tremors with a sharp breath. He swayed, their walk halting for a moment.

“I-I’m sorry,” Ford choked. “You said it’s like… cocaine?” 

“Y’know, the more you use it, the more you need for it to work?” Stan shrugged. “Applies to any drug, really. Crack just popped into my head first.” 

“Stanley, have you—” a long, heavy pause. “You’ve done cocaine?” 

“I mean… yeah?”

Ford just shook his head, eyes fixed ahead of him. 

Something tightened in Stan’s chest. It seemed like it had gone away for a while, but he could feel it again: Ford’s disgust. Ford’s judgement. 

Yeah, obviously he wasn’t proud of everything he’d had to do to get by. But he’d had to do it. 

Except— no. He hadn’t. Ma had told him once that you always have a choice. He’d just made the wrong one time and time again. 

Ford’s face was easy to read, and Stan couldn’t blame him for what he thought. It was all just another reminder that Stan was nothing compared to his brother. Just the dumber, poorer, drugged up version of him. Another reminder that Bill was right. 

Still, he couldn’t help the sharp defense in his voice. “What about it?”

Ford looked at him, eyes wide in surprise at Stan’s mini outburst. “No, I—” A pause. “I didn’t mean to— there’s just… so much about your life I don’t know about.” 

“...Oh.” 

There was a long, awkward silence that stretched on for minutes. Stan shoved his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with the fabric of his sweatshirt. He didn’t dare look at his brother. Instead, he focused on each individual flake of snow in the air, watching as they fell from the sky all the way down to his boots, quickly dissolving and leaving a small, dark spot on the old leather. 

Ford cleared his throat. He swayed on his feet again, rubbing at his temples. When he spoke, his voice came out soft, hesitant. “I didn’t… finish telling you about Fiddleford.” 

“Go ahead.” 

The trek resumed. 

“I tried my best to help him. I took the gun away, made sure he couldn't get to it, ever again.” His voice darkened, the words seeming to stick in his throat. “I tried to calm him down, but I— he could barely even look at me. So I called his wife and asked her to come and get him. She came the next day and brought him back to Tennessee.”

“You know if he’s okay?” Stan asked tentatively. 

“I called once. His wife answered. She said that he was doing better… and to— never contact them ever again.” He sighed. “So I haven’t. And I can’t blame her, really. It was entirely my fault, what happened to him. I can’t believe I was so blind to everything Bill was doing, everything the portal was really—” He shook his head, his voice wavering. “I never wanted to hurt anyone. But it’s… all I do.”

Stan bit the inside of his cheek. Ford’s face was hard to look at— so broken, so… guilt-ridden. It was like what happened was physically pushing him down. And eventually, he wouldn't be able to keep himself above ground. 

“I mean… yeah, some of it’s on you,” Stan stammered out, stumbling over the words. Ford gave him a tired, questioning look. “But he chose to get involved, too. He chose to come and help you with the portal. He chose to use the memory gun. You didn’t force him to do anythin’.” He softened his tone. “S’ not all on you, Six.”

Ford shook his head. “I pulled him away from his family. He has a son, a-and I—” He sniffled miserably, his hands twitching at his sides, like they were trying to reach out to something. “I appreciate the sentiment, Stan, but it was my fault.” 

“Ford—”

SNAP.

Stan whipped his head around suddenly at the sound, his heart pounding. His eyes darted between the trees. Searching. Scanning. 

—Who is it who’s watching us is it Rico did he remember us is it Jimmy and Andrew what if— 

“Stan, what’s wrong?” Ford’s voice cracked. “What is it?” 

“Shut up.” 

Stan grabbed his brother’s wrist and darted behind a tree, the bark digging into his palm, poking his head out, his vision tunneling as he continued to scan through the sea of white in front of them. Someone was here. He knew it. He knew it. 

His chest was tight. His breaths were coming too too too fast. He could feel his heartbeat in every part of his body. His ears, his feet, his hands. A pounding, vibrating, buzzing pressure, like he was made of TV static. 

His teeth clenched painfully. He thought he might’ve heard Ford say something. He wasn’t sure. It was all muddled and blurry, the once peaceful whooshing of the wind sounding stretched and distorted. 

— Where the fuck is Jimmy I know he’s here I know someone followed us—

He craned his neck, sending a jolt of pain from the brand down his side, but he didn’t react. Someone was there. He just had to find them. 

“Lee.” 

Ford’s hand was suddenly gripping his, his voice slightly clearer through the static. Stan realized his own hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking, and everything was fuzzy. Fuck. 

“Lee, look at me.” 

Stan obeyed. The world blurred in and out of focus around Ford’s face. He blinked, trying to get it to just stay still , trying to keep his eyes on his brother’s face. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Someone’s— following us.” Stan sucked in a sharp breath. “I-I don’t— it’s Rico, o-or Jimmy or Andrew— I don’t know, but they’re here a-and I can’t—” he gasped for breath between the words, gripping Ford’s hand so tight his knuckles ached. “He’s gonna— I can’t let him—”

“Hey, woah— slow down.” Ford gave him a confused look and turned his head to glance around them, taking in the expanse of the woods. “No one is following us.”

Stan swallowed, his head darting every which way. “But I heard—” he took in another breath, hesitating. “The branch snapped.” 

There was a moment of silence between them. Ford blinked, his confusion shifting to concern. 

“Stan, that was a squirrel.” He pointed above their heads. “It jumped to a weak branch. ” Stan looked up and, sure enough, there was a squirrel clinging to the broken branch above them. 

Oh. 

How stupid could he be? Ford probably thought— no, Ford knew he was an absolute idiot. Ford knew it, and Bill had said as much. But Stan hadn’t needed Bill to confirm it— he’d known it since they were kids. He saw it in the way Ford slowed his speech, dumbed down his words for his brother’s sake. He was always the stupid one— the one who broke their father’s things, the one who got bad grades, the one who had and always would come in second place. No wonder Ford wanted Stan to just take the journal and go. Everything he was doing on this walk, in their whole lives, was holding Ford back. 

Embarrassment, pink and hot, flooded his face, and he stared at the ground. “...Sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“Just—” He gestured vaguely. “Y’know. Was bein’ stupid.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Like everyone fuckin’ says.” 

“You're not—” He paused. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Let’s— let’s take a quick break.” 

Stan nodded wordlessly, a cold ache settling in him. Ford squeezed his hand once more, his eyes carefully scanning Stan’s face for a moment before he seemed satisfied to let it drop. 

Ford leaned heavily against a tree, swiping quickly at his forehead. He coughed, harsh and wet, into his arm, taking a sharp breath after. He rubbed absently at his throat, letting his eyes squeeze shut for a moment. Stan was grateful for the break, his own head pounding in his skull and his whole body still buzzing with the remnants of panic. He let his body slump against the tree, sighing in relief, closing his eyes to try to stop the forest from tilting. 

After a moment, Ford pushed himself back up to stand on his own, swaying for a moment before he steadied. 

He placed a gentle hand on Stan’s arm. “Are you okay to keep going?” 

Stan nodded. He could feel his brother’s eyes, questioning and confused, piercing into him. He could feel how Ford was biting his lip, choking back his words, physically holding himself back from saying more. Stan focused on the ground, watching Ford’s uneven steps make boot-shaped imprints in the snow, listening to his shallow breaths. 

Finally, his brother’s patience seemed to thin completely. 

“Lee?” 

Stan hummed in question. 

“Could you—” He hesitated. “What did Bill… say to you? Once you had locked me in the padded room?” 

Stan sucked in a sharp breath at the question. His head pounded, but he kept walking, willing himself to just keep going, until Bill’s voice echoed, shrill and slicing through his skull. 

HE DIDN’T MISS YOU. HE WAS GLAD YOU WERE GONE.

He stopped in his tracks, his legs suddenly shaking beneath him, and he pressed a shaking hand against a tree, the bark scraping his palm, praying that he would be able to stay on his feet. 

“Stan, are you alright?” Ford’s voice was urgent. Frantic. 

“M’ fine,” Stan muttered between shallow breaths. “Just tired’s all. Gimme a minute.” 

“Alright.” Ford cleared his throat. After a moment, once he’d concluded his brother wasn’t about to lose consciousness, he continued. “So, er— you were about to tell me about what Bill said?”

Why did Ford have to press? Why did he need to know so badly? Stan didn’t want to think about it at all. He wanted to ignore it, to forget it ever happened, to somehow forget how physical Bill’s voice was. How right Bill was. 

He forced out a scoff, his voice rough. “Why are you askin’?”

Ford’s voice was careful. “Just— I haven’t really been able to stop thinking about it.” 

YOU WERE ALWAYS JUST A BURDEN TO HIM! SOMETHING TO FIX! 

“He didn’t tell me anythin’ I didn’t already know.”

Ford stuttered, his eyes wide. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“Leave it alone, Ford.” 

YOU MEAN NOTHING TO HIM!

“No!” Ford’s voice was sharp. Prying. “I want to know what he said!” 

Stan’s shoulders stiffened, and he crossed his arms over his chest, letting his voice drop. “Well, I’m not tellin’ you.” 

Ford suddenly reached out and grabbed one of Stan’s hands, cradling it in both of his. He stared down at them, sucking in a shaky breath.

“Please, Stanley.” His voice was soft. “I’m just— you have to know that Bill is a liar. A-and I don’t know what he said to you, but I know how convincing he can be. Whatever he said, it’s not true. He only does things to cause harm, and I don’t—” He sighed. “I don’t like knowing that he hurt you. You didn’t deserve that. You don’t deserve to be… hurt like that.”

Stan felt a sharp prick in the back of his eyes, his throat tightening. He blinked rapidly, trying to control himself. Stupid. For a moment, Bill’s voice faded away, and all he could see was his brother. Tired, earnest, afraid. For a moment, he didn’t feel judgment. He felt concern. Care. As if maybe, Ford wasn’t lying to him or pitying him. Maybe Ford just wanted him to be okay. 

But he wasn’t sure if he could take that risk yet. 

“I—” His voice cracked. “Yeah. Whatever.” 

Ford’s face fell, and he let out a tiny, broken sigh through his nose, letting his gaze fall to the ground. He sniffled quietly, turning his head aside. For a moment, his fingers twitched forward, like he was about to reach for something. Then he pulled it back. 

The silence grew between them as Stan forced himself to look away from his brother and just keep walking his footsteps heavy with exhaustion. Each step away from Ford felt wrong, but he kept his head down, staring at his own footfalls. It took him longer than it should’ve to realize there was no one beside him. 

He turned quickly, his heart beating rapidly with the sudden absence of his brother. 

“Ford?” 

Ford was stopped in his tracks, eyes narrowed and observant. It was then that Stan realized the woods had vanished where they were standing. Instead, the trees gave way to grass. 

Tiny little patches of eerily vibrant green grass that poked through the snow. A few wildflowers that poked their heads above the slush. Nothing about it seemed natural. It was too bright, standing out against the greyish white Oregon snow. 

“Ford—” 

“We’re here,” Ford said simply. His voice was resigned. 

Stan walked back to his brother and looked around, confused as all hell. Sure, the grass and flowers were weird. But, shouldn’t there be unicorns in a unicorn grove? 

He raised his eyebrows. “You sure about that?” 

Ford shot him a look but said nothing, just digging around in his bag. After a moment of searching, he produced the journal and flipped through the pages, rubbing at his temples and blinking at the pages like they hurt to read. 

“Stanley, you have to promise to let me take the lead in here, alright?” He scanned through the page he’d landed on, eyes scanning from left to right. “It’s likely that she won’t want to give up her hair. Unicorns are quite selective about who they give it to.” 

“So, what happens if she doesn’t give it up?” Stan asked, watching as Ford started searching through the bag again. 

“We take it by force,” Ford said simply. He suddenly handed Stan a pair of scissors. “I’ll distract her, and you’ll get the hair.” 

Stan smirked. “We’re stealin’?”

“No!” Ford insisted firmly. “I’ll try to get it the proper way, but I— I just doubt that I’ll be able to sway her. I… haven’t. In the past.” He took a deep breath, rubbing his temples. “But that can’t happen again. I-I don’t know what will happen if we don’t get it.” 

All of a sudden, none of it seemed funny anymore. The unicorns, his lab partner’s stupid name, anything. All he could think about was the terrifying, yellow-slitted dead eyes that had stared at him from behind the portal. About how broken Ford’s body was when he’d finally come to. 

Ford’s words echoed between his ears: I woke up with a nail sticking out of my palm. I woke up coughing up spiders. Without the unicorn hair, they were out of options. Bill would have free reign in Ford’s mind, be able to keep hurting his brother. To keep controlling him. 

Stan hadn’t been there before. He’d let this happen to Ford. But he was here now, and he’d be damned if that demon hurt his brother again. No one was allowed to do that. 

He tightened his grip around the scissors, the cool metal biting into his palms. His heart pounded inside of his ribcage, but it wasn’t fear for himself. He was well past that now. He simply couldn’t fail his brother again. Not this time. 

He nodded at Ford, determination setting in. 

Ford cleared his throat. “Just— stay quiet. The more you draw attention to yourself, the less likely it is that you’ll be able to get the hair before she notices.” He drew in a deep breath. “Are you ready?” 

Stan nodded again, faintly. “Yeah.” 

Ford’s expression shifted for a moment. His eyes fixed onto Stan’s, warm and tired. “Lee, I’m—” He hesitated. 

“What is it?” 

Ford waited a moment in the silence, his hands twitching around the journal. He blinked, and let his eyes remain closed for a moment before he sighed. Barely perceptible, soft and quiet. 

“Nevermind, I just—” He took a determined but unbalanced step forward, suddenly no longer willing to look at his screw up brother. He coughed harshly, louder now, his breath ragged, and Stan vaguely wondered how long his brother would be able to stay on his feet. His voice came out rougher than before. “Let’s just go.”

Chapter Text

The minute they had stepped in through the giant, golden double doors, all the snow, the cold— it went away. In the grove, it was a beautiful, magical sort of spring. It was warm, comfortingly so. The sun, which had only a few moments before been covered by the clouds, was shining brightly, hitting Stan’s face. Ford said something about why that was, but Stan had barely listened, just taking it all in, his brain rushing to keep up with everything he was seeing. It was beautiful, nothing like the dumps he was used to. Like something out of a damn fairy tale. 

The grass was greener than anything he’d ever seen, and, if he hadn’t already witnessed a million impossible things that day, he might think it was artificial. Little patches of wildflowers popped up throughout the grove, but they weren’t like any flowers he had ever seen. They were spiral and iridescent and almost— dancing. There was a sort of mound in the middle of it all, with a small waterfall leading into a crystal clear pond. He was afraid to look in it, to see his reflection dirty the otherwise clean, almost holy place he stood in. 

The air almost had color to it, like when light catches the water just right and creates a faint rainbow. It was thick, and sweet. For a moment, he forgot everything. Every trouble. They didn’t exist here. 

Ford stepped forward with determined footsteps, a wave of his hand indicating for Stan to follow. He seemed rather unimpressed with the whole thing. 

Stan was taking in the whole place, the warmth, the sun, the spring, when he saw the most impossible thing yet: a unicorn. She was draped over the rocks, one leg lazily dangling in the waterfall. Her coat was a pale blue, her hooves purple, her mane shimmering in every possible color. Some Stan didn’t even recognize. Her eyes were wide and innocent and glittering. She raised her head slowly, gazing down on them. She had an otherworldly air about her, something that sent a familiar warmth through him, not unlike the same tingle vodka had. 

“Visitors to my realm! What a surprise!” 

She didn’t open her mouth to talk, but the words somehow floated into Stan’s ears, sounding almost like music. It was calm, peaceful. Mesmerizing. Her horn glowed as she spoke, a warm, iridescent light, and Stan didn’t want to look at anything else.

“Celestabellebethabelle,” Ford said, his voice clipped. He immediately swept into a bow, one knee hitting the grass. He dropped his head. 

Stan stood there, frozen, staring up at the miraculous creature in front of him, until Ford cleared his throat rather obviously. Stan immediately dropped into a bow, dropping his head, his brain short-circuiting with all the information. 

“Please, no need for such formality,” she sang. “But do remove your shoes. I have a thing about shoes.” The last syllable changed tones, almost becoming a sneer. 

Stan found himself raising his eyebrows involuntarily at that. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that sounded… bratty. But Ford scrambled to remove his boots, untying them and yanking them from his feet and shoving them in his bag. Stan knew he should do the same, but he found himself unable to move, or speak, or do anything other than blink. 

“Stan,” Ford hissed, “shoes.” 

Something finally clicked in him and he regained control of his body. He swung his legs in front of him and wrenched his boots off. He rose to his feet and held each of his shoes in one hand, vaguely aware of how stupid he looked and felt. 

Why are you doing this?

“My lady,” Ford began, his voice dripping with insincerity, “I have come to request a lock of your hair. It is the only solution to—” 

“Stop.” Her voice was suddenly unpleasant, the melody it had slightly skewed. The unicorn— Celestabellebethabelle? What a mouthful.— tilted her head to the side. 

Ford snapped his mouth shut instantly, frozen. His eyes were wide, his skin draining of color. His face dropped to the ground, and he wrung his shaking hands behind his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the tension radiating off of him. 

Celestabellebethabelle slowly rose to a standing position and made her way down from the rocks. She strutted toward the brothers, giving each of them a once-over, her tail swishing behind her. The air around her felt… wrong. Too sweet, almost artificial. Up close, she didn’t seem to radiate warmth. Stan wasn’t sure what, but something felt very off about it all. 

She strode forward, stopping in front of Ford, her horn pointed towards his head, inches from his skin. One wrong step, and she would impale him.  

Stan stepped forward, an inch, a surge of fear coursing through him, the horrifying image of the horn puncturing his brother flashing in front of his eyes. “Careful with the horn, there, ma’am,” he murmured. 

Ford shot him a look that could set the north pole on fire, but Celestabellebethabelle didn’t even glance his way, just swished her tail in irritation, her attention solely on Ford. 

“You may have a lock of my hair. If  I find to be pure of heart,” she said. She narrowed her eyes, her voice suddenly darkening. “But something tells me you won’t be.” 

She was dripping with condescension, and Stan’s lip curled inadvertently. Not a moment ago, he’d been mesmerized by her, and now— he couldn’t help distrusting her. The whole grove seemed wrong. Sinister. 

Ford swallowed and nodded frantically, giving his best attempt at a smile. “Of course.” His eyes betrayed him. They were frozen on her horn, his hands still shaking behind his back, his face pale. 

She lifted her horn dramatically, and it began to pulse with an eerie red light. The silence hung over the three of them, with Ford’s eyes locked on the horn, desperate and wide. Stan crossed his arms over his chest, unconvinced. The whole thing felt… fake. Almost performative. 

Celestabellebethabelle’s horn suddenly returned to its usual iridescence. She sighed loudly, shaking her head, the horn waving side to side in the air. 

“As I suspected,” she sneered, her eyes narrowed in on Ford, “You are not pure of heart.” 

“What?” Stan blurted out, his mind reeling. 

“Please, my Lady,” Ford begged, clasping his hands in front of him. “This is vitally important! If there’s anything I can do that would—” 

“You are not pure of heart!” The unicorn interrupted loudly, her voice shrill. “You are not worthy of standing in my grove!” She pushed him back with her horn, and Ford stumbled backward, nearling toppling over. “If I gave up my hair for every ‘important’ issue that someone brought to me, I wouldn’t have anything left to give! It cannot possibly be that important. I suggest you leave, immediately.”

With that, she turned and began to trot back toward the rocks. 

Ford’s cheeks flushed and his face fell, his eyes drifting to the ground. He let his hands fall to his side, his whole body sighing. He sniffled softly, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. If Stan didn’t know any better, he would think his brother was… ashamed of himself. And Stan felt a strong surge of protectiveness in himself. Ford wasn’t supposed to look like that— embarrassed, ashamed. 

And who did this unicorn think she was? Did she just think she got to make declarations and walk away? How was Ford, of all people, not pure of heart? Sure, he’d made his share of mistakes, but he was a good person. Stan would understand her verdict if he was the one being judged. Obviously, he wasn’t pure of heart. But Ford was. 

And even if he himself wasn’t, his intentions were certainly pure. He didn’t want the hair for himself, he was trying to save the whole goddamn world! If Bill took control again, there was no telling what he’d do. He’d hurt people, open the portal, anything. He was dangerous. Ford was just trying to protect people. 

How could she say it couldn’t possibly be that important? It was like she didn’t even know what was going on. 

His brain suddenly stopped short. 

Any rational being would know that Bill was a serious threat. Any rational being would make compromises to ensure the safety of the entire world. But she didn’t. 

The realization hit him like a slap in the face: she wasn’t giving up her hair because she didn’t know what was going on. She was just pretending. 

She probably couldn’t even tell if people were “pure of heart.” That didn’t even mean anything. She was just a liar. A con artist. And Stan knew how to deal with con artists. 

He stepped forward confidently, disregarding what Ford had said about keeping a low profile. 

“Hey, wait—” he called firmly. Celestabellebethabelle didn’t turn around, but she stopped trotting. “This is all total bullshit, isn’t it?” 

The creature turned to face him, her movements slow and calculated. Her eyes narrowed, tiny iridescent slits on her face that felt like they pierced through Stan’s head. She tilted her head, and, for a moment, Stan wondered if he had just made a huge mistake. 

“Stan, what are you doing?” Ford growled, his voice challenging Stan to say one more damn word. His hands curled into trembling fists at his sides. 

“No, no, listen—” He stepped forward on shaking legs, despite the lingering fear that he was asking to get stabbed with a horn. “None of this makes sense! Ford doesn’t even want this hair for himself, he’s askin’ for it to help m—” He paused, not letting the word escape his lips. “To help everyone. People could get hurt. If you could really tell if people were pure of heart, you’d know that this is that important!”  

He crossed his arms, hoping that his fear didn’t show. You’re just calling her bluff. You’ve done it a thousand times.  

But the stakes had never been quite this high. 

The unicorn stalked toward him with fluid, sinister steps, her body trembling with anger. She inhaled sharply before her words stabbed their way into his ears from her horn. 

“Do not provoke me. Leave. Now.”

“M’ not tryin’ to provoke you!” He insisted. “We just need the hair, or people are gonna get hurt! And if that happens, it’ll be on you, because you’re just a con artist who’s too selfish to give up her precious hair, even if it’s to save the whole damn world!"

She gasped and lowered her horn toward his chest, letting the tip of it prick into his skin. It was glowing a damning red again, the color reflecting into her suddenly dark, void-like eyes. She huffed, the anger radiating off of her in waves. But there was more than anger— there was embarrassment. Shame. She knew she’d been caught. 

“How dare you even speak to me?” She sneered at him, enunciating each syllable. “I know who you are. And if your brother isn’t pure of heart, I don’t even know what I’d call you.”

She gave her horn a final poke, sending Stan stumbling back, nearly falling over. His cheeks were pink and hot, her words biting more than he cared to admit. He watched as she turned around and trotted toward her perch on the waterfall, her tail swishing hypnotically, catching the light with its iridescent strands. 

Without turning around, she added, “Everyone is right about you, you know, dear. You might just be better off dead.” 

The words hit him like a knife to the chest, the air fleeing from his chest. His throat was tight and dry, Bill’s words suddenly screaming in his brain. 

HE WOULDN’T CARE IF YOU DIED!

His legs wavered beneath him. You know that. You know you aren’t good for anything. He tried to keep himself calm, remind himself that he’d already had it confirmed time and time again. She was right and so was Bill, and he’d known that since he was a kid. The unicorn, Bill, Ford, Jimmy, Rico, his father— they were all right about him. He knew that. He knew that. 

So why did it still sting? 

He faltered, stumbling backward, his vision blurring at the edges just slightly, his breaths coming fast and shallow. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out. 

So he just nodded and let his eyes drop to the vibrant green grass lapping at his shoeless feet. He shoved his hands in his pockets, letting one finger trace the sharp blade of the scissors he had hiding in there and waited for her to continue telling him what he already knew too well. 

But no biting words came. He turned expectantly toward her, when an arrow whizzed past his face, nearly slicing him. 

It hit Celestabellebethabelle directly in her back leg. 

She cried out in a shrill, pained shriek, her body collapsing onto the rocks with a wounded groan. Her eyes were dark and angry, staring daggers that could bring a man to his knees. But they weren’t aimed at him. They went straight through him, in fact. 

Stan whipped his head around and sucked in a sharp breath.

Ford was holding his crossbow against his face, aimed directly at the unicorn, his eyes determined and vengeful, his entire body heaving with tension. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breaths shallow, his face red.

Without a word, he aimed again, and shot her a second time, the arrow puncturing one of her front legs. She cried out again, sharp and high. 

“WHAT do you think you’re DOING?!” She screamed, her voice cracking, like it couldn’t decide if it was panicked or furious. 

Before Stan could think, the world shifted. Her horn suddenly blazed a sickening white-green, the light flooding the grove, pulsating and warping the world. Stan stumbled, the grove bending and twisting and distorting in the light. He blinked, trying to focus on her and force himself to push through the nausea that was overtaking him. Everything was lined with light, at most a silhouette of what it should have been, making his head spin as his eyes struggled to focus. 

“Stan!” Ford called, his voice sounding distant, though Stan knew his brother couldn’t be more than 10 feet from him. “Stanley, get the hair!”

Stan’s body was moving before he could think, his legs pushing him toward the silhouette of the the creature. His whole body was shaking, adrenaline pulsing through every fiber of his being as he removed the scissors from his pocket and spread them in his grip. 

The light was blinding, and the unicorn’s silhouette blurred at the edges as he got closer. With each step, he realized he was suddenly chasing after someone he couldn’t see. He stopped in his tracks, turning his head side to side, desperate to stay on the attack. 

He was suddenly knocked onto the ground by two strong hooves, pinning him to the grass by his chest. 

He thrashed, grabbing onto the horn for some sort of leverage, but it was pointless— he was trapped. The unicorn wrenched its horn out of his grip and stabbed it into his cheek, slicing through his skin. He cried out, the feeling of hot, sticky blood leaking from the puncture into his mouth. The wound stung, immediately throbbing, the pain radiating outward into the rest of his face. His stomach threatened to turn at the taste of bitter copper in his mouth. He spat, the blood and saliva hitting the unicorn between the eyes. 

It inched closer to his face, horn over his head and hitting the grass, and Stan realized once it was close enough for his vision to clear: its face was unfamiliar, its horn a different sort of twisted shape. It wasn’t her. There was another unicorn in the grove. 

Which meant Ford could be fighting Celestabellebethabelle off. 

With a surge of new fear setting his body on fire, he cried out in a last resort effort and jammed the scissors into the unicorn’s side, a sickening squelch sound filling his ears. Sticky blood sprayed on impact, covering his hand and dripping onto the grass. The unicorn screeched and reared its body upward, its eyes wide and panicked, and Stan rolled out from under it, gasping for much needed air now that the hooves weren’t pinning him to the ground. 

Every inch of him was begging to just stay down and give into the tempting pull of unconsciousness, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. Ford could be in danger, Ford could be hurt. So he forced himself up on shaking limbs, trying to stop the world from spinning and burning his eyes with its light. He squared his shoulders, bracing for another attack. 

A hand gripped his wrist firmly. 

He whipped his head around, raising his arm, breath hitching. His vision was blurred, and he couldn’t make out what was in front of him, just that it had to be dangerous, and he needed to fight. 

“Get the fuck off of me!” He yelled, the scissors in his hand. He aimed them in front of him, prepared for attack. 

“STANLEY! IT’S ME!” 

Ford. 

It was Ford’s voice. It was muddled from the grove’s distortion, but it was undoubtedly Ford, cracked with panic and fraying at the edges. His grip loosened slightly around Stan’s wrist and he inched closer, and, finally, through the unicorn’s distortion, his face became clear. 

Stan breathed a sigh of relief, lowering his weapon and his guard. Without thinking, he fell into his brother, wrapping his arms around him securely, desperate to not let him out of his sight again. Ford made a soft, surprised oof sound but let himself relax in his brother’s hold, ever so slightly, his fingers curling around the fabric of Stan’s jacket. For a moment, Stan felt safe, even in the warped, blinding, nauseating grove with danger around every corner. His brother was here, his brother was real and tangible, and his brother wouldn’t let anything happen to them. 

“Lee?” Ford asked softly, hurriedly. “Are you— are you alright? Are you hurt?” 

“Ford,” Stan wheezed, his head buried in Ford’s shoulder. “I’m— I’m fine. What’s goin’ on? There are two of ‘em—” 

“I-I know, I don’t— I don’t know, I’ve never seen her this angry.” Ford’s voice was hoarse, strained. “I didn’t even know her horn could do this , I didn’t—” He sighed. “It’s alright. It’s manageable. Did you get the hair?”

Stan loosened his hold, pulling back from his brother. “I-I didn’t— no, another unicorn rammed into me and—” 

“Fuck—” Ford interrupted him, his eyes widening. Stan braced himself for the scolding he was sure was coming, knowing that he’d once again failed his brother and put the both of them in danger. 

But no scolding came. 

Instead, Ford put a soft hand on Stan’s face near the cut. “Stan, you’re bleeding!” 

“S’ fine, barely felt it.” Stan turned aside slightly, trying to hide his surprise. “B-but the hair—” 

“What happened? A-are you lightheaded, or—” Ford’s brows drew in, his eyes safe and concerned. “Shit, that looks deep—”

“Ford, m’ fine,” Stan insisted, gently pushing Ford’s hand away from his face. 

“I just don’t want you to—” 

“Ford,” Stan said firmly, his own voice sounding distant and distorted. “We need to get the hair, okay? We can clean me up later.” 

Ford bit his lip, hesitating, his eyes darting every which way. Stan could hear the gears turning in his brother’s head. But, finally, he sighed, resigned. 

“...Fine,” he muttered. “Okay, if I distract the other unicorn, can you get the hair from Celestabellebethabelle?”

Stan clenched his jaw, debating. Getting the hair was the safer job between the two of them. It was the job Ford should be doing. Ford needed to stay safe— Stan didn’t matter here, or ever. 

“I think it’d be safer for you to get the hair,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to—” 

“No,” Ford said with finality. “Getting the hair is the safer task, and you’re still recovering. I’m not letting you put yourself in more danger.” His tone left no room for argument, and his expression dared Stan to challenge him. 

Stan wavered, his eyes sinking to the ground. “Okay. Yeah, I can do that.” He sighed and tightened his grip around the scissors. “You didn’t say there were gonna be more than one of ‘em.”

“I didn’t think there were more than one,” Ford said, his voice tight. “I’m hopeful it’s just the two of them, but I can’t be sure anymore. So— hurry.” 

Stan nodded and gave his brother one final, hesitant glance before tearing away from him, the scissors aimed and deadly in his hand. The world tilted in his vision, and he barely fought back the nausea as the light bent in front of him. Each step felt like he was sinking in quicksand, but he kept going, kept running, desperate to get them out of there as soon as possible. 

Out of nowhere in the blurry air, his foot hit a stiff mass on the ground, and he barely kept himself from toppling over and banging his head on the rocks, his arm shooting out to steady himself against the stone. He kneeled down, squinting. He could’ve sobbed in relief. It was Celestabellebethabelle, still unconscious, her hair up for the taking. He quickly opened the scissors, poised to cut. 

Before he was able to cut, however, a sharp, wounded cry rang out, impossibly clear in the distorted scape. It was pained and pleading and unmistakably human. 

Ford. 

Stan’s throat tightened and he stood, searching desperately for the source of his brother’s cry, seeing absolutely nothing. His head turned sharply when a heavy thud reached his ears, and his panic doubled. 

Get the hair, get to Ford. Get the hair, get to Ford. 

He forced himself back down to his knees, raising the scissors in shaking hands. He heard a distant twang—  Ford’s crossbow. Then another shriek tearing through the mist. The world spun in blinding white, his hands shaking around the unicorn’s mane as he fought the urge to run instantly to his brother’s aid. 

His ears suddenly perked up at the soft trotting sound he heard rapidly approaching. It was muddled and warped, and he had no idea how close it was. His heart pounded in his chest as he strained to see more than 10 feet in front of him. 

Then a voice rang out, the same disjointed, musical quality as the unconscious unicorn next to him. 

“STOP RIGHT THERE!”

Stan’s head shot up, desperate to find the source. He could just barely make out an eerie, pulsing green light not 10 feet away. But that was all he needed. 

His body moved on its own, snapping the scissors shut and slicing off a chunk of hair without looking. He shoved the locks in his pocket, jumped to his feet and bolted. The world was misshapen in front of him, twisting and bending at the edges, but he couldn’t do anything but run, run, run. 

“Ford?!” He called out loudly, his eyes scanning for his brother in the light as his feet moved without rhyme or reason. He blinked, trying to see beyond a few feet in front of him. “FORD!” 

He waited for a response but got nothing, and his legs felt like they might just give out from under him. Every possibility flashed in front of his eyes: Ford, impaled in the chest with a unicorn horn. Ford, passed out on the ground, a pool of blood under him. Ford, his eyes an unmistakable, sickening yellow after his body gave out. Stan’s chest tightened, and he forced himself to move faster, faster, faster. 

Why didn’t he fight harder, insist Ford be the one that cut the hair? Why did he let him run off into the mist and fight a unicorn that was bent on killing him? Stan’s breath started coming in fast and shallow, his legs inching dangerously close to giving out completely. What was wrong with him? 

Ford couldn’t be hurt. He couldn’t. 

“FORD!” He cried out again, his voice cracking into a choked sob. “FORD—”

“Stan—” Ford’s voice came from behind, quiet and hoarse. He was favoring one side, holding himself strangely, unbalanced. But he was here. He coughed, harsh and grating, and blinked rapidly, swaying on his feet. His whole body trembled.

“Ford!” Stan rushed to his side, holding him upright. Ford wavered, letting his head lean against Stan’s shoulder, another tremor rolling through him. Stan wrapped his arms around him protectively, keeping an eye to the mist for any oncoming attacks. 

 “Ford, what happened? A-are you— are you—” 

“I’m fine,” Ford murmured, unfocused. “Just— can’t…” He trailed off, his head lolling slightly. 

Stan adjusted his grip, holding up his brother’s body from the side, praying desperately that he would stay standing. “It’s okay, we— let’s get outta here now, alright?”

Ford nodded weakly, slumping further into Stan’s arms, his head burrowed in his brother’s shoulder. A soft, wounded sound, slightly muffled, escaped his lips, and Stan’s chest tightened. The fight had pushed Ford dangerously close to the edge. Stan wondered, panicked, if his brother would even be able to make it back to the cabin without passing out.

No. No, that couldn’t happen. That would let Bill out. If Bill got out in the middle of the woods, then—

No. Don’t think about that. Just focus on getting out the grove. 

Much to Stan’s relief, the mist was fading just slightly, the world no longer warped, but now only skewed. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t want to stick around to find out. He blinked, making out the golden double doors they’d entered through and headed for them, trying to fill a last bout of adrenaline into his body. 

They must’ve been 10 feet away when he heard quick, trotting footfalls behind him. He sped up, the alarms in his head blaring, until he ran directly into the door with a firm thud. 

He ignored the sudden, pulsing pain in his head and started pushing, grunting with the effort. The doors were hard, solid gold, and his entire body strength wasn’t enough to move it more than a few inches at a time. His breaths came fast and he kept pushing, pushing, pushing, praying to whoever might be listening to just let them get out alive. Ford was slumped against the door, trying his best to push it open, but it was clear he was fading, fast. 

The trotting got louder, quicker. They boomed in his ears, echoing throughout the grove, and he realized: I’m not going to get the door open on time. 

So he made a choice. He took his hands off the door and spun around, placing his body firmly between his brother and the oncoming attack. He placed a protective arm around him, his body tense and shoulders squared as he pulled at Ford to make sure no part of him was exposed. 

But Ford stumbled at the sudden yank, off balance, to the side, his body tilting.

And in the same horrifying moment, the unicorn’s horn drove forward. Not toward Stan, but off to the side. It caught Ford’s upper arm, slicing through his bicep muscle like paper, just as Stan lost his grip on him. Blood sprayed on impact, gushing from his arm and leaving thick drops in the grass. 

Ford let out a sound Stan had never heard. It was a raw, guttural, animalistic cry. Wounded and exhausted and terrified all at the same time. He gripped his arm as his body hit the ground, tension oozing from every line in his face. The blood coated his arm, vertical liquid trails dancing down to his fingertip. He let out another howl and his face contorted, draining of color, eyes squeezing shut. 

Stan fought back the nausea, his arms already reaching for his brother, but the unicorn grunted, the sound angry and threatening, as it charged toward him. The light contorted around it, and, somehow, its face was impossibly clear to him. 

His body moved before his brain. In an instant, he was gripping the scissors in his pocket and pulling them out, and punching them into the unicorn’s eye with a sickening squish sound. There was a sharp, wet pop, and hot, thick, sticky fluid gushed out of its eye socket, coating Stan’s face in its moist heat. The unicorn reared back and let out a high pitched, ear-piercing wail, milk-like blood pouring down its face in thick, liquid trails, with clumps of muscle and vein spilling out onto the creature’s iridescent coat. 

Stan’s stomach turned violently and he gagged, his throat tight and sour. Before the unicorn could make any more advances, he rammed into the creature, sending it falling onto its back, letting out high-pitched cries in an odd, disjointed melody. 

Without a second thought, Stan hoisted his brother upright and wedged both of them through the thin crack of dull light through the golden doors. He let Ford tumble into the snow and used his last reserves of strength to slam the door shut, red-blooded handprints left on the pristine metal when he finally let go and stumbled backward into the snow. 

The ground began to rumble, shaking Stan’s entire body. He looked up, bracing for an ambush, but nothing was coming. Then, slowly, the stone fortress guarding the grove began to tremble, little bits of rock raining on the brothers. Stan brought a hand over his head to shield himself and curled inward, watching in awe, and quite a bit of horror as the stones sank into the earth. It was overwhelmingly loud, and he abandoned his shield in favor of clamping his hands over his ears. 

Finally, the shaking stopped, and it was eerily quiet. 

There wasn’t a trace of unicorns, the stones taking the entire grove with them. The only thing left was a tree-less patch of forest with tiny patches of vibrant grass and wildflowers peeking through the snow. And this time, they didn’t seem beautiful in the least. 

He let his head loll back in the snow, his breaths shallow and hoarse. The cold leaked onto the deep, blood-hot slash on his cheek, cooling it soothingly, and he let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Then his stomach twisted violently. He turned over on his side, a retch tearing its way through him. He dry heaved against the cold snow, the tremors jerking his body in irregular twitches. 

Nothing even came out. There wasn’t enough in his system. But once the heaving stopped, he slumped back into the earth. The adrenaline had leaked completely from his body, and he was left exhausted, tempted to let his fatigue win. 

“...Stan?” 

His brother’s voice brought him back from the edge, and he turned his head sluggishly, his body not reflecting the urgency he felt. 

“Ford?” 

Ford’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. “Did you…get the hair?” 

Stan fumbled in his pocket and firmly gripped the small tuft of hair he’d managed to cut off just before the unicorn had charged at him, horn-first. He held it up to his brother, who was still slumped in the snow, a bright red stain underneath him. 

Ford raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting. “Surely that’s not… all of it?” 

“Uh— no, yeah.” Stan shoved it back in his pocket. “Yeah, this is all of it.”

Ford’s eyes widened. He had been sprawled in the snow seconds ago, eyes unfocused and body dangerously close to unconsciousness, but suddenly he was pushing himself up with his good arm, his energy shifting in a way Stan couldn’t identify. 

His voice came out too loud for how pale he looked, like his anger was the only thing keeping him conscious. “Stan, that’s not nearly enough!” 

Stan’s heart dropped, his whole body feeling hollow. You messed it up again. All of that was for nothing. He’d proved Bill right: he’d dragged his brother down. They’d gone in there for nothing. Ford had gotten hurt for nothing. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

His voice came out barely more than a breath as he forced himself upright and curled his knees into his chest. “This… isn’t enough for the exorcism?” 

“What— no, it’s enough for the exorcism,” Ford said matter-of-factly, “but I told you to get more than we needed! I told you we needed it for your injuries and your fever!” 

Despite the anger in Ford’s voice, Stan felt relief flood through his body. It was enough for the exorcism, and that was all they needed. Why did Ford even care about Stan’s stupid brand? Why did it even matter? All that mattered was getting that demon out of Ford’s head, and they had what they needed. 

“Ford, that doesn’t matter, they’re healin’ anyway. All we need is enough for the exorcism.” 

“No, I told you—” Ford hesitated, sputtering. His face was flushed now. His hands shook, his words becoming slurred, just slightly. “Why didn’t you cut any more? I told you— ”’ 

“There was a unicorn about to skewer me with its horn!” Stan fumed. “I cut what I could and ran!”

Ford’s cheeks were bright red, his anger a physical thing hanging thick in the air. “I told you I would distract them! You didn’t have to worry about that!” 

“Yeah, speakin’ of— you coulda’ told me your distraction was shootin’ ‘em with a crossbow!”  

Ford was incredulous. “What did you think I was going to do?” 

“What did I think—” Stan stuttered over his words, rising to his feet shakily. His head spun, bile rising in his throat. For a moment, he thought he might be sick again. “I thought you might, I dunno, talk to them! Like a sane human being!” 

Ford rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t have had to use the crossbow if you hadn’t insisted on antagonizing her!” 

“Hey— all I did was call her out on her bullshit!” Stan spat. “I didn’t think you’d kill them!” 

“Kill them?” Ford rose to his feet, his legs shaking underneath him. He staggered forward slightly, catching himself against the tree, his nails scratching against the bark. Stan stepped forward on instinct, but Ford waved him off, still desperate to get the last word. 

“I didn’t— Stan, they’re unicorns. I said they have healing properties. They’ll be fine within the hour. And you would know that if you ever listened!” 

“Jesus Christ, Ford! I do listen!” 

“Do you?” Ford asked, his voice cracking in frustration and growing in volume. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “Because every time I tell you to do something—”

“You just don't tell me anythin’ because you think I’m too stupid to understand anythin’!” Stan interrupted, his feet crunching in the snow as he stalked toward his brother, ignoring the way his vision flickered at the edges. “And you’re right! I know you are, okay? I mean, fuck, I just proved it back there! Gettin’ that hair was the first worthwhile thing I’ll do in my life and I messed it up again! I know!” 

Ford flinched back violently, his eyes wide. He looked like Stan had struck him. 

“First worthwhile—” He stopped himself, his voice wavering, his body swaying as he blinked rapidly. “Is that what you believe I think?” 

Bill’s words echoed in his brain. 

YOU MEAN NOTHING TO HIM!

He flinched at the shrill sound in his own head, clenching his jaw. 

“No, it’s what I know you know,” Stan insisted, his voice fraying at the edges, the fight draining from him. “I mean, you said it.” 

Ford’s face crumpled, his eyes glassy and horror struck. His legs shook and bent, his body curling in on itself. He was silent, and Stan knew there was nothing to be said. Ford knew his brother was right. He let his eyes hit the ground, knowing that if he looked, he’d see exactly what Ford felt: shame. He didn’t need a reminder of what his brother thought about him, what the whole world thought about him. Not again, not for what felt like the thousandth time that day. 

But the silence stretched, going on for what felt like an eternity, the only sound that filled it the weak, shallow breaths from behind Stan. 

And, suddenly, a soft thud, and the faint crunching of snow. 

“Lee—” 

Stan whipped his head up at the tiny, pleading sound his brother made. 

His chest clenched. Ford was on the ground, crumpled in a heap, a small pool of blood staining the snow bright red under his arm. He squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping his arms around himself and let out a small, pained whimper. 

In an instant, Stan’s anger drained from his body and he rushed to his brother’s side, kneeling down beside him, gently lifting him upright enough to hold Ford in his arms. Ford leaned into the hold, his chin falling toward his chest, and a low, miserable moan escaped his lips. 

“Ford?” Stan asked softly, careful not to aggravate Ford’s injured arm further. “Can you hear me?”

 “...Mhm…” Ford hummed softly. “I can… hear you…”

Fuck fuck fuck. Think, Stan. 

Assess the damage. 

“Good, good, okay, uh—” He hesitated, gritting his teeth. “I'm gonna look at your arm, okay? Just gotta see how bad it is.”

“No—” Ford shifted, a hiss escaping through his teeth. “No… we need to get… back to the cabin… Bill…” 

“We’re gonna do that right away,” Stan assured him, “but first, we need to stop the bleeding. Otherwise you’ll pass out on the way to the cabin, and Bill will come out.” 

Ford huffed and gave him what was probably supposed to be a glare, but it was unfocused and weak, so it didn’t really have the same effect. He adjusted positions and grabbed the bottom of his undershirt with his good hand, and lifted it up to his mouth. He bit down on it and pulled back on the fabric until a long piece ripped off in his hand.

Instinctively, Stan took the fabric and ripped it into two pieces. He wadded the first piece up and pressed it hard against the wound. Ford flinched, his arm twitching, and let out a barely restrained cry. Stan kept going despite the guilt gnawing at him, wrapping the rest of the fabric tightly enough to be secure but not so tight it cut off blood flow, and finally tied it off with a hasty knot. 

He vaguely remembered a time he’d had to do the same thing on himself, after things with Jimmy had gotten out of hand. A deal gone bad, a drunk, trigger happy Jimmy. A stupid, pointless argument that ended in Stan bandaging himself up this same way. But, in the end, Jimmy had come to help, the same fingers that had pointed the gun applying the bandages and cleaning the wound. 

And anyway, Stan had been the one to start the whole argument. It had been his fault, if anything. 

Ford hissed as Stan finished the knot but didn’t complain. He stared at his arm like it was foreign on his body, like it had offended him personally. He blinked, his expression unfocused and distant. 

Then his head slowly turned upward, staring at Stan, dazed. “You’re… bleeding…” 

Stan pressed his fingers gently to his cheek, the hot, sticky blood all the confirmation he needed. It stung at the slightest touch, and he bit a hiss back, not letting it get past his teeth, not daring to let the pain leak out. His little papercut didn’t matter. The pounding in his head, the churning in his stomach, the way the world was spinning— none of it mattered. 

“It’s fine, Ford, we just need to get back.” He hesitated. “Can you— should I help you up?” 

Ford shook his head, slowly shifting on the ground and putting his weight on both hands in front of him. The moment his injured arm hit the snow, he let out a high-pitched yelp. Both his arms gave out from under him and he collapsed into the snow, his face twisted in distress, his brows pinched together.

“Shit, okay, just, uh—” Stan scrambled to meet him on the ground, gently looping his arms under Ford’s. He gently pulled him to his knees, then adjusted his grip so he could follow through and get them both up and standing. 

Ford didn’t say anything, just let his weight fall against Stan’s shoulder, a soft, pained exhale leaving his lips. He swayed on his feet even with the assistance, like the world was tilting only for him. 

“It’s okay,” Stan muttered, his best attempt at encouragement. “You’re doin’ great…”

“Lee…” Ford murmured, partially muffled into Stan’s jacket. “I’m sorry… didn’t mean to— you’re not stupid…” 

“S’ fine, Ford, you don’t gotta lie.” 

Stan sighed, tightening his grip. He took a few, tentative steps forward to test the waters. When Ford didn’t immediately collapse, he felt a rush of determination surge through him. He’d get them back. He had to. 

“No…” Ford said, his voice tiny. “I-I’m not lying—” he was cut off by harsh, wet coughs that wracked his whole body with jerking tremors. He curled in on himself, too weak to even lift his arm to muffle them properly. Instead, his fingers just curled around Stan’s hand, his grip weak but desperate. 

Just get him back to the house. 

“Lee…” Ford spoke softly, his voice a breath. It was the same way his brother would wake him up after a nightmare when they were children, wanting to crawl into his bed for safety. Stan would complain, but both of them had known he didn’t mind. He’d never minded. 

Part of Stan wanted to tell him to stay quiet and save his strength, but the other part of him was comforted by the fact that if he was talking, it meant he wasn’t passed out. Which meant they were safe from Bill. 

For now. 

“What is it, Ford?” 

To Stan’s horror, Ford let out a broken, choked sob. He buried his head in Stan’s shoulder, his shaking hands gripping his brother’s hand. His whole frame trembled, his strength threatening to give out at any second, and another sob tore through him. 

“...Hurts…” He muttered between hitched breaths. “Lee… I can’t…”

Stan tightened his grip, summoning the final reserves of his strength as his heart clenched inside of his chest. 

“I know, Ford,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna fix this.” 

The moment tore through his mind again: the millisecond his brother slipped from his grip, the unicorn’s horn piercing through the skin with a thick, wet, squelching thud. Ford’s guttural, animal cry as he sunk into the grass. 

And how Stan hadn’t done anything. 

He replayed it over and over in his head, revisiting each detail. Every time, he came to the same conclusion: 

It should’ve been me. 

Chapter Text

Stan’s grip on his brother was tight, desperate. Ford was slumped against him, all of his weight entirely dependent on his twin’s ability to stay upright. Stan had to stay upright. He didn’t have a choice. 

If he had the mental capacity to, he’d wonder how Ford had even been able to keep himself conscious. He’d mentioned at one point that he was used to staying awake for long periods of time because of the ever-present threat of Bill, but staying awake was a lot easier when you weren’t fighting against a stab wound and a dangerously high fever. 

Ford should’ve been cold. He should’ve been freezing. But his whole body radiated a sickly heat, not unlike the same one Stan figured radiated off of his own to a lesser extent. 

Except for his feet. 

They were painful, the sharp kind of cold that felt almost hot somehow, but, slowly, any feeling was leaking from them. In their haste to escape the grove, Stan hadn’t been able to grab his shoes, and had been forced to make the trek back to the cabin in only socks. Ford, as usual, had possessed more common sense than Stan, and had stuffed his shoes in his bag when Celestabellebethabelle had asked them to remove them and had been able to put them on before they’d started walking. But Stan hadn’t had that luxury, his shoes left somewhere swimming in the sickeningly green grass of the grove. Every step he took felt more distant from his physical form, numbness having started to set in after the pain had crescendoed. 

Ford suddenly stumbled, and he tilted to the left. Stan gripped tighter, making sure his brother’s arm was securely around his shoulders. He hummed miserably, the sound exhausted, and gave Stan’s hand a weak squeeze. 

Stan blinked, the cabin blurry in the distance. But even the faint, muddled sight of it was enough to make his eyes sting, relief pricking behind them. 

Ford wavered again, his body pitching forward before Stan readjusted his grip around his waist. He cast another glance toward the cabin, a terrible, stupid idea forming in his head. He cringed at the thought, but he knew it would help them get back sooner. 

“Okay, Ford, you’re not gonna like this,” he muttered. “But s’ gotta be done.” 

Ford hummed in question, but Stan didn’t wait for his inevitable argument. In one swift motion, he scooped him from the snow and into an emasculating hold. Ford let out a quiet, sharp gasp at the sudden motion, blinking rapidly. His arm twitched, and he brought it up to his chest, cradling it with a sort of weak, cloudy attention. 

“Lee,” he murmured sluggishly, “You don’t need—”

“Shut up.” 

Ford didn’t say anything more, seeming almost grateful for his brother’s stubbornness and the reprieve from the walk and the cold. He let his head loll against Stan’s chest, his breaths labored. He curled in on himself slightly, shivering violently. 

Despite how ridiculous he felt, it was, as he had suspected, far easier to travel this way. Part of him wished he’d thought of it earlier. 

Finally, Stan stepped onto the cabin’s creaky wooden porch, his eyes stinging in relief, threatening to spill over. Carefully, he lowered Ford back down to his feet. Ford wavered for a moment, slumping against his twin’s shoulders. Stan wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him upright, and, with his free hand, fumbled with the knob until the door swung open, and the soft, stale warmth hit his face. His relief doubled when he realized the power had come back on. 

The arrival to the cabin seemed to motivate Ford, and he let go of Stan, stumbling forward in the direction of the lab. 

“We need to…” he paused between clauses, his shallow breaths not enough to support more than a few words at the time. “Exorcism, now.”

He reached out and braced himself against the couch as he walked. His arm spasmed again, and a drop of blood trailed out from under the bandage. It ran down his arm to his fingertip, wrapping around his skin. Stan’s breath hitched— the blood had soaked through his bandage, sweater, and coat, a dark red spot blooming across the tan fabric. 

“Could we just—” Stan followed him, his words hurried but gentle as he wrenched his arms from his jacket and let it fall to the floor. He didn’t wrap an arm around Ford, not yet. He knew his brother, knew that he would want to hold onto what little independence he could have for as long as possible. “I think you need a new bandage first, real quick—” 

“Lee, I’m…” A sharp breath. His fingers curled around the couch cushions. “I will pass out in the next five minutes if we don’t… do this now. My arm can wait.” 

He punctuated his words by raising his arm up slightly, trying to prove his mobility. It was clearly a mistake. He had only gotten it up a few inches before he stifled a pained whimper and let his arm drop to his side again. He turned away, a pink flush across his cheeks. 

Stan was torn. As much as he wanted to take just a few minutes to redo the hastily done bandage, stop the profuse bleeding, he knew Ford was right. He was swaying on his feet, barely able to hold himself upright. His face was pale and drawn, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. He was right, he didn’t have long before he wouldn’t be able to keep himself conscious. And if he passed out and Bill— 

No. No, no, no, that couldn’t happen. It couldn't. 

He sighed. “Can you make it down the stairs?”

“I— “ Ford eyed the stairs with glassy, unfocused eyes. “Yes…” 

Ford’s expression betrayed him. His brows were pulled in, a frown tugging at his lips as he stared toward the stairs, the tremor in his hands growing. 

Stan didn’t call him out on the lie, just silently wrapped his arm back around Ford’s waist. Ford gave him a scathing look as Stan looped his brother’s arm over his shoulders, but, thankfully, accepted the help without verbal complaint. 

They lumbered down the stairs, exhausted and shaking. Stan tried not to care about the sudden pins and needles in his feet, the warmth of the cabin restoring their feeling. The sharp, burning, pain grew by the second, spreading up into his legs. 

Stan cast a glance at his twin. Ford’s face was contorted in discomfort, and he bit his lip, struggling against the pain. His breaths were ragged, and each one seemed to take monumental effort. 

The frostnip could wait. 

The moment they reached the lab, Ford flew out of Stan’s arms, launching himself at the counter. He hunched over it, bracing heavily for support. He tore his backpack from his arms and grabbed the journal, then let the backpack fall to the ground at his feet. He flipped through the pages, eyes darting from left to right. Without even looking at the shelves, his good arm shot out in every direction, grabbing tiny vials and beakers containing odd, iridescent powders and strange, glowing liquids. 

A hand shot out, nearly hitting Stan in the face. 

“Hair.”

Stan fumbled with his pockets and grabbed the lock of unicorn hair, handing it off to his brother. Ford poured precise measurements of liquid into a thick, black bowl, swirling them together. Then, he measured off three different powders and dumped them into the bowl, using a metal stirring stick to mix it all together. Finally, he spit in it, and gave it one final stir before setting it firmly on the counter. He then removed his glasses at set them beside it. Stan tried to keep his disgust veiled. 

Ford thrust the journal into Stan’s hands. “These are the instructions. Just read what’s on the page, and you’ll be fine.” 

He finally turned and reached out to his makeshift operating table for support. He slowly, sluggishly pushed himself up and onto it. He wavered, but steadied himself, bringing his knees into his chest. His breathing sped up as his fingers twitched against the fabric of his pants. 

“Lee,” He said softly. “It’s very important that, no matter what happens, you do not stop reading, do you understand?” 

Stan stared at the page, the language foreign to him. The top of the page seemed to be some sort of Latin, but as his eyes travelled down the page, it shifted. It almost seemed more alien than human. 

“How do you even pronounce any of this?”

“It will come in the moment,” Ford said simply. “But, please, Lee— y-you can’t stop reading, no matter what.” 

His voice cracked on the last syllable, and he put his face in his hands, taking as deep of a breath as he could. His whole frame was shaking, and he was trying desperately to keep himself grounded. Stan’s heart clenched. Ford was terrified. His shoulders shook faintly, and he sniffled from inside his cocoon. He was trying and failing to keep himself together. 

Stan wasn’t even positive if Ford knew for sure that the exorcism would work. He had never seen his brother so uncertain. For a moment, Stan hesitated. How could he know that the exorcism wouldn’t make everything worse? What if it gave Bill full control, for good? His chest tightened at the thought. His twin, locked out of his own body. His mind floating around in some liminal space, entirely at the will of a demon. 

He bit his lip, a surge of fear going through him. He felt… helpless. He had no idea what would happen after the exorcism, what it might do to Ford’s mind and body. He glanced at his brother, closed off yet utterly exposed. He thought back to when he’d found Ford in the padded room, bloody and broken and wrecked. He’d vowed to never let that again. 

He didn’t know what would happen. But he had to trust his brother. There was nothing else he could do. 

“I won’t.” 

Ford peeked his head out, seeming appeased. He gave a relieved exhale, and let his knees drop. He laid down on the table on his back, spreading his limbs out like a spider. 

“You can attach the restraints now.” 

Stan’s brain short circuited. He blinked, finally noticing the heavy metal cuffs on each corner of the table, still open, with Ford’s wrists and ankles sitting in them expectantly. They were small, tight, cold. Stan hated looking at him. 

For a moment, he was brought back to the countless times it had been his limbs trapped in the tight restraints. He remembered, most recently, his wrists scraping against the metal as a blade was driven into his side, pulling an organ from his body. He’d been awake the whole time. 

He didn’t want to imagine Ford like that. 

His words came out hesitant. “Do we… do we have to restrain you?” 

“It’s a precaution.” Ford pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I-I’m not… exactly sure what this will look like, what it will… feel like. But Bill will be fighting to stay. He’ll try to take control. And if I’m not restrained, he could hurt you.” His breathing sped up as another tremor wracked his frame. “A-and he’d certainly try to activate the portal, o-or he could— he’d—” 

“Hey, hey—” Stan forced ease and comfort into his tone. “S’ okay. Yeah. I’ll— it’s fine. Of course, restrainin’ you makes sense.” 

He hesitated for just a moment before setting the journal on the counter and fastening the cuffs around Ford’s wrists and ankles. They locked into place with a sharp, resounding, familiar clink. Stan tried to ignore the sudden, aching stab in his side, the sound feeling like it was cutting through the keloid.

Ford swallowed thickly, his fists curling and uncurling repeatedly in the cuffs. “Do you—” He hesitated. “Do you have any questions?” 

Stan grabbed the journal from the counter and skimmed the instructions, his grip tight around the edges of the book. “No, it uh— seems pretty straightforward. I guess.” 

Ford nodded softly. “I’m ready whenever you are, then.” 

Stan shifted the journal to one hand and used the other to pick up Ford’s odd, glowing concoction. He stared in the bowl, the blue liquid almost sparkling, iridescent. In any other scenario, it would’ve seemed beautiful to him. Now, it just seemed foreboding. Still, he lowered it to his brother’s lips, his heart pounding inside of his ribs. 

It was less than a centimeter away from Ford’s lips when he jerked his head away. 

“Wait!” 

Stan yanked his hands back, the liquid sloshing in the bowl, threatening to spill over the sides. “What?” 

Fuck. Did he somehow mess up the exorcism already?

“I just—” Ford hesitated. “I wanted— I wanted to… say thank you.” 

“Oh.” Stan blinked. “Yeah, uh. No problem. I mean, you’re the one doin’ the heavy liftin’ in this whole exorcism anyway—”

“No,” Ford interrupted delicately. “I don’t mean— well, yes. Thank you. For the exorcism. But also, I meant—” His breath hitched. “Thank you for coming when I sent the postcard. Y-you had no reason to, but… you still came. And you stayed, even though I was— even after everything. And I never… said thank you.” He paused, his gaze locking onto Stan’s, welling up slightly. “You’re a wonderful brother. And I wasn’t. But I want to be. I do.” A shuddery, wet breath. “A-and I’m so— I’m so, so sorry. About Pa, about… about everything.” He let out a tiny, choked sob that he was determined to stifle and took a shaky breath.

Stan’s eyes stung suddenly, and he blinked against it. He wanted to believe it. He really, really did. But Ford was terrified. Ford had no idea what would happen during the exorcism. 

He’s just afraid. That’s all it is. He’s covering his bases. 

But the look on Ford’s face. His expression was almost… sincere. Remorseful. Desperate. Stan thought back to what his brother had said in the woods: You don’t deserve to be hurt like that. The thought crossed his mind again that perhaps Ford just wanted him to be okay. 

Without thinking, Stan set the bowl down, reached out and squeezed Ford’s hand, trying hard to swallow down the lump in his throat. 

“It’s okay, Six, I— I’m glad you’re my brother.” His tone shattered, and he ran his finger absently along Ford’s knuckles, silently wishing to never let go. “You’re gonna be fine, okay? It’s— this is gonna work.” 

“I know.” Ford squeezed his brother’s hand back. “I know, I just— wanted you to know that.” 

There was a moment of silence between them. It wasn’t awkward, wasn’t content. It was something Stan couldn’t entirely place. 

Finally, Stan let go of his twin’s hand and picked the drink back up. “You ready?” 

Ford nodded. 

Again, Stan lowered the bowl to Ford’s lips, and the mixture trailed from the charcoal bowl into his system. 

Ford slumped against the table instantly, his hands hanging off in sleep. His chest rose and fell slowly and deeply. It was actually the most peaceful Stan had seen his brother since he’d arrived at the cabin. His face was slack, eyes shut, the almost-ghost of a smile on his lips. 

For a moment, silence. 

Then his whole body jerked. His torso slammed sideways, like invisible hands were trying to push him off the side of the table. His wrists desperately tried to be free of the restraints, pulling and scratching at the metal. His face, which, not a moment ago had been at peace, was distorted and drawn in pain, beads of sweat running down the side of his forehead. 

Ford let out a low groan, one that came from somewhere deep in the recesses of his soul. It grew steadily in volume and pitch, louder and louder and louder until it had transformed into a shriek, one that burrowed its way into Stan’s ears, like a cricket inside of his brain. 

Stan let the bowl drop from his hands and hit the floor, hard. It made a resounding crack sound, but he barely noticed. He blinked, staring at the journal in his hand. The words seemed to blur in front of his eyes, dancing all over the page mockingly. 

Goddamnit, focus. Ford needs you. You can’t let him down again. Not now. 

He took a nervous breath and began to read the strange, unfamiliar words on the page, willing them to stay still. 

“Per carnem, per flammam, per mentem intactam, te expello, mendax loquax. ”

The words felt foreign on his tongue, sticking in his throat as he read them out, devoid of any meaning they might have had. But continued to force them out. There was nothing else to do. 

Ford screeched. His wrists scraped against the metal cuffs, the sounds escaping him more animal, more alien, than human. 

Stan’s heart cracked at the sound of the screams, of Ford’s limbs fighting against the metal. His ears rang, and he fought the urge to cover them. 

He continued down the page, his breathing speeding up so much that he had to take breaks between words. He couldn’t hear himself. He felt like he wasn’t even in his body, like he was watching from somewhere else, somewhere distant. Yet he was all too close. 

“Nullum pactum, nulla fraus, nulla sibilans verba, signum hoc rumpere potest.” His throat burned as the words clawed their way out into the atmosphere, plucking at his vocal chords, echoing in his chest. 

His whispered chants turned to desperate shouts. 

“In nomine sanguinis, ossis, et voluntatis, te exorcizo—abi, Bille!” 

Ford howled again, and his eyes suddenly shot open, wide and desperate. He was sweating, panting, screaming in distress. He thrashed, his head jerking as he pulled at the cuffs. 

His pupils were blown wide, panicked. They welled with tears that flowed freely down his face, every inch of him contorted in agony. A broken sob escaped his lips as he continued to thrash.

For a moment, his gaze met Stan’s. His lips formed a single request, a feeble, desperate plea: 

“Please, Lee—” 

And, for a second, Stan hesitated, the words locked behind his teeth. 

Was this wrong? Was it just making things worse? This was hurting Ford, so much so that he had begged Stan to stop. Ford was sweating, gasping, screaming for help. His wrists were swollen slightly in a faint purple, bruises already blooming across his ankles. It was like watching a gory, gruesome horror movie: Stan didn’t want to look for a second longer, but he couldn’t tear himself away. 

Suddenly, Ford’s fear seemed to dissipate, and his pupils rolled back in his head. He squeezed them shut, his head jerking side to side with nauseating pops, like he was fighting off something no one else could see. Then he opened them again. 

They were a bright, sickly yellow. 

“STANLEY!”

Stan’s mouth hung slack, the sound burning into his brain. 

He knew that voice. He hated that voice. His stomach rolled involuntarily, his legs threatening to give out from under him. He’d known this could have happened. He’d known it was likely that Bill would come out. It didn’t matter. He still felt dizzy at the sound. 

“STANLEY, YOU KNOW YOU DON’T WANT TO DO THIS!” 

Desperate to drown out the ringing, teasing sound, he kept reading, trying to stay focused on the words that floated across the page, mocking him, dashing just out of reach when he tried to speak them aloud. 

Suddenly, Bill laughed, high and disjointed. He shot upward, like something was pulling him to the ceiling by a string attached to his stomach. Like something was threatening to burst out of him. He laughed harder, the sound ringing painfully in Stan’s brain, making his skull vibrate. 

“HE’S NEVER GONNA FORGIVE YOU, STANLEY! YOU KNOW THAT!” 

His tone was almost jovial, slicing through Stan’s skin. He flinched backward, the room going dark at the edges, his vision flickering. 

— keep reading, keep reading, keep reading—

Ford shrieked, his body jerking to the side, fighting against Bill’s control. His neck popped as his head shot up, making Stan’s stomach drop. His chest hitched as his hands trembled, gripping the journal impossibly tight. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t—

“DO YOU REALLY THINK HE WANTS YOU HERE?”

Ford’s smile, Bill’s smile, was unnaturally wide, pulling the edges of his lips up to his ears, the corners of his mouth cracking. Tiny drops of blood pooled at the sides and trickled into his mouth, staining his tongue. 

“YOU KNOW I'M YOUR LAST CHANCE TO GET HIM BACK!” 

Stan spat each syllable out, trying to make them loud. He had to breathe between each one— just shallow, ragged breaths that barely supported the next word. His head was swimming, and he leaned against the counter, willing himself to stay in the moment. Ford needed him, and he could not let his brother down. Not now, not ever (again). 

They weren’t even words anymore, not really. More like an odd, disjointed series of clicks and whistles and mechanical whirring. He wasn’t sure how they were even leaving his lips, how he somehow just knew what sounds to make. 

“HE’S GONNA MAKE YOU LEAVE ONCE HE GETS WHAT HE WANTS FROM YOU! HE’LL NEVER FORGET HOW YOU RUINED HIS LIFE!” 

Ford’s legs kicked against the cuffs, and a metal clang rang out in the tiny lab. Ford howled, his eyes squeezing shut then opening again, the sickening yellow glow reflecting on the ceiling. 

Stan clung to the chant, even as Bill’s smile grew darker, his eyes narrowing, flickering quickly across the room before they landed on Stan again. 

“I BET HE’D FORGET IF YOU HIT HIM WITH THAT MEMORY GUN, THOUGH!” 

Stan’s voice gave out, his heart stuttering in his chest at the very thought of hitting Ford with the memory gun. What kind of brother— what kind of person, would ever erase their own brother’s memory? No, he would never, never do that to Ford. If he was going to hit someone with the gun, it would be—

“OR, BETTER YET, WHY NOT JUST HIT YOURSELF WITH IT? BET YOU GOT A LOT OF SHIT YOU’D RATHER FORGET, HUH?”

His breath caught in his throat. The words were blurring on the page. He couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see anything except the sickening, glowing yellow of Bill’s eyes. A yellow that felt like a separate, sentient being, one that wormed its way down his throat, burrowing in his stomach like a tapeworm. 

Against his better judgement, he forced bravado into his words.

“Shut up.”

“FINALLY FEELIN’ CONVERSATIONAL, ARE YOU NOW? MEMORY GUN PIQUE YOUR INTEREST?”

“Find a new damn puppet,” Stan spat, his voice sharp and biting. He hoped Bill wouldn’t pick up on the tremor in it, the breathlessness of the words. His hand left the journal and gripped the side of the counter, every hair on his body raised, every inch of his skin feeling like it was on fire. 

“SIXER COULDN’T HOLD ANYTHING AGAINST YOU IF YOU USED IT, COULD HE? YOU’D GET A CHANCE TO BE THE BROTHER HE ALWAYS WANTED!” 

—SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP—

“I KNOW YOU WANT THAT, STANLEY. YOU CAN’T PRETEND AROUND ME.”

“SHUT UP!” 

His confidence shattered into a barely restrained sob. His entire frame was shaking, white spots dancing in front of his eyes. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. Bill was right. He wanted that. He wanted it badly— to disappear, to forget, to finally be rid of everything. To do things over again, do them right this time. To make it up to Ford, to make everything up to Ford. Bill was laughing, laughing, laughing, sharp and kaleidoscopic and evil and his brain was buzzing and he couldn’t stand up and his feet were burning and why did he think he could do this he was letting his brother down again—

Ford wailed, the sound, for a moment, pained and destroyed and human. For a second, it was Ford, and only Ford. He was fighting to get out. Fighting hard, even though he had no idea if he’d win. 

His instructions suddenly echoed in Stan’s head, impossibly clear, cutting through the mess inside. 

You can’t stop reading, no matter what.

If Ford was fighting, Stan had to fight too. 

He gripped the journal firmly and took a shaky, determined breath. The clinks and vibrations suddenly felt quite natural coming out of him, almost like a song he’d forgotten he knew the words to. He made them louder, deafening. 

Ford cried again, clawing at his own palms, his nails digging into the skin and drawing tiny crescents of blood across the surface. He thrashed, his head jerking side to side, his brain, his very being, fighting for the upper hand. 

Bill suddenly cried out in a growl, his yellow eyes flashing red. He wasn’t smiling— he was baring his teeth like an animal. 

“STANLEY, DON’T DO THIS! I CAN FIX EVERYTHING!” 

Bill’s voice was different. It wasn’t offering anymore. It was begging. In just a moment, it had become desperate and pleading. He’d lost the upper hand. He knew Ford was winning. 

“WHAT DO YOU WANT? MONEY? FAME? SIXER’S LOVE? I CAN GIVE IT TO YOU!” 

He was stumbling over his words, desperate to try everything he knew to convince Stan to let him win. And perhaps Stan would’ve let him win if it wasn’t his brother on the line. But Ford mattered more than himself, more than anything. 

He tore through the words. 

“STOP READING THAT!” 

Stan took a wobbly breath, and let the final word on the page leave his lips. 

“STANLEY, DON’T—” 

The world distorted. A deafening, high-pitched, multi-toned howl pried its way out of Ford’s mouth, scraping at Stan’s brain like broken glass. It was a painful sound that he could feel in his ribs, in his legs. The journal fell from his hands and he clamped his hands over his ears. It didn’t do anything to muddle the sound— it leaked its way into his brain from the cracks between his fingers. It got louder, louder, louder. 

Then it stopped. 

Ford gasped, deep and shaky, then sagged against the table, abruptly still. There was no movement, no sound. Stan’s heart dropped. 

He wasn’t—?

Stan was by the table in an instant, putting two fingers against the top of Ford’s neck. His legs nearly gave out when he felt a soft rhythm. A heartbeat. 

Upon closer inspection, he was still breathing, just shallowly. His fingers began to twitch faintly in the cuffs. Slowly, he curled in on himself, as much as he could while still restrained. A tremor rolled through him, barely perceptible. His face was drenched in sweat, pale and drawn. 

Stan wanted nothing more than to release him from the cuffs. But he couldn’t be sure who— what— Ford would be when he woke up. It was a precaution he had to take. 

He clenched his fists, feeling the scratching of crusted unicorn blood between his nails. All of a sudden, the tension, the adrenaline, leaked out of him. His whole body ached. The cut on his face had stopped bleeding, thick clots having begun to seal the wound. Crusted trails of dried blood stuck to his neck and stained his grubby t-shirt a sticky crimson. And, god, his feet were burning. He knew, logically, that they shouldn’t feel warm— he’d walked an hour in the snow with no shoes. That was a symptom of something, right? He wasn’t sure. His head was cloudy. All he wanted to do was collapse on the floor and give into the tempting pull of sleep. 

But he couldn’t. 

First wash your hands. Then go from there. 

Thank god Ford had a sink down in the lab. He drenched his hands in soap, massaging it into every line in his skin, every crevice between his nails, before rinsing them under the cool water. He repeated the process at least three times, until there wasn’t a trace of blood on his hands, and his skin was pruny from the warm water. 

Standing hurt. He fell into the desk chair and stripped his wet socks off, staring at his feet like they didn’t belong on his body. They were pale, with blotchy red patches blooming in sporadic places. They were tingling like a limb coming out of numbness. He blinked. He’d seen it before, he knew it. 

Goddamnit, focus. 

Images flashed across his mind: winter in Minnesota, when his car wouldn’t start and he spent the night curled up in the backseat. It had been his fingers then, tingling and warm despite the cold, a stinging ache pulsing through them. He’d barely been able to hold up a bottle that day, and he’d had to endure the feeling completely sober. 

Frostnip. That’s what it is. 

He’d dealt with it before, on the road, as a homeless drifter with no gloves and a limited collection of socks. He had to warm them, gradually, or they could get infected or blister. He couldn’t afford to let them get any worse, or he’d have to go to a hospital. He had to care for his brother. He’d be even more of a burden if he couldn’t even walk properly. He turned on the faucet from the chair and soaked the closest washcloth, then squeezed it out. He wrapped the cloth around one of his feet and massaged it, careful not to let it stay there for too long. He switched feet after a minute, letting the warmth seep in. He knew he should probably do more, and, ideally, he should stay off of his feet, but he had more pressing issues than a little frostnip. 

Though, those were his only pair. 

Can’t ask Ford for shoes. Don’t have the right to ask Ford for anything. 

He’d just have to figure that out later. 

He pressed a tentative hand to the slice on his cheek. The gash was searing, white-hot pain radiating through his face. If it was up to him, he’d just leave it and start addressing the bandage on Ford’s arm immediately. But the pressure under it was like a dam about to break, and the clotting hadn’t entirely sealed it yet. If it dripped into Ford’s wound, brought bacteria, dirt, god knows what else, if it infected Ford’s wound— 

He’d inflicted enough hurt on his twin. 

Stan stood and grabbed a cloth from the medical cabinet and slapped it over the cut, a sharp yelp escaping him involuntarily. He gingerly took the cloth off and wet it with warm, soapy water, cleaning around the injury, scraping all the crusted unicorn blood off of his face while he was at it, trying his best not to disturb the clotting. He dug around in the cabinet until he found antibiotic cream and a bandage big enough for the cut. He spread the cream over it, then covered it with the bandage. 

He’d only been standing for a few minutes before he knew he had to sit back down. His feet were burning, like he was standing on burning coals instead of a cool, concrete floor. He fell back into the chair, squeezing his eyes shut. What he needed was a shower. He needed to wash his hair, to do a proper deep clean. He’d only showered once since he got here, while he was still recovering from the worst of the fever. He felt disgusting. He was disgusting. 

But he couldn’t leave now, not for a second. Not while Ford laid unconscious, his labored breathing echoing throughout the room. His brother might need him when he woke up, and Stan couldn’t let him down. Even though that was all he had ever done. 

As if on cue, Ford stirred, a low hum clawing out of his throat. His limbs spasmed in the cuffs, his fingers curling closed. He blinked his eyes open, his head turning sluggishly to the side. His brows were furrowed, his lips parted slightly. His expression was dazed, like he wasn’t sure exactly where he was or how he had gotten there. 

His eyes finally met Stan’s. 

“...Lee?” 

Stan shot up from the chair, ignoring the surge of dizziness that momentarily clouded his vision. He was by his brother’s side in an instant. “Ford? S’ that you?”

Ford’s face crumbled, his eyes welling up suddenly. “Lee…” It came out muddled, more of a sob than a word. His fingers curled around the metal cuffs, and he bit his lower lip, a single tear sneaking out of the corner of his eyes and leaking down the side of his face. 

Stan’s heart shattered, but he wasn’t taking chances. It could still be Bill, his mind screamed. Without thinking, his hands shot out to stretch Ford’s eyes open wide, and he studied his pupils intently, body locked in tension. He didn’t even question that Ford just let him do it. 

Ford tried to blink, but Stan’s fingers held his lids back. His gaze was wounded and panicked, locked on Stan’s face, but his eyes were clear. They were only his, distinctly Ford. 

Bill was gone. 

Stan didn’t let himself relax, though, just hurried to undo the restraints, the metal releasing with a faint hiss. Ford made no effort to move, not really, just bringing his arms and knees up to his chest, making himself small. He buried his head, his shoulders shivering with silent, pitiful sobs. 

Stan’s hands hovered in the air above his brother, unsure what to do to help. He didn’t even know how aware, how conscious, his twin was right now. 

“Ford?” he asked gently, tentatively. “A-are you hurt? What— what can I—” 

Ford raised his head at the sound of his name, his eyes desperate and red-rimmed. Without warning, his face crumpled. On one shaky arm he forced himself upright, his body teetering where it sat. He stayed there only a moment before he pitched forward, collapsing into his brother. He squirmed, burying his head in Stan’s chest, another sob clawing its way from his throat. His good arm shot up to Stan’s shirt, clawing at the fabric, a wad in his fist.

Stan wrapped his arms around him, trying to keep his own panic at bay. Was he hurt? Did the exorcism mess up his brain? 

Fuck. Was this supposed to be happening? Had Stan messed it up? What was he saying, of course he did, he stopped reading! Rico was right, Stan couldn’t even follow the simplest of instructions. 

Ford coughed, dry and raw, and his body jerked with the force. He groaned and muttered something incomprehensible. 

“Ford?” Stan asked softly, “What was that?” 

Ford didn’t respond, just sniffled miserably, thick with congestion. 

Stan suddenly realized how warm he was, the feverish heat from earlier now searing, radiating off of Ford in waves. He was sweat-soaked and shivering, struggling to even keep himself upright while sitting. He was swaying in Stan’s arms, even with the entirety of his weight in his brother’s arms. 

The fabric on his arm was soaked in blood, jerking involuntarily. As much as Stan wanted to stay here, to hold his brother, keep him safe, he knew it had to be attended to. He’d already lost too much blood. 

“Ford?” He murmured, his fingers curled around the fabric of Ford’s jacket. “We gotta bandage up your arm, okay?” 

No words came, just a whimper and the faint shake of a head. 

“Yeah, we do,” Stan insisted, pulling back. His heart twisted and snapped like a rubber band when Ford whimpered, his arms still reached out like a child who wanted to be held. “Just— stay there, ‘kay?” 

He rushed to the medicine cabinet and grabbed everything he could see that they would need— gloves, bandages, hydrogen peroxide, gauze, everything. But there wasn’t any saline. They’d have to use the sink. He hurried back to the table. 

“Okay. We gotta take the jacket and the sweater off, alright?” He put the gloves on and pulled gently at Ford’s jacket, hoping to ease it off his arms. 

Ford yanked his uninjured arm back with a yelp, his breathing speeding up. He shook his head frantically, his eyes wide and locked on Stan. His mouth moved like he was trying to speak, but no words came out, just panicked gasps. 

“What are you doing?” Stan reached back for his arm, pulling at the fabric of his coat. “Can’t exactly bandage it over the coat.” 

Ford hummed in protest, curling his arms into his chest, pleading silently. What for, Stan didn’t know. But a strange, sick feeling settled in the bottom of his stomach, and uncertain, twisting kind of nausea. 

“Ford,” He reached out again, this time for the older twin’s hand. He squeezed it firmly, reassuringly. “We gotta bandage your arm, okay? S’ important. Please let me help you.” 

“N-No—” Ford dropped his head. “Can’t— c-can't…” His words dissolved into a choked cry, something animal, clawing its way from out of him. 

“Can’t…what, Ford?” 

Ford just shook his head, another sob breaking free from his chest, his arms wrapped tight around his middle.

“Ford, I don't know what's goin' on, but you gotta let me fix you up, okay? You just—” Stan sighed. Let me make up for my mistakes. “Please.” 

He pulled at the coat again. Ford protested softly, but didn’t truly fight back this time. Stan was gentle, like he was handling a small child. He slowly stripped the blood-stained jacket off of Ford, then pulled the sweater over his head, keeping the wound as stationary as possible. 

Finally, Ford was left sitting slumped on the table with just his ripped white t-shirt left, the makeshift t-shirt bandage the only thing in the way of the wound. The fabric around was soaked with blood, trails of crusted fluid running all the way down to his hand. 

Then Stan saw Ford's other arm. 

Nausea twisted in his gut. His brother’s skin was covered in horizontal cuts, some healed to a white, some protruding out from his skin, a dark pinkish purple. Some looked healed, years old, while some looked like they couldn’t have been more than a month old. They extended from the top part of his forearm all the way past the short sleeves, jagged and disorganized. Stan thought back to when they handled the aftermath of Bill— the razor blades he saw in the medical cabinet. He stared at his brother, suddenly unable to move, to speak, to do anything but spiral. 

Stan recognized them, a vision of his own, similar scars flashing in front of his eyes. His were older, though; Jimmy had put a stop to that habit. Something about stayin’ pretty for the customers. Stan shook his head. No.  

He put a hand on Ford’s.

“Ford, what—” He wavered, locked on the scars. “Did you— are these—” His voice broke, and he found himself unable to continue, the unsaid words hanging thickly in the air. 

Ford refused to look at him, his breaths short and sharp. He didn’t bother trying to hide his arm, not anymore, but his shoulders started shaking, and a small, desperate sound snuck out through his lips. 

Stan’s mouth hung open, his eyes welling up. No, no, no, nonononono. It’s your fault. You left him alone with a demon, what did you think would happen? You’re the worst brother in the world. You let him reach this point. You’re just as bad as Bill. No, no, you’re worse!

“Ford,” he choked out. “I-I’m so— I can’t—” 

Ford gasped again, quick and fearful. His eyes were wide and panicked, but unfocused. His chest jerked with each attempted breath, and he trembled violently. He squeezed tighter around his middle and let out a long, high-pitched whine. 

Goddamnit, he can’t breathe. 

“Shit— okay, Six, listen to me, alright?” Stan gently placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders. Ford flinched, but didn’t jerk out of the hold. “Look at me. You gotta breathe. In for five, yeah?” 

Ford sucked in a pitiful breath. It wasn’t enough. His head twitched to the side, and the whine got louder. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

“That’s okay, you’re alright. You’re doin’ great. Try again.” Stan reached out and squeezed his hand, hopeful it would work to ground him. 

Ford tried again, and Stan breathed with him this time. It was better, slower. 

“Good job, buddy,” Stan assured. “Now we’re gonna hold for three, then breathe out for seven, remember?” 

Ford tilted his head weakly. 

Stan focused on calming his brother, making sure his breathing was out of hyperventilation territory. Finally, after a few minutes, Ford was slightly calmer, his gaze unfocused, tired, distant— not ideal, but better than panicking. Stan wanted to say something, wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around him and never let him out of his sight. But now Ford couldn’t even look at him, his face going red with shame. Stan felt like he had crossed a line, violated his twin’s privacy in an irreversible way. The least he could do was let Ford decide when he’d talk about it. 

Shoving down his guilt, he silently guided his brother off of the table, leading them to the sink. Ford collapsed into him, but he was still tense, his shoulders more squared than before. 

Stan leaned his him against the counter, letting his arm hang over the sink. He untied the makeshift bandage to reveal the wad of fabric. It was stuck to the skin, and it made a sound sort of like paper ripping when he finally pulled it off, yanking tiny, shredded layers of skin with it. Ford hissed, his face contorting in distress, but he didn’t pull away. 

It wasn’t as deep as Stan had expected, but it was still horrifying to look at. It was surrounded by dried, crusted blood, and broken, ripped skin in folded, bloody layers. Small slivers of muscle and tissue were exposed, almost pulsing like a heartbeat. It was perfectly circular, raised up from his skin slightly. Stan fought against rolling, churning nausea in his throat. 

Your fault, your fault, your fault. If you had just done one fucking thing right, you’d be the one who got hurt. God knows you deserve it more than him. 

Ford stared at his arm, unfocused. The wound didn’t seem to fully register. He just blinked at it, his expression distant and tired. 

With the gash exposed freely, Stan turned the water on low, letting it slowly trickle down Ford’s arm. Ford yelped, his arm flinching back into his chest. He cradled it carefully, his lip trembling. He blinked upward, meeting Stan’s gaze.  

Stan felt hollow at his brother’s expression. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his eyes were rimmed in red, impossibly wide, blinking rapidly. He looked betrayed. Like Stan was inflicting pain on him for no reason other than his own pleasure. 

And why wouldn’t he think that? All you do is ruin things for him. All you do is hurt him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Stan muttered. “It— I know it hurts, but we gotta clean it out before we bandage it.” 

Ford squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep, rattling inhale through his nose. Slowly, hesitantly, he held his arm back out. It was a show of trust. Trust Stan couldn’t afford to break. 

He took Ford’s hand in his own and guided it back down into the sink below the water. He let the water run over it, rinsing out bits of dirt and what Stan could only figure were fragments of unicorn horn. It was a familiar routine, tending to something like this— you don't run with the lot he did and not learn how to properly address a stab wound— and his hands worked on their own. When it appeared clean, he shut the water off and grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide he’d found in the cabinet, popping the lid off with a tiny click. He soaked a cotton pad with the liquid and dabbed around it, careful not to let it get too deep into the wound. Inevitably, a few drops leaked onto the exposed wound and Ford hissed, squaring his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut, not wanting to look at it anymore. He pressed his forehead against the counter, his legs wobbling under him, threatening to give out at any moment. His hand clawed at the counter, and his knees began to bend. 

Shit. 

Stan wrapped an arm around his twin’s waist and took on his weight, relief blooming in his chest when Ford let himself be held. 

“Okay, Six, let’s sit down now, yeah?” Stan guided him to the rolling chair by the desk, lowering him gently into a seated position. Ford fell into the chair with a sharp exhale. 

“Almost done,” Stan murmured, giving his brother’s hand a quick touch. He grabbed a fresh pad of gauze and kneeled down by the chair, pressing it against the source, simply waiting for the bleeding to slow. Ford’s head dropped to his chest, his eyes still closed. 

After a few minutes, the bleeding had slowed enough, and Stan removed the gauze, setting it on the counter. He grabbed a new, clean one, and pressed it firmly against Ford’s arm before wrapping it in a compression bandage. 

He tried to ignore the fact that if Ford already had all these medical supplies opened, it meant he’d had to use them. His stomach rolled at the images floating through his brain.

You left him alone to deal with it all. It’s your fault, your fault, yourfaultyourfaultyourfault. 

Finally, the task was finished. Stan took off the dirty gloves and threw them in the trash, then sighed and stood, stretching out his tight limbs. Ford wasn’t moving, save for the tremors wracking his body. He let out a tiny, wounded noise, his shoulders rising and falling tellingly. 

“Ford?” 

Ford didn’t answer in words, but a choked sob escaped him, and he finally tilted his head up just slightly. His eyes were unfocused and bleary, his expression disoriented. 

“Oh, Six…” Ford needed to sleep. Probably for a long time. But that couldn’t happen down here, when his only options were an operating table or a stiff office chair. Ford certainly couldn’t make it all the way to the third floor, to his bedroom, but perhaps, with assistance, he could make it to the couch? 

“Okay, uh—” Stan hesitated. “Think it’d be good to getcha upstairs, yeah?” 

Ford just blinked slowly. Stan decided to take that as a yes and guided him up from the chair, wrapping his arm around his brother’s waist and placing Ford’s arm over his shoulders. 

Ford didn’t make it a single step. His legs gave out the minute he was standing, his fingers curling around the fabric of Stan’s shirt in a last resort effort before they too fell, and he crumpled into a heap on the ground with a panicked whimper. 

Fuck. 

Stan’s reflexes took over, and his arms shot out to catch his twin just before his head could hit the concrete. He lowered them both to the ground, cradling him securely in his arms, keeping him close to his chest. 

Ford whined. It rattled in his chest and a cough tore out of him, painful and sharp. Once it had subsided, he slouched further, shivering faintly. Stan put a hand to his forehead, confirming what he already knew. Ford was burning up.  

“Oh, Ford,” he breathed, pushing a stray curl from his brother’s sweat-drenched face. “You’re real warm there, buddy…”

Stan’s throat tightened with guilt, a burning feeling crawling through his throat. The image of the unicorn’s horn stabbing into Ford’s arm flashed through his mind. Ford wouldn’t be hurt if Stan had just shut up and let his brother do the talking at the grove. But, like usual, he’d had to open his stupid mouth, pick a fight for no goddamn reason. 

The exorcism might’ve been to blame for the exhaustion, but if Stan hadn’t let that demon get in his head and distract him, it could’ve been over so much sooner. Maybe Ford would have fared better. Maybe he wouldn't be so exhausted, so delirious. 

His mind briefly trailed to something Jimmy had said to him once. Ya just don’t know when to shut up, do ya?

Jimmy was right— he didn’t. And now his brother was paying the price. 

Ford curled in against Stan’s chest, one hand shooting out to pull at Stan’s arm weakly. He whimpered again, blinking up at Stan with a glassy look. Then his face crumpled with a sob, choked and wounded. His nails bit into Stan’s arm. 

“I-I— Lee—” The words came out as choppy stutters, barely decipherable. After a moment, he opened his mouth again, like he was going to say something, but all that came out was a tiny, frustrated noise, and his face went red as he bit back a cry. 

“You don’t gotta talk,” Stan assured him. “Don’t push yourself.”

Ford nodded faintly, and he buried his head back against his brother, his body sinking exhaustedly. His ear was pushed against Stan’s chest, and Stan realized he was listening for his heartbeat, trying to hear past his own cries. 

After several steadying breaths, he finally spoke, his words muddled and breathy. They came out slow, like each one took a colossal effort. 

“Lee…” he murmured, his voice thick. “I’m so sorry… y-you came back…can’t believe you stayed…” He sobbed again, his nails digging desperately into Stan’s arms. “Don’t deserve that…” 

Stan blinked, tightening his hold on his brother, the feverish warmth spreading to Stan’s skin. Ford’s sick and delusional, don’t take anything he says too seriously. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Stan tried to remind himself of this. He knew what he was, what he was worth. What his brother really thought of him. It was deserved. Still, he felt a tangled knot in his chest. 

Ford coughed again, harsh and grating, his frame shuddering with the force. He couldn’t even raise his arm to muffle it. 

“S’ okay, just breathe.” Stan stroked Ford’s back, trying his best to be comforting. “You’re alright.” 

Ford was quiet for only a moment, taking in a rattling breath before he was sobbing again, miserable and pained. He squirmed, wrapping his arms around Stan’s waist.

“Lee—” His words came out between hiccuping gasps. “Shouldn’t’ve let you— go… let him hurt you… I-I let him kick you out…” 

“Shh, s’ alright, Ford.” He didn’t know what else to say. Nothing he could say would fix it, nothing could quiet his twin’s sobbing. He continued to rub his brother’s back, like that would even do anything. He wasn’t kidding anyone, he just wanted to trick himself into thinking he could do anything to help Ford. But he couldn’t. Stan was the one who’d made him like this. 

“No, no, no, no, it’s— it’s not—” Ford peeked out just slightly, his face disoriented, eyes wide. “...M’ your big brother… can’t…” He took in a shaky breath, his words coming out so breathless that his lungs couldn’t keep up. “Let Pa hurt you… l-let Bill hurt you…” 

Stan felt a sharp pain bloom behind his eyes. Why had he told Ford about Pa? What the hell had been going through his head? All he’d done was burden his brother even more. 

“That’s not— you didn’t know about Pa,” Stan insisted. “Was my fault most of the time, anyways, I always had to mouth off to him when I shoulda just shut up. S’ not your fault.” 

His words had the opposite effect of what Stan had been hoping for. Ford let out another gut-wrenching cry, part sob, part gasp for breath and clawed at his brother, desperate and clinging, like something threatened to tear them apart at any second. 

“My fault,” he insisted. “Shouldn’t’ve… knew Bill would— I-I shouldn’t have let him get out…” His cries were pleading, loud and unrestrained, like a helpless child. “Told myself… I wouldn’t let him hurt… a-anyone else… it was o-only supposed… to be me…”

“Ford…” Stan breathed. His guilt was a physical thing, a sinking, hollow feeling in his stomach, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. This wasn’t right. Ford should be happy, healthy, successful. He shouldn’t be here, crumpled in a heap in his arms. 

“I hate him,” Ford wailed. “I-I can’t— I hate him…” 

He pulled at the fabric of Stan’s shirt, burying his face in it. A wet spot grew on the fabric, and Stan’s insides felt heavy. He was used to feeling useless, but never in quite this way. He was failing his brother. Again and again, over and over and over. 

“God, Six.” He shoved down the sob that threatened to escape. “I’m so— I’m so sorry…” 

“I-I thought he was… I thought he might— but he didn’t…” Ford cut himself off, flinching violently. His eyes went distant. 

Stan waited, but Ford didn’t continue, so he softly prompted, “Thought he might…?”  

“H-he didn’t…” A hiccup. Ford sniffled miserably. “He never… cared… a-and I let him do— I-I let him… whatever he wanted with me… i-in my mind… with my bo—” His words came out smothered, like he could barely get them out of some deep recess in his soul. “He told me I was special… I-I didn’t even understand… he just wanted— h-he was lying— I-I’m—” he coughed sharply, his body jerking violently, and he was gasping for breath by the end of it. 

Stan fought back bile as he rubbed Ford’s back. He didn’t mean— 

No. 

Suddenly, the exorcism didn't seem like nearly enough. Bill didn’t deserve a quick, painless exit. He deserved worlds of agony, eternities of suffering. No punishment was enough, no hurt deep enough to make up for what he’d done. 

What was wrong with Stan? He had let this happen, let Ford suffer, his mind and sanity slowly deteriorating, crumbling like stone around him god knows how long. His head spun at the revelation of what Ford had endured. What Ford had inflicted upon himself. And what had he been doing? Chasing cons, pulling scams, drowning his insignificant sorrows in a bottle of whatever was cheapest, letting anyone and everyone do whatever they wanted to him because he couldn’t handle being alone with his thoughts for more than a second. 

Stan could’ve changed his narrative. He’d had a choice. Ford hadn’t. 

“Lee,” Ford murmured, sandwiched between cries. “So sorry… ruined your life…” he took a shaky breath, wiping a tear from his face with a curled hand. “Don’t deserve you…” 

He’s right. He doesn’t deserve you, he deserves far better. 

“C’mon, you know that’s not true,” Stan said, his tone frayed.

He couldn’t listen to it for a moment longer. His head was spinning. Ford is delirious, he tried to insist. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he’s just scared and sick. You know what you are. You know you don’t deserve him. He couldn’t let himself think he was anything more than dirty gutter trash, not even for a minute. He’d learned to live that way. It was the only safe way to be. But all of this? What Ford was saying? It wasn’t safe. Because, as much as he tried to deny it, he felt a small flutter of hope.

And that hope was dangerous. It always had been. 

“Let’s just— let’s get you upstairs, okay?” 

Ford buried his head deeper in Stan’s chest, his arms squeezing tight around his brother’s middle. 

Stan sighed, rubbing a slow circle in his back. “I know you don’t wanna, but you’ll feel better on the couch than you do in here.” 

His twin shook his head weakly and sniffled. “Don’t wanna.” 

Despite himself, Stan chuckled softly. Ford’s response reminded him of their childhood, a simpler time when you could refuse to do something just because you didn’t wanna (unless, of course, it was Pa telling you to do something). Still, he disregarded his brother’s stubborn answer and pulled him into the same hold from earlier, carrying him in his arms like a helpless child. Ford barely complained, just huffed in frustration, but his body betrayed him. He slumped into his brother’s arms, letting his head rest against Stan’s chest with a whimper. 

The walk up the stairs was more difficult than expected. Stan had been so focused on Ford’s physical state, he’d forgotten his own. His legs wavered with each step, his feet still burning painfully. His face still stung, even with the new bandage. But he couldn’t worry about any of that at the moment. It was about Ford. It had to be. 

Finally, he reached the living room with a grateful sigh. His arms were shaking violently, and he knew if he didn’t deposit Ford on the couch soon, they’d both end up smacking their heads on the wood floor. He made a beeline for the couch— though, beeline was a generous description, considering how sluggishly his legs moved— and lowered Ford down. Once Ford’s back had hit the couch, he stretched his arms out, reaching, like a child. A half-whimper escaped his lips, and his eyes welled up. 

“I’ll be right back, Ford,” Stan murmured. “Just gonna get you some medicine, okay?” He paused. “Maybe some water too, usually tends to help.” 

He stood, swiping some dust from his pants (a leftover from the dirty concrete floor of the lab) and started toward the kitchen, deciding water should be the first task. 

“NO!” 

A panicked voice rang out, and a six-fingered hand was suddenly clamped around his own hand. Fords fingers were curled around Stan’s, his grip fever-weak but painfully desperate. 

Stan turned, letting his hand stay enveloped in his brother’s. 

“What— Ford, what’s wrong, what did you—” 

Ford’s wide eyes welled up again and he choked out a broken sob. His hand shook around Stan’s, but he tugged sluggishly. 

“Lee…” He murmured, his voice cracking, “Please— stay…” 

Stan squeezed his hand. “Buddy, I’ll just be in the next room. You need to hydrate, so I’m just gonna—” 

“NO!” Ford wailed again, reaching his other hand up to trap his brother. He winced at the sudden movement of his injured arm, but he clamped his other hand around Stan’s. His breathing sped up, coming in rapid bursts. “Stay— I-I can’t… don’t go— c-can’t be alone, I-I can’t, I can’t, Lee, please—” 

The final word cracked into a breathless sob, and he let his head drop, his chest heaving. His breaths were ragged and rattling, interrupted by swallowed sobs. “Please…”

Stan’s chest tightened at the sight of his brother, reduced to a desperate, wounded husk. 

Are you really going to leave him alone, like you did for so many years to fend for himself? Hasn’t he been through enough? What is wrong with you? Do you even care about him at all? Why would you— how could you— 

“Yeah,” Stan said quietly, breaking his thoughts. “I— of course I’ll stay.”

Ford let out a breathy, relieved whimper, not moving to remove his hands from his brother’s. Tentatively, Stan sat on the couch next to Ford’s slumped form, awkwardly rigid and unsure. Ford squirmed, moving sluggishly to bury his head in Stan’s chest, pulling him back as he did so. He wrapped his arms around him, one hand still holding onto his twin’s. Instinctively, Stan wrapped his arms around him, letting his chin rest on his head. He alternated between massaging Ford’s head and rubbing slow circles in his back with his free hand. 

Ford’s sobs quieted, dissolving into miserable, exhausted sniffles and the occasional hitched breath. He nuzzled his head deep into Stan’s chest, his grip more relaxed but still unwavering. 

It was strange, reminding him painfully of when they were kids. Ford has nightmares often then, but Stan could recall one specific night, after a particularly nasty one. He’d awoken to his brother clawing at the air, his breaths shallow and ragged, his words indecipherable. Stan, who couldn’t have been older than 13 at the time, had climbed up to Ford’s bunk (trying his best to ignore how nauseating being that high off the ground was) and did his best to calm down his hyperventilating brother. When words didn’t seem to work, he’d held him just like this, letting him feel small and secure and safe. 

Maybe there were some memories he wouldn’t mind keeping. 

“Lee…?” 

Stan hummed in question. 

“...Love you…” His words were muddled, thick with exhaustion and sickness. “Just… want you to be okay…” 

Stan’s chest tightened, and he ran his thumb along the rough skin of his brother’s hand. His mind was racing. He couldn’t let himself believe it. He couldn’t. He didn’t deserve Ford back and he knew that. He had to remember that, or his world would fall apart when he eventually kicked him out. 

Still, something in him felt warm, something deep in him, that had been cold for a long time. 

“Love you too, Ford,” he murmured. “Now rest, okay? You’re safe.”

Ford let his head loll forward in silent agreement. He slouched with a soft, broken exhale, the tiniest bit of tension leaking from him. Occasionally, his breath would hitch and he’d blink, his head jerking up just slightly. He’d stare at Stan, as if to confirm he was still real, then crawl back into his cocoon. Stan rubbed his back all the while, continuing making the slow circles with his finger until Ford’s breathing evened out, and he let go of his brother’s hand. He was asleep. 

Stan’s own shoulders slumped, his body finally relaxing. Despite how grimy he felt, how much he knew they’d both benefit from a shower and a good meal, he was losing the battle with exhaustion. Before he knew it, his eyelids had grown heavy, and he was yawning. With the last bit of his strength, he reached up with his free arm and grabbed the blanket that laid on the arm of the couch and tucked it over him and his brother. The warmth felt nice, comforting. 

He let his breathing sync with his brother’s, finally giving into the pull of unconsciousness. 

Chapter Text

Ford was finally asleep, and had been for the whole night. There had been a few times, of course, when he’d poked his head up urgently, calling out something indecipherable with a stifled whimper. Stan had simply murmured soft reassurances and stroked his back until, within a few minutes, Ford would slump back against his twin and into sleep. Stan didn’t think he’d ever seen his brother this wiped— even when they were kids, Ford preferred to be awake, to be doing something. He’d had nightmares as a kid, too, though Stan figured they might be a little bit more… real, now. 

Ford’s arm was doing well, as far as he could tell. While his brother had slept, Stan had rebandaged it, scrutinized it to make sure it was properly healing and that there were no signs of infection. The fact that Ford had stayed asleep for it, save for a few soft moans and hisses, spoke again of how exhausted he was, how exhausted he’d been for a long time. 

Stan had looked at his twin’s other arm too. He’d been afraid to touch it— that felt like too much of a violation. So he’d just… stared at it. He knew exactly what those kinds of cuts were, and Ford’s reaction when Stan had tried to bring them up had only confirmed it. Ford had hurt himself, and he’d been doing it for at least a few years. And some of the scars looked like they couldn’t have been more than a week old. He’d been doing it at least up until Stan had gotten to the cabin. Maybe even while Stan had been at the cabin. 

How did you not notice? It’s like you don’t care about anyone but yourself. You’re so fucking selfish. As if breaking his project wasn’t enough, as if ruining his future wasn’t enough, now you can’t even get out of your own head enough to tell your brother is—

Shit. Calm down. The more you think about this, the longer you’re leaving Ford alone in the living room. 

Stan was shirtless, staring at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t pull himself away, despite how utterly disgusting he felt and how desperately he wanted to get in the shower. All he could do was stare. Each unbandaged, exposed injury caught his eye— the gunshot wound, healing nicely. It still looked sort of… angry, though, ringed with faded yellow-green bruises with a neat line of stitches against pink flesh. It was sore against movement, but it was far less painful than the brand. 

He turned to inspect the back of his shoulder. It was scabbed over in a sort of brownish-yellow with new, bumpy tissue appearing along the outer edges. The swelling had gone down, but it was still elevated from his skin and had a sort of dull, constant throb. It hurt to move his arm too much, but he was able to breathe without it beating in time with his heart. 

He caught sight of his right arm, peering at the old scars that strongly resembled, to a lesser extent, the ones on his brother’s arms. For a moment, he was back in that shitty backstage area, the smell of booze and smoke thick in the air. Jimmy’s voice echoed in his head. 

Ya gotta cut out that fuckin’ habit. Ya just want attention! Can’t do all that to yer pretty little body. Gotta look good for the customers. For me. 

He shook himself out, trying to ignore the invisible pressure he suddenly felt on his wrists. 

He tried to forget about the memory, the voice . He didn’t like to think about it all. But he had deserved those marks. Ford hadn’t deserved that sort of hurt. That sort of loneliness, desperation. 

All of a sudden, Stan couldn’t stand to look at his reflection any longer. 

He turned the shower head on and lumbered behind the curtain, careful to keep the water cold. If he was going to add for his brother’s water bill, the least he could do was not use the hot water, too. Not to mention, it gave him more motivation to keep it short. 

He pumped a tiny dollop of shampoo, and, vowing to pay his brother back, massaged it into his hair, letting the suds run down his back and face. He hissed when the cheap soap hit the gash on his cheek and swiped at the skin, trying not to let the threatening tears escape. 

You’ve taken bullets and gotten your knees bashed in, for fuck’s sake, and your crying over a little papercut on your cheek? 

He thought of what Rico would say. 

You’ve gone soft, Pines. 

He tried to ignore it. 

Despite how loud his brain insisted on being, and how much his face’s new wound stung, the cold water felt quite nice. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper shower, been able to get fully clean, besides the tiny one he’d taken at the cabin right after the worst of his fever passed. Probably had to be when Jimmy had put them up in that shitty motel. Though, he hadn’t been alone in that shower. Wasn’t even to fully wash his hair before Jimmy had—

Jesus christ, don’t think about that. 

He’d been in here (been alone with his thoughts) long enough. After stepping out and pulling back on the same grubby sweatpants, he went back, torso still exposed, to the lab for medical supplies. Once he’d acquired the bandages and gauze he needed, he sunk gratefully into the rolling chair. His feet still stung, remnants of a two mile hike with no shoes in the snow. He had sort of forgotten about it in all of the adrenaline and panic and concern for his brother. He hadn’t had to walk too much last night— Ford wouldn’t let him leave his side, then, he was worried Ford would wake up or have some sort of nightmare. And if that happened, and Stan wasn’t there— 

He couldn’t abandon his brother again. 

But when Ford hadn’t even stirred for three hours, and Stan had confirmed he was still breathing, he knew he’d be safe to take a quick shower. 

He bandaged the wounds as gently as possible. It was a bit hard to reach the brand, but without another option, he just had to strain his other arm to cover it with the gauze and burn cream. The wound on his face was the most difficult. It was fresh, constantly stinging. He’d checked multiple times before his shower to ensure it wasn’t getting infected— it wasn’t, it was just deeper than he’d originally thought. If he’d been smart, he’d have bandaged his face in the bathroom with a mirror. But he was down here already, so he just took his best guess and slapped the gauze on, and tried desperately not to cry out when his nail scratched against the exposed flesh. 

Once he was entirely fixed up (in the most physical sense of the word), he pulled his filthy t-shirt back on and forced his feet back up the stairs to resume careful watch over his brother. 

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard his brother scream. 

Ignoring the way his feet throbbed, he bolted up the stairs to find Ford thrashing on the couch. 

Stan hurried to the couch, kneeling beside his brother, who, upon closer inspection, was still asleep, but in the midst of a horrible nightmare. 

Ford let out a tiny, wounded sound and jerked his arms until they were clutching around his own body, a last line of defense against whatever it was he was seeing. Stan’s gut twisted. 

“Ford?” He said, softly. “Ford, buddy, you gotta wake up.” 

He reached a hand up to his twin’s shoulder, but hesitated at the last second, remembering Ford’s reaction to the same kind of touch in the aftermath of Bill. Stan opted instead to jostle the couch with his good arm. 

“Come on, come back to me, Six.” He raised his voice slightly. “S’ just a nightmare, that’s all it is.” 

Ford jerked his head to the side, his legs twitching. For a split second, Stan recalled the exorcism. Ford looked equally pained and desperate now as he had then. 

“C’mon, buddy, you’re safe!” Stan called.

His twin let out another sound— something of a mix between a scream and a howl, and his face contorted in distress. 

“B-Bill— can’t— please…” 

Ford’s words came out as a hushed, desperate plea. He sobbed, squeezing himself tighter in his sleep, “Hurts…” 

Stan shook the couch again, much harder this time. “Ford!” 

Suddenly, Ford shot upright, his eyes wide and panicked and awake. His head jerked all around, searching but not seeing. 

“Six? You—”

“NO—” Ford’s voice caught, and the word came out more like a whine. He gasped in hollow, hyperventilating bursts as he choked out words between them. “Please— no—”

“Stanford,” Stan said firmly, gently. He moved off of the floor and sat next to his brother on the couch. “You’re safe. No one’s gonna hurt you. It’s just me.” 

As if you haven’t already hurt him. 

Stan shook the thought away. This wasn’t about him. 

Ford twitched his head to the side, his pupils blown wide. He blinked. 

“…S-Stanley?” 

“Yeah. M’ right here, okay?” 

Without another word, Ford reached his arms out and started patting Stan’s arms and chest. He looked no less panicked than he had in the middle of the nightmare. 

“Y-You— hurt…” His words were tiny and muffled, like only a third of what his brain was trying to get out was actually verbalized. “Y-You—” His voice caught on a sob. 

Ford’s eyes were darting all over his brother. He’s searching for injuries, Stan realized. He thinks you’re hurt. 

“Hey, hey, look at me.” Ford didn’t pause in his examination. “Please.” Ford glanced up, his hands pausing as they cradled Stan’s face. 

“Ford, I’m safe, alright?” Stan tried his best to be comforting. It felt foreign. “I’m not hurt.” 

Ford seemed to understand. “Y-You’re…” He struggled to speak for a moment and he huffed, visibly frustrated with himself. 

“Take your time. You’re alright.” Stan gently took his twin’s hands from his own face and brought them down, still holding them protectively. 

Finally, Ford took a steadying breath. “…You’re— o-okay?” 

Stan’s chest hitched. “Mhm, I’m just fine.” 

Ford huffed out an exhausted, relieved sigh and slumped for a moment. His face caught the light from the window, and Stan finally noticed the sheen of sweat across his twin’s forehead. He pressed a hand against it. As he suspected, his brother had only gotten warmer. 

“Shit, Ford.” Stan wrung his hands together, a wave of anxiety crashing over him. How could you let it get this bad? What if he doesn’t get better? It would be your fault if he—

Calm down. Figure out how bad it is first. 

“I’m gonna go get a thermometer, okay? I’ll be right back.” 

Ford shot back up, his eyes welling up. 

“L-Lee— no—” He collapsed forward, clinging tightly to Stan. His hands shook. “Don’t go…” He let out a tiny sob as he squirmed to bury his head against his twin’s chest. “Please… s-stay…” 

“Ford, I’ll just be in the lab, I won’t be gone for more than a minute—” 

“Please!” Ford cried again. He squeezed tighter around Stan, his breaths turning sharp and quick. “M’ so sorry, I’m so sorry, j-just don’t leave me alone with h-him…” 

“Him— there’s no one else here, buddy,” Stan said softly. “You’re safe.” 

“Bill—” Ford sniffled. “H-He’ll hurt— he’ll—” 

Oh. 

How stupid can you be? He’s sick and delirious, of course he thinks Bill is gonna hurt him! How could you be so damn thoughtless? 

“Hey, hey, shh. It’s alright. We— we’ll go get the thermometer together, okay? I’ll be with you the whole time.” 

Ford whimpered miserably, but nodded. He pulled back just slightly, enough to look his twin in the eyes. 

“Think you can walk there?” 

“...Don’t— know…”

“S’ okay,” Stan reassured him. “Wanna try?” 

Ford hummed in agreement and shifted his weight onto his good arm. He swung his legs over the side of the couch and forced himself up shakily. Immediately, he wavered, his body trembling before he leaned against Stan, clinging desperately to the fabric of his shirt. 

“You got it, buddy.” Stan took on most of his brother’s weight as they walked down the stairs and into the lab. Ford’s breaths became immediately labored with the movement, and his once tight hold on his twin became just a faint touch by the time Stan lowered him into the rolling chair. 

He tried to ignore his stinging feet as he grabbed the thermometer from the medical supplies and brought it back to Ford. 

“Open wide,” he murmured. Ford complied, and Stan put the thermometer under his tongue. They waited in awkward silence until the thing beeped, and Stan pulled it out. 

104 degrees. Fuck. 

That was really bad. He’d heard once that someone’s brain could start cooking itself if it got that high. 

“Oh, Six…” He murmured. “I’m—” He stopped himself. There was no point in making his brother’s panic worse. “I’m gonna find you some medicine, okay? Sure you got somethin’ in that cabinet of yours.” 

He tore through the supplies again, coming across generic, low-dose fever reducers. Ford needed something more, something stronger, but it would have to do for now. He poured the viscous liquid into the cap and handed it to his brother. 

“Drink that for me, please.” 

Ford just stared at the cap in his hands like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Stan bit back a sigh. 

“Okay, just— here.” He took the cap back and tipped Ford’s chin up, letting the liquid trail down his throat. 

Ford swallowed thickly and immediately burst into a fit of harsh coughing. He doubled over in the chair, his face turning red. The coughing turned to gags as his whole body shook. 

Shit, he’s not gonna puke, is he? 

Stan eased him back up, rubbing his back gently. “You’re alright, Ford. Just breathe. Through your nose, you got it.” 

Finally, the fit subsided, and the red in his brother’s face faded to pink. He let out a tiny, wounded sound and slumped back in the chair. 

“Lee…” He murmured. The words were choked and wet. He didn’t continue. 

Okay, he’s got medicine in him. What else? 

Stan’s mind drifted to their childhood. It was a distant memory, just fragments in his head. Ford had gotten sick with the flu and Ma had already pumped him full of medicine, but his fever just wasn’t going down. He remembered she’d put him in a cool bath, swearing up and down that it’d lower his temperature. He didn’t really remember if it had worked or not, as desperately as he tried to sift through his head. But he was willing to try anything at this point. Anything to help his brother, to lessen his obvious misery. 

“Okay, we just— we gotta get you upstairs, bud. We’re gonna get that fever down.” 

Ford hummed miserably, swiping at his face lazily with his good arm. 

It was immediately clear he wouldn’t be able to get up the stairs if he tried. Stan sighed in silent apology and picked him gently up from the chair, careful not to aggravate the wound on his twin’s arm. Ford gasped sharply in surprise, but didn’t bother arguing at all. Stan wasn’t sure if he even fully understood what was going on. He carried him up the stairs and into the bathroom. 

I hope to god you were right about this, Ma. 

He set Ford gently in the bathtub, and resigned himself to the awkward, slightly invasive task at hand. Ford’s eyes fluttered as his head lolled back against the ring of the tub. He let out a tiny, exhausted whimper. 

“S’ alright, Ford,” Stan whispered. “You’re gonna be just fine.” He wasn’t sure if the reassurance was for himself or his brother. 

Stan decided the best way to remove Ford’s shirt would be to do it one arm at a time. He started with his good arm, pulling it through the sleeve and sideways over his brother’s neck. Then, he just had to slide the shirt over his injured arm. Ford hissed in discomfort at the slightest touch near the wound, but the shirt came off rather seamlessly. 

He tried to distract himself as he removed Ford’s tattered khakis, recalling the last time he’d done something like this. Yet again, his mind drifted to Jimmy. It had been late, and Jimmy had stumbled back into the motel drunk and filthy and angry. After an argument and a brand new black eye, Stan had led his barely conscious partner to the bathtub to clean him off. He’d removed his shirt, but decided to leave the pants. Didn’t want to give Jimmy any more motivation. 

After a few difficult, awkward moments, Ford’s filthy pants were beside the tub with his shirt. Stan left the boxers on, obviously, but paused when he saw his brother’s chest. 

Similar to Ford’s arms, his torso was littered with scars. They weren’t uniform though, they were angry and disorganized and deep. They looked less than a few months old, purple and raised from his skin. Stan fought back the nausea swirling in his stomach. These scars didn’t look self-inflicted, at least, not when Ford had been the one in control. His best guess was that these were Bill’s handiwork. 

He could help the tears that leaked out of his eyes. He grabbed his brother’s hand, guilt utterly overtaking him. 

You left him alone to deal with a demon. These scars are your fault. 

“Six, I’m—” He cut himself off, biting back a sob. He swiped at his face. “Fuck.” 

Ford didn’t respond, just blinked blearily at his twin. He didn’t seem to be processing anything— completely delirious. His skin was coated in sweat, and his breaths were ragged and shaking. 

You can have a pity party later. You owe it to him to help. 

Stan turned the water to cool, borderlining on lukewarm. Not so cold that it hurt, but cool enough to bring his temperature down. Then, he took a dry washcloth from the vanity drawer and scrubbed gently with soap at the crusted unicorn blood on his brother’s face until his skin was free of the fluid. Next, he attended to Ford’s uninjured arm, cleaning more unicorn blood off, as well as some crusted fluid from when Bill had sliced up his brother’s arms. His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to keep going. He noticed the crusted blood between Ford’s fingernails, and tentatively grabbed Ford’s wrist to attend to them. 

Ford’s eyes shot open. He tugged his arm back weakly with a tiny yelp. 

Shit. 

“N-No—” He slurred, the words more like mumbles. He shook his head faintly, keeping his arm close to his chest. “L-Leave me alone… c-can’t…” 

“Ford, m’ tryin’ to help you,” Stan said, trying to keep his voice gentle but firm. “Just—” 

“S-Stop,” Ford insisted. He sluggishly backed himself into the corner of the tub, panting heavily. “Bill, please…” 

What did you do? He thinks you’re Bill. He thinks you’re going to hurt him. You might as well. All you do is hurt him. 

“Six, please—” 

“Gave you everything…” Ford gasped. “C-Can’t— n-not building the portal… I-I can’t—” He cut himself off with a harsh cough. 

“Stanford, look at me. It’s your brother. I’m Stan. I’m not gonna hurt you.” Stan reached back out for Ford’s arm desperately, knowing that it probably wasn’t the right decision as he was doing it. Ford’s breathing got faster still, his eyes darting relentlessly around the room. 

“P-Please, don’t—” Another nasty cough, followed by a tiny sob. “D-Don’t steal my eyes—”

Steal his eyes? Stan made a mental note to address that later. 

“S’ okay, I’m not gonna— just lemme help you—” 

“NO—” Ford’s ragged gasps crescendoed, and his entire body tensed. Stan moved closer, raising his arms in surrender, aiming for comfort. But before he could say anything, Ford drew his arm back and launched it forward, punching Stan square in the face. 

Stan cried out and staggered back onto the tiled floor, breathing hard. Ford’s fist had caught the cut from the unicorn horn, and it throbbed, sending shockwaves of pain throughout his entire skull. For a moment, all he could do was stare at his brother, slightly offended and slightly in awe that even in a feverish, delusional state, Ford had still had a panicked, raw strength. 

Ford let out a loud, desperate cry and brought his legs back up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. He buried his head in his knees and shook, his entire being wracked with wet, wounded cries. 

This is your fault, you know. You made him feel threatened. Why would you grab his wrist? What would you have done if he’d done that to you? You’re such an idiot. What are you gonna do if you can’t get him to recognize you? His fever will just get worse, and then he’ll get sicker, and then he’ll—

You have to fix this. 

“Ford?” Stan asked softly, tentatively. “Ford, it’s— you’re okay. You’re safe. It’s just me. I’m right here, and I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

Ford didn’t look up. Another sob wracked him. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Stan continued. “I— I shouldn’t have grabbed your wrist, I should’ve known that would scare you. I-I’m so—” His voice cracked as he choked on the words. “Fuck, Six, I don’t know how to help you. I just wanna help.” A broken cry escaped him, and he slapped his hand over his mouth, ignoring the way it aggravated the cut. He drew his own knees into his chest, letting his head drop. “I’m so sorry… I don’t know what to do…” His words finally dissipated, and he stopped bothering to wipe away the tears that just kept falling.  

Goddamnit, pull yourself together! This isn’t about you! Don’t you want to help him at all?

It couldn’t be about him. It couldn’t. He slowly raised his head, ready to beg, plead, anything to get his brother to come back to reality. 

Ford was already looking at him. His eyes were wide and glassy, rimmed with tears. But, finally, instead of looking through Stan, his brother was looking at him. 

“...Lee?” 

Yes!” Stan let out another wet sob, relief flooding him. “Yeah, yeah, it’s me, Ford! It’s Stan!” 

Ford still looked disoriented, and he shrunk back at the volume from Stan’s words. Shit. You’re scaring him again. 

“Sorry, I shouldn’t— yeah, yes, it’s me, Six. You’re doin’ great. You’re gonna be okay.” He raised his hands placatingly. “Can you let me help you, though?” 

Ford hummed and took in a shaky inhale, which Stan took as a yes. He grabbed the washcloth from where it had fallen on the floor and continued scrubbing the blood from Ford’s injured arm until it was clean. 

He searched under the vanity until he found a cup. He grabbed a tiny dollop of shampoo and gently massaged it into Ford’s hair until it was sudsy, then used the cup to rinse out the shampoo. Finally, his brother was clean. 

“Okay, Ford, we’re gonna get out now, alright?” Stan said softly, adjusting his grip to assist his twin. “You can rest so soon, buddy, you’re almost there.” 

He gently pulled Ford upright from under his arms, helping him step over the lining of the tub. Using a towel, he dried him off. 

Damn it. You didn’t grab him any clothes. 

“Er— let’s get you to the couch. Then I’ll get you some clothes.” 

Ford stumbled on the first step, his grip tightening around his brother. The motion felt familiar as Stan simply picked him up and carried him the rest of the way to the couch, depositing him on top of his pile of blankets. 

“Stay there for me, I’m gonna run and grab you some clothes.” 

Ford moaned weakly, shaking his head. “Stay…” 

“I’ll be back right away, okay?” 

Ford let out a tiny, pathetic whimper and sniffled loudly, pulling his knees up to his chest. He began to shiver. Goddamnit, Stan didn’t want to leave him alone, but it would only strain Ford to bring him all the way upstairs and back, and he needed clean clothes. 

Ignoring his brother’s cries, Stan hurried up the stairs and grabbed a plain t-shirt and some sweatpants. He shot back down the stairs, clothes in hand, to find Ford bawling on the couch in a tiny ball. 

“Hey, hey, I’m right here,” Stan said softly, dropping the clothes onto the side table. “I’m here, I came back.” 

Ford peeked out from his cocoon, his eyes welling up once he saw his brother’s face. “Lee… you came back…” 

“Of course I did, Ford. Now let’s get you into some clean clothes, yeah?” 

Ford sniffled and nodded. Stan got the shirt over his head and got his good arm into it with ease. He was extremely careful with Ford’s injured arm, nearly dropping it completely when Ford yelped at the tiniest bit of movement. The pants were harder, but with a bit of finangling, Stan was able to get his brother fully clothed. 

“Good job, buddy, you’re all done,” Stan said, easing Ford down to his back. “Rest now, alright? 

“Lee…” Ford curled in on himself once he was laying down, a blanket half strewn over him. “M’ sorry…” 

“Ford, you got nothin’ to be sorry for.” Stan fixed the blanket, making sure it was the thinnest one, to help keep Ford’s temperature down. “Just get some sleep.” 

Ford nodded sluggishly, tucking his hands under his cheek like a child. “Love you…” 

Stan’s breath hitched as he finished making sure his brother was snug and secure. 

You’re not out of the woods yet. He’s still sick, and you have to fix it. You can’t let him down, not now. Not ever again. 

“Love you too, Ford.” 

Chapter Text

The first thing Ford was aware of was pain. It was everywhere— a dull throb that spread from his scalp all the way to his toes. It was the worst in his arm. He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, but he knew it must be bad. He tried to will himself back into the tempting comfort of sleep, but he could feel his brain struggling to catch up with his circumstances. He had to be awake now, as much as he wished he didn’t. 

He blinked his eyes open, and the pain in his head doubled. Why was it so bright? He had bought blackout curtains for his bedroom for a reason. 

Oh. He wasn’t in his bedroom. It was all blurry, without his glasses, but even his weak eyes were able to see that he was in the living room, on the couch. Odd. 

What had happened? 

He ran over the events he remembered. Stan arriving at the cabin. The brand. The fight with Rico and his men, wiping their memories and dumping them in the forest. The infected brand, Stan’s fever. Bill. Ford hurting his own little brother. The unicorns, then back to the cabin. 

For the exorcism. It went blank right before the exorcism. 

For a moment, Ford felt his breathing speed up. Had he woken up post-possession? He scanned his body for injuries, but he couldn’t even tell if there was any damage because of how fucking blurry it was. 

Where were his glasses? 

Wait. He suddenly came up with a far more important question: where was his brother? 

Fuck, what if he’d hurt Stan? What if the exorcism hadn’t worked and he’d hurt his brother? What if Stan was immobile? What if he was dead? 

It was getting significantly harder to breathe. 

Alright, be logical about this. Try and find Stan first. 

He shifted his body in an attempt to get off the bed, but was hit with a sudden rush of dizziness. He blinked rapidly but forced himself to keep going. Stan could be hurt. Stan needed him. Ford swung his legs over the side of the couch and hopped to the floor. Immediately, dark spots flooded his blurry vision and he shot his arm out to catch himself against the side table. 

FUCK. He used the wrong arm. Pain shot through him and he let out a yelp. In the same motion, he attempted a single step and his knees buckled under him, sending his body crumpling to the floor in a heap. His head spun.

How are you going to help Stan if you can’t even walk? 

In a desperate, final effort, he called out his brother’s name. 

“Stanley—” The words dissolved in a thick, broken cough, one that made his whole body convulse. He was gasping, shaking on the ground. The coughs shortly became gags, and he slapped his hand over his mouth, desperate not to sully his carpet or himself with the vomit he knew was coming. 

A bucket was thrust under his chin. Suddenly, he was retching painfully, coughing up bile and dry heaves into it. He curled in on himself, holding the bucket like a shield until he could get in a full breath, and, finally, rested the side of his head on the lining, his whole body slumping with exhaustion.

He registered a gentle hand rubbing slow, steady circles into his back. He blinked, poking his head up. It was a blurry form next to him, but he could tell— it was his brother. What he couldn’t tell how bad the damage must be. If Ford had truly been possessed, then it was probably bad. What if Bill had choked him again? Broken his arms? Ripped off his fingernails, one by one? 

“Lee—” A dreadful cough. His voice was so hoarse. It was as if he hadn’t spoken in days. “L-Lee… what did he do?” 

“Ford, what are—” It was too blurry to see Stan’s face, but his voice came out quiet, confused. “Oh.” He paused again, taking Ford’s hand. “Ford, Bill is gone. He— the exorcism worked.” 

It worked? 

Ford shook his head. That couldn’t be right. Bill couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t allow himself to feel that sort of complicated relief yet. It wasn’t safe. Bill didn’t go easy, ever. They were still in danger. 

“N-No, but he’s—” Ford stumbled over his words, each one scratching his throat. “W-What did he do? He’s smart, he probably j-just hid in some… distant corner of my mind, and he’ll—” Ford gasped, his breaths coming in sharp and fast. His hands shot up to his hair, pulling at it instinctively. “He’ll kill us. God, he’ll kill you. He can’t. I won’t let him, I won’t—”

“Hey.” Stan grabbed his brother’s hands back and gently pulled them away from his scalp,  “Ford, listen to me. It worked. You were in and out of sleep, a-and I mean— you were pretty out of it, but it was you. It was always you. Bill is gone.” 

“B-But he could’ve—” 

“I was there at the exorcism, Six,” Stan’s voice became rougher, firmer, but not unkind. Still somehow understanding. “I saw him leave your body. And it looked painful as hell, but it was real. You’re safe. I don’t know where Bill is, but he’s not in your head.” 

He’s not in your head. 

It sounded foreign in Ford’s ears. But he thought about Stan’s words. If what Stan was saying was true, then the exorcism had gone according to plan. Bill was gone. His body was his own, for the first time in what seemed like ages. 

The question was, did he trust what his brother was saying? 

No, he couldn’t— he just— there was so much danger in trust. Trust is how Ford ended up alone and possessed, he himself the last line of defense between the world and Bill Cipher. He thought back to his own words in his own messy handwriting: TRUST NO ONE. 

But… he faltered. It was Stan. His brother. His little brother who had always protected him from bullies (and, upon recent revelation, their own father). Ford hadn’t thought he could ever trust Stan after the science fair. But he’d come to realize that, while a stupid mistake, it wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t an act of malice, as he’d once thought. 

He wakes up, head pounding, blinking in the snow. He’s on the roof. I OWN YOU, he hears. What is his name? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t—

No. No, no, don’t think about that. Can you trust anyone? After Ford had let him get abused, kicked out, let him be homeless… Stan had come back to him. And he’d stayed. Even after Ford had branded him, after Ford had let him get shot, after Ford had attacked him, let him get hurt over and over and over again. Stan had proved his loyalty. Even though Ford deserved nothing from his brother. From anyone. 

— Bill said trust no one— You can’t trust anyone—

Stan isn’t anyone. 

No one stayed. But Stan did. 

Stan had proved, time and time again, the impossible depths of his loyalty.

Yes. Ford trusted his brother. 

Bill was gone. Bill was gone he was gone he couldn’t hurt he couldn’t touch— he couldn’t make him—

“Ford? Can you hear me?” 

“Er— yes.” Ford cleared his throat and winced, rubbing absently at it, as if that would do anything to dispel the pain. “Sorry. Yes, I can hear you.” 

It didn’t feel real. But it was. His brain was short circuiting around the information. 

“You alright?” 

Bill was gone. No more possession. No more waking up with brand new injuries and his house torn apart, no more waking up on the roof not knowing his own name, no more portal. No more threat of interdimensional destruction. 

Bill had done so much bad, even back when Ford had trusted him. Broken memories flashed in Ford’s brain: when he’d woken up covered in blood that he knew couldn’t be his own. When he’d woken up naked with a post-it-note on his chest that had said THE HUMAN BODY IS SO INTERESTING, ISN’T IT, SIXER? in his own messy handwriting. 

But… before Bill had revealed himself to be… what he was, he had been what felt like the only other being that understood Ford. He’d helped him to master interdimensional physics, he’d help him to discover the mysteries of Gravity Falls. He has been his friend. More than friend, really. His muse. His whole world. He’d shown him so much. 

— What is wrong with you you should be happy you should be jumping up and down right now—

“I… don’t know.” 

Stan sighed quietly. “Alright, let’s— let’s get you back on the couch, okay?” 

Ford simply nodded, too exhausted in body and brain to fight for his independence. He let Stan guide him gently back onto the couch. Ford brought his knees to his chest as Stan draped a blanket over his shoulders before settling in next to him. 

“Stan, could I—” Ford blinked. “Where are…my glasses?” 

“Oh.” Stan shifted in his seat, and, after a moment, Ford saw his brother’s blurry form move closer, and the world came into focus as Stan pulled his hands away gently. “There you go.” 

“Thank you.” 

There was an awkward silence. Stan reached over to the side table again and handed Ford a glass of water. 

“You should get some fluid in you. Wasn’t able to get much in you these past two days.” 

Ford accepted the glass from his brother and took a tiny sip. It felt wonderful on his dry throat, and, before he knew it, he was downing the entire cup and giving it back to his brother. 

“Wait.” Ford suddenly realized what Stan had said. “I was out for two days?” 

“Mhm.” Stan nodded. “Well, you were sort of in and out, but you were never really… aware. While you were awake I got some medicine in you. When you were sleepin’ I fixed up your bandage. Your arm probably hurts like a bitch, but it’s healin’, believe it or not. And— ur broken finger's doin' good, too, I checked up on that.” 

“Ah.” Ford cleared his throat. “Er— thank you.” 

Stan only hummed in acknowledgement. 

In the silence, Ford was able to fully take his brother in. Stan looked… exhausted. And it wasn’t the bags under his eyes or the way he kept trying to stifle yawns that gave him away. It was the hollow look on his face. The way he would barely look his twin in the eyes. 

There was something different about his appearance, too. It took Ford a moment to realize what it was, but he couldn’t look away once he did.  

Stan’s hair was curly. 

Stan glanced his way, his shoulders stiffening under his brother’s gaze. “What’re you lookin’ at?” 

“Oh, I’m— your hair.” 

“What about it?” 

“It’s… different,” Ford said softly. “I didn’t realize it was curly. It… suits you.”

Stan self consciously pulled at one of the curls. “Yeah, it curls up like this when I wash it. I showered yesterday.” His eyes suddenly widened. “I-I cleaned the towel and everythin’, and I only used cold water. A-And I can pay you back for the shampoo, I only used a tiny bit…” 

Ford’s stomach twisted, this time not from nausea. His guilt was almost suffocating. He wants to pay you back for the shampoo. That’s how unsafe you’re making him feel here. 

“No, Stan, it’s alright.” He tried to keep his voice reassuring. “It’s fine. Do whatever you need. Make yourself at home.” 

Something flashed across Stan’s face at his brother’s words, and he glanced away, sniffling quietly. 

Fuck, what is wrong with you? Why would you say that word?! You knew he was living in his car! Goddamnit all you do is hurt him—

Ford opened his mouth in an attempt to remedy the awkwardness. All that came out was another nasty cough that shook his whole body. 

He muffled it quickly in his arm while Stan rubbed his back until the small fit subsided and he was able to take in a gasp of air. 

“M’ gonna get you some more water,” Stan said. He stood up and left for the kitchen before Ford could argue. Though, his sore throat might’ve overpowered his pride in this single instance. 

Stan returned quickly, this time with a bottle of water. Smart. Ford watched as his brother walked slowly to the couch. He suddenly realized Stan was holding himself awkwardly. His steps were slow, uneven, and he winced at each one. They were tiny, barely-there winces, but Ford could see them. 

Ford knew keeping quiet would be the polite thing to do. But he needed to know what had happened these past two days. He needed to know why his brother was in pain. 

Fuckfuckfuck he’s lying about Bill— Bill got out, Bill hurt Stan, no, you hurt Stan. What if he—

“Lee?”

Stan sat on the couch and handed him the water bottle. “Drink first, then talk.” 

Ford complied, downing half the bottle before he finally gave it back to his brother, who set it on the side table. 

Ford cleared his throat. “You— you’re walking strangely.” 

Stan raised an eyebrow. “What’re you talkin’ about?” 

“Are you… in pain?” Ford tried to choose his words carefully. “You were wincing when you walked back to the couch.” 

“M’ fine.” 

—He’s not fine and it’s your fault and now he won’t even tell you what’s wrong and you’ll never be able to help him and he’ll be like this forever—

“I just want to help,” Ford said quietly. “But, if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I won’t know how to help you.” He heard his voice crack on the last syllable. God, this fever must really be getting the better of him. 

Stan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just got a little frostnip on my feet. Not a big deal.” 

“How did you get frostnip?” Ford asked. “I-I mean, I know your boots had a few holes in them, but they’re relatively sturdy.” 

“Yeah, I, uh—” Stan hesitated, seeming to think over his words. “Had to take off my boots for that unicorn gal. Never… got ‘em back.”

He left his shoes at the unicorn grove? Ford’s chest felt hollow. He made a two mile hike in nothing but socks. 

Ford stared at his brother’s feet. His socks were dirty, and, honestly, they were more hole than they were sock. 

“You walked two miles in the snow with no shoes?” Ford’s voice cracked. “Y-You— why would you do that?!” 

And how did I not notice? 

Stan stiffened. “Not like I had a choice.” 

Calm down, you’re scaring him. Ford sighed. “Alright, perhaps— let’s say I understand why you didn’t just take my boots. Why didn’t you at least put on new socks and shoes once we got back?” 

“Had to do the exorcism—”

“After the exorcism, then,” Ford insisted. He was losing the battle to keep a level tone. “You said I was out for a bit, you should’ve had plenty of time to put on proper footwear.”

Stan’s shoulders went square and he didn’t respond. Just stared at the floor, a slight tremor running through his body. 

“Lee?” Stan still didn’t respond. “Lee, come on.” 

“…Didn’t have any more,” Stan muttered. 

“You didn’t bring any other socks and shoes?” Ford asked, looking his brother up and down. Stan hasn’t changed once since he got here, except for the t-shirt you put on him after he got shot. “Did you pack anything?” 

Stan gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Wouldn’t’a had anythin’ to pack.” 

“What does that mean?” Ford felt his chest tighten.

“It means I brought what I had.” Stan shrugged. “Pretty much just what I’m wearin’ and a toothbrush. Plus whatever random crap Pa threw in the duffle bag.” Stan made a noise that, if Ford wasn’t mistaken, sounded quite like a scoff. “Not all of us got $100,000 research grants to pay for our fancy cabins with, Six.” His cheeks suddenly grew pink, and he turned away. “…Sorry.”  

Ford was silent for a minute, Stan’s words stinging more than he cared to admit. How could you be so thoughtless? You were handed everything on a silver platter— you just throw it all in his face? He was living out of his car for god’s sake, of course he didn’t have many clothing options! And you went and reminded him of it! 

“No!— It’s alright— I’m sorry,” He said quietly. “B-But, did—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Stan’s voice wavered. “I’m just—” He took a shaking inhale. “Please leave it alone.” 

Ford didn’t want to leave it alone. 

—You put him through this you ruined his life—god now you’re making him relive the worst years of his life what is wrong with you—you’re hurting him—

Instead of pressing, Ford simply whispered: “I’m so sorry.” 

Stan didn’t respond, just fiddled with the fabric of his shirt. 

Fuck. Ford couldn’t stop himself from crying. He felt ridiculous and embarrassed and horrible as he slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the wounded, almost animal sob that threatened to escape. It was pointless— the wails kept coming. He sniffled loudly and pathetically between them, curling in on himself instinctively. 

Stan’s hand was rubbing his back again. 

“Hey, c’mon, buddy, it’s— I’m fine. Don’t cry.” 

That only made Ford sob harder. Jesus, he felt like a toddler, shaking like a leaf, letting his brother comfort him when it should have been the other way around. 

“I-It’s my fault — I’m so sorry,” was all Ford could choke out between wails. “I’m so sorry, I-I’m so sorry, Lee…” 

Stan’s breath caught and he wrapped his arms around his brother— gently, tentatively, keeping Ford safe and small and protected as he leaned into the hold, clinging desperately. Stan was his twin’s protector— always had been, even when Ford didn’t know it. Ford owed him everything. 

They stayed there until his crying had faded into tiny, weak sniffles and faint hitched breaths. Ford could tell, even while being held, how tense Stan felt. How stiff he was. He still didn’t feel completely safe. Would he ever? 

In the silence, Ford made a decision. 

“I want you to wear some of my clothes, and get some real socks and shoes.” 

You should’ve offered him clothes much earlier, but like usual, you were only thinking of yourself—

“What?” Stan pulled away, his body going rigid. “Six, I’m not takin’ your clothes. M’ fine in what I got.” 

“No.” Ford forced his voice to be strong and commanding, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not— this isn’t a discussion. You need clean clothes and fresh socks, and I have plenty I don’t wear.” He added the last part hoping that it would convince Stan that it was in no way an inconvenience. 

Stan huffed and dropped his head. “Fine.” His tone was indecipherable. 

Ford waited a few moments, but when Stan didn’t move, he cleared his throat. “You can— go change.” 

“You meant now?” 

“Yes, I meant now.” Ford sniffed. “I’ll wait.”  

Stan silently stood, an unreadable expression on his face, and dragged himself up the stairs without looking back. His footsteps were slow. Reluctant.

And Ford waited, his guilt squeezing at his gut. Stan had been abandoned, homeless, abused. And Ford had been… what, hunting down useless anomalies? Ruining his friend’s life? Making deals with demons? If Ford had just called, if he’d set aside his precious pride for one goddamn second, he could’ve saved his brother from pointless suffering. But he hadn’t.

He was fighting back tears again. He was the worst big brother in the world. He was the worst human being in the world. He was worse than Bill. He’d let his brother be abused and bullied. Then he’d let him get kicked out. He’d let him be homeless. He hadn’t done a single act of kindness for his brother in his life. 

—You have to fix this you have to make up for it you owe it to him—

He didn’t know how, but he had to atone for his sins. He could never hurt Stan again. He couldn’t. From now on, his life had a new purpose: protecting his brother. 

He was broken from his thoughts when Stan lumbered back down the stairs. He was wearing old clothes, but Ford was surprised to see that the sweatpants fit well, save for being a bit long. Thankfully, he could see socked feet sticking out from the pant legs. Most of Ford’s shirts probably would’ve been a bit small on his brother, but Stan had chosen particularly oversized articles of clothing, so their size difference wasn’t really an issue.

Though, it was never the length that was the issue with those pants— it was only the waistline. They had always fit Ford’s height perfectly. Since when was Stan shorter than you? 

Ford cleared his throat. “Thank you. For putting on the clothes.” 

Stan hummed in acknowledgement awkwardly sat back down on the couch, a tiny sigh of relief escaping his lips, presumably because the pressure was off of his feet. He leaned over to the side table and produced a thermometer. 

“We should take your temperature. Your fever broke last night but m’ pretty sure you’re still warm.” 

Ford nodded and placed the thing under his tongue until it beeped. He took it out and blinked at the blurry numbers on the screen. 

102 degrees. 

Stan eyed the thermometer and nodded, seemingly satisfied, before taking it back and setting it on the side table. “That’s good. Day before yesterday you were at 104. How’re you feelin’ now?” 

Ford shrugged. “I’ve— been better.” As if on cue, he sniffled, the sound thick and congested. He cringed and rubbed at his nose. “But I feel… lighter. Without Bill.” His voice cracked a bit. “It’s been a long time since I’ve… had full control over my mind and body.” He took a steadying inhale. He could not cry again. “But that— doesn’t matter. I’m fine. How are you feeling?” 

Stan gave him a confused look. “M’ fine.” 

“Shit— have you been keeping up with your bandages?” Ford asked suddenly, the words rushing out of him. “How’s the brand? Do you need me to—”

“S’ fine, Ford. I’ve been keepin’ up with ‘em.” 

“B-But you said that before and you still—”

“They’re fine,” Stan insisted, his tone slightly sharp. “You can take a look, if you don’t believe me.”  

Ford’s face felt hot, and his cheeks were undoubtedly red. “I’m sorry. I-I believe you. I just— I don’t want anything to get infected, is all. But I believe you.” 

Stan nodded, content to drop the subject. But Ford caught something at the tail end of the nod. Stan winced. 

Ford fixed his eyes on the bandage on Stan’s cheek. It looked bigger, more swollen than it should’ve been. And there was a bruise that spread down to his chin. 

Ford had seen the wound. It was deep, but it was not that long. It certainly shouldn’t be hitting his brother’s chin. 

“How’s your cheek?” 

Stan answered immediately. “Fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Mhm.” 

A long pause. 

Ford hesitated, making sure to keep his voice gentle. Unassuming. “It’s just… I don’t remember it being that long, spreading down to your chin.” 

“You were pretty out of it.” 

“I’m quite sure I remember it.” He didn’t say what he was thinking: I can never forget it. I let it happen. 

Stan sighed. 

A terrible thought came into Ford’s mind. “Was it Bill?” 

Stan’s head whipped to the side. “What— no!” 

“Stan, I know that wasn’t only from the unicorn, so the next logical option would be—”

“Ford, just drop it—”

“I can’t drop it, I’m—”

“You punched me!” The words exploded out of Stan’s mouth. 

Ford’s stomach dropped. “I… what?” 

Stan immediately backtracked. “Shit— that was— you didn’t— I said that the wrong way.” 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, you did it again! All you do is hurt him! 

“I punched you?!” Ford’s voice squeaked. He tried to take in a shallow breath, but it didn’t sit right in his lungs. He coughed suddenly, choking on his words, and Stan reached out to steady his brother. Ford flinched away. You don’t deserve his comfort. 

When the fit subsided, Ford continued his interrogation, his throat still painfully raw. 

“W-Why did— shit, I’m so sorry—” Another gasp. “What happened? What did I do?” 

“Hey, hey, buddy, calm down. I’m fine, yeah?” Stan rubbed a hand down his face and sighed. “It’s— okay, look, your fever was really high, and you were super out of it, a-and so I pumped you full of the fever reducers but it didn’t seem like enough, so I…” he hesitated. His next words came out low, almost embarrassed. “I gave you a bath.” 

Ford nearly choked. His brain stuttered. For a moment, his mouth simply hung open as he stared at his brother. 

Was I in that bad a state? My little brother had to bathe me? 

Another thought suddenly crossed his mind. The scars on his arm. Fuck, Stan had seen them. That must be why he was acting so odd and awkward. He knows what an utter freak you are. And he knows it’s not because of your extra fingers, it’s because your brain is fucked up beyond repair. Ford needed to know what Stan was thinking. How badly he must want to leave. 

Because everyone leaves you because you push them away because for some goddamn reason you think you’re so much better than everyone—

Ford self-consciously pulled the blanket securely around his good arm. The silence between them grew and grew and grew. 

Ford coughed weakly, followed by a disgusting, thick sniffle that made his ever present headache even worse. He rubbed at his nose again. “Stan, w-when you gave me a bath—” You sound pathetic. “Did you— I-I mean— how much did you…” The words faded and he shook his head. “Nevermind.”

—you didn’t even have the courage to ask him about it— such a fucking coward—

He didn’t miss the way his brother’s eyes flickered to the arm he’d just covered. But in a millisecond, Stan looked away again. 

“I-I didn’t— I left your underwear on, obviously, but… y’know, I didn’t know how to get your fever down, and Ma always used to swear by it, and, I mean— it worked. But, uh— you were real out of it, and, at one point, I grabbed your wrist to get some of the unicorn blood off your arm, but…” Stan hesitated, a tremor going through his hands. “I think you… thought I was Bill. You tried to fight back, a-and I didn’t know what to do and I ended up just makin’ things worse, as usual.” 

“Stan, you don’t—” 

“Anyway, it escalated and you did what you thought you had to do. You calmed down, eventually, and we got your hair washed and some clean clothes on.” 

You hurt him, you hurt him, you hurt him. You’re just like Pa. You’re worse. It’s like you don’t even want him to trust you. 

“I’m sorry… ” Ford whispered. He felt like he’d apologized a thousand times for a thousand different reasons. The words felt like they were simply bouncing off his brother’s skull. 

“Ford, it’s fine. You thought I was tryin’ to hurt you.” 

“No, no, it’s not fine!” His voice rose suddenly, and his hand shot up to pull at his hair. “It’s not— t-this can’t keep happening! I can’t keep hurting you!” 

“You’re not hurting me—”

“I am!!” Ford’s voice cracked into a sob, and he brought his knees up to his chest to bury his head in them. “I’m hurting you, a-and it’s all I do! I branded you, I let you get shot, I attacked you—”

“Bill attacked me—”

“I-I let Bill tell you god knows what, I let a unicorn stab you, I punched you when you were trying to help me!” His breathing sped up, and he found himself unable to choke out more than a few words at a time. “I let— you get… kicked out— I-I ruined your life—”

Finally, he couldn’t breathe, and the world became spotted and blurry. He peeked out of his knees and turned, looking desperately for Stan. His brother was distant, hard to see, though Ford was still wearing his glasses, as far as he knew. All he could feel was pain and tight and all he could think was it’s all my fault I ruined his life he saw the cuts I hurt him I’m just like Pa I’m just like Bill I’m worse than Bill I’m nothing I deserve every mark every scar I deserve worse—

“Stanford.” 

Stan’s voice cut through the storm. Ford could barely see, barely breathe, but he could hear. 

“Ford, you gotta breathe.” 

Ford shook his head frantically. No, no, can’t breathe. Can’t do it.

“C’mon, buddy, you can do it.” Ford felt a pair of strong hands on his shoulders, turning him slightly. Was he shaking? “You just gotta try for me, yeah? That’s all you gotta do, just try.” 

A quick, shallow breath. Ford blinked, and his brother became just barely more clear.

“There you go! Keep goin’, deep breath through your nose.” 

Ford hiccuped down a pitiful sob and tried to obey his brother’s instructions. Another trembling breath, not enough to fill his lungs. But it was deeper. Barely. Stan’s face became clearer again. 

“You’re doin’ great. Another breath for me.” 

He complied, taking another, deeper breath, but it erupted into a dry, painful coughing fit. His face was hot and everything was spinning and fuck was he going to throw up again—

He was choking on his own coughs as they became gags. The bucket was once again shoved under his chin and he was retching into it painfully, his throat sour with bile and water and it stung so badly and each cough hurt—

“Easy there, deep breaths. Through your nose, you can do it.” Stan was rubbing his back. “You’re safe, Ford. It’s okay.” 

Finally, he’d cleared out the minimal contents of his stomach, and the retches dissipated into tiny, weak coughs that burned his throat. When he was able, Ford sucked in a tiny, hollow breath and looked up. He could finally see his brother. Stanley.

Without hesitation, he threw himself at his twin, collapsing into his chest entirely. He squirmed, straining to burrow his head against Stan’s chest, too exhausted to feel embarrassed. Ford’s arms wrapped around him, pulling the fabric of his shirt into small, tight bundles in his fists. He let out a tiny, wounded sob and pulled in closer still. Stan breathed out a soft oof, but enveloped his twin in his arms without missing a beat. Ford pressed his ear against him until he could hear his brother’s heartbeat. Another scared little sound escaped him. Stanley was here. Stanley was still here. 

Suddenly, he was bawling like a child again, each cry burning his throat. He didn’t even try to wipe the tears away, didn’t bother holding back the wails. He just kept holding onto his brother, part of him— most of him — afraid that, at any moment, Stan would realize that Ford didn’t deserve any comfort. Stan can’t leave. Can’t let him. Need him here. 

“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” Stan said softly, tightening his hold around his twin. “You’re alright.” 

“B-But you’re not…” Ford sniffled, trying to keep another cry at bay. He was quite sure his nose was running on Stan’s shirt, but he couldn’t let his hold loosen for even a second to wipe at it. Stan is here Stan is safe can’t let go can’t let go—

“I’m—” Stan hesitated, his grip faltering. “Yeah, I am, Ford. Don’t gotta worry about me.” 

“I do,” Ford insisted weakly. “I always do. E-Even when you were… gone, I always… I thought about you a lot. I…worried.” 

Stan’s voice was quiet, almost disbelieving when he replied. “…You did?” 

He doesn’t believe you. 

Ford nearly shattered into pieces. Of course he doesn’t believe you— what have you ever done to make him think otherwise? Stan didn’t think that his own big brother worried about him. Stan didn’t believe he even cared. Ford suddenly felt heavy— utterly tied down by the weight of how much he’d broken his brother. What could he do to convince him? 

You fucked things up this badly and it’s your job to fix it— you have to fix it— can you even fix it or will you just hurt him again—

Ford coughed harshly. His throat burned, but he forced out the words desperately. “Lee, I’m—”

“You should eat,” Stan said suddenly. He gently pulled away from Ford and shot to his feet, sniffling quietly and rubbing a hand across his face. “I’ll go make some of that soup I saw in the cabinet.” 

—don't go don't go don’t leave me alone please—

“You don’t need to—”

Stan had left the room before he was able to finish his sentence. 

Ford was left alone on the couch staring after his brother, nausea twisting in his stomach, the footsteps echoing in his ears. He dropped his head, his knees still pulled weakly up to his chest, and let out a tiny, broken sob, lifting up one hand to finally wipe at his runny nose. At some point, the blanket must’ve fallen off of his shoulders— despite the fever, he felt cold. His arms were still reaching out for someone who was no longer there. 

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to fix it.

Chapter Text

Stan’s footsteps echoed in Ford’s ears as his brother left for the kitchen. His heart immediately constricted, his vision tunneling on the spot his twin had just been sitting. 

He replayed the interaction in his mind. 

“Even when you were… gone, I always… I thought about you a lot. I…worried.” 

“…You did?” 

Stan hadn’t believed him. Stan was pulling away. Stan was going to leave, realize that his brother was fucked up and damanged beyond repair, and never come back. As if Lee’s reaction to the scars on Ford’s arm weren’t indication enough. Stan was disgusted. Horrified. 

Ford couldn’t think. He couldn’t hear Stan, though he knew, logically, his brother was just in the next room. He’s gone. He left, and— and he’s not coming back. You’re alone again— you deserve nothing less. His chest was tight tight tight tight. He waited, his vision slipping into tiny black dots. It was all so tight, so blank. A tiny little whine escaped him and rattled in his ears. Pathetic— you’re pathetic. 

You punched me!

How long would this continue to happen? How long would Ford continue to hurt his brother, to damage his twin, to shatter his very best friend? 

He’s supposed to be your best friend. You went and ruined that— and his whole goddamn life while you were at it! Forget the portal, forget your research— your fucking weirdness magnitism— that’s your legacy: hurt. All you do— Fidds, Stan, yourself— only… only because you’re insane! You're insane, you— what kind of person does that? What kind of— irredeemable piece of human filth— what kind of monster—

WHERE IS STANLEY? 

“Ford?” 

A hand was on his back, rubbing circles into his skin. He tensed, whipping his head around frantically. Who—

Lee. 

His fight drained. He nodded slowly in question, his throat unable to form words. It didn’t go unnoticed to him that Stan’s eyes looked puffier, his cheeks redder. He’d been crying in the kitchen. 

Stan seemed to hold himself back from saying something important. His eyes were worried, glassy with guilt and the remnants of tears, but he just shook his head softly and placed a warm bowl in Ford’s lap. 

“Soup,” he said simply. 

Ford stared down at it. It smelled wonderful, but it made his stomach turn. It was so much. He couldn’t— couldn’t eat all of this. He didn’t deserve more than a teaspoon. He looked back at his brother, unable to speak. A thousand words echoed in his head, dancing behind his teeth. —thank you I’m sorry I ruined your life I want to make it up to you I need you here I can’t I can’t I can’t— but nothing came out. So he just stared. 

Stan interpreted this as a stubborn refusal. He sighed. “Eat. It’ll help you feel better.” 

It was then that Ford realized he was the only one with a steaming bowl. Stan’s hands were empty. And shaking. 

Goddamnit, talk. 

“You—” He stumbled over his words. “Are you— n-not eating?” 

Stan’s eyebrows raised slightly, just for a moment. Then he glanced to the side, expression going distant. “I’m not hungry.” 

He can’t not eat. He has to— if you’re eating, he certainly needs to— 

“Please?” Ford asked quietly. 

“I’m really not—” Stan stopped himself with a small, shaky sigh. “It— okay. I’ll go… get a bowl.” 

Without leaving room for argument, Stan rose from the couch and started toward the kitchen. Ford found himself whining again, and chastised himself internally for how utterly childish he was being. It was the fever. Had to be. Why else would he be acting so clingy? 

He waited, feeling the tremor in his hands, his head, his feet all too well. He tried to focus on the faint sloshing of liquid he heard from the kitchen. Stan’s right there. He’s just getting soup, like you told him to. There’s no reason to— you can’t— just calm down— 

“Got the soup,” called a gruff voice. 

Ford whirled his head around. “You came back!” he said, without thinking. He felt his cheeks heat up and he coughed weakly, rubbing at his throat. 

“Er— yeah, ‘course I did, bud,” Stan murmured, his voice strangely soft. He perched next to his brother and sipped a tiny spoonful of soup. He nodded and visibly relaxed, letting his back hit the cushions. 

Ford felt nauseous just looking at the soup in front of him. The last thing he wanted to do was eat. Strangely, what he wanted to do was to hold on to his brother and never let go. Funny. If someone had told him not a month ago that he’d be desperate, chained to a couch, clinging to his brother for sanity… Ford probably would’ve punched them in the face. That couldn’t be further from the truth anymore. 

“Ford?” 

He blinked up at Stan. Cleared his throat painfully. “Y-Yes?” How long has he been staring? 

“You gonna eat?” 

He stared down at the bowl and set it on the table, wrapping his good arm around his stomach. He shook his head. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Stan asked quietly. God, he sounded upset. He was keeping his voice low, steady. His gaze was soft and worried, and he looked afraid to even move. Like anything he said could set his insane brother off like a land mine. 

“I’m just—” A repulsive cough, one that rattled his whole body. He sniffled and wiped at his nose. “My stomach— I don’t… feel very hungry.” 

Without mentioning it, Stan grabbed a tissue from the box and placed it in his brother’s hand. Ford took it gratefully, blowing his nose and trying to ignore the very disgusting sound he made, and how much it made the pressure in his head get even worse. When he had finally semi-cleared his sinuses, he crumpled up the tissue and threw it lazily on the table— he had never been very neat, but this was a new low for him in terms of cleanliness. He didn’t really care. 

“Thank you,” Ford muttered. 

“Mhm.” Stan nodded. “You should eat, though.” 

“I don’t think I-I can.” He wrapped his arms back around his stomach. “I’m quite nauseous, to be honest.” 

Stan grabbed the bowl and placed it back in Ford’s lap. “That’s ‘cus you haven’t eaten for too long. Trust me, I know— you’ll feel better once you get some food in you.” 

Ford tried not to think about the implications of Stan saying Trust me, I know. It was another reminder how awful Stan’s life had been— how awful Ford had let it be. He sighed in concession and lifted the spoon. It felt heavy, even using his uninjured arm, but he finally forced himself to take a tiny sip. 

Holy fuck, that is amazing. He took another sip, then another. He knew, logically, that it was just canned soup, but— Stan was right. He had been hungrier than he’d realized. 

“Stan,” he said between sips, “this is really good.” 

Stan chuckled. “Thank the microwave.” He paused, placing his own bowl down on the side table. “Pace yourself, though. Eating too much after bein’ hungry for a while ain’t a good idea. It can make you—” his eyes flickered toward the bucket on the ground. “Y’know.” 

Ford nodded awkwardly, prying the spoon away from his mouth mid-bite. He shifted slightly, pressing his weight down onto his other arm. Fuck. He yelped inadvertently and pried his arm away, nearly spilling the soup on himself in the process. 

“Shit,” he murmured under his breath, trying to suppress the tears welling up in his eyes at the movement. He was being ridiculous. It was only a minor stab wound— he was acting like he’d been fucking beaten to a pulp and left for dead. 

“Ford?” Stan asked, his voice laced with anxiety. “What happened? You—” 

“I’m fine,” Ford said quickly. “Just— put too much weight on— I’m fine.” 

Stan frowned. “I should probably take a look at your arm. If it looks good, I can do stitches. Wanted to wait to do those until you were… aware, I guess.” 

“I don’t— need stitches.” 

“Yeah, you do,” Stan muttered. “S’ why I brought all the stuff up when you were sleepin’.” 

“I’m—” 

“Don’t fight me on this.” He sounded frustrated. Tired. 

So Ford agreed, holding out his injured arm, trying to force his frown into at least a neutral expression. He was quite sure it wasn’t working. 

Stan stood wordlessly and grabbed a box from behind the table. Ford blinked, muddled. How he hadn’t noticed the medical supplies, he didn’t know. Stan first put on tight gloves, then slowly, carefully, removed the bandages from around the wound. He reached into the box and produced a small razor. 

Fuck. “Wait, what are you doing with that?” 

“Gotta shave the hair on your arm around the wound to do the stitches,” Stan said, his voice clipped. Without further explanation, he grabbed Ford’s arm and gently shaved it in patches, letting the tiny hairs fall onto the lid of the box. Smart. 

Stan paused after he’d gotten out the actual suture threads. “This… it’s gonna hurt. You didn’t have anythin’ to numb the area with, so I’ll just have to…” he sighed. “I did think of— I mean, you had that stuff that you used on Rico and his buddies, right? We could— only if you wanted to—” 

“I’ll be fine,” Ford insisted. He’s already done enough, you can at least sit still while he literally stitches you up. 

“Are you sure? It’s—” 

“Quite.” 

Something that looked a bit like… hurt flashed across Stan’s face. Shit, had Ford spoken too harshly? He knew he had a tendency to— he didn’t mean—  fuck. You really can’t stop making your brother feel like shit, can you? You can’t— you’re not even capable of basic human decency, are you?

Suddenly, a needle was ripping through his skin, stitching his flesh together like fabric. He attempted to stifle the yelping whine that pried its way through his teeth as his free hand dug into his thigh, his nails poking painfully into him. 

“Sorry,” Stan muttered, his voice distant. “Should I get—” 

“Mmm— no. I’m a-alright.” Ford felt his eyes well up and spill over. Pathetic. But, god, it hurt. He let his head drop, trying to focus on the tiny specs on the floor instead of the excruciating pain. 

He looked over at his brother. So focused, so attentive. Ford knew, of course, that they looked alike— they were twins, after all. Ford almost laughed, envisioning Stan in his old yellow button down, in his glasses— it didn’t fit right in his brain. But right now, especially, his brother really resembled him. Stan even bit the inside of his cheek in concentration just like him. 

He didn’t seem very nervous, though. He almost looked like it was routine. Something he’d done before. 

“How—” His throat caught. Do not cough right now, you’ll mess up the stitching. He took a deep, gulping breath and sniffled. “H-How did you— learn how to do stitches?” 

Stan didn’t even glance up. Ford was once again struck by how much his brother looked like him. “On the road.” 

“That’s a when,” Ford said quietly, trying to ignore how scratchy his throat was, “not a how.” 

Stan shrugged. His voice grew quiet, shaky. “Learned ‘cus I had to.” 

“Stan, I—”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Stan said, his voice wavering. His hands shook around the stitches, and his expression grew more focused. He sighed. “Just— okay, when you ran with the crowd I did, you had to learn how to do quick stitches. Same reason I knew how to set your broken finger.” 

Something flashed through Ford’s mind. “Does that… I-I mean— mmgh—” His throat was killing him. He made a silent motion to Stan, who dropped his hands, concerned. Ford coughed violently into his un-injured arm, nearly making himself gag. Stan just rubbed his back until the fit subsided, and he finally leaned back, gasping against the cushions. 

“Need some water?” 

“I’m fine.”

That same almost hurt look flashed across Stan’s face, and tentatively took his brother’s arm back, picking the needle up again. 

Shit. 

Ford cleared his throat. “So, the, er— does your… knowledge of stitching have anything to do with…” He trailed off, sniffling. 

Stan didn’t look up, his eyes laser focused on the stitches. “…anythin’ to do with what?” 

Suddenly he didn’t think it best to pry. Not with the strange mood Stan was in. “I-I— I don’t—”

“What, Ford?” 

“Does it have anything to do with the scars on your side?!” Ford blurted out. He immediately wanted to take back his words. 

Stan’s hands froze and he swallowed hard, a faint tremor running through him. Ford wanted to backtrack, to apologize, to do anything to make things less painfully awkward, but he couldn’t get out a word. He just stared at his brother, who wouldn’t look him in the eye. 

But, to Ford’s amazement, a tiny word left his twin’s lips. 

“Yeah.” 

Ford felt his face crumple and he sniffed back the tears that threatened to fall. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. 

“You couldn’t’a known,” Stan said, forcing a shrug. 

Ford felt his lungs crack in two, and he unsuccessfully attempted to bite back the whine that crept from his throat. 

“I-I should’ve—” A tiny sob. He didn’t continue. 

He suddenly felt pulling from Stan’s end and turned, watching his brother knot up the stitches neatly. He removed his gloves. 

“Gonna go throw these away. Be right back.” He didn’t leave room for argument, seeming eager to get away. 

Ford wiped at the tears under his eyes pointlessly. He was horrible. He was a horrible brother. A horrible person. He sniffled miserably and buried his face in his hands. Weak. Stupid. 

Suddenly, again, a hand was rubbing his back. It was gentle, and soothing. He leaned into the touch. He knew who it was. 

“…Hey, buddy, it’s— you’re alright,” Stan said, his voice soft. “It’s all okay.” 

Ford whined from inside his cocoon. He was quite aware of how childish he felt. 

“Really, it’s gonna—”

Ford didn’t let him finish, just let himself collapse into his brother, wrapping both arms tightly around him as he burrowed his head into his twin’s chest. Small, broken, stupid sobs escaped him but he couldn’t stop them. Stan made a quiet, wheezing, oof sound but didn’t argue, didn’t say anything, just held his brother securely. Ford didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of it, but he needed Stan here, he couldn’t be alone again, he just couldn’t. His brother probably thought he was ridiculous and childish and awful, but he didn’t— he couldn't move. 

Stan traced a hand absently across Ford’s arm. He suddenly spoke. 

“Hey, Six?” 

“…Mhm…?” 

Stan’s tracing stopped, but he still had a secure hand on Ford’s arm. 

His uninjured one. 

Wait— 

“These… scars,” Stan started, carefully, “They— I mean, what did— how did you… get… them?” 

Ford felt his lungs constrict. “I’m— I didn’t—” He cut himself off with a sharp, desperate breath. He felt the tremor in his body grow, and he let his grip on his brother falter. 

“Hey, calm down,” Stan said softly. He kept a firm grip on Ford’s arm, examining the cuts. He wasn’t stupid. He knew. He had to. “S’ alright, I’m just—”

He’ll think you’re insane— you are insane, what kind of person cuts up their own—

“No, I-I don’t— want to talk about that,” Ford insisted weakly, his voice cracking. 

Stan sighed. “Ford, I’m not— look, I’m not an idiot, I know what they—”

He can’t, he can’t, he won’t know— I won’t— Fuck fuck fuck fuck—  

“No!” Ford shot, pulling himself away, his body shaking so hard he could barely see. He curled into the opposite end of the couch. He can’t know, he can’t know, he can’t—  “I-It doesn’t concern you!”

“Doesn’t concern—” Stan huffed, his face going red. “Hey, I told you about stitches on my side—”

“N-No, you didn’t! All you said was that—” He took a gasping breath that rattled in his lungs. “— that it had something to do with the scars!” 

“What more do you need to know?” Stan shot up from the couch to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the couch with awkward, frostbitten footsteps. 

“Everything!” His words caught on a tiny sob. Every word he said came out like a furious bark . And Stan was getting furious. Stan was fighting back, pulling away again. 

“WHY?!” Stan asked, his own voice breaking. “Why the fuck do you even care?!” 

“Why wouldn’t I?!” His hands shot up to pull at his hair. “Why does it kill you to just be honest!? Tell me the truth, for once!! Just tell me how you got those—”

“NO—”

“STANLEY—”

“CHRIST!! I got my kidney stolen, alright?!” 

What?

Ford froze. “You—”

“I got my fuckin’ kidney stolen, ‘cus I owed Rico money but didn’t have anythin’ to pay him back, so he took my kidney and probably sold it on the goddamn black market and I had to stitch it up which is why it looks so ugly and left those scars, okay?!” Stan gasped as he vomited up the last of the words. He straightened, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Now leave it the fuck alone.” 

Ford couldn’t get a single word out. Couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Stan had his— his kidney had been— Rico—  a growl escaped Ford’s throat. They should’ve killed Rico, they should’ve dismembered him limb from limb!! Didn’t matter. Ford could find him, he could— he could get to him, he could kill him, he could make him wish he was never— 

Stan took in sharp, furious, gasping breaths. The anger rose from him like steam, and he wouldn’t look his twin in the eye. Ford’s heart shattered into a million tiny pieces. It felt like those pieces were stabbing him from the inside, making every inch of his body sting. 

It’s not Rico’s fault, not really— it’s yours— if you’d have just been there— you didn’t protect him— if you hadn’t been such a selfish, arrogant— 

“Lee, you—” He coughed harshly into his arm, gasping for breath as his face grew hot. He forced himself to swallow the nausea, the dizziness, and pressed forward. He stood on shaking legs and took clumsy steps toward his brother. He grabbed Stan’s hands, squeezing tightly. Desperately. “W-Why didn’t you call me— I-I could’ve— I could’ve fixed it—” 

“You couldn’t— that’s not the kinda thing you can fix, Ford.” 

“No, I could’ve,” Ford insisted. Was it getting blurry? “I still can, I-I can find Rico, I can kill him—” 

“Jesus Christ, you’re not—”

“I WILL! I-I can fix it all, I can fix— the kidney, I can fix you, I can—” 

“Shut up,” Stan whispered suddenly. His voice was low. Dark. He yanked his hands away so hard that Ford stumbled back, and the distance between them grew. “You can fix me? S’ that what you think?” His volume grew as he spat the words out. “Christ, I thought— he was right, I am just somethin’ to fix— a-a fuckin’ problem to solve , right!?” 

No, no, nononono that’s not what I— that’s not how—

“What—” 

“‘Course you wanted me out of your—” Stan’s eyes suddenly widened, like he had just become aware of where he was and what he was doing. A million expressions flashed across his face— he looked conflicted, more than anything. He suddenly let his head drop. One arm hung aimlessly at his side, and the other scrubbed at his eyes. 

He was right? Who— who would’ve possibly told him that— 

Bill. Bill had told him that. God, Ford needed to know everything Bill had said. He needed to know, he needed to untangle every lie Bill had whispered into Stan’s head. 

“I-Is that what Bill told you?” Ford asked, voice shaking. 

“Christ,” Stan muttered, shaking his head. He huffed out a frustrated breath. “No, it—” 

“Don’t lie to me again!” Ford insisted, pushing forward. His head spun, and the room grew blurry, but he didn’t care—  he placed his hands on his shoulders. It’s not— that's not true! “Lee, I need to know what Bill told you, I can’t— you can’t think—  what did he say?!” 

Stan glanced up, and his face crumpled. For a moment, it seemed like he might reach out, like he might pull his brother into a tight hug and never let go. 

But then his face hardened, and he shook off his twin’s hold. 

“I already told you,” he said. “Nothin’ I didn’t already know.” 

He gently pulled Ford back to the couch and threw the blanket over him, placing the box of tissues next to him. He didn’t sit, sniffling miserably and rubbing at his nose. 

“I’m gonna—” He sighed. “I’ll be… around. Just— gimme a minute. Wanna be alone.” 

“Wait, Lee —” 

But he didn’t. He turned on his heel and practically sprinted from the room, his footsteps clumsy— he was clearly in pain. He left Ford, once again, alone. 

God, you really fucked it all up again, didn’t you? You— you pushed him away— he’s not going to want to stay now— you pushed him too far! He’s going to leave, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself, you fucking coward—

Ford was suddenly sobbing, pulling his knees to his chest. They were half sobs, half coughs that wracked his entire body. He didn’t even bother trying to wipe the tears away, he just wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, trying to squeeze himself so tight that he just stopped existing. 

I am just somethin’ to fix to you, aren’t I?

No— nonono— that’s not true!! God, Ford was an idiot. Why did he— how could he have— fuck, he was so thoughtless!

He hated Bill. He hated him, and he was dying not knowing what that monster had convinced his brother to believe so completely. But Stan wouldn’t tell him for some goddamn reason. Ford didn’t know— what was he supposed to— how could he ever— but after what he’d just heard, he couldn’t just ignore it, he needed to—

The security tapes. 

Fuck, how had he not even thought— he’d installed them right before Stan had arrived, it hadn’t even crossed his mind— in all the action, the brand, Stan getting shot, the exorcism— he hadn’t even thought about—

Ford shot up and his head spun. He shot his good arm out to grip the side of the couch, breathing hard, willing the room to even out. His stomach turned, but he ignored it, forcing himself forward with uneven steps. The room tilted and blurred. He couldn’t think. Everything felt jumbled, and he repeated the same mantra over and over:

Just make it to the stairs. Just to the stairs. 

As soon as he was there, he gripped the railing tightly, his hand shaking. Each step sent shots of pain through his body, and he knew he really shouldn’t have gotten up so quickly, but it didn’t— he didn’t matter. 

Once in the lab, he sunk into the rolling chair and pushed himself the rest of the way to the computer. The lab still smelled like blood and sweat, and the restraints on the table were still tinged with a dark, coppery red. He tried not to look. 

He hurried to pull the tapes from— what was it, two days ago? Three? His head was foggy. He searched from the records until he saw a picture of a figure in the lab that wasn’t his own. He pulled up the lab footage first. It was crackly, blurry, hard to see— but it didn’t matter. It mattered what he heard. 

He pushed play. 

There was a long, static-filled silence. Then—

“Oh, yeah? What do I want?”

“YOU WANT SIXER TO LOVE YOU AGAIN!” 

Ford saw the blurry, crackling image of Stan sitting in the rolling chair in the lab, knees drawn to his chest. Even through the shitty footage, he could tell how badly Stan was shaking. He was— crying. 

“AND, TRUST ME, I’M THE ONLY WAY YOU'RE EVER GONNA GET THAT! HE HATES YOU, STANLEY!”

No, no, that’s not true!!

“Oh, does he?” 

NO! I don’t!!

“I LITERALLY LIVE INSIDE HIS HEAD! I KNOW EVERYTHING HE THINKS! AND, LET ME TELL YOU, HE DOESN'T WASTE A LOT OF BRAIN SPACE ON YOU! PERSONALLY, I WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE MORE ON YOUR SIDE. I MEAN, COME ON, HE LET YOU GET PUSHED AROUND BY YOUR DAD YOUR WHOLE LIFE! HE LET YOU GET KICKED OUT! OVER A STUPID SCIENCE PROJECT! ALWAYS WAS DRAMATIC, MY FORDSY.” 

He’s right— you did that— you ruined his life!! 

Bill’s voice was drilling into his brain, and he wanted nothing more than to shut it off, smash the recorder, burn the tapes. He didn’t want to hear Bill— just his disjointed, menacing laugh was making Ford breath hard and fast, each one feeling shallower than the last. But he needed to know. 

“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” 

There was a loud, wet crack sound from the film. Ford’s heart pounded against his ribs. 

“THERE WE GO. WHO NEEDS SIX WHOLE FINGERS, ANYWAY? SEEMS GREEDY.” 

He watched as Stan visibly flinched back in the chair, his hand shooting to his chest. No wonder he’d been so concerned about Ford’s fingers, he—

“YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I DO THAT ALL YOU DO IS HOLD HIM BACK, DISCOUNT PINES. I HAVE AN IDEA! LET’S BET ON HOW LONG HE’LL LET YOU STICK AROUND AFTER HE WAKES UP! MY GUESS IS AN HOUR, TOPS.” 

Ford was crying harder now, feeling utterly pathetic. He scrubbed at his eyes— it didn’t do anything. He couldn’t stop listening. 

“IF YOU JUST LET ME OUT, YOU’LL HAVE FORDSY ALL TO YOURSELF ONCE I USE HIM UP TO FINISH THE PORTAL! ALL I NEED’S A FEW HOURS WITH HIS BODY! I CAN MAKE HIM LOVE YOU, STAN. DON’T YOU WANT THAT? DON’T YOU MISS HIM?” 

“Shut. Up.” 

“HE DIDN’T MISS YOU. HE WAS GLAD YOU WERE GONE.” 

Stan was covering his ears, rocking back and forth in the chair. Oh god—

“YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE, STANLEY! YOU WERE ALWAYS JUST A BURDEN TO HIM! SOMETHING TO FIX! YOU MEAN NOTHING TO HIM!” 

Shut up shut up shut up shut up— that’s not true— god, how could you let him think that?! And then you told him you could fix him? You stupid fucking—

“HE WOULDN’T CARE IF YOU DIED!” 

“NO!!” Ford yelled aloud, gripping the edges of the screen. He wanted to rip it out of its wires. But he couldn’t— he just had to watch and listen as Bill’s laughter grew and grew and grew and Stan sobbed harder in the chair, his entire frame wracked by the heaving, wet gasps. 

Then the tape shut off.

Ford let out a panicked, broken cry, slumping over the desk. His image of the screen blurred through tears, and he buried his face in his hands. His chest was hot and tight and burning. Why did Bill have to go after Stan? Wasn’t Ford enough for him? What more had he needed?! He’d lied, he’d hurt Stan— Ford had never felt so much hatred in his life. A growl rattled in his throat and grew in volume, making his whole body shake with seething energy. He wanted to destroy Bill, to plead with anyone who would listen to end his ex-muse’s existence in the multiverse. 

God, of course Stan was so distant, so reluctant to trust his waste of a brother— Bill had fed him lie after lie after lie! And with how Ford had treated him, why wouldn’t Stan believe Bill?! Ford had done nothing to show Stan how much he needed him, how much he loved him. 

He’d fucked up. Beyond repair. 

It was on him. He’d given Bill control and everything had just… spiraled. How many nights had he woken up, covered in blood and gasping for air, eye swollen and bleeding? Body bruised and broken, house torn to shreds? He’d pushed away anyone who ever gave a damn about him— he’d let Bill in, and Bill didn’t leave room for anyone else, including Ford. 

His stomach heaved. The soup was coming back up. He crawled to the floor and leaned over the trash, the meal coming back the way it had entered him. It hurt, it burned his throat, but he didn’t care. His head spun. 

It was too too too too much, and he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t— he felt like he might explode. Was he on fire? He felt so hot. His lungs were pressing up against the lining of his stomach. It wasn’t about Lee— the fight— it was— 

He was just so goddamn tired. There was too much inside of him, he needed— he needed—

His eyes caught something shiny at the edge of the counter. Sharp and tiny and familiar. 

With shaking hands, he picked up the tiny blade and held it to his forearm, letting it prick into the flesh. Huh. His wrists were still bruised from the cuffs. He couldn’t breathe as his vision tunneled onto the razor blade. He was sure tears were still streaming down his face— he registered the tremble in his breath, the sobs scraping at his throat— but he couldn’t feel it.

He couldn’t— he couldn’t do anything— Can’t, can’t, just can’t—

He pressed down hard, and sliced. 

A sudden rush of shame. You said you were done with this. You said— you promised yourself—

The blood came. Nothing changed. 

Chapter Text

Ford woke up. He stung. Everything stung. His head was laying flat on the desk, squishing his glasses awkwardly on his face. 

If the world were kinder, he would’ve had a few moments of blissful ignorance before the memories of the last time he was awake came barreling back at him. But the world wasn’t kind. And he remembered everything immediately. Regret hit like a train. 

You said you were done with this. You were done with this. You’re a fucking failure, you can’t just keep it together, can you? 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What did you do? 

He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have. It was selfish, he was making things about him. It was supposed to be about Stan, he had to take care of Stan, to make things right with Stan. 

Fix it. Get off your ass and fucking fix it. Stan can’t see this, Stan can’t know he can’t know he can’t find out he can’t—

A little, unfamiliar voice in the back of his mind told him it might be good to bandage the cuts, put some ointment on them, maybe even stitch the deepest one. But a louder voice, his own voice, reminded him it wouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. So he threw on the old, slightly bloodied sweater that was still laying on the lab counter, and let the wool fuse through blood with his skin. Like a second layer. 

His eyes welled up again, and he felt tears streaming down his face. He didn’t even bother to wipe them away. They were perpetual, at this point. 

He needed to go upstairs. To be with Stan. To apologize, to— fix things. Somehow. He forced himself to stand, ignoring the way his legs shook and his head spun. He held onto the railing tightly as he crawled up the stairs. He took quiet steps until the doorway to the kitchen was visible from the farthest point of the living room. 

Stan was at the counter. He was crying softly. His body was shaking, and he kept rubbing at his eyes like that would make the tears go away. He was curled in on himself, leaning over the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He looked destroyed. 

You ruined him. You did this to him. He’s— he’s like a shell of himself. 

What have you done? 

Ford stepped forward. A floorboard creaked. 

Stan shot up. Looked around. He wiped at the tears and hit the bandage on his face. He hissed, pressing his lips together, and shook himself out, still visibly tense. He was forcing himself out of it. He didn’t want anyone to see. Ford’s heart shattered. 

Ford took a step back and felt around until his hand reached the doorknob to the basement. 

Don’t break him even more. Give him time. 

He went back downstairs. 

The next morning, Stan was upstairs in the living room, scrubbing the grime from the windows. If he was going to be here, he might as well make himself useful. 

Ford still hadn’t come upstairs. Stan had pushed him too far, right when things were becoming okay again (or at least on the path to becoming okay again). He’d even thought that maybe— maybe Ford wanted him to stay. 

He shouldn’t have brought up the kidney. He shouldn’t have told Ford to leave, he shouldn’t have gotten so angry. Why wouldn’t Ford want to fix him? He was a fucking mess, any sane person would only see him as a project. 

Still. It was his brother. When they were kids, Ford would’ve never said that. He would’ve never even thought it. But they weren’t kids anymore. 

And as much as Stan hated to admit it, he was angry. Not at Ford. At himself. He’d thought that maybe things had changed. That he’d changed enough to… be enough for Ford.

He wasn’t stupid, Ford had changed. He couldn’t have imagined it. He was— apologetic, almost guilty. He seemed different. Stan had thought— he’d thought he’d gotten his brother back, if only for a moment. 

I can fix you. 

He couldn’t blame Ford for thinking his brother was broken, but he could damn well be angry about it. 

He scrubbed harder at the window, ignoring the way it made his shoulder ache. It was easy to forget about the brand, with all that had happened since but— damn, it still ached with every movement. Ford had said that was normal and that it was healing correctly. Stan didn’t really care either way. 

“Stanley?” 

He whipped around. Ford stood in the basement doorway. He was wearing his old, bloodstained sweater that he wore in the unicorn grove, leaning on the doorframe. He swayed slightly. 

Stan raised his eyebrows in question. 

“We should stitch the cut on your face.” His voice was scratchy, face still flushed with fever. He cleared his throat. 

“Already bandaged it.” 

“Unicorn horns cut deep. I don’t want to risk it getting infected.” 

“S’ fine, Ford.” 

“Just— please?” His voice wavered on the last syllable. And— if Stan wasn’t mistaken, his brother’s eyes looked glassy. Probably just from the fever. Had to be. “I worry.” 

Stan hadn’t known what to think of that the first time he’d said it. He certainly didn’t know what to think of it now. Ford seemed sincere. He seemed guilty. 

“Yeah. Alright.” 

Ford visibly relaxed. “We can do it up here, I’ll go grab the supplies. Just— take a seat.” He gestured to the couch before turning on his heel. 

Stan sighed and sat down on the couch, letting his nails dig into the fabric of his pants, waiting for his still uncertain-on-his-feet-brother to return. His breaths were getting quicker. Shallower. 

He felt a familiar pang on his side. He didn’t like stitches. 

Ford was back in an instant, panting softly, face pink. He’s gonna over-exert himself, he’s still sick. When he sat, he sunk into the couch and deposited the small bin of supplies onto the side table. He pulled out his little bottle of knock-out potion with gloved hands. 

“I-I wasn’t sure if you would want— I mean—” 

He wakes up, wrists tied tightly. He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know— what happened? It hurts, it hurts, it hurts— he’s cold, he’s cold all over and it hurts and he can’t think, he can’t think—

“NO!” 

Ford flinched at Stan’s volume, his eyes widening. “W-What— what did I say?!” 

“Shit— no, I—” Stan shook his head and resisted the urge to slap himself in the face. “Sorry. I just— no. We don’t gotta use the stuff. I’ll be fine.” 

 “Lee…” Ford stared at him for a moment, concern clear. His voice was so goddamn soft. Careful. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine.” 

Ford wanted to say more— it was clear on his face. But, by some miracle, he didn’t. He simply began to gently peel the bandage off of Stan’s face. He made a tiny whine when his eyes caught the wound, but he stifled it quickly and took in a shaky inhale. 

Stan flinched when he began to dab at the wound with a wet washcloth. Ford clearly noticed, but said nothing, just dabbed at what Stan could only assume to be crusted blood and fluids around the swollen wound. 

“Just— brace yourself, alright?” 

Ford began to stitch. 

Stan fought the urge to scream. Goddamnit, it fucking hurt. His whole face throbbed. Stan’s nails dug deep into his thighs, probably drawing blood. But he didn’t care. It didn’t help. He let out a tiny whimper and felt his head twitch. 

“Sorry,” Ford whispered miserably. His hands shook. Just slightly. “Lee, I’m—” A pause. “Yesterday, a-after we… talked. I…” He trailed off. 

Stan waited until Ford’s hands had stilled. “Yesterday…?” 

Ford shook his head. “It’s just that— well, I went to the l-lab. And I— I mean—” He pulled too hard on the stitches. Stan yelped and pulled away, fighting the tremors. “Shit— I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” His voice cracked, and he suddenly took Stan’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be more careful. I’m so sorry.” 

Stan squeezed back. “S’ fine. Barely felt it.” 

Ford’s face crumpled. He sniffled thickly and turned back to the stitches. Shit, what did you do? Stan had been aiming for comforting, he’d been trying to make Ford feel better— 

It didn’t matter. Clearly, he’d fucked it up again. And he didn’t even know what it was. 

They finished the stitches in weighted silence. Stan tried to keep himself from shaking. Keep himself from remembering when he’d woken up in a tub of ice and—

No.

Once he’d tied off the suture thread, Ford deposited the supplies into a plastic bag and sealed it up. He gently applied a new bandage to Stan’s face, his hands almost shaking too much to keep it secure. 

“Okay,” he breathed. “All done.” 

He suddenly wrapped his arms around Stan and pulled them both back against the couch with a heavy exhale. 

“Oh— Ford?” Stan asked quietly. “You alright?” 

“Mhm… tired.” Ford curled up and let his head fall onto Stan’s chest. Part of Stan wanted to push Ford off of him, because he didn’t deserve anything from his brother, he didn’t deserve his affection, he didn’t— 

But he was so tired. He was exhausted. And— he wanted the affection. He wanted his brother to— need him. It was wrong, but since when had he not been selfish? 

He allowed it. Just this once, he told himself. Just once. 

He let his chin rest on his brother’s head and exhaled softly, wrapping his arms around Ford. It was nice. Reminded him a bit of when they were little kids, when one of them would have a nightmare. Either way, Ford would always climb into Stan’s bed. Even if he was the one who’d had the nightmare, he would never make his twin face his fear of heights. They’d always stay close, like they were now, until they both fell asleep. 

He’d missed it more than he’d realized. And it was nice to have it back, even if it was temporary. 

“…Lee?” 

Stan hummed in question, absently running his hand along his twin’s finger splint. Healing well, he noted absently. 

Ford shifted so that he was looking up at Stan in the eyes. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, why?” 

“It’s just—” Ford hesitated, his fingers curling tighter. “You—” another pause. “Never mind.” 

Part of Stan wanted to press. But Ford was comfortable. Ford was safe. So Stan just let him burrow back into his chest and closed his eyes. He listened to the quiet rumble in his brother’s breathing. It almost sounded like a cat purring. Stan fought the urge to point it out. 

A moment later, he lost the fight. It was the annoying little brother in him, he supposed. 

“Six, you kinda—” He didn’t know how to phrase it so that Ford wouldn’t be offended. “Have you ever noticed that you kinda… purr… when you’re gettin’ sleepy?” 

Ford offered a nonplussed blink. “I— what?” 

“Just— you kinda… purr.” 

“Like… a cat?”

“Yeah, like a cat.” 

“That—” Ford stared at him for a moment as his cheeks quickly turned pink. “I’m—”

Stan suddenly couldn’t keep himself from laughing. It bubbled up in his chest and through his throat until it was boisterous, and he was practically holding onto his brother to keep from toppling over. It ached in his stomach where the bullet had hit, but, for some reason, he didn’t mind. 

Ford seemed rather offended. “Stanley, I don’t do that!!” 

“Yeah- hah- you- haha!- TOTALLY DO!” 

This only made Ford’s face turn more red. “I do not do that!” he squeaked. “I-I— it’s just because— I don’t!!” 

Stan shot him a look that said oh, really? and suddenly, Ford was chuckling in his brother’s hold. The chuckling turned to loud, unrestrained laughter, and he was clutching at Stan for support. 

His laughter suddenly turned to harsh, chest rattling coughs, and he jolted to turn away while Stan instinctively reached a hand out to rub his back. Where’s that goddamn bucket, he’s practically gagging over here. For a moment, Stan had forgotten how bad things were. How high Ford’s fever had gotten, how close he’d come to—

“Just— er, breathe, you’re alright,” Stan murmured, rubbing his back slowly. The fit tapered off, and Ford sucked in gulps of air. “You want me to get you some water?” 

“N-No, I’m alright,” Ford said quietly. He cleared his throat and winced. One of his hands was looped in Stan’s. “I don’t— you shouldn’t walk too much, with the frostnip.” 

Oh. Stan had all but forgotten about that. It had gone away pretty quickly once he’d gotten some socks without holes on. 

“S’ mostly gone, I’m fine to walk.” 

“I’m not thirsty. Just stay here.” Ford’s voice was soft. It wasn’t demanding, it was— requesting. So Stan stayed. They fell back into the same position, curled up on the couch like when they were little. 

Time passed, he assumed. For once, he felt relaxed. It was so warm. 

Stan was nearly asleep when Ford finally spoke again. 

“Stanley?” 

Stan blinked and hummed in question. 

“I’m— there’s something I-I want to—” He hesitated, squeezing Stan’s hand. “Can I just—” Another pause. He sighed nervously. 

“...Yeah?”

“I—” he hesitated again. “Yesterday, after we had our… d-discussion…” His hands were shaking against Stan’s. 

Stan tensed. “What about it?” 

“Er— I mean—” He stopped again, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and shaking his head. “Well, a-after we talked, I went down to the lab. A-And I sort of forgot that I have— security tapes. I-In the lab. They get… visual and audio. Of the lab. And the— padded room.” 

Stan’s chest tightened. No. He didn’t— he wouldn’t have. He immediately, instinctively pulled himself away from his brother. Ford reached out for his twin’s hands. Stan didn’t reciprocate. He averted his eyes, face hardening. 

“And I went and—” His voice was shaking. “I-I watched the footage from… when I was— possessed.” 

No, no, no, no— come on—  Stan’s heart pounded against the ribcage. Why couldn’t Ford just leave it alone? It didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter. 

His words came out as a growl. “Ford—” 

“Just—” He made a tiny, miserable sound. “Let me get through this.” 

Stan didn’t need this. He didn’t need any of it. 

Ford swallowed before continuing. His voice was wavering and soft. “I just— Lee, what Bill said—  everything he said— none of it is true. H-He was just lying, he would’ve done anything to get out of the room, and he was—” 

Stan's whole body felt like it was on fire. “Drop it, Six. Doesn’t matter.” 

Ford let out a wounded noise. “That’s not true! It does, because you obviously believe it!!” 

“Why shouldn’t I?!” He shot up. Why couldn’t he stop fucking shaking? Why did Ford care about it so much? Stan knew it was all true. It had to be. Bill had said Ford only saw him as something to fix, and Ford had confirmed it. So it was true. Well— at least— no, no, no, he didn’t know anything. Because now Ford seemed to care, and when he was delirious he just kept apologizing and crying and saying he fucking loved Stan, and it— 

He was so fucking confused. And so fucking tired.

“I’m telling you, Stan, it’s bullshit! Y-You don’t— you don’t hold me back, and you don’t— you’re not a fucking burden—” 

“Shut up!” Stan fought the urge to punch something. “Just— shut up! Drop it!” 

“I'm not going to just drop it, I can’t—” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it!!” 

Ford was up on his feet now, pacing behind Stan. “Well, I do!! Bill was wrong, of course I missed you, of course I want you here—” 

“Leave. It. Alone—” 

“NO! God, why are you trying to push this away? You’re pushing me away, you’re pushing everything away!! WHY?” Ford demanded, his eyes burning. “I’m trying here, Stanley!! But you just don’t know any other way, do you?! It’s just who you are—  y-you haven’t changed a bit!”  

You don’t know any other way, do you? 

Rico is staring at him from across the counter, a gun in his hand. Stan has to fight. He can’t get out of it. He can’t— he can’t change. He doesn’t know any other way. 

Jimmy is ripping his pants off of him. Stan is lying there. Letting it happen. Taking it. He doesn’t know any other way. And he’s too much of a fucking coward to figure it out. It’s just who he is.

Even Ford knew you can’t teach a broken dog new tricks. 

“You didn’t want me around then. So why,” Stan spat, “would you want me around now?” 

Ford’s face fell, eyes widening and welling up. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Stan didn’t bother waiting for his genius brain to catch up to it. He spun on his heel and started for somewhere, anywhere else— 

A hand grabbed his wrist. 

Get back in the fuckin’ bed— we’re done when I say we’re done— you like that, don’t you, bitch?—  get back here, you’re not goin’ anywhere— you’re mine — Jimmy grabs his wrist and pulls him back to bed. Jimmy is forcing him down. Jimmy is taking his pants off. Jimmy is very drunk. Stan can’t breathe. He lets it happen— what else can he do? He can’t do anything, he doesn’t know any other way, he’s alone, he’s alone, he’s alone— 

The officer is shoving him in tight handcuffs. Everyone already ran, everyone left him alone— there’s a baton. His knees are bashed in and he can’t stand up he’s going to die, he’s going to die here on the street and he’ll never get to tell Ford that he’s sorry—

He’s on a table. The cuffs are tight and cold and something is plunging into his skin and he’s awake he’s so very awake and it hurts— it all hurts—  they’re taking something out— what are they taking—

“STANLEY!!” 

Hands were on his shoulders. Jimmy, it’s Jimmy, he’s back, he’s here, he’s going to— he can’t— 

He was forced to sit. He drew his knees into his chest. He knew what was coming. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard, breathing fast. Waiting. 

But nothing came. 

He looked up. 

Oh. 

“Ford?” 

“Yes, Lee, it’s just me,” Ford breathed. His face was blurry. Stan reached out to touch it, make sure it was real. Ford let it happen. “What— what happened? What did I do?” 

Stan’s head hurt. He just shook his head and pulled his hands away. Ford just watched, tears running down his face. 

“Lee—” He was crying. “Lee, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— I shouldn’t have yelled, I-I shouldn’t have— that was wrong.” Stan couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get his lips to open. “Stanley, please say something.” Nothing. Ford was sobbing, now. Pulling at Stan’s hands. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, just—  please just say something, t-tell me what I did, please!!” 

You just don’t know any other way, do you?  

He couldn’t change. 

He shook Ford off and stood up. The room was blurry. He started walking. 

“Lee, wait—  don’t go— please, just—” Ford’s words were muffled by his sobs. “I’m sorry!!” 

Finally, Stan’s mouth got the words out. They felt wrong in his throat. 

“Leave me alone.” 

Chapter Text

Stan fiddles with the lock until it finally clicks open. He’s barely able to keep everything in his hands, but, somehow, no bottle escapes him and shatters on the cement. He nudges open the door with his hips and gently closes it the same way— Jimmy doesn’t like him to be too loud. He creeps over to the uneven table in the tiny motel room. He sets the bottles and the crinkled paper bag down. The most important part of his whole errand. He takes off his boots and tosses them to the floor.

He doesn't know when Jimmy’s supposed to get back. He never does. But he’s alone in the room, for what feels like the first time. And if he’s alone, he’s gonna shower in fucking peace. 

He takes his shirt off right there, no longer able to stand the dirty, grimy coating on it for one more second. He’s actively removing his belt as he hips open the bathroom door—

Shit. 

Jimmy has a girl in the shower. He’s pulling at her hair and kissing up and down her neck, she’s pulling away, squirming in Jimmy’s grip, and she’s saying something, but Stan can’t make it out, because Jimmy’s seen him. And Jimmy is angry. 

Stan knows Jimmy likes to bring girls in. He knows Jimmy keeps Stan as a dirty secret, and fucking women makes him feel normal. Makes him feel sexy to have some hooker by his side for the night. And Stan knows Jimmy hates that Stan is aware of this. 

But Stan’s never walked in on Jimmy and one of his girls. 

And Jimmy looks goddamn pissed. 

His hold on the poor girl loosens, and he drops her to the ground. “Git outta here, Darla,” he growls. She nods frantically and runs, grabbing what Stan assumes to be her clothes from the sink with a quiet whimper. Her neck looks bruised. At the very least, Stan can be grateful that his intrusion led to her being able to leave. He hears the door open then slam shut. 

“Stan,” Jimmy growls. He steps out of the shower. “The fuck are you doin’?” 

Stan’s heart stops, and suddenly, he can’t speak. He waves his hands in an attempt to explain. Jimmy narrows his eyes, face growing red. 

“What?!” he demands. “What was so important ya just had to come in here?!” Jimmy stalks forward and grabs Stan’s chin in his hand. 

No, no, no, nononono I didn’t mean it, I didn’t know you were home—

“J-Jimmy,” Stan finally chokes out, backing up until he hits the sink, “didn’t mean to—” 

“Christ, shut up,” Jimmy mutters. “Git in the bed.” 

“C’mon, Jim, I-I just got the stuff, don’t you at least wanna—” 

“I said shut up. Don’ care about the blow right now, s’ just the cheap shit anyways, like you always fuckin’ buy. Git in the bed.” 

“I don’t—” 

Jimmy loses his patience and grabs Stan’s wrist, nails digging into flesh. Stan tries to keep breathing. Jimmy’s eyes are on fire. Stan can’t breathe. It’s gonna happen again, he knows it’s gonna happen again, and he can’t do anything about it, he just has to sit here and take it. What choice does he have? It’s not like he knows any other way. He can’t fight as Jimmy pulls him to the bed, still dripping from the shower. 

Jim yanks him down by the wrist onto the grimy motel bed and reaches for Stan’s belt, unbuckling it and tossing it aside. Stan makes a tiny little whimper and he knows he’s crying and he knows Jimmy loves it when he cries and Jimmy’s laughing he’s savoring the moment—

“Baby, p-please,” Stan whimpers, a final effort. 

Jimmy laughs again. “Keep whinin’,” he mutters, “bitch.” 

Stan knows what will happen. He closes his eyes. 

When he opens them again, it’s dark and he’s alone.

He hears faint laughter from somewhere, it’s dark and throaty— a smoker’s laugh. Stan would know. He tried to reach out. His wrists are tied together with thick, splintering rope. He can faintly smell blood where they must be scratching his skin. He brings his hands up, and they hit something solid. 

No. 

No, no, no. 

Someone pounds the surface on top of him. “Little warm in there, Pinefield?!” Rico yells, bubbling over with smoky laughter. “Just wait ‘til we shut off the engine!” 

Stan pounds the top of the trunk with both tied fists, because he can’t die in here, he won’t, he never even got to apologize to Ford, he just can’t, he CAN’T—

“RICO, C’MON,” he stutters out at full volume, “I’LL GETCHA THE MONEY, JUST LEMME OUT!” That’s as close to begging as he can get, as close to begging as he’s ever gotten with Rico. Rico knows he’s won. 

More pounding atop the trunk. “See ya in hell,” Stan hears. There might have been more, but his ears have started ringing. He’s gasping, and he knows that’s bad, because he’s using up all his air, but everything hurts and he can’t breathe, and oh god, his stomach is turning—

He’s barely able to turn his head in time before he starts retching right there in the trunk. The smell fills the tiny space and it’s so bad that he almost vomits again. He can’t breathe, he can’t hear, he can’t see. This is how he’s going to die. In a puddle of vomit, overheated, trapped in his own goddamn trunk, limbs tied. 

His mind floats to his brother, as it often does in shitty situations like this. He sees his brother closing the curtains, utterly convinced that Stan wanted to ruin his life. He’s probably having a grand old time right about now, without Stan there. He would probably be content if Stan never entered his life again. 

No. 

No, he can’t go like this. Stan has to apologize, he has to make things right, get his fucking twin back, prove that he’s— goddamn worth something. He has to be worth something, right? He has to be. 

He’s not. Stan isn’t stupid, he knows he’s good for nothing. But maybe he could be, if he could just apologize to Ford. 

Stan pulls his wrists, trying to squirm out of the rope, but it’s too tight. Far too tight. It needs to be cut, he can’t just wiggle out of it. Rico took his pocketknife, he doesn’t have anything sharp enough—

Oh. 

Fuck. 

He suddenly knows exactly what he has to do. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t. His ears are still ringing, his body still shaking. He pushes past it.  He brings his wrists up to his mouth, the rope centimeters from his lips. He makes a tiny whimper and doesn’t bother trying to stifle it. There’s no one around anyways. 

He sinks his teeth in and pulls back, hard. He nearly screams. It hurts, it hurts so bad. But he can’t— he’s gotta get out. There’s not a lot of air left. He bites and pulls. He can taste blood. Bites and pulls. He hears a crack. Bites and pulls. He’s crying like a fucking baby. 

After god knows how long of biting and pulling, the rope is frayed enough for him to yank his hands apart. He spits on the carpeted trunk, and he can’t see anything but he knows it’s full of blood and teeth. 

And before he can do anything else, the trunk pops open. 

He squints in the sudden light, momentarily blinded. He blinks and sits up, and it should be harder to get up after being in the trunk for hours, but— he feels strangely light.  His surroundings are blurry, fuzzy. Not very real. But he knows where he is. He’s back at the pawn shop. The shitty, run down building towers over him and its night and that makes sense for some reason. It shouldn’t be night, he knows, but— it is. It’s nice. He hasn’t seen Jersey stars in a long time. 

“Stanley?” 

He turns in the trunk, and he’s face to face with— 

“…Ma?” 

He forces himself out of the trunk, legs shaking. His mouth aches, and he doesn’t know how many teeth he has left, but you can’t hear it in his voice. He stumbles towards his mother. 

She backs away slightly. “Stanley, what are you doing back here?" 

“I-I don’t know, Ma, I-I don’t—” He was just in New Mexico, wasn’t he? “I missed you,” he offers quietly. 

She shakes her head. “You need to go.” She sounds afraid. “You can’t— you can’t just come back here.” 

Stan moves closer. “Ma, c’mon, it’s me.” He wants to hug her. He misses his mom. He misses her so fucking badly, and he’s overcome with the desperate urge to be protected by her, to be in her arms. His Ma. “Please,” he says weakly. His voice cracks. 

He reaches out, needing her, needing her so badly, but she stops him. She grabs his wrists and pushes him off. 

“You got money?” she asks. “You made your millions yet?” 

Stan can’t answer. He shakes his head. Her face falls, shifting to anger. 

“You gotta get outta here,” she whispers. “If Filbrick sees you here,” her voice falters. “He’ll kill you, Stanley, he’ll— you gotta go. Now.” 

“I’ll go, I-I swear, Ma, please, just—”

“Get OUT!” she says, louder this time. Her eyes burn, and Stan can’t— he can’t— he can’t move. 

“What are you,” a voice growls from behind him, “doin’ back here?” 

He turns. 

“P-Pa—”

“I told you not to come back unless you made millions,” he sneers. “You’ve got nothin’, look at you!” Filbrick stalks forward, grabbing Stan’s wrists with tight hands. “You don’t got a home here, you’re a goddamn trespasser!” His fist slams into Stan’s cheek, and Stan sees stars. He falls back-first to the ground, sight going out for a moment. He blinks once it’s back. 

He’s staring up at his brother. 

But it’s not his brother, not exactly. His eyes are yellow, with tiny black slit pupils. He’s laughing and it sounds wrong, it sounds so wrong but Stan can’t figure out why. 

“Ford— w-what are you—”

Ford bends down and grabs his brother’s chin. “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?” He’s almost sneering. “I’m sick of hearing you talk.” 

And suddenly, Stan can’t talk, and his face is on fire. He reaches up, searching for the source, and he finds string. Suture threads, stitched into his mouth and it hurts, he can feel blood dripping down his neck and he tries to scream but it’s agony, so he listens and he shuts the fuck up. 

“I don’t know why you came back,” Ford sneers. “I told you, he told you, everyone told you,” he leans closer. “No one. Wants you. Around.” 

Stan shakes his head frantically. Ford told him, he told him, that he loves him, he forgives him, that he fucking matters. Why did he lie? 

“I don’t know what made you think any differently, but let me tell you know,” Ford growls, voice low, “I will never forgive you. I wouldn’t care if you left, and I wouldn’t care if you died. So you might just be better off that way.” 

Stan can’t breathe. His ears are ringing, and he feels like he’s back in the trunk, he’s back in the motel room, he’s back in the pawn shop, and it hurts it all hurts he can’t breathe, he just can’t, he can’t, he can’t—

Ford is bringing his fist down and launching it at Stan’s face but Stan can barely feel it. He sees Ford laughing but he can’t hear it. He squeezes his eyes shut and he tries to go somewhere else, anywhere else, but he can’t, he’s stuck, he doesn’t know any other way, he hasn’t changed a bit— 

Everything goes dark. 

Stan woke up, heart pounding. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t— he was back, he was back there. Everywhere, and he was— 

He launched his hands toward his mouth— no stitches. No stitches. Why couldn’t he breathe, then? He was gasping, clutching at his chest, his neck. It wasn’t goddamn helping. He heard himself make a tiny whimper and he felt like a fucking baby but he couldn’t stop sobbing and gasping. He heard laughter, Ford’s laughter, but not really, no, it was— different, somehow. He couldn't think, it was all so loud, it was too loud, it was always going to be too loud! Too loud for school, too loud for a home, too loud for— Ford. 

He was bad. He was the same stupid misbehaving child he’d always been, and he was rotting like he was still in the trunk, decomposing in his vomit and teeth, and everyone was right, fucking right about him. He couldn’t be a good brother like this, he wasn’t worth keeping around like this. He couldn’t keep living like this, he just couldn’t. And he still couldn’t fucking breathe— 

He shot out of the bed— Ford insisted he slept in the bed, it was the only thing he’d said to him after Stan had stormed out and ensured his brother would never forgive him. His feet hit the floor and suddenly was stumbling around the cabin like he was drunk and he felt a little drunk except not the good fun kind and he still couldn’t breathe and he was sobbing and it was hot it was so hot. 

He was down the hall, now, near the kitchen, and part of him thought maybe some water would do him good but most of him couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything. He kept going. He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know anything, but his legs were pumping his feet and he was stumbling around and shitowdamnitfuck did he just hit something? Was that broken mug there before? How did he— when— 

He stared at the thing, but it suddenly didn’t look like a mug, no, it looked like— like— 

And until you make us a fortune, you’re not welcome in this household! 

No, no, no— not again, goddamnit, come on, please! Please, not that— 

Ford closes the curtains. He looks like he wishes he’d done it years ago. 

NO, GOD, HE DIDN’T MEAN IT!! 

Stan ran away from the broken machinedish. He was near the door to the lab, breathing hard. He had to think. What was he doing? Where was he— how did he— 

“…Stanley…?” 

Stan turned, clutching at his chest, to find his brother groggily rising from the couch. Ford rubbed at his eyes and found his glasses on the side table, placing them on the bridge of his nose. 

Ford’s voice was soft. Worried. Laced with sleep. “What— what are you doing up…are you alright?” 

Stan couldn’t answer, he just let out a sound, something between a wheeze and a whimper, and he knew he needed to escape, Ford couldn’t see him like this, no one could, especially Ford and he needed to get the fuck out of here but he was trapped he was up against a wall—

He wasn’t up against a wall. 

“Stanley, wait, please, what are you—”

He threw the door open and slammed it shut before Ford could say anything else, before Ford could stitch him up again, before he could hurt him even though it was deserved, before he could tell him the truth, that he didn’t want him around anymore. Stan locked the door for good measure and bolted down the stairs— he needed to get away, he had to. 

He was in the lab, and he heard Bill’s laughter, Ford’s laughter, he didn’t know at this point and honestly, he didn’t care, it was all the same. His knees suddenly gave out and he was on the floor sobbing, dry heaving, pulling at his face and chest. Even his clothes felt constricting and he barely fought the urge to pull them off. Air. He needed air. 

His head was darting in all directions and he just wished it could all be blank, all go away, could it just go away—

His eyes caught something. Teetering on the edge of the counter, barely visible in the light except for a tiny, golden glint of metal. He forced himself up and flicked on the floor lamp, suddenly drawn to the thing like he was being hypnotized. His hands clamped around it. The memory gun. It was cold in his hands. It felt nice. Safe. 

BET YOU GOT A LOT OF SHIT YOU’D RATHER FORGET, HUH?

He couldn’t get the dream out of his mind, the memories out of his mind. He was stuck with them, and he couldn’t escape, and wouldn’t it just be so nice to… free of it all? To be a blank slate, to just ignore all that shit? Like a high, a damn good one, but it would be one that never ended. 

Pa’s anger, Pa’s fists. Ford closing the curtains. Jimmy holing them up in that shitty motel and making him do whatever Jimmy wanted. Rico shoving him the trunk, leaving him for dead in a pile of teeth and spit and blood. Ford holding a crossbow in his face, Ford knowing his brother would NEVER be good enough. 

Stab stared at the memory gun for a moment. 

SIXER COULDN’T HOLD ANYTHING AGAINST YOU IF YOU USED IT, COULD HE? YOU’D GET A CHANCE TO BE THE BROTHER HE ALWAYS WANTED!

Bill was right. He couldn’t— he couldn’t be a good brother, he couldn’t make up for how badly he’d fucked things up, like this. He couldn’t be better like this. He was a fucking monster like this, just a husk. But— he could be better. He could fix it. Make it up to Ford, give him a good brother, a real brother, one that never made all those mistakes. And it wasn’t like his brain was good for much else anyways. 

He turned the dial. Punched in his name. Selected all. 

He held the bulb to his temple. 

He could be better. He would be better. 

Chapter Text

“Stanley, wait, please, what are you—”

Stan didn’t let Ford finish his sentence. He threw open the door and slammed it shut. Ford heard the familiar click of the lock, and his blood turned to ice. Stan had been so panicked, he was— he was barely breathing right, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong, and Stan just locked himself downstairs, and— fuck, his gut was twisting. Something was wrong and dangerous and he didn’t know what—

Ford pulled at the knob, his hands shaking. “Stanley!?” He called, ignoring his aching throat. He pulled harder at the knob. “Lee!!” Nothing. No response. He started to bang on the door, panic rising in his chest. Please, please, god, please, just let him open the door, just— FUCK!! 

He kept banging on the door. Every neuron in his brain was on fire and he didn’t know why, harder and harder and harder and his hands ached and his broken finger was screaming at him to stop, but he couldn’t, Stan could be— Stan could be— 

He stepped back from the door and took a shallow, shaking inhale, preparing himself. Then he launched himself at the door, breaking the creaky wood from its hinges. It flew down the stairs, and his shoulder was throbbing where it had hit the door, and he let out a guttural yell, the air knocked out of him, but he didn’t stop moving, he rocketed down the stairs. His bandaged arm was screaming at him, the stab wound on fire, and he was pretty sure he heard himself crying in pain but he didn’t care he kept going because something was wrong, he had to get to Stan, he had to get to Stan— 

“Stanley!? What are you doing, what’s going—” 

He stopped dead in his tracks. 

“Lee?” 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t, he just— Stan wouldn’t, Stan couldn’t— 

Stanley was kneeling, crumpled, in the middle of the floor, eyes panicked but faint and glassy, his whole body shaking. He didn’t even look at Ford. He was somewhere else. 

He had the memory gun pressed up against his temple. 

For a moment, Ford couldn’t speak. Because, for a moment, he was staring at his brother in a different time. He saw a tiny, desperate kid in a striped shirt, with curly brown hair that needed a haircut. His knees were bruised. He had a black eye. He looked goddamn terrified. And Ford didn’t know what to say. It was his brother. This isn’t supposed to happen, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be, it can’t be, he’s just a kid— 

Stan’s finger tightened around the trigger, and Ford snapped back into the present and fully entered the room. 

“Stanley, WAIT!!” 

Stan’s head twitched to look up at his brother. His grip loosened as he blinked blearily up at him. He shook his head slightly, almost like he didn’t believe Ford was really there. Like a hallucination. His finger tightened again. 

“STOP, Stanley, what are you— d-don’t— I—” He didn’t know what to say. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. “Okay, I’m— can you hear me?!” 

Stan didn’t nod, didn’t say anything, but— his grip loosened. Slightly. Barely. He’s here. He’s listening. 

“Okay, just— p-put that down, alright?” Stan didn’t move. Ford’s chest was burning. “That thing is dangerous, you can’t— don’t mess with it!! Y-You need to calm down!” He was yelling, his voice harsh and guttural. He coughed and cursed his body for not being able to get the words out quicker. “We can talk,” he practically screamed. “W-We can talk, a-and you can—” 

Stan murmured something under his breath. Ford nearly jumped out of his skin. “What was that, Lee? I-I couldn’t— speak up!!— could you—?” 

Stan spoke again. Louder this time. “I’ll be better…” 

Ford finally kneeled down in front of him. Stan flinched back, and Ford resisted the urge to pull him in. One wrong move, and— fuck, he could lose his brother. “What do you mean?” he demanded. 

“I’ll be— I—” Stan started breathing harder. “I’ll be a… a-a good brother, a-and you’ll have to forgive me, cus I won’t— I won’t know—” 

“Stanley, STOP! You’re— you’re a fine brother— a GREAT BROTHER, just—” 

“I’ll do it right this time, I’ll— I won’t have to remember it, I won’t—” 

“You’re delirious, you don’t know what you’re saying—” 

“YES, I DO!!” Ford flinched back at the volume. He tried to speak, but his mouth just hung open as he stared at his brother, whose eyes were wild. Panicked. “I-I can—” His chest heaved. “I can— y-you won’t have to worry about me, I’ll go straight, I won’t— I’ll make it up to you, I can— I won’t have to remember— fuck, Six, it hurts, I-I just can’t—  I don’t wanna REMEMBER IT!!” 

He let out a choked noise and stared at the floor, bulb still against his temple. 

Ford felt sick. His little brother. His twin, his best friend, and— god, Ford had driven him to this point. He’d driven Stan to want to erase himself. He had to fix it, he couldn’t lose him, he just got him back! It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair!!

“Hey, hey, look at me, look at me, Stanley!!” Stan peeked up, eyes welling up. “We can figure this out, w-we can figure everything out, we can talk it over, alright? Just—” His voice broke on a wet sob and he sniffled against the congestion. “Don’t do this, okay? P-Please, just— don’t—” 

Stan shook his head. “I have to, you’ll be better off—” 

“NO! I-I won’t be!” His heart pounded against his ribcage. “I don’t want some—  blank slate!! I want you! I will not lose my brother!!” His words came out a growl. Stan’s grip faltered. Just slightly. “YES! Yes, okay, just— give me the memory gun, alright? We’ll talk this over, we’ll figure it out, and everything will be fine!” Stan didn’t move. “Please, Lee!”

Stan’s hold loosened, and his hand lowered, just barely. 

“You’re doing great, just— put the memory gun down, okay? You don’t need it, you don’t need it.”  

Stan finally blinked, and his hand dropped to the floor and opened. The memory gun laid in his open palm. 

“Good, good! Now— just— set it on the ground for me, can you do that?” 

Stan pulled his hand out from under it, and it hit the concrete with a soft clatter. Ford slowly reached down and took it, then chucked it at the wall. The brothers watched as it shattered into a million tiny pieces across the floor. 

“NO—!” 

Ford turned back to his brother, who stared, terrified, at the pieces of glass. Stan crawled to the shining pieces, grabbing fistfuls of them with shaking hands. 

“P-Please, I-I— I need—” His voice cracked into a sob. “No, no, nonononono—” 

“Stan, listen to me, you don’t need it!!” 

Stan kept staring at the glass, his mouth forming the word no. But no sound came out. 

“Stanley, please,” Ford begged. He felt utterly useless. “Lee. It’s alright.” 

Stan’s eyes suddenly flickered up to Ford, then back to the glass. They widened. He backed up slightly. “I— I-I didn’t—” He just kept staring, first at the glass, then his own hands, then at Ford. “N-No…”

“Stanley?” 

Stan tried to take in a breath, but it came shallow and rattling. His chest rose and fell rapidly. “I didn’t mean—” He shook his head. “I-I was gonna— no, I didn’t—” His whole body shook violently, harder than before, so much so that his form was almost blurry.

“You have to breathe, just let me help you.” Stan’s eyes flickered to his twin, pupils dilating. One of his hands shot to his chest, wadding up the fabric in his fist. “Stanley, it’s okay, everything’s okay, just listen to me.” 

Stan tried for another breath, and failed again. He made a choked, panicked whine, staring desperately at Ford. He couldn’t stop trembling.

Ford scooted closer and held out his hands. “Just— j-just take my hands, Lee, alright? I can help you. You need to breathe.” Stan hesitated, keeping his hands where they were at, and whined sharply, shaking his head frantically. Ford barely registered it. Get him breathing, get him breathing, get him breathing. “That’s okay, we— just— breathe in with me first.” He took as deep a breath as he could muster and nodded at Stanley to follow. And Stan tried, he really did. It was a clanky breath at best, and he made a desperate whine. “It’s alright. Try again.” He demonstrated again, and Stan finally got a bit of oxygen. He nodded. 

They kept going until Stan was taking consistent breaths, his eyes never leaving his brother’s. 

“You’re doing wonderful. Is it a bit easier to breathe now?”

Stan nodded. Then he clamped a hand over his mouth and a broken, animal sound escaped him. He curled in on himself, rocking slightly, tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. And suddenly he was sobbing in a ball, breaking apart like the glass on the floor. 

“Hey, it— it’s going to be fine, okay? It’s— you did great, you’re alright.” 

Stan looked up at him, scrubbing at his eyes. “…Ford?” 

“Yes, yeah, it’s me, Stanley.” He reached out and grabbed his hands. 

 “N-No— please—” Stan immediately jerked back, breathing quickening. His eyes were wide and panicked and, for a moment, he went somewhere else. 

“Stan— Stanley! It’s me, it’s Ford!!” It felt repetitive but he didn’t care. “I’m right here, please, just listen to me.” 

Stan blinked. “...Ford.” Ford nodded in response. Stan suddenly collapsed into his brother, burying himself in Ford’s chest. He cradled his arms in his chest, curled up like a child. Another animal sob escaped him, and he turned his face into Ford’s sweater, desperate to muffle the sound. He shook so hard that Ford shook in tandem with him, trembling like TV static. 

“Lee, how could you— why— oh, god,” Ford breathed, his voice cracking. He wrapped his arms around his brother, one hand running through Stan’s hair, absently brushing through the tangles. He cleared his throat painfully. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

“I-I—” Another sob. “I was— gonna—” He didn’t continue. They both knew what had been about to happen. He just sobbed harder. 

“It’s going to be alright, we’re going to figure it out. I’m right here.” Ford’s words felt hollow. Would it be okay? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He just had to help, he had to. Stanley needed him. So badly. That was clear now. 

“Ford,” Stan wailed, “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—” A terrified sound. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Ford barked. His tone was too harsh, too harsh, he knew it right away. Stan flinched back. Fuck, fuckfuckfuck you're scaring him! How could you— in the state he’s in you’re going to yell at him? You’re just like Pa, you’re worse, because he trusts you right now and you’re failing him, you’ve already failed him, oh god— “SHIT— I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to yell, I just— god, you don’t have anything to apologize for Stan, n-not at all.” 

“Mhm,” Stan whined in protest. “I’m just— y-you don’t need me.” He kept sobbing. Ford had to strain to hear his words. “J-Just tell me to go, I-I’ll go, I-I’ll—” He broke down again. 

“I’m not going to do that, I—”

“R-Rico’s not the only one after me,” Stan insisted through tears. “I-I— you’ll get hurt, m’ puttin’ you in danger—” He suddenly reached up and pulled at Ford’s shirt, like he just couldn’t get close enough. “I’m just— j-just pullin’ you down with me, j-just tell me to go—”

“No, Lee—”

“B-Bill was right, you were right, I-I’m just somethin’ to fix, b-but I can’t be…” 

Ford’s mind flashed back to the words Bill had drilled into Stanley’s brain. He saw red. Bill was wrong, he was so wrong, but Stan believed him. He believed Bill over his own brother. 

And you pushed him to that point. Don’t forget it. 

“Bill—“ He growled involuntarily. He fought to get words out, his chest hitching. “—was wrong, Stanley, I-I heard everything he said, and none of it was TRUE!!” He snarled the words, and Stan flinched back. Shit, how could you— you’re going to— “ Fuck, I’m— I didn’t mean to— look, n-not a word of what he said was true, alright? I don’t— you’re not a burden, and you— you don’t need fixing. You’re not a project, not to me, that’s just stup— ridiculous!! You’re not— I-I do forgive you, but I’m— I’m so sorry, Lee.” He tried to keep his own sobs at bay. His voice broke. “It’s all my fault, Lee, but— please don’t say that, because it’s all lies, I don’t— I-I—” He took a shaky inhale. “I want you here, Lee, if you— I need you. I need my brother, I need you to stay, Lee, please— please, stay.” 

Stan shook his head and made a wounded sound, another sob escaping him. “I-I can’t— I don’t wanna remember, Six, I can’t— I can’t go back in the trunk, I-I can’t—” His eyes grew wider, more panicked. “I can’t go back, Ford, I-I can’t— please, Ford, don't make me, please—” His voice broke again and his grip grew tighter on Ford’s shirt, and he curled in like a child, crying loudly. 

Trunk? What on earth is he—

Oh. 

I had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car!! 

Oh god. 

Ford tightened his hold around his brother. “You’re not there anymore Stan, okay? F-Focus on me, you’re not— I won’t make you go back there, okay?” Stan just sobbed harder, unable to speak, shaking like a leaf. His breathing was tight and fast, wet and punctuated by cries. “I’m right here, I’m right here, and I won’t— I won’t let anything like that happen anymore. I won’t let you get hurt, I-I won’t, I can’t.” 

Stan sobbed for another moment before continuing, shakily and barely understandable. “I-I can’t— i-it just hurts, they all hurt me, I can’t— I don’t know how to— they’re always there…” 

“Who hurt you, Lee?” Ford’s words tapered off into a growl. “Tell me, a-and I’ll fix it for you, okay? I’ll— was it Pa? I’ll— I’ll kill him, I will—”

“Mmfgh— P-Pa…” Stan’s voice was quiet. Almost ashamed. “Rico… Jim— J-Jimmy…” 

Ford recognized two of the names. He could handle them. He could kill Pa, he could find Rico, kill him, make both of them pay for ever hurting Stan, and he could make it painful, and longsuffering, and— he shouldn’t have let Rico go so easy— god, he couldn’t think, all he knew was that they deserved to die for what they did, they deserved an eternity of suffering, they— 

He paused. 

“Who—” He kept running his hand through Stan’s hair as he cried. “Lee, who’s… Jimmy?” 

Stan’s breath hitched. He made a small, panicked sound. “Doesn’t… matter…” 

“It does to me.” 

Stan sniffled. “He— we… we used to—” He paused again, trying to stifle another cry. “He w-was my boyfriend.” 

Boyfriend? Ford’s brain barely had time to process the realization before he remembered why he’d been asking in the first place. 

“Did— did Jimmy… hurt you?” 

Stan sniffled and made a little noise, his head nodding in confirmation. He let out another sob and buried himself back into Ford’s chest, holding to him desperately. 

Ford’s chest burned. His whole body burned, his fucking face felt like it was on fire. Everyone has hurt Stan. Rico, Jimmy, Pa, fuck— himself, most of all, they’d all broken Stanley Pines. Guilt settled on him, hot and heavy and utterly overwhelming but he couldn’t make it about himself he just couldn't but he didn’t know how to fix it, because he couldn’t he couldn’t— 

He couldn’t fix it. 

He just had to be there. 

He held on tighter. “Lee, I’m— I’m so, so sorry… I should’ve— realized what Pa was doing, a-and I should’ve stopped it, I shouldn’t have let you get kicked out, I— god, I stayed away for so long, Stan, I was so angry, and it was—” He finally let out a sob. “It was so wrong. I was wrong. And you— you deserved— you deserve— better than me.” 

“N-No, I— Ford, you don’t gotta… lie—”

“NO—!!!” Ford wailed. “It’s not a lie!! You—” His brain stuttered at the memory of yet another way he hurt his brother. “Stanley, listen to me. Taking that journal would not have been the— the first worthwhile thing you’d have done with your life. F-Far from it, you— you’re my brother, and that was utterly wrong. You matter, you matter so much!” He took an inhale before his next question. “Stan, I— I want you to stay, please stay. H-Here, at the cabin, and we can figure this out, a-and we can be brothers again, we can—”

“N-No.” Stan’s voice was foggy now, still wet and punctuated by cries but suddenly exhausted and distant. “I’ll put you in danger, there are so many people after me, I can’t— can’t bring ‘em here… I’ll drag you down…” 

“I-I don’t care, I don’t care whose after you, I-I’ll kill them, I’ll kill all of them, we’ll be safe, okay? We’ll be safe. I don’t care about any of that, Lee, I just need you, I need you here, you’re my brother. A-And I know you probably don’t believe that right now, I know, but that’s okay, because— I’ll believe it for you, okay, and— and I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it, alright? I’ll tell you a thousand— a-a billion times, an infinite amount of times, I’ll never stop. I love you.” 

Stan didn’t respond for a minute, just sobbed weakly into his twin’s chest, his grip faltering not for lack of fear but simply out of utter exhaustion. He just kept crying, fisting weakly at Ford’s sweater. Finally, he took a shaky, tired inhale. “Love you too…” 

Ford let out a sob and held him tighter, making up for Stan’s exhaustion. “I’m so sorry, Lee,” he murmured. “I-I’m so— I’m so sorry…” 

Stan hummed softly, and somehow it sounded like he was saying “not your fault.” And it made Ford feel like he was shattering into a million pieces. He whined softly and nuzzled his head against his brother’s. 

They stayed like that for a long time. Ford couldn’t be sure how long, until Stan started to shift, like he was uncomfortable on the hard concrete floor of the lab. Ford’s own legs were stiff, but he was in no hurry to let his brother go. 

“Lee?” he whispered, “how about we go upstairs, get you in bed?” 

“Mmgh—” was the only answer that Stan gave. 

“Alright, come on, you’re exhausted,” Ford said softly. “We’ll get you upstairs, y-you can sleep, and we can talk tomorrow. We’ll figure this all out, it’ll all be okay.” Stan just hummed again, but started shifting where he laid crumpled, pushing himself up. 

Ford had to do most of the work getting them standing. Stan immediately slumped against him, pulling at his arm, sniffling, almost child-like. His body still shook with the remnants of raw panic. They walked slowly up the stairs, and Ford had to guide them both around the splintering remnants of the door. He watched Stan’s eyes scan it, but his perception seemed foggy and distant at best. 

Ford gently eased his twin down into the bed, pulling the covers up to his neck. Stan curled in on himself, but gave Ford a pleading look. 

“Stay…?” 

As if I could even consider leaving your side right now. As if I’ll ever leave you alone again, for the rest of our lives. Ford just nodded and swallowed thickly, and crawled into the bed beside his brother. Stan immediately curled into Ford’s chest again, pulling at his shirt tiredly. He yawned. 

Ford tried to keep himself from vomiting. He wasn’t sure if it was from sickness or what he’d witnessed tonight. Probably both. His head ached, cloudy and congested but still utterly panicked. His little brother. He’d come so close to losing his little brother. He’d pushed Stan to that point. God, he felt sick, he felt so sick. He was a monster. How could Stan have nearly— how could Ford have nearly let it— fuck. But he— he needed his brother, he couldn’t live without him. He felt a familiar, distant sting in his arm. It ached. Part of him considered the fact that he maybe should’ve stitched the cuts. But it didn’t matter, the rest of him knew that he deserved it, now more than ever. 

But he didn’t know how to fix it, he didn’t know how to make it right. The memory gun was destroyed, that was one problem solved, but— who knows how long Stan had been feeling like this? How long he would continue to feel like this? He wouldn’t, not if Ford could help it. But— he just didn’t know. He didn’t know anything anymore. 

He sobbed again and pulled Stan in tighter. He just couldn’t seem to get him close enough. 

“Lee,” he cried softly, almost whispering. Stan was asleep. He couldn’t risk waking him up, but he just— he couldn’t stop himself. “Lee, please stay,” he begged, sniffling against the wall of congestion. “Please, please, I need you here, I can’t— I can’t be alone again… please stay…” He sobbed again, trying to keep himself quiet and contained. 

“…Mhm…” Stan suddenly muttered. It was sleepy, barely coherent or lucid. “…Fine… I’ll stay…” 

Ford hiccuped. “Y-You will…?”

Stan didn’t respond, but let out a soft snore. 

And Ford simply held him, clinging to the quiet, exhausted words his brother had slurred out. Ford wasn’t an idiot, he knew Stan didn’t mean it. Once he’d gotten sleep, he’d certainly try to go back on it. But it didn’t matter. It was all Ford had right now. 

It would have to be enough.