Chapter Text
“Papa needs a new pair of...TWINS!”
It landed on--no! Probabilitor caught it!
“What? You thought you could cheat me?” He cackled, revealing the gum Stan had stuck to it. Fuck!
Sick horror washed through him and everyone else was gasping--well, except for Probabilitor, who was laughing triumphantly.
“Cheating means disqualification! Disqualification means you lose!”
Suddenly everything glitched, like someone hit fast forward on a video tape Stan wished wasn’t being played.
Now his world was fire and blood, screaming as he was pinned down by magic, forced to watch the horrible spectacle. No matter how much he wanted to close his eyes, he couldn’t, not as Dipper’s blood was spilled brutally, the boy’s bloodcurdling scream mixing with his sister’s, being held down next to him. God, Stan wished he could shield her, she didn’t deserve to see this. None of them deserved this, how could Stan let this happen!?
“Stan, why did you do it!?” Ford was shrieking in terror and betrayal, being dragged to his own slaughter. “Why did you cheat!? Why did you ruin everything!? You killed us! You killed us!”
“Ford! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!” Stan sobbed, and, again, he couldn't close his eyes as his brother was murdered too.
“FORD! NO!”
~
Dipper! Ford! Oh god, no no no no no. Stan rocketed out of bed, barely seeing clearly but knowing the Shack well enough to run down the hall and up the stairs to the attic. There was nothing but the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears as he climbed.
Dipper is alive! He has to be alive, he has to be!
Yet the fear and insane panic wouldn't leave him, kept him thinking that when he opened the door, only one bed would be filled. And to his horror, when he did open the twins’ door, Dipper wasn't there .
Mabel was in her bed, he could see it, but Dipper’s bed was empty. He felt his heartbeat spike higher.
No! But he was alive! Dipper and Ford were alive!
Some twisted, inhuman sound tore from his throat as he turned on his heel and shot back down the stairs. He didn't hear Mabel wake up behind him. All he could think was to check downstairs, because if Dipper was gone then Ford would be gone but neither of them were gone they couldn't be gone.
He had too much momentum flying down the stairs and down the hallway--he slammed into the wall at the end of it, but that didn't stop him. He flew around the corner and--
“Stanley?”
“Grunkle Stan?”
But this wasn't like other times--the relief at his family being alive only felt sickening. He couldn't get his eyes to focus and it felt like everything was spinning. His heart was pounding too loudly and his ears were ringing. He stumbled and fell back against the wall, trying to remember what breathing normally felt like.
“Stanley? Stanley are you alright?” There was a hand on his shoulder, another over his heart. He felt like he should answer the question, but he seemed to have lost his vocal chords.
“What's going on?” That was Mabel, groggy and confused, and still yawning. “I think I heard something deeply broken and terrifying break into our room and then run downstairs. Was--hey, is Grunkle Stan okay? Did the something chase him?”
“Kids, go upstairs, go to bed.” Ford ordered.
“Great Uncle Ford, what's going on?” Dipper asked. What was the boy even doing up this late, and with Ford? Stan couldn't think clearly enough to come up with answer (hell, it was a miracle he even thought of the question. Why couldn't he just calm down?).
“Upstairs, now.” Ford ordered again, leaving no room for arguments. The kids jumped a little at the force in his words, and obediently ran off. Then Ford turned his attention back to Stan.
“Stan, Stanley, can you hear me?” The hand moved up his shoulder to his throat, and Stan flinched, because he’d been strangled too many times in his life to view it as anything but an attack. But it’s not like he could fight it--he was shaking too badly. Either way, he realized that Ford was trying to check his pulse, not hurt him. He still couldn’t find the voice to answer though.
“Stan, focus on me, alright? You need to calm down, we need to slow down your heart rate. Stanley? Stanley look at me.”
When Stan did look at him, his vision suddenly became crystal clear and filled with blood, Ford’s blood, his brother’s skull carved off and it was horrifying how much detail his brain could supply. He shuddered and flinched away, struggling to get away from the image. The dizziness that hit him again nearly sent him to the ground. Ford cursed under his breath and held on tight.
“Okay, okay,” He gritted, “Looking at me, bad idea, got it. Stan, listen to me, your heartbeat is too erratic, you need to calm down. Let’s start with your breathing. Can you try taking deep breaths?”
Stan couldn’t speak and it was a fight to stay standing, he could hardly focus on his breathing, and he hoped the scathing (hopefully scathing) look he shot his brother (his brother’s chest, to be more apt--looking up meant seeing all that blood again) conveyed that.
“Dammit, Stanley.” Ford hissed. The hand over Stan’s heart vanished, but after a pause and a sigh it suddenly reappeared, wrapping around his own hand. Ford laid Stan’s hand over his own heart. Six fingers over five over fabric over skin over muscle over bone over heartbeat.
“Stanley, I know you can hear me, please, I know you can feel this.” And he could, the expansion and deflation of Ford’s chest as he breathed deeply. “Just breathe in time with me, alright? In--”
Focused on the feel of Ford’s breathing, Stan realized how stuttered and staggered his own was. And it was a challenge to slow it down.
“--and out. Just keep doing this, Stanley. In…out...in...out...”
Stan wasn't sure how long it took, but soon he was breathing in unison with Ford. His shaking gradually stopped, and with it so did the panic, and the nightmare-filled haze of his mind. Instead it was replaced by exhaustion, and he sagged a little.
“Stanley?” Ford murmured, noticing the change. When Stan looked at him, he didn't see blood nor gore this time. He still hadn't managed to find his vocal chords yet, thought. All he managed was a weak nod.
“Alright,” Ford’s hands changed, both going to his shoulders to help support and guide him to the armchair in Ford’s room. “Let's just get you seated, okay? Take it easy.”
It was strange--it was beyond strange--Stan couldn't place the feeling he had, the feeling he had about Ford’s hands on his shoulders, it...it…
It was the first real, non-violent contact the two had had since Ford had returned.
And Stan wasn't really sure how he felt about it. It didn't matter, because as soon as he sat down the contact was gone. It briefly returned in the form of Ford draping Stan’s robe over his shoulders (he had never retrieved it, making it his prerogative the day before to interact with his brother as little as possible--although it didn’t turn out the way he planned). He shakily tugged the robe tighter around him as Ford sat down on his couch across from him, legs and arms crossed and looking all the world like a concerned parent. That bothered Stan a little bit--he wasn’t a fucking child--but he didn’t have the energy to make any sort of protest. Finally after a moment of wary staring at each other, Ford exhaled.
“How long have you been having dreams like this, Stanley?” He asked.
Stan huffed weakly with a humorless smile. He had found his voice, weak and hoarse, but chock full of fatigue and bitterness.
“From which point would you like me to start, poindexter?” He replied. “The day I lost you, or the day I brought you back?”
Ford stiffened immediately, and that bitter part of Stan relished in his obvious discomfort. He wouldn’t lie: some of the resentment from last night’s humiliation still lingered. It had lingered all the previous day, his head swirling with the thought: you think I’m a nuisance? I’ll show you a fucking nuisance. He knew that Ford offering for him to join his game was his form of an olive branch for the night before, but Stan had still been too upset to accept it, far preferring to ridicule his brother and live up to his new “nuisance” title. Which...really hadn’t panned out very well.
“Stanley, are you telling me you’ve been having nightmares so bad that you’ve nearly been sending yourself into cardiac arrest for the past thirty years?” Ford gritted, leaning forward a little. Stan couldn’t read the emotions flitting across the man’s face.
Oh. Well, uh...damn. Cardiac arrest? That explained a lot.
“N-not exactly. Not, not this bad.” He mumbled. “I just...yesterday, you and Dipper...that douche was gonna eat your brains , Ford. So tonight--I--I guess--” Stan sighed and wiped a hand down his face. “Imagination is a cruel dick. Always has been.”
“Well, that I can relate to.” Ford huffed, leaning back against the couch.
“So,” He carried on, “You’ve been having ongoing nightmares for a while now, and they feel real enough that you absolutely have to make sure they’re not real. Am I correct?”
Stan shifted uncomfortably. Ford hit the nail right on the head.
“Yeah.” He nodded finally.
“And most of them involve me or the children being dead. Am I correct?”
“...Yeah.” The dreams were almost always about Ford, not the kids. He had had a few about Dipper and Mabel in danger after some really bad events--a particularly nasty one after the zombie attack, even--but his dreams pretty much consistently decided to torture him with Ford’s death, not theirs. But that was hard to admit directly. So sure, let the genius think that Stan just worried about his whole family in general.
“Or are they mostly just about me?”
Well fuck.
Stan’s lack of response really just confirmed that for Ford, and the man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose above his glasses. He seemed frustrated, almost, and Stan understood it: he shouldn’t be having these kinds of fears any more. But he did.
“I’m back and I’m alive, Stanley. I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.”
“You’re out of the portal but you still have nightmares about it.” Stan pointed out. Ford looked about to protest, but then he relaxed.
“Touche.” He conceded. “Although usually I maintain enough control in my own dreamscape to not lose sense of what’s real and what’s not--although last night seems to be on a growing list of exceptions. I’m glad you woke me up.”
Stan didn’t have time to be shocked by the almost “thanks” from his brother; Ford quickly continued like he was trying to cover up his words.
“Anyway, that’s why I have a...a proposition.”
“Really?” Stan sneered. If the word ‘therapy’ left his brother’s mouth he would leave the room right then and there. There was no way in hell he was ever trying that route again.
“Well,” Ford scratched his neck awkwardly. “I--uh--I’ve been thinking about this all day. I...I figured, with the way you phrased it last night, you’ve been watching me sleep every night--which I am still uncomfortable about, you should have told me from the start--but, if the pattern were to hold true, you’d come down here again tonight. So I decided to stay awake and wait for you. Then Dipper came down because he couldn’t sleep, and we started talking and--he was asking about my scars…”
Ford trailed off shyly, staring down at his arms, which Stan just noticed were completely bare. Ford wasn’t wearing his trenchcoat, and had rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, and--moses, his scars. There were tons of them, slashing up and down his arms. Some looked like burn marks. There were scars around his wrists that were likely from his hands being bound together too tightly, and there was one strange scar that peeked out by Ford’s left elbow that suspiciously looked like a tentacle. Dear god, some of his skin just looked like straight up patchwork .
No wonder he covers up, Stan thought nervously. God knows what else was covering his body under that sweater. The idea sent guilt coursing through him. He was the reason Ford had them at all.
Some brother you turned out to be.
“We actually both fell asleep! Haha…” Ford chuckled, unaware that Stan was so stricken. “Then...then we heard you.” His expression became gravely serious again.
“I have the feeling if I suggest what I was originally planning to suggest, you’d punch me in the face; I’d likely do the same if you suggested it to me. So instead: you can keep coming down here, when you have night terrors like this.”
The stricken look on Stan’s face didn't change, although the reason behind it did. Ford was...okay with this?
“When your mind is in a state like that, denying you the ability to bring it out of that state is just cruel. If seeing me alive will help calm you down, I won't stop you. And,” Ford added, “it's mutually beneficial. If I have a night terror similar to last night, you can wake me up again. It's a win-win scenario.”
Well of course it wouldn’t be worth doing unless Ford got something out of it. But still...at least Ford wasn’t angry at him anymore. Not for watching him while he slept, at least. Stan shifted slightly.
“Ya know, uh, my dreams aren’t always this bad.” He tried to play it off. Ford shot him a look and he defended himself. “Look, I’m just sayin’ I might not come down here every night.”
“That’s more than fine.” Ford waved it off.
“Even you have some kinda nightmare?”
“I can handle my own dreams if it comes down to it.” Ford said, dismissively this time. Stan knew if he kept prodding he’d just make his brother angry again, so he backed off.
“...Do you need to stay down here?” Ford asked, once the awkward silence had gone on long enough.
“No, no!” Stan said hurriedly, clambering to his feet. He had clambered to his feet too fast however--he immediately fell back down, vision swimming. He couldn’t help cursing and clutching his head.
“Right.” Ford said dryly. He stood up and crossed over to the light, switching it off. “Well, it is late. And I do need sleep. You do too, preferably in your bed than that chair. You should go back once you feel strong enough.”
“Don’t worry, I will.” Stan couldn’t help the bit of fire in his voice; he could hear the patronizing tone in Ford’s. Ford completely ignored it, lying down on the couch and pulling his coat over him like a blanket. He set his glasses aside and rolled over so he wasn’t facing Stan.
“Goodnight.” He said curtly. Stan frowned.
“Goodnight.” He replied.
Stan had planned on leaving not long after that, but the fatigue of the night caught up with him quickly, and slammed him like a freight train.
The next morning, Ford was already in the basement when he woke up.