Chapter Text
The first thing Stanley became aware of as he regained consciousness was just how much everything hurt. His face felt tender, so even though his most recent memories were kind of hazy, he knew he must have gotten a decent beating. Not a broken nose, at least – he knew how that felt, and it sucked. Small mercies.
He groaned in pain as he attempted to move, limbs leaden, only to stop at the creak of a mattress. It took Stanley longer than it should have to realise that he’d been the cause of that sound, mostly because the thought did not make any sense. The back of his car, cold pavement, some loser’s trunk – all likely places for him to be, but not a bed.
Sitting up despite his body’s protests, Stanley quickly scanned his surroundings, trying to figure out where exactly he was. There was a number of blankets piled on top of him, some beginning to slide off of the bed because of his sudden movement. Decorations on the side of the room he woke up on were sparse, any and all surfaces were instead covered with mountains of books.
There was a bed parallel to him on the other side of the room, with only one, miserable little pillow lying against the headboard. The blankets had to have come from somewhere, he supposed. Next to the bed was a desk, memorabilia and strange parts of some sort of machinery scattered all across it. More alarmingly, there was a man sitting at said desk, observing Stanley with a mix of concern and curiosity.
Stanley, to his own embarrassment, flinched as he realised there were eyes on him. He had been convinced he was alone.
“Hiya, there, Stanley,” said the man, sounding suspiciously kind. Like he was talking to a frightened animal. “You feelin’ better?”
The sound of his own name caught him off guard. It’d been years since anyone called him anything other than one of his dumb aliases. “Uh,” Stanley’s mouth felt dry. “Sure?”
“You're certainly more lucid than before,” he muttered, standing up and pulling his chair closer to the bed before Stanley had the chance to question what that meant. He stuck out his hand, smiling politely. “Name’s Fiddleford Hadron McGucket! Sorta unfortunate first meeting, but…” He shrugged.
Staring uncomprehendingly at the extended hand, Stanley considered the situation. He was certain he hadn’t introduced himself to the creep who ended up beating him to a pulp, and he most definitely hadn’t done so using his actual name. Perhaps, then, this wasn’t the same man. Stanley could not recall much about him, but he thought he probably would have remembered that southern accent. This guy seemed harmless enough, but there remained the question of why Stanley had been brough to a random apartment, seemingly just to get smothered with blankets. Glancing down at himself for the first time since he’d woken up, Stanley startled at the sight of just his undershirt and boxers.
“Ah, right, sorry ‘bout that,” Fiddleford said, actually sounding apologetic. “All your clothes are safe, don’t worry. We had to take ‘em off to dry, wouldn’t want ya getting hypothermia on top of all else.”
“’We’?” Stanley glanced back up at Fiddleford, completely lost.
“Stanford ‘n I,” he confirmed. Fiddleford’s smile wavered, brows creased slightly. “D’ya not remember anythin’ from the past couple of hours?”
“Ford’s here?” Stanley ignored the question, feeling the blood drain from his face. Looking around the room once more, he searched for the second person whose presence he had been unaware of, apparently. He wondered whether he’d been hit over the head harder than he remembered.
Part of him refused to believe what he’d just heard, but then again, the universe had been pretty determined to screw him over at any given opportunity as of recent. While he knew that a peaceful reunion with his brother was a pipe dream, that childish hope for things to be the way that they used to never died. He’d dared to imagine – on good days, or bad ones, or ones he’d thought were his last – being Stanford’s friend again. It was all he’d ever wanted, but following one of the worst weeks of his life wasn’t really the appropriate time for a chance encounter with his estranged twin brother.
“Well, not right now, but he should be back in about…” Fiddleford trailed off, sparing a quick glance at a clock hanging on one of the walls. “Eh, give or take five minutes?”
“Right,” Stanley nodded gravely, untangling himself from the mess of blankets and attempting to stand up, much to Fiddleford’s concern. “Look, pal, do me a favour – tell Ford I, uh… ran off while you were nappin’, or something. You can spice the story up however you want.”
“What?”
“Full creative freedom,” Stanley added weakly, all energy directed towards not toppling over. His head spun, the sudden temperature shift sending a shiver down his spine. Stanford had already seen him at his lowest, but if Stanley acted quick enough, at least he himself wouldn’t remember any of it. A mix of shame and determination were the only things keeping him upright.
“Oh, and I’m gonna need those clothes back,” he said, adjusting the undershirt. “Can’t go paradin’ around like this.”
“’N where are you plannin’ on goin’, exactly?” Fiddleford asked flatly, hands hovering in Stanley’s general vicinity in case he was to lose his balance.
“None of yer business, is where.” He swatted the other’s hands away.
The implication that there was nowhere for Stanley to return to – while somewhat correct – was entirely unwelcome. A car had been his only semi-stable place of residence for several years, sure, but he’d learned to make do with it. Judgmental comments from complete strangers were the last thing he cared for or needed.
Fiddleford sighed and opened his mouth as if to speak, apparently not done with the conversation, when a key turning in the lock sounded somewhere from Stanley’s far right. Before he’d fully had the chance to understand what that entailed, the door was already being opened.
“It’s me,” a voice called out, slightly breathless, and Stanley fought the sudden urge to vomit. Some of that awkward teenage squeakiness was gone, but Stanley would recognise his brother anywhere. “Sorry it took so long, the pharmacy was out of gauze – can you believe it! – I had to walk all the way to another one. How is he? Anything changed?”
Stanley turned his head and watched, with no small amount of apprehension, as Stanford emerged from around the corner and hurriedly entered the room. Bag in hand and jacket only partially shrugged off, Stanford stopped mid-step as he took in the scene before him.
“Still talkin’ nonsense,” Fiddleford answered easily. Barely putting any strength into it, he bumped Stanley’s shoulder, making him sit back down on the bed with an indignant noise of protest. “’M off to make us a proper meal, gimme a shout if ya need help here.”
“Of course,” Stanford murmured, barely aware of what he’d responded to. Fiddleford left the room swiftly, door closing behind him with a soft click.
An awkward silence fell over the room. Stanley stared resolutely at the floor, though he could feel Stanford’s eyes bore into him. The state of undress he’d found himself in didn’t feel like such an obstacle anymore – he genuinely considered escaping from the apartment as he was. It would have meant losing his favourite jacket, but also not being gawked at like a circus animal by one of the few people whose opinion actually meant something.
Crossing the room without making much noise, Stanford sat down on Fiddleford’s vacated chair, the bag he’d been carrying placed gently on the floor and hands folded neatly in his lap. He opened and closed his mouth repeatedly in search of the right words. Stanford sighed, agitated, lightly shaking his head as if to rearrange the ideas rattling around in his skull.
“Hello, Stanley,” was what he’d eventually settled on, voice carefully neutral.
Stanley didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “Yeah, hey, Sixer.”
Stanford cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” he lied, tapping at his knee in an erratic rhythm. “You?”
“Oh,” he sounded like he hadn’t been prepared for the question to be thrown back at him. “I’m alright, thank you.”
“This your place?” Stanley glanced around in lieu of physically gesturing to the room at large.
“Mine and Fiddleford’s, to be exact, but yes. It’s our dormitory,” Stanford confirmed, smiling briefly before he seemed to realise something. Making the same sort of determined face he’d used to make when they were children, Stanford reached for the bag at his feet and began setting various medical supplies on the bed.
“What’s that for?”
“Don’t act dense,” he grumbled, crumpling the bag once everything had been taken out of it. “Mind explaining why we found you severely injured and half-frozen to the sidewalk in some shady alleyway?”
“Yeah, I do mind, actually,” Stanley deadpanned, looking straight at Stanford. He’d known that a polite exchange wouldn’t last long, but that was a quick escalation even by his standards. “You mind tellin’ me why I’m not still there?”
“Pardon?”
Stanley rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like you give a shit about me, Ford. You should’ve just left me there, I—"
“Do you hear yourself?” he exclaimed, the sudden change in volume making Stanley flinch. “I do not care about a single self-pitying comment of yours. Since I’m always the one who has to deal with the messes you’ve made, I thought that I – at the very least – deserved an honest answer. But I suppose not.”
There was a pause as what Stanford said settled, neither of them dared to move a muscle. Guilt and anger gnawed at something inside Stanley’s stomach, both in equal measure, and all he could do was sit there without a word. Maybe he’d misunderstood something – it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe Stanford had actually wanted Stanley to confide in him, just worded it badly. The thought hurt almost worse than assuming he’d been trying to ridicule Stanley.
Lips pressed into a thin line, Stanford reached for a bandage and a tube of antibiotic ointment. He gestured for Stanley to give him his hand, and he complied, moving in an almost mechanical fashion. Stanford began dressing his knuckles, doing so with a gentleness that did not match the deep furrow in his brows. Stanley’s eyes flickered anxiously between his hand and Stanford’s face, instinctually distrustful of touch. No hurt came, though, aside from the ointment stinging a bit.
Allowing for his other hand to be wrapped, Stanley noted the way in which Stanford’s eyes lingered on his forearms, the skin there marred with various scars. Shame crept up his spine as he realised how pathetic it must have made him look – a mixture of cuts, scrapes, and burns, none of which had the chance to heal correctly. For once, he hoped his brother would assume them to be the result of Stanley’s stupidity and carelessness. Anything was less humiliating than the truth.
“So, uh,” Stanley tried, not being able to take the silence any longer. “Your buddy kinda made it sound like I was awake before?”
Stanford stayed quiet for a beat, finishing his work on Stanley’s knuckles first. “Yes, you were in and out of consciousness. It was mostly just feverish rambling.”
That got a strained smile out of Stanley. “Said anythin’ funny?”
“Not really,” Stanford answered dryly, seemingly about to elaborate before thinking better of it. He picked up a piece of gauze and a roll of surgical tape, wordlessly moving closer.
Stanley backed away, taken off guard by the sudden movement. Stanford raised his hands in a placating manner, making a point to show the medical supplies there. Embarrassed, Stanley returned to his previous position, head turned so that the side which hurt the most faced Stanford.
Things went by both quickly and agonisingly slowly. The injuries on Stanley’s face were taken care of swiftly, his split lip – thankfully – being non-severe enough to not require stitches as far as Stanford could tell. Neither one of them spoke for the remainder of the bandaging process, only sounds being an occasional hiss of pain and a murmured apology. Stanford left the room promptly after treating the last of Stanley’s injuries.
Left to his own devices, Stanley wondered when the other shoe would drop. Stanford, although certainly not without a degree of animosity, had helped him out despite there being no benefits for doing so. In fact, Stanley thought guiltily as he spared a glance at the crushed bag lying on the floor, it had cost him. Picking at a scab on his leg, he considered simply leaving the apartment while no one was around to see – he would be doing Stanford a favour, really. Fully prepared to act on said plan, he realised there was one, rather significant, issue. His car keys were gone, nowhere to be found in the room and certainly not on his person. Stanley felt the urge to punch something, the bandages wrapped neatly around his knuckles the only thing that stopped him.
Stanford returned to the room about ten minutes later, Fiddleford in tow, carrying three bowls of pasta. Stanley ate his portion in little to no time, ignoring the fact that it would probably make him nauseous. A warm meal had been difficult to come by, especially a homecooked one.
The three of them ate in relative silence. Fiddleford made a few light-hearted comments in an attempt to ease the tension, though the responses he received were few and far between. Stanley almost felt bad for him.
Fiddleford left soon after the meal, taking a few essential items with him, as he’d apparently arranged to spend the night at someone else’s. Stanley was to stay at their apartment, and considering he’d taken up what was usually Stanford’s bed, there was place for only one other person. Fiddleford had said he didn’t want to disturb family matters, though Stanley suspected he just didn’t wish to hear him and Stanford argue.
For several hours, they did not speak a word. Stanley wrapped himself back up in the blankets as evening fell, trying to conserve heat, while Stanford stayed stubbornly at his desk. He appeared to be reading a book, though Stanley hadn’t seen him turn a page in quite some time.
Maybe it was the cosiness of all these layers piled on top of him, or perhaps the dim and yellow-ish glow of Stanford’s desk lamp, or even the bone-deep exhaustion that hadn’t left Stanley in as long as he could remember – he couldn’t say for certain. But something, a barrier of sorts, broke.
“Some asshole spiked my drink,” he said into the quiet room, with the same inflection of someone commenting on the weather.
Stanford stilled, eyes still glued to the pages before him.
“Didn’t even try to make it sneaky, I saw him do it. I swapped it with one of his buddies’ drinks,” Stanley smiled ruefully. “Guess that pissed him off.”
In the corner of his eye, Stanley noticed as Stanford turned slightly in his chair. He swallowed. “They took me out back to fight – had the courtesy not to start shit in the bar, at least, y’know, I can respect that – and I, uh…”
He hesitated. “I wanna say it’s because I was just drunk, or tired, or I dunno, bored, but,” biting his lip, Stanley thought back to the reason why he’d driven all the way there in the first place. “I kinda just… let ‘em beat me. I wanted ‘em to.”
“Stanley,” Stanford said, careful yet alarmed. “What are you saying?”
The sequence of events played on loop in Stanley’s head. He could almost see himself sitting in his car, plan ready and note written – not because he’d expected anyone to read it, but because there were some things he’d been too cowardly to say – only to cop out at the last second. In hindsight, he thought, it probably wasn’t that serious. Still, the emptiness he’d felt afterwards was like no other. He had to go, he didn’t quite know where, just away. Multiple hours of driving later, the lack of gas had forced him to stop, and all he could think of was getting some alcohol in his system. The bottles in the backseat called to him, but he’d actually wanted to be around people. He’d thought maybe company would make him feel more human again. But then things went from bad to worse, and instead he’d found himself thinking - why not let someone else finish the job?
He couldn’t say any of that, though. He didn’t know if he ever would. “I-I just… fuck, I just wanted everything to be over, Ford,” Stanley laughed wetly, wiping angrily at his face. “There, your honest answer.”
A weight settled on the edge of the mattress, and Stanley forced himself not to turn away from Stanford’s gaze. The air between them had become easier, somehow, despite the circumstances. After what felt like an eternity, Stanford made a decision and carefully lied down beside Stanley. He moved the blankets out of the way momentarily, climbing beneath them before wrapping them back around them both.
Without having to be told, Stanley hid his face in Stanford’s chest. His brother’s arms wrapped around him, and he hadn’t felt this safe in years. Some proud part of him wanted to recoil at the touch, pretend he didn’t need it. He was supposed to be Stanford’s protector, not the other way around – it was the only thing he’d ever been good at. When they were younger, he’d often find himself comforting Stanford in much the same way Stanford was doing just then. But things weren’t like when they were children anymore, he doubted they ever would be, and maybe that was okay. Maybe he was allowed to have this.
“I’m so sorry,” Stanford whispered, voice thick with emotion.
“It’s okay,” Stanley reassured, sniffling. “I’m sorry, too. For everythin’. I never got the chance to tell you.”
“What do you mean?” he pulled away slightly, looking Stanley in the eye.
“The project,” he clarified. “It really was an accident, but I shoulda told you. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be stayin’ at this dump.”
Stanford levelled Stanley with a look, though there was a faint smile on his face.
“I-I mean,” he backtracked. “It’s a nice place! Just not, y’know—”
“I know,” Stanford interrupted, pulling Stanley back into an embrace. He sighed. “I… am still upset about that, accident or not, but believe me when I say this – it is the last thing on my mind, at the moment.”
There was one more thing. “Also, I, uh, don’t have much on me right now, but I promise I’ll pay you back for—”
“Lee, do me a favour, please – shut up.”