Chapter Text
Bill had been surprisingly quiet on the subject of Stanley since Ford snapped at his attempts to explain how Ford should bring his baby brother back from the dead. Perhaps snapping like that was rude, and maybe there was a way to bring Lee back without a hecatomb. That does not change the fact that Ford does not think he could have done it any other way– the other half of his soul– his baby brother– who died as a freshly kicked out child. Bill had, up to this point, at least, been surprisingly quiet.
“You might want to check on little fishie.” No details, of course, because why the fuck would there be- irksome fucking triangle (who, despite being clearly upset Stanford wasn’t going with his resurrection plan, was still helpful) (who is, arguably, Stanford’s best non-twin friend at this point (given Fiddleford’s noble sacrifice)). Ford is busy. He decides to check on Stan soon.
Bill keeps bothering him, saying the same thing.
Ford goes to the room his baby brother is in, finally succumbing to the pressure Bill was putting on him, and the sight through the open door makes him barge in, something resembling rage crawling its way up his throat. His heart is trying to roll up his clothes, toss them into a bag, intent on leaving. Stan, his twin, is planning on trying to leave. “Lee.”
Stan turns, looks at Ford, distress scrawled all over his face, and, “What happened to ‘wherever we go, we go together’?” Whether he likes it or not, Ford’s precious baby brother isn’t going to leave him ever again, but, he thinks, it is probably better to be softer at first- partly because of the obvious distress on Stanley’s face. It is not an expression that belongs there. (Of course, he is going to have to figure out some way of tracking- that way if anything (or anyone) gives his poor twin any foolish ideas, it won’t be hard to collect him.)
“Pa was right. I ruin everything. I don’t want to ruin you too. That’s what happened.” Stanford Pines is, he thinks, with a sudden and almost horrific clarity, going to kill his father, given that he was clearly the source of this foolishness. Ah well. Not too great a loss.
“Oh, baby brother-“
“I’m not a baby!”
“Baby brother,” the exasperation and annoyance battle for presence in his tone- after all, Ford said Lee was his baby brother, not a baby- so not only was he interrupted, but it wasn’t even accurate. Vexing. “Filbrick was wrong about you. You weren’t holding me back.” He smiles, aiming for gentle. It is very clear that Ford’s heart was far more sensitive than he remembers him being- perhaps a side effect from being dead? “You’re my other half. You were keeping me together.” He feels his smile widen- looking at Lee’s face, it is clear that something is getting through to him. “You aren’t leaving. I don’t know what I would do if you left.” He thinks of all of the blood, all of the corpses, how he would do it again over and over- would do much, much worse now. His poor baby brother, who died alone and scared and homeless and abandoned- the one that was supposed to be fine- supposed to come home- That is never going to happen again. He would not be a very good big brother if he allowed that. “Why don’t you show me what else you’ve been doing, Lee? Instead of getting into things that might hurt you, sensitive as you are.” He will have to hide a great many books and notes, to prevent any potential repeats, but it will all be worth it in the end.
Stan stares at Ford for a moment, eyes wide, and then before Ford has to request again, his baby brother, his heart, the other half of his soul, pulls out what he was working on, before he decided to get up to mischief- a comic, going through and retelling The Modern Prometheus. Something to keep an eye on- that comic- that subject- so he can encourage the creativity and wonder that Lee should have, and so that he can discourage any darker thoughts. His poor twin has been through enough; Ford is never going to allow him to feel like that again.