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You count your breaths as your fingers drum on the dashboard of your pickup truck.
Stanford Pines is a dangerous man. You knew that the second he pulled you inside and stammered paranoid nonsense moments after you’d met.
But now two weeks later, after a visit from some kind of dream triangle monster with the name of an accountant, you are well aware that it’s not paranoid nonsense, it’s paranoid sense.
One, two. Deep breaths. He’s someone who needs help.
Three, four. He’s put trust in you, and it’s very likely he hasn’t done so with anyone else.
Five, six. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if he ends up a suicide case in the Gossiper and you could have prevented it.
Seven, eight. Your seatbelt unclicking sounds like your father’s shotgun going off in the near-silence of the abandoned road Stanford lives down.
Nine, ten. Your gloved fingers linger on the door handle but in one smooth motion you press down and push out.
Your boots crunch in the snow, and you grunt, hauling an old space heater with you. If Bill didn’t get him, hypothermia was going to, and that at least was a relatively easy thing to fix. It had been in the basement, and was a bit rusty, so neither of your parents had minded you taking it.
Upon reaching the porch, you set it down with a ‘thump’ and knock on the door twice. “Hello!”
“Who is- oh. Password?”
“Scampfire ashes, I think it was?”
“Come in.” Stanford fiddles with the lock for a minute before pulling the door open, and you head for the living room. He’s cleared a tiny space on the loveseat he’d admitted to only purchasing because it was on sale, and you settle down on the left side of it, scooting away the heater with your foot and clicking it on.
“You’re freezing your butt off out here, so I thought I’d bring this. It’s battery powered so it’ll be fine for a while.”
Stanford stares at you for a moment, before sitting on the giant’s thumb and burying his face in his hands.
“Woah, are you- is there something wrong?” A beat. “More than usual, anyways.”
“I don’t understand.” His voice is strained, in the way you recognize someone is about to start crying but is doing their best to avoid it. “You’ve been nothing but kind when I’m such a disaster. Why? You said you knew how it felt. Is it pity? I don’t need-”
“I want to help. That’s all. Stanford, you’re going half out of your mind trying to fix whatever mistake you made. You’re kind of a mess, but that’s not a disaster to me.” You smile, but it’s weak. “You said I could help you with your research?”
“I… yes, I did, give me a moment.” He makes his way around the clutter, over to a pile of boxes that were haphazardly jammed full of decrepit scrolls and books that were yellower than a rotted body. The cover falls off of one as he picks it up, and he heaves a sigh. He grunts, grabbing a few and setting them down on the arm of the chair. You begin to flip through them, and wince at how faded the writing is.
Nonetheless, you said you’d help, so that’s what you’ll damn well do. “What am I looking for?”
“Information on the Eye of Providence, or other symbols related to it. Possible weaknesses would be fantastic, but anything would be good at this point.” He’s already surrounded himself with scrolls, and within moments he’s reciting something that sounds like Latin to himself.
The clock ticks as the minutes slip by, and you slide off your coat. The space heater makes the house, while still pretty creepy, much more hospitable, and while you don’t see much about any Eye you do learn that there was a lot of study about how much language cavemen knew. When the clock strikes two, you speak up.
“The triangle guy, Bill, showed up in my dream last night.”
His gaze shoots up, and his eyes are indeed red, but he nearly falls on his face as he slips off the thumb while trying to grab you. He ends up on one knee, hands gripping the sides of your arms and head bent. “I knew it, I knew letting you stay around was a bad-”
“I said no.”
Eyes the color of damp sand snap up to meet yours. “…What?”
“I can see how he could be appealing, but because of your warning, I told him I didn’t want what he was offering. Because I met you, I knew to say no.” He stands up, still holding your sleeves. From how tight his fingers are curled, it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“But- but if you hadn’t met me, he would have never approached you-”
“You don’t know that. I’m a smart lady, maybe he would have looked for something else.” You pull in a deep breath, a chill icing your lungs. “I know you feel like everything you do will just make things worse, and I know how hard it must have been to let me come here.” Your fingers rest on the rubber band around your wrist you’d snapped until your skin was raw more times than you can count. “You’re a brave man, Stanford Pines.”
He swallows before sitting down next to you. His cheeks are flushed slightly from the heater, and you can’t help but notice the freckles again, even on his sunken cheeks.
“I made a massive mistake. Bill… he offered me the chance to change the world.” His hands are settled on his lap now, wringing against his pants. You can see the veins.
“You still can, but you can do it on your own terms.” Your left hand moves to rest on top of both of his. “The world can seem like hell, but you’re trying to fix your mess-up. Bill seemed like a pretty charming guy, you can’t blame yourself for believing him. You wanted to make things better for everyone, right? That’s not a bad thing. As long as you’re still here, you’ve got a chance.”
Your hips are already touching his, but you turn in order to wrap your arms around his shoulders. He stops moving for a moment, before turning and hugging you tighter than you’ve ever been hugged in your life. His chin rests on your shoulder, and yours on his. You can feel his warm breath on your neck, and you close your eyes.
“You’re not a bad person. You can get through this.” You’re barely speaking above a whisper now, and a shudder makes you shiver as he holds back a sob.
“I don’t deserve this.” He mumbles, and your fingers tighten around the fabric of his trench coat.
“No one deserves what’s happening to you.” You tug him closer, before taking a deep breath. “It might sound sappy, but I think we were meant to meet.”
“What do you mean?”
With great reluctance, you pull away, grabbing both his hands and squeezing them. “I had bad depression. I never saw any point in living, from my late teens to last year. Everything seemed like a dull gray mess.”
His head tilts ever so slightly, and his glasses move with it, an inch askew. He didn’t fix them.
“Then, my mother forced me to see a counselor. I got help, and I learned just how important support is. Sometimes you have to kick yourself in the ass to get up in the morning, and sometimes you have to find someone willing to kick it for you.”
Your hand lets go of his to adjust the glasses using the hinges. “I always wondered if she noticed before I offed myself for a reason- if there was something I was supposed to do.”
His eyes were wide, and you pull him into another hug. He doesn’t resist, and all you can hear is the thump of his heartbeat. It’s faster than yours.
“I need to stop him. I let him trick me because I was blind.” His voice still shakes. “If it kills me, then fine. It’s my fault.”
You angle yourself so the two of you are pressed together as much as possible, sharing your warmth, because he’s so, so cold. “You’re not alone anymore. Maybe you messed up, but there’s nowhere to go but up, right? Things will work out, Stanford. Can’t kill a demon if you’re in the grave yourself.”
He takes a breath you can feel against your chest. “Call me Ford.”
He clung to you, and you clung to him, for longer than you cared to keep track of. The tick of time passing was muted under the buzzing in your head and the soft breaths next to your ear. At some point, you thought you heard a 'thank you’, but it could have been your imagination.
He smelled of sweat and dust and coffee and fear, but in that moment, somehow you knew that things were going to be okay.