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Ford’s cold. He’s cold a lot, now, no matter how many layers he puts on or how close to fire he gets. (He gets close enough to burn of his beard once.) He thinks it might have to do with the way his hands are slowly turning blue and then gray; the way his vision is smearing to the left and down.
The way the bite from the terrestrial creature like a furred horseshoe crab is swelling and weeping and so, so cold. The puncture is leaking warmth like helium from a balloon. (He wonders if he is dying.)
He presses against the hard walls of the cave he’s sheltering in. The winds are whipping a pound of flesh from the clouds; ice falling vicious and red around him. Ford curl harder around himself, around his last hot pack. It is as dead as Ford’s fingers and he only holds it for the fading body heat.
He’s so cold.
He’s so cold.
“Ford?”
Ah, Ford thinks, this is the part where his body shuts down; tries to give him one last warm memory to distract him from the pain fading from his fingers as his blood can no longer warm it; the ice crystal forming in his lungs (they must be, it hurts so much to breathe).
“Stan.” He can’t say as his head gets swathed in some thickness that makes it impossible to move. He can’t open his eyes, the cold would freeze them in seconds. He knows Stan isn’t here; knows he’s alone but he wants. God, he misses his brother.
“Hey,” Ford hasn’t heard his brother’s voice in years. “Ford, what’s happening?” Some devine fire graces his forehead. He whimpers.
“You’re so warm,” He feels his lips move and crack and he didn’t know he could still feel pain.
“Shit, you’re burning.” No, warm is a good thing. “Okay, come on, big guy.” Ford near keens when he’s lifted from the ground. He’s breaking, every joint is being broken as he’s–he’s crying. (Impossible, he is too dehydrated to even salivate he must be hallucinating. Perhaps this apparition is taking him to his death? Ford wonders if the god of his mother can even reach him here.)
“Okay, here just,” Ford is set on something soft, softer than ice and rock. “I gotta grab somethin’, okay? Just sit tight.”
“No!” Ford’s hand twitches pathetically.
“I’ll be quick, I promise.” Ford whines but he’s alone and cold again. He doesn’t want to die alone.
Ford sighs when he is picked up even though he is being moved. He cries in distress when his clothes are being stripped away.
“Yeah, this part sucks,” Ford tries to struggle but he can’t and he knows he’s done bad things (he’s trying to fix it he’s so close) but he can’t deserve this. “Come on, don’t fight me, okay?” Stan is peeling away his skin (Lindworm, Ford thinks, but every skin he sheds reveals more and more of his fragility until he is a blind, quivering wretch).
He hears a sound like rain.
If he could breathe he would scream when he is forcefully guided under a what must be a thousand needles.
“Ford, come on, don’t--” Ford’s body spasms and twitches but it can’t escape. “Okay, hold on, just--” Ford falls, realization crushing him to the ground.
Ah, he realizes. He is dead. He has been damned (so many sins but he was trying, damn it, he was going to fix it) to the center of the Earth, (He wonders if that means he made it home.) the ninth level of Hell ( and he had been to a kind of Hell before but it was never so cruel). Here, in the frozen bowels of Hell reside the worst of the damned: brother killers and treacherous friends (like Cain, like Judas). The betrayers (like Ford).
Ford would laugh if his wasn’t keening. Of course his guide to Hell would be Stan: cast out as a child, burned as a man.
Ford curls like a dying insect as he wails for everything: for his life, for his soul, for his brother.
“Swear, Ford, if I get sick--”
Suddenly he is being hugged--he thinks he is being hugged but he must be wrong. A body between soft and strong is pressing against him and some of the stinging cold is broken up. He can barely move but he tries to press into the body, hide in the warmth it provides.
“Easy,” Stan rumbles by his ear.
“N-n--” Ford tries to push against Stan, to push him out of the torment of Hell. The pain is bearable to Ford if only because he has earned it; it is a different torture to have Stan suffering beside him.
“Y-yeah,” Stan stutters and Ford can feel the soft, strong body shiver. “F-fuckin’ cold.” Ford can’t push Stan away; can’t save him (or the world or himself, even) so he collapses on his brother instead. “Oof, geez.” Stan’s arm comes up and over him. Pulling him closer. “I gotcha.”
“I’m s-sorry.” Ford croaks, feels numb and tired, so tired. Stan’s hands feel along his body and face. “Sorry.”
“Yup, we’re done,” Stan clears his throat. “Come on.” The rain stops, somehow, and Stan lifts him up. “God, you’re heavy,” Stan grunts. It can’t be that easy, surely. Has it been an eternity already? Ford is dried gently and guided into what must be a bed.
“I’m sorry,” Ford says again; he has no other words. Perhaps if he repents he will be able to see his brother again. Perhaps he could go back home.
“Get some rest, Pointdexter,” Stan says after a heavy sigh, lets that warmth, his hand, brush at Ford’s wet hair before smothering Ford in, yes, blankets.
“Please,” Ford can’t move his arms, can’t move anything. “Stan.” His eyelids fall shut and he forces them open. They are spring loaded and it gets harder and harder to stake awake. Another sigh, almost fond.
“Alright, Sixer,” Ford feels a rush of cold, cruel wind before Stan joins him, gloriously warm. Ford wiggles a bit to get closer and gains about a centimeter before Stan huffs and curls around him. “I gotcha.” Ford’s already asleep.