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His guns called to him, reminding him of how it would be so easy. He’d tried to get rid of them on multiple occasions, but could never find the heart to. The closest he’d ever come to throwing them out was when Mabel had found out about his fear of heights. It would be so easy to just. Jump. He didn’t want to end it like that, there was far too much time for regret. So, he kept them. He told her that they were for defense, and he wasn’t quite lying. They protected him from heights, and the rare intruder. He’d come so, so close to getting rid of them after telling her that, though.
Right now, they sat in their safe, tempting him. The kids were back at home, so they wouldn’t find him. He felt guilty about letting his brother pick up his mess. Again. But this way, he couldn’t make any more messes. Any more mistakes. His fingers itched, and he wanted so badly to go downstairs to the gun safe. For some reason, he just sat there. No matter how much he wanted a gun in his hand and the silence after, he couldn’t move. Finally, finally, he moved. His hand reached up, and grabbed his phone. No longer making sense of his own actions, he saw himself dialing a number.
Dr. Medicine’s phone number. Oh. After some time of therapy, he’d become more accustomed to calling her whenever something had happened. His finger hovered over the call button, and he looked over at the clock. Midnight. She was probably asleep and wouldn’t want to wake up for some sad old man. She probably wouldn’t care if just one of her patients died. His finger wavered. She was probably at her own home, in her own life, and didn’t need to hear about his. But she sounded so concerned and sympathetic last time he called. So… caring. It hadn’t even been that bad, but she listened. She made sure he was okay.
He didn’t know if he could bring himself to hit the button, or put it down. Luckily, he never got to make that choice, as an odd sound carried throughout the shack. Poof! Stan immediately stood up, and dashed out the door, ready to protect the shack and his brother. Who… could probably take care of himself, if Stan was being honest. However, he wasn’t going to take any chances. It had come from the kitchen, so Stan was especially worried. It could range from sugar-high racoons to a sleep-deprived Gideon to just Ford. Stan was more worried about Ford being in the kitchen than anything else. First, the fridge shot him, and then on another occasion, the kitchen nearly caught fire!
So when he stepped into the kitchen he was a bit… nervous. So it wasn’t exactly reassuring to be greeted by the sight of a ghost. Alright. Fine. At least there’s salt in the kitchen. Then, suddenly, the ‘ghost’ coughed, and flour scattered everywhere. Ah. How? He now realized he was looking at his hopelessly confused brother, who was absolutely covered in the powder.
“Wait… is that the good flour?” Was the only thing he could say in the sight of this absolute mess.
A cracked egg lay abandoned on the floor, sticking to the flour and spilled sugar. The fridge door was hanging precariously off its hinges, done in by a force that Stan would rather not think about. Many shelves had been opened, and for reasons Stan could not even begin to identify, a spatula was through one of the cupboard doors. A slab of cheese was in a boiling pot of water. And worst of all was his brother, who looked as if he’d just came out of a literal baking tornado. Half of his hair was dry, and very powdery while the other half was drenched in what Stan thought to be oil. He had no apron on, so he had no chance against the onslaught of flour. Most alarmingly, a knife hung in his coat, piercing the fabric, and completely forgotten about.
“There- there are different types of flour?” Ford said cautiously, brushing away part of the flour.
Oh boy.
“Ford, is that- is that meat? What were you trying to make!?” Stan would ask about the cheese, but frankly, he was too scared to ask.
“Yes, and I’m making cookies! Protein is good for you!” Ford exclaimed, sounding way too chipper for someone who’d just single handedly destroyed an entire kitchen in a single night.
“What? No… no. Did you even use a recipe?”
“A recipe?”
“It’s a- it’s a formula. For food.”
“Fascinating. How do you get them?”
“How- how did you survive in the other dimension? Did they not have recipes there?”
“Nope, no recipes. And I just ate whatever people gave me!”
“No seriously, how did you survive? You just ate whatever was offered? That’s bad. Literally, the number one rule is to not accept food from strangers.”
“Well I lived.”
Is this what it’s like to take care of a toddler? He suddenly felt a surge of respect for his mother. She had to care for two toddlers. At the same time. He should call her and apologize tomorrow. Maybe bring her flowers.
“...Ford, please never accept food from a stranger again. People you know are usually okay, unless it’s Mabel Juice or anything offered to you by Bill. Sometimes, -even if you know them- it’s just better to deny food.”
“But-”
“No ‘buts’. Unless you were going to say something about Halloween, in which case it’s always accepted. Free candy.”
Ford pouted at Stan before looking at the mess he created, “Whoa, didn’t realize it had gotten this bad.”
Stan sighed and picked up a broom, handing it to his brother as he grabbed a rag. After the kitchen was mostly clean -and the spatula was removed from the poor cupboard drawer- Stan decided that it was a great time to teach Ford how to cook. Neither of them asked why the other was up so late, they just made batches and batches of burnt, salty, or rock-hard cookies. Sometimes all three at once. A couple batches made it through safely, which pleased the two to no end. In the end, the kitchen got far messier than it had been before Stan had came in.
Another spatula made its way through a cupboard door, in a process that Stan would rather never think about again. Ever. In the morning, they cleaned up, and whenever they met the others eyes, they would burst out in fits of laughter. The gun safe suspiciously lost a single gun, and Stan never reacted to it. Instead, he called Dr. Medicine, and told her everything that had happened. She told him that she was glad that he’d called her, and that she was proud of him. Ford was still not allowed to cook without supervision. And someday, Stan knew it was going to be okay. He was just relieved he didn’t have to go through it alone.