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There were some conversations that Stanford Pines could’ve never expected.
When Stanley had miraculously begun to gather up the pieces of his mind, forming the broken parts into the memories that had been destroyed by his sacrifice, Stanford Pines had prepared himself for the worst. He’d been missing from his home dimension for thirty years; a lot could’ve happened in that time. Not to mention nearly fourteen years of separation between that cold day in March when Stan had been kicked out of the house, and the ticking time bomb that had been their brief reunion before Ford had become lost to his own creation.
Stanford Pines had mentally prepared himself for any possible thing that could’ve happened to Stan while he was gone. He had created a list in his head everything that could’ve possibly gone on. He’d used Fiddleford’s old laptop to research in-depth everything that could possibly happened to a teenager left to homelessness; who’d been forced to take their final steps of growing up absolutely and utterly alone. He’d read through all the horrifying possibilities, praying they hadn’t happened but knowing that if they did— well, if they did, at least Ford could be there for his brother. (You should’ve been there earlier, a voice in his head would tell him. Ford would silently agree but then brush the voice off. He couldn’t afford to become overwhelmed with self-pity. Not when Stanley was still recovering).
Ford hadn’t considered this possibility. Well, that was a lie; he had briefly acknowledged it as something that could occur, but then brushed off the notion. After all, casual observation told him that his brother was walking around with all four limbs attached. Surely an amputation wasn’t something you could hide, especially when you spent the majority of your life walking around in your underwear.
He really needed to learn to stop underestimating his twin.
“Hey, um, yer my brother, right?” Stan had asked Ford one morning, four days after Weirdmagedon ended.
“Yes, I am your brother,” Ford answered.
Stan breathed a massive sigh of relief at that. “Oh, thank god. I forgot what yer face looked like for a second. Was kinda worried ya were still gone, ya know?”
Ford had been sitting in the kitchen, eating celery with peanut butter for the first time in 30 years. (Everything in his home dimension was more flavorful than the food he’d been eating elsewhere. He briefly wondered if this was a noticed trend for all interdimensional travelers). Stan took the seat across from him.
“I’m not going anywhere, Stan. Not if I can help it,” Ford assured.
Stan just shrugged his brother off. “Yeah. Sure,” He said, disbelieving. But that wasn’t what he had come to his twin about. “Sixer, I gotta ask you something,”
Ford prepared himself…
“Do ya know how I lost my legs?”
… And was utterly blindsided.
An almost hysterical noise made its way out of Ford’s throat. “You what?” He asked.
Stan gave him a look. “My leg’s poindexter. The one’s I don’t have,”
“But they’re right here,” Ford said, bewildered, gesturing to Stan’s two perfectly intact legs.
It was Stan’s turn to look blindsided. “Did… didn’t I tell you about them?” He asked.
Ford blinked, unable to say anything.
Stan gave his brother a peculiar look, then reached the seam of the skin-resembled cover he used to hide his prosthetics.
Ford could admit that he wasn’t the most observant person in the world. As a little kid, he used to walk into walls and poles and trip on the sidewalk, so wrapped up in his own head that he almost forgot the world around him even existed. Stan may have been the more clumsy one of the two of them, but at least he knew what was right in front of him.
While Ford’s observation skills had grown and matured as he got older, they seemed to have been all poured into science. He could notice an anomaly hidden in a bush and be able to tell the difference between two chemicals based on how they bubbled. And then, his time in the portal had sharpened his instincts. He would hear every noise; notice any presence. Nothing could hide from Ford and his sharp-as-tack senses.
Still, it seemed that even after all this time, he was still horrendous when it came to observing people. So horrendous, in fact, that he hadn’t been able to see the indent where the covering met Stan’s natural skin, or notice how the tops of his legs were covered in hair and jagged scars that all abruptly stopped at a certain point.
He had to admit, as Stan dragged the cover down, that the prosthetics were expertly hidden. The two long socks Stan had pulled over the contraptions were modeled to look exactly like skin, so well that the only tell between the fake skin and the real legs was the subtle shiver of the uncanny valley. Stan had expertly covered up the seam with the kind of special effects makeup used by theaters to make fake wounds, and blended the silicone coverings with the skin using body paint. His brother’s skills with makeup were nothing to scoff at.
All that effort to cover up this massive part of himself.
Ford was saddened by the thought.
The prosthetics themselves were well-built. Slim-fitting and light, padded sockets fit snugly over the stumps. Ford could see the very tips of red amputation scars. He didn’t want to know what the rest looked like.
The prosthetic knee was built from a ball joint and was covered in wires. A small cage made from flexible mesh netting surrounded the knee, giving it shape and protection. Wires traveled down into casing and out into the second ball joint that made the ankle, before sliding into the metallic form of a robotic foot. If Ford didn’t know any better, he’d say the prosthetics had been engineered by Fiddleford McGucket himself.
The fake-skin covers sat discarded on the kitchen floor. Stan took a look at his brother’s shocked face, confused. “Why do ya look like this is yer first time seein’ em?”
“When did this happen?” Ford asked, devastated. He would hate himself if Stan lost his legs while Ford was in the portal. Imagining that; imagining something so traumatic happening to his brother, something Ford could’ve comforted Stan through once he came home if he hadn’t been so selfish and self-righteous! And had he really hurt Stan so severely that his brother felt he couldn’t tell him about this tragedy? (And Ford had seriously been about to kick out an elderly amputee from his home of 30 years? His brother wouldn’t have survived; he nearly gave him a death sentence for saving him!)
“T-that’s what I was hoping you could tell me,” Stan replied.
The other possibility was that Stan had lost his legs before Ford had summoned him to take the journal, and his heart almost stopped at the thought. If Stan lost them while Ford was inside the portal, there would’ve been nothing he could’ve done to help anyways. But if his twin had lost his legs while he was on earth; while he could’ve done something to save his brother but didn’t...
Ford would never forgive himself.
“I… I didn’t know about this,” Ford finally said, and Stan’s face fell in one agonizing instant.
Ford grabbed his brother’s hand and gave it a squeeze. It was all he could do.
“Why wouldn’t I tell ya ’bout these?” Stan asked, voice quiet, looking at Ford as if he held all the answers, and Ford absolutely hated the amount of faith in him that Stanley had been forced to have. A mere week ago he’d made Stan feel like he couldn’t trust Ford with his legs; how could Ford call himself someone worthy of Stan’s faith now!?
“I don’t—“but that was a lie. Ford did know.
It was because he was a horrible person.
“Why did you cover them up?” Ford asked instead, genuinely curious and hoping to distract his brother from the issue. It was selfish, but he wanted to hold on. When Stan remembered everything; when he remembered why Ford disappeared, when he remembered getting kicked out of his home at 16, when he remembered how Ford greeted him with cruelty rather than love after thirty years of separation, and now, when he remembered why he never told Ford about his legs… well; Ford would probably lose his brother forever.
“Oh, that I know,” Stan said, snapping his fingers to help him remember. “Uhh, I’m gonna need you to walk me through a few things,” He said.
Ford gently reached over to grab Stan’s other hand, guiding it to the center of the table to look Stan in the eye. “Ok. What is it you need?”
Stan scrunched up his face in concentration. “I-uh I remember… I– I couldn’t be me for some reason, so I was telling everyone I was you,”
Ford nodded. “I went missing for a long time. You had to pretend to be me in order to get me back,”
“Yeah, I remember that. I- I um,” Ford patiently waited for Stan’s thoughts to gather. “I was— something happened. I needed yer house to get you back, but there was these peoples… they woulda taken me away from the house if they knew I was me, so– so I–, I didn’t have a choice; I had to be you, or I woulda lost ya forever,” Stan’s voice began to strain, and Ford could hear the hurt in his brother’s words. Losing Ford hadn’t been an option for Stan, so his brother had done what he could.
“I–, um, I couldn’t let no one know I wasn’t you. If anyone found out about it, they woulda taken me from the house, and if I lost the house, I wouldn’t get you back, and—!”
Ford squeezed his brother’s hand again to distract him from spiraling. “Stanley,” he spoke gently.
“No, no, I’m ok,” Stan insisted. “You’re right here, so I’m ok,”
Ford’s heart ached at his brother’s words.
“I remember why I hid my legs. I couldn’t get caught pretending to be you, so I couldn’t leave a paper trail. Heh. It’s been a while since I’ve been to the doctors,”
“Lee…”
“Stanford Pines never lost his legs. It wasn’t on his record, so I couldn’t let it be on mine,” Stan spoke, and Ford felt himself die inside.
“You lost them before I went missing,”
“Yeah. And you don’t know how or why,” It wasn’t a question, just an observation.
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry,” Ford answered anyways.
“I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t you know? Why wouldn’t I tell you? Yer my brother. You—, you of all people should’ve known,”
“I know. I should’ve,” Ford felt crushed.
His brother was an amputee. His brother was an amputee, and Ford didn’t know.
He thought back to their muddled reunion 30 years ago. He had fought his brother; physically tackled him. His twin was missing his legs, and Ford had been trying to beat him up over a goddamn book he hadn’t planned on ever seeing again anyways!
Stanley hadn’t been looking good. He couldn’t always remember all that went happened that day, but he knew Stan had looked sickly, and Ford hadn’t spared his brother’s condition a thought. Stan couldn’t have had access to good prosthetics at that time. His brother had been homeless and alone and IN DANGER, and LEGLESS, and Ford had been so ready to just send him away and never see him again. Selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish—!
“Sixer, hey,” Stan spoke out to him. “You got that look on your face again,”
Ford just nodded, feeling utterly defeated and drained.
Stan looked torn, guilty even. “Sorry I didn’t tell ya about them. Don’t know why I woulda done that. Don’t make sense,”
Ford shivered. He… he didn’t want to talk about those missing years. Not yet.
Moses, he was a coward.
“How long has it been since you’ve taken the prosthetics off?” Ford asked.
Stan took a second to think. “Not sure. Geez, musta been a while; the stumps probably smell like shit,”
“May I—“
“Yeah,”
Ford moved immediately, kneeling by his brother’s legs and carefully slipping his six fingers into the sockets, feeling around the tube until he figured out how to loosen the plastic enough to slip the legs off.
Stan was right. His stumps did smell terrible.
“Who— who the hell did this stitching?!” Ford gasped out, disgusted. The job was terrible; whoever had sewn up the stumps was unprofessional at best. The scaring was jagged and awful and sick; done so without the slightest regard to the patient. They looked painful. Red, and angry and painful, and someone had done this to his twin; his baby brother!
The best-case scenario Ford could think of for the stumps to look so bad was that either a friend who had no medical experience, or Stan himself, had been forced to sew up the stumps the best they could in an attempt to stop him from bleeding out before they got to the hospital. (Ford had been there. He had to sew up his own stump that time his arm had gotten torn off. The doctors had been both impressed in his ingenuity and determination to survive, and disappointed in him for getting into the situation in the first place. Not to mention his stitching job made regrowing the arm something of a pain in the ass for the doctors).
“Same people who took ’em off. Next question,” Stan droned out the response as if rehearsed; instinctual. Like he'd said the same thing before to a lot more people than just Ford.
Ford paled at the response. Worst case scenario it was.
“Somebody took them?” He gasped out.
Stan’s eyes widened, realizing what he just said, a memory within his grasp. He suddenly gasped, his head panging so hard he almost doubled over, and Ford was right by his side, holding him by the shoulders; steady and firm.
Images flashed through Stan's head. A face; a face he’d come to loath and learned to fear above all else. Hands. There were hands everywhere, and they were all touching him; touching his body, abusing it, and he remembered struggling and fighting and screaming as something was put over his mouth and nose, and everything had become numb and awful, and he had felt a sharp and incredible pain, but he couldn’t even move and—
“Damn it!” Stan spat out, frustrated. “Fucking lost– lost the memory. For fucks sake—“he looked distressed and frustrated and angry with himself, and Ford could only try to offer comfort; couldn’t help Stan re-grasp the memory.
“Stan, it’s alright,” Ford assured.
“No it ain’t!” Stan spat back. “This— that memory was important an’ I fucking lost it, like some dumb toddler leavin’ a stuffed animal at the airport,” Stan released a groan of frustration. “I almost had it too. I had images. I had the memory, an’ now it’s just gone!”
Ford just nodded, rubbing Stan’s shoulders in comfort.
He moved the unoccupied chair around so that it was smushed right next to Stan’s; no table in the way. Ford sat down, then tugged his brother close so that Stan’s head was leaning on Ford’s shoulder.
Ford looked over at the stumps. Stan's legs had been amputated— taken — just right above the knee. The look of two cut-off ends just resting on the chair was a sight that made Ford’s stomach churn. So this had been Stan’s life for over thirty years. His legs growing out of his body like they should but then just abruptly ending; no knee, no foot, no ankle. Something was supposed to be there, but there wasn’t. It was just gone.
“Your name is Stanford, right?” His brother asked.
“Yes,”
“It’s stupid, but I keep forgetting everyone’s names,” Stan vented. “I remember who they are to me, which I guess is the important part, but the names don’t like ta stick around. Which makes people think I forgot ’em. An’ I don’t like that,”
“It’ll get better soon,” Ford assured; probably the hundredth time he said that.
“I know. It’s just frustrating. Nothin’ feels real right now, ya know?”
Ford nodded. He knew the feeling.
“My name is Stanley Pines,” Stan spoke. “I gotta make sure ta remember my name. If I don’t remember it, things stop feelin’ like they’re actually happening, an’ then I start doin’ that ‘disassociation’ thing Soos an’ Wendy keep sayin' I do,” Stan paused. “Heh, I remembered their names for once,”
“Are you alright?” Ford asked.
“‘M fine. Jus’ a bit sad. I dunno,” Hid brother let out a long sigh. “I’m a bit mad at myself. For hiding my legs from ya. I don’ remember why I did it, but I can’t see a good reason for shit like that,”
Ford shivered.
“Stanley Pines,” Stan hummed to himself. “My name is Stanley Pines. My brother is Stanford Pines. Moses, our names are so dumb,”
Ford laughed. “Well, that one’s kinda on you,”
“I was like, ten! Who let a ten-year-old decide what their new name should be?” Stan complained.
Ford smiled at his brother’s antics, feeling just a bit lighter. Stan seemed to have that effect on him. “You know, we later found out that if you had been born a boy, Pa was going to name you Stanley,”
“Wait. No fucking way,” Stan laughed.
“Yep! You found this out after choosing your name. Said it was proof of destiny or something,”
“Sweet sasparilla, our family was so dumb,” Stan giggled.
A comfortable silence hung over the two. Stan twisted around so that he was lying with his head in his brother’s lap, nuzzling into the surprisingly soft fabric of Ford’s pants (He wondered if Ford had used some kind of sci-fi laundry detergent).
“I’m sorry I never told you about my legs,”
Ford shook his head. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. You would’ve come to me if you thought you could trust me. And I did nothing to make you feel like you could,”
Stan laughed. “Now yer just being harsh on yourself. There’s nothing ya can do that’ll make me stop trustin’ you. Yer my twin!”
Ford almost let out a low whine, saddened.
“Hey, don’t make that face,” Stan demanded, poking Ford on the nose. “Only sad sacks make that face, an’ I love ya too much ta let you be a sad sack,”
Ford smiled. His brother always did have a knack for making him smile.
Stan had grown up thinking he wasn’t good at anything. And while that wasn’t true in the slightest, the thing he was undeniably best at was being Ford’s brother.
“Stanley, there’s something I need to show you; something that will probably help unlock some of your more… impactful memories,”
“Really!?” Stan chimed, excited.
Ford swallowed roughly. He hated the look of happy anticipation on his brother’s face, knowing said memories would bring his brother nothing but agony.
“Yes, but… I’d rather wait until the kids leave to show you,” Ford said. “The memories will be harsh and… I don’t know think it would be a good thing for the kids to see that,”
Stan just shrugged and nodded. “Okie Dokie,” he said casually.
“Okie Dokie?” Ford parroted back, unsure how Stan could just casually shrug off the idea of having to wait. Stan had never really liked waiting for anything as a child.
“Yeah, I trust your judgment,”
Everything Ford hadn’t told his twin flashed through his mind. Everything would be revealed when the kids left. This little bubble of peace he’d finally been able to share with Stanley after so, so long, would eventually come undone.
“You really shouldn’t,”
Stan snorted. “It’s cute that ya think ya can decide that, nerd,” Stan patted his brother’s cheek, looking smug.
Ford rolled his eyes but tugged his brother closer. “Never change, Stanley,” Ford told his brother gently. “Never change,”