Chapter Text
Dreams were never something Stanford Pines enjoyed. When he was young, he would tell his mother about what he dreamt the night before and she would give him a long winded lesson on what it all meant. Each answer was different, but similarly mundane; he was going to win money, he was going to get a date, he was going to hurt himself later in the day. After a quick experiment of telling the same dream twice and getting different responses, he realized that- just like her psychic phone business- her words were just empty nonsense. So too were his dreams; they meant nothing, they weren’t special messages, and he just had to deal with that.
But things changed when he got older. He started finding and understanding the unexplained, finally feeling at home with his polydactyly, but like that cat in the old saying, Ford’s curiosity brought more problems than solutions. Suddenly dreams no longer meant nothing, but were recurring, convincing conversations. They were clues into the unknown mysterious dimension, and sometimes he dealt with a specific yellow triangle. A demon, invading his privacy and costing him… well, everything, in the end.
And then he spent years running from horrors best not mentioned, barely sleeping more than a few hours at a time, always waking up before something grotesque found him, monsters stating how they would like to crush his bones into powder, sell his hands for black market value, mutilate his organs, rape his flesh…
“Grunkle Ford, aren’t you listening? I’m telling you my dream from last night!”
His pulse races as a small hand pushes against his arm. He jumps and looks down, fearing the worst – but no, it’s just his great niece, Mabel, grinning at him with her mouth full of metal. As he takes a deep breath to settle his nerves he tries to remember their last bit of conversation. Though his mind had been… wandering as of late, he didn’t think he would be so bad as to dissociate while talking to the kids, of all people. He composes himself, playing along to the girl’s whims.
“Sorry Mabel, please continue.” They were relaxing in the kitchen of the Mystery Shack - his house, repurposed over 30 years into a tourist trap. He’d only been topside a few days since Stanley recklessly pulled him out of the portal, and everything about the house itches at him. His twin brother had taken terrible care of the house in his absence, and it made his skin crawl to see the peeling wallpaper, the broken faucets, the leaking roof, the random animal taxidermy strewn about the place where they were supposed to eat food. He squints at the dirty glass of the window as if it personally offended him and sips his cup of coffee while listening to the rest of Mabel’s dream.
“-and it was so AMAZING because you and Grunkle Stan beat up the giant ice cream puppies and it was RAINING ICE CREAM and there were waffle cones everywhere. I saved the dream boy and we all rode off into the sunset on Waddles. THE END.”
Ford raised an eyebrow and threw her a cheeky grin. “Just how much of your Mabel juice did you have last night before bed again?” The girl really was weird, but he absolutely loved it. Talking to her was an adventure in and of itself.
“Just three glasses! Plus I had some glitter pizza AND IT WAS AMA-AAA-ZING!” She downed her Pitt Cola dramatically and wiped her mouth.
“Well that definitely WILL give you some dramatic dreams, won’t it. Good thing they don’t mean much outside of synapses firing in our brains at night, causing visions and false realities.” He sipped his coffee again but almost choked on it when Mabel slammed her fist onto the table, rattling the salt and pepper shakers. He peeked over at her as she glared at him. He ran over the conversation in his brain - had he offended her? He didn’t really get the kids yet and-
“Grunkle Ford! How could you say that? You know as well as I do that dreams can be real! I mean, you dealt with that weird triangle dream demon, right?”
Ford felt a lump form in his throat and set his coffee down gently. He tried for a deep breath, but it came out more ragged than he would like. He did his best to steady himself, to focus on the 12-year-old girl, but the world swam. He could see her saying something, but the voice in his ears wasn’t hers.
“You think you’re so clever? You can’t hide from me forever…”
He was brought back to reality with a quick, firm swap to his shoulder. He jumped and turned, seeing his brother standing there with a rolled up magazine.
“Mabel! Been looking everywhere for ya. Your pig decided to run off with my slippers again. Be a dear and fetch them for me. He always seems to rip them when I try to take them.”
“You bet, Grunkle Stan!” she replied cheerily. She hopped from her seat and waved goodbye to Ford. “See you at dinner, Grunkle Ford!”
Ford didn’t realize just how tense he had gotten until he let out a breath and slumped forward in his chair after Mabel had exited, looking for her wayward pig. His hands were gripping the cup in front of him far too tightly, his 12 fingers holding onto it as if it was his only lifeline. Without looking at his twin, he simply said. “I appreciate the interruption. I don’t think Mabel needs to know more than she already does about certain dream demons.”
“Whatever. Don’t mention it,” he replied gruffly, waving off the gesture. Ford didn’t respond, instead hoping that his brother would take the silence as a hint to leave. His pulse was still elevated and he could feel his limbs shaking. He didn’t want anything to happen while his brother was there. He didn’t want him to -
“Hey, uh, it’s been a few days, but are you doing okay? Coming back from crazy sci-fi dimensions has to have some kind of… jet-lag baggage attached to it, right?”
“I’m fine Stan.” Goddamnit, Ford thought. This is what he didn’t want. He could handle this, he knew. It was all a process of logically reminding himself, is all. He didn’t need Stan to worry. He set his jaw and rubbed his hands around his coffee mug. It was hardly comforting, as the liquid inside had long since lost it’s heat. Over his shoulder, Stan sighed.
“Look, I mean, I might not want you getting buddy-buddy with the kids, but you can still talk to me. I’m… I’m still your twin, Stanford.”
The feeling of a hand on his shoulder was like an electric shock and Ford jumped away from it, shrinking from the touch. He stood up quickly, finally relinquishing his hold on the mug and facing his brother. Stan looked at him, taken aback.
“I’m fine, Stanley. I didn’t come through that portal just to deal with your sympathy pity.”
Stan frowned and opened his mouth to retort, but it was too late. Ford was already moving, getting as much distance from his brother as he could. He didn’t want a fight; not here, not now. In mere seconds, he had strode through the living room, to the gift shop, and had disappeared into the basement. He didn’t stop until he hit the elevator, where he slumped against it, pressing the down button. As soon as the gate opened up, he hit the far wall and slid to the floor, allowing the darkness to swallow him as he descended.
He was hiding behind a bookshelf in a rundown library, legs shaking, weapon close. He knew he should be running, but he had been running for what felt like days. His arms, legs, everything, felt like jello, soft and useless. He tried to control his breathing but he knew he wouldn’t be able to soon. Panic was setting in, descending upon him like a dark cloud. A wave of cold fear washed over him as he heard, he heard his voice…
“I have a riddle for you… who has 6 fingers on each hand and is nothing but a lost scared fool?” Stanford held his breath and stayed as still as possible. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He didn’t know if he could banish him this time. He didn’t know if he had the power to stop him if he ever found him today.
“You know, it’s really not that hard! You know it’s you, right? And you didn’t even respond! Someone clearly doesn’t want to have FUN today.”
Suddenly a face appeared before him, eyes full of unseen horrors, mouth in full terrifying grin. His stomach dropped, fear gripping him.
“Guess whoooo?”
Stanford bolted awake, panic seizing him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses but that didn’t stop him from staring out into the darkness, searching for his attacker. His hand stuck out instinctively, searching for the knife he constantly had at the ready. When he found nothing, his breathing hitched, chest constricting. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he jerked, his right arm swinging around, hoping to land in a lucky blow. It never makes it though; the punch is caught mid swing, causing Ford to struggle against whoever is waiting in the gloom.
“TOUCH ME AND I SWEAR I’LL KILL YOU!” He yells, twisting to face his attacker, stopping dead in his tracks when he’s greeted with his own face frowning back at him. He pulls away, but can’t go anywhere; his arm and shoulder are still pinned in the grip of this strong double. His breathing comes out in small whines and he struggles like a panicking coyote caught in a trap.It can’t end like this, he thinks, It can’t end like-
“Stanford.” The name makes him stop dead, eyes wide, heart pounding out of his chest. His ears are ringing but he feels like he recognizes the voice. A voice he swears he hasn’t heard for 30 years…
“Stanford, snap out of it, it’s me. If you keep struggling, you’re gonna hurt yourself. I don’t need something else to try and “cleverly explain” to the kids, you know.” Ford stares at his twin and obeys. As soon as he does, Stan lets go of him and reaches out in the dark. He swims in and out of focus, making Ford’s eyes strain even harder to follow him. Next time he sees his brother again, he’s placing his hands on either side of Ford’s face, coming into greater clarity as he does so.
“There, now at least your aim can get a little better,” Stan huffs to him, slumping back into his chair. Ford took his eyes off his brother and adjusts his glasses, taking everything in more carefully. His body was still shaking, but he knew he just needed to distract himself… he would be fine. His eyes roam the room, trying to get his breathing in order. It was a dream, it was just a fucking dream. He repeats it over and over, doing his best to ground himself back to reality. He sees a small light behind Stan and a book open on the table. Stan’s fez sits on top of the pages, keeping them from falling shut. Ford sighs deeply, rubbing eyes and swinging his legs around on the bed he had set up for himself downstairs. He was shaky, but he was holding off the panic. For now, at least.
“Lee, what the hell are you doing down here.”
“Still not up for saying ‘thank you’, I see,” his brother retorted bitterly. Ford growled at him. He stood up, looking for a shirt. He didn’t think he would be sleeping again any time soon.
“Please kindly fuck off, Stan.”
“Oh, because you’re handling this so well on your own.”
“I am. I have a system. I don’t need you interrupting it.” He found a shirt and threw it over his head.
“Riiight, how’s that working out for ya? Because your attacks are getting worse instead of better, you know.”
Ford stiffened, turning to face his brother as he tugged his shirt into place. His was livid as he stared at Stan, and his brother, being the stubborn goat that he was, glared over his glasses right back.
“How long have you known about this,” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. He flexed his hand, open and closed, mentally chastising himself for thinking he could hide this from his twin.
“Ever since you got back. I’ve been checking up on you, since we both share the wonderful trait of being terrible sleepers.”
Ford runs a hand over his face and looks away. He can’t handle the look Stan keeps throwing his way. He doesn’t want his pity, he doesn’t want his worry. His brother had always worried about him and goddamnit, he can handle this on his own. He handled 30 years on his own, he doesn’t need this support now. His breathing picks up and he paces around a bit, feeling more jittery than he would like. He closes his eyes, trying so hard to will himself into not breaking down in front of his brother.
Stan stands up and goes to him, placing another hand on his shoulder. Ford shudders and twitches under the touch, and Stan removes his hand like he hit a hot iron. Ford wipes his eyes, feeling the wetness there. The look on his brother’s face is killing him. He would rather be 30 more years behind the portal than to see his brother’s face look that hurt, because of him.
“I didn’t want this Stan. I don’t want this. I don’t want to see your face like that. I- … please. Just leave me here.”
But Stan didn’t move, his face set. So Ford starts pacing again, trying to shake the terrible rubbery feeling out of his limbs. He huffs out a breath which turns into a quick laugh. He swallows and stifles it as best he can. Still though, he continues to move around and move away. Anything that’s nowhere near Stanley.
“You know I blamed you for a long time, Stan. I blamed you for pushing me in the portal. I blamed you for “not doing anything”. I blamed you for not getting me out sooner. I blamed you for so many things. To tell you the truth I still do.”
The last words hung heavy in the air. Both of them were silent, neither being brave enough to break the suffocating atmosphere. Ford paces a bit more, sits down on his bed, looking anywhere but directly at his brother. When he does glance over, he sees that Stan has never moved, never budged. He just stands there, like a statue. Ford’s pulse quickens and he glances away again.
After what feels like an eternity, Stan finally sighs and cracks his back. The noise makes Ford jerk back up, with just enough time to see Stan pass in front of him on his way to the elevator. Without thinking, Ford’s hand darts out, and 6 fingers wrap around Stan’s wrist. Stan jumps, but Ford’s grip is strong. He hears a gravelly growl escape his brother’s mouth.
“What? What? It’s clear you don’t want me to stay, so I’m leaving you here. Deal with this yourself; rot in this basement for all I care. It would be suitable, really…” Stan trails off as he looks down at his brother’s face. Ford wasn’t hiding the panic he felt anymore, the terror shining up at Stan like a horrible beacon.
“Sometimes he looks like you, and I-... I can never do it, Stan. He knew that was my biggest weakness.” Stan stares at him, eyes as big as saucers. Ford drops his hand and brings it to his lap. He looks away, knowing how vulnerable he suddenly sounds. But his brother needs to hear this; needs to understand. “I always hated it when we fought. So much so, that I couldn’t even fight a dream demon disguised as you. I still hate it when we fight, Stanley. I really do.”
To that, Stan said nothing. He simply sits down on the bed, the weight a long-forgotten sensation to Ford. He looks up at Stan’s face, really meeting his eyes for the first time in 30 years. It always amazed him how they looked so much like his own, but so different at the same time. Stan grabs his shoulders, the weight a sudden comfort. For the first time, Ford leans into the support.
“Stanford, you need to calm down. You need to get some sleep.”
“I can’t. I don’t know what’s waiting for me.” He tried to look away but Stan makes a noise in his throat, keeping Ford locked on him.
“I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be here. I won’t leave your side.”
“Stan, don’t -”
“FORD.” His voice sounds urgent, and Stanford stares at him. “I’m not gonna leave you alone on this. Do you hear me? You are not alone in this.”
Stanford searches Lee’s face, looking for a doubt, a twitch, a sign of something that says he's faking and would leave as soon as Ford fell asleep -- but there was nothing. Just the same, stubborn resolution he had seen since he was young. 30 years and his brother hadn’t changed a bit. Finally, he gave a small smile, the weight of the panic leaving his shoulders.
“I hear you Stan, I do. I- thank you.”
“Yeah yeah, save it for the judge, Sixer,” he quips back, but Ford barely heard him. The last thing he remembers before falling into sleep was his brother’s weight against his, and a warm, soft wetness falling lightly on his forehead.