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Ford sighed as he waited for his coffee to finish, the soft sizzling sounds the machine made easing his anxious bones. He had been unfortunate enough to fall asleep while grading some papers and had been greeted by a rather awful nightmare involving his brother and amputation. The mere thought returned his twin's bloodcurdling screams to the forefront of his mind, which he quickly shook away. No. Stanley was fine. He was likely just resting after—
It was at that moment Stan decided to stumble into the kitchen. His sudden appearance surprised the scientist, yet also offered him some comfort. He's alive, see? It was just a silly dream likely fueled by Cipher's awareness of his fears. It may have felt real, sounded real, but it wasn't. Stanley was safe, right here with him. All was as it should be.
Stan, bless his heart, didn't so much as spare a glance at Ford and his feeble attempts to relax himself. Instead he wobbled over to the coffee machine and waited. It dinged shortly after, and Stan immediately grabbed the mug and began to slurp the steaming liquid right up—temperature be damned.
Ford hadn't truly processed Stan's actions until the obnoxiously loud slurps filled his ears. His eyes snapped over to his brother with a sudden awareness, and his first instinct was to smack the mug right out of Stanley's hand. That was his coffee, damnit. You can't just take another man's cup of joe like that! It was cruel, awful, and...shiny?
Ford's eyes drifted from the coffee to what was holding said drink: Stanley's prosthetic arm. Ford had noticed it the moment the man had exited the portal for the first time; the watch wasn't the only piece of alien technology that had caught his eyes. The arm also had a starring role in its own mystery not too long ago. The children had asked Stanley about it separately, only to discuss it together later on. That was when they discovered the different answers each one had been given. Ford, for his sake, had also gotten a separate answer, which only added to the mystery of it all. Despite the kids' best efforts, they never had gotten the real answer. Ford's mind flashed back to the dream—
No. No. It was just that, a dream. Nothing more. Just another attempt by Bill to break him. That's all it ever was to the triangle: a twisted game of cat and mouse. Oh how Ford despised it so.
"Take a picture, Poindexter. It'll last longer."
Stan's voice jolted Ford out of his thoughts. The coffee seemingly shook away any tiredness the man had; his voice sang with a playful air. A small smirk danced on his face as he watched his nerdy bro bumble about for a response, before deciding to allow him some mercy. He hummed, passing him the now empty mug as he headed over to the table and not-so-elegantly flopped into one of the chairs. With a small wave of his left hand, he said, "Make me another cup, wouldja?"
Another cup? After Stanley had already stolen his? Honestly, who did this man think he was? Yet despite Ford's internal complaints, he started the machine up to make another coffee. Feeling the back pain begin to creep in, he decided to follow in his brother's lead, only sitting down with far more grace. The act earned him a snort from Stanley at least. It was nice to see a bit of that cocky, playful attitude he loved so dearly shine through. Ford couldn't help the small smile that spread across his face.
The silence was a tad awkward, yet far better compared to some previous encounters. Ford found his eyes wandering again in an attempt to fight off the fatigue plaguing his mind, and for the second time that night, his gaze locked onto Stanley's prosthetic. Whoever had made it was talented; if it weren't for the color of the prosthetic, Ford might not have been able to tell it was metal in the first place. It was able to do everything a human hand could, and in some cases do it better. A fine piece of machinery, it was; he would have to ask Stan if he could properly study it one day. After all, with an almost perfect and practically invincible replica such as his, it was only natural for one to want to research it. For scientific purposes, obviously. Nothing more.
There was one specific flaw that stripped the perfect factor away from this otherworldly creation and it wasn't the color. While that was a small flaw, it could easily be resolved by simply wearing gloves or painting it. No, this was directly ingrained in its very design, a flaw not so easily fixed or ignored.
The hand had six fingers, not five.
Ford had noticed almost immediately, yet hadn't thought too much of it at the time. He had been far more focused on his quickly bruising face and Stanley in his entirety, after all. Yet now? Now he had all the time in the world to ponder it. Er, well, as long as it took for the coffee maker to complete its task; maybe longer if he were lucky. It was better than nothing, he supposed.
Why would it have six fingers? Perhaps there's a species out there that has six fingers as the norm? Stanley had mentioned something about a Finger Dimension once, though from what he had gathered the species there didn't all have dozens of fingers, so he doubted that was it. The most likely answer was that it was modeled after Stanley's left hand, given he was likely the only human hopping about these other dimensions. In that case, such a pristine work simply couldn't be accomplished. A reference would have been needed for these beings who had likely never met a human prior to Stanley himself. Yet if that were the case, there was no reason to add another digit; Stanley only had 5 fingers after all. The only one person he knew that had 6 fingers was—
That's when it clicked, like a Rubix cube finally lining up perfectly. Yet...Stanley wouldn't, right? Surely after everything he had done he wouldn't, just couldn't—
Ford needed to know.
Driven by impulse, Ford's hand suddenly reached to grab Stan's prosthetic one. Surprisingly enough, Stan made no action to stop him. Perhaps he was laughing to himself at Ford's foolish assumptions, knowing the professor was playing himself here. Ford couldn't find it in himself to care. He needed to know. He had to know.
Ford started by locking their hands together, an act he used to do with his own Stan when they were kids. For a second he wondered if this Stanley had done a similar thing with his own Stanford, before returning to the task at hand. Finding that the hand lock was nothing short of comforting, he slowly lifted their joined hands to straighten them out and press their fingers together. Upon doing so, Ford couldn't help but gasp.
Their hands lined up perfectly, not so much as a centimeter shorter or taller; even the width was just right. He suddenly felt bad at having originally criticized the limb's creator, because doing this so perfectly without a proper reference to check? This was done by a true craftsman. He'd have to ask Stan if he remembered the person's name later on.
With this smaller realization came a much bigger one: Stanley likely had to request for the prosthetic to be built this way. He was the one who likely had to tell the artist the exact proportions to help get it to this final product. Despite everything, with Stanley getting kicked out, accidentally knocked through the portal, and even the branding, the man didn't hate him. He had every single reason to, and in Ford's honest opinion he deserved to be hated for all of it. Yet instead, Stanley had decided to carry a part of Ford's burden with him. He wasn't sure why Stanley would do such a thing, yet whatever his reasoning may be, Ford couldn't deny the soft, lovely warmth slowly blossoming within him.
Glancing up, Ford was greeted by a soft, small smile. It almost felt unnatural on Stanley's battle-hardened face, yet considering recent events? It was a more than welcomed sight. Stanley's left hand gently dabbed under Ford's eyes for a moment, and that's when he realized that he had begun to cry a bit. "Pretty neat, eh Sixer?"
Stanley had spoken oh so softly that Ford barely heard him at first. The moment it finally processed, he broke. Hearing that old nickname once again, without Bill's grating tone tacked on to ruin it, was like an itch that had finally been scratched. Without a second of hesitation Ford launches himself at Stanley, barely managing to not knock them both into the floor, and pulls the man into a tight octopus hug. Ah, so that's where Mabel gets it from. The stray thought would have made him chuckle if he weren't fighting off sobs. Stan hesitates for a moment, seemingly unsure of the new situation, before he slowly begins melting into the hug as well, his non-occupied arm coming to wrap around Ford in return. Ford swore he felt something dampen his hair and shirt, yet quickly pushed the thought away in favor of embracing the warmth that was Stanley.
The coffee machine dinged to show that the beverage was now complete, but neither twin could be damned to bother with it. They were at peace for once, wrapped up in one another's loving embrace. It was so nice, so warm, so soft; just as both remembered it to be. Neither of them wanted to let go. Not again. Never again.
Oh, how both of them had missed this…