Work Text:
Twelve.
Even as a toddler, Stanford knew that number was wrong. The number of fingers he had was wrong. Unnatural. Disgusting. Ma had always told a story to ford and lee as kids, about how "Stanford knew he was special". She would mention how he always chew or sucked on his extra finger, how even as sniveling disgusting child he knew he would be 'special'. Ford hates that word. "Special". Ridiculous. Just because he smart people treat him like he's some all knowing, all being force. But he's just a freak. A fucking. Disgusting. Freak.
He should've bit them off.
Twelve.
Stanley always love the feeling, when his brother's Six fingers wrap around his. Hold his tight. The way twelve fingers, two warm arms wrapped around his body as he sobs into his brother's warm chest. The way twelve fingers grab the hood of his fur coat, pulling him into the warm shack. The way twelve fingers wrap around a loaded cross bow, aimed between his eyes.
Eleven.
'it was an accident' he wished he could say. But if course it wasn't. A pair of bloody scissors sit on his desk. An empty bottle of pills on the ground. Too low of a dose he took. The pills didn't numb him. It didn't numb the pain of Trying to pull your tendons apart. Cheap medications couldn't help with the horrible squirming he feels in his stomach at the disgusting snap sound. The initial pain wasn't even the worse he'd come to realize.
Everything felt wrong, he felt like he could still move it, the knuckle still tries to move. The squirming in his stomach won't stop. His face is red and sweaty, he feels his heart beat in his temples. His hands shake bad. He tries to stop it but a few tears run down his face. The pain isn't bad. Not as bad as it could be. Not as bad as it has been.
Ten.
It hurts less the second time. He isn't quite sure if he tied the dressings tight enough. He doesn't care. Medicine isn't his strong suite so he doesn't really care about how perfect he wrapped them, he just hopes it's wrapped well enough to prevent infection.
He stares at the two severed fingers on his desk. It disturbs him how they twitch a bit. He knows it's natural. If course he knows. He knows everything. He knows everything.
The adrenaline fades. The pain hits all at once. He reminds himself to ask Stanley for more of those pills.
Ten. There's only ten now.
Ten is a normal number. Ten is a good number. He likes that number. That's the number everyone else had.
He starting to regret using scissors. It's not like he had a scalpel in the house, Stan wouldn't let him. Stan didn't like having real dangerous objects in the house. Maybe he shouldn't be here then. The kids would be better off, safer.
Maybe a box cutter would've worked better. Maybe the popping of joints wouldn't feel so blunt. Maybe there would be less damage.
Ten.
That's how many minutes Stanley left.
He had woken up to his brother's crying. He held him, assured him it's ok. Even if all the resentment for his brother stayed until now, it melted away with the tears that soaked his chest. His hands, as they wiped away his brother's tears. Leaning in to leave a gentle kiss on his wet cheeks. He repeats all words he used to, like muscle memory. Every single movement rehearsed over and over.
He stayed until ford assured he was ok. Stan didn't know his brother learned how to lie. He promised to come right back, leaving to get his brother a drink. He should've known something was wrong, the way his brother smiled. He knew it was wrong, but he convinced himself to push the feelings down. He thought it would be ok.
The elevator dings as it arrives at the deepest floor in the lab. He's hold a cold cup of water and some leftovers the kids made for ford, of course the idiot hadn't left his lab all day so he couldn't come get the food.
When he steps inside everything felt Wrong. It was quite. So quiet. Ford was standing in the dim light, stan can't make out the details.
"sixer?"
He asks quietly.
The irony is sickening. It almost brings a smile to ford's lips. A dry laugh escapes his throat.
"not anymore"