Chapter Text
The book weighed heavy in his hands as he trudged back through the snow.
He haphazardly threw it into the passenger seat of his car, before turning on the ignition to get some much needed heat. He honestly didn't even know where he would go. He didn't have much gas and he didn't expect his visit to Ford to be so short.
But it was. And Ford sent him off as quickly as he came.
Stan was angry and confused and above all else he was so tired. Tired of driving, of being on the run, of being so alone.
So where does he go now?
First off, a gas station. And dammit, he should've had Ford give him some gas money if he was going to be running his errand for him.
Was he going to?
Sailing off the ends of the earth didn't seem like too bad of an idea. He could get away from everything following behind him and just forget it all.
It'd be nice if Stanley Pines could just disappear.
But he'd need a boat for that and he barely has enough money for gas. He mulls over his options as he waits for his tank to fill in some old gas station just off the edge of town. There's only so many places he can go, what with being banned from most of the states.
Having seen Ford recently, led his thoughts to wander towards the rest of his family. Shermie specifically. Ma and Pa were all the way on the other side of the country and even if he wanted their help, Pa would never give it to him. Even if it was on Ford's behalf.
But Shermie, he took off before everything went down. Before Stan ruined his and Ford’s lives in one fell swoop. Shermie had been trying to track Stan down ever since he found out his little brother was out on his own somewhere. And he even succeeded once…
Shermie has his own life now. He's got a good job, a nice house, a wife and kid. Stan thinks he might even have a dog and a white picket fence.
And he might just have a boat, since he lives in California and all.
However, Shermie is one of the last people Stan wants to see right now. Well… that list is rather long and Stan couldn't really order everyone on it for different reasons, but Shermie is definitely not someone he wants to be around. Because Shermie had all these fantasies of Stan coming to live with him, “getting back on his feet”, making a complete turn around.
But that's all they were… fantasies.
He's a lost cause and Shermie should know that. He doesn't need Stan around to drag his family down.
He spared a glance at the book in his passenger seat. Ford doesn't need Stan around to drag him down. Stan doesn't get what he's doing at all. Nor does he get his erratic and paranoid behavior, but if he can do this one favor, this one worthwhile thing, then he can at least say he was useful to his family for once.
And so he sucked it up, ignored the anxious twinge in his gut, and started the long drive to Shermie's to ask about a boat.
—
Stan saw this coming. Shermie would never make anything so easy.
Not even two steps up the porch and the door swung open and a little squirt comes barreling down the steps to latch onto his legs.
“UNCLE STANLEY!”
Will had to be about six or seven. Honestly, Stan's surprised he even remembers him. Their meeting wasn't really memorable. If you could even call it a meeting. A few grainy phone calls between California and the Arizona state prison and a weekend visit when Stanley was finally let out. Some meeting.
That being said, the kid was cheery and endearing and was all too happy to talk to some random uncle he'd never met like they were best friends.
“Hey, kiddo…”
Shermie came out right behind him. Then his wife, Marjorie.
Shermie immediately pulled him into a hug, talking about how happy he was to see him and how he looked good.
That was a lie. Stanley hadn't showered in six days and was sweating his ass off despite how cold it was up in Oregon. It was cold in California too, but at least he wasn't ass-high in snow.
“Well, come on!” Shermie ushered him forward, “Get your butt in here! Y'must be tired after that drive.”
“Where're you coming from anyway, Stanley?” Marjorie asked, grabbing hold of her son's hand, “Would hate to find out you were in trouble again.”
“Oh, stop it, Marge,” Shermie glared.
“It's fine,” Stan waved her comment off, it wasn't completely unwarranted after all. She took off to the dining room, dragging her son behind her and giving the brothers a chance to talk.
“Actually, I was… I just came from Oregon…”
Shermie's eyes went wide at that. “Oregon, really? You weren't seeing–”
“Yes, I was seeing Ford,” he answered before Shermie could even finish his question. “He called me up there actually…”
“Really?” Shermie made no effort to hide the smile on his face, this must he a dream come true for him, “And did you two–”
“He just needs me to do a favor. He practically shoved me out his door.”
“Oh…” Shermie's eyes fell, “Well… at least you've talked once. The first time is always the hardest, but one call leads to two and two to three and…”
Stan just tuned his brother out. There's no way Ford will ever call him again. Unless he needs another favor. At that point, Stan will probably ignore him.
That's a lie and he knows it.
“I just know you two can sort this out,” Shermie continued, “I, honestly, can't believe you kept this up this long.”
It's not like he had much of a choice.
“Sherm, I appreciate what you're tryin’ to do here, but it's jus not gonna happen. Ford's made it clear he wants nothin’ to do with me.”
“He doesn't mean that–”
“He practically told me to sail off to the ends of the earth,” he deadpanned, “That's actually what I came here to ask you about–”
“No, Stanley,” Shermie cut him off, his brow creasing, “I'm not letting you sail off to who knows where and I'm ‘bout to go tell Ford that.”
“Relax,” Stan held up his palms defensively, “Ford just asked me to dump some book of his somewhere. I was thinkin’ the ocean.”
“What kind of book?”
“Research,” he rolled his eyes.
“Really? He's been working so hard all these years,” Shermie furrowed his brow, like he always did when something didn't make sense, “Why would he have you throw it away? And so drastically–”
“I don't know. And I don't really care,” Stan sighed, “The sooner I get rid of it, the sooner I can get back to my life.” If you could even call it a life.
“Stan, you're not seriously going to leave, are you?”
“We've talked about this, Sherm–”
“You are a Pines–”
“I was kicked out–”
“Not from my house.” Shermie huffed, “You are welcomed here, Stanley. Will loves you and Margie…”
“Has her opinions,” Stan deadpanned.
“She means well,” Shermie sighed, “She might think you're a bad influence–”
“Horrible influence, really,”
“But she doesn't want you to get hurt either,” Shermie placed a hand on his shoulder, “And I can't stand the thought of you out there, livin’ out your car, swindlin’ people for money and doin’ god knows what else.”
“I'm surviving, Sherm…” Stan argued weakly.
“You shouldn't have to survive,” Shermie shook his head, “You deserve to live, Stanley.”
Stan gave a laugh at that. He didn't deserve anything. Not until he paid his dues.
Shermie's brow fell as he watched his brother brush off everything he had been saying. “Look… Come eat some dinner, stay the night, and we'll sort this all out in the morning.”
“Morning?”
“It's late, Stan,” Shermie rubbed his temples, “Will’s got to get to bed soon and you look like you could use some rest yourself.”
With that, Shermie left to the dining room and Stan knew he would get no help from him if he didn't do exactly as he said.
Getting to sleep was hard that night, especially as Stan felt a stutter in his heart.
—
“Stanley, are you alright?”
Stan's head whipped to Marjorie. She stood in the doorway to the living room, looking down at him from where he sat on the couch.
No, he wasn't alright. Everything was so cold.
His body trembled as he wrapped the blankets tighter around himself, nothing brought relief. He couldn't even hold his hand straight, he shivered so badly you would think he had arthritis. His throat completely dried, something he'd normally attribute to snoring. And he felt tired, despite sleeping the whole night.
He sniffed, bringing his shaky hand up to wipe his nose. “‘m fine, Marge,” he groaned out, “Might be comin’ down with somethin’.”
Marjorie narrowed her eyes, her brow scrunching ever so slightly. “Would you like juice or maybe some soup?” she asked carefully.
“Water's fine,” Stan rasped, he couldn't even stomach the idea of eating something right now.
“Alright,” she nodded, before retreating to the kitchen. Loud, fast-paced footsteps came from down the hall, stopping her halfway through her journey.
“Not now, Will,” Stan heard her distantly, “Uncle Stanley's sick.”
From there he heard the clack of her heels as she entered the kitchen. Shermie asking what was wrong. Marge lowering her voice just so Stan couldn't hear.
It didn't matter, he couldn't dwell on it. Not while ice is shooting through his veins, feeling like needles were stabbing through his flesh. He could feel his nerves quaking under his skin.
He tucked his head under the blanket, begging for any kind of relief. This was worse than going cold turkey in jail. At least then, he knew the reason for why he felt like shit.
His thoughts drifted back to Ford at that, wondering if he felt half as bad as Stan did now. They'd always had something connecting the two of them. Likely, a twin thing.
They could just tell when the other was going to get sick. LIke being able to smell the rain in the air before it even begins to fall. Stan had always insisted it was twin superpowers. Ford would reason they always caught the same viruses and one would show symptoms before the other.
Stan almost hopes he was right, because Ford feeling even half of this was too much and would never wish that on his brother.
But if he was wrong…
Stan’s eyes widened at the thought of Ford, sleep deprived and paranoid and now sick on top of everything else. Alone in his shack in the woods with no one to take care of him.
Fear gripped his heart as he imagined his brother, sick, trying to make his way through the Oregon winter just to get some medicine.
That was all that was needed to coax Stan from his spot on the couch. He had to get to Shermie. He had to get back to Ford.
His steps were uneven and he slid across the wall as he braced it for support. Falling over was a very real possibility for him, but it didn't matter because his stubborn brother could be face-down in the snow somewhere.
So he pushed on, which was still slow, but it was faster than waiting for Shermie and Marge to come back.
“Margie, do you even hear yourself?” he was close enough to hear Shermie's whispers from the kitchen, “Why would he come here if–”
“To ask you for money,” Marjorie whisper-yelled, “He knows you won't say no to him. Why else?”
“He said he was clean…”
“Your brother is a liar and an addict, Sherman!” she snapped a little louder than she likely intended to be, “They relapse all the time! Look at him! The shakes, the bags under his eyes, his skin color!
Did you really think he would stay sober, living the way he does?”
“That's why I want him off the streets,” Shermie argued back, “So that he can be safe and stay clean.”
“Well…” Marjorie huffed, “That's exactly why I want him gone. I've already been through this with my own mother, I'm not allowing it in my house! I don't want him around Will and you shouldn't either!”
If he didn't feel so numb in the moment, Stan's heart may have hurt at that.
He is clean, but he's sewn so much distrust with everyone, even his own family. He doesn't blame Marjorie for thinking whatever he's come down with was him relapsing.
He leaned heavily on the kitchen doorframe. Shermie's eyes shot to him, Marjorie turned around suddenly.
“St- Stanley!” she gasped, “You surprised me.”
“S-s-s-somethin’s wrong, Sherm,” Stan stuttered through chattering teeth.
“Yeah, no kidding,” his brother moved to support him, “Why don't you sit down an–”
“N-NO! Its… It's Ford!” he ripped away, “Somethings wrong with Ford…”
Shermie's brows knit together, “How would you know that, Stan? You left him in Oregon, remember? You said he was doing fine.”
“I jus… I just do, okay!” Stan cried.
“Stanley,” Shermie started carefully, “I need you to be honest with me... Are you using?”
“I'M CLEAN, SHERM!” Stan shook his brother by his arms, “I have been for the past two years! I promise! You can get me tested! I don’t care! But I'm telling you that something is wrong with Ford!”
“Okay… Okay…” Shermie glanced over at his wife, “Let's go call Ford–”
“He's n-not gonna answer. He thinks someone is- is watching him,” Stan explained, “He won't answer his phone.”
“Fine,” Shermie sighed, “I'll go check on Ford. And we'll call you together.”
“No, you gotta let me come with you, Sherm,” Stan begged, “I gotta see‘im!”
“Stanley, you're sick, right?” Marjorie interjected, “Why would you want to go all the way up to Oregon when you're sick?”
“Dammit, Marjorie! This is my brother we’re talking about!” Stan snapped, “I don't care about me! I just gotta see that he's alright…”
“Okay… Okay, Stan,” Shermie nodded, “Let me just go pack a bag and we'll get on the road.”
“Sherman–”
“Isn't this what you wanted, Margie?” Shermie shrugged, “We'll get out of the house for a few days and sort the rest out later.”
“Fine…” Marjorie huffed, “But you better be safe out there.”
“It'll be fine, Marge,” Shermie smiled, “It's just Ford. It's not like he's a danger.”
—
They were on the road less than half an hour later with Shermie at the wheel and Stan blowing into his hands to try and get some kind of warmth.
They didn't say much on the way, Stan drifted in and out of consciousness. He spent his waking moments gazing out the window, occasionally flipping open that damn book Ford cared so much about. He didn't get it, the stuff in there was unbelievable. Why would Ford make such a big deal about it?
They made it back to his house the next day. Shermie parked as close to it as possible, so Stan wouldn't have to walk through too much snow.
He looked around from behind the passenger seat window, searching for any sign of a body buried in the snow, a shadow pushing through the trees. Nothing.
Shermie helped him out, supporting him all the way up the porch.
He knocked on the door, waiting patiently. No answer.
“You know,” he said as he knocked a second time, “Wether or not he is sick, I think this is a good thing.”
“What do you mean?” Stan asked when Ford didn't come to the door.
“Even if he isn't sick, it should mean something to Ford that you came back for him. Even when you're not doin’ to hot either,” Shermie mused, “If he can't see that, then that's on him, Stanley.”
He reached out to knock on the door one last time, “It shows you care. And you deserve to be cared for, too.”
Stan rolled his eyes. Shermie was always talking like this when Stan was around and it got on his nerves.
This shouldn't be what they're talking about. Not when Ford isn’t coming to the door at all. Last time, Stan had a crossbow shoved in his face, you would think this time he'd at least yell at them.
“Screw this,” he grumbled, reaching out to turn the doorknob himself.
“Now, Stanley, we can't just–”
But it was too late. The door wasn't locked and Stan just walked on in. Even if Ford wanted to press charges on him, breaking and entering is nothing compared to all the other crimes he's got under his belt.
Being indoors did not help the freezing feeling in Stan's veins. AT. ALL. It was like a fuckin’ morgue in Ford's house. Cold and desolate and… lifeless.
“F-Ford?” Stan called between chattering teeth.
Shermie walked him inside, leaving Stan to lean against a recliner as he examined the house. “Stanford!” he called, “It's your brothers! Sorry for barging in on you like this!”
No answer came.
They both looked around the living room, if it could even be called that. Besides the recliner and a coffee table, the only other thing filling the room were piles and piles of “research” scattered across the floor.
“I thought you were neater than this, Ford,” Shermie muttered to himself, picking some of the scraps up. His brow furrowed and he turned back to Stan with a questioning look.
“Do you know what all this is about?”
He held one of the pages out to Stan, he could read it clearly despite his constant shivering that made it hard to focus, especially on writing. Unlike the neat and concise journal Ford had given to Stan to throw out, this note was two words written to big, scratchy letters.
‘HE’S WATCHING!’
Shermie showed another one…
‘THE EYES!’
And another…
‘TRUST NO ONE!’
Stan took one with a shaky hand, Ford’s erratic behavior from days prior coming to mind. The way he kept looking over his shoulders, the dark bags under his eyes, his gaunt form. Stan had wrote it off as him pulling too many all-nighters and the general isolation of living in the woods getting to him. He didn’t pay attention to the scratch paper that littered his living room as Ford practically shoved him down to the basement, to that project…
He thought that machine could end the world.
Stan brought his hand up to his face, idly thinking, ‘Fuck Ford, what are you doing to yourself?’
“I sh-shouldn't've left…” he said as Shermie went digging through more pages covered in paranoid messages and scribbles and occasionally gibberish.
“Ford, he… wasn't fine,” he admitted, “He was actin’all… twitchy. Like he thought s-someone was…” he looked down at the paper in his hand, “watchin’ ‘im.”
“Fuck! I should've stayed!” Stan rasped, “Wh- Wh- What if someone's after Ford for his work or whatever?”
“I thought you said his work looked like a buncha fairytales,” Shermie said grimly.
“Yeah, but a psycho in the woods might not think that!”
Shermie's eyes hardened at that. He walked off to look around the ground floor of the house, more sure in his steps. He had that determined older brother look on his face that Stan hadn't seen since he moved off to college.
“Stanford!” he ran up the stairs, checking all the rooms like a cop would survey the perimeter, “Stanford Filbrick Pines! Are you up here!?”
Stan wasn't paying attention, his thoughts going to the worse possible places.
His twin being stalked by some guy in the woods, unable to get help because he lived in the middle of fucking nowhere! Until he's desperate enough to reach out to Stan, of all people, for help!
And then he fucking left!
He left Ford behind!
What if this stalker got the jump on him. Stan imagined Ford all black and blue and bloody, like how he would spend his first few years on the streets. Ford was always the weaker twin, that's why he needed Stan! Stan was the one who protected him!
When he first got there, Ford had thought someone was coming to take his eyes.
WHAT IF THIS GUY RIPS OUT FORD'S EYES!?!
Shermie ran back down the stairs, half paying attention to Stan’s panicked muttering as he checked the ground floor again, “Stanley, do you have any idea where he could've gone?”
“Th- Th- Th- The basement…” Stan blinked out of his spiral and looked up at his brother, “He had a machine in the basement. Wanted to take it apart.”
Shermie nodded, “Okay, wait here–”
“Let me come,” Stan begged before Shermie had the chance to leave, “Please, Sherm.”
Shermie chewed his lip, debating if he should cart Stan around like that. Stan couldn't even blame him, but… he just knew he had to go to the basement. Like Ford needed him there.
“If you can't walk, then you're waiting up here,” he said, all too familiar to how he'd boss around him and Ford as kids, “Understand?”
Stan nodded, taking the arm Shermie offered him and moved in the direction of the basement.
They descended the stairs, then the elevator together, Stan's heart beat thundering in his ears all the while. He felt colder as dread crept up his sides and seized him by the throat. He didn't have anything to say to Shermie, but he wouldn't be able to if he tried.
The elevator opened and they took two cautious steps forward.
Nothing could prepare him for what he saw next.
He looked around the office space for a moment. Everything looked just the same as last time.
Then he looked up, through the window, at that machine. It was dark, but Stan could just barely make out a figure in there...
Hanging from the ceiling.
“Ford!” Stan croaked, pushing his way though the doorway, “FORD!”
There, in the center of it all, was his brother. His twin brother. His best friend. His genius brother, that Stan wasn't there to protect!
His brother was hanging from the ceiling.
Stan fell to his knees as he looked up at him. Shermie was saying something, maybe shouting. Stan couldn't hear it.
Then Shermie was gone, running back upstairs, hoping to any god that might exist that Ford's landline wasn't dead so he could call for help.
Stan knew it. He knew something was wrong, but he was too bullheaded to see the implications. And his brother paid the price for it.
His brother is dead...
His brother is dead.
Tears slipped from his eyes as he fell forward onto his elbows.
And he sobbed as much as his inflamed vocal cords would allow.
His other half was gone forever… and he wasn't sure he could live with that.