Work Text:
Ford stands in the kitchen, stirring his pot of pasta he made for a quick dinner. When he decides it's good enough, he takes it off the burner and opens the cabinet to get a bowl. As he pulls the top bowl off of the stack, he knocks another one with his arm. It feels like at the world moves in slow motion as the bowl falls from the cabinet and—
Crash!
The plate splinters to pieces on the tile floor at his feet. His eyes widen in shock and he feels tears start to form before he really knows what’s happening. He panics and crouches down, trying to pick up the larger shards of ceramic. But, as he attempts to grab one, it cuts his hand and he drops it again. He stares at the cut across his palm as the blood begins to well up and bead down his arm. He starts to cry in earnest, sobs wracking his small frame.
Suddenly, a body comes thundering into the room.
“Stanford Pines!” His father yanks him up by the arm, making him stumble and step on a shard, “What did you do?!” He roars.
“I- I’m sor- sorry, it w- it was an accident,” he chokes out, his voice thick with tears.
“What have I told you about muttering?” His father shouts.
“S- sorry,” he manages. Suddenly, his head is jerked to the side by a sharp slap. The sound rings out in the small kitchen. Ford barely suppresses a whine, knowing it will just get him in more trouble. Fresh, hot tears roll down his cheeks and he sniffles pitifully. His father drops his arm, a look of disgust and anger contorting his face. Ford’s legs are too wobbly to support his weight and he falls, feeling more shards dig into his legs and the hand he uses to catch himself. His father turns his back to him.
“Clean this up.”
“Yes, sir.” He watches as his father walks away. He looks down to see his legs and hands slick with his own blood. The sight makes his stomach turn.
Ford is shaken back to reality by a hand on his shoulder. He flinches away from the hand.
“Please don’t hit me again. I’m sorry, it was an accident. I’ll clean it up.” The string of apologies and excuses fly off of his tongue like a practiced line.
“What?” Ford blinks in surprise to realize that the voice he hears isn’t that of his father. Not even his mother or brother. He looks up at the person next to him to find his lab partner, Fiddleford. His eyes widen in surprise.
“Fidds?” He whispers. He looks around the room, trying to remember where he is. He works out that he’s in his kitchen, in his own house, in Gravity Falls, Oregon. Not in the Lead Paint district of New Jersey. He realizes there are warm tears falling down his cheeks. When did he start crying? He looks down to the shattered bowl at his feet, then at his hands, seeing no cuts there. A hand carefully touches his shoulder again.
“Stanferd? Are you alright?” He looks back up to Fiddleford.
“I.. I’ll be fine.” Fiddleford’s eyes are full of worry. Ford looks away and rubs the last of the tears from his eyes. He notices Fiddleford carefully nudging the ceramic out of Ford’s way with his shoe.
“C’mon, take a big step,” Ford follows the instruction and hops out of the area of the debris. Fiddleford guides him to the kitchen table with a gentle hand on his back and sits him down. Ford watches as he retrieves a dustpan and broom and cleans up the shattered mess. He carefully disposes of the pieces before boiling some water and making them each a hot cup of tea. He makes his way back to the table and sets down two mugs before slipping into the seat across from Ford. Ford takes a long sip from his mug before sighing.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He hesitates.
“My.. My father wasn’t a very good man. He would beat me and Stanley. He was horrible to our mother too.” Fiddleford a hand out and rests it on Ford’s comfortingly.
“I’m so sorry, Ford. That’s terrible,” Ford just shrugs.
“It’s just how things were.” Fiddleford frowns.
“Well, you’re away from him now. You’re safe,” Ford smiles.
“Yeah, I am.”