Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He hauled the last few boxes into the trunk of his car with shaky arms. Every movement sent sharp aches down his spine, and his breath came in ragged gasps that clouded the cold air. Finally, Stan staggered to the driver’s seat, slumping against it with a low groan, muscles quivering with exhaustion. He let out a shaky sigh and for a moment, Stan sat there in the quiet, trying not to let the low sales of his newest product get the better of him. It always started out low. He reminded himself, he just needed to make as much as he could off of these sponges before splitting town.

Just sit by the phone and wait. 

Stan reached into his jacket pocket to pull out a bag of sunflower seeds, and plopped a few in his mouth, this was his breakfast, lunch and dinner, it was all he could afford at the moment seeing as how slow business had been for him these last few months.

He closed his eyes, shivering. 

Cold

He was so cold, yet sweat clung to his skin, cold and clammy under his clothes. 

So tired

He was so tired. 

Stan hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he was jolted awake by the ringing of the pay phone. 

Ring! Ring! 

Stan felt his heart leap into his throat, because he hadn’t thought he’d get any calls today. He threw the door open and stumbled to the phone. There in half a second. Clearing his throat, he put on his best businessman act, and gripped the receiver tightly, “This is Stanco—“

“Hey, brother, it's Sixer.”

Stan blinked, he opened his mouth to speak. “F-Ford?” Because that sounded like his brother, but it also didn’t, there was an edge to it, almost as if his brother was amused by something. Something didn’t feel right, from Ford calling himself Sixer to the weird distorted echo that seemed to merge with Ford’s voice... “What going—“

“I'm going to take a swim in the frozen lake tomorrow, and I might not ever come back! So if you don't hear from me…” Stanley let out a choked noise, his heart dropping into his stomach. Horror filled, ice filled his very veins. “I just want you to know that it's because I never Loved yoU. BUH-BYEEEEE." 

He tried to not let that comment hurt him, the knowledge that Ford never loved him at all, his chest ache. The icy wind cut through him like a knife, but somehow, his chest burned as if a fire was smoldering inside him. He gripped the receiver tightly. This wasn’t about him. This was about his brother. “Stanford, hold on a second—“

The line went dead. 

“STANFORD!?”

He couldn’t breathe, his heart dropping into his stomach. Horror filled, ice filled his very veins. His head felt thick and foggy, his thoughts disjointed and sluggish. He shook his head, trying to focus. Was Ford… Had all that been… Was his brother saying that he was going too… He swayed a little, leaning against the payphone for support. No, no that didn’t sound like him. Ford wasn’t suicidal, that… that was him but it wasn’t Stanford! His brother had so much to live for! None of this made any damn sense, that couldn’t have been his brother. 

But what if it was

What if…

What if his brother was at the bottom of a lake right now… floating to the top. Cold from hypothermia, his eyes cloudy and dead.

What if his brother was already dead? 

Stan sprinted back to his car and flung open the glove compartment. His older brother had somehow tracked down his address and called him. Stan listened to him over the phone, Shermie’s voice was filled with concern, and a bit of desperation. 

“Stan, please just come home.”

It was the same speech as last time, the time before that and the one before that. Begging him to come back, to make amends with their dad, and to finally talk to Ford. 

“Shermie—“ 

“Listen, please. I’m worried about you. I haven’t seen you in three years. I want my brother back, I feel like I’ve lost you.” 

It was a speech he listened to, yet always refused, because he didn’t want to ruin whatever life Shermie had made for himself. His big brother had a wife and a child. They were happy, and he wasn’t. He was a leech that ruined everything he touched. 

“You haven’t, I’m still here. Alive. Isn’t that enough?” 

Apparently, for Shermie and their mother, it wasn’t. 

“Can you at least talk to Ford? I know you miss him.” 

A few weeks later, he arrived in Nevada and huddled himself into a shitty motel room, no food, his stomach churned, he laid on his bed and clutched his abdomen, a knock interrupted his misery, a letter slid under the crack of the door, a letter from Shermie, with Ford’s address scrawled on the back in Shermie’s familiar handwriting.

“Ha!” He let out a cheer that turned into a wheeze; his chest hurt and his breathing left like needles in his lungs, grasping the letter in his hand and carefully unfolding it.

If you can’t talk to Dad. Try with him —Shermie

6IB GOPHER PD 

GRAVITY FALLS, OR.

Oregon was a ten hour drive. With shaky hands, Stan ignited the engine of his car. He looked at the meter on his gas tank and prayed he had enough to make it there. “You b-better not be dead, Ford.” He muttered to himself. Please, you can’t go before me. You can’t. 

He did, in fact, have just enough gas to reach Oregon, just not enough to get all the way to Ford’s place. His car sputtered to a stop in the middle of the road, a few miles shy of his destination. Stan sat there for a moment, sniffling, his head felt clouded, what should have been a ten-hour drive stretched endlessly longer with all the times he had to pull over, gasping for breath. Through blurry vision, he looked out the window, the ground was covered in a blanket of snow, while the wind whistled and vibrated his car. 

It would be foolish of him to go out in that, absolutely idiotic. 

A vivid image of Ford’s lifeless body, face down in icy water, pale and blue, flickered through his foggy mind. He threw the door open, pulled his hoodie over his head, gripped his duffle bag in both hands, and started walking. His coat did little to keep out the biting cold that gnawed at his skin, while feverish heat radiated from within, leaving him both drenched in sweat and chilled to the bone. 

Stan squinted against the storm, trying to make out any landmarks that would point him in the right direction, but everything looked the same— endless snow and shadowy outlines of trees. Fear gnawed at the edges of his thoughts as he realized he had no idea where he was anymore, he looked behind him and his car was now lost to the storm, nowhere to be seen. His thoughts turned to his brother, a wave of dread washing over him. If Ford was out in this , there was no way he could still be alive. His chest ached, a low sob escaped him at the thought that he was too late. 

Disoriented and coughing violently, Stan trudged on, he lost track of how long he walked, but eventually, instead of making any kind of progress forward, he seemed to be going around in circles. He couldn’t see anything but white, the storm had drained his worldview of any color. Panic welled up in his eyes, his tears immediately froze against the corners of his eyes, he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. Black spots filled his vision, and he stumbled, he tried to catch himself but his legs couldn’t support his weight any longer, he attempted another step forward but his knees gave out, and he fell face first into the snow, He was going to die out here, he knew it. He came out here to save his brother, and now here he was about to join him. 

“I’m sorry..” He sobbed, pressing his face into the snow, “I’m sorry.” He was sorry for so many things, he was sorry to his parents, to his Ma, because he promised her that he’d stay safe and warm, he was sorry to Shermie, because he tried, this had been him trying, finally for the last ten years, but he failed. And most of all, he was sorry to Ford, for being a worthless nothing that always brought his brother down with him. “Ford…” He croaked out, his own voice lost to the howl of the wind, darkness crept up along the edges of his vision, as he lay there, letting more snow pile on top of him. Suddenly he felt hands grasping at his shoulders, hauling him up out of the snow, he blinked sluggishly. His heart leapt into his throat when the man who’d pulled him from the snow turned out to have his face. For a moment, the entire world— wind, snow, everything, seemed to freeze as he and his brother locked eyes for the first time in years. Shock coursed through him, Ford was really here. Somehow, even with all the odds against him, Stan had managed to find him. The crushing weight of fear and dread he’d been carrying lifted, replaced by a wave of relief so strong it brought tears to his eyes. 

“Stanley?” 

Ford looked confused; it was obvious that he hadn’t expected Stan to be here. But all he could focus on was the fact that he hadn’t heard that voice in so long, and he missed it, god did he miss it. He missed being with his brother, he missed being whole. His breath hitched deep in his throat, and collapsed against Ford’s chest, using the rest of the strength he had to wrap his arms around his brother’s waist and held on like a man drowning. “I thought you were dead ! You called me and I—” He buried his face in the croak of Ford’s shoulder and dug his nails into the fabric of his coat, “I thought I was—”

For a moment there was nothing but them, his desperate cries, and the snowstorm around them. He felt Ford finally return his embrace. “It’s okay.” 

It was so hard to breathe now, his mind felt hazy, and his eyes drooped shut. “You didn’t—”

To his surprise, Ford pressed him closer to his chest, “No, I didn’t, I would never… That wasn’t me—” Stan realized that he didn’t feel cold anymore, he even stopped shivering, “Stan? Stanley!” 

Stan’s last thought before the world went black was how sleep-deprived his brother looked. 

Ford had expected another day of protecting himself against Bill, excepted yet another sleepless night doing anything from drinking twelve cups of coffee like his mother had perfected, to more extreme measures like electric shock therapy, anything to keep himself from falling asleep, That was what he had thought this day would bring, and for the most part, it had, but what he hadn’t been calculated on, what he hadn’t expected was Stanley, he never thought the day would come that his brother would show up here and never in such a frantic state. 

Ford had been busying himself as he normally did, when he just so happened to look out the window from his kitchen when he saw a figure walking in the shadows of the storm, had Bill found someone else to possess, or was it a creature that arose from the woods? Immediately, he went out to investigate it, never in his woldest dreams did he think it would be Stanley. His brother had fallen face first into the snow and appeared near death from the cold, he hardly had the time to let himself be bewildered by why his brother was saying, when Stan’s first words to him in ten years put everything into place. 

“Just a bit further.”

His brother had long since passed out, his head lolled to the side, his forehead brushing up against his own, and just with that one bit of contact, Ford was able to feel the fever there, he let out a hiss, Stan’s skin was practically scalding to the touch, and more worryingly enough, his brother stopped shaking. He remembered when he woke up on the roof, how utterly numb he felt from his fingers down to his toes, he didn’t start shivering again until after he got back inside. If Stan was experiencing hypothermia, then this entire situation was even more concerning.

I thought you hated him. Voices whispered in the wind. It would be so easy to just leave him to freeze. 

Ford’s grip on his brother tightened, adjusting his hold on Stan as he walked up the steps of his home. “No, just because I’m angry at him doesn’t mean I want him dead.” Yes, he had moments where he thought less of his brother, the grudge he held in his heart may still be there, the sting of betrayal, but no that doesn’t mean he wants Stan dead, that doesn't mean he doesn’t still care, “He’s my brother.”

He’s my brother. The wind seemed to trill back at him. A brother that you let be kicked out. That ruined your life. 

Ford gritted his teeth together, grabbing the handle, he threw open the door slamming out the cold and wind with his foot. Stan let out a low distressing moan, leaning into him. Ford recalled memories of younger years, where Stan was often sick with the flu, with the moment of times their father made Stan stand outside anytime he failed a test, and where he’d stay by his brother's bedside, refusing to go to school, while he murmured reassuring things as Stan smiled at him in delirium. 

He pressed Stan closer to him, “It’s okay.” 

Old habits die hard. 

He walked into the guest room, the one that had been Fiddleford’s but was now vacant except for a bed, and the heater he had installed, and gently placed Stan on the bed. Stan curled into himself almost immediately, a strained sob escaped him, and Ford suddenly seemed rooted to the spot. 

What now?

He may have been a genius, but he wasn’t a doctor. 

He vaguely recalled times where their mother would nurse them back to health via water, soup, and plenty of rest, oh and aspirin. Ford’s mind raced for a moment. He didn’t have anything that would fit Stan perfectly, but dry clothes, no matter how tight, were better than wet ones. He quickly moved to his dresser, rifling through it until he found a shirt and a pair of sweatpants. They wouldn’t be a perfect fit, but they’d have to do. As he pulled them out, Ford couldn’t help but look back at his brother, lying pale and shivering on the bed. The reality of founding his brother out in the cold, that Stan had come all this way to see him, braving the wind and snow as he slowly grew more and more ill, all of it was still sinking in. The fact that it was all Bill’s fault only made his anger towards the triangle deepen. 

The look on Stan’s face when he saw him, the way he held onto him and weeped like he had when they’d been fourteen, and Ford ended up in the hospital with seven stitches in his head after he slipped off the boardwalk and hit his head on a rock. Ford could only imagine the panic Stan had been in when he received that phone call as Bill pretended to be him, using his voice to say that he was going to kill himself and what's worse, say that he never cared about his brother at all. 

Gently, Ford unzipped his brother’s coat and tossed it aside, the heavy fabric hitting the floor with a wet thud. As he peeled away Stan’s soaked shirt, Ford’s heart dropped into his stomach. He stood there, staring in shock at the grim reality etched into his brother’s skin. Stan’s chest and arms were riddled with scars—faded marks and deep ridges telling a story Ford hadn’t been prepared to see. Some scars were unmistakably cigarette burns, small and circular, clustered in sickening patterns. Others were jagged and uneven, the kind left by knives or broken glass. He didn’t have to wonder how Stan had gotten them, it was a simple answer, one that he knew about from Shermie, from their Ma worried phone calls about having not heard from Stan in weeks, an answer he didn’t want to fully believe. 

He used to tell himself that his brother was fine, that despite the sketchy infomercials, Stan was living well. He told himself those things because he thought it was easier, easier to believe that than to dwell on the latter, easier to let the hurt he felt over the science fair festure in his heart, easier to take Pa’s advice and focus on his own life rather than think about the mess Stan might be in. But deep down, he knew the kind of lifestyle his brother had: jail time, bar fights, one scam after another, the very things Ma had always feared. Ford reached out and touched a rather nasty one that went from his bicep all the way down to his wrist. A lump formed in his throat, and he retracted his hand. 

Well! Looks like he's had quite a fun life. 

Ford dug his nails into his palms, he could practically hear Bill’s mocking voice in his ear. “Go away.” He snarled, turning to the left, expecting to see him floating there, but he wasn’t. For now at least, he knew there was only a matter of time before something happened; he could feel it in his bones, he wasn’t safe. Stan isn’t safe, He thought to himself, shivering at the knowledge that Bill could possess him at any moment and for once it wouldn’t be him the demon would torment, at least not in a physical sense, Bill would hurt him in a far deeper way, by hurting his brother. 

Ford finished putting some dry clothes on his brother and made his way down to the kitchen, and maybe it was due to having his focus on something other than himself, but the moment he stepped in, he truly saw the state of the room that it hit him just how far things had deteriorated. His kitchen was a clutter of failed experiments, scattered remnants of desperate attempts to protect himself from Bill. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, and the fridge reeked of spoiled food. He rummaged through his cabinets, and in the very back he found the unopened bottle of aspirin he’d bought but never used. For a moment, all he could do was watch as Stan lay on his bed, shivering now, which was a good sign, but still looked miserable.

Stan let out a low moan, breaking Ford out of his trance, he moved, and knelt down next to him, “Stanley?”

Stan's eyes flickered open briefly before closing again. “F—?” A choked cough escaped his lips, Blindly, Stan reached out for something, the expression on Stan’s face, it was like he had aged back years, “F-Ford?” 

“It’s okay.” He assures softly, hand hovering just over Stan’s, “Do you think you can take these? They’ll help with your fever.” Stan’s face paled at the mere mention of swallowing something, Ford couldn’t help but smile, Stan always had a near cast iron stomach, but get him sick, and anything he put down his throat will turn against him. “I know, but it’s only aspirin.” He gently placed an arm over Stan and helped him sit up just enough to swallow the pill, downing the glass of water in two gulps, his worry only grew as he hadn’t even considered the fact that his brother could be severely dehydrated. Yet he remained as calm as he could present himself, "See, that wasn’t so bad.”

He expected Stan to laugh at his poor attempt at teasing him, but he simply curled around himself and grasped his hand, “You’re… here right?” He asked almost fearfully, his eyes that matched his own continued to look through him, “I’m not dreamin’ again?”

“I’m here.” Ford answered, unable to look Stan in the eye, “I—”

“I got to ya in time, I thought…” Stan’s voice cracked at the end and trailed off, squeezing his hand, “I thought…”

Ford took a breath and closed his eyes. One, two, three. “It wasn’t me, Stanley.” He said with a sigh, “I mean, it was me, my body but I didn’t say those words…” His voice faded into uncertainty, how was he supposed to explain this to Stan? How was he supposed to tell his brother that he made a deal with a demon and now the world could pay the price for his mistake? “I made a deal with a demon and when I didn’t give him what he wanted, he… has been tormenting, me physically. One way he thought might get to me was through you.” He bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stop because all this was a lot and Stan probably wasn’t coherent enough to understand anything he was saying. 

“I-I knew it wasn’t you.” Stan said with a laugh that turned into a cough, “I knew it, cuz that ain’t you, you don’t… you would never, cos’ that’s me that’s not you… I’m the screw up, the  worthless nothing— that’s tried.. I’ve lost count…” Stan shivered, sweat dripping down his forehead. “How many pills I’d—“

“Stop!” Ford gasped out desperately, gripping Stan’s hand tightly, intertwining their fingers like they used to as kids, “Stop, please stop!” His brother was clearly delirious, he must be because these were dark, private thoughts that Ford himself has never heard before, thoughts he knew he was never supposed to hear. Thoughts he never wanted to hear. The idea that his brother had actually… he felt bile bubble up in his throat. “Please…” 

Stan didn’t seem to hear him. He kept talking, kept spilling his truths, laying himself bare. “… was an ccident ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry I… didn’t mea…” 

Ford thought about the anger he’d felt towards Stan, writing about his brother in his journal and then crossing him out because the sting of betrayal from his own brother still hurt years later, like a festering wound he thought wouldn’t heal. At the time he had thought Stan had destroyed his project as a way to manipulate him into staying with him to going treasure hunting, he had been so angry that he hadn’t even considered that it was an accident. But thinking back on it now, he knew that wasn’t true, Stan loved him far too much to ever sabotage him. When he was younger he had always loved that part of Stan, his unconditional love, his amazing gift to just connect with anyone. He didn’t know when he found that so indestructibly suffocating 

Yet, it had been easy to let his anger fester, to believe their dad’s words, but now…

Damn his anger, damn his grudge, damn their father for throwing a seventeen year old out on the streets over one damn mistake, and damn him for letting his grudge go on for longer than it needed to, it’s not worth his brother. 

Stan pressed his face into the pillow, a deep cough shook his shoulders, and he whimpered, and even still he continued to apologize, holding Ford’s hand in a death grip. “Sorry… ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry.” 

His breath hitched deep in his throat, Ford reached his other hand out and pressed it against Stan’s forehead, running his fingers through his brother’s hair, a gesture their mother used to do when they were young, “Shhh, I know... I know…” He couldn’t take it anymore, he couldn’t listen to his brother repeatedly murmur anymore apologizes, his chest hurt from the pain, from the guilt he now felt, all he wished at this moment was for Stan to fall asleep, let him sleep so that Ford could compose himself.

Thankfully, the comforting gesture seemed to do the trick, Stan’s breathing evened out into short, ragged puffs. Ford let out a relieved sigh, and for a moment he sat there in silence. Unable to do nothing else but hold Stan’s hand tightly, using his thumb to soothe the wrinkles of discomfort along his brother’s forehead. 

Ford could feel something itch at his skin. He felt something. He felt that Bill was toying with him, mocking him, he felt dread form in his stomach. What was he to do? How could he take care of Stan while he was sick, and protect him from himself. Bill could take over at any moment, and it was either a miracle he hadn’t already or he was waiting for the right moment, possess him and do god knows what to his brother. 

“Don’t worry.” He smiled for what felt like the first time in years, giving Stan’s hand another squeeze, “I won’t let him hurt you.”

Chapter Text

The first thing that his mind registered was how horrible he felt. He’s been sick before as a kid but nothing could compare to this . He blinked awake, eyes heavy and vision blurry, struggling to make sense of where he was. Everything ached— his head throbbed, his chest felt like it was being crushed, and each breath came out as a shallow rasp. A wave of nausea rolled through him as he tried to sit up, only to be hit by a dizzying disorientation. For a moment, he couldn’t remember how he’d ended up here. The room was dim, and the covers felt too warm and suffocating against his feverish skin. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of memory slipping through his grasp. What had happened? Why did it feel like he’d been hit by a truck? 

Then it hit him like a punch to the gut. The reason he felt this way, the reason he felt this horrible was because he’d been in a snowstorm. In that moment, everything came rushing back, the call he’d gotten back in Nevada, his brother telling him he was going to off himself by throwing himself in the nearest lake, pushing through mountains and mountains of snow, his fingers and hands numb but in agony. 

And then Stanford…

There had been Ford, holding him close and saving his life. Stan blinked away the haze, and when his vision adjusted to his surroundings, he saw a wooden ceiling above him, the air around him smelled old and wet, like years of rain and weather had slowly made the structure around him rot. As he lay there, something to his left caught his ear, slowly, he turned his head to the left— 

“Stanford?”

There was his brother, sitting with his legs crossed on the floor over in the corner, papers scattered around him, with what looked to be a hate made out of… tin foil? Ford perked up at the sound of his name, turning around, Stan saw relief on Ford’s face, “Stanley!” His brother stood up and made his way over to him, just as Stan attempted to sit up, but his vision blackened, he felt a hand on his chest, pressing him back against the pillow. “Don’t move so fast; your fever hasn’t broken yet.” 

Hearing his brother’s voice after so long was so surreal, it was like he was in one of his many dreams, where he hadn’t fucked up and ruined his brother’s life and Ford still cared about him. He never wanted to wake up. He reached a hand up, rubbing it down his face, he let out a sigh, “F- Ford…”

“I’m here.” Ford replied, gently laying a hand on top of his, which seemed to ground him to reality

Stan could help but look at the goofy hat Ford had on his head, “Wh-Why do you have t-tin foil on yer head?”

“That’s… not important right now. Stan, please, how are you feeling?”

“Te-Terrible.” That seemed the most accurate way to describe how horrendous he felt. “How long have I been like t-this?” 

“As of now? Around four days.”

“What?” He felt his heart drop into his stomach. He’s never been sick more than a few days. Four days was excessive, it was him imposing on Ford’s life for far too long. He can only imagine how annoyed his brother was, having to watch him while he had important science stuff to go. He went to sit up again, gripping the blanket as a means to move and stand. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to— I’ll go… I’ll—“

Hands gripped his shoulders, preventing him from moving, “Go? Wait, hold on! Stanley, you have pneumonia, you can’t just go!” 

Stan blinked 

And blinked again

“Really…?” 

Ford’s grip on him lessened slightly, “Yes, it was… I realized what it was when you started coughing blood. I… Well, I was lucky that I never returned that book from the library when we were kids. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know how to treat you.”

Despite the deep ache he felt in his lungs, Stan smiled, remembering that book. “And here everyone thought I was a thief, not returning a book to the library, For shame.” 

Ford blinked at him and then actually laughed, Stan’s smile widened at the sight, “Stan, you stole that book for me, you knucklehead.” 

Stan shrugged, refusing to break the momentum they had going. “It was during the time you wanted to be a doctor.” He recalled a younger Stanford, running to their mom after being bullied at school for the tenth time that week, begging for medical equipment. Even back then, Stan knew that the only reason his brother did that was because he thought that would make him “normal” in the eyes of their peers. 

“Yeah.” Ford smiled, looking to be recalling the same memory as him. He felt something tighten in his chest, partly due to his apparent pneumonia and partly due to the expression on his brother’s face, he doesn’t know what Ford has been up to the last few years but knew it hadn’t been good and right now he just looked so content. At peace, like he had when they were kids. It suddenly struck him, like a whirlwind; this was the first real conversation they’d had in ten years.

“Stanley?” He hadn’t realized he was crying until Ford said his name, he looked up and saw concern on his brother's face, the grip Ford had on his shoulders returned, “What is it? Are you in pain? I managed to make some medicine from a special moss I found that acts as a pain reliever if you—“

Stan shook his head, “No, no… I’m well… I f-feel like shit but… I just—“ He attempted to take a breath through his corrupt lungs. “I missed you, Poindexter.” 

For a second, there was silence. 

”Oh Stan…” 

He couldn’t recall the last time he received a hug. Not one of those flirty “let me take you by the arm, let’s dance the night away” hugs. Those were fake and only used on girls to have a good night when he needed to forget how miserable he felt. But a real hug, held close. No judgment, no he hatred, just loved and protected, like he used to feel when he was a kid. When he fell off the pier and cracked his head against a rock, where his brother pressed him close and screamed for help, when he crawled into his mom’s lap, sick with the flu after yet another failed a test at school with that damn sign. 

Extra Stan, 3 dollars or better offer.

The moment he felt six fingers gently grasp the back of his neck and pulled him close, he melted into it, and he clung to his brother like a man drowning at sea, pressing his face onto the croak of Ford’s shoulder and wept like a child. Ford tightened his hold on him, “I missed you too.” 

For the first time in over a decade he felt whole, he felt home. 

“‘M so sorry, Poindexter.” Stan cried, voice muffled against his brother’s coat. “You’re project—“

“No.” Ford pulled back enough to look at him. Stan’s heart ceased in his throat, immediately thinking he’d overstepped and said the wrong thing, yet when Stan looked at his brother, he saw Ford looked concern, worry and love… Love for him, love he once had thought had died the day he ruined Ford’s life. This had to be a dream, it had to be. “No, please. You don’t need to apologize; you already did that. I know, Stanley.” 

“You… know?”

“Yes. I lost count at how many times you would wake in delirium, apologizing to me. I know what happened was an accident, I know you’re sorry. I know everything, I—“ Ford trailed off looking down for a moment before gazing up at him again. “I’ve… had four days to mull over everything. To really stop and think about what happened that day. And Stan, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never even considered what happened had been an accident. I’m sorry I never tried to stop Pa from kicking you out. I’m sorry I never tried to call you, never tried to check in to see if you were okay.” Ford’s expression twisted into that of shame and guilt, reaching up he cupped his face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “You’ve gone through so much, things I didn’t want to believe, but your scars… you’re in so much pain and I’m sorry that I’ve been the cause of it.” 

Stan’s stomach dropped at the knowledge that Ford possibly knew everything that happened to him. Had he really been that delirious that he poured out all his dark thoughts and secrets? The look on his brother’s face, it was so guilt ridden, so pained. He couldn't handle that. He’s never been able to handle Ford being upset. “You don’t need to be sorry, Sixer, I’m the one who—“

“Stanley...” Ford leaned and pressed his forehead to his own. An action they haven’t done since they were kids. “I forgive you.”

For a moment, all Stan can do is stare. He stares at Ford, searching his brother's eyes for any sign of resentment or lingering hurt, but all Stan finds is a calm certainty. Then in seconds everything hits him, like a wave crashing over him, Stan lets out a breath that turns into a sob and he falls forward, pressing his face against Ford’s shoulder and clings to him. Ford held him, clung to him just as tightly, rocking them back and forth, like they used to when they were young. He could feel himself shaking. Or maybe that was Ford or perhaps it was both of them. Maybe they were both sharing their pain like everything else. He felt something deep in his heart beginning to heal in the quiet of Ford’s room with nothing but the wind blowing outside. All the years of self deprecation and guilt, all the sleepless nights and hollow days, doing everything he could just to survive, everything he’s done, all his mistakes, all begin to dissolve and heal under the warmth of Ford’s forgiveness. 

Ford didn’t hate him after all. 

“Of course, I don’t hate you, Stanley. I… I’m sorry I ever made you think I didn’t, I’m sorry he made you think I didn’t.”

Stan blinked, “He—?” 

As he takes a breath, it catches in his throat, sharp and ragged, like the scrape of sandpaper. His chest tightens, and his body shudders violently with a deep, hacking cough that seems to rattle his very core. Ford pulled away fast enough for Stan to start hacking into his hand. One moment his brother was right beside him, and the next he was gone. He blindly reaches for Ford, panic ceasing his heart. His face contorted in agony, eyes squeezed shut as if trying to shut out the pain, Stan felt like a fragile plain of glass, and each cough would shatter him completely. 

A sharp jolt of horror struck him as he suddenly realized that he couldn’t breathe. Stan felt six fingers grasp his own, he barely had time to call out to his brother again before hot steam suddenly scorched his face. His brother said nothing, rubbing a hand along his back and holding something under his face. He didn’t like that his brother was being so quiet, his weakly gripped Ford’s arm, terrified that he couldn’t draw a single breath. “F–Fo—“

“I’m here.”

He dug his nails into the frantic of Ford’s coats, he couldn’t talk because he couldn’t breathe . “B-Brea… c-can’t.” He gasped out as he started to panic. He was scared, he felt like he was dying.  

Ford held him tight, lifting up whatever item he had in his hand further up to his face, while using the other arm to run circles along his back. “I know, I know , Stanley. Just.. match me. It’s okay. I got you, it’s okay… it’ll pass. In and out. Through the nose, out the mouth.” 

Stan tried to do as he was told, but it was difficult. Sweat streamed down his temples, tracing lines along his neck and back, his face burning like it was on fire. For what felt like an eternity, Stan wrestled with his breath, until finally, he managed to match with his Ford’s steady rhythm. A moment later, he gasped desperately, gulping down air into his starved lungs.

“That’s great, Stanley. You’re doing great.” His brother praised; voice laced with concern. Like it had when they’d been kids any time Stan had done something stupid or heroic. He never liked seeing Ford upset, call it brotherly instincts, but it always hurt to see his Ford upset about anything. Stan wished he had the strength in him to tell a joke, to tease him, anything that would make the concern in his brother’s voice go away, but he coughed again and let out a low moan of pain.

For a moment nothing else was said, he was content with Ford just holding him, Stan closed his eyes and let out a sigh, he still couldn’t believe this was real , that this wasn’t one of his dreams that he’s had so many times these last ten years, Ford forgiving him was something he never thought he’d get while still drawing breath, and yet here he was being taken care of and loved by the brother he’d hurt. Yet in the silence of Ford’s home, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, Ford’s words suddenly echoed back to him. 

“I’m sorry he made you think I didn’t.”

With a slow, deliberate effort, he straightened up and gazed at Ford. It was the first time in what felt like ages that he really looked at his brother, Ford’s appearance was startling. His shoulders were slumped, and his eyes, usually so sharp and full of life, were clouded with a weariness that went far beyond mere exhaustion. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes, and his skin was pale, almost ashen, as if he had only seen the bare minimum of actual sunlight. 

His brother seemed to sense the shift, Ford gripping his shoulders gently, a small smile on his face, “I know you have questions, and I promise I’ll answer them, but right now you need to rest, you need to heal, let me take care of you…” Stan could see the exhaustion there. He could tell that Ford was a man running on empty for far too long, and was holding himself together by sheer force of will. “Please, let me do this for you.” Those eyes, identical to his own, shined with guilt, with plea, with desperation. 

How could Stan say no? 

“Okay.”

He let Ford care for him. He let his brother go through the very motions their mother had gone through with them when they’d been sick. Temperature checks, throat examinations, aspirin for his fever, drinking broth and a spoonful of honey for his cough, he had no idea how Ford managed to leave the room and suddenly acquire an oxygen mask, but now he had it around his face, while Ford shined a light in his eyes, that bit was a new one for him, but he knew better than to question his brother when he was this focused. Ford was always very calculated, a check-off-all-the-boxes kinda man. 

“How’s your breathing?” 

He’s lost count how many times Ford asked him that question.

“Okay.” 

He lost count at how many times he’s answered. 

Ford reached out a hand and felt his forehead, grimacing a little. “Fever’s still there.”

“It’s a stubborn thing, huh? Wish I could find a girl that persistent; I’d finally have a committed relationship." He teased, trying to ease some of the tension along his brother’s forehead. He felt triumphant when he witnessed Ford give him a small chuckle and a smile. 

“How are you feeling, Stanley?” 

If he was truly honest, even with all of Ford’s care and help, he still felt like absolute shit. It wasn’t as bad as when he’d got caught in that snowstorm, yet his body ached all over still, he had such a headache that he felt like skull was about to split open, and despite being able to breathe, every breath made his chest hurt.

But he didn’t tell Ford any of that, Ford looked exhausted enough as it was, right now all that his brother needed was some food and some sleep, he shrugged his shoulders. “I’m good.” 

Ford didn't look convinced, “Stanley, I’ve known you since we were born. ‘I’m good’ means ‘I don’t want to say how I’m actually feeling’. So, how are you feeling?” 

Stan fidgeted with a corner of his blanket for a moment, before sighing. “Like hell.”

“Where?” 

Stan gestured to all of him, “Everywhere, it still hurts to breathe.” 

Ford tapped a finger against the dresser. Stan knew that tell, just as much as he knew his own, his brother was getting more and more concerned, Stan reached out and curled a hand around Ford’s fingers. “Ford, hey, it’s okay. I feel better than I did when I got here.” 

“I… I know that, Stan but…” 

It wasn’t hard for Stan to notice that Ford seemed more agitated than he’d been before, this seemed far more than concern. His brother had been grasping at his coat and looking around the room the past several minutes. The dark circles under his eyes were now even darker, Ford looked ready to either pass out from exhaustion or have a nervous breakdown. 

And if he was being honest, it was scaring him. It was like Ford was waiting for something bad to happen. “F-Ford, hey… ya agreed to questions once ya took care of me. Maybe you could…”

Ford’s expression turned from concern to shame in a matter of seconds. “I… don’t even know where to start. Part of me… doesn’t want to explain but… you deserve the truth. All of it.” Ford reached into his coat and pulled out a book, Stan watched as his brother looked at the book thoughtfully for a moment before placing it in his hands. It was a red, leather-bound book with a six fingered golden hand carved on the front. He ran his fingers over the rough surface of the journal’s cover, tracing the deep, uneven lines etched into the worn leather. “What’s this?”

“This is one of three journals I’ve written over my time here in Gravity Falls.” 

“About what?” 

A ghost of a smile spread across Ford’s face. “Anomalies.”

Stanley sat for what seemed like forever listening to Ford explain well, everything. What he’d been studying these past couple years, how this one journal was full of the very things his brothers had been obsessed since they were kids, he stayed completely silent while Ford looked him in the eye and said that Unicorns were real, that gnomes loved pie and that actually had found a creature that could shapeshift into anyone.

“Wait—” Stan wheezed, flipping through one of the journals “A Leprecorn?” 

Ford made a face, looking immediately annoyed at the mention of the creature. “I still wonder how those things came into being.” 

The sheer absurdity and humor of it all would have led anyone else to dismiss Ford as delusional, but their past encounter with the Jersey Devil had since made him a believer to the things he couldn’t explain, even when he didn’t fully understand them. As Ford spoke, Stan couldn't help but smile at the spark of light in his brother's eyes, it had been so long since he’d seen it. “Is that the reason you got that tin foil hat on her head? More research?”

The smile faded and the spark in his brother’s eyes fizzled away, the moment those words left his lips. “No… that… it’s something else. Something… dangerous.”

A pit of dread settled on his stomach. The tone of Ford’s voice, the way his shoulders slumped in shame. He knew immediately, something bad happened, something Ford was scared to talk about, “Are one of those creatures after you?”

Ford closed his eyes and rubbed a hand down his face. “Nothing in this dimension.” Remorse washed over his brother’s features, suddenly his brother looked like he aged 20 years, the exhaustion was, whatever happened, whatever his brother did, it had been bad. “I… a few years ago I found some mysterious writing in a cave one day, an incantation about a being from another universe with answers , actual answers that would help me, part of the incantation was… a warning not to summon him.”

Both of them were Jewish and were raised as such until Stan decided it just wasn’t for him anymore, still as kids he remembered the days going to synagogue every Friday night. What Ford was suggesting he’d done was something that went against what even their parents believed. 

“You made a deal with a demon.” 

It wasn’t question, and Ford didn’t deny it. The remorse on his face was proof enough. “I was… desperate… I… Stan, he promised me answers, he said he was a muse, that he only picked one mind a century and that I was one of them. But I fell for all his flattery and games…” This wasn’t news to Stan, it wasn’t a surprise. The way they were raised, how cruel and abusive their father could be towards them. Always putting Ford up on a pedestal, always asking for him and more, with nothing ever being enough. It was no wonder his brother always lit up from any kind of positive compliment or validation. Filbrick Pines asked for too much from one twin and never wanted the other to begin with. And now Ford who craved for that validation so deeply, that he made a deal with a demon from another universe.

Stan reached forward and grasped Ford’s shoulder. “Okay. So ya made a deal with the devil. Let’s brainstorm, how do you and I stop it?”

”Wait…” Ford blinked owlishly at him. “Y-You believe me?”

He smiled, nodding and chuckling at the expression he hasn’t seen in such a long time. “Poindexter, you look like you haven’t slept in months, your hands are bandaged, and you’ve got tin foil on ya head, o’course I believe you…“ He trailed off when he saw Ford let out a wet, hollowed chuckle that turned into a dry sob, “Stanford?”

Ford shook his head, letting out a gasp of air, trying to calm himself down, “I’m sorry… I just didn’t think anyone would… I was too ashamed, I thought you’d—” 

Oh. He thought, sadly. His heart constricting in his chest. Ford really thought he’d judge him, scrutinize him for his mistakes, for trusting this Bill in the first place. But Stan’s been around the world, where he’s gotten into his own problems, had his own fuck ups, trusted others he shouldn’t have and got stabbed in the back too. He had no right to judge his brother for his actions when his weren’t much better, Stan let out a sigh, offering as much comforting as he could, then something occurred to him, “That was him on the phone, wasn’t it?” He realized, he didn’t even need Ford to give him an answer, he knew with the upmost certainty, that whoever had called him, hadn’t been his brother. 

Despite not needing an answer, Ford gave him one anyway, “Yes that was him. Bill, his name is… Bill. That was one of his many attempts to punish me.” Ford ran a hand down his face then looked him in the eye, determined, “Stanley, I need you to know that I wouldn’t have, I would never tell you that I didn’t … ”

Stan patted Ford’s shoulder, “I know, Poindexter.” He still remembered the call. Remembering how strange his brother sounded over the phone. How it did and didn’t sound like his brother and knowing that it wasn’t Stanford but a demon possessing his body, it all made a lot more sense. “Is that why you have tin foil on yer head?”

Another laugh, this time a little more genuine. “He’s a dream demon, and wearing metal is just one of several ways to keep him from getting in one’s mind.”

Metal, huh?  

He thought back to the welding class their pa had forced him to take for a year. It had been unbearably dull—the constant clanging of metal, the overbearing heat, and the suffocating smell of burning steel. He’d hated every minute of it. But despite the boredom, a few lessons had stuck with him. He remembered learning about the different types of metals, their unique properties, and just how strong some of them could be. It surprised him now, realizing how those forgotten skills might actually come in handy. 

“You say metal keeps him out?”

Ford nodded grimly, his face contorted into frustration, “It’s one of the ways; unicorn hair is another, that’s proven impossible to get for a variety of reasons, so yes, if I don't keep this tin foil on my head, he’ll possess me, he’ll probably hurt you..”

“Why don’t you make a room with metal plates?” He suggested, voice low as he thought about it more. “From what I remember of that class I took in school, there's tons of different types of metals out there, we could try some or we can use them all.” He stopped mid ramble as a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Shit! Actually! I have a metal helmet in my dufflebag we can use, stole it from a guy who was trying to model it after that Juggernaught guy!” He let out a chuckle, remembering just how he tried to charm his way into letting the guy give him a discount but then just decided to steal it anyway. “It ended up looking more like those, what were they called? Nicky Bigs—?” Stan let out an unintelligible sound that ended in a surprised oomf as Ford practically collapsed against him, pulling him into a desperate but gentle hug, he could feel Ford’s shoulders shaking. 

Stan returned the embrace, holding Ford so gently like he was made of glass, had he said something wrong? Maybe the metal room was a dumb idea after all, how could they get that much metal in a short amount of time? Maybe the helmet was more suitable? “Stanford?” 

“I’m such a fool.” Ford muttered, voice trembling, “All this time, I could have had you with me, I let myself be tricked, I was so blinded by validation, but you! You, Stanley, you probably would have seen through Bill’s lies, and prevented me from making such a mistake, you could have done so much more because you're so smart, Stanley!” He pulled away, grasping Stan’s shoulders tightly, tears streaming down his face, as broken laughs escaped him, “I’m such an idiot, I never should’ve let you go, I never should’ve gotten so angry, I never should’ve let Pa make me think you're a leech, I let him warp my perception of you, when all you’ve ever done is be there for me! I’m so sorry, Stanley!” 

His heart ached seeing his brother like this, Ford was at the edge of an abyss he couldn’t pull back from, guilt for what happened so long ago, being deprived of sleep for so long, all those things were threatening to pull his brother down into the darkness and Stan didn’t know what to do, how does one comfort and bring a person back from that ledge of mass hysteria. “Hey.” He whispered, cupping Ford’s cheeks in his hands and pressing their foreheads together, “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not.” Ford shook his head, reaching up and grasping his hands tightly with his hand, a broken smile nearly splitting his face, still laughing. “I-I’m so sorry, Stanley. I love you, I’m sorry.”

“It’s o-okay.” His vision blurred, tears spilled down his cheeks at the declaration, all of this felt too surreal, it felt too good to be true, like a dream he never wanted to wake up from. “I love you too, Ford.” He patted his brothers back, rocking them both back and forth, something he remembered Shermie doing to them before he left home. The room echoed with the sound of Ford’s laughter, a sharp, almost manic cackle that filled every corner like a rising tide. It swelled, stretching thin until it cracked, morphing into ragged, broken sobs. Then, without warning, everything stopped—his voice, his breath, as if the room had taken everything and left only silence. 

He knew Ford hated that, ever since they were kids his brother never seemed to thrive in silence, it unnerved him, unsettled him, so he took it upon himself to break it, “So… I had a good idea?”

Another laugh escaped his brother, this time though it was devoid of any hollowed, broken pain like before. “Stanley, I’ve been too afraid to sleep for over a month now, the mind and body are such fragile things, any longer and I would have died…but you? Stan, you saved me!”

He felt his heart fill with warmth, he wasn’t used to so much praise, it was all so foreign to him having been told how worthless he was for so long, but he was grateful for it nonetheless, “Really?”

Ford leaned back and laughed, shaking him with joy. “Yes! I can finally sleep! You’re amazing, Stanley!” 

Stanley grinned brightly, cheeks flushing from embarrassment, not used to getting praised so highly, “Then go get that helmet out of my duffle bag and get to sleepin’, Sixer! I think we both need it.” Ford chuckled softly, the relief evident in his eyes as he rose from the bed, making his way over to the corner of the room, where Stan’s beaten-up old duffle bag sat slumped against the wall. He watched Ford dig through it for a minute or two before pulling out the Nicky Bigs helmet, the helmet seemed to gleam faintly under the light. Ford turned it over in his hands, examining it for a brief moment, before sliding it onto his head and fastening the chin strap with a satisfying click.

Stan tilted his head, watching as Ford caught his reflection in the mirror across the room. "Fit alright?" Stan asked, his voice light but laced with concern.

Ford stared at himself for a moment, adjusting the helmet slightly before turning back to Stan with a smile. "A little snug, but it’s a major upgrade from the old tin foil hat."

He let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah, I’d say so! Might not be the best thing to sleep in but hopefully it’ll keep that demon out of her head for a while until we can maybe build you a metal room?” 

Ford nodded, his movements now looking stiff as he reached up to tap the helmet on his head. Stan could tell that the strain of those long sleepless nights weighed heavily on him. “With how long I’ve gone without sleep, I likely won’t wake up for…” Ford paused and seemed to lose himself in his own thoughts, “About a week? Give or take?” 

Stan smiled, though it was softer now, the warmth fading as a flicker of doubt crept up his spine. His shoulders tensed, and he found himself looking down at his hands, his fingers absently tracing the seam along the blanket. Without warning, a familiar fear surged within him—an irrational but gnawing thought. What if he looked up and saw that same disappointed gaze, the one their pa used to give him? It hovered in his mind, the weight of old failures pressing down, making him hesitate to meet Ford’s eyes. “It will work, right? I… I know you said metal keeps him out but… I’m not always smart, you know? I—“

“Stanley.”

He flinched, he wished he hadn’t, he regretted it the moment it happened, but body just reacted, he could see as clear as day, Ford yelling at him, throwing him out, he know that it was irrational, he knew none of that was true, Ford just had a breakdown of him babbling how sorry he was for abandoning him, and yet… He felt the bed dip and a hand on his shoulder, “Stanley, look at me, please.”

He did.

There was no judgment, no disappointment, no look of disgust or vile expression, just his brother, his twin looking at him with a smile on his face and a sadness in his eyes, “It will work, and if it doesn’t—“ Stan’s heart lurched in fear, he gazed down at his brother’s banged hands, he reached out and grasped one of them, he had no idea what Ford was like while possessed but if that phone call and the physical state his brother was in was in any indication, then it wasn’t something neither of them needed to happen. His fear must have shown on his face, for Ford wrapped his arms around him not a second later. “If it doesn’t then we’ll just have to raid the junkyard for any metal we can find.” 

Stan pressed his face into Ford’s shoulder, the coolness of the helmet against his skin made him shiver. “Yeah.” 

Exhaustion was starting to creep up on him, his chest ached, and sleep sounded more and more heavenly by the second. Yet Ford insisted they do one more round of checkups before then. Stan wanted to argue, he wanted to sleep but one look at Ford: the worry, the guilt, the love and care. He shut up. He sat through the temperature checks, the oxygen therapy, drinking more of that bland as hell broth, before finally being told to rest. 

Ford stood there for a moment, touching the helmet, tapping it with his fingers, awkwardly, “Well… I suppose I’ll let you rest. But please if… you need anything—“

Stan looked at him, confused. Wasn’t he going to rest too? Maybe he was going to sleep in his own room? He didn’t know if he liked that thought, surely this bed was big enough for the both of them? “Ford, you said you can sleep now.”

“Well… yes! But…” His voice cracked, and his hands trembled, fingers fidgeting restlessly, pressing down on one of his six fingers. All the familiar signs were there—despite the reassurance he had just given Stan, it was clear that his genius brother was still scared, terrified of sleeping. His brother seemed to be caught, torn between wanting to stay and the gnawing fear that, somehow, he might end up hurting him. The guilt of having never been there for him until now, how long they’ve been apart, it was all still a fresh open wound that Ford didn’t seem to know how to handle. 

Wanting to emphasize that they both needed this. He pulled back the covers and moved over closer to the wall, patting the bed in offered invitation, like they used to when they were kids, this bed was plenty big enough for both of them. He smiled but Ford still appeared scared, “Stanley, no, what if I—“

“Stanford.” Stan cut him off gently, a sigh escaping him. “Just c’mere.”

Ford hesitated, his hands trembling as he fidgeted with the helmet strap. but after a long, tense moment, he exhaled and finally relented. Slowly, he moved toward the bed, his movements hesitant and cautious. With a deep breath, he lay down next to Stan, his body stiff, as if he were afraid to relax. 

The next few minutes were spent in silence, he could tell Ford was uncomfortable. But he knew deep down they both needed this. Needed sleep, needed each other’s presence. They’d gone so long without the other. He knew Ford felt it too, that peace, that contentment, the connection they’ve had since childhood. 

That didn’t stop guilt that crawled along his spine like a spider. Way to go, idiot… He thought to himself. You finally get your brother back and you're already making him uncomfortable.  

“Stop that.” 

“Huh— Ow!” Stan hissed in pain when he felt a finger flick his temple. “What the hell!?” He looked at Ford who was giving him a surprising glare mixed with guilt of his own. 

“Stop that.” His brother repeated, “You’ve done nothing wrong, the only reason I’m uncomfortable is because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Stan insisted, even though he wasn’t entirely sure of that himself, but he didn’t care, right now he wanted his brother to stay, even if it was a risk. 

Ford turned his gaze to the ceiling, “I…” He trailed off, thinking, worrying. “I won’t.” There was determination in his brother’s eyes and Stan remembered when that look had always made him feel more at ease, whenever Ford got that look on his face as kids, everything always turned out okay, and yet—

“Why don’t you sleep?” His brother suggested.

He found himself unable to speak, he simply counted the cracks along the wooden ceiling, “…Stanford?” 

“Yeah?”

Stan looked at his brother, he sees the worry, the love and the care there, he sees the face of the man that he’s waited so long to be by his side again, who looked him in the eye and said that he was forgiven, had taken care of him the past couple days, with no sleep, while dealing with a demon threatening to possess him at any given time. He did that all for him. The guilt crawled along his skin, he knew Ford was doing this out of love and probably out of guilt of his own, and yet he still can’t help but apologize, because all of this felt too good to be true, “I’m sorry.”

Ford reached out immediately, hand cupping his cheek. “Don’t—“

“No, please let me say this.” He curled his fingers around Ford’s wrist, “I’ve made mistakes, so many mistakes. I’ve made s-so many enemies, b-burned to many bridges. I’m a conman, I’m a thief… I’m useless… I’m a selfish idiot, I ruined your life—“ He doesn’t know why he’s saying all of this, doesn’t know why his walls are down so low. Normally, his inner feelings about himself are ones he keeps buried deep down within, but they are and now he couldn’t stop. But before he could say anything more about himself, he was being pulled, arms wrapped around him so securely, he felt his back pop. 

“No.” Ford’s voice sounded wrecked, hoarse and filled with emotion, he held him tighter, “You’re amazing, Stanley, the best brother I could’ve asked for. I’m the one that’s the idiot. I should’ve trusted you, believed you, been there for you like you deserve.” 

He sniffed, eyes stinging. “I’ve always been a… burden. I know we’re… okay. But I can’t help but feel— Like this is all a dream. A really good dream. Because in what reality does this happen to me ? A demon bringing me and my brother back together? Only my mind can come up with something that crazy.”

Ford rubbed soothing circles along his back, hugging him closer, firmer. “It’s not, it’s real. You’re here, I’m here. I don’t care that Bill was the motive that brought you here. He did that to break me, to isolate me further, but he failed. You’re here now and so am I. We’re together and I’m never letting you go again.”

Stan gripped the back of Ford’s coat. “S- Sixer.”

Ford ran a hand through his hair, soothingly, he felt his brother press his face into the crown of his hairline. “Thank you, Stanley. Thank you for always being there for me, thank you for being here for me now, even if I don’t deserve it. I promise, whatever happens from here on out, we’ll be together. I love you.”

His breath hitched deep in his throat, and it had nothing to do with his pneumonia, his heart felt lighter, warmer, it wrapped around him like blanket, in his blood, his veins, for the first time in years, he felt wanted, he felt loved by the one person that mattered most to him, and the best part about it all was that this wasn’t a dream or a wish he had made on his birthday ever since he got kicked out, all of this is was all real. Ford’s forgiveness, his love and his apologies were real. 

And that truly was the best gift he’s ever gotten.