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It has been the day of days today. Stan is left sitting, wallowing in his own misery as he attempts to wrap his head around what the fuck just happened to him. After ten years of radio silence, his brother finally contacts him just to tell him to leave and never come back. It hurt like a hot knife to his heart, hearing his twin tell him to go to the farthest edge of the earth and never return. And like the failure he is, he can’t handle it with grace. Lashing out like a beaten dog, he yelled at Ford, threatening to destroy his life’s work for what? An apology? A reaction? He got what he wanted, he guessed, because Ford did react by tackling him to the floor in an attempt to grab the book.
Not one to let such an insult slide, Stan just had to escalate the situation and cause an all-out brawl, taunting him all the while. He shoved Ford into the portal. It’s his fault his brother’s gone. It’s all his fault and he’ll have to live with that forever. The burn on his shoulder throbs especially hard at that thought, as if to shame him further. He had scrambled to look through the journal as soon as Ford had been taken, but it was no use, he didn’t have the other journal nor the brains to do anything.
So here he sits, in the cold, dark, and so painfully empty basement in a house so foreign to him, surrounded by his brother’s magnum opus. Feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, he cracks, he can’t take the pain any further. A choked sob escapes his throat and bubbles out his mouth, and with that the dam breaks. Stan cries like he’s never cried before, each broken cry shaking his body to the core.
It feels like hours until he notices he’s stopped crying. Feeling an exhaustion in his bones, Stan grabs his brother’s journal and forces himself upright. He trudges up the stairs into a bedroom that is so distinctly Ford. It would have been comforting in any other scenario, but as it stands, it makes him feel worse. The worst part is, he can’t bring himself to sleep. He lays there, drowning in regret, staring at the only relics left by his brother; his glasses and the goddamn journal. He feels like a child again, helpless and this time, alone.
The hours tick by but sleep never comes to him. Stan cannot relax, he’s strung out like a junkie from the whirlwind of emotions going through him. Guilt, rage, despair, pain and anguish swirl together in his head until he can’t tell what he’s feeling, and suddenly the light creeps in. The dawn is breaking and Stan hasn’t slept a wink. This realization only worsens the emotional turmoil he feels, his already unstable state shaken deeper until he goes numb.
Crawling out of the bed only makes things worse, the burn on his shoulder sends a shooting pain up his head, causing him to seize up. His head is pounding from the dehydration and exhaustion. The feeling is unbearable but he powers through, he has to if he wants to get Ford back. Getting up feels like a herculean task, but he does it. Stan makes his way back to the basement, it sends a chill up his spine. It’s cold, dark, and deeply unsettling. He looks at the journal and reluctantly opens it. If Stan has a snowball's chance in hell to get his brother back, he needs to use Ford’s journal. The leather is worn and is tearing around the corners, it's obviously been well used. Stan’s eyes dart across the pages, going through each line looking for anything relating to the portal with a desperate fervor. As soon as he has any knowledge of what must be done to fix the portal, Stan searches for tools around the disorganized bunker. He gets to work with an intensity he’d never experienced before.
He works like a dog, going for hours on end, tightening knuts, screwing metal plate after metal plate, trying time and time again only for failure after failure. This continues for days, where Stan wakes up and works on the machine until he passes out from exhaustion. He never sleeps for long, he wakes up every afternoon to the sound of Ford’s screams as he’s taken by the portal. Stan is exhausted, his stomach is aching from starvation. Starvation he hadn’t even realized he was feeling. It takes him a few minutes to think about the last time he had a meal, realizing it was well before he lost Ford. He knows he eventually has to leave and buy food, but he doesn’t even have two pennies to rub together at the moment. In his manic state it was easy to forget the fact that he was broke, but now it's become a hard fact he must reckon with.
Stan starts to scrounge around the house for change, flipping over couch cushions, checking every drawer, and pawing around under the bed. For his troubles, he finds fifteen dollars in various small bills and change. He puts on the one jacket he has to his name and walks out of the house, whispering a small prayer that his car will start while he walks out the door. The cold air bites at Stan’s face; if he wasn’t about to starve to death Stan would have turned back. He finally gets into his car and begins to turn the key, but it does not start. After a few attempts and an incredibly worrying noise, he finally gets the jalopy to start and he drives to town. The road is winding and ill-maintained, it takes a concerning amount of effort to turn the wheel to the whims of the road, but he eventually arrives at a mom and pop grocery store.
Change jingling in his pocket, Stan walks into the store as inconspicuous as he could possibly manage in his condition and grabs a basket. He keeps his head down as he grabs the barest essentials, walking with a purpose through the aisles. He stops occasionally only to grab a loaf of bread and the cheapest eggs he could find. He makes his way to the checkout counter, feeling the weight of a crowd's gaze on his back. He can hear the crowd mutter something, picking up occasional words. He can gather they think he’s Ford, it makes him feel worse. He barely pays for his items with the money he has, quickly grabbing his groceries and booking it out of there as soon as the transaction is complete. He makes it to his car before he breaks down again, guilt eating him from the inside out. He cried like a wounded animal, all short yelps and heavy breathing. The tears fall down his face and onto the shoddy steering wheel under him. He knows he looks like a madman but he can’t stop himself. After five minutes of wallowing in self-pity, Stan manages to pull himself together and begins the drive home. The silence is somber and heavy, amplified by the bleak whiteness of the snow around him.
He manages to get himself inside the shack and slumps against the door. He sits there for a minute, just to gather his thoughts and pull himself together. Eventually, the gnawing pain in his stomach forces Stan to get up and make something with the meager supply he could afford. He thinks about what a fuck up he is while he cooks; it motivates him to get his ass back in gear to work on the portal again.