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It had been another day of emotional flashbacks for Ford. Stan had gotten better at picking up the signs faster, and had put his foot down again about cutting the day’s work short. By now, he was pretty good at telling when working would help, and when it would only serve to further fray his brother’s already-overwraught nervous system. For all that he still hated the necessity of it, Ford had grudgingly come to accept the benefits of precluding a potential panic spiral, at the very least.
In the beginning, Ford had been frustrated by his brother’s stubborn adamance. “When I’d been traveling through the multiverse,” he’d told Stan in an outburst of irritation towards himself during their second week at sea, “I never needed to do any of this. I’d thought about it all, yes, but then I let it go! It was in the past, I’d moved on! I kept my attention on my work; I had my mission, my focus, my purpose, and that was all that had mattered! All I had needed! I don’t understand why it keeps coming back like this now!”
“Look, I get the frustration, I do,” Stan had replied, “But newsflash, Sixer: it doesn’t work that way. It just don’t. You can’t logic your way through it like that, just think and then move on. You’d been postponing getting through it, not actually getting over it. If you just distract yourself with work and shit instead, then sooner or later the damage is gonna come to collect, yanno? And the more you keep it all in, then the more that emotional piper’s gonna wanna collect. If you try to just power through it, it’s only gonna fester.”
Ford had accused him of being a hypocrite.
At the same time, more seriously, he was well-aware of his own potential to actually be one himself if he avoided what came to haunt him—so he did his best to keep up his end of their deal to rely upon and support each other. Whenever he particularly struggled against a near-lifetime of keeping his challenges to himself, struggled with leaning on his brother to help him through days like this, he reminded himself that Stan could hardly be expected to do the same if he didn’t at least try.
So, he did. They both did. And as time went on, they both got better at it.
Today, they just sat on the deck of the Stan o’ War II and watched as the dying afternoon sun gilded the lazy crests of the ocean’s waves. The calm lolling and bobbing of the water helped soothe Ford into a calmer state of mind after the exhaustion of the day. Lulled him slowly out of his state of shame. He couldn’t help it—every time that Stan had to intervene after noticing his pinched face and trembling hands when he couldn’t contain the floodtides of panic anymore, it felt like another failure on his own part. No matter what Stan said, or how many times he said it.
But just like every time, Stan had shown him the care and patience that Ford still couldn’t quite feel like he deserved. He’d waited Ford out until finally the words started to come. It had been about Bill today, as it so often was. The stupidity of his own perceptions of Bill, his shame at how easily manipulated he had been—and most of all, the lingering panic and paranoia that he so often felt even now: that somewhere, somehow, Bill would find a way to get a foothold in their world again.
He hadn’t, however, managed to get out his greatest terror—that in some way, some fragment of Bill could remain somewhere inside of Stan still. Waiting for his chance to prey on his brother somehow. He wasn’t sure if Stan would be offended by the idea; but more than that, he felt so terrified of it that he felt afraid to even say it at all. Almost as if the act of verbalizing it alone could bring the possibility into being.
Stan still seemed to catch on, though.
“You know,” he started slowly, after a long silence, “it does make sense that you’re afraid of that—it does—but for what it’s worth, I know the difference between how it feels to actually be interacting with the pointy jerk, and to just be havin’ a dream about him. More than just when I already knew he was gonna be goin’ into my head, I mean. Like, him in the mindscape when you’re already sleeping, and whatever, try’na to trick you into that whole handshake biz’. How that feels. It’s not much, I know—but I can say with as good a certainty as I think I’m gonna get, I’m pretty sure he’s not rattling around anywhere in here anymore. So, at the very least, there is that.”
Whatever wave of relief Ford had felt at Stan’s comforting reassurance was quickly overtaken by realization (with a brief splash of horror) at what his brother was implying.
“Wait—wait—WHAT?!” he spluttered through his shock, “You—he—wh—it—Bill tried to make a deal with you?! Why did you never mention this before?!”
Stan just gave Ford a Look. Ford immediately ducked his head, his hand going to the back of his neck as his ears colored slightly. “Right, right—ehm. Sorry.”
Stan gave the briefest of eye rolls, more teasing than actually annoyed, and chuckled. “Heh, it’s fine. I honestly hadn’t even remembered the whole thing until now—only a bit of it, after one of my nightmares…” He interrupted himself, coughing self-consciously. “Anyways—I’d only remembered part of it before, but what I did remember, I hadn’t wanted to stress you with, yanno? It was no big deal, really.”
Before Ford could choke out any kind of incredulous reply as to Stan’s evaluation of his encounter with Bill being “no big deal”, he continued,
“It’s this other nightmare I had, for a long time. Recurring kind. I’m back in the school gym, and I’m tryin’ to fix your perpetual motion machine. But you’re stuck in it, see, you’re inside the machine, and I’m tryin’ to get you out, by fixing it. I’m thinkin’, if I can fix it, if I can only fix it, I’ll get you back. If I can just fix it… And I try and I try, I’m trying and I just…” Stan trailed off, face distant, body tense. He shook himself a little.
“But—I get this same nightmare again, right, not long after you’d gone through the portal. I’m trying and I’m trying, and I’m losin’ my mind about it again—but then this time, a teacher shows up. He’s offering to help me. He says, ‘Hey there, slick! I can get your brother out of there, all you gotta do is shake my hand!’ And I’m all, ‘Why’re you being nice to me? No one’s ever been nice to me in my entire life, what are you?’”
Gazing across the lapping waves, Stan didn’t notice the look that spasmed across Ford’s face, and just continued,
“So then Mr. Teacher Guy’s all, ‘okay, uh, I’m not a teacher! I’m—look, I’m a triangle! I’m the symbol on the back of the money! You like money, right?’ and I say, ‘yeah,’ and he says, ‘Shake my hand and I can get your brother back!’
“And I’m squintin’ at him now, I’m lookin’ at him and I’m askin’ him, ‘Why’d you lie to me before?’ and he’s all, ‘Oh I dunno, I just like telling crazy stories, like you!’ and I just shoot back, ‘Are you a cop?’ and the joker says, ‘I’m not a cop!’ but I’m too sharp to it and I say, ‘sounds like somethin’ a cop would say!’”
By now, Ford’s eyes were beginning to water as his chest heaved, fist clenched against his mouth as he tried desperately to contain the force of his laughter so that Stan could continue uninterrupted.
Stan went on to describe an exchange that contrasted starkly in Ford’s mind to his own first encounter with Bill. Really, he couldn’t think of an interaction more the diametric opposite to his own doe-eyed foolishness than the story that Stan was describing—for once, seeming to not be placing any embellishments on his recollection. In a look that Ford had begun to grow familiar with in these past months, his face seemed drawn in a concentration that was limited to pulling threads from the gaping expanses still swimming in his mind, too focused on the act of remembering to add any flourishes.
Ford was shaken from his reverie as Stan concluded with a shrug, “So then yeah, that dumb triangle gets fed up fightin’ with me, lookin’ like he couldn’t be more exasperated, and for once the dream doesn’t end on a completely crap note, and I sorta wake up. Hadn’t thought much of it after, to be honest.”
For a moment, Ford struggled to form his response. Stan looked back over at him, his face furrowing slightly in concern. “Ford? You okay? Sorry, I know that hearing about him—”
“NO,” Ford managed to gasp, “No—that was—amazing—Stanley, you’re—I mean,” becoming aware of his now-streaming eyes as he struggled to articulate his response. He finally let a bright laugh bubble up from within him before sobering slightly into a warm smile.
“Just—that was brilliant, Stan. Honestly. I wish I’d been half as wise as you when I’d first encountered him.”
“What, it wasn’t ‘cause I’m too dumb to manipulate?”
Stan hadn’t meant for it to come out harshly; he hadn’t meant anything by it at all, really. But the immediate series of expressions that Ford’s face went through made him internally wince at having said it.
“Fuck, Ford, no, sorry, that came out wrong, I didn’t mean—”
“No, no—it’s okay. I… I know what you meant. That is, I understand that’s still much of how you’re accustomed to seeing yourself. And… I know I’m not faultless or without having any kind of a hand in that pattern, by any means.” Before Stan could protest, Ford went on, “But…” he squirmed a little internally, as determination to meet Stan’s openness with his own warred briefly with his own embarrassment. He gave a little cough.
“So—this may seem like a small nonsequitor, but if you would forbear a moment—” As usual with Ford’s myopia of vocabulary, Stan just looked at him.
“There… was this one time that I went with Fiddleford to a fair, where there was a palm reader. In the smug, superior arrogance that was far too characteristic of me back then, I went to her tent seeking to discredit her for my own amusement. I had already precluded the notion of her having anything of merit to say, and I was ultimately dismissive of the entire experience—well. Especially after she began openly flirting with me, at the end of it,” Ford added with a small grimace.
Stan blinked. Was he talking about…?
“But, there have been times these past months—and indeed, years—when I have been reflecting upon that experience again, about how right she actually was. About everything she said, really. Among them, germanely, she described me as ‘too smart for my own good.’ Naturally, at the time, I took it as an uncomplicated compliment.” He gave a small, bitter laugh, then sighed. “I now believe, instead, that she was correct in more ways than one; the foolishness of much of what I have applied my intellect towards, of many of my previous ambitions and choices in life, of my interactions with Bill. That same intellect which made me feel superior to so many for so long, including to her, so that I simply did not listen to sound advice that could have saved me at a crucial crux in my life.” He shook his head. “Meanwhile, it was the same matter of my intellect eclipsing any sense of pragmatism which made it all the easier for Bill to manipulate me so quickly. It made disgusting sense to me at the time that he would come to gift me in all of the flattering ways that he claimed, simply because I was too full of it to consider—wisely, as you did—any alternative to his motives.”
Shame returned doggedly to him at this. Despite it, Ford glanced down at the palm that she had held all those years ago, at the line running vertically between his last two fingers, and felt a warmth grow in his chest at how its length had changed since then.
A soft smile played across Stan’s face. “So what you’re sayin’ by all that is, I meanwhile was so dumb that I was smart?” He hoped it came across in the teasing way he meant it.
It seemed that he was successful, as Ford threw a playful punch at the air next to his arm in response with a half-smile of his own. “Knucklehead. The contrast that I am demonstrating with this anecdote, as I’ve reminded you before, is that your own intelligence comes in a very different form than mine—to me, your encounter with Bill is a fine example of how it is embedded into your very self. Life has thrown incredible hardship in your path, and not only have you overcome it with great fortitude, but you have also taken the lessons in wisdom that come with something like that. Undeserved circumstances of pain on your part, to be sure—but it was that same innate, yet hard-won wisdom that made it so impossible for Bill to find any leverage to gain upon you. It strengthened you into developing something of an immunity of character to his mechanisms. I wish I had been like you, truly.”
Stan smiled hesitantly, something a little soft and uncertain around the edges of it. “I… thanks.” He shrugged. “I’d kinda been thinkin’ of it like I was too dumb for him to find anything to gain traction with, but… thanks. I appreciate it.”
Ford smiled back in an unspoken understanding.
They spent a quiet moment in contented silence after that, watching the sun dip lower into the sea.
“I wanna ask, though—about that palm reader—‘cause I think she hit on me, too?”
“What.”