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“I’m sorry. I don’t know what this is. Or who you are.”
Ford couldn’t take it anymore.
It was too much.
He felt empty. Not numb. Never numb. The guilt eating away at his heart and mind put pay to that, sapping him of all the good and left an empty jagged hole in its wake. A painful tear in his very soul. Hollowed out from the Pyrrhic victory they’d just endured. His mind could logically point out what they’d done and why they’d had to do it, could list outcome after outcome as to what else could have happened. But it fell on deaf ears, his heart the stronger of the two in this instance, even if it felt weak and lost and utterly alone in the vacant chasm of his chest.
He should be elated. Proud even, with a bright tearful mix of utter relief coursing through him at their success. That’s what he’d always imagined when he’d dared to dream about this moment, when his paranoia set in and told him he couldn’t keep the rift safe forever and he’d forced himself to think up how they could win against a dream demon. And now they had won. Everyone was alive. They’d defeated Bill. They’d saved the world.
Stan had saved the world.
And he didn’t even know it.
The price of the world had been one man’s memories. That’s all. One man who was still very much alive and kicking, completely safe and sound like the rest of them. But not entirely himself anymore, all records of his life stripped away. And the knowledge ached through Ford’s soul in waves. He’d never be able to express to him how grateful he was, not really. Never be able to get him to appreciate exactly what he had sacrificed for all of them. All his brother had wanted when he’d come through the portal was a simple ‘thank you’ and though Ford could still argue how necessary that was considering the domino effect it had had, he couldn’t help the spiralling thought that now he could thank his brother as many times as he was able, until his throat was hoarse and his eyes bone dry of tears, and it wouldn’t even matter. Stan would never know why they were all in his debt. The hero of their story forever lost to his own mind.
He’d done that to his brother. He’d made him forget everything to save them all.
It had been Stan’s idea, yes. He had basically ordered him to do it.
But it had still been Ford that pulled the trigger.
It wasn’t fair!
He finally felt like he’d got him back, the perilous situation of the kids in danger bringing them together like nothing else could and within the blink of an eye it had been snatched away from them again.
And now.
Now Stan was looking at him with barely contained frustration in his eyes and a complete lack of recognition that sent a shard of ice into his heart, the void of his chest becoming a frozen wasteland at the sight.
“I don’t know what this is. Or who you are.”
“Grunkle Ford?”
Ford didn’t have it in him to answer as he turned and left the wreck of the living room. He didn’t even have it in him to take another look back at them, to reassure them with a look or a lying smile. He knew he had to be brave, he knew that the kids needed him to be. But he just needed a moment, a moment to try and erase his brother’s burning yet unknowing gaze that had left his heart in tatters.
“Or who you are.”
A soft sob escaped him which he squashed down forcefully, biting at his knuckle as he leant back against the wall, just the other side of the room. The words bounced around in his head, over and over like a broken record as he dimly heard Mabel take to her story again, pulling the others back into their task of helping Stan remember without him.
He should be in there.
He should be helping.
His feet, along with his heart, refused his brains directive. He bit down again on his knuckle as another sob tried to claw its way up his throat, listening to the small tales Mabel span, the trips they’d taken, the adventures they’d been on before he’d turned up halfway through summer. But it was all too much. To hear what they had gotten up to without him, what could have- would have been if Stan had never opened up the portal. He would have missed out on so much, spent the rest of his life on the other side of the portal never knowing how much his family had grown while he was away. But Stan, Stan would have been ok, Stan wouldn’t be this empty husk masquerading as his brother.
“Who you are.”
Ford pulled himself up from his slouching, pushed himself deeper into the house. He wasn’t angry, not anymore. Not about the portal, about anything really. He couldn’t seem to focus on that heavy thick emotion. Stan may have been reckless and foolish but if he hadn’t been, if the apocalypse hadn’t happened then Bill would still be alive. He would still be around somewhere in the mindscape ready to lure the next gullible genius who befell his charm.
Stan’s pure determination had brought about the apocalypse and when the time came ended it all as well.
He’d fixed his own mistakes, in the end.
And if they could have asked him, the real him, he’d probably be happy with this scenario. After all, he’d still managed to get Ford back, got him home safe and sound and taken care of the monster that plagued him, all at the expense of the memories that made him, well, him.
He’d probably see it as a small price to pay.
This isn’t helping.
Ford tried to shake away the dark clouds, tried to tear down the webs of dismal despair that clung to his clothes and face and made it hard to push one foot in front of the other as he stumbled unseeing through the house. It was so hard to keep going, so hard to force himself through the pain, when he wanted nothing more than for the floor to swallow him whole, but he needed to.
The kids needed him to.
He just needed a moment to himself first.
Ford grimaced as the cuff of his trench coat brushed against his wrists, the sudden lancing pain travelling up his arm. His eyes locked on to the injuries that remained there, just barely visible under the layers of clothing. He could still feel the suffocating weight of the manacle around his neck. The bite of the metal etched deep in his wrists, his ankles, an ice cold burn that he couldn’t quite shake even now. And with that thought, everything else opened up, a door he’d already thought he’d compartmentalised in his head slamming back open with little regard and flooding his head with the vile recollections. The utter blank and silent void of nothingness that spread for miles, years even and yet felt like nothing more than mere seconds all in one go as his body locked up into its own hellish gold tomb. The shudder of pure snarling electricity as it was conducted through him, the metal plate in his head thrumming its own painful tune in response as his nerves sparked and contorted his muscles at the energy’s whim instead of his own. The shouted demands and whispered threats for answers growing ever more frustrated that he always refused. The pain as the voltage increased, the chains tightening around his neck in response to his constant rebuttals. The terror of the unknown that he hid behind a smirk when Bull let his lackeys have a go at breaking him instead, tired of his constant rejections. No matter what he tried, the thoughts surged forwards relentlessly. The barrage was actually a small relief as they dampened the frost that his own actions had caused, the agony his brother’s amnesia was causing even as his body shook at the phantom memory of the torture he’d been subjected to.
It was something else to focus on.
Something that he could actually do something about.
Unlike Stan’s memories that is. As much as Mabel seemed hopeful that her pure determination and willpower would somehow unlock some part of his mind, Ford knew it was all a lost cause. There was nothing they could do that would pull him back, the damage was done. He just wasn’t ready to douse the flame of her optimism, not yet.
Ford smiled ironically at the thought, pausing in his movements as he listened intently through the house for her voice. Heard her still painstakingly going through every tiny detail she could remember in the hopes that some small memory would dislodge and they’d have their Grunkle back.
Stan would have been proud of her tenacious spirit.
Ford turned where he stood, stopping the ceaseless walk he’d been planning on. He had a purpose now, had somewhere to go as he travelled up the stairs to the nearest bathroom. He winced as a stair almost gave way beneath him, shuffling quickly up and hoping he’d have a route down again later as he took the last few steps and found himself in the explosion of a room that had once been the main bathroom.
The Shack’s as broken as Stan’s mind.
Ford hissed at the invasive thought, glaring at himself in the cracked and loose mirror before he forced the small door open, blocking the thoughts entirely as he set to work. There wasn’t much in here, not after everything, but it was a start. He could take his time, clean his wounds and hopefully clear his head under the guise of checking himself over if the kids asked. An excuse they’d no doubt not believe but at least not question, glad that he’d taken care of himself. He sighed as he pulled out an antiseptic that had seen better days and enough bandages to sort himself out in the short term, letting his mind fall into familiar territory and blank out everything else that was plaguing him. He settled into the blank mind set with little resistance, the emptiness a welcome reprieve as his hands tweaked his clothing away from his neck, the thought of removing the items entirely leaving a bitter vulnerable taste in his mouth. He closed the cupboard and stared at himself in the mirror, moved his head this way and that with a grimace of disgust at the marks and bruises that littered his neck. He grabbed a vaguely clean cloth within arms reach and opened the antiseptic, his nose scrunching up distastefully at the smell. Then he got to work, the sharp clean pain dragging him further from his thoughts and grounding him into the here and now, away from Bill, away from Stan and away from everything that had happened over the last few days.
He just needed a moment. Just one to sort his thoughts out into something resembling normality and pretend he could deal with this. Then he could be there for the kids when they realised there was nothing they could do, could be there for the others who had grown to love and respect a man who was no longer with them.
Just a moment to bandage up his own wounds, to tend to the scars that were already forming deep in his heart and then he could face the world. Face the kids. Face Stan.
A sharp gasp had him flinching, the cloth falling from his hands into the sink in a fumbled motion. He closed his eyes, hands tight around the ceramic, trying desperately to get the clarity of mind back that he had seconds ago. But the moment had passed, shattered beyond repair as the one person he really couldn’t face just yet stood close behind him, his breathing heavy and loud across the room with sympathetic concern. The atmosphere was awkward, pained and confused in equal mix as Ford fought not to turn to him and the other stood staring at his back, completely clueless to the circumstances.
“Y-yeesh. You look like you’ve been through the mill.”
Ford snorted, unable to help the derisive noise launching out of him at Stan’s words, even as his head bowed over the sink, a tremor running through him. “You have no idea.” He was trying for flippant, a sad amusement colouring his tone but it just turned sour, bitter on his tongue as he stared dismally at the discarded cloth in the sink.
“You’re right, I don’t.”
Ford blinked, glancing around at the other man who raised an eyebrow back at him, arms crossed and stubborn even though Ford wasn’t sure what had brought the temperament to the forefront.
“You wanna talk about it? That’s what I was getting at. Probably best person to talk to, considering I have no idea and can’t really judge.”
Ford continued to stare at him owlishly, shaking his head even as Stan stepped into the room, ignoring his frosty welcome and moving passed him to the sink where he pried Ford’s hands away softly and pushed him towards the toilet seat. It wasn’t until he was seated that he snapped out of his confusion, a breathy whisper escaping him as Stan picked up the cloth and doused it with more antiseptic. “What are you doing up here, St-” The words caught in his throat. It was wrong to call this husk Stan. “I mean, why aren’t you with the kids?”
Stan stared back at him, eyes boring into him uncomfortably until he couldn’t take it and broke the contact. The man shrugged, kneeling with a soft groan in front of him before he pulled the sweater down further and set to work cleaning the wound better than Ford had been managing on his own. He gave an awkward cough as Ford’s eyes found his again, the question still there along with a plea for him to leave and go back to them. “Well, you know? Those kids, am I right?” Stan gave a weak chuckle, shaking his head fondly. “I don’t really know them, even if they think I do but I can see they’re great kids. A bit worse for wear but they’re little fire crackers.” He smiled as Ford returned the expression, nodding along with him wistfully. His smile faltered as he continued, sending a pang of concern through Ford’s chest. Maybe he shouldn’t have left them alone. “B-but, they’re so bright and full of energy and they keep saying it’s OK that I don’t remember them but it’s obviously not-” Ford’s hand found Stan’s, cupping the one currently at his neck as Stan took a shuddering deep breath out in response. “Sorry, just-just got a bit too much.”
“They overwhelmed you.” Ford muttered, watching Stan nod with relief that he understood and wasn’t forcing him to go back down there. Apparently he wasn’t ready to face the world either just yet. Ford stayed quiet, not flinching or moving as Stan continued his ministrations on his neck, even when the other man winced sympathetically as more of the wound became visible under the dirt and grime layered above it.
“So, I thought I’d come find you, that’s all.” The movements faltered again for a moment before continuing. “Not sure why. Just seemed like you needed someone to talk to. Guess I got that wrong, you needed someone to help with this.”
Not you though. Ford’s mind supplied bitterly as Stan gestured to his neck, still not knowing what had caused it, what they had both been through in only the last few hours, in the last few decades for crying out loud. And there was the wound in his heart reopening all over again, the thoughts spiralling as to what his Stan would be doing in this moment. How he would have fought him away more, not wanting him see the extent of the damage Bill had caused, most probably unsuccessfully but fight he would have. How Stan would have raged, a towering inferno of cusses and dark vengeful eyes as he promised to drag Bill out of the pit he’d sent him to and kill him all over again even as his hands were soft against his skin and tended to his wounds as gently as was possible with the storm bubbling through his veins, sending tremors through his hands.
If Ford closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was real, Stan’s grip warm and comforting and there at least, even if a fundamental piece of him was missing.
And then there were bandages being wrapped tight around his neck and his heart and throat squeezed in response to the feeling. His eyes snapped back open, pupils dilated with panic. He shoved the other man none to softly away from him, fumbling for the roll of bandage unravelling slowly down his chest and held it close to him with trembling fingers. “I-I can do that.”
“Ok, Ok, yeesh, only trying to help.” Stan shuffled further back, annoyance showing through the concern as his arms stopped him from falling completely to his back from his earlier crouched position. He waited quietly for a few moments as Ford struggled alone, eyebrow raised again in question but he didn’t dare broach the subject. Ford ignored the gaze digging into his skull, hoping the man might leave him to it now but it was a lost cause. He’d made it obvious in that motion that he wasn’t alright and Stan seemed hell bent on staying with him, a comforting presence to ease him through whatever was going on.
He just didn’t seem to realise that he was the situation that he needed comfort for.
“Is that the only injury?”
Ford found himself shaking his head before his mind caught up, cursing at his inability to stray from the facts. ‘Yes he had other injuries, so what?’ his body had supplied for the other man even when his brain screamed at it to stop, that Stan wouldn’t take it the same way and would now want to know more. His mind’s scream became more subdued as a small layer of the burden lifted with the confession and Stan’s distress grew in his thinly tapered lips and his nod of acceptance. Perhaps he did need to tell him, a blank slate that could at least take in the information even if he couldn’t comprehend it all. “I-It’s hard to explain.”
Stan tilted his head, the 180 of the conversation going over his head as they sat there staring at each other. Ford licked his lips, his mouth dry as he continued, gesturing to his neck and then pulling up his sleeves, wincing at the raw noise that came from Stan’s mouth. “I won’t go into the details, just the consequences. I was tied up, there might be similar on my ankles…feels like there should be.” He rubbed his ankles together where he sat, the pain grounding him again as he stared downwards at his hands, his finger tracing the manacles indentations at his wrists. A small lance of pain ran between his shoulder blades as he tried to straighten his back, an eye closing at the sensation as he rolled one shoulder around and around to try and dislodge the discomfort that now rested there. Now that he had noticed it though it just seemed to burn brighter with every movement, the fabric of his clothing scratching along it, irritatingly sharp. “T-think I’ve done something to my back as well though. Might be a burn.”
“How’d you burn your back then? Seems a bit of a weird spot, were you juggling fire or something?”
Ford huffed at Stan’s small jab, the smile on his face hoping to defuse something of the atmosphere. Ford tried to smile back, he really did, but the truth of the matter just wouldn’t let him. “I didn’t burn my back.” He forced the words out, hoping to end the issue but waited for a more persistent pressing that never came. It seemed Stan for once was happy to wait for him to continue on his own and wasn’t about to change the subject for his benefit either. He sighed once, rubbing at his chin as he glanced away. “Electric current.” He heard another deep intake of breath, but he couldn’t turn back to him. Didn’t want to see the look he was visualising; lost and confused but so concerned, when his eyes should be alight, his face a grim mask of vengeful ice.
“Are these the same people that took my memories?”
“Y-No?” Ford’s eyebrows furrowed, his face scrunching up at the conflicting emotions running through him as he turned back to his brother. How could he even begin to explain that it was him that had done that? “I-it was around the same time, yes?”
Stan nodded, ignoring the obvious half-truth, the omissions he was clearly not meant to question, as he stood back up, dusting his knees off. He picked up the cloth again and put it in the sink, glaring down disappointedly as he turned the tap and nothing happened. “We should deal with the burn first then, in case it’s blistering or anything. We might have to cut your shirt off though, it might have stuck to the burn already.” Stan hummed thoughtfully, not noticing Ford’s slack jawed face behind him as he rambled away, eyes sparking as the cogs whirred into deep thought. “Normally you’re meant to run water on burns, right? I don’t think that’s the case for electric burns though. Not to mention the taps in this place aren’t working…” He shrugged, turning back to Ford, both eyebrows raising in disbelief at the other man who was still sat completely motionless, watching him avidly. “Well, no use thinking about that just yet. Let’s take a look at the burn and see where to go from there, right?”
“Y-you-” Ford gulped, words and mind failing his as he ran after the trailing thoughts that tried to desert him before he’d had a chance to latch on to them. “You know how to treat burns?”
Stan stopped, the cloth ringing between his hands as his eyes lost their intensity, a glazed uncomfortable look into the middle distance taking over them for a few moments as he became lost himself by the epiphany. He snapped back into the moment though, eyes narrowing as if Ford had meant to distract him. “Huh, guess I do. Not sure how I know that but it doesn’t matter right now.” He gestured at Ford again, hand moving up and down. “We need that coat off, and the sweater if you can. Does it feel like the material is sticking?”
Ford shook his head, body still responding while his mind flailed uselessly. Stan didn’t remember, didn’t seem to know anything yet he knew that, of all things he knew that. How was it he could speak so calmly, so detached when Ford’s mind filled with the smell of burning flesh, the feel of his boot against a yielding ribcage, and a scream that he had almost forgotten through the years. Had Stan’s brand blistered? Had peeling his white undershirt off to get a better look at it caused a fresh wave of agony to curl him tight into a ball on the floor of the portal room? Had he stood himself in the shower, the water ice cold shards along the rest of his body but cooling and soothing against the betrayal burned deep into his shoulder?
It was like Stan’s muscles remembered the motions yet had placed them onto a stranger, disconnected himself from the pain and assumed the knowledge he seemed to have gleaned was from something he’d read or watched. After all, he’d remember if something terrible like that had happened, wouldn’t he? Surely whatever had caused his amnesia couldn’t be that powerful.
A hand on his shoulders, tugging his coat off of him, snapped him out of his thoughts. Ford lunged away, pushing Stan back again as he took a heaving breath, the sound an escaped sob between them. “I can-I can do that. You should go.”
“You’re not going to reach your back well enough to look after it, trust me.”
Ford hated the sincere look on Stan’s face. The ‘I know’ that should end that sentence but didn’t because neither of them did know anymore. Had Stan struggled to tend to his shoulder? Had it festered with no one there to help him? Had he been too focused on the portal to really care? Ford felt like his head might explode with all the questions his mind kept throwing up, all the consequences and possibilities and alternative moments that he couldn’t get back, not now, not ever.
And it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that now he wanted to ask, wanted to know what Stan had been through all these years, wanted to make amends and Stan wasn’t there to do it with him. Would never be able to tell him what his life had been like and what he had done.
There were hands on him again but he was trapped inside his own mind too much to really register it as Stan. He knew he was struggling, knew his hands were being trapped and that a short cry of pain left him as a hand accidentally closed around his wrist to stop him pulling away again. He pushed into the other man’s chest, his movements weak and sluggish as the day took its toll on him. The physical torture, the mental agony all bundled up in a pain that left him wanting to curl up tight and weep until he had no more tears, close his eyes to the darkness of sleep and never wake up again. It didn’t stop him struggling though, a small whisper still circling his head that the twins needed him, Stan needed him and he just needed to get away. Needed to make sure his break down was somewhere no one could find him so that he could pick up the pieces away from prying eyes. Couldn’t let Stan see him so utterly despondent, not yet, not now, not ever-
“For crying out loud, Sixer, will you just stay still?!”
Ford stopped struggling, the hollow ache in his chest suddenly full to the brim with a despicable hope that he tried to crush even as his eyes locked with a frustrated and familiar gaze. He remembered that tightly grit jaw line, that exasperated eye roll from years of studying, years of a twin who wanted nothing more than to make sure his brother had some enjoyment in amongst his research, kept him eating, kept him sleeping when he forgot to himself. And now it seemed, kept him focused on the here and now, and only wanted to tend to his wounds. “S-Sixer? You remember-”
And just like that the moment of clarity was gone.
Stan dropped his arms like the contact burned him, his fierce gaze vanishing into a heart-wrenching distress, the look bitter and hurt as he tried to force whatever it was back to forefront of his mind as it trailed away again. “I don’t- I don’t remember anything. It just made sense. I don’t know, I just said it, I didn’t think-”
Ford reached out, arm frozen outwards, as it was now his turn to be rebuffed. Stan took another step backwards, his hands fisting in his hair as the words tumbled from his mouth in a frenzy of confusion, wanting something, anything to click back into place again. Ford found himself with a torrent of words too, spewing up a comforting litany as his instincts kicked in to soothe, to reassure his twin. “Hey it’s OK. It’s OK, stop, you’ll hurt yourself. I didn’t mean-”
“It’s not OK! Why is this happening?! What is going on?!” Stan roared, pushing himself back up, back straight and chest puffed out in defiance to his own mind. His hands shook and he spun, arm raised and poised to crack straight into the mirror beside him as if that would help let out some of the pent up aggression and all out terror of this living waking nightmare that was his blank mind.
Ford winced, eyes tight shut as he waited for a fallout that never happened. No shattered glass, no rumbling curses from injuring himself further. There wasn’t even any more hissed words, venomous and full of grief that Ford wanted his brother to get out of his system, wanted him to lash out at him for doing this to him even if he didn’t know it yet. Maybe he should tell him, let him punch and snarl and tear him apart. He opened his eyes slowly, mind pondering the self-destructive thought for only a second before he caught sight of his twin, the truth nothing like how he’d been imagining it. Stan’s remorseful expression left him breathless and as lost as his brother had seemed to be over the last few minutes. “S-Stan?”
“Is that my name?”
Ford nodded at the whisper, as the man turned to him, expression still horrified and so apologetic that Ford was speechless. He didn’t know what had happened, what had turned Stan’s outlook on the whole affair round in a few short seconds.
“No wonder you don’t want me near you.”
“What?” Ford squeaked, the word more of a crack than an actual question. He watched, waiting as Stan turned to the cracked mirror, eyeing his own face, raising a hand to rest against the reflection before he turned his gaze back to Ford, eyes narrowing and appraising. Ford’s heart lodged in his throat as Stan turned back to the mirror, his hand on his own face now, rubbing along his cheek and everything fell into place around Ford’s ears.
The same seemed to have happened to Stan as he jarringly pushed himself away from the sink with a retch, stumbling backwards, knees clipping the bath edge. Ford jumped forward, ready to grab him before he fell into the bath but Stan’s legs gave way under him instead of pushing him backwards, his hand steadying him unconsciously as he crumpled to the floor. He leant back against the edge of the bath, curling his legs in close to his chest, his arms around them protectively, his words muffled by his knees.
“Oh god, we’re related. I didn’t know what I looked like, I didn’t see the resemblance. How can I not know that? No wonder you ran away earlier. You can’t bear to be near me, to look at me- I don’t recognise you, I don’t know you. How can I not know you? You must hate me-”
“No.” The word came out in a gush of pure emotion as he crouched down beside his brother, all thoughts of his injuries forgotten as he pulled the other into a tight hug. He didn’t let himself think before he acted, knowing that he would have sat overthinking, scared to touch his brother otherwise when it was obvious he needed the physical reassurance. “No, god no, that’s not it. I swear. It hurts, god does it hurt, but I don’t hate you. I couldn’t hate you. We’ll-” He faltered, his heart thumping as he heard a small whimper below him, the quivering mess so unlike his brash twin. “We’ll get through this, I promise we will.”
“Y-yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ford tightened the hug, resting his head in Stan’s hair as he waited for him to overcome the sudden overwhelming influx of information. It would pass, he knew it would, and he just had to ride it out with him, rocking them gently as they sat there. There was a shard of guilt embedding itself deep in his heart for being selfish and leaving him downstairs with the kids instead of being strong but he was here now and that was what mattered. Maybe it was better this way, both of them having this moment without the kids around to see them so low.
“And the kids?”
“Hmm?” Ford blinked, wondering if he’d said something out loud accidentally.
“The kids, are we related to them?”
Ford nodded against his scalp, making small noises of comfort when a guilt laden painful croak ripped out of Stan in response. “It’s OK, whether you remember or not, we all just want to look after you. The kids will understand if you can’t, it’s not your fault, I promise you.”
“But I want to remember, Ford. I want to remember them, and you and everything else. I’m an old man, I must have done something with my life.”
The words were such a pitiful whine, a sharp shard of agony through Ford’s chest at knowing exactly what Stan had accomplished, that it took a moment for the full implications of it to sink in. The hope blossomed deep under his skin again even as he tried to crush it. He’d already been hurt by its bitter rejection once. “F-Ford?” Stan’s eyes peeked out curiously, head turning but still resting on his knees as Ford moved away from him slightly. “You called me Ford.”
“Is that your name?”
Ford nodded, the hope dwindling again but still there, an ever present whisper in his veins. “Do you remember anything else?”
Stan shook his head, his face ashamed but his eyes held a little bit of the spark that Ford associated with him, that lingering persistent to keep moving forward that he had always admired. “But it’s a start, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a start.” Ford hummed, patting his back soothingly as he unfurled himself from his locked up foetal position. He smiled, his hope still pushing him through now that Stan had recalled his name without prompting, even if that was all it was. Just a name. It was a start. And Stan seemed so proud from Ford’s acknowledgement of the fact that he couldn’t let his own doubtful thoughts seep through to reality. If he was remembering tiny details, maybe he was allowed to be optimistic about the rest of his memories. He’d take a leaf out of Mabel’s book, just this once, take the strength and willpower that the hope gave him to keep him upright and strong for everyone else.
He was sure the hope might kill him in the end, if it all crashed around him and Stan never returned, but in all honesty, he wasn’t sure he cared anymore.
Besides, Stan hadn’t given up on him in thirty years, hadn’t lost hope that he would one day get him back. Ford knew deep down, as the optimism bloomed into something more; a goal, a challenge, something to work towards, that he could wait for him in return.
“We should get back to taking care of your burn before it goes septic. How about you let me help you this time, Knucklehead?”
“You’re the Knucklehead.” The words left him without any mental effort, a short bantering jab back, with a coiling smile to match the smirk on his brother’s contemplative face.
“Yeah? Well, you must be Poindexter then.”
It was definitely a start.