Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stan really should have known better than to think things couldn’t get any worse. Because every time he thought that, things would get worse. When he got thrown out of his home as a teen, he thought things couldn’t get any worse. When his entrepreneur businesses kept failing, he thought things couldn’t get any worse.

When he’d ended up dealing drugs for money, because no one would buy his products and no one would hire him, he thought things couldn’t get any worse. When he’d ended up in prison—for the first but certainly not the last time—he thought things couldn’t get any worse. Surely, he’d reached the bottom of the barrel.

Yet he’d still proved himself wrong after that. He’d learned there were worse things to sell than drugs, and that even when he’d hit rock bottom, he was desperate enough to dig. He did a lot of things he wasn’t proud of (many of them he wished he could forget) in order to survive. And each time he tricked himself into thinking it couldn’t get any worse.

And, well. Ten years into being homeless and getting banned from many states (and even some countries), Stan had just about done it all. Drugs, alcohol, gambling, and getting mixed up with one too many wrong crowds. A few of which he still owed a lot of money to. He was a wanted man by more than just the law.

He’d robbed people, threatened people, hurt people. The only thing he hadn’t done was sell people. Himself, sure, but not other people. Trafficking drugs had been fine, but trafficking people was the one line he had left in the sand that he wasn’t willing to cross.

He hadn’t been willing to cross the line of killing either, but he’d stumbled through that one anyway. He was fine with dealing blows, just never final ones—except once. It had been an accident. He hadn’t meant to kill the man, truly. Stan had just been trying to escape from him. He hadn’t wanted him dead, it had just… happened. He still saw that man’s face in his nightmares.

But despite all that. Despite the fact that Stan was well past rock bottom. He still made one last mistake. He thought to himself, at least things can’t get any worse.

Which is, of course, when the apocalypse happened.

“Stupid apocalypse,” Stan muttered to himself. He absently kicked a piece of trash as he walked down the empty sidewalk. “Can’t believe this happened. Like, sure. Why not, I guess. Not like my life was going great anyway, but really?”

It had been about a month since the whole “weirdmageddon” thing had started. At least, that’s what the floating triangle in a top hat had called it. Stan had seen him on TV shortly after whatever he was had started causing chaos with his henchmen—or henchmaniacs, as they called themselves. Stan didn’t really care. All he cared about was that they had made life even harder for him.

Sure, compared to other, normal people, Stan was doing fine. Pretty good, actually. He was still alive, and his time already spent being homeless meant he had more street smarts and skills to keep him that way. He wasn’t floundering like many people had after losing their homes or loved ones or everything. Stan had already been there and done that.

It was just that the apocalypse made it even harder for him to find safe places to go and food to eat. The whole country was in a panic, and desperate people did desperate things. Especially when they weren’t used to having nothing. Everyone had been catapulted into survival mode, and the result was a collapsing society.

Stan had really thought it would just be a rat race until death. Surviving for as long as he could before he couldn’t anymore. That triangle guy, Bill or something, had seemed like he was just bent on destroying the world and causing as much chaos as possible. And for the first three weeks after they’d shown up, he and his henchmaniacs had certainly done that. People had died, buildings and cities had been destroyed, and the world had been thrown into terror.

And then last week they had just suddenly stopped.

Apparently Bill didn’t want to completely annihilate everything. Go figure. He wanted to rule the world instead. He’d made some sort of big announcement setting himself up as their new global leader or whatever. Stan didn’t care about the specifics, he was just glad the utter chaos had (mostly) stopped. People were still panicking and rioting, but at least the alien whatever-they-were guys had chilled out a bit.

And Stan had survived all of that. Though his car, unfortunately, had not. That had been a huge blow to him. The Stanley-Mobile had been his home ever since he’d been kicked out. The one thing that was his, that had held what little stuff he’d had, that had faithfully gotten him around the country. It had been the roof over his head and his place to sleep, and now it was gone. Traveling had become much harder since.

As he continued walking, Stan stupidly said, “Well, at least things can’t get any worse.”

Something flickered on his right then, and Stan’s eyes were drawn to an old storefront. The place had clearly been looted and abandoned, but a few televisions still sat in the display window. It made sense; not much good a TV would do someone in an apocalypse, after all.

But those televisions flickered again, and Stan slowed to a stop out of curiosity as a red banner rolled across the screens, “GLOBAL ANNOUNCEMENT” written on it. Looked like that Bill guy was going to make another public statement.

Sure enough, the announcement banner faded away to show the world’s new triangular dictator, surrounded by his henchmaniacs in the background. This time though, someone new stood right next to Bill. A human. He was dressed in some sci-fi looking clothes with a dark cloak around him. Clearly, he was meant to fit in with the other henchmaniacs, but stood out anyway because he was human.

But the sight of a human among the alien infiltrators wasn’t what caught Stan’s attention. No, what caught his attention was the six fingers the man had on each hand, positioned loose at his sides rather than hidden behind his back. And that, despite the hard, cold look on his face, it was still a face Stan would recognize anywhere, anytime.

His jaw dropped.

“STANFORD?!” he screeched aloud to the empty street.

He pressed himself up against the dirty glass window of the storefront, staring at the old box televisions with wide eyes. He was so flabbergasted and hooked on the unexpected sight of his brother, that he missed the first few things Bill said. Shaking his head to reorient himself, Stan forced himself to actually listen.

“Anyway,” Bill was saying, “though we can never have enough about me, I’m not the main point of the message today. A tragedy, I know. Hold your tears people.” He swivelled around, turning his attention to Ford.

Stan balled his fists at the reminder of his brother being surrounded by all those alien creatures. Ford, however, seemed incredibly unfazed. He held himself differently, Stan could see it even through a screen. Ford held himself with a cool confidence, shoulders squared but not tight. His body loose but not quite relaxed.

It was a very poised look. The kind Stan had seen before on cartel drug lords and gang leaders. The type of guys who knew they were the boss and in control. And that while they wouldn’t ever truly relax around you, they knew they had enough power and strength that you weren’t a threat to them.

It was a strange thing to see on his nerdy, socially awkward twin.

“I’m sure many of you already know him,” Bill said, slinging an arm around Ford’s shoulders like they were pals. “But for those who don’t: meet the newest guy in my crew! All you snivelly humans have Fordsy here to thank for our being here. We wouldn’t have made it to this dimension without him creating the portal that allowed us in!”

…What.

“And let it not be said that I’m not a good friend!” Bill crowed. “Sixer has proved himself loyal to me by bringing us here and agreeing to become one of my henchmaniacs, which means he’s one of us now.”

Stan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His jaw was back on the ground.

“So, since I’m such a good guy, I offered Fordsy a reward for his loyalty. And now that he’s told me what he wants as his gift, I’m here to tell all of you!” Bill turned back to face the camera dead on, his one eye staring unblinkingly through the screen as it zoomed in on him. “There will be a one million dollar reward for whoever brings Stanley Pines to us alive.”

Stan was pretty sure his jaw had just run down the street.

Bill backed up and wagged a finger playfully. “But make sure he’s alive! My friend here is pretty adamant on that. No reward if he’s dead, so keep that in mind!”

Stan stumbled back from the window, even as his eyes were still fixed on the television. He couldn’t believe this. He just couldn’t believe it.

“Ford really hates me that much?” he whispered to himself incredulously.

He couldn’t believe it! His own brother had just put out a bounty on his head?! A huge one too. One that was definitely going to get him marked and make his life even harder. And for what? One mistake that Stan had made a decade ago?!

Stan let out a strangled laugh, hands running through his mullet in nervous agitation. “I can’t believe he’s still holding a grudge over that!” he muttered.

And it looked like Ford wanted the honour of killing Stan himself. Considering he was wanted alive, it seemed Ford wanted to personally be the one to punish his brother for wronging him all those years ago. On one hand, being killed by his twin wouldn’t be the worst thing. Better Ford than anyone else.

On the other hand, Stan really didn’t want to die. It was why he was still alive despite everything he’d gone through. He knew many people would have killed themselves by this point. Hell, he did know people in similar situations to his who had done just that. But Stan had never been able to bring himself to, even when he had really, really wanted to.

There had always been something that kept him going. Even in his darkest moments, and even if he knew it was unlikely and a pipe dream. The possibility of reconciling with his brother one day had made him cling on.

It appeared that Ford had no desire to reconcile with him, though, if this announcement was anything to go by.

This was big. Huge. It changed a lot of things and made Stan feel a lot of ways that he really didn’t want to be feeling right now. He was at a loss for what to do. Though, there really wasn’t much he could do, so he supposed he’d just continue on as he had. At least if he got caught, he’d have the chance to talk to his brother one last time. It probably wouldn’t change anything, but he’d get out what he needed to get out before Ford killed him.

This bounty was going to make his life hell, though. They’d just announced his name to the world. But hey, at least he could go by another name and hide his identity. No one knew what he looked like, so small mercies.

As if Bill Cipher had read Stan’s mind just then, he announced, “Oh, right! Before I forget! Put up the pictures!”

The live feed cut, and two pictures of Stan appeared on the TV screens. One was clearly taken from one of those stupid Stan-CO commercials he’d done years ago, but the other seemed more recent. Some sort of shot taken from a street security camera. It was grainy and black and white, but it showed him as he was currently, dirty red jacket and mullet and all.

Stan groaned aloud in frustration. Chances of survival had just plummeted with that.

Stan had never been the smart one. That had been his brother. He wasn’t intelligent, he was just a rat. But in a rat race, that made him a natural.

It had been about two weeks since the very public announcement that had blasted his face and name across the country, and Stan had yet to be caught. He’d had a few close encounters, but getting away was something he was good at. It had taken a few days, actually, before anyone had even recognized him. Stan had gone about as he normally did (for as normal as the apocalypse could be anyway) without any issue.

Until one man he had encountered had broken off in the middle of their conversation to ask, “hey, are you the guy that—?” and Stan had booked it. Looking back now, he probably should have tried to laugh it off, but Stan had panicked a bit. He wasn’t used to chatting with strangers anymore. Ever since the apocalypse had started, he’d been mostly avoiding people if he could, as many had become unfriendly.

And things had only grown more difficult after that first blunder. Someone had decided to mass produce and plaster posters of his name and face everywhere, with the hefty reward and the “wanted alive” condition displayed in large print at the bottom. People had started recognizing him more easily, and Stan could see the considerate gleam in their eyes, the greed.

He understood, honestly. He couldn’t fault them for being interested in one million dollars. That was an insane amount of money. Hell, it almost made Stan want to try and turn himself in just to see if he could get the reward. Not that he would, of course, since he’d basically be walking right to his death, but still. He’d always desired millions. When he was younger and dumber, he’d thought that amount would be his ticket back into his family.

So he didn’t blame people for wanting it. But it sure did make his life suck a whole lot more. Stan was on constant alert now, unable to trust anyone. It was harder to sleep too, worried as he was that someone would find him while unconscious and vulnerable. He really missed his car. It had been a companion to him and had offered some sense of security.

Finding food was harder now as well. He was more likely to run into other people while trying to get something to eat. And while he did try to mask his face when he went, he’d still had a few close calls. Stan always hated having to drop things and run. If it was just one person, he might fight them over it, but the last thing he needed now was to get injured, and running was less risk.

But he was okay. Stan was doing fine. Sure, he was hungry, he was tired, and he really wished he could take a shower and get a change of clean clothes, but he was alive. He was a rat, and he was still in the race. And at this point, he did acknowledge that things could, in fact, be worse.

The sea breeze rustling his hair and the smell of salt was welcome, but strange.

Stan looked around the deck of the boat he was on in confusion before it hit him. Oh, this was a dream! Realizing that made him excited. He was doing that thing where you knew you were dreaming while dreaming! That was so cool! He rarely got to experience that. Did that mean he could…?

With a bit of concentration, a cup of coffee popped into existence in Stan’s hands. Yep. He could imagine anything he wanted here. That was rad.

Stan sipped on his coffee, enjoying the warmth as he took in the sight of the open ocean and the bright sunny sky. He knew instinctively that he was on a boat called the Stan o’ War. It was his dream, after all. The only thing that would make this better was…

The door to below the deck opened and Ford walked out. He wore a smile and looked calm and relaxed as he came up to Stan.

“Stanley,” he greeted, leaning on the rail of the ship next to Stan.

“Heya, Sixer.” Stan grinned. “You ready for another day of adventuring? What do you think we’ll find today? Treasure? Babes? Some weird, funky creature for your studying delights?”

Ford chuckled quietly. “Whatever you want, Stan.”

Stan stuck his tongue out. “Well, I know what I want, but what do—? Why are you looking at me like that?” he cut himself off to ask, eyeing his brother.

Ford was staring at him with a soft affection, like he was drinking the sight of Stan in. It was entirely too mushy an expression in Stan’s opinion. Ford would never act or look like that towards him in real life.

“I’m just happy to see you. I’ve missed you,” Ford said.

Stan opened his mouth to tease his brother for being a sap, but Ford interrupted him.

“Where are you?”

Stan blinked. “What?”

Ford straightened up, his expression turning stern all of a sudden. “Tell me where you are, Stanley.”

“I’m… right here?”

“Not in the dream. I mean your physical body in the waking world. Where are you?” Ford stepped forward, grabbing Stan’s shoulders and shaking him slightly, voice demanding. “Tell me your location!”

“This is a weird dream,” Stan muttered to himself, coffee cup disappearing as he moved to free himself from his twin’s grip. He kind of wished he had the mushy Ford back now. This one was off-putting.

Ford grit his teeth, brow twitching in annoyance as Stan leaned back against the rail to put distance between them. “I’ve been searching for you for weeks, Stan! Where are you?!”

He lunged forward to grab at Stan again, and Stan, in his unconscious desire to get away, phased right through the rail. He gasped as he tumbled down towards the ocean.

The last thing he saw was the sheer panic on Ford’s face as he hit the freezing water like a sack of bricks, the darkness surrounding him completely…

Stan jolted awake, shuddering from phantom cold. He looked around frantically, heaving a sigh of relief when he realized he was still alone. A bit chilly, yes, huddled up on the rooftop of an abandoned store for the night. But he was slowly making his way southwest to the warmer states. Cold would be one less thing to worry about down there.

That really had been a weird dream, though. Stan rubbed at his tired eyes. Why couldn’t dream Ford have just played along with what Stan wanted? It was supposed to have been his dream, after all. Figures his brother wouldn’t comply even in Stan’s own mind.

But something about the whole thing had felt… unnatural. Stan couldn’t really put his finger on what. Though really, it was probably just his paranoia that was making him feel that way. He’d been on edge ever since the bounty announcement. It would make sense that his anxiety was starting to creep into his dreams too.

But there was no sense trying to fall back asleep now. Stan already knew that wasn’t going to happen. So with a groan he stood, stretching his stiff limbs. He might as well keep moving on. Less likely to be caught that way.

Right before this whole apocalypse business had happened, Stan had actually been on his way back to his home state of New Jersey. His pa had unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack. Stan had found out about it about a week after it had happened, when he’d finally gotten around to calling his ma again. He’d been roaming around Mississippi at the time, not yet banned from that state.

When he’d called from a gas station payphone, Ma had tearfully told him of Pa’s passing, and had expressed how difficult she was finding the transition and handling funeral arrangements. She had asked Stan if he would be willing to come up and help her out, and Stan had agreed. A small, secret part of him blooming with hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to stay. Ma had never agreed with Pa’s decision to kick him out, and with Pa gone… Stan hoped that perhaps he could come home. That Ma would let him be a family with her again.

He also did actually want to help, as well as attend Pa’s funeral. As much as things had ended on bad terms between them, and as harsh as Pa had been with Stan at times during his childhood, there had also been good moments. Fond memories that made it hard to fully hate the man. Stan resented him, yes, but Filbrick had still been his father and he wanted to say his goodbyes.

So Stan had told Ma that he would come as soon as he could—state ban be screwed—and had hit the road that same night, heading for home.

He had been halfway there when the apocalypse had started.

After the initial confusion and terror, Stan remembered driving even faster, disregarding all speed limits and laws in his hurry to reach New Jersey. He remembered the overwhelming need to get there, to make sure his ma was okay, to protect her. But with so many other cars on the road, people fleeing in all directions in panic, it had been more difficult of a journey than he’d expected.

By the time Stan had reached his childhood home, Ma had been gone. The old pawnshop windows had been smashed in, door hanging loose. Their home above it hadn’t been much better; furniture in disarray, various things scattered everywhere, and no sign of his mother.

Stan had been devastated.

He’d spent the days after searching the town, calling for his ma, looking everywhere he thought she might go. But he never found any sign of her. Caryn Pines had not been in Glass Shard Beach. Stan had even expanded his search to the surrounding towns, but his hope had dwindled with each passing day he failed to find her.

Eventually, he accepted that Ma wasn’t there anymore. He had no idea if she was alive or not, but if she was, there was one last place Stan could think of that she might try to go to. His brother Sherman’s home in California. And even if she wasn’t there, maybe… Maybe Shermie would be. Maybe Stan wouldn’t have to be alone in the new mess the world had become. So he’d hopped back in his car and prepared for the long drive to California.

Going to Oregon hadn’t even crossed his mind. (That was a lie, of course it had.) From what Stan had been able to gather from the news in those early days, the apocalypse had originated in Oregon. As such, Oregon had taken the brunt of the initial destruction and chaos, and the whole state had basically become a lost cause.

Stan had mourned for Ford when he’d learned about it. His ma had told him years ago that Ford had moved out there, and knowing his brother, Stan knew that Ford would not have run away like a normal person when the weirdmageddon thing started. Ford would have more likely run right to the weirdmageddon’s source, fascinated as he’d always been with the abnormal.

Stan truly hadn’t thought there was much chance of Ford having survived. He’d mentally marked his twin down as deceased, cried so hard he’d thrown up, then shoved all the sorrow down, burying it deep in order to focus on surviving and on finding his potentially still living family members.

Fueled by desperation, Stan had driven like crazy towards California, stopping only to steal gas or when he was near passing out. He didn’t bother much with eating or sleeping otherwise if he could help it, wanting to get to Shermie’s place as fast as possible. But that had ended up being a mistake—one that had cost him the Stanley-Mobile.

He’d lost his best friend in western Missouri to a giant three-eyed monster. When it had attacked him, Stan had been too exhausted to prevent his car from getting stomped to pieces. The loss of it had certainly slowed his progress, and every night now Stan chewed anxiously at the skin around his fingernails, wondering if Shermie was still alive. If Ma was okay. If he’d ever see them again.

He didn’t know. For all he knew, he could be the only Pines left. The thought made his heart clench, and Stan had bleakly wondered if he should even bother going to California. If maybe not knowing for sure would be better.

But that same stubborn hope that had kept him alive all his years of homelessness wouldn’t go away. It had never died out fully, even when Stan had purposefully tried to snuff it. That small flicker was what kept him going. That protested that maybe he wasn’t the last of his family, and he had to know.

He just hadn’t expected to find out by seeing the twin he had assumed to be dead alive and on the aliens’ side on TV. Talk about a shock to the system. At least he wasn’t the last Pines, but really? Stanford had joined them? Willingly? Was literally the one responsible for the start of the apocalypse? Ugh. He wanted to punch his idiotic genius brother so bad.

But ruminating on all these things wasn’t helping him right now. Stan sighed, ignoring the clenching of his empty stomach as he eyed the front of a grocery store. The place had clearly been looted before, but surely there must be something left, right? It had been a few days since he’d been able to find anything substantial to eat.

Stan hadn’t even realized how easy regular homelessness had been until he was faced with apocalypse homelessness. Sure, before it had still been hard finding food sometimes, but Stan had always been able to shoplift or dumpster dive if he was really desperate. Now with the whole weirdmageddon thing many stores had already been looted, and businesses like cheap fast food places weren’t currently running. It was hard to find “fresh” food in dumpsters, and many people had begun hoarding any supplies they found.

It certainly made things harder for him, but Stan was good at surviving. He was still clinging on out of spite (and a bit of hope) even though he was tired. Lack of regular food and water made a person fatigued, who knew? He’d lost weight since the whole thing had started, and it was harder to cover a good amount of ground each day on foot.

But despite his near constant fatigue, he still didn’t get enough sleep. His paranoia of being found and captured made it hard to relax enough to do so. He really only slept deeply when he was just too exhausted to stay awake any longer, passing out in whatever spot he’d hidden himself away in.

Not that Stan got much reprieve in sleep either. Recently, the times he was able to sleep deeply enough to dream had been… weird. No matter what it was he was dreaming about, at some point Ford would pop up. Sometimes he seemed normal at first, and other times he was aggressive off the bat. But no matter what, it always ended with him demanding Stan’s whereabouts and chasing after him.

Stan often awoke unsettled. He didn’t know why these dreams bothered him so much, but they always lingered with him the rest of the day when he had one. And he certainly didn’t feel rested when he woke up from them. Of course Ford had to ruin his sleep too. Not like he hadn’t already ruined Stan’s life, his future, and, oh yeah, the whole world at this point.

“I might be the family disappointment but at least I’m not the one who set off the apocalypse,” Stan muttered to himself as he slunk inside the grocery store through the broken glass doors.

He continued to mentally curse out his brother as he scanned the shelves, keeping one eye out for danger. Thankfully, there was no one else in the store. But that was probably because there was also no food left. Or at least, nothing good. There was rotting meats and vegetables in freezers and fridges that had long since stopped running.

Unsurprising. Many places lacked power due to weirdmageddon destruction having knocked out power-lines all over the country. It just made preserved and canned food all the more precious. And Stan’s luck was not with him today (then again, when was it ever really with him?) as he couldn’t find any left in the store.

With a disappointed sigh, he snagged a somewhat crushed bag of chips out from under a knocked over shelf, carrying his find out of the store. Any kind of food was better than no food, and crushed chips certainly were not the worst thing Stan had ever eaten. He would find a safe (or safe-ish) place to spend the night, and hopefully try to catch some rest.

Tomorrow was another day.

Chapter Text

Stan hated how much of a weak man he was at heart. How despite all he’d been through, he never seemed to be able to harden himself up the way he’d seen others do. They were callous and unbothered. Stan… only pretended. He pretended he was tough. He pretended he didn’t feel bad when he robbed others. He pretended he was unaffected by the fear and pleas he heard from people.

He was a great pretender.

His pa had always said that strong men didn’t doubt themselves and took what they wanted. But Stan never felt strong when he did that. He knew what it was like to have things taken from him, and so it didn’t feel good when he had to take things from others. He still did it, because his will to survive was always stronger than his shame, but it kind of made him feel like scum.

Or, it used to. He hated feeling like that, so he shoved it all down and locked it away. He didn’t want to feel it. And really, there were only so many times one could go through that kind of stuff before becoming numb to it in some manner. (Stan had gotten so good at pretending that he’d even been able to trick himself, pretending he didn’t feel things anymore.)

It was never personal, after all. Just survival. He did what he had to do to stay alive, and he shoved away any disgust he felt at himself for doing so. It was just business. No hard feelings. His desire—his need—for what others had, money and food and possessions, outweighed his guilt of stealing it from them. And the more he took, the easier it became to do so.

It was one of the reasons he’d never tried going back home, even years after he’d been kicked out. Not only did he not have the millions he’d lost them, but he doubted his pa would have been impressed with the lows he had stooped to. No decent person would be. There wasn’t anything impressive about who Stan had become and the things he’d done.

But really, was that a surprise? It certainly wouldn’t be to his family. All his life he’d been second best. A true rat chasing after crumbs. He was never anyone’s first choice—not even Ford’s. He’d always been compared to his smarter twin, always lived in Ford’s shadow.

It had never bothered him though. Or, well, maybe it had just a little. But Stan had loved Ford and had been content with simply supporting his brother, with letting Ford shine. He would have followed his twin anywhere, done anything he asked, as long as Ford let him stay by his side.

Looking back, Stan supposed that had been too clingy of him. He hadn’t even realized he’d been suffocating Ford until it was too late and Ford had wanted to leave. That Ford had slowly been pushing him away while Stan stubbornly tried to cling with thorny fingers.

Perhaps Stan had been stupid to think that things would always stay the same. That his childhood dreams could actually happen. They were so simple after all, and Ford had always been destined for more. Ford had always desired more. He’d wanted knowledge and success and renown.

Stan had only ever wanted love.

He was told to want other things, sure. Told by his parents to want to be successful, to make good money, to do well in school. But Stan had never much cared for those things himself. He’d wanted money because his family desired money and he’d wanted to give it to them. He wanted them to be pleased, to be happy with him, to give him love in return.

It never did work out that way.

Stan still secretly wondered if perhaps Pa had done the right thing by throwing him out. A flower couldn’t flourish if it was choked by thorns, after all. Maybe Stan had needed to be pruned so that Ford could grow properly. He knew a thing or two these days about cutting losses, and that was really all Pa did in the end. Stan had always been the unplanned extra anyway.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

It didn’t mean he didn’t desire to see his family still, to hold them and be held by them, even if maybe he didn’t deserve it. (Why didn’t he deserve it? What had he done so wrong? Exist? He knew his birth was an accident, but so was breaking the machine, and he was sorry! He was sorry. He didn’t mean to! Please, could he come home?)

But he couldn’t see his family (his family didn’t want to see him), so Stan had contented himself with the occasional phone call. With a few precious minutes to speak to Ma every couple of weeks. With a few precious moments to just hear Ford’s voice when he answered the phone. Stan could never actually bring himself to speak when he called his twin. His tongue always locked up on him.

It was funny how much guilt and regret twisted things up inside someone. He wished he had spoken to Ford at some point now. Wished he hadn’t been such a coward. Because maybe… Maybe Stan could have done something to prevent the apocalypse. Maybe there was something he could have said; something that would have turned Ford away from whatever path he’d chosen that led to all of this.

Or maybe not. Ford had always been headstrong when he fixed his mind on something. People always assumed Stan was the stubborn one, and he’d admit he was, but he could also be bargained with. Stan didn’t think he was unreasonable. Ford, however. Ford would get so laser-focused on whatever interested him that he couldn’t be drawn away from it. He was more stubborn than Stan, though he refused to believe that.

That was why Stan knew that the rat race he was in was just a matter of who could hold out the longest. Because Ford would never give up looking for him. If Ford wanted him (and Ford seemed to really want him, if that bounty was anything to go by) then he would never rest until he had Stan. Stan was successfully laying low so far, but he knew that was all he could do now.

Either Ford would catch him eventually, or Stan would live the rest of his life—however long or short that ended up being—running and hiding and looking over his shoulder. Ford would only get more impatient (and possibly volatile) the longer Stan evaded him. He would never give up.

But that didn’t mean Stan would either.

Even though it felt incredibly real, he was dreaming again—Stan knew.

He knew it because he was on the edge of a large crowd watching a rally, where at the podium on the stage, his brother was giving some sort of speech. He knew it had to be a dream because Ford had never been one for politics, and Stan would never go near such a thing anyway. And definitely not with a huge bounty hanging over his head.

Yet, since it was a dream, Stan hung around. He moved around the crowd occasionally, uncomfortable staying fully in one place—especially with the security scattered about. He listened to Ford give some speech on Bill’s behalf, looking both collected and disdainful of the people he spoke down to. Ford didn’t miss a single word, but he also didn’t seem fully focused. His eyes kept scanning through the crowd critically, almost as if he was searching for someone.

Stan would duck down a bit whenever Ford’s eyes swept in his direction. He wasn’t sure why he was being so cautious, as it was only a dream, but he couldn’t help but remember his other lucid dreams, where Ford got weird. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he was even dreaming of this current scenario to begin with. Stan had never cared to attend a rally or any sort of live speech, so why would he dream of one?

Perhaps it didn’t really matter though. Dreams were weird. He’d definitely had stranger dreams than this before. It wasn’t like it had to mean anything. Maybe he was just reading too much into it and he should be cool about it. It was his dream anyway, right? Stan was in control. He could do whatever he wanted.

With that in mind, Stan decided to just casually walk away as Ford’s speech wound to a close. He concentrated really hard on security just ignoring him as he passed, and they did, bound to his whims as they were in his dream. Emboldened, Stan then vanished some of the crowd as it began to disperse, growing annoyed with the amount of people around him.

That move, however, caught the eye of the only other henchmaniac at the rally; a big, ugly, grey thing with a pacifier in its stomach (yeesh). Stan had been ignoring it because it wasn’t important and it looked dumb—certainly too dumb to give a successful speech like Ford could. But perhaps he was wrong, as when the creature spotted him, it zeroed in on him with a keen intensity.

“The brother!” it growled out, pointing right at him.

Stan winced. Ah, geez. The last thing he wanted here was attention. He focused on the henchmaniac and began to concentrate on willing it away.

It worked, but just before the creature fully faded from the dream’s existence, it turned to the stage and shouted at the top of its lungs, “SIXER! YOUR BROTHER!”

Stan watched as Ford, who had been leaving the stage, whipped around in their direction, his eyes meeting Stan’s after a moment of searching. Even with the long distance between them, Ford’s gaze was piercing.

“STANLEY.”

And that was his cue to leave.

Stan ran from the rally as fast as he could. He wasn’t even sure why. This was a dream. His brother couldn’t actually hurt him here. He hadn’t done so in any of the other dreams. So why was Stan even (afraid) uneasy to begin with?

He didn’t know. He also didn’t know why dream Ford kept acting like this. Stan would much prefer to dream of Ford the way he used to be when they were young. The Ford who had been his brother. The one who had been by his side and loved him before Stan had messed everything up.

Instead, he kept dreaming of the evil version of his twin who had joined some inter-dimensional alien gang. The one who wanted his head on a platter—possibly quite literally. It was almost like his own subconscious wanted to torment him for fun. Stan didn’t appreciate it.

“Stanley Caryn Pines, stop right now!”

Woah, that sounded way closer than it should have been.

Stan glanced back in alarm and was shocked to see Ford hot on his heels, chasing after him with a determined scowl. Stan swore under his breath and pushed himself faster, racing through streets that were thankfully empty. How had Ford even managed to catch up so fast? Stan should have had a good head start on him, yet he was right behind him now!

No matter, no matter. This was still his dream, and Stan had plenty of experience running from people who wanted him dead. He knew a few tricks on how to lose a tail, and he had more street-smarts than Ford. All he had to do was—

A flash of blue caught Stan’s eye, and he glanced over his shoulder again just as it faded away, taking Ford with it.

Ha! Looks like he willed his brother gone. Take that Ford! Dream powers for the win!

Stan nearly laughed, but it quickly turned into a gasp as another flash of blue appeared directly up ahead of him, and Ford materialized out of it.

He can teleport?! Stan internally screeched. That’s so not fair!

And unfortunately, with the speed he was going, Stan had too much momentum to stop in time, crashing right into his brother.

Ford took the impact like it was nothing, not even having the courtesy to stumble back a single step. Rude. Instead, he immediately wrapped his arms around Stan to prevent him from getting away.

Stan, on the other hand, let out an “oof!” at the collision, slightly winded and offended that his brother wasn’t. He wriggled in Ford’s grasp, trying to get free, but Ford felt like an immovable object, his grip only tightening. And that wasn’t right. His brother should not be stronger than him in his own dream—or at all. It wasn’t fair.

“Stanley,” Ford said, a hint of warning in his tone.

Stan flashed him a nervous grin. “Heeey, Sixer, how, uh… How’s it going?”

Ford looked unimpressed, and boy did he look remarkably like Pa when he made that face. “It would be going better if you would stop running from me,” he said. “You’re worse than a stray cat.”

“Hey! Stray cats ain’t so bad. Stray dogs on the other hand…” Stan mentally shuddered at the memories. He’d been attacked by dogs a few times before. Chances of encountering them increased a lot when one was homeless.

“Yes, well. You’re also a stray, but I’m trying to fix that. Tell me where you are, Stanley.”

“Ugh, this again?” Stan rolled his eyes. “Why do you have to keep ruining my dreams by acting weird?”

“If you would just tell me, then I wouldn’t have to keep ‘ruining’ your dreams,” Ford pointed out.

“Maybe try being less demanding.” Stan wiggled fruitlessly in his brother’s grip once more. “The aggressive approach doesn’t seem to be working for you, does it?”

It was Ford’s turn to roll his eyes, but he still said, “Please tell me where you are.”

Stan pretended to think about it for a moment. Then: “Nah.”

He wasn’t even sure why he was being stubborn about it. It wasn’t as if telling Ford his location in real life would matter. This was just a dream, after all. And yet, there was something about it all that held him back. Something about these dreams that was just so off that it put Stan on edge.

Ford didn’t appreciate his response, though.

Stan let out a shout of surprise as he was suddenly lifted up and flung over his brother’s shoulder. Ford began to walk away with him like that, acting completely unencumbered by Stan. Once again incredibly unfair; Stan was supposed to be the stronger twin. Never mind that he’d lost quite a bit of weight and muscle mass from starving, this was a dream. He should at least be stronger than Ford in his own dream.

“Put me down!” he demanded immediately, flailing.

Ford wrapped his other arm around Stan’s legs, pinning them in place. “Stop that!” he growled.

“YOU stop it!” Stan fired back. “Put me down right now! This is embarrassing!”

Ford scoffed. “It’s just a dream, Stanley. There’s no one around to embarrass yourself in front of.”

“Doesn’t matter! It’s the principle of it!” Stan twisted, drawing an arm up to try and elbow Ford in the back of the head as hard as he could.

Ford, somehow predicting this, jostled him roughly, making Stan lose his balance. Stan scrabbled at the back of Ford’s stupid sci-fi coat for support, grunting at the feeling of Ford’s shoulder digging into his stomach uncomfortably. In retaliation, he whacked his fists against Ford’s back. It didn’t seem to do much.

“Oh, please. You’re being childish,” Ford scoffed.

“I am not!” Stan squawked indignantly. “It’s not childish to not want to be kidnapped to… Where are we even going?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ford said dismissively. “And it’s hardly kidnapping. I’m your brother.”

“That doesn’t matter?”

“Of course it does; it means I have a right to take you.”

Stan’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Still not how it works. And also that’s such a deranged thing to say? What the hell, Ford.”

“I won’t argue with you about it.” Ford waved it off, as if he was undoubtably in the right and was doing Stan a favour. “There are more important matters to discuss, such as your current location. Where are you, Stan?”

“Why do you wanna know so bad?”

“Just tell me.”

“No!” Stan snapped. He’d had enough of his weird, evil twin haunting his dreams and chasing him around and always demanding the same thing. “I’m not going to tell you. I’m never going to tell you. Just get lost already and stop bothering me about it!”

“Fine. I didn’t want to do this the hard way, but you’re so stubborn,” Ford grumbled. “I’ve given you many opportunities to do this the easy way and you just don’t want to cooperate. So keep in mind that you’re the one who forced my hand.”

Stan only had a moment to digest all that before he was being flung off Ford’s shoulder and slammed against the brick wall of a nearby building. He let out a pained hiss at the impact, eyes screwing shut. Ford took the opportunity to crowd close to him, pinning Stan there with his weight as his hands came up to frame Stan’s face.

“Look at me,” Ford demanded.

Stan peeked his eyes open, making eye contact with his brother. The moment he did, Ford’s fingers dug into his temples, and it felt like an icepick was suddenly being drilled into his skull.

Stan gasped sharply, hands flying up to try and pry Ford’s away. His eyes automatically squinted shut against the pain, and it lessened somewhat.

“Look at me!” Ford all but yelled, shaking Stan‘s head. He used his thumbs to pull Stan’s eyelids up, forcing eye contact once again, his fingers digging more harshly into Stan’s temples.

Stan cried out as freezing cold pain erupted in his mind, his eyes watering reflexively as he struggled against Ford.

“Where. Are. You.” Ford didn’t ask this time, he commanded.

And involuntarily, the dreamscape around them began to shift. Their surroundings went from an open street and tall buildings to a dingy, dark alleyway with a dumpster that Stan was currently sleeping in in the real world. Ford looked around carefully, clearly taking in every detail and cataloguing it. Stan shifted as he did so, hoping to try and run with Ford’s attention distracted, but his movement drew his brother’s sharp gaze right back to him.

“And where is this?” Ford asked him quietly.

Stan shook his head, the motion agonizing. But he would not answer.

A muscle in Ford’s jaw jumped in irritation.

The icepick sensation increased then, and it felt like it was trying to crack his skull right open, like Ford was trying to dig into his brain and scoop out the answers. Stan tried to stop it. Tried to change the scene and conjure something else, something to help him, something to make his brother go away. But it was as if he had lost control of his own dream, and Ford had been the one who took it from him. The harder he fought, the worse the pain grew.

Ford’s brown eyes were cold and hard where they stared determinedly into Stan’s own. But from this close up, Stan realized there was a bright, unnatural ring of yellow around Ford’s pupil. He’d never noticed it before. How had he never noticed it before?

“Where is this, Stanley?” Ford demanded once again.

A fresh lance of pain sparked through Stan’s head, and he grit his teeth around a cry. Don’t you dare give in, he told himself desperately. Dont tell him. Don’t even think about Colorado!

Suddenly, all the pain disappeared, snuffing out like it had never existed and leaving Stan gasping in its wake. Ford’s fingers left his temples, shifting down to his jaw instead.

“Colorado, hmm?” Ford hummed thoughtfully, looking pleased.

Stan wanted to slap the smugness off his face, but he was still reeling from what had just happened, his hands trembling embarrassingly from the memory of the pain. And before he could try anyway, Ford took him by surprise, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Stan’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” his brother murmured. “That was so mean of me, wasn’t it? I don’t like having to go to such extremes. I really didn’t want to hurt you, but I’ll do anything if it’s for your own benefit in the long run.”

Stan didn’t like Ford’s tone. It was back to that mushy-softness, and the whiplash of going to that from Ford being angry and yelling was disorienting.

But Ford only swiped a thumb over Stan’s cheek, clicking his tongue in disapproval at the hollowness of it. “Sit tight, okay, baby brother? Stay where you are and I’ll come collect you.”

Indignation rose in Stan and—

He was so offended he woke up, fuming to himself. Fifteen minutes apart did not make him a baby brother! They were the same age! Ford was not older than him! He was just born first, that was all!

What had all that been, anyway? Irritation melted away under confusion and leftover panic, leaving Stan in a sense of unease. That… had been a dream, right? The pain had felt so real, but he was still in the dumpster he’d taken shelter in for the night. As disgusting as it was to sleep among garbage, it was a safer option than sleeping out in the open.

But Stan got the feeling he shouldn’t stay. Not just in the dumpster, but in Colorado.

It… It was just a dream. Just a dream. He shouldn’t take it so seriously. And yet Stan had the strong urge to run. As if Ford actually knew where he was and was coming for him. Silly, of course, but the urge remained. The gut instinct that told him something was wrong. And after years on the streets, Stan knew better than to ignore that feeling.

So he got up and prepared to leave Colorado as fast as possible.

Chapter Text

Leaving Colorado? Easier said than done. That was what Stan decided as he sat on the dirty floor of a living room with his hands bound. The house was serviceable, but had clearly been abandoned by its owners and then looted by others. The group who had captured him were currently squatting in it.

Stan had nearly made it to the border of Utah when he’d been ambushed by the ragtag group. They seemed like a bunch of people whose only commonality was that they’d lost everything in weirdmageddon and had decided to band together for survival. Strength in numbers and all that. It was a smart move, but not one Stan appreciated when on the bad end of.

But on the plus side, it didn’t seem like any of the group had experience with kidnapping. While they had clearly planned their move in capturing Stan, they didn’t really know what they were doing. He knew this because they had bound his hands in front of him with duct tape and had left his legs free, thinking that keeping one guard around would be enough to stop Stan.

Bah. Amateurs.

Stan only had to wait for the ideal opportunity—or create it himself.

He cleared his throat. “So, what are you planning to do with the money you’ll get for catching me?” he casually asked the guard that was sitting on a dirty couch.

The man blinked in surprise, whether at the question or that Stan was talking to him at all, Stan didn’t know. But the man made a mistake: he answered.

“I don’t care about money. Fat load of good it’ll do me right now.”

Stan held back a smirk. Got him.

He feigned confusion with just the slightest tint of offended hurt. “Really? Then why did you grab me?”

One of the basic rules of kidnapping and hostage taking was not to let the captive ask questions or speak casually. Another tell that these guys were amateurs. The cartels Stan had worked for in the past knew to keep captives quiet, whether by force or intimidation. Letting one speak beyond answering questions could be dangerous—replying back even more so.

Casual conversation could easily build a social connection, and could humanize the victim to the captor more. It allowed the potential for empathy and sympathy to form, which was always a no-no in that line of work. Hard to capture and hold people hostage if you started feeling bad for them. Stan would know.

He was also planning to use that to his advantage here.

The man he’d asked the question to looked hesitant, but still spoke. “Figured if we grabbed you, then we might be able to bargain for a different reward. Money isn’t worth much to me right now, but food is. I got family I need to look out for, you know? I’m hoping to bargain for a guarantee of their safety.”

Ooh, personal and revealing information. Stan could work with that. He let his expression shift into something vaguely sympathetic.

“Yeah, I know. I got family I’m looking for too,” he admitted quietly, as if it were a secret.

He thought he saw a flash of guilt in the man’s eyes, but it was quickly taken over by confusion. “Isn’t your family the one putting up your bounty?”

“Nah, that’s just my crazy brother.” Stan shrugged. “I got other family, you know? I don’t know what happened to them…”

He reeled himself back a bit. He was getting a little too personal on his end there. Sure, he was trying to create an empathetic connection, but he also didn’t want to give too much of himself away in the process.

The man nodded understandingly. “It kills you not knowing what happened to some of the people you knew. Those who are still missing. I get it.”

Stan let his face twist up in grief. “Guess I’ll never know now,” he choked out.

The man winced, the guilt back in his eyes. “Ah, geez, I…”

Stan felt a flicker of hope.

But the man only sighed heavily. “I hope one day you do figure out what happened to them.”

Drat. That wouldn’t be enough to convince this guy to let him go it seemed. Oh well. Time to try another angle.

“I’m Stan, by the way,” he said. “But you probably already knew that. From the posters and all.”

The man relaxed a bit. “Yeah. I’m Devon. Sorry about the whole…” He gestured to Stan’s bound hands. “You know. Nothing personal.”

Stan pursed his lips in annoyance. He didn’t want to come across as too accepting of his circumstances, after all. “I mean, I get it? I guess. Doesn’t mean I ain’t pissed though. How long are you guys gonna keep me here for anyway?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” Devon scratched his chin, looking off down a hall that some of his companions had disappeared down a while back. “Until we figure out how to contact someone about the bounty, I guess.”

Stan stared at him flatly, unimpressed. “You captured me,” he started, “and you don’t even know who to contact about it?”

“The posters didn’t say!” Devon defended himself. “But Jerry says he knows a guy who knows a guy who can get us into contact with… whatever you call those things.”

“Henchmaniacs,” Stan supplied.

“Yeah, that.” Devon grimaced at the mention of them. “Your brother is kind of a freak for joining them, huh? Who betrays their own people like that?”

“Don’t call him that,” Stan snapped out gruffly.

It was mostly a reflex. Ford had always been sensitive about the word freak, what with all the bullying the twins had been subjected to as children. Stan had punched many a person for daring to call his brother that. He wasn’t sure why he was still defensive about it now, though. Said brother wanted him dead, so what should Stan care that someone called him a freak? (He couldn’t stop caring.)

Devon held up his hands. “Woah. No need to be touchy, man.”

Stan just glared lightly and huffed. An awkward silence fell between them for a few minutes then, and he used the time to make a show of beginning to shift and squirm uncomfortably.

“Hey,” he eventually spoke up once more, making his tone tentative. “So, uh.” He shifted his legs again. “Since you guys don’t know how long we’re all gonna be here for, do ya mind letting me use the john?”

Devon frowned uncertainly. “Well, I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

“Seriously? You’re gonna make me hold it for who knows how long? I know I’m your captive and all, but I’m still human, man. Have a little decency.”

The frown remained on Devon, but Stan could tell he was getting to him. He could see it on the man’s face as Devon said, “I’m not sure—”

“I could just piss all over myself right here, right now if that’s what you’d prefer,” Stan cut him off.

That got Devon on his feet. “No! No, I’d rather you not make a mess in the living room. Knowing the others, I’d be the one who has to clean it.” He muttered the last part a bit sourly.

Stan held back a triumphant smirk. “Glad we can agree on something,” he drawled with a hint of sarcasm.

Despite Stan’s legs being unbound, he allowed Devon to pull him to his feet in order to give the man a false sense of control. Stan let himself be marched down a different hallway, playing the docile captive as they reached a bathroom.

“This place is one of the lucky few that still has running water, so feel free to flush the toilet,” Devon told him.

“Sure thing.” Stan stood there and stared expectantly.

Devon stared back, confused.

Stan held up his bound hands. “So are you gonna…?”

“You can sit for your business.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure. But I gotta go more than just piss, you know? So unless you wanna wipe for me…”

Devon’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Don’t be gross.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying. But for real, how do you expect me to go about my ‘business’ with no hands?”

Devon pulled a small utility knife from his back pocket with a sigh. He paused for a moment, clearly debating with himself, but eventually reached forward and began to cut at the tape binding Stan’s wrists.

“Don’t try anything funny,” he warned.

Stan refrained from rolling his eyes a second time. This guy was giving him a cliche movie line after being suckered into letting his own captive free? Yeah, of course Stan wasn’t gonna try anything. Why would he do that with such a golden opportunity? It wasn’t even a good threat either. Devon had no firmness in his tone or confidence in his posture, making it come off as rather pathetic.

Still, once his hands were free, Stan actually did go into the bathroom. It would help lower Devon’s guard by doing so rather than lashing out immediately, and the closed door also would give him some element of surprise for the moment he jumped out and attacked. Plus, he wanted to look around and see if there was anything vaguely useful as a weapon. Devon did have that knife, after all, and Stan would have to be careful of it.

His quick search didn’t find him anything worth his while though. Just some old cosmetics, soap, and mouthwash—which Stan did use. And as he spit it into the sink, his eyes caught his reflection in the mirror and he grimaced. He’d certainly looked better.

His face held a hollowness to it from the lack of food, and deep rings were set beneath his eyes from exhaustion. His skin was visibly dirty and his hair stringy and tangled. Stan had managed to briefly dip into a few ponds and pools he’d come across while travelling, but he hadn’t had access to a proper shower in a while and it showed. The front of his mullet was getting long enough that he wasn’t sure it would even still classify as a mullet soon.

The only thing he’d really been able to do since weirdmageddon had been shave. Kind of. Sort of. He’d been using a knife (which had been confiscated on his capture) and whatever reflective surface he could find to haphazardly scrape the hair off his face and neck. It didn’t work great, leaving him with uneven, scruffy patches and small cuts in various stages of healing.

Honestly he’d considered just growing the facial hair out, hoping it would help hide his identity enough to make people think twice about him, but he couldn’t stand the feeling of a full beard. The moustache he hadn’t minded (Stan personally thought he’d rocked that in the seventies) but he’d never been one for a beard. He’d tried it before and hated it. He felt as though it made him look even more like a hobo than he already was.

Though Stan supposed that didn’t really matter now. He absolutely looked like a hot mess—and not in the good way.

With a scowl at himself, Stan turned away, eyeing the bathroom door. He had no idea what Devon was capable of combat-wise, but he knew the man had a knife. However, if he opened the door and clocked Devon immediately, he might be able to avoid a full fight. He just didn’t know where Devon would be standing waiting, so he wanted to wait until…

There was a knock on the door. Perfect.

“Hey, you’ve—”

Stan flung the door open sharply, taking Devon by clear surprise as he shot out of the bathroom like a bat out of hell, yelling, “Let a man have a dump in peace, Devon!”

He threw a solid right hook before Devon could even get his hands up to defend himself, catching Devon directly in the face and knocking him back. As Devon hit the wall with a cry, sliding down, Stan took off. He’d hoped to knock the man out completely, but at least he was down, and Stan would rather not risk more of a fight when Devon had that knife on him.

Instead, he raced back the way they’d come. The living room he had been held in was at the front of the house near the main door. Stan didn’t know where the rest of the group was, but he knew there were some people hanging around other parts of the house, making the front door his best option rather than searching for a back one. He could hear Devon shouting as he made it there, and the thundering of footsteps chasing after him. But Stan was already out the door before they could catch up, letting out a whoop as it slammed shut behind him.

A whoop that cut off abruptly at the sight of two of the group members sitting on the front stairs, sharing a cigarette. Both of the young women stared at him in shock, and Stan made a split-second decision to keep barreling forward, not willing to waste time by detouring to jump the rail to get off the porch. Instead he banked on their shock giving him the chance to dart between them—and it did.

But at the last second one of the women reached out and grabbed at Stan’s legs in a sloppy attempt to stop him, and Stan went tumbling forward down the rest of the stairs. His head hit the concrete with a sharp crack, and spots filled his vision, pain rocketing through his skull like an echo chamber.

That was definitely a concussion. Stan was familiar enough with them to tell.

The woman who’d grabbed his legs jumped on him, trying to hold him down, but even with his vision swimming and his ears ringing, Stan was stronger. He may have been half-starved, but she was a tiny waif of a woman, and he shoved her off after a hasty struggle before stumbling to his feet. He had to catch himself a few times, his balance jacked, but once he was up he took off down the overgrown lawn on unsteady legs.

He needed to find a place to hide and fast. There was no way he could fight a whole group like this, and his head was spinning too much for him to run far. He suspected most people would actually have probably been down again at this point, but Stan was not most people. He’d run from worse situations with worse injuries. He could do this.

And somehow (miraculously, really) he did. Only one of the women attempted to go after him, and Stan tussled with her briefly. He didn’t particularly want to punch a woman if he could help it, so instead he bit her. Hard. She let go of him pretty quickly after that, clutching her bleeding arm.

Stan got away again after that. His memory was a bit spotty on the specifics as to how, though, which he chalked up to the concussion. He knew the rest of the group had gone out after him, splitting up to search, and he knew he’d run for a while and hunkered down in various hiding places before finding the one he was currently in. His foggy mind didn’t remember much beyond that, but he couldn’t bring himself to really care.

There was blood in his hair and on his grimy shirt from where his head had split open on the pavement. Stan tentatively prodded the area. He didn’t think he needed stitches, but he couldn’t really tell for sure. Not that it really mattered either way; he didn’t have access to first aid even if he did need stitches. And even if he did have first aid, his head was pounding too much for him to concentrate on fixing it anyway.

Stan’s eyes drooped, the adrenaline of the chase having flushed from his system a little while ago. Thankfully, he’d taken shelter in the loft of a backyard shed; a small space that was mostly empty and dark. The lack of noise and light assaulting him did help a little bit, and Stan couldn’t fight the fatigue that came over him. He knew it probably wasn’t the best idea to sleep right now, but he simply couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

Stan let his head fall against musty smelling wood as they slid shut.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Little Fishie!”

Stan jumped practically a foot in the air, taken aback by the unexpected voice that was suddenly behind him with no warning. He whirled around with a yell, instinctively chucking what he was holding at the voice.

The balled up piece of paper plopped pathetically on the ground in front of Bill Cipher, who stared at it blankly.

That big eye shifted up to Stan. “How did you miss? I’m like two feet away.”

Stan, freaked out by the sight of the alien guy, just pointed at him in shock and screamed, “The evil dorito!”

Bill snapped his fingers. “Hey, those are pretty good! I’ve tried a bag or five. You humans might be kind of lame and pathetic but the chemicals you eat? Wowie.”

Man, this was already a weird dream. He was dreaming, right? It felt very real, but Stan was also currently in one of his old high-school classrooms, with Bill Cipher floating over a desk nearby. Absolutely it had to be a dream.

“Why am I even dreaming about you?” Stan rubbed his forehead. “Where’s Ford? I think I’d rather be tormented by him than you.”

“Hey, I’d take offence, but I do love to torment.” Bill sounded way too pleased about it too. “Fordsy won’t be showing up right now. It’s daytime and he’s busy. I just decided to pop in because I felt your consciousness enter the mindscape. Sure did get knocked pretty hard in the head there, Stanny-boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Stan muttered immediately. Then he frowned. “Mindscape?”

“Mindscape!” Bill confirmed, throwing up jazz hands. He did not elaborate.

Stan just stared, contemplating if he’d be able to will Bill away. He knew he could manipulate things and people in his dreams, although for some reason it never worked on Ford. But he had been able to remove that other henchmaniac from his dream the one time, so maybe he could get rid of Bill too.

Bill didn’t give him a lot of time to think about it though, moving to float circles around Stan, which immediately set him on edge.

“So. Little Fishie.”

Stan scowled. “Don’t call me that either. I’m not little.”

“Touched a nerve, huh? Fine. Big Mac then.”

Stan wrinkled his nose. “What am I, a hamburger?”

“Gee, you sure are tough to please.” Bill rolled his eye. “Alright: Fez.”

“Fez? Where did that even come from? I don’t own a fez.”

Bill shot him finger-guns. “Not in this timeline you don’t.”

“What?” Stan was absolutely baffled.

“Don’t worry about it. Mackerel. Take it or leave it.”

“Macker—? Now we’re just back to fish again! Hey, wait, is that what Big Mac was short for?”

Bill finally stopped moving in circles around Stan, hovering nearby with his eye half-lidded in exasperation. “Boy are you picky. Most people would not have gotten this many chances with me. You’re lucky your brother would be mad if I tried anything.”

“What? Ford? Why would he be mad?”

Bill stared at him blankly for a long moment. “Oh? Oh, you think Ford—?” He laughed in a high-pitched, nasally tone. “That’s hilarious! Well that sure makes things more interesting.”

“What?” Stan said. Again.

Nothing about this conversation (could this be called a conversation?) made sense to him. He was only getting more confused by the minute.

Once again, Bill refused to explain anything. “No, no. I can’t spoil the surprise. This is too entertaining. I’ll be keeping an eye on this, Little Fishie.”

“Hey!”

“Nope! No complaints! You lost your chance for opinions so now we’re going back to Little Fishie.”

“Ugh, what do you want?!” Stan snapped, thoroughly done with Bill. “Actually, don’t bother answering. Goodbye!”

He closed his eyes and concentrated really hard on Bill disappearing. On him fading out of the dream the way that other henchmaniac had. He wanted Bill gone more than anything, and he also wanted to not be in a classroom anymore. School sucked.

When Stan opened his eyes again, he was in his childhood bedroom (nice). Bill was also floating nearby, still staring at him (not nice).

Stan groaned. “Are you kidding me? Why are you still here?! I hate when my dreams don’t listen to me.”

“I ain’t a part of your dream, kid, but it was funny watching you try and think me away. You looked close to bursting a blood vessel, hahaha!” Bill laughed obnoxiously.

Stan squinted at him. “What do you mean you’re not a part of my dream?”

“I mean I’m not a part of your dream, so you can’t control me. You aren’t just dreaming of me, Little Fishie, I’m actually here!” Bill spread his arms theatrically, as if presenting himself. “Bill Cipher, in the flesh! Or, in the mind. Whatever. Point is, it’s actually me, your new, awesome demon overlord! You should be grovelling at my feet, honestly.”

Stan had… no idea what to think.

“What—? How are you here?” he asked.

Immediately he wanted to slap himself after. Why was he even entertaining this as possibly real? This was literally a dream. He couldn’t trust anything that was said in a dream. Of course Bill wasn’t actually there, Stan was just dreaming he was.

…Right?

Bill summoned a black cane and twirled it around as he nonchalantly inspected non-existent nails on his other hand. “Easy. I’m an all-powerful demon. I can travel into whatever mindscape I want, whenever I want. Figured it was about time I gave you a visit since I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

“You what?”

“Yeah, I can see through triangles and triangular shaped objects and all that. I’ve peeped you before. You sure are resourceful.”

That only confirmed to Stan that this Bill was just a dream. No way the real Bill Cipher had been spying on him in the waking world. Especially since a certain someone still didn’t know where Stan was, and if this was all real, then why wouldn’t Ford have been told? He decided to ask.

“And you never told Ford?”

Bill waved a hand dismissively. “Eh. It’s been funny watching him stress out about not being able to find you. The whole circle pacing and hair tugging was comedy. And we’ll get you in the end anyway, so it’s no biggie.”

Right. As if the real Ford was actually worried about Stan and not on a hunt to kill him. Stan rolled his eyes.

“So then why are you here?”

“I wanted to meet my bestie’s other half!” Confetti shot out of the top of Bill’s hat as he spoke. Weird.

Stan wrinkled his nose. “Ew. Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not? It’s what you are. Identical twins, right? One zygote split into two. One soul split into two. You guys are literally each other’s other half.”

“You’re pulling my leg now.”

“If you insist!” Bill said gleefully.

A bunch of tiny Bill-like hands sprouted from the carpet and grabbed Stan’s left leg, pulling on it and nearly sending him face-first to the floor. Bill laughed as Stan shouted and pinwheeled his arms frantically to keep his balance.

“Hey! Stop it!” Stan shook his leg, trying to dislodge the hands.

Bill snapped his fingers and another group of tiny black hands erupted from the carpet, grabbing onto Stan’s other leg.

“Whoops!” Bill said cheerfully.

Stan growled, hands curling into fists. “If you were real I’d punch you so hard,” he grumbled. Then he thought for a moment. “Actually, doesn’t matter that you’re just a dream. I still want to punch you. Come over here.”

“Still believing I’m a dream, huh?” Bill sounded unimpressed. “You sure are slow, Stanny-boy. Not your fault though, I guess. Sixer ate your potential in the womb.”

“Yeah, yeah. My brother is so much better and smarter and more amazing than me,” Stan muttered bitterly. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

It wasn’t like it wasn’t true either. Stan knew Ford was the better twin. The one who was actually worth something. Bill was just spouting the same thing Stan told himself all the time. And of course Bill would have the same opinions as Stan, seeing as he was simply a dream made from Stan’s subconscious.

Which kind of sucked, to be honest. Stan would love to give the real Bill Cipher a piece of his mind. He didn’t know much about the guy, but he knew Bill must have done something to Ford. Turned him evil or something. Tricked him into opening the portal and stuff. He… He must have. Ford wouldn’t have done that of his own free will. He wasn’t evil!

Ford couldn’t be evil. Sure, his brother had always been a little different than others, but he’d never been evil. And sure, Stan hadn’t seen him in a decade and didn’t really know him anymore, but… He refused to believe Ford had turned evil on his own. He just refused.

(Stan ignored the fact that ten years was a long time for someone to potentially go mad. He ignored the fact that he’d seen people have mental breakdowns and go crazy in much shorter timeframes while on the streets. He ignored the fact that he knew Ford had always been a little amoral. A little dubious in his interests. A little lacking in empathy to outsiders.)

Stan was pulled from his spiralling thoughts by a bonk on the head from Bill’s cane.

“Ow!”

“Don’t space out on me, Little Fishie. I’m trying to have a conversation with my bestie’s twin. A little get to know each other.”

Stan scowled. “Even if you were real, I didn’t think you’d care enough about me to be doing this anyway. The spying and dreaming invading thing and all.”

“Oh, I don’t really. I’m not personally invested in you, but Sixer is. He wants you more than anything, which means we’re just going to have to get used to each other. So I figured maybe we could be pals. Not friends, but pals.”

“I don’t want to be your pal,” Stan muttered.

Bill ignored him. “Also, I was thinking you could become the group mascot! You know, like how you were the baby mascot for those ‘Fussy Boy’ diaper rash commercials.”

Stan immediately flushed bright red from his head to his toes. “THAT WAS FORD!” he screamed in denial.

Bill laughed. “No, it wasn’t! But I can appreciate the immediate instinct to lie.”

Stan covered his face with his hands. Why did he have to be humiliated in his own dream? He hated remembering those commercials. Why did his wretched brain have to dig those up? He kind of wished to just melt into the carpet and disappear.

“Ugh, Ford doesn’t know about that, does he?” he asked. (And why was he asking anyway? This was just a dream.)

“Not yet he doesn’t,” Bill replied. He said it in a tone of voice that implied he would tell Ford as soon as he had the chance. “I was actually thinking you could be that same baby mascot again, just for the henchmaniac group instead.”

“No way!” Stan would die. He would literally just die of embarrassment. Even the very thought made him want to pass away.

Unfortunately, Bill enjoyed his suffering. “Aww, come on. It would be hilarious. You’d look so stupid! Although, Sixer might find it adorable.”

Stan snorted. Adorable? No way. Ford would laugh him right into the grave. There was no way his brother wouldn’t take the piss out of him for doing those cursed commercials. He’d never live it down if Ford learned about the baby mascot thing.

“Well, I—” Stan cut off as the dream world around him began to wobble like laminated paper. That had never happened before. “What’s going on?!”

“Looks like you’re waking up, Little Fishie,” Bill said. “Better treat your head wound once you do. If you die, Sixer will go nuts and I don’t need that right now, so stay alive, yeah? Your brother is on his way to you.”

Stan opened his mouth to reply, but the scene of his childhood bedroom shattered like glass, pitching him down into endless darkness where any sound he made was swallowed up by the void.

He fell and he fell and he fell and he fell and—

Stan woke up.

Chapter Text

Stan groaned as his eyes fluttered open, his head greeting him with an unpleasant throbbing. He had no idea how long he had been asleep for, given the loft he was in was dark to begin with, but thankfully he hadn’t been found by anyone. And as he reached a shaky hand up to his head, gently prodding around the wound, he learned that it had at least been long enough for the bleeding to stop, the wound having clotted over.

That was going to be a pain to clean when he had the opportunity to do so. There was a mess of coagulated blood clumping his dirty hair together, and the blood that had dried on his skin itched. He would have to prioritize finding a water source to clean it up (and get a drink from) since he couldn’t stand the feeling of it.

But all of Stan’s attempts to push himself upright only ended with him slumped back on the rough wooden floor. His muscles felt weak and his head swam dizzily, a wave of exhaustion washing through him. Despite the fact that he had just been asleep (or had fallen unconscious really) he still felt absolutely drained. He growled at himself under his breath, frustrated.

He didn’t want to sleep more. He wanted to keep moving. He needed to keep moving. Moving was what kept him safe. He couldn’t afford to stay in one place for too long. Who knew what—or who—would find him if he did?

But he couldn’t get up. He was so tired…

Stan lay there cursing at himself until he fell into a fitful doze. He drifted in and out for hours, sometimes unsure when he was truly awake and when he was asleep. In the haze of it all he had snatches of dreams; ones that were hard to recall, like the delirious kind experienced while sick. But he remembered bits and pieces.

Some of the dreams were nightmares—or perhaps unpleasant memories would be more accurate. Dreams of being tied up, of being chased in foreign countries, of being surrounded by people out for his blood. These weren’t exactly unusual dreams to Stan. His brain often dredged up horrific remixes of the things that had happened to him, forcing him to relive those terrible moments night after night.

Some of the dreams he had were pleasant though. The nightmares broken up by dreams of his childhood; of playing with Ford or learning card tricks from his ma. But those… Stan almost considered those worse. The nightmares he could handle, but awakening in the darkness with his head throbbing and his stomach churning, with the echo of his ma’s laughter in his ears… That hurt.

Those dreams were so nostalgic and sweet that they left a bitter taste in his mouth, because he could never have that back. He was injured and alone and he didn’t even want to dream of his childhood because it hurt. All it did was leave him waking with a desperate yearning for something that was long gone. Leave him waking with tears on his cheeks and apologies on his lips.

For Stan, staying on the move was survival. It was what kept him alive. But it was also what kept him from having to think for too long. If he was concentrated on moving, he could ignore the whispers in the back of his mind.

But now he was forced to stay where he was, too exhausted to move on, and the longing crept in. The kind of longing he was always running from. The kind of longing he could never satisfy, because what he longed for was permanently lost to him. The kind of longing that, if he allowed himself to dwell in it for too long, felt as though his chest was being cracked open and his insides carved out. A longing so deep he couldn’t handle thinking of it without anguish.

Stan yearned.

And in the moments where the yearning overtook him (more often than he would ever want to admit), all he could do in the face of it was cry. It was embarrassing really, and he hated himself for it. He was a grown man; he shouldn’t cry so easily. Especially not over something as silly as not getting what he wanted. Sure, his body just seemed to prefer reacting to strong emotions by tearing up, but Stan really thought he should get a handle on it like a proper adult.

Ma had always called him her sensitive soul. Pa had always called him a crybaby. Between the two, Stan knew his pa had been right—the crying was pathetic. Ford had never had that problem. He’d always been the more stoic of the twins, his emotions running low and simmering where Stan’s had always been high and boiling. Just another thing Pa had always compared them on, asking why Stan couldn’t be more like his brother. Just another of Stan’s failures.

But Pa wasn’t there right now. No one was. No one but Stan, muffling sobs into his dirty hands as he lay where he was. Crying, injured, yearning, and feeling very pathetic about it all. He curled his knees closer to his chest and squeezed wet eyes shut, wishing he would fall back asleep again so he didn’t have to deal with the horrible ache in his chest. He’d take the nightmares over this. As terrible as his dreams sometimes were, they were also kind of better than his real life was right now.

Maybe Stan had spoken too soon on that.

He pounded his bound fists on the solid metal above him, a ragged scream already rising in his throat. A detached part of his mind registered the dream with weary acceptance. This was one of his least favourite nightmares—one of his least favourite memories. One that often haunted Stan and caused him to awaken in a cold sweat when it was over.

He was already hot and sweating now, the blazing heat of the desert sun making the car he was trapped in become like a hot oven. Stan writhed, kicking his bound legs and punching the roof of the trunk as best he could, but it was useless.

It was always useless.

Stan knew that in real life, this scenario had had a happy ending. He had successfully escaped (minus a few teeth and plus a lot of wounds). But in his dreams, his mind liked to twist the memory around, showing Stan multiple ways that he could have died. Endings in which he didn’t escape. Where he slowly cooked alive inside the trunk, or where Rico and his men came back to finish him off themselves. Whichever way his brain decided to torture him with it, Stan hated this nightmare.

Faintly, a part of him whispered that he could try and change the dream. That he could try and change his surroundings like he had last time. That he didn’t have to be stuck there. But that part of him was drown out by the sheer terror he felt. No matter how many times he had this nightmare, it felt like reliving the actual event over and over. As if dreaming about it unlocked every repressed feeling Stan had about it.

And he could not stop the way he fought for his life every time.

Stan gave up on try to punch his way out when he felt something in his left hand crack. He yelped at the sensation of broken fingers, clutching his hands to his chest for a moment as he hissed through the initial pain. He knew what he actually had to do to try and get out. The way he’d gotten out in real life. It didn’t work every time, but…

With great reluctance, Stan lifted trembling hands to his face and began to chew at the ropes binding his wrists.

He hated the feeling of it between his teeth. Hated it more than anything. Hated the way it scratched against his lips and dug into his tender gums, making them bleed. Stan growled and groaned and yelled through the sensation, still kicking his bound legs to try and distract himself from it. Distract himself from the way he wanted to cry. Again. Distract himself from the fact that this was likely one of the times his nightmare wouldn’t allow him to escape.

Thin rivulets of blood started to trickle from the corners of Stan’s mouth, and he dry-sobbed at the knowledge that it would soon get worse. And it did, though not in the way he expected. Before he could fully chew through even one section of the ropes, something happened that made his heart sink even more.

The trunk opened.

Stan winced at the sudden sunlight that blinded him, recoiling with a cry. He knew what this meant. Rico and his men had come back. They were going to drag Stan out and torture him with a long, slow death. Through squinted eyes he could already see a pair of hands reaching for him, and Stan tried to wriggle away, quiet pleas and whimpers leaving bloody lips. But there wasn’t anywhere for him to go, and the hands grabbed him anyway as they always did and—

They were gentle.

Stan blinked in confusion as he was carefully pulled towards the edge of the trunk, the figure above him coming into clear view.

Ford’s worried, heartbroken face looked down at him. “Oh, Stanley.”

The soft, concerned way his brother said his name pulled at something in Stan, and he choked on another sob, desperately swallowing back tears. He was unfortunately aware of just how pitiful he must look, beaten and bloody and near tears, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care too much when Ford scrambled to free him. He could care less how he looked as long as he was out. He needed to be out. Get him out.

And Ford did, untying Stan and pulling him out of the trunk and right into his arms.

“Shh, shh,” Ford murmured into his hair, cradling Stan close to him and rocking him as if to soothe him. “It’s alright, Stan. You’re okay. Big brother is here.”

Stan took deep breaths, trying to steady himself and move past the lingering fear that was making him tremble. He was out of the trunk, and Rico wasn’t there. Ford was though, which… maybe wasn’t all that better, considering the track record of his past dreams featuring his brother. He could hear Ford muttering under his breath in between whispering comforts to Stan.

“This isn’t an ordinary nightmare is it?” Ford was saying. “No, there’s something about this that’s different. I can feel it. This… This is a memory, isn’t it? Or something similar to one. A dream based on a real event.”

As Ford put the pieces together, his tone shifted, becoming something sharp, something cold. Something that screamed danger to Stan and made him go stiff. Ford pulled back to look him in the eye, but Stan dodged his gaze, remembering the last dream when he had locked eyes with his brother.

Ford didn’t push the issue this time, but he did ask, “This is a memory, isn’t it? Something like this actually happened in your life?”

Everything about Ford in that moment radiated that he wanted Stan to deny it, to tell him he was wrong and that it was all just a messed up nightmare. But Stan couldn’t say anything. His tongue felt like it had locked up, and all he could do was turn his head to the side and spit leftover blood onto the sandy ground next to them. His non-answer was enough, though. Ford’s face darkened with fury, his very presence seeming to exude a sense of danger that made every instinct in Stan scream to run away.

“When did this happen?!” Ford growled, his grip on Stan tightening, that little ring of yellow around his pupils lighting up. “Who did this to you?!”

A shiver of fear shot up Stan’s spine, and it didn’t matter that Ford’s anger didn’t seem to be directed at him. His hind brain was registering Ford as a threat rather than as his brother, and all he knew was that he had to get away. He shoved against Ford frantically, trying to squirm out of his arms.

The strange, menacing air around his brother ceased almost immediately at that, Ford’s face falling back into gentle concern. “No, no, no, no,” he murmured, scrambling to keep a hold of Stan, pulling him close again and changing his grip to something soft but firm. “Shh, shh. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You have before,” Stan spit out. “Why should I believe you now?”

Ford’s face crumpled even more, but Stan could see a flash of indignation in his eyes. “I didn’t want to. You forced my hand, remember? If you were just more cooperative it wouldn’t have happened.”

“I didn’t force nothing! You chose to do that,” Stan said, struggling harder against his brother. “Now let go!”

Ford hugged him closer instead, using one hand to push Stan’s head down onto his shoulder, petting at his hair, and it was… It was nice? In a weird way. His brother may have hurt him before, but it was still his brother. It wasn’t like they hadn’t hurt each other in the past before either, and Stan’s body wanted to lean into the offered comfort, like old times.

The adrenaline in his system was slowly fading out, and Stan’s mind was giving him mixed messages. Part of him was warning him to get away, that Ford was dangerous. But the other part of him wanted Ford, wanted to lean on him for support in this nightmare. He felt trapped in the mix of it, unsure of how to respond.

But Ford’s arms were around him, his voice once again cooing meaningless comforts to Stan, and it was all too much. It was something he hadn’t experienced in so long, and it brought echoes of the past to him. And with those echoes came the longing, the deep yearning, and Stan couldn’t stand it. It was both too much and not enough and it was suffocating.

“Let go of me!” he yelled, voice cracking with a panic he didn’t fully understand.

With his arms trapped in Ford’s grip, Stan kicked out at Ford’s legs, connecting with one of his knees and causing Ford to stumble, his hold loosening in surprise. Stan shoved at his brother and backed away frantically, his chest heaving. His nerves felt strung out and overwhelmed, and Stan grasped for his usual defence of anger in response.

Ford straightened up with a scowl, gesturing with one arm in agitation. “This is ridiculous! Why can’t you just let me comfort you?”

Stan bristled. “Because I don’t need it!”

He was lashing out like a cornered animal. He wasn’t even sure why. How many nights had he dreamed of his family comforting him? Of Ma or Ford finding him and wrapping him in their arms and bringing him home? He wanted Ford to comfort him. He always had. So he didn’t understand why he was pushing back against it now. Ford was trying to give him the very thing he secretly desired and he was rejecting it? Why?

Stan didn’t understand the tangled ball of emotions he felt about it. It was too confusing. All he knew was that he wanted it, and that at the same time he was ashamed of wanting it. At this point comfort was so foreign to him that it felt like too much. He wanted it, but he didn’t think he could handle it. But there was no way he could ever voice such a thing—not even in his dreams. So Stan did what he always did: he pretended.

“I don’t need your comfort,” he repeated. Lied. “Do I look like some weakling to you? I’m tough.”

“No, you’re not,” Ford told him, and he said it so bluntly, so matter-of-fact, that Stan was taken off guard. “You only built a shell of toughness around yourself to hide behind. To protect who you truly are. You forced yourself to be tough so that you couldn’t be hurt. You forced yourself to be tough because no one else would be for you. Because I was a weak child and you felt it was your duty to step up and protect me.”

Stan edged away from his brother, uncomfortable with what he was hearing. He didn’t want to hear Ford to say these things. He didn’t even want to think about them.

“But I remember what you were like as a child,” Ford continued. “Before the world came at us and you felt the need to pretend to be tough. I know the true you, the soft, sensitive boy full of imagination and big dreams. The boy who liked to draw and make up stories, and who cried easily.”

“All kids got stars in their eyes before life hits them,” Stan cut in gruffly. “It’s just childish naivety. That doesn’t mean that’s who they truly are or whatever.”

Ford just raised a brow. “Of course it does. It’s the purest version of who someone is before they ever feel the need to build walls around themselves. You aren’t tough, Stan. Not at your core. You just became so to protect us when I couldn’t—a huge failing on my part. But it’s okay now.”

Stan didn’t like this conversation. He skittered away when Ford reached for him again.

Ford was not deterred however, advancing towards Stan. “I’m not that weak child anymore. I’ve become strong enough to protect you, the way I always should have. So you can be free of that burden now.”

Stan went stiff as a board as Ford drew him back into his arms. He did not feel comforted by the hand rubbing his back, nor the words Ford whispered into his ear.

“You don’t have to be tough anymore, Stan. You can be soft again. You can be sweet and kind and sensitive the way you were always meant to be. You can let down all those walls you spent so long building up. I’ll protect you. I want what’s best for you. So don’t worry, I’ll help you break those walls down if you have trouble doing it on your own.”

Stan didn’t like the sound of that. Actually the whole conversation sent chills up his spine. It made him uneasy (it made him too vulnerable) and at the same time, it weirdly made him feel… useless. If he wasn’t the tough one then who was he? What value did he have to Ford if he wasn’t the protector? The muscle? The brawn to his twin’s brains? Ford couldn’t just take that away from him. He’d have nothing left! Ford couldn’t be everything and leave Stan with nothing. (Even if he had. He already had. He had a long time ago.)

And who was Ford to tell him who he was anyway? The brother who hadn’t spoken to him in almost a decade?

“You don’t even know me,” Stan muttered into Ford’s shoulder. He didn’t bother addressing any of what Ford said. He didn’t want to continue that conversation. Didn’t even want to think about it anymore. Ford’s words were far too unsettling and Stan would rather forget about them entirely.

Although, if he did think about it, maybe Ford did know him. This Ford, anyway. After all, this Ford was only a dream; a figment of Stan’s unconscious imagination. Why wouldn’t this version of Ford know him? Of course any dream Stan had would be able to dig through the secrets and deepest recesses of Stan’s mind. And it would be just like him to torment himself. For his dreams to force him to face the things his waking mind refused to think about.

It made sense. The real Ford would never say any of this kind of stuff. Would never want to comfort Stan.

But dream Ford only snorted in response to Stan’s words. “Of course I know you, my darling baby brother. So sweet yet stubborn. Kind yet mischievous. Greedy yet selfless. Valuing family over all else, but to the point of detriment to yourself. You aren’t very good at taking care of yourself. Just look at you. It’s clear to see you haven’t been doing a very good job.”

Stan bristled and opened his mouth to argue, to point out how it hadn’t been for lack of trying, just for his lack of financial stability. But Ford talked over him.

“If you won’t take care of yourself then don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

The sentence was punctuated by a firm kiss to the side of Stan’s head. It was both unusual and familiar, this easy affection Ford had been showing him. Familiar because Ford had used to do the same when they were young. Press chaste kisses to Stan’s forehead and temples the way he’d seen their ma do it. Wrap his arms around Stan and hold him tight. Stan had loved it, soaking up the affection like a thirsty plant.

But it felt unusual because the real Ford had stopped doing such things years ago. Once they had entered their double digits their pa had told them it wasn’t right for them to be so close anymore. That men shouldn’t be openly affectionate and touchy. Stan remembered the way he’d wilted when that easy affection had been taken from him. When Ford had begun to distance himself. Still right next to Stan, but no longer as close. No more comforting hugs or hands clasped together.

Stan knew Ford didn’t actually care much for Pa’s words or opinions, but Ford did care about being perceived as normal. It was something Ford had always had a hard time with. Not only because of his extra fingers, but because of his odd personality. Ford had never had a good grasp on what was normal or socially acceptable, and so he’d always tried hard to compensate for it. He’d wanted so desperately to appear normal back then. Stan could never take that away from him, even though without the closeness he withered.

So it felt strange to be offered it again now, even if just in a dream. Especially since he couldn’t even get his dreams right. Couldn’t seem to make things how they used to be. Couldn’t draw up a copy of his brother from when they were younger. Instead his mind kept giving him the weird, evil version of Ford that his brother had become.

“You’re too quiet, Stan,” Ford said, giving Stan a light squeeze to get his attention. “What’s wrong? Are you still frightened from being trapped in that trunk?”

Stan physically shuddered at the reminder, which prompted Ford to gently hush him, as if he were some scared little kid. Stan kind of wanted to whack his brother for it, but he was also so wrung out and tired. He really didn’t want to fight again.

“It’s nothing. I just don’t want to be here anymore,” he mumbled dismissively.

“Okay,” Ford agreed easily, snapping his fingers.

Suddenly the environment around them warped and shifted, the desert and the hot sun and that wretched car fading away, replaced by a… really lavish bedroom? Stan frowned and pulled back from Ford (who shockingly let him) to glance around. The weird thing was he didn’t recognize the place at all. It wasn’t a room he’d ever seen before in real life.

“Where are we?” he asked.

Ford smiled, and there was a faint smugness to it that irked Stan immediately. His twin spread his arms as if presenting the room. “This,” he said, “is your room. Or, it will be once I’ve caught you. I have it all set up for you and ready to go, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt for you to have a little peek at it.”

Stan refrained from rolling his eyes. Dream Ford was back to the crazy talk it seemed. “Right.”

“Do you like it?”

Stan paused and took a moment to truly assess the room. It was large—the biggest bedroom he’d ever seen actually—and everything in it looked brand new and expensive. It was also styled to Stan’s tastes, the colours and the theme and the furniture designs all aligned with what Stan liked. It was in fact a very nice room. He kind of wished it was real.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s nice.”

Ford lit up, looking very pleased. “Ah, I’m glad. The only thing it’s missing now is you in it.” He gave Stan a stern look then, crossing his arms. “Which is another problem because somebody hasn’t stayed put like he was told to, has he?”

Stan waved him off. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ford huffed. “I will find you, you know. You can’t hide from me forever.” He stepped closer to Stan. “Why don’t you just come to me? Look at what I can offer you.”

Ford raised his hands and tapped them on Stan’s shoulders, and Stan blinked in surprise as his dirty, ragged clothes morphed into clean, expensive ones. Ford then lifted his hands higher and tapped Stan’s cheeks, and Stan felt a tingling rush go through him. His skin was suddenly clean and his body strong and healthy, all the injuries and blood and dirt vanishing like smoke. Ford reached up and tapped the top of Stan’s head, and Stan felt a coolness spread across his scalp. His hair became fresh and neatly styled, long strands swept back from his face.

“See how well I could take care of you?” Ford said, his voice gentle and inviting, like he was trying to convince Stan. “Stop running from me, and all this will be yours faster.”

A wistfulness rose in Stan. This wasn’t something he would be fully opposed to. A place to live safely with no worries about food or money, with his family next to him? That was something Stan had always wanted. Too bad it wasn’t real.

“That’s a nice dream,” he admitted quietly.

Ford frowned, but there was a level of concern in it. “It’s not just a dream, Stan. This is real. I’m real. I’m coming to get you, okay? I’ve made it to Colorado now, so wherever you’ve gone to just stay there. I’ll come find you.”

Stan let out a disbelieving laugh. “Right.” He was glad it was just a dream. If the real Ford was in Colorado he’d be in big trouble.

“I’m serious,” Ford said. “Bill told me you got injured, so don’t strain yourself. I don’t want you more hurt.” He reached out and flicked Stan on the forehead playfully. “Don’t be a dummy. Wait for big brother, okay?”

“Sure. Whatever.” Stan wandered away from his brother to explore the room more closely, checking out the desk and the various little knick-knacks on the shelves. But he could still faintly hear Ford whispering under his breath behind him.

“And I’ll find whoever did that to you too. Anyone who has ever hurt you. I’ll find them all, and I’ll rip them apart.”

The words were growled out with a stone-cold fury, vengeance dripping from them. It sent a thrill of fear up Stan’s spine so primal that he dropped the glass bottle with a ship inside that he’d been holding.

He watched it fall as if in slow motion, fingers reaching uselessly to catch it, already knowing he’d be too late.

Stan jerked upright in the darkness of the shed’s loft, the sound of shattering glass still echoing in his ears.

Chapter Text

The border was being watched.

Stan hissed through his teeth as he eyed the men patrolling the border between Colorado and Utah. It was odd. They were armed and didn’t seem to be trying to hide their actions. They were very clearly patrolling the border and on the watch for something. Someone. Probably Stan, unfortunately.

He didn’t understand who they were or where they had come from though. It was no ragtag team of apocalypse survivors, these guys looked like an organized group, uniformed in black and prepared for duty—whatever that duty was. But why were they suddenly just here? Out of nowhere? Stan hadn’t seen anything resembling military or organized crime since weirdmageddon had started. And he wasn’t sure what group these guys belonged to.

Regardless, it put a huge damper on his plans. Stan wasn’t sure how long he’d been in that shed, drifting in and out of consciousness, but he reckoned at least a full day, if not two. Eventually he’d been able to pull himself up and slowly make his way out, the worst of the concussion abated. His everything still hurt, and he was weak and a bit unsteady on his feet, but he could move again, and that was the important thing.

Movement was survival. He needed to get to Shermie’s place. This surprise border patrol was simply another obstacle in his way. But maybe Stan didn’t have to deal with them. Certainly there couldn’t be too many of these guys, right? Not enough to cover all the borders anyway. It wasn’t like they were working for Cipher or anything… right? Stan had no idea. He’d never seen guys like these before, and it was strange that such an organized, uniformed group would just pop up randomly.

He sighed from where he was peeking around the corner of a building at the men. He started to run a hand through his hair and then winced. Right. Touching his head, bad idea. He still needed to find some water and clean up as best he could.

“Should just cut my losses here and head south,” Stan mumbled to himself. “Cross into New Mexico and head through Arizona to Cali.”

“Aye, would be smarter than trying to get through this, no?”

Stan jumped with a strangled gasp at the unexpected voice behind him. He whipped around to face a man who was smoking a cigarette and leaning casually against the wall next to him, as if they were traveling buddies.

“But then again, you aren’t exactly known for smart decisions, are you, 8-Ball?” The man blew a stream of smoke from his cigarette into Stan’s face. “Or do you prefer Stanley now?”

“Jorge,” Stan whispered hoarsely, his stomach dropping.

How did things just keep going from bad to worse for him without any good breaks? Like seriously? He’d just escaped one group, run into another, and here was a third?

Because of course Jorge wasn’t here on his own. He never was. Stan had worked with him in the past enough to know that. Jorge was Rico’s loyal dog, earning the nickname “Bloodhound” amongst the cartel for how good he was at tracking people. He was the one Rico would send out to hunt people down for him, and Jorge always, always, did his job well.

He’d been sent after Stan before, after Stan’s not so happy departure from the group. Even now, Stan had never been sure if the fact that Jorge had stopped was because Stan had successfully lost him, or because Rico had recalled him. He liked to think it was because he was so skilled that he’d shaken Jorge off his trail, but. Well. Here was Jorge again now.

“What do you want?” Stan asked.

It was a dumb question. He already knew the answer, he was just stalling for time as he desperately tried to think of a way out of the situation.

For his part, Jorge played along. “You still owe us money, Gringo.” He tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and stomped on it. “You’ve been lucky so far that the boss agreed to extend the time limit on your debt. You always were one of his favourites.”

“One of his favourites?” Stan echoed incredulously. “He had me tied up and left in a car trunk to die.”

“And then he let you go when you managed to escape from that, no?” Jorge shrugged. “Gave you one more chance to pay him back. He doesn’t do that for most.”

“Yeah?” Stan put on a cocky grin that he didn’t feel, his heart pounding. “Did he just decide to give me another chance out of the goodness of his heart, or did you guys lose track of me after I escaped?”

Maybe he really had managed to throw off the bloodhound after that incident. None of Rico’s men had shown up again after Stan had escaped. Perhaps he’d done what others couldn’t and had shaken them off his tail.

Jorge only smiled as if he were humouring Stan. “If you like to think we lost you, be my guest.”

Or maybe not? It was really hard to tell with Jorge. Perhaps they really had known where he’d gone and just decided to leave him alone. Stan wasn’t sure. He’d stick with believing he’d managed to pull one over Jorge though.

“So why only show up now then?” Stan challenged. As he spoke, he subtly glanced around, trying to find where the other members of the cartel were. Jorge wouldn’t have come alone, but for all rights he appeared to be.

“You’re worth quite a bit of money now, aren’t you? You can finally pay us back what you owe,” Jorge said. “Plus interest.”

Figures these guys would still be after money even in an apocalypse.

Stan snorted. “Sorry to say, but I ain’t selling. I have no interest in dying.”

“Who said anything about dying? You are wanted alive, yes?”

“Yeah, so he can kill me himself,” Stan muttered under his breath. He eyed Jorge. The man didn’t look armed, but it was hard to tell what he could be concealing. “How’d you even find me? Because I refuse to believe you were tracking me after the apocalypse started. If you even had been keeping an eye on me before it.”

Jorge nodded along in agreement. “Rough times for everyone. Someone came to us, though. Wanted to know how to contact Cipher. Believe he was a Gary? Jerry? Something like that. Not a very smart man. Outright told us they had you.”

“Not a smart thing to do,” Stan agreed, even as his mind was internally reeling. Hadn’t that Devon guy mentioned a Jerry being part of his group?

Screw his luck.

Stan gestured in the direction of the border patrol. “So these guys with you then?”

Jorge chuckled. “Nah. Cipher’s men if I had my guess. Rumour has it that one of his top dogs have rolled into the state.”

Stan sucked in a sharp breath. A henchmaniac? In Colorado? But why—

“I’m coming to get you, okay? I’ve made it to Colorado now, so wherever you’ve gone to just stay there. I’ll come find you.”

Stan shook his head. No. There was no way. That was just a dream. If he started believing his dreams were real he might as well call himself crazy. Jorge said it was a rumour after all. There was no confirmation that any of Bill’s group had come here. The idea that a henchmaniac (Ford) was here was insane. Stan wasn’t going to entertain such thoughts.

“So who is here with you then, if you aren’t with them?” Stan asked, tamping down on any reaction his face might be giving.

“You’re asking a lot of questions, Gringo,” Jorge said.

“You’re answering a lot of questions,” Stan shot back.

It was strange. Jorge hadn’t made a move on him yet, just standing there casually answering Stan’s questions like they were buddies or something. It didn’t help Stan’s nerves at all. Certainly didn’t lower his guard. Jorge had always preferred a hunt to a talk, so what was his angle?

“Perhaps I like watching you squirm.” Jorge grinned, and it wasn’t a nice smile. “You have no chance of getting away from me and you know it. But seeing you stall for time anyway is amusing.”

Stan felt his heart rate pick up even more, his palms sweating, his body itching to either run or fight. He didn’t like the confidence Jorge had, and it made him even more aware of his own lack of weapons. It wasn’t as if he had much to begin with, being homeless and all, but the apocalypse had taken everything from him but his own two hands. And as willing as Stan was to use them, he didn’t like his odds right now.

(Jorge and Rico had always scared him far more than anyone else ever could. Stan knew he was a good fighter, but for some reason he always felt helpless when he faced those two. He didn’t know why.)

“Rico told me to ask you to come nicely this time. But personally I would prefer if you ran. It’s more fun for me.” Jorge’s eyes glinted as they always did at the prospect of a chase.

Stan backed up nervously as Jorge stepped towards him. He still had no idea where the others were but he knew they were hiding somewhere, just waiting for Jorge’s signal. He was unfortunately familiar with how Jorge operated, and as much as he wanted to be cocky and taunt Jorge that he’d escaped him before, he found his mouth was dry.

“You’re not going to get very far, but I would enjoy watching you try.” Jorge moved right into Stan’s space, leaning towards him and whispering, “So go on then, Stanley Pines. Run.”

His heart thumping madly in his chest, Stan turned on his heel and ran.

Jorge had been right, Stan didn’t get very far. But he thought he did get farther than Jorge had expected, given the subtle irritation on the man’s face as he approached Stan’s downed figure.

Stan breathed heavily against the ground, exhausted. His head was pounding again, and his body loudly making it known how weakened he was by hunger and thirst. Escaping Devon’s group had been easy. Child’s play. They’d had no idea what they were doing and it showed. Escaping Jorge? Not quite as easy.

It appeared they had learned their lesson from having lost Stan before. Jorge had far more men with him than he usually did on his hunts. This little town on the border had been practically surrounded from the beginning. No wonder Jorge had been so confident. They’d had Stan cornered on all sides.

Still, given how many of them there had been and his own physical condition, Stan thought he’d done a fair job of dodging them, considering it had taken almost two hours for a few dozen men to catch one guy. And especially considering the cartel apparently had some working cars with them. Something Stan envied as he was tied up and bundled into the backseat of one.

“Alright, Gringo, sit tight. Rico isn’t far.” Jorge clapped him on the shoulder in a faux-friendly manner. “And hey, you get to go to New Mexico like you said you wanted to.”

Stan decided to let Jorge know exactly what he thought about it all, cursing the man out as the car door was slammed in his face. He slumped down sideways across the seats. It was hard to stay upright with how thoroughly they had tied him up. His bound arms and legs dredged up the memories of his last nightmare, trapped in that trunk once again, and Stan pushed against panic that wanted to rise in his chest.

To escape it, he let his mind retreat as the car rumbled along beneath him. His head ached and his vision was woozy, and it was easier to simply allow himself to sink into the numbness than to face what was currently happening. He had no chance of escaping a moving vehicle while tied up to his eyeballs, so why try? Why waste energy freaking out when he could simply just not? He was so tired, after all. It was so much easier to just blank his brain out and stop thinking.

And if, in the numbness he retreated to, his mind imagined his brother and the way he had hugged Stan as if he were something precious, it wasn’t like anybody would know. Stan zoned out and disconnected from his current situation, daydreaming about warm arms around him and six fingers running through his hair, about the smell and feel of home.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. Time always felt different when he was in that kind of state, as if he were floating outside of it. He kind of felt as though he were floating outside of his body too, sensation registering to him in a more muffled, distant way. But that was okay. Things hurt less like that. Panic didn’t touch him like that. Rico and Jorge couldn’t get him here. He was safe from them like this.

The eventual halt of the car and the rough hands that dragged him from it didn’t mean anything to him. Stan idly watched it happen as if to someone else, wrapping himself further in memories of kind words and soft comforts. He swore he could smell his mother’s perfume surrounding him. Much more pleasant than trying to focus on what was happening to his body. That didn’t feel quite as real anyway.

It was another Stan that was dragged through the door of some building he hadn’t paid attention to. Another Stan that was forced onto an uncomfortable wooden chair. Another Stan that was tied to said chair with even more rope. Another Stan that was in Rico’s clutches once more. Another Stan that had to deal with the fallout and the horror-terror-fear that came with it. Another Stan. Certainly not him.

Until it was.

Stan sputtered as a shock of wet and cold hit his face out of nowhere, snapping him back into his body like a rubber band. He winced at the sudden change, eyes screwing shut as he tried to quickly adjust to the sudden bombardment of sensation that flooded his senses. He shook his head, water droplets going flying, his pulse pounding in his ears.

But over it he heard a voice say, “Paying attention now? Or shall I open another bottle? You do look like you need it, after all. Smell like you need it too. When was the last time you bathed?”

Stan slowly blinked his eyes open to see Rico, sitting on a (much more comfortable looking) chair across from him, an open water bottle in his hand that was half empty. Stan’s heart tried to jump up his throat at the sight, but he swallowed it down.

“How considerate of you,” he croaked dryly. “Would have thought you’d prefer to catch my attention more violently.”

Rico shrugged, taking a sip of water while Stan watched enviously. “You’re already damaged goods, Pines. The bounty may only specify that you’re wanted alive, and nothing to do with unharmed, but I’m not looking to take chances. Your brother appears to be… hmm. Shall we say fanatic? Loco?”

“I doubt he’d care,” Stan said bitterly. “He’s just going to kill me himself anyway.”

Rico raised a brow, clearly not believing Stan. “What makes you think that?”

“Cause I ruined his life. He hates me for it and he never lets go of a grudge.”

“His life doesn’t seem very ruined from where I’m sitting,” Rico said sceptically. “One might even say he’s on top of the world right now. Still, I believe you. Seems as though you screw over everyone you know, eh? Apparently it’s what you’re good at.”

Stan looked down, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. His feet attempted to shuffle nervously in their bonds. “Listen, Rico,” he said weakly, “I didn’t mean—”

“You lost me a lot of money, Pines,” Rico cut him off coldly. It felt so weird to hear his real name coming from Rico’s mouth. “And I’ve been very lenient with you—”

“Lenient?” It was Stan’s turn to cut him off, incredulous. “You tried to kill me!”

“And yet you are still alive, no?”

Stan licked his lips. “Come on man, just…” He had no argument. Nothing he could say that would convince Rico to let him go. Nothing he could offer that Rico would value. But he asked anyway. “Let me go. It’s the apocalypse for crying out loud. What good will a million dollars even do you?”

Rico shifted on his chair, pulling a cigar and a lighter from his inner jacket pocket. As he lit the thing he said, “I know you aren’t as stupid as you like to believe you are, Stanley. Use that brain of yours. Why, in an apocalyptic, collapsed society, would the new rulers of said society offer a monetary award for someone’s capture?”

Stan opened his mouth, then closed it, brows furrowing.

“What does that indicate to you?” Rico pressed him, not allowing Stan to get away with silence.

“…That they intend to rebuild society?” Stan offered tentatively.

“Exactly.”

That didn’t make sense to Stan. “But that’s insane! They’re aliens or inter-dimensional-whatevers. Why would they do that? Take over the world and destroy everything just to set it back up again?”

Rico shrugged, puffing on his cigar. “Rebuild it in their image perhaps? Make a new world with their own rules? I doubt things will be the same as they were. We won’t go back to how things used to be. But the cash reward for you tells me that Cipher intends to build society back in some manner in which money has value once again.”

Okay, maybe that did make a little bit of sense. Stan could see Ford doing something like that. He’d always had an ego, wanting to be recognized and famous for whatever science stuff he got into. Stan could see a more evil version of his brother deciding he wanted to reform the world to his own tastes. But Bill? Stan didn’t know him, but he didn’t strike Stan as the kind of being to care for such things. And yet he must be, since the mindless destruction had died down.

But that still left Stan with a problem.

“Can’t you just… let me go? I’ll find some way to pay you back what I owe you, I promise.” He was not begging. He wasn’t.

He had nothing else he could do.

“You’ve said that before. Promises don’t seem to mean much to you.” Rico stood, and Stan couldn’t help the way he flinched back at the movement. “We’ve already gotten a hold of Cipher’s people. I’m simply waiting for my contact to inform me of whether this will be a pickup situation or a drop-off. Either way, you’ll be seeing your brother soon. Might I suggest a little enthusiasm for the family reunion?”

Stan shrunk down as Rico approached him, his body trembling embarrassingly. When Rico pulled out a knife he paled, squirming in the ropes, whispered pleas tumbling out of his mouth without his consent. But to his shock, Rico only cut his arms free of the chair, leaving his hands bound together but more mobile. The water bottle was then shoved into Stan’s hands, and he stared at it dumbly.

“Drink,” Rico told him, walking away. “I don’t need you dying on me before I get my money.”

And then Stan was left alone. Or, not really, there were guards in the room. But Stan didn’t recognize any of them, and they didn’t approach him, so he ignored them for the time being.

Rico had been… not pleasant, but surprisingly amicable? Mm, no. Stan didn’t think he was using that word right. Rico had been civil. More neutral than Stan was expecting, considering how they’d last parted. It seemed Rico was very serious about the money, since he wasn’t taking the opportunity to rough Stan up a bit. Which was good news, he supposed. But bad news was that he didn’t see a way out of this.

Stan breathed thinly through his nose, guzzled most of the water in the bottle, and mentally took stock of his situation. He was firmly tied to a chair, with both legs and hands bound. He was still suffering from some effects of his concussion and was exhausted. He was surrounded by multiple guards, all likely armed. He had no weapons of any kind on his person. And he was running on a time limit if he wanted to escape, since Cipher’s people had apparently already been notified of his capture.

None of this looked good.

The plastic bottle made a crunching sound as Stan unthinkingly crushed it in his hands. The noise startled him out of the spiral of despair and panic his mind had been drifting to, and Stan absently drank the rest of the water before fully crumpling the bottle. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He didn’t want to show any weakness to these people. He wouldn’t.

He truly didn’t know what to do though. He couldn’t see a way out of this situation. At least in the trunk, they had left him alone and he’d been able to escape. But too many people were watching him now, and Stan didn’t think they’d just stand back and watch if he tried to chew through the ropes. He also didn’t particularly want to chew through the ropes again, honestly. The very thought made him shudder. He didn’t want to lose more teeth.

So what could he do? Stan didn’t know how long he had before Rico’s contact came back. What if Rico got bored waiting and decided to have some fun with Stan, as revenge? He’d seen the way Rico treated those he deemed traitors—he’d experienced it before himself. Either way, Stan couldn’t just sit there and wait, it went against all his instincts.

But, as he wiggled around experimentally, the ropes had no give to them. The cartel knew how to tie knots, and they knew how to keep a captive. He wouldn’t be able to get any of them to talk or lower their guard the way he had Devon. Stan’s best—possibly only—chance of getting away would be if Cipher asked Rico to deliver him. But then again, he hadn’t been able to get away during Jorge’s transit of getting him here, wherever this was. So he really, really didn’t know.

Stan was out of ideas, as much as admitting it felt like defeat. His head throbbed, and he decided to just keep his eyes closed. There was nothing interesting to look at anyway, all he could really do was wait for an opportunity. Any opportunity.

He wasn’t sure if at some point he drifted off, fell unconscious, or had simply let himself float away to that empty headspace again without realizing, but Stan found himself jolting upright at the sound of a door slamming. He looked around dazedly, feeling disoriented, his neck aching from the position it had been in.

What was going on? Had something happened? He blinked rapidly as the figure of Rico approached, trying to clear his eyes.

“I’m shocked that for once you decided to be a compliant captive,” Rico said. “You were always much more mouthy in the past.”

Stan just squinted, trying to get his brain to catch up. Why was Rico back? Had he come to torture Stan? Let him go? Or was—

No.

Stan’s eyes widened. “…How long has it been?” he whispered.

“A few hours. Still, I’m surprised at how fast Cipher’s men responded. Seems like you’re quite the priority to them. They started heading here almost before we could even offer to deliver you.”

Stan’s heart skipped a beat. No, no, no! Had he really been out of it for that long?!

Rico made a gesture to the men behind him, and two of them came up to Stan, holding him firmly while a third cut him free of the chair, leaving his hands and ankles bound.

“Bring him,” Rico ordered, already turning and walking away.

Stan struggled on principle, but he knew it was fruitless. The men holding him dragged him along after Rico, unaffected by Stan’s pathetic attempts to get away.

“Come on, Rico! Just let me go!” Stan tried one last time, wincing at how desperate he sounded to his own ears.

Rico only laughed at him. “I will let you go in just a minute. Let you go right to Cipher, that is. They’re already here.”

Stan’s stomach clenched with panic, and he fought harder, letting out a guttural cry as he put everything he had left into trying to break free. But Rico just stopped, raising a hand, and the men holding Stan paused, simply standing there and waiting until he wore himself out. It was humiliating. Stan slumped in exhaustion after only a minute, his chest heaving.

“Are you done?” Rico asked him mockingly.

Stan refused to look up, letting himself become a dead weight as he was dragged along once more.

It wasn’t very long before they entered a new, larger room. But before Stan could really take a look at his surroundings, he found himself roughly thrown down on the ground. He let out a grunt as he hit the floor, and it took him a moment to find the strength to push himself up on his elbows.

The first thing he saw right in front of him was a pair of boots. Black and sturdy, with weird metal contraptions on the bottoms, some futuristic looking tech. Filled with a yawning sense of dread, Stan slowly followed those boots upward, shifting onto his knees as best he could. His eyes trailed up to lock onto a pair identical to his own, set in a face identical to his own—one that stared down at him impassively, emotionlessly. Stan’s heart dropped.

“…Ford.”

“Stanley.”

Chapter Text

Ford looked good. Of course, Stan had seen him on the TV that one time, but it was different in person. Ford was still Ford, but he had certainly changed from when Stan had last seen him in person all those years ago. The awkward, gangly nerd Stan remembered had matured into a man with a square jaw and sturdy build much like Stan’s own. Which made sense considering they were twins and all.

But more than that, Ford looked better than him. He seemed healthy, for one, and dressed in that dark, sci-fi looking outfit with the cloak (no, Stan wasn’t jealous of how cool his brother looked). His hair actually appeared styled, which was crazy. The Ford he remembered had always had to be hounded by their ma to do things like take showers and brush his hair, but the Ford in front of him had clean, defined brown curls.

In the face of all that, Stan tried not to feel ashamed of his own appearance. But it was hard when Ford’s piercing eyes felt like they were staring right through him. Eyes that—Stan realized with something like vague alarm—had a ring of yellow around the pupils. Huh.

Ford looked exactly the same as Stan had been seeing in his dreams. Crazy coincidence that was.

He hadn’t been the only one taking in the sight of their long lost brother, though. Ford’s expression twisted as he took in the sight of Stan, the impassive, neutral mask darkening. His eyes dipped downwards, and the edges of his lips curled into something akin to a snarl. The sight sent a shot of fear through Stan’s veins, and he looked down as well, trying to follow Ford’s gaze to see what had angered him.

But Stan didn’t see anything remarkable. It was just him, in all his filthy, disgusting glory. The only thing that had changed about him was the fresh blood on his bound hands, the sides of them having scraped against the rough floor when he’d been thrown down. The scrapes were bleeding ever so slightly, but it was a minor injury.

Ford took a step forward, and Stan’s adrenaline spiked. He attempted to scramble back on his knees, but his bound ankles caused him to topple over and land on his behind, still too close to Ford for comfort. Ford gave him a warning glare, and Stan felt the hair on his arms rise as he watched Ford move one hand into his cloak.

Oh, Moses, he’s gonna kill me! Stan’s already trembling body shook harder. He’s going to kill me right here and now! He hates me that much! I thought I’d have more time! I thought he’d maybe want to talk at least a little?! I didn’t even get to—!

Faster than Stan could react, Ford pulled out a gun and fired.

The sound of the gunshot so close made Stan’s ears ring, and he flinched belatedly, eyes screwing shut. But… no pain followed. There was a solid thud nearby, and the sound of gasping and shuffling feet. Stan cautiously opened his eyes just as another gunshot went off, and he flinched again, body jolting. Still no pain.

What was going on?

Stan breathed heavily, whipping his head around in confusion, trying to make sense of the situation. The fear that had been spreading through him felt like it was fogging his mind, preventing him from thinking properly, and Stan shook his head as if to dislodge it.

His panicked eyes landed on a body near him. It was a man, face-down on the floor, blood pooling out from under his head. Stan couldn’t see his face (what was left of it) properly, but he knew it was one of the men who’d had hold of him a minute ago. He tried to shift away from the corpse, turning from the gruesome sight. But his eyes only ended up on a second corpse on his other side, a few feet away. The other man who’d had hold of him.

Stan spun back around to face Ford, heart in his throat, expecting to see the barrel of the gun pointed directly at him next—

The gun had disappeared, but Ford was studying Stan as if he were a bug Ford was debating crushing under his shoe. Perhaps he was revelling in the sight of Stan, shaking and panting and clearly terrified. What a pathetic picture he must make. And clearly not worth much, as Ford’s attention quickly shifted to Rico.

“I would have expected your men to have better manners than to throw things,” Ford said casually, as if he hadn’t just murdered two people.

Stan couldn’t see Rico, but he doubted the man was too ruffled. Wouldn’t have been the first time he’d lost men like this. Sometimes things happened during “negotiations”. Stan knew. It didn’t stop his stomach from churning anyway. Both from the bloody sight and from the anxiety of uncertainty. He didn’t know why Ford had killed those men and not him. Wasn’t Stan the one he was here to kill? What was Ford’s game?

Stan had once been able to read his brother like the back of his hand, but the man in front of him now was unpredictable. Unpredictable was dangerous. Stan didn’t know what Ford was thinking or what he’d do. And that made things terrifying.

“They were new hires,” Rico was saying in response to Ford. “I took them in for their muscle, not their brains.”

“Clearly.” Ford stepped closer to Rico, which meant he stepped closer to Stan.

Stan scooted away as best he could. Ford gave him an unreadable glance as he passed by, positioning himself so that he was between Stan and Rico, his back to Stan. Stan immediately turned around to face the situation, not wanting his own back to Ford. There were others who Ford had brought with him that were still behind them, but Stan didn’t pay them much mind. Ford and Rico were his biggest threats here, and he wanted to keep his eyes on the both of them.

“I presume you’re supposed to be the brains then?” Ford sneered at Rico derisively. “I would think the head of a cartel would know how to keep his own men in line.”

From around Ford, Stan could see the way Rico stiffened ever so slightly. It probably wouldn’t have been noticeable to most, but Stan had been around him enough in the past to catch it. Rico was nervous. The very idea astounded Stan, as rarely was Rico ever taken off guard. He couldn’t really blame him though. There was something about Ford that just made him unsettling. His presence, the very air around him, it exuded an almost otherworldly nature.

“I certainly do keep my men in line. And when they step out of it I punish them.” Rico’s eyes flicked briefly to Stan. “Though you’ve clearly done that for me this time, no?”

Ford hummed dismissively, and his tone was sharp when he asked, “Did my brother step out of line? For you to punish him?”

“He came to us like that,” Rico said quickly. “I did not lay a finger on him. He was already in bad shape when we caught him.”

“Truly?” Ford stepped closer to Rico.

Stan rather thought he looked like a predator ready to pounce. But it didn’t make sense to him. Why was Ford acting this way? Surely he should be at least somewhat pleased with Rico for catching Stan, right?

“Truly,” Rico confirmed. “I would hope this doesn’t change the reward for his capture? He is here alive for you. We have not harmed him.”

“Not harmed him?” Ford stilled, and it was like the entire room held its breath as he leaned towards Rico, the silence allowing his next whispered words to be heard clearly by all. “Then why is there blood on his hands?”

In a move almost too fast for Stan to keep up with, Ford’s hand shot out to grab Rico’s neck. There was a glint of something in Ford’s palm—blue?—and the briefest flash of panic on Rico’s face before it was gone. Entirely. Accompanied by a wet sound similar to that of a popped balloon, Rico’s head was blown clean off his body.

Or, well, not cleanly. Blood and brain matter splattered everywhere. Whatever Ford had done seemed to have literally exploded Rico’s head, and chunks of bone and flesh went flying.

Somehow untouched by the gruesome mess he’d just created, Ford casually tossed Rico’s body to the side as if it were trash. “There’s your reward,” he said apathetically.

Stan choked on bile, his eyes glued to Rico’s body in horror, watching blood spurt out from the grisly stump of neck that was left. His hands flew up to cover his mouth, but he couldn’t look away. This was… Stan didn’t know how to feel about it. Ford had killed him? Ford had killed him. Along with those two other men. Why? He didn’t understand. Was he next?

Chaos erupted around Stan, cartel members yelling and scattering at the murder of their leader. He heard Ford give a command to those he had brought with him, and the mix of men and monsters charged forward, engaging and slaughtering the cartel left and right. Out of the corner of his eye, Stan thought he saw Jorge trying to run.

It almost felt as if it were a movie playing around him. Stan couldn’t focus on it. He didn’t want to focus on it. His eyes stayed locked on what was left of Rico. The man who had tormented him for so long. Chased after him for so long. Tried to kill him. The one who was responsible for some of Stan’s worst memories and nightmares.

He was just… dead? Just like that? Stan didn’t know how to feel about it. He thought he felt a lot about it—relieved, horrified, elated, sickened, vindicated—but he couldn’t touch on it right now. There was already too much going on, he didn’t have the time or will or energy to parse through it all, so he shoved it down.

A scream from nearby was cut off in a bloody gurgle, and Stan wished he could put his hands over his ears. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be literally anywhere else. He didn’t want to see this—and certainly not in his last moments. He felt like his heart was going to just give out from stress. The stench of blood was strong in his nostrils, the taste of bile in the back of his throat. Stan clenched his eyes shut, but the image of Rico’s headless corpse was seared into the backs of his lids.

A hand touched Stan’s shoulder and he jerked away with a startled yelp, but the touch followed and it didn’t hurt him. The hand moved to wrap around Stan, drawing him near to someone that knelt down next to him. A voice Stan knew well cooed softly at him, and he cracked his eyes open to see Ford, who was looking at him with (compassion?) pity.

“See how soft you are?” Ford whispered to him, pulling Stan closer. “How sensitive? Look at you, trembling here. Violence scares you. I should have realized you wouldn’t be able to handle such sights.”

Some distant part of Stan felt indignant. This was hardly his first time seeing corpses. Hardly his first time seeing violent murder right in front of him even. Although, he’d never witnessed a bloodbath quite like this one before. His eyes were drawn back to Rico’s body like a magnet. Stan didn’t even want to look, but he did. Until a six-fingered hand cupped his cheek and forcibly turned his head away, making him look only at Ford.

“No, no, don’t look at that,” Ford told him. “Poor baby brother. This is my mistake. I should have taken you out before doing all this. You should never have had to see it.”

What? Stan squinted at him, brows furrowing. That didn’t make sense. What was Ford going on about? Did he mean take Stan out as in he should have killed him before killing the others?

“…Are you going to kill me?” Stan didn’t want to ask, but he felt like he had to. He couldn’t stand the uncertainty. Waiting for it was almost worse than it actually happening.

Ford’s mouth gaped for a moment, his hand spasming against Stan’s cheek as if shocked. “Kill you?” he echoed disbelievingly. “Why on earth would I kill you?”

What?

Stan eyed his brother back with twin disbelief. “Because you want me dead?”

“Where did you get that idea?” Ford demanded, sounding affronted. “I thought I made it very clear I want you alive.”

“Yeah, so you can kill me yourself. So why haven’t you? Why are you drawing this out?”

A look of realization dawned on Ford’s face. “Oh, you’re being silly,” he said, as if that made sense. He patted Stan’s cheek, smiling as though Stan was being endearing. “Silly, silly boy.”

Stan clamped down on the urge to bite Ford’s hand as hard as possible. As humiliating as it was to be spoken to that way, he also wanted to live. Even if only for a little longer.

Ford stood suddenly. “Come, let’s get you out of here.”

Stan found himself lifted into his brother’s arms before he could protest. Ford held him as if Stan was as light as air, turning and walking out of the building with him. His brother had a pleased expression on his face, which was at odds with the carnage happening around them. Ford didn’t look back once, even though the fight was still ongoing. Stan caught a glimpse of it over Ford’s shoulder as they left, but quickly looked away.

He wasn’t sure what he expected once they were outside, but it wasn’t for Ford to place him down on the hood of a nearby car. His brother’s hands and eyes scanned over Stan, checking him for… what, injury? Stan wasn’t sure. But when Ford pulled out a knife from within his cloak, the sunlight catching on the blade and making it gleam, Stan shouted and scrambled to get away, nearly falling off the car.

Ford was quick to catch him. “Stanley! Be careful!”

“Get away from me!” Stan yelled, trying to kick at Ford with his bound feet. His brother might have been about to kill him, but Stan wasn’t going to just accept it. He’d put up as much of a fight as he could.

Unfortunately, Ford easily wrestled him down within seconds. Why was he so strong? Had Stan really become that weak? Or was Ford’s strength unnatural? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. The knife was sharp and his heart was in his throat and his pulse in his ears.

“What is the matter with you?” Ford scolded him.

“Let’s just talk this out, okay?” Stan said desperately, trying to convince his brother to stop. “We can—we can talk, right? Don’t you wanna like, monologue at me or something before you get stab-happy?”

Ford’s brows furrowed, the corners of his mouth turning down. “That’s enough silliness, Stan.”

“I’m not being silly!” Stan protested, frustrated and fearful. “I take my death very seriously, thanks!”

“Your death,” Ford repeated flatly. “Because you believe I want to kill you.”

“Yes?” Stan wasn’t sure why Ford had said it like that, as if Stan was being unreasonable.

“After I very specifically and directly told you I was going to take care of you?”

“You never told me that,” Stan claimed in confusion.

Ford squinted at him. “I told you that just the other night. Remember? I showed you the room I have ready for you and everything.”

…What?

Stan stared, speechless.

Ford’s face morphed into one of worry, and his free hand came up to feel the back of Stan’s head. “Are you alright? Are you feeling sick? You do have a head injury… Perhaps you have a concussion that’s affecting your memory.”

“Ford, that—that happened in my dream,” Stan said.

“Yes.” Ford looked at him as if Stan was crazy. “I know. I was there.”

“…Huh?”

At Stan’s clear bewilderment, Ford’s lips thinned, eyes unimpressed. “Stanley, I told you it was me in your dreams. That I was real. I very much told you that. Did you not believe me?”

Stan went to throw his hands up in frustration, forgetting that they were tied and nearly whacking himself in the face. “Why would I believe a dream?! Just because a dream says something is real doesn’t mean it is! It’s just a dream!”

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Honestly. I would say I can’t believe you, but I can.” He sighed. “It’s of no consequence now, though. I’ve got you back where you belong.” The knife was raised. “We should go.”

“No, no, no, no!” Stan screamed as the knife came down towards him. He tried to wriggle away but couldn’t, and settled for clenching his eyes shut, bracing himself. The sight of those dead men, of Rico, once again appeared behind his lids, and Stan just knew he was about to meet the same horrible end.

But there was only a tugging sensation at his wrists, and suddenly they were free. Stan peeked his eyes open to see Ford bending down, slicing at the rope binding Stan’s ankles.

He was… cutting Stan free?

Stan didn’t give it much thought. The moment his legs were free he practically flew off the hood of the car and ran. He heard Ford make a startled noise behind him, but he didn’t dare look back, eyes frantically scanning for a getaway solution.

He only made it a few feet before something latched around his left wrist, and he was yanked to an abrupt halt. Stan looked down to see a glowing, blue manacle around his wrist, attached to a chain. His eyes followed the chain back to where the other end was held in Ford’s hand. His brother didn’t look very happy, tugging on the chain insistently.

“Once again you prove to me that you can’t take care of yourself,” Ford grumbled. “What exactly was your end goal with that action? Run off and die of your injuries? Of hunger? Silly boy.”

Stan flushed with humiliation and grit his teeth, throwing all of his weight into trying to pull away, writhing like a frenzied animal. Ford just kept reeling him in like it was nothing though. Stan’s mind swirled. Where had the chains even come from? Why were they glowing? How was Ford doing this? It wasn’t natural. It wasn’t normal. It shouldn’t be possible.

He was breathing heavily by the time he was in front of Ford again, all his last reserves of energy exhausted. He couldn’t even find the strength to jerk away when Ford wrapped an arm around him and guided Stan to lean against him for support.

“Let me go,” Stan gasped. He didn’t want to be here, even if Ford had said he wouldn’t kill him. He’d seen what this new Ford was capable of. He wouldn’t go with him. “I need… I need to find Shermie. Ma. I need to…”

“Ma and Shermie are waiting for you at home,” Ford told him gently, rubbing Stan’s back as if to soothe him.

“What?” Stan choked out.

“Did you think I wouldn’t save the rest of our family? I rescued them weeks ago, when this all started. I got Sherman and his family first, then collected Ma. They’re at our new home, waiting for you. We’ve all been waiting for you to join us. You just decided to be difficult about it.”

Ma… Ma had been with Ford? This whole time? Stan had searched for her for days, agonized over her disappearance for weeks, and Ford had had her? Her and Sherman? They were alive?

That was what did him in. Not the gory violence. Not the mental stress. Not getting caught. Not the threat of death. It was the confirmation that his family was still alive that sent Stan into relieved, tired sobs, tears finally streaming down his face as he broke.

The manacle and chain disappeared. Ford wrapped both of his arms around Stan, hushing him softly. He held Stan close and gentle, as if Stan would fall apart in his arms if he was too rough. And as strange as it was, that act of tenderness only doubled Stan’s tears. He shamefully hid his face in Ford’s shoulder, shaking hands practically clawing at Ford as he grabbed onto him for stability.

Ford whispered little comforts to him as he cried. “Shhh, it’s okay now. Let it all out, little brother. I’ve got you. I won’t let you go, I promise. You’re alright. I’ll keep you safe. We can go home, and you won’t ever have to see such violence or hardship again. You can be happy and surrounded by family. Nice and safe, as you should be.”

Stan felt like he couldn’t breathe, he was crying so hard. His lungs were straining as he choked on sobs. He couldn’t tell if his vision was blurry from the endless tears or from the pounding building in his head. He didn’t even know why he was crying so hard over this. The initial relief he’d felt at the news had faded away, but Stan just couldn’t stop crying for some reason. He felt… he didn’t even know.

He felt so full and empty at the same time. Like he had too many emotions inside of him at once and they had all melted into one big mess that was indecipherable. He was relieved, happy, terrified, worried, frustrated, confused, shocked, exhausted. And he was crying and crying and crying and his lungs wouldn’t work properly—

“Stan?” He heard Ford call his name, but it sounded distant, as if he were underwater. “Stanley, you need to calm down. You’re working yourself into a panic attack.”

What? Stan’s foggy, oxygen-deprived brain couldn't make sense of what Ford was saying. Vaguely, some part of him recognized he was having a fit right in front of his brother, but he couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed about it at the moment. He was getting light-headed, fingers and toes going numb and tingling. Stan fought for breath, his heart feeling like it was going to leap out of his chest with how hard it was pounding.

A sharp prick on his neck startled him, but also weirdly helped ground him a little. One of Stan’s hands flew up to protect his neck as he let out a garbled noise of shock.

“Shh, shh, it’s just a sedative,” Ford said calmly, hiding something in his cloak—and honestly, how much stuff did he keep in there? “I brought them to help you with the transport home, and it’s very good that I did. You could hurt yourself like this. The sedative will help with the panic, alright? Just relax. Try to breathe.”

What did he think Stan was doing? Stan was so focused on trying to gasp in air that he couldn’t even be mad that Ford had drugged him. He clung to Ford despite it, his brother a pillar of support as he drowned in tears and panic. He let Ford hold him, let Ford rock him, welcomed it even. His brother was familiar, was family, and was the only thing Stan had in this moment.

Stan’s grasp on Ford slowly loosened though as a forced calm began to settle on him. His head fell onto Ford’s shoulder as the sedative flowed through his veins and darkness began to creep into his vision. He could hear his brother still talking, but he couldn’t make out the words anymore.

Stan’s legs collapsed under him as he slumped forward and passed out.

Chapter Text

There was a swaying motion beneath him; it reminded Stan of being on a boat. There was warmth around him, and his head was resting on something that was solid but had enough soft give to it to be comfortable. A scent filled his nose, but it wasn’t salty sea air. It was more metallic, almost like blood and gunpowder, but underneath that there was a hint of something familiar. A smell that Stan couldn’t name but reminded him of home. One that brought forth memories of his childhood, of a six-fingered hand in his and a promise of forever.

Stan lazily nuzzled his face into the warm give under his cheek, seeking out more of that familiar, comforting scent. He felt something constrict around his body in response, like a squeeze, and something else briefly press against the top of his head. Confused, Stan slowly peeled his eyes open, his head foggy and body begging to go back to sleep. All he saw in front of him was dark fabric, and Stan shifted with a groan of effort, pushing his head up to try and gauge his surroundings. What was…?

His muddled gaze met matching brown eyes, and the memories came pouring back in. Right. Ford. The cartel. The meetup. Ford. The massacre. Ford. The sedative. Ford.

“I didn’t think you’d be awake again this soon,” Ford mused, breaking their silent staring contest. “I had thought you’d stay asleep until I had you settled in your room. No matter, though. We’re nearly home. How are you feeling?”

Stan blinked, taking that all in while also trying to understand what was going on. He felt like roadkill honestly, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Was he being carried? He looked down—he was. He was in Ford’s arms and his head had been resting on Ford’s shoulder. (Had he been snuggling into his brother a moment ago? How embarrassing.) How long had Ford been carrying him for? He hoped nobody else had seen him like this.

With that thought, Stan looked around as best he could from his position. He didn’t see anyone else at all, nor any sort of transportation. (Weird. How did they get here?) It was just the two of them, Ford carrying Stan as he walked. The entire area around them was desolate and barren, the only thing in sight being a giant, ominous-looking pyramid floating high up in the sky ahead of them.

That unfortunately seemed to be their destination, and Stan eyed it dubiously. The pyramid was dark with glowing yellow lines running through it, and at the tip of it was a… a top hat? Made of the same dark, brick-like material but without the yellow lines. The whole thing was obviously designed to resemble Bill, and Stan snorted at the sight of it.

“He made his building with a hat on it? Tacky. Why not stick a bowtie on the front too and call it a day?” he muttered.

Ford let out a huff of amusement. “The hat-shaped part wasn’t originally there. It used to just be the fearamid.”

“Fearamid,” Stan echoed. What a ridiculous name. “Wasn’t big enough for his ego then? He had to expand? And put me down.”

Ford’s grip on him tightened as Stan squirmed to get free. “No. You’re in no condition to be walking any long distances right now. I’ll put you down once we’re home.”

“Is that supposed to be home?” Stan asked, gesturing to the pyramid. He already knew the answer, but he didn’t want to believe it. “I don’t want to live there!” Who knew what kind of creepy, other-worldly stuff Bill had in there?

“The hat part is our home,” Ford said, unfazed by Stan’s continued attempts to get free. “Our family is up there waiting for us. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly normal inside. Bill offered to house all of you in the fearamid originally, but I didn’t think you would enjoy it. The fearamid isn’t exactly the most suitable place for human habitation—though Bill didn’t appreciate me saying so. He and I may have had an argument about his tastes in interior decor.”

Despite the whole situation—or perhaps because of it—Stan couldn’t help the way a hysterical laugh bubbled out of him. “You’ve messed up the world together but fought over housing design?”

Ford rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips, as if he was pleased that Stan had laughed. “We aren’t messing up the world, we’re going to make it better. And yes, Bill has terrible taste. Furniture made out of flesh and skin might be fine for him, but for humans? Not so much. I want our family to be comfortable, so eventually I convinced him to add an expansion to the fearamid. He’s the one that chose to shape it like a top hat.”

“Our own personal prison then,” Stan said dryly. “Goodie.”

Ford scoffed. “Oh, don’t be dramatic, it’s not a prison. In fact, I’m sure you’ll find it to be the most opulent place you’ve ever lived. I’ve only provided the best, of course.”

“But are we allowed to leave?” Stan pressed.

“No,” Ford said simply. He didn’t even have the gall to be ashamed of it, staring at Stan with a tenderness in his eyes that was far too out of place for the circumstances.

“So a fancy prison. Got it.” Stan began wiggling furiously, hoping to at least off-balance Ford if he couldn’t break free, but his attempts didn’t even slow Ford down. “What happened to you?” he grumbled, pushing at Ford’s arms to no effect. “There’s no way you should be this strong.”

Ford shifted his hold on Stan again, pinning him in place more firmly. “I’m a henchmaniac now. I’m not fully human anymore.”

Stan paused for a moment, slumping against his brother and breathing heavily. His forced nap had done pretty much nothing for his fatigue levels, and he simply didn’t have the energy to keep fighting for long. Not to mention he didn’t even have a plan for if he did get free. He doubted he’d be able to run before Ford could catch him again. If he managed to get out of Ford’s hold, he’d probably just be pissing his brother off for no reason.

“What do you mean not fully human? That have to do with your whacky powers?” he wheezed. That would make sense, considering the whole dream thing, the blowing off Rico’s head thing, and the glowing blue chains thing.

“I’m strong enough to protect you now.” Ford smiled, looking proud of himself.

Stan grimaced. It was strange to see Ford looking so pleased and happy, as if he hadn’t ruthlessly murdered three men not long ago. Ford had kickstarted the apocalypse and here Stan was chatting with him almost casually. It felt disorienting, but at the same time, Stan just… didn’t know how else to react at the moment. If he got too angry, would Ford get angry in turn? He didn’t know if he could handle that right now. He didn’t want to handle that, even if he thought that maybe he should.

He just wanted a break.

Stan wanted to see his family; make sure Ma and Shermie were okay. But he didn’t want to go into that creepy pyramid. He was afraid that if he went, he’d never get back out. Not that he was being given a choice, though. Ford was taking him there and he couldn’t get away, not as he was now. Stan was so tired, so weak, and he felt ashamed of it. He was ashamed that he wanted to simply close his eyes again and go to sleep and pretend none of this was happening. He was ashamed of not wanting to deal with it anymore. He should be stronger than that.

But there was one thing he couldn’t let go of.

“Can we go back to the not fully human thing? Because what the hell? Ford, what?” Stan searched his brother’s face, a sight that was both so familiar and yet weirdly foreign to him at the same time. “This is Bill’s fault, isn’t it?” he whispered. “What did he do to you?”

Ford chuckled, as if Stan’s worry was absurd. “He did nothing I didn’t want. He asked if I would join his henchmaniacs and I accepted. He offered me power and I said yes. We made a deal, you see, and Bill…” Ford paused, clearly contemplating what he wanted to say. “Bill changed me. I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to run any tests on myself to find out how much, but I suspect I’m not fully human anymore. Mostly human, I think, but also partly demonic—or at least infused with some form of demonic energy. I seem to have a subset of Bill’s powers, though I haven’t fully explored all of them yet.”

Hearing that made Stan feel a little sick, to be honest. Sick and furious and filled with a churning hatred for Bill for doing this to his brother. Deep inside, it sprouted an urge to place all the blame on Bill, to excuse what Ford had done and make it all Bill’s fault. It would be easier. It would make Stan feel better. It would allow him to look at Ford differently and not feel as guilty for the part of him that still wanted to reconnect with his brother despite everything he’d done.

And who was to say Bill hadn’t been the one to cause all of this? Maybe he’d been manipulating Ford the whole time. Brainwashed him or something. Turned him into this person who was so familiar yet unfamiliar to Stan. It really could be all Bill’s fault.

(Except Stan knew Ford had always been different, more so than just having extra fingers. Even as children, there had been something in Ford that Stan had only caught glimpses of occasionally, but it had always frightened him. Something dark. Something off.)

Ford had gone back to talking during Stan’s stretch of silence, as if nothing was amiss. “—and he was a little pissed that his penthouse suite was no longer the top of the fearamid with the new addition, but I told him I could just move our family elsewhere if it bothered him that much and he relented pretty quickly. Bill is rather adamant that all of his henchmaniacs live in the fearamid, as it is our base of operations.”

Ugh, all those other creepy monsters were there too? Stan’s face screwed up at the thought.

Ford caught his expression and was quick to reassure him. “Ah, but don’t worry, none of the other henchmaniacs can come up into our home. Only Bill and myself have free access to come and go up there.”

“Bill can visit whenever he wants?” Stan frowned. He didn’t want that guy anywhere near his family.

“Of course. He likely won’t do so very often, but he is able to if he wishes. And I expect you to at least put some sort of effort into getting along with him when he does, alright?” Ford shot him a stern look. “Bill is my best friend, and it would be nice if you two could get along.”

Stan crossed his arms and looked away. “Figures the first time you decide to stop being an antisocial nerd and actually make a friend you choose an evil, triangular alien.”

“Hey! Bill is not the first friend I made,” Ford protested, looking slightly offended. “I had a roommate in college that became a friend.”

Colour Stan surprised. Genuinely. He wondered who this guy was and how he’d managed to befriend Ford. Ford had never shown interest in making friends when they were younger. Not as kids and not as teenagers. He’d only ever hung around Stan, and while at first Stan had thought it was because Ford had a hard time making friends, he later realized it was because Ford shunned anyone who tried to be friends with him. It had been odd, considering Ford’s childhood obsession with appearing normal, that he simply didn’t seem to care about the concept of friendship.

“Really? Who? And where is this guy?” Stan asked.

Ford’s lips pursed, his expression flattening into something almost sullen. “He’s gone,” he said shortly. “His name was Fiddleford, and I took him on as an assistant to help me build a trans-universal gateway—the one that allowed Bill to come here. Unfortunately, the initial testing phase for it went… poorly. Fiddleford didn’t make it.”

“Oh.” Stan really had no idea what to say. Ford didn’t sound all that sad about it, despite claiming this Fiddleford guy had been his friend.

“Truly unfortunate, but Fiddleford’s sacrifice was for the greater good.”

“You call this the greater good?!” Stan squawked. “The apocalypse? You delusional psycho!”

Ford stopped dead, and Stan tensed up. That had been a mistake. He knew Ford hated being insulted. Stan had always been aware of what set his brother off the most, just as Ford had always known what set Stan off. Ford took badly to insults, whether against his character or his intelligence. He couldn’t stand someone saying he was incorrect about something, and he’d get absolutely furious if someone tried to publicly embarrass him. The only times Stan had gotten away with such things in the past was when Ford thought it was all playful ribbing in the name of brotherly banter.

Ford leaned down close and Stan shrunk back, but Ford’s arms were inescapable and soon they were almost nose to nose. “Behave, Stanley,” Ford warned him. He said it in an almost sing-song tone, but there was a darkness to it that made Stan shudder.

Stan’s jaw clenched nervously, and there was a tense moment after where he simply waited to see what Ford would do, not willing to speak again and worsen things. Images of Rico’s body, of the bloodbath that had occurred on Ford’s order, flashed through Stan’s mind. How much would it take to push Ford into killing him like that? Sure, Ford had said he didn’t want Stan dead, but who knew if that would last.

Except nothing else happened. Ford let the moment of silence linger, then straightened up and resumed walking as if nothing had happened. The oppressive air that had built around them lightened once more, and Stan let out a shaky breath he hadn’t known he was holding. However, his body did not—could not—relax in Ford’s arms again.

“See? This is why I have to ask you to play nice with Bill,” Ford said. “You’re always so quick to throw around playground insults when you disagree with someone. You need to learn how to conduct yourself with more maturity, but that’s why I’ve already warned Bill what you’re like. He has promised to try and be polite on his end. He won’t harass you about becoming the group mascot anymore.”

Stan froze. The mascot conversation had been in that one weird dream he’d had of Bill. But if Ford had been real in those other dreams, then it was likely that had actually also been the real Bill and not just a weird dream Bill. Which meant that that conversation had actually happened. Which meant Bill knew about the baby mascot commercial thing. Which meant that more than likely…

Stan carefully peered up at his brother, who stared down at him with a knowing twinkle in his eyes and the hint of a grin curling his lips.

With a small burst of energy he didn’t know he had, Stan tried to throw himself out of Ford’s arms again, writhing furiously. He could feel his face grow hot with humiliation.

Ford had the audacity to laugh at him, his grip unrelenting despite Stan’s frantic scrambling for freedom. “No, no, no. Don’t be embarrassed! Bill showed me a memory of the commercials. I thought they were cute.”

Ford had seen the commercials?! Stan slapped his hands over his red face to hide it, a screech building in his throat. This was horrible. This was truly the worst. He wanted to sink into the ground and disappear forever. There was no recovering from this. Those commercials were one of his biggest shames and Stan’s only hope had been that his family had never seen them.

Ford, of course, didn’t seem to care at all that Stan was dying of embarrassment. “How old were you when you did those? You couldn’t have been more than twenty at the most, right? You looked so little! You still had some roundness to your face.”

Stan had in fact been freshly nineteen when he’d done those cursed commercials. Nineteen and dumb. Too desperate for cash and still trying to get used to being homeless. Enough so that he’d agreed to be that stupid baby mascot and had flushed all his pride down the toilet in doing so.

“Put me down!” Stan howled. “Put me in the ground so I can die!”

Ford cackled with laughter. “You’re so dramatic! I’m not putting you down, we’re nearly home. Look.”

Willing to look anywhere but Ford, Stan peeked through his fingers, then lowered his hands to stare up at the pyramid with wide eyes. They were practically beneath it now, the pyramid floating menacingly in the sky high above. Looking at it, something occurred to Stan then; there were no stairs, or any other form of transportation that would give them a way up into it.

“Well. Looks like it’s out of reach,” Stan said dryly. “That’s too bad. Guess you might as well put me down since we can’t get up there.”

Ford just chuckled. “You’re so silly, Stanley. Hold on tight to me, okay?”

“No, I think you should figure out a way to get the rest of our family down here instead,” Stan countered.

He had no idea how they had all gotten up there in the first place but he didn’t want to go too. How would he escape such a place? If Ford managed to get them up there somehow, Stan didn’t know how he would get back down. He’d be stuck up there, and the idea of that filled him with panic.

“Put me down. Put me down. Put me down!” he demanded loudly.

Ford only hugged Stan more firmly against himself. Then without warning, he began to fly upwards. Like actually, legitimately fly. Something that shouldn’t have been possible and certainly wasn’t expected.

Stan, who had still been yelling, took a second to come to terms with the sudden change. “Put me dow—OH, HELL!” He felt his stomach drop out at the sight of the ground quickly becoming more distant. His arms immediately snaked around Ford’s neck in a death grip, Stan clinging as tightly as he could. “Don’t drop me! Don’t drop me! Don’t drop me!”

Ford seemed rather unaffected by Stan practically choking him. “I won’t drop you, don’t worry. I only told you to hold onto me for your own benefit; I know you’re afraid of heights. I’ve got you, baby brother, it’s okay. I promise I won’t let you go. You can close your eyes if that makes you feel better.”

Stan did shut his eyes. The ground being so far away was making him feel dizzy. He hated heights. All thoughts of trying to get free fled from his mind. The idea of falling from midair took the fight out of him, and Stan pressed himself as close to Ford as he could, holding onto Ford for dear life. If Ford did decide to drop him, Stan wasn’t going to go easily.

Ford didn’t, though. If anything, he seemed happy with the way Stan buried his face into his shoulder. Stan felt Ford begin to affectionately nuzzle into his hair, then stop abruptly.

“You stink,” Ford told him bluntly.

Stan could picture the way his brother’s nose wrinkled when he said it. He wasn’t about to open his eyes and see for himself if he was correct though. “Thanks,” he muttered in a strangled, sarcastic tone.

Ford sighed. “Not your fault, of course, and I’ll remedy it soon. Getting you cleaned up is first on the list once we’re home. I have a doctor on standby to assist me in performing a full medical examination on you after that. I’ll have some food prepared for you too, something easy and light on the stomach while you adjust to having proper meals again.”

A shower and food sounded amazing, though Stan really just wanted to lie down and sleep again with how tired he still was. “I don’t need no medical exam,” he complained. The very thought of being poked and prodded by doctors had him cringing. “No doctor.”

“It’s non-negotiable,” Ford said sternly. “But I’ll be with you the whole time, don’t worry.”

What? Did Ford think he was afraid of doctors or something? Ridiculous. Stan lifted his head to say as much, a spark of annoyance in him, but his eyes just ended up looking down. The ground was really, really far away now; they were flying up the side of the pyramid. Stan’s blood went cold in his veins at the sight. The protest that had been on the tip of his tongue came out as nothing but a startled squeak, and he quickly ducked his head back down into Ford’s shoulder, his fingers blanching from how tightly he clung to his brother.

Ford let out a snicker at the embarrassing noise Stan had made. “It’s okay, Stan. We’re here.”

Stan refused to look again until he felt the slight impact of Ford’s feet landing on something solid. He cautiously peeked one eye open to see what looked like part of the black, brick-like wall sliding back into place, guided by a blue glow from Ford’s hand. The wall sealed itself shut, blocking them from the outside and leaving practically no trace there had even been an opening there, save for a thin seam that gave it away.

So, there wasn’t even a proper door that led outside. Maybe a good choice, considering outside was simply a very, very long drop to certain death. But also not good for any potential escape attempts. Either way, Stan didn’t feel too happy about it.

“You can put me down now,” he said, retracting his death grip on Ford and ignoring the way his body was still trembling minutely from fright. He really wanted to have his feet on the ground again.

“Yes, yes, in a minute,” Ford said dismissively, beginning to carry Stan towards an actual door not too far away. “You’re so impatient. We haven’t even gotten to your room yet.”

They went through the door that was carved from some fancy, dark wood that Stan didn’t recognize. On the other side of it was a hallway; gone were the black brick walls, replaced by normal walls painted a muted green. Decorations and artwork hung tastefully on the walls, though Stan didn’t get much time to really look at them as Ford marched them down pristine, sleek flooring. The whole setup practically screamed expensive, and they were only in the hallway. Stan couldn’t imagine what the rest of the place looked like.

He went back to squirming in Ford’s arms, absolutely sick and tired of being carried. “I can walk by myself. I want to see Ma.”

“You can see Ma later,” Ford said.

Stan scowled. “No. I want to see Ma now. Her and Shermie.”

“You will see them later,” Ford repeated more firmly. “We’re going to get you cleaned up and checked over first.”

Stan began to try and kick up at Ford, hoping to knee him in the face. He wanted—no, he needed—to see his family. He’d been searching for them for so long, and now that he knew they were here he needed to see them for himself. Plus, now that he was up here, trapped with no current idea on how to get back down, he wanted his ma. He wanted the relief of seeing her alive to drown out the anxiety he could feel clawing at his gut. He wanted her arms around him and the comfort that feeling brought. When he’d been young, everything had felt like it would be okay if he was in his mother’s arms.

“I want to see her now!” Stan insisted, voice rising.

“Stan—hey!” Ford jerked his head back to avoid Stan’s flailing limbs.

Stan used the opportunity to impulsively uppercut Ford right under the jaw. It was a rash and foolish move, even Stan himself knew that, but he’d never claimed to be one to always think things through before acting. It worked in his favour though, as Ford clearly had not expected Stan to do something as dumb as hit him, and his hold on Stan loosened in surprise. Stan pushed hard on Ford’s shoulders and tumbled out of his arms to the floor, landing in an awkward heap.

“Stanley!” Ford scolded him sharply.

Stan felt hands on him before he’d even fully scrambled to his feet. They helped him up and then held him in place, their owner glaring at him with a flat expression. Ford didn’t even look hurt, just annoyed. Annoyed was better than enraged though, so hopefully Stan hadn’t pissed him off too much.

“Let me go.” Stan scowled, trying to pry Ford’s hands off his arms. “I’m going to see Ma.”

“Are you seriously throwing a fit right now because I won’t let you have your way?” Ford asked incredulously.

Stan felt his cheeks flush. “Don’t make it sound like I’m being childish!”

“Aren’t you?” Ford raised a brow. “Is my assessment wrong? That is what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

“It’s not—It’s not like that!” Stan insisted angrily.

Sure, Ford wasn’t wrong that Stan had just punched him because he wouldn’t let Stan see their family, but it wasn’t a fit! Calling it that was ridiculous. Ford was… was… Stan didn’t know how to explain it. Ford wasn’t exactly wrong, but it was like he was wording it in the worst possible way. It felt degrading, but Stan didn’t know how to say any of that without sounding like a stuttering fool.

So he only huffed and said, “You’re doing this on purpose!”

“Doing what on purpose?” Ford sounded exasperated. “Making your wellbeing my first priority? Is that really so unreasonable of me?”

“You’re purposefully trying to make me look bad!”

Ford scoffed. “You’re making yourself look bad. I’m trying to make you look better by getting you presentable before you see the rest of our family.” His eyes made a pointed sweep up and down Stan’s body. “Is this really how you want Ma to see you? Like this? Covered in dirt and dried blood and worn, ripped clothes? You know she’d worry.”

Stan hesitated. Ma would worry, and truthfully he didn’t want her to see him like this. He knew how he looked (and smelt). He didn’t want her to worry about him, but he still really wanted to see her. Ford trying to dictate what he could and couldn’t do was rubbing him the wrong way. Stan would actually like to clean himself up, but he needed to see for himself that his family was okay first.

(Secretly, shamefully, he wanted his ma to hold him. He wanted her to hold him like she did when he was a child. He wanted her to tell him everything would be okay, even if he knew it was a lie. But that was alright too; it wouldn’t be the first lie she’d told him.)

Stan didn’t know how to express any of that in a way that Ford wouldn’t just claim was childish, so he simply grit his teeth and looked down. He heard Ford sigh, and his brother’s hands moved to cup Stan’s face, making him look back up at Ford, who was wearing a pitying expression that Stan hated. He wanted to wipe that look off Ford’s face.

“I’m just trying to help you, baby brother. Why are you fighting me so hard on it, hm? Is it that difficult for you to accept care?” Ford asked softly.

“No, that’s not…” Stan trailed off with an aggravated, wordless noise. He didn’t know what to say. That that wasn’t the point? That it had nothing to do with anything? Honestly, he was just getting more and more confused. It was like Ford was purposefully misinterpreting everything he was saying and twisting Stan’s words and actions to make him seem silly.

Stan was tired, hungry, frustrated, and he didn’t want to deal with this. He felt like he was at his wits end, he was so done with Ford.

“Just leave me alone,” he groaned out.

“I’d give you many things if you’d ask me for them,” Ford said quietly. “But that is one request I cannot fulfill. I told you I would take care of you, and whether you want it or not, I intend to keep my word. I will do what’s best for you.”

“You mean what you think is best for me,” Stan grumbled.

Ford laughed and patted his cheek. “Same thing. Now come.” Quick as a viper, he snatched Stan up, hefting him over his shoulder this time. “Let me take you to your room.”

Stan sighed and hung there limply, accepting that this wasn’t a fight he was going to win. He wondered if he was going to have to start choosing his battles. He hoped not. He’d never been very good at that when it came to his brother.

Chapter Text

Stan’s room looked exactly like how it had in his dream. He gazed around absently as Ford finally set him down on his feet. Considering Ford had revealed that he had, in fact, somehow been managing to infiltrate Stan’s dreams, he wasn’t super surprised that the bedroom was the same one that Ford had shown him. Though a part of him was relieved to see the glass bottle with the ship inside—the one Stan had dropped in the dream—unbroken and displayed on its shelf.

“Alright,” Ford said, drawing Stan’s attention back to him. His hands were still hovering around Stan, as if he was worried Stan would just fall over or something. “Did you want to pick out some clothes, or would you rather I pick for you?”

“Pick out some clothes?” Stan echoed.

“Yes, Stan,” Ford said patiently. “I told you I was going to get you cleaned up. You’ll need fresh clothes to change into after your bath.”

Annoyed as he was with his brother, Stan wasn’t going to argue that. He would like to change into clean clothes. He’d been wearing the same raggedy ones he currently had on for weeks now and he felt disgusting. Stan wordlessly took a step towards the dresser that he could see on the left, but Ford quickly stopped him.

“Ah, that’s all pyjamas,” he explained.

Stan gave him an incredulous look. “All pyjamas? An entire dresser full?” That seemed excessive to him.

“Yes, that dresser contains your pyjamas, underwear, socks, and bathrobes.” Ford then pointed to the right. “All your other clothes are in there.”

It wasn’t a closet he pointed to, but a door. There were four doors in the bedroom: the door they had entered in from the outside hallway behind them, one door on the left wall, and two doors on the right wall. Ford had gestured to the furthest door on the right, the one closest to the large bed that was against the wall opposite to the room’s entrance.

“What is that, a walk-in closet?” Stan asked. The very idea of it had him reeling. An entire closet full of clothes? For him? That was definitely too much. Who would even need that much clothing?

But Ford actually snorted. “Of course not, silly. As if I would give you something as small as a walk-in closet. No, it’s a dressing room.”

A dressing room? Stan’s eyes practically spun in his head. Now that was rich people stuff. Not something he’d ever expected to have in his life.

Ford pointed to the other door on the right that was down from the dressing room. “That one there is your bathroom.” Then he gestured to the door on the left. “And that door leads to my room.”

“What?” Stan blinked with a start. “You connected our bedrooms?”

“Of course.” Ford said it like it should have been expected. “My room is right next to yours, and I’ll always leave that door unlocked, just in case you need me for anything.” He smiled at Stan sweetly. “You’re always welcome in my room, baby brother.”

“Great,” Stan muttered. He felt that Ford would probably come into his room far more than Stan would go into Ford’s, but he highly doubted he’d be able to lock the door on his side. Ford had no doubt designed it so that only he could lock it.

“Now, come along.” Ford began to usher him towards the dressing room. “We’ll grab you some new clothes and get you cleaned up.”

“You don’t need to guide me,” Stan grumbled, batting away Ford’s hands. “I’m not some fainting flower.”

Ford’s lips thinned. “You’re weak right now. I’m just worried about your health. I could carry you again if you’d rather, though?”

“No! No. It’s fine.” Stan relented to the hands that rested on his back and shoulders, making sure he didn’t fall.

He was distracted from them, though, when they stepped into the dressing room. Stan hadn’t really known what to expect, having never seen rich people houses (or mansions or whatever they called them) outside of magazines. He’d seen pictures of various celebrities posing in their big fancy rooms in their big fancy houses, but he had never paid too much attention to them. So the size of the dressing room took him aback; it really was an actual room, larger than he’d thought it would be, though not as large as the bedroom.

The room was well-lit (was that a whole chandelier on the ceiling? Ford had really gone all out!) and full of floor-to-ceiling cabinets and drawers and clothing racks, all filled with clothes and even shoes. Shelves held various decorations and accessories like expensive watches and cufflinks. There were full-length mirrors on one side of the room, surrounding a large plush ottoman, and on the other side of the room was a dressing table and even a sofa and chairs.

Stan whistled lowly. It was just as overwhelming as the first time seeing the bedroom had been. But at the same time, it was a little bit… exciting? He had always wanted riches and a lavish lifestyle (because it would mean he’d made millions; it would mean his family would accept him back again), he’d just never expected to get it. Now here it was being handed to him, and Stan felt kind of bad for feeling happy about it.

To go from having nothing to all of this… it was a lot. Having had so little for so long, Stan had clung fiercely to what he did have. And he knew he would cling just as fiercely to all this, as greedy as that might make him. As much as he thought he maybe shouldn’t accept it, considering what Ford had done to give it to him. The appeal of clothes and shelter that he didn’t have to steal or fight for was undeniable.

Ford was grinning again, looking proud of himself. “I knew you’d like it,” he murmured. He brushed a stringy, dirty piece of hair away from Stan‘s face. “You can take all the time you’d like to explore later and go through all the clothes. Anything you don’t want you can throw into a pile and I’ll get rid of it. You can pick out new clothes to replace them as you please. But for now let’s just choose something basic and comfortable for you to wear.”

He guided Stan over to one section of the wall, letting Stan rifle through the drawers there and pick out some clothes. With them in hand, Ford ushered Stan through another door, which was not the same one they had come in through.

At Stan’s confused glance to him, Ford explained, “Your bathroom connects to both your bedroom and your dressing room, for ease of access.”

Seemed kind of unnecessary, but whatever. Stan didn’t complain as he entered the biggest, most luxurious bathroom he’d ever seen in his life. All he could really do was stand there and look around, flabbergasted, as Ford took the clothes from his hands and placed them on the marble countertop. There was a bathtub and a shower here. Separately! Who needed both like that? The bathtub even looked more like a jacuzzi too, with how big it was. It was built into the marble flooring, with two steps leading up to it.

Ford stepped in front of him, eyeing him over. “Hm. Should probably rinse you off before filling the tub, otherwise the water will just get too dirty. But I’m worried about you standing for too long, so the shower is out of the question. How about you sit in the tub and we’ll wash most of the dirt off you first before letting you soak.”

Stan blinked. “I’m sorry, ‘we’?”

Ford stared at him evenly. “Yes.”

“I don’t need your help washing myself!” Stan burst out, crossing his arms. “I’m perfectly capable!”

“Again, you’re weak right now, Stan, and you were injured not long ago. I don’t want to leave you unsupervised. Plus, look at your hair, it’s a mess. You’ll definitely need help with that.”

“No, I won’t!” Stan insisted, taking a step back from his brother. “I’m not bathing in front of you, Ford. Get out!”

Ford sighed and rolled his eyes as if Stan was being unnecessarily stubborn. “Please, we used to take baths together as kids, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen you in the tub. You can leave your underwear on if you’d like while I rinse you down. When I fill the tub after, I can add bubbles for you for privacy if you want them.”

Well, it was nice that Ford was allowing him some decency there, but Stan still wasn’t on board with the idea. Even if he could keep his underwear on, it didn’t mean he wanted to take off the rest of his clothes while Ford was in the room. He didn’t want to be naked in front of his brother, and it wasn’t because he was a prude. They’d shared a room together for seventeen years and changed in front of each other many times before. But that was back then and this was now, and Stan…

Stan was ashamed of his body.

He didn’t want Ford to see him. He didn’t want anybody to see him. He didn’t look good anymore. He had stretch-marks and various scars, and he also had excess skin now. Not a whole lot, but Stan had always been a bigger guy, and the weeks of near starvation he’d experienced since the apocalypse had started had slowly whittled away his weight. He’d lost both body fat and muscle mass, and had been left with loose skin in its place. He hated the way it looked, and he was ashamed of anyone else seeing him.

Stan remembered boasting about being the hot twin when he was younger, but these days he’d never felt more ugly.

He didn’t even realize his arms had shifted to wrap around his stomach self-consciously until Ford’s face softened. His brother stepped forward, reaching out to place a comforting hand on Stan’s shoulder.

“Stanley, it’s alright,” Ford said quietly. “I know the years haven’t been kind to you. I won’t judge you for the way you look. I want to help you. Whatever issues you have, I can fix them. I promise.”

“I don’t think you can fix them, Sixer,” Stan mumbled, unable to look Ford in the eye.

Ford just squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. “In an infinite multiverse, there is a solution to every problem somewhere.”

“…What?” Stan had no idea what Ford was talking about.

Ford didn’t explain, only smiling apologetically and saying, “Ah, we can come back to that later. Let’s get you in the tub.” He tugged Stan towards it.

Stan still hesitated.

Ford sighed. “Stanley, you are going to be having a full medical exam after this. I will be seeing you then, so you might as well get used to it now. I don’t want to force you into the bath. I swear I won’t judge you for the way you look.”

Stan took a deep breath, fingers curling around his dirty, ragged shirt. He knew he didn’t actually have a choice in this. Ford was going to get what he wanted one way or another, and Stan figured it was best to do it himself before Ford ran out of patience. So, squeezing his eyes shut so that he wouldn’t have to see his brother’s reaction, Stan ripped off his shirt. He refused to look up as he removed his tattered shoes and socks and pants, left only in his underwear.

And for a moment he just stood there, head down and ashamed, cheeks pink with embarrassment, hands twitching with the desire to hide himself. But he didn’t hear anything, and when he carefully glanced up, Ford’s expression was neutral. A little too neutral though, as if he was forcing it to be that way. But Stan still preferred it to any sort of disgust or pity that could have been there.

Ford silently held out a hand, and Stan took it just as silently, letting Ford help him up the steps and into the bathtub. He felt a huge sense of relief when a towel settled on him a moment later, and he quickly wrapped it around himself, hiding his body from view.

“I’ll start with your hair, so you can wear that for now so you don’t get cold,” Ford said, his voice soft.

It was a total excuse. The bathroom was a perfect temperature, so Stan wouldn’t have gotten cold anyway. He wasn’t sure if Ford had given it to him because he knew Stan was uncomfortable, or because he thought Stan was hideous and didn’t want to look at him. Either way, Stan felt a rush of gratitude.

Ford’s fingers were in his hair a moment later. “You have a few mats in here. They might be difficult to get out. Would you prefer I cut it? Did you want short hair again?”

Stan knew what the right answer was. He should go short now that he was being given the opportunity. After all, he’d always said he hated his mullet, complaining about it to anyone who asked. But the truth was that he liked longer hair. A mullet wasn’t a hairstyle one got by accident; he’d chosen it. He’d always felt guilty for wanting to grow his hair out, because Pa had always told them that long hair was only for women. The mullet had been Stan’s own personal compromise, long in the back but short in the front, just enough so that he could drown out the shame he felt about it.

He should tell Ford to cut it short. He even opened his mouth to do so, but what came out was a quiet, “I don’t want to cut it.”

“No?” Surprisingly, Ford didn’t sound mad or disapproving. “I’ll do my best to comb the mats out then.”

Stan felt himself relax a tiny bit. “You aren’t upset about that?” he asked carefully.

“About what?” Ford gave him a baffled look. “It’s your hair, Stanley. If you want to keep it long then you can keep it long. I’ll bring a hairdresser in at some point to clean it up for you, freshen your look, but you can keep the length.” He smiled. “Besides, I think it suits you.”

Stan’s eyes widened. “You do?”

“Yes. Not that I don’t enjoy when we match, but I think the longer hair fits your personality.”

Stan couldn’t help the way a tentative but genuine smile came over his face. It was a silly thing maybe, but he felt as though he could breathe a little more freely now. It made it easier to allow his head to rest in Ford’s hands, to let his brother examine his hair and begin working to clean it. There was a handheld shower-head hooked to the wall above the edge of the bathtub that Ford grabbed, testing the water temperature for a minute before wetting Stan’s hair.

Stan grimaced as he watched dirty, brownish water trail down into the tub below him and soak into the towel around him. His hair was really disgusting, but he hadn’t had many chances to clean it properly. He tried to shove down the embarrassment and focus on how nice it was to finally have the opportunity to be clean again. Stan closed his eyes as Ford’s fingers began carefully scratching at his scalp and running through his hair, stopping whenever they hit a snag.

“Oh good,” he heard his brother murmur, “the mats aren’t as bad as I initially thought, they just looked worse from all the dried blood holding them together.”

The water was turned off, and Stan cracked his eyes open again as he heard a cap pop open. A pleasant scent filled the air, and he eyed the bottle sitting on the wide, marble edge around the tub.

“I’m going to condition your hair first, see if that will help with detangling it. I’ll shampoo it after.”

“Condition?” Stan asked. “Like the stuff Ma uses?” He’d never bothered with something like that before. That was a lady thing.

“Yes, and you should use it regularly too, now that your hair is longer,” Ford said. “Not to mention somewhat curly. It’ll help it to stay healthier.”

“Huh.” Stan would take Ford’s word for it. He didn’t know much of anything about haircare.

Ford raised a hand and made a flicking motion with his fingers, and a drawer near the sink opened up, a comb rising up from within it and floating over to land in Ford’s hand.

Stan stared with wide eyes, having half-twisted around to see. “What the hell? You can make things fly?!”

“Levitate,” Ford corrected. “But yes. Mainly small and medium sized objects right now, but I’ve been working up to levitating larger ones. It takes a bit of practice.”

Oh boy. Stan hoped Ford had trouble with bigger objects. He had no doubt that if Ford got good with it, he’d be able to levitate Stan, and would do so whenever he pleased. That would get super annoying super quickly.

He said nothing more about it though, not wanting to ruin the oddly pleasant mood that had settled between them. He just twisted back to his original position at Ford’s nudging, and closed his eyes as Ford began to slowly work the comb through his hair, gently picking at the knots and mats. The quiet that came over them as he did wasn’t awkward either. Stan knew Ford tended to go dead silent when he was focusing really hard on something, and his brother seemed fully immersed in his current task.

Besides, it was nice not to have to make conversation for a bit; Stan was exhausted. It was easier than it should have been to let Ford do this for him. He kept his eyes shut the entire time as Ford untangled his hair. The only disturbance happened the moment Ford located the scabbed, healing wound Stan had gotten from bashing his head on the concrete. But Ford only sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth, fingers carefully prodding the edges of it.

Shockingly, he made no comment about it, though Stan could tell even without looking that Ford’s face had twisted into a scowl. But he was extra gentle in that area from then on as he worked, and though it took a little more time, soon enough Stan’s hair was all combed out. Ford washed it with shampoo twice before conditioning it a second time, Stan only opening his eyes again once he felt a tug on the (now thoroughly wet) towel around him.

“Let’s set this aside,” Ford said. “We’ll rinse most of the dirt off you and then fill the tub.”

Stan, who had been teetering on the edge of falling asleep, only blinked groggily and let Ford take the towel away. The flash of shame returned with his body on display once more, but Ford didn’t stare or comment, just running the shower-head over Stan until the water was mostly clear.

When he finally put it away and began to fill the tub with hot water, he asked, “Did you want bubbles?”

Stan paused. It would be nice to have, creating a covering on the water that would hide his body. But at the same time, bubblebaths were another thing he thought of as being exclusively for kids and women, not men. But when he looked, there was no judgement in Ford’s eyes, so he hesitantly said, “Yeah.”

Soon enough, bubbles were foaming in the water, and the faint scent of vanilla curled around him. Stan… liked it. Maybe Pa would have said it was girly, but it felt luxurious to him. Like a spa or something. And it allowed him to feel comfortable enough to finally slip off his underwear, content that he couldn’t be seen.

“I’ll wash your back for you,” Ford said.

“I can wash myself,” Stan immediately protested.

“Of course, but I don’t want you to strain yourself trying to reach your back, so I’ll help you with that.”

Stan groaned to let his brother know he disapproved, but he allowed Ford do it anyway, and was pleased when Ford got up to leave right after.

“I’ll give you twenty minutes to yourself,” Ford said. “I’ll be back after that.”

“Don’t rush,” Stan mumbled as Ford left. He quickly used the opportunity to wash himself down from head to toe, enjoying the hot water and the feeling of finally being clean.

It felt like almost no time had passed at all before Ford came back into the room, carrying a few items in his hands. Stan sat up slightly from where he’d been relaxing against the tub’s edge, eyeing the stuff curiously as Ford set it down next to him. There was a small towel, a wooden bowl filled with what looked to be shaving cream, a soft application brush, and a straight razor. Stan’s gaze remained stuck on the razor with apprehension. He’d never used a straight razor before, just the cheap, modern ones he used to steal from stores.

The blade of the straight razor looked sharp and clean, and Stan could easily imagine one wrong move with it creating a bloody mess. After all, that had happened a few times when he’d used a knife to try and shave his face as best he could. It hadn’t been fun, but it had been all he had been able to do during the apocalypse. He was pretty sure he now had a few minor scars along his jawline from that.

Was Ford planning on shaving Stan’s face for him? The answer seemed a very obvious yes, but it begged another question: should Stan let his brother do that? Not that he was sure he even had a choice, but was it wise to trust Ford with a blade so close to his neck? He was unsure. Ford had made it quite clear that he didn’t want Stan dead, but Stan had also watched him violently murder three men with his own hands, so he knew Ford was capable of it.

Except… why would Ford go through all the trouble he had so far just to slit Stan’s throat with a razor? That didn’t make sense. Ford had been so careful in cleaning his hair and washing his back, and had been looking at him with such soft eyes. Stan felt more relaxed and content like this than he had in weeks. What was the problem with letting Ford shave his face? He didn’t think he’d have the coordination to do something as delicate as that right now himself anyway. Besides, he doubted he could stop Ford, so he might as well just let it happen, right?

Stan allowed Ford’s hands to hold his head, to guide it back to rest on the small towel that had been rolled up and placed behind him. He thought Ford would get right into it then, but instead all he felt were six fingers rubbing at his neck, at the base of his skull, his jaw, his temples. Stan’s eyes fluttered shut at the unexpected head massage, the lingering unease leaving his body as he slowly went limp.

“Did you wash your face already?” Ford eventually asked him.

“Mmhmm,” Stan hummed.

“Good.”

Stan twitched as he felt Ford begin to apply the shaving cream to his face with the brush, the sensation cool against his skin. He’d never had someone shave his face for him before. Even when they were teenagers, Pa had simply demonstrated on his own face how to properly use a razor, making the boys copy him once and then leaving it to them to figure out the rest. Stan and Ford both had had many a nick from shaving accidents before they got the hang of it.

So he couldn’t help but tense again slightly when Ford picked up the straight razor. He’d only ever seen them used in old movies and had no idea what to expect, but the blade didn’t harm him when it made contact with his skin. It didn’t scrape uncomfortably the way the knife had. Ford was slow and methodical with it, shaving down along the grain of the hair instead of against it. And while Stan’s heart rate was still elevated just from an open blade being so near his person, it was countered by the part of him that was enjoying the attention.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been, but it had been so long since someone had touched him with any gentleness. And the careful way Ford ran the blade down Stan’s jaw made him feel (loved) cared for. Like he was someone important. Someone worth all this attention. He hadn’t felt like that in years. No one had wanted him—not even his own family. He’d been a worthless nobody since he’d been thrown out, and the idea of someone valuing him enough to care for him like this was enough to make his eyes sting.

The razor suddenly paused near the crook of his jaw, and Stan felt his head get tilted slightly to the side. “Your ears are pierced?” Ford murmured, less like he was asking Stan and more like he was simply taking note.

Stan stiffened, keeping his eyes closed to avoid seeing Ford’s expression. He didn’t want to see disappointment or disapproval. He knew their pa would have been upset to learn Stan got his ears pierced. Would have gone on some kind of rant about how it wasn’t right for men to do so, that only women should have their ears pierced. And while Stan didn’t think Ford would yell like Pa would have, Ford had also been raised by the man, same as Stan. He couldn’t say how his brother would react. He waited with bated breath.

But there was only a brief pause before Ford clicked his tongue and said, “I didn’t know. I’ll need to get you some jewelry for them.”

Stan very determinedly did not let out the big sigh of relief he’d been holding in. “Jewelry?” he echoed quietly, as if speaking too loud would break the moment.

“Of course. You can pick out whatever kind of earrings you’d like. However many you want—among other things if that’s what you desire.”

Stan wanted that. He’d always been partial to gold chains and rings, but he’d never been in the position to own any. The few times he had procured (stolen) some he’d later had to sell them for quick cash. He’d lost his earrings that way too. They’d only been cheap, simple studs, but Stan had eventually had to hawk them in order to be able to eat. He’d almost forgotten he even had piercings at this point, it had been so long since he’d had something to wear in them.

He entertained himself by imagining the kind of jewelry he wanted as Ford continued shaving his face. Gold, of course, maybe precious stones—oh, diamonds! Something valuable, jewelry he could sell or trade if the need arose. He wondered if he should ask where Ford planned to get this jewelry from but… no. No, he didn’t want to know. Stan wanted the jewelry, and he felt kind of bad about the fact that he didn’t feel bad about wanting it. Call him greedy, but it made him feel secure, to own something that he knew he could use to barter with if he had to.

…Ford’s hands were on his face now?

Stan snapped out of his jewelry fantasies to peek his eyes open and give his brother a confused frown.

“Moisturizer,” Ford said simply, continuing to rub some sort of cream into Stan’s skin.

Stan didn’t think he needed it, he’d never bothered with such things before, but he wasn’t going to argue with Ford. That never really got him anywhere because somehow he always came out feeling like the loser, even on the occasions he won. He also didn’t want to trigger an impromptu lecture on the benefits of moisturizer. So he decided to keep his mouth shut—something he’d never found easy to do.

Once that was over with, Ford shifted to stand. “Alright, out of the tub,” he said, swiping a large bath towel hanging off a rack nearby. “The doctor who will be assisting me with your exam should be waiting for us by now, so let’s get you dried and dressed.”

Stan really did not want to leave the tub. For the time he’d been in it, it had become a sort of temporary safe haven to him. He was clean and warm and taken care of in here. Nothing bad had happened to him here, and he didn’t want that moment to end. He also really, really didn’t want to see the doctor. But at the same time, his skin was starting to prune from how long he’d been in the water, and he knew he couldn’t reasonably stay there forever.

“Come on, Stan,” Ford coaxed. He unfolded the towel and held it up in such a way that it blocked his vision as he waited for Stan to take it.

Stan didn’t want to test his brother’s patience on this. Ford was being kind of nice to him right now, and he didn’t want to end that just yet. So he quickly stood up, grabbing the towel and stepping out of the tub. Ford hovered nearby annoyingly, like he was worried Stan would slip down the steps and crack his head open or something (and to be fair, Stan had done that a few days ago), but he turned away without Stan even having to ask, allowing Stan to dry himself off and change into his new clothes with relative privacy.

“Are you ready?” Ford asked.

Stan didn’t know why he bothered. Ford had made it quite clear that he was dragging Stan to the doctor’s, whether Stan wanted to go or not. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to get out of it one last time. Loathe as he was to break the relative amount of peace that had built between them.

“Do we really have to?” Stan asked in return. “Can’t I just eat something and go to sleep? I’ll feel better after I’ve slept, I’m sure.”

Ford turned around again and shot him a flat look, brows pinched. “This isn’t something you can just sleep off, Stanley. You certainly do need rest, but sleep won’t fix old injuries. How long has it even been since you’ve seen a proper doctor? I can imagine years. This is far overdue.”

Stan sucked in a deep breath, fingers idly twisting in the fabric of his new clothes. They were of nice quality, clean and comfortable. He’d picked out a hoodie and loose pants, wanting something to hide his figure behind. He didn’t like to be reminded of it. How he looked was something that had been easy to ignore on the streets. Focusing on finding food and shelter and surviving didn’t leave time for much else. It didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of it—he’d always been aware of it—but it hadn’t been as important.

Now Ford and some unknown stranger were going to examine him? Scrutinize his body and ask prying questions about it? Stan felt a little sick at the thought. Maybe if it was just Ford it would be easier, but someone else? Someone he didn’t know? Stan didn’t want them to see him. Didn’t want them to see the way his spine stuck out, the way his stomach still held a bit of pudge and that excess skin, even while his ribs were all visible. The contrast made him look uneven and frumpy, and if Stan himself was repulsed by his body, how could everyone else not be?

Once again, Ford seemed to pick up on Stan’s insecurity (or Stan was just really bad at hiding it) and approached him, gripping his shoulder with a serious expression.

“Stanley,” he said, “this is for your health. This is not to judge you or make fun of you. I want to conduct a comprehensive exam to understand everything we’re dealing with and how best to get you back to full health. But I understand appearance is important to you. You always were more meticulous about it than I was when we were teens. Whatever it is about your body that is bothering you now, we can fix it.”

Ford had said that before, and mentioned something about a multiverse? Stan didn’t understand what that was about. But he did understand that there were things about his body that couldn’t be fixed. Scars that would never fade.

Ford squeezed Stan’s shoulder in response to his clearly doubtful face. “We can fix it,” Ford insisted. “I can fix it. Just tell me the things that you want to change and I will find solutions to help you do so.” He stared Stan straight in the eyes. “You deserve to have a body that you are happy and comfortable with.”

Oh. Stan didn’t expect that to be so touching. It made something hopeful and warm bloom in his chest. Something that was quickly snuffed out at Ford’s next words.

“Plus, if the doctor seeing your body bothers you that much I can just kill them after. If you want.”

“…What?”

Ford blinked. “Then you won’t have to be embarrassed that someone saw you.”

“So your solution is to just offer to kill them?!” Stan ripped his brother’s hand off his shoulder. “What is wrong with you?!”

Ford was unaffected by Stan practically yelling in his face. “Hmm. You really are more sensitive than I thought.”

“Wh—? I’m not sensitive! Any normal person would not be okay with something like that!”

Ford didn’t seem to be paying attention to Stan’s protests, mostly talking to himself as he muttered, “Perhaps I should have expected this, mentioning such topics after what happened with the cartel. That was very upsetting for him. Increased sensitivity in the wake of such events wouldn't be abnormal.”

“Such events,” Stan echoed bitterly, making finger quotes. “What a way to describe the outright massacre you caused. Again, I think it’s kind of normal to be upset about such things. It’s not ‘sensitive’. Like I get you were mad at Rico after invading my dream about the trunk incident, but you didn’t have to murder everyone in the building!”

Ford actually stared at him in surprise. “Rico was the one who had you locked in that trunk? That tried to murder you?” His expression darkened, teeth grinding, body practically vibrating with rage. “I shouldn’t have killed him so quickly. That was too merciful. He deserved more punishment than that.”

Stan squinted in confusion. “You… didn’t know? Then what did you kill him for?”

“For treating you so poorly of course.” Ford waved a hand like the answer should have been obvious. “He didn’t attempt to help with your injuries, and had you thrown to the ground in front of me. Your palms got scraped up from it.”

Stan’s jaw dropped. “You killed them all just for that?” In his opinion, it had hardly been something worthy of a death sentence. And Ford hadn’t even just killed the ones directly responsible, he’d slaughtered everyone there.

“Of course.” Ford’s face clearly displayed that he didn’t understand Stan’s astonishment over it. “They handled you without care. Did they expect reward for that? Should I have let them live for such offences? You’re fragile, and they should have treated you as such.”

“I’m not—” Stan broke off, still trying to wrap his head around this new information. He’d been operating under the assumption that Ford had killed Rico in revenge for the trunk thing. But then… how would Ford have known? Stan had never told him who was responsible, and as far as he knew Ford could invade his dreams but not read his mind.

Ford really had killed—murdered—over two dozen people just because he hadn’t liked the way they’d handled Stan.

And didn’t that just make bile rise in his throat. “I’m not…” he tried again weakly. “I’m not fragile. I’m not sensitive.”

Ford just looked at him with that soft pity Stan hated. “It’s okay for you to be, Stanley. You can’t hide from me. I’m going to strip you bare of all your walls and defences until I get to that soft core where all your vulnerabilities and truths are. Where I can hold them and protect them and love them.”

The words sent shivers up Stan’s spine. He wasn’t sure if Ford was aware of how weird and creepy he sounded saying such things. “You gotta stop saying stuff like that, Ford,” he decided to tell him. “It’s creepy.”

Ford looked offended now. “It’s creepy that I love you and want to take care of you? I assure you, it’s perfectly normal for family to—”

“It’s the way you say it!” Stan cut him off, exasperated. “Creeps me out!”

Ford rolled his eyes. “See? Sensitive.”

And Stan was back to wanting to strangle his brother. He made strangling motions at Ford’s neck in the air with his hands, which Ford completely ignored, wrapping an arm around Stan’s shoulders and leading him out of the bathroom.

“Come on, Stanley, the doctor is waiting.”

“No. You know what? I’m not going to play along with you. I’m not going to the doctor and you can’t make me!”

Ford smiled indulgently. “Of course I can. Now come, the faster you get this over with the faster you can see Ma and Sherman, remember?”

Stan only growled angrily as he found himself once again picked up and carried in Ford’s arms.

Chapter Text

“You won’t kill the doctor, right?” Stan asked quietly, slumped in Ford’s arms after having spent the last few minutes trying to fight his way out of them.

Ford hummed indecisively. “Not if you behave, I won’t.”

Stan scowled. “Oh, come on! You only offered to because of me. Shouldn’t I get to decide if they live or not?”

“Of course.” Ford patted his back. It felt condescending. “You get to decide by being good or bad. So I’d be good if you want them to live.”

Stan sighed. He’d say he couldn’t believe Ford was leveraging the doctor’s life to make him behave, but he could. It seemed exactly like something this evil version of his brother would do. It made him nervous though, to have the doctor’s life in his hands like that. Their continued existence would depend on Stan’s behaviour, and Stan wasn’t very good at being obedient. His pa had said so many times.

He’d have to be careful—especially with what he said to Ford. Ford wouldn’t tolerate anything he viewed as disrespect when someone else was around. If Stan insulted him, made any snide remarks, or went against Ford in any way, he knew the doctor would pay for having witnessed it. They would pay for Stan’s mistakes. Stan couldn’t allow that to happen. The very thought made his stomach churn, because Stan made a lot of mistakes all the time. He was basically one big walking mistake at this point.

“I should also mention that the doctor is not from this dimension,” Ford dropped casually, as if what he was saying made complete sense.

All of Stan’s thoughts were derailed by that sentence. “Huh?”

“I don’t want you to be alarmed by them or the equipment they brought. I sought out a doctor from another dimension with vastly superior technological advancements to ours. Their equipment will help your examination be more efficient and less invasive,” Ford explained.

Stan digested that for a moment, then flailed in his brother’s arms. “Wait. Wait—hold on a moment!”

Ford, predictably, did not wait.

“What do you mean?!” Stan demanded. “Another dimension?! Ford, what are you talking about?”

Ford answered patiently, “You are aware that other dimensions exist. I know you are. Bill came from one, and I told you about the trans-universal gateway I built.”

“I mean, vaguely, yeah.” Stan knew Bill and all the other weird monsters had come from somewhere else. But he didn’t fully understand the how of it and what that really meant besides the apocalypse.

“Well, the trans-universal gateway acts as a portal to other dimensions. I told you it’s how I brought Bill here, but it’s not a one-way street; we can travel through it as well. As long as the portal is active, one can go to and from other dimensions as they please. I asked Bill to find a doctor from a more medically advanced dimension and bring them here to assist me in your examination.”

Stan didn’t like the way Ford talked about the whole thing as if it was normal. Nothing about it was normal. His head spun trying to sort though all of the new information Ford had just dumped on him.

“So the portal,” he repeated, working through his thoughts aloud, “is still active. And you’re saying basically anyone can go through it at will and travel to, uh, different worlds?”

“Yes, exactly.” Ford smiled at him like he was proud. “Don’t fret, though. The portal is in a highly protected area, inaccessible by just anyone. And nothing can come through to our side without permission. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Stan hadn’t even thought about that. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that there was a portal to other dimensions hanging around. Like sure, he knew Bill had come through it and was from some other place, but it was strange to think that the thing was still there. Still open. That it wasn’t a one-time event that Bill and his weirdos had managed to come to their world, but that it could happen anytime, over and over again.

“Why… why do you still have it?” Stan asked. “You wanted to bring Bill here, right? Why keep the portal after accomplishing that?”

Ford pursed his lips. “Well, I was going to wait to have this conversation until after you’d gotten some rest and were more clear-headed. Perhaps we should shelve it for later.”

“What? No!” Stan tried to straightened up and show Ford how serious he was about this, but it was hard to do from Ford’s arms. “You can’t just drop something like that on me and then not explain it. My head is fine! I want to know what’s going on.”

Ford didn’t look convinced. “I don’t want to overwhelm you on your first day home.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “I can handle it, Ford. I’m a grown man.”

“Right. Because you’ve been handling everything else very well so far.” The sarcasm was clear in Ford’s voice.

Stan didn’t appreciate it and let Ford know with a loud groan. “Just tell me!” He paused, thinking of what he could say to convince his brother, and added, “It would make me feel better.”

That seemed to work, as Ford stopped walking and sighed. He carried Stan over to a nearby window in the hallway they were currently in, looking out at the setting sun. Stan also looked, but felt a bit dizzy at how far up from the ground their view was, and quickly turned away.

“It’s a mess down there right now, isn’t it?” Ford commented quietly.

“Yeah. And whose fault is that?” Stan muttered.

Ford ignored the pointed jab. “It won’t always be that way. We’re going to fix everything. Rebuild things better than they were before. Make them into something new and marvellous. But in order to rebuild something, it must first be destroyed. You might not find it pleasant, but it was the fastest way to gain control. And now that we have it, we can take the necessary steps to build our empire.”

“Empire,” Stan repeated numbly. He didn’t even have words to describe how he felt about that. “I can’t believe you.”

“Hey, things could have been worse.” Ford actually sounded somewhat amused, which was a strange tone to hear in the conversation. It didn’t fit right. “We could have gone with Bill’s plan.”

Stan blinked and gestured to the window. “Wasn’t this all Bill’s plan?”

“No. This is my plan, actually. Bill’s was so… small-minded. I told him he should think bigger. He didn’t appreciate that at first, and he actually wouldn’t even talk to me for a few months after. Obviously I won him over in the end, though.”

Stan didn’t know if that was better or worse. Ford was apparently the one who wanted to create an empire and take over the world. But that left him wondering what Bill had originally wanted to do. He asked, “What was Bill’s plan?”

“A party that never ends with a host that never dies,” Ford said dryly. He sounded like he was quoting it. “Bill’s idea was just a permanent weirdmageddon. To spread his chaos everywhere and inevitably destroy the world by partying too hard.”

“Oh.” Maybe Ford’s plan was the better of the two then. Stan couldn’t believe he was even thinking that, because it still wasn’t good. At least the world wasn’t entirely destroyed this way. Everything was still a mess and people were in a panic, but the mindless chaos of Bill’s cronies had ended.

“I thought it was quite silly when he told me,” Ford said. “Especially considering his situation.” He shook his head, expression fond but exasperated. “Did you know that Bill was living in a decaying realm? He called it the nightmare realm. It’s slowly collapsing in on itself, and eventually everything in it will be destroyed. That’s one of the reasons why Bill wanted to come to our dimension.”

Stan could understand that, perspectively. If he was living in a dimension that was going to die, he’d also want to get the hell out. But that didn’t mean he liked or agreed with the fact that Ford had just let them all come to their world. Why couldn’t Bill have gone somewhere else? Picked literally any other dimension? Been someone else’s problem?

“And you just let him in?” he grumbled.

“Of course. He’s my friend,” Ford said. “I didn’t want to leave him stuck somewhere he’d eventually die. But that’s also why I thought his plans for our dimension were ridiculous. I told him he’d just be recreating the exact same environment he was trying to escape from and that it was foolish. I mean, honestly, trying to escape the destruction of one realm just to destroy the one you flee to?”

Yeah, that was kind of silly. Stan couldn’t see Bill having taken that well, though. Especially not with the snooty way Ford had likely said it to him. “I’m sure he was overjoyed when you told him that.”

Ford snorted at his sarcasm. “He didn’t appreciate my remarks, no. But he thought it over and eventually came back to me and asked what I would do if I was the one in his position.”

“And you had world domination already on the brain, huh?” Stan sighed.

He was still disappointed about that. He couldn’t believe Ford was the one who wanted to take over the world and rule it. Honestly, the whole conversation was mentally draining. Maybe he should have listened to Ford and waited until later to have it. He at least would have liked to have been on his own feet for it. It didn’t feel right talking about things like the fate of the world while being stubbornly held in his brother’s arms.

Ford had the audacity to smirk. “World domination is also small-minded.” He gazed upward at the darkening sky. “There’s other life out there, you know. I found evidence of it while I was researching in Gravity Falls.”

“Aliens? You’re saying aliens exist?” Stan was tired. Yeah, sure, why not? Why not at this point? He could accept that.

“Other dimensions exist, Stanley. Are aliens so unbelievable?”

“Not anymore.” Stan rubbed his eyes. “What’re you bringing them up for though?” He had a feeling he already knew the answer to that, and that he also didn’t want to know for sure. But he had to. He had to.

Sure enough, Ford confirmed his feeling. “Why should we stop at just earth? The galaxy is right there at our fingertips. You’ve seen how easily we subdued this planet, do you really think it will be difficult for us to do the same to others?”

Stan didn’t know if it would be or not. It sounded fantastical. Humanity had only made it to the moon so far. But if Ford had been able to build a portal that allowed access to other dimensions—other dimensions with advanced technology—and had Bill Cipher on his side, a being whose powers were vast and strange, who was to say what was or wasn’t possible anymore? He knew for a fact that once Ford got an idea in his mind it was hard to get him to let go of it.

“It sounds ambitious,” was all Stan said in response, still processing everything.

“Earth will act as the home base of our empire. Once we’re fully settled here we will expand.” Ford had a gleam in his eyes that made Stan uneasy. “Take over our universe and all the planets and beings in it, until everything is united under our empire.”

“You think Bill will be happy with that? Seems like less destruction than he wants.”

Ford chuckled. “Oh, that would just be the beginning, of course.”

Stan was baffled. “How is our entire universe only a beginning?”

“Because there’s more out there. Other dimensions with their own galaxies full of planets and life. Other universes just as complex and expansive as our own. The multiverse truly is limitless when you consider it.”

Every time Stan thought it was bad enough, Ford said something to make it worse. World domination was bad. Universe domination was worse. Multiverse or whatever domination? Sounded impossible and also horrifying. Stan didn’t want to think about Bill Cipher ruling one dimension, let alone multiple.

“If it’s limitless then would there ever be an end?” he asked, mind swirling. He absolutely should have agreed to shelve this conversation for later, but now he was too deep into it. “Kind of sounds like you’d always be trying to conquer more ground without a true end goal.”

Ford shrugged. “Honestly, it’ll mostly just be to keep Bill busy.” He began walking down the hallway again, leaving the window behind. “He gets bored easily and he likes destruction. Pointing him towards a practically impossible goal will keep him occupied. We agreed he can cause chaos taking over worlds, and once they’re conquered he leaves them be and moves on to the next. We rebuild the defeated worlds in the image of our empire, then rinse and repeat. That way Bill won’t grow bored and destroy everything until nothing is left to rule over.”

Stan could barely wrap his head around such goals. It sounded like fantasy. Like something he’d only see in movies or books. He also didn’t know how he felt about the fact that it seemed like Ford was the one tempering Bill’s chaos. In a way it was good; an endlessly expanding empire was better than endless apocalyptic destruction. But it was all too wild to think about. Ford was only tempering Bill, not stopping him. Ford was the one who offered up the idea of an empire. Ford was the one who kept saying our empire, not Bill’s empire.

Sure, his brother had never been a normal child. There had always been something off about him. But Stan still couldn’t compare that child with the man before him now. The boy who had wanted to go sailing and treasure hunting; the teen who had wanted to study anomalies and prove everyone wrong; and the man who wanted to rule the universe. In many ways, Ford felt like an entirely different person, and yet in others, he was the same brother Stan had always known. It made his head hurt almost as much as his heart did.

“Obviously, I won’t let it get in the way of our family.”

“Hm?” Stan blinked, trying to focus back in on what Ford was saying.

“The empire,” Ford explained. “It’s a priority, of course, but I won’t let it become an obstacle between us. I won’t neglect our family for it. All of you are very important to me, and naturally, the role of head of the household falls to me now, as the eldest brother.”

Stan frowned up at Ford. “What? You aren’t the oldest, Shermie is!”

“Sherman has his own wife and kids. He’s branched off of our main family tree to create a little family of his own. He’s certainly the head of that house. So with us, the main house, that leaves me as the eldest.”

What a delusional thing to say. Stan snorted. “No, it doesn’t! Shermie having his own family doesn’t suddenly stop him from being the oldest brother!”

“And I just explained he cannot be the head of both households,” Ford repeated. He shook his head as if Stan was the one being unreasonable. “He’s the head of his own. With Pa gone and Sherman busy, that leaves me as the eldest to take Pa’s place. I’m the head of our household now, of you and Ma.”

“Is this what people mean when they talk about middle child syndrome?” Stan muttered to himself.

“Hey!”

Ford looked comically offended, and Stan couldn’t help a quiet laugh despite how weighed down he felt from the conversation. He was still having a hard time coming to terms with everything. With what Ford and Bill wanted to do and what that meant for, well, literally everyone. Stan was too tired to deal with that right now. He mentally packed that topic up in a box and tucked it away to deal with later.

Ford huffed a laugh along with him, his annoyance at Stan’s words fading away under a look of soft adoration. “You’ve still got that spark in your eyes,” he murmured.

“Spark?” Stan had no idea what he was talking about now.

“Of life. You’re a fighter, Stanley. You’ve kept your head up all this time despite the struggles. You haven’t lost that spark. I’m so proud of you.”

And oh. Oh. Stan was ashamed of the way those words lit something in him. They shouldn’t—not coming from this Ford. But it was what he’d always craved to hear, and he could not stop the happiness he felt at finally hearing them, regardless of the circumstances.

Someone was proud of him. (He wished Pa would have said that to him. Just once.) And it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t just sweet words to butter him up or lower his guard. When he looked into Ford’s eyes, they actually did seem sincere. There was pride there, and warmth, and Stan didn’t really know how to deal with that. It made him a little uncomfortable, strangely enough. He wasn’t used to it. He wanted to hear it again, but at the same time felt the need to distance himself from it.

So he asked, “Can you put me down?”

Ford just laughed. “No. You’ll try to run off. Plus, you’re much more pleasant to hold now that you don’t stink.”

Stan reached up and chopped his brother on the head with the side of his hand, knowing that Ford would interpret the action as playful.

And sure enough, Ford just snickered at him, shaking Stan off. They walked—well, Ford walked—in silence for a minute then, Stan refocusing his attention on his doctor’s appointment to avoid thinking about the other things. His mind raced trying to think of a way out of it. Of how to prevent any damage to the doctor if Stan did have to go through with it. Of what he could say to appease Ford’s anger should it arise.

Ford, unhelpfully, decided to fill the silence by going back to the previous topic. He piped up, “There’s other versions of us out there in the multiverse, you know. Other Ford’s and Stan’s. Like—”

“No!” Stan slapped a hand over his brother’s mouth. Ford allowed it with only an amused raise of his brow. “Nope. I don’t wanna know.”

Ford shook off his hand with a chuckle. “Too much?”

It was, but Stan wouldn’t admit that out loud. “I can’t believe you even told me all of that,” he muttered. “Didn’t think you’d spill your big, evil plans so easily.”

Ford seemed to think that was amusing. “Why would I keep it from you? I have no need to do that.”

You aren’t a threat, was what went unsaid but heavily implied. Stan felt offended despite how much stronger Ford had already proven himself to be now. He could still be a threat! Somehow. Possibly. He’d figure it out.

“Everyone knows the villains monologuing their evil plans leads to their eventual downfall,” he insisted, crossing his arms.

Ford laughed, a bright, happy sound. “Yeah? And where are the heroes that are going to stop us?”

Stan frowned at his tone. It wasn’t even mocking, it was… almost playful? “Maybe I’ll be the one who stops you, since I know now.”

Ford looked delighted. “Aww, that’s so cute!” He cooed and leaned down, nuzzling Stan’s cheek. “You think you can stop us!”

Stan pushed his brother’s face away, annoyed. “Stop! This is serious!”

“I know. It’s so serious.” Ford’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “You even tried to apply comic book logic to real life.”

Stan’s cheeks immediately flushed. Yeah, okay, maybe the way he’d said it did sound a bit childish, talking about evil plans and villains and stuff, but Ford didn’t have to… Didn’t have to—!

Stan growled wordlessly and turned his head away, face hot with embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m just teasing. Don’t get yourself all worked up,” Ford said, giving Stan a light squeeze.

Stan refused to respond, furious and humiliated at not being taken seriously.

But then there was warm breath on his ear, and Ford’s tone was very serious and cold when he whispered, “Nobody can stop us.”

A shiver went down Stan’s spine at how certain Ford sounded of himself.

“But you don’t have to worry about any of that, hm?” Ford’s voice went back to normal. “You can just relax at home while big brother takes care of everything.”

“Yippee,” Stan cheered as flatly and sarcastically as he could. “Trapped in the hat.”

“Oh, please. This place is plenty big enough for you to keep yourself occupied in,” Ford said, walking down yet another set of stairs.

He wasn’t wrong about that. This place was huge. Stan felt like they’d been walking forever now and they still hadn’t reached wherever this doctor was.

“Besides, I’ll take you out on adventures when I have free time,” Ford continued.

“I thought you said I couldn’t leave?” Stan reminded him. He’d been under the impression that he was trapped in this place.

“You can’t leave on your own,” Ford said. “But I don’t intend to keep you locked up forever or anything. Once things are more firmly under our control, I’ll let you outside sometimes—strictly under my supervision, of course. We can go wherever you want; see new places and try new things. And once our reach has expanded to other dimensions, I’ll take you there too. I’ll bring you to new and spectacular worlds, let you explore and adventure to your heart’s content.” Ford smiled. “You can even keep any treasure you might find. As long as it’s safe, of course.”

That was… surprisingly sweet. And completely unexpected. Stan truly hadn’t thought Ford would offer something like that, and he found that he wanted it. He wanted to adventure with his brother and explore new worlds. He just wished it would be under better circumstances. He wasn’t sure how well he could enjoy something like that, knowing that wherever he was had been conquered by Ford and Bill. But he knew he also wouldn’t turn it down. Any chance to get out of this hat-shaped prison and find freedom would be accepted.

Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Ford was looking for any sort of response, as he perked up with an exclamation of, “Ah, here we are.”

Stan turned his attention to a pair of large metal doors at the end of the hall they were in. Ford approached and shifted Stan to one arm (and wow was it embarrassing to be held like that), lifting his now free one to lay a hand against some sort of panel next to the doors. There was a brief buzz and a flash of yellow around Ford’s hand, then the doors opened, revealing any science nerd’s wet dream of a lab. Stan didn’t understand half the stuff he was looking at, but he knew it was all right up Ford’s alley.

“This lab is only accessible by Bill and myself,” Ford told him as he walked through it. “But there’s a button on that panel outside that you can press to call for me if I’m in here and you need me.”

Stan doubted he would ever do that, but he nodded in acknowledgment anyway. “Okay.”

Ford headed towards a door on the right, and they entered into a room that looked kind of like a doctor’s office, but a little less clinical and a little more welcoming. Stan didn’t really care about that, though, not when his eyes landed on a figure off to the side, clearly waiting for them. It was a human (or was it? Ford said they were from another dimension, so were they really human? Stan didn’t know) man, standing next to a counter. He was fidgeting with medical equipment, eyeing Ford with an air of nervousness despite the professional facade he was putting on.

Ford ignored the man, walking over and setting Stan down on a padded exam table in the middle of the room. “Alright,” he said, “let’s get started.”

Stan sucked in a deep breath. It was time to be on his best behaviour.

Chapter Text

Stan forced himself to stay on the exam table, everything in him wanting nothing more than to hop off and flee. He swung his legs and fidgeted with his hands to get some of the nerves out, watching Ford wash his hands at a sink. The doctor stood nearby with a clipboard, posture stiff and tense. Stan wondered why he hadn’t approached and begun the examination, but then Ford was in front of him again, wearing a lab coat and gloves.

“I’ll be conducting the majority of the physical portion of your exam,” Ford explained. “Doctor Yarrow here will assist me.”

The doctor—Yarrow, apparently—dipped his head silently, and Stan swore he saw something move over his eyes for a moment. Like a sideways blink. It reminded him of the way frogs and stuff blinked. That, uh, something-something membrane? Ford would know what it was. Not that it mattered; Stan was probably just seeing things.

He didn’t have much more time to think on it as Ford was ushering him off the table and onto a scale. Stan determinedly did not look at the number, refusing to listen as Ford read his weight aloud and Doctor Yarrow scribbled it down on the clipboard. At least the height measurement that followed didn’t bother him. It was the same as the last time his height was taken years ago. He’d always been the slightest bit shorter than Ford, but in turn he’d also always been the slightest bit broader.

He was directed back onto the exam table after, and sat silently through having his blood pressure taken and his heart and lungs listened to through a stethoscope. Ford gave him a small, encouraging smile as he moved on to checking Stan’s lymph nodes, which Stan only knew about because Ford explained his actions aloud as his hands ghosted over Stan’s neck, pressing gently.

“Now the head wound I already know about,” Ford murmured, one hand moving to hold Stan’s chin steady while the other plucked a small flashlight from his pocket. “It’s already scabbed over and healing, so not much left to be done about that. Let’s check your pupils, though. Try to keep your eyes open for me.”

Stan did his best to not squint as Ford carefully checked his eyes with the flashlight, calling results to Doctor Yarrow. He looked in Stan’s ears next, and Stan was fine with it all until Ford pulled out one of those wooden tongue stick things. A depressor? Was that what it was called?

“Say ‘ahh’,” Ford instructed.

Oh boy.

Stan hesitated, unsure of how his brother was going to react if he did so. Ford hadn’t yet noticed his missing teeth, as most of them were in the back. As long as Stan didn’t smile too wide, nobody knew he didn’t have a full set anymore. He’d never been able to afford any sort of dentures or replacements after losing them, and had eventually just learned to live with the missing teeth and figured out how to chew differently.

“Stanley,” Ford said sternly.

Ah, he’d taken too long. Stan winced and slowly opened his mouth. Maybe it would be fine. Ford hadn’t reacted to his head injury all that badly, so surely he wouldn’t freak out over long gone teeth.

The moment Ford noticed was unmistakable. His brother inhaled sharply and dropped the tongue stick to grab at Stan’s jaw, fingers prying Stan’s mouth open wider as he whipped the flashlight back out for a better look. Ford’s brows furrowed, eyes darkening as he muttered curses under his breath, staring at the empty spots in Stan’s gums where teeth should have been.

“What. Happened?” he ground out.

Stan let out a strangled grumble of complaint to show he couldn’t answer with Ford holding his mouth open. When his brother released him, Stan worked his jaw a few times before mumbling, “The trunk.”

Ford frowned. “The trunk?”

“Yeah, the, uh…” Stan waved a hand in a vague motion. Ford already knew about the incident, so there was no harm in telling him. “The trunk thing. With the ropes and all. I escaped, but not without—” He gestured to his teeth.

Ford’s hands spasmed, the flashlight he held cracking into pieces as it was crushed by the sudden pressure. At the sight, Stan felt very grateful that Ford was no longer holding his jaw. Though the incident seemed to be accidental, as Ford was staring off at a wall, eyes glowing with fury.

“Rico,” he snarled.

“Yeaaah,” Stan drew the word out, unsure of what to say.

“I really did kill him far too quickly,” Ford muttered darkly. “I should have taken it slow. Made him suffer. If I’d known…”

“Well, you—” Stan cut himself off abruptly.

You didn’t, so too bad so sad, the unfinished sentence echoed in his mind. He couldn’t say that. Ford would consider it rude, and the doctor would be the one to take the fall for it. But now Ford was looking at him expectantly, one brow raised as if he somehow knew Stan had been about to say something rude. Stan had to come up with something else quick.

He fished around desperately for something to say and came out with, “You, um. Well you can fix it now?”

Oof, that had sounded weak even to his own ears.

Ford smile tightly in response. There was nothing pleasant about it. “Yes. Now I can fix it.” He glared over his shoulder at Doctor Yarrow, barking out, “Add an additional note that I want a dentist brought in before the end of the week.”

Stan winced but made no verbal protest. If he were honest, he really would like to have a full set of teeth again. It was just that he hated the dentist. Absolutely hated it. But it still would be nice to get replacements for the teeth he’d lost, so he’d just have to suck it up. (As if he really had a choice. Ford would probably make him do it whether he wanted to or not. Might as well make it easier on himself and go along with it.)

“Well.” Ford visibly relaxed his posture, but his eyes remained steely. “Let me have another look.” He raised the hand with the broken flashlight, then stopped and did a double-take at it, looking at the shattered pieces in surprise. “…Hold on a moment.”

Stan stifled a snicker as Ford stepped away. He didn’t want his brother to think he was laughing at him and get upset. When Ford returned a second later with a new flashlight and another one of those wooden stick things, Stan easily allowed him to look in his mouth and down his throat and do whatever it was he was doing.

But that resigned obedience dried up the moment Ford finished and said, “Alright, Stanley, it’s time. Shirt off.”

Stan clutched his hoodie against himself, automatically flinching back. Logically, he knew this was going to happen. He’d known the whole time. But that didn’t make it any easier now that the moment had come. Ford had been nice during his bath, politely looking away and not staring at Stan’s body. But this was going to be different. Ford would be staring. Scrutinizing. Categorizing every flaw Stan had. And his wouldn’t be the only eyes on Stan.

Stan’s gaze flicked to Doctor Yarrow briefly. The doctor still stood nearby with the clipboard, face impassive and professional. But Stan could see the way he shifted uncomfortably on his feet every so often, the way he fidgeted with the pen in his hand, the way his eyes kept darting from Stan to Ford and back.

Stan was glad that Ford had decided to do most of the physical exam himself. He didn’t know how well he could have sat through it if it had been a stranger’s hands on him. He’d had too many experiences with strangers touching him when he didn’t want to be touched. His body bore the proof of some of those experiences, while others had left scars on his mind—and those ones were worse than the ones visible on his skin.

“Stanley,” Ford said, and there was a warning in his tone this time.

Stan’s eyes met his brother’s. “I…” His mouth felt dry. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say out loud. Please, don’t make me, he tried to convey with his eyes.

Ford just cocked his head to the side, staring at him considerately. “Did you need help?”

Embarrassment at being asked if he needed help undressing like some little kid mixed with panic as he felt Ford’s hands begin tugging on his hoodie. Stan’s own flew up to grab Ford’s wrists and stop him, but he aborted the movement just before he could make contact, the narrowing of Ford’s eyes reminding him of what was at stake. If he fought his brother, Doctor Yarrow would lose his life.

So Stan did nothing but squirm uncomfortably as Ford pulled the hoodie off of him, shame curling in his gut as his upper body was exposed to prying eyes. His arms automatically moved to wrap around himself, trying to hide his body from view. It was a useless endeavour, since moments later Ford gently grasped him by the forearms and pulled them away.

Stan dipped his head, trying his best to hide his face behind his long hair as Ford called out, “Obvious signs of starvation, malnutrition, and old injuries.”

He refused to look up, squeezing his eyes shut as Ford continued to examine him, carefully pressing around Stan’s abdomen and asking if he felt any tenderness or pain, to which Stan mutely shook his head. Ford announced any observations he had to Doctor Yarrow, who hastily scribbled down everything Ford told him. When he was done poking and prodding and manipulating Stan’s body, Ford’s focus turned to all the scars Stan had, and despite them being old wounds Stan felt like they burned anew under Ford’s gaze.

“How did you get this?” Ford asked, fingers brushing a bullet wound near Stan’s right shoulder.

“Got shot,” Stan mumbled.

“And this?” Ford touched a scar near the bottom of Stan’s ribcage.

“Stabbed,” Stan said shortly.

He wasn’t going to give details. He didn’t want to tell Ford about any of them. He wasn’t about to spill the whole story of each individual scar, regardless of what Ford wanted. Honestly, Stan would rather not think about them at all. He’d rather keep them buried in the past. But at the same time, he knew he had to give at least some form of response to keep Doctor Yarrow safe.

Ford clearly wasn’t pleased with Stan’s refusal to provide more than one-word answers, if the way his lips twisted said anything. But he moved on, ignoring the way Stan was cringing at his body being picked apart and examined. “This one?” he asked, tapping a long, thinner scar on the left of Stan’s lower abdomen.

Stan hesitated for the briefest of moments. “…Stabbed.”

“Really?” Ford’s eyes were piercing when Stan peeked up at them, as if daring him to lie. “It looks surgical.”

It was. Stan had been subjected to an unwanted, back-alley surgery. But he still was, by technicality, stabbed. Just with a scalpel rather than a regular knife. When it was clear he couldn’t pay back the debts he owed, his kidney had been carved out and taken as payment instead. Stan remembered being overpowered by a group of heavily tattooed men and dragged to a back-alley clinic against his will. To the surgeon’s credit, they were a real doctor and they had attempted to knock Stan out for the duration of the surgery.

The problem was they didn’t have all the proper equipment or drugs to perform it, and Stan had woken up halfway through, dazed and confused and in utter agony. He’d looked down to see hands and tools in a gaping wound in his side and had panicked.

It had taken five men to hold him down on the cold surgery table. The doctor had been too involved in the middle of the procedure to stop and try to put Stan out again, but one of the men—Stan couldn’t remember his face—had either taken pity on his agonized screaming, or had simply gotten annoyed by it, and had thunked Stan hard enough on the head to drop him back into unconsciousness.

Stan felt cold and nauseous at the memory. His hands shook, his chest tight. There was a reason he didn’t like to look at his scars. The memory of his surgery felt almost like a dream; distant and hazy in some parts, yet clear and sharp as the surgical blade in others. Stan liked to pretend it was just a nightmare. A memory of something that had happened to somebody else that had been implanted into his head. He didn’t like to remember it. And usually he didn’t have to, like his brain skittered away from that memory whenever he got close to it.

“Shhh. It’s alright, Stanley. You’re doing so good.”

What?

Stan took a shaky breath. Oh. There were arms around him.

Ford was hugging him, one hand rubbing Stan’s back, whispering, “You’re safe here. I’ve got you.”

Stan flushed at the realization he’d had another one of his little freak-outs. Sometimes he hated his useless brain. Couldn’t even recall memories without having a fit about it—and in front of an audience too. He couldn’t see Doctor Yarrow with the way his face was buried in Ford’s chest, but he could practically feel the man’s gaze burning into his exposed skin. He hated it. It made him want to press closer to his brother, hide under Ford’s lab coat to cover his body from view.

But he couldn’t. He needed to push through this. He may not like the doctor, but Stan didn’t want him dead. Doctor Yarrow didn’t deserve to suffer just because Stan was uncomfortable. He carefully pulled back from Ford, releasing him from the tight grip that Stan just now realized he’d been clinging onto Ford with. He glanced over at Doctor Yarrow to find him politely turned away, staring at the clipboard as if he was busy.

Well, that was nice of him. Stan wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing: someone watching him have a breakdown, or someone watching him, a grown man, be coddled and cooed over by his twin brother.

“Stan?” came Ford’s voice.

Stan tried to put on a brave face. He wanted to straighten up, to act nonchalant, but he couldn’t help the way his shoulders hunched, his body curling in on itself protectively. “M’okay,” he mumbled.

Ford clearly did not believe him, but nodded anyway. “Let’s move on,” he called over his shoulder, drawing Doctor Yarrow’s attention back to them.

The doctor shuffled over, at the ready to continue taking notes. There was a hint of sympathy in his eyes that made Stan bristle.

Ford’s fingers tapped on a rather gnarly scar on Stan’s upper right arm, drawing his attention away. “What was this?” he asked.

Stan grimaced. “Dog bite.” He’d been attacked by dogs more than once while living on the streets. “Got another one of those on my legs.”

“And these?” Ford’s hands lightly wrapped around Stan’s wrists, thumbs brushing over the ring of scar tissue each bore.

Stan shrugged. “Been tied up a lot. Cuffs, zip-ties, ropes. Got injured a few times escaping them. Guess there’s only so much rope burn you can get before it starts leaving scars.”

They weren’t that bad, thankfully. Out of all his scars, the ones around his wrists were the least prominent. That didn’t seem to matter to Ford though, whose jaw had only clenched tighter as Stan explained them. But he made no comment on it, only having Doctor Yarrow mark more notes down before moving on. They went over the various scars on Stan’s back, Ford turning away and taking a moment to visibly calm himself after Stan admitted that a row of small, circular burn scars were from people putting cigarettes out on his skin.

Both Stan and Doctor Yarrow had tensed, alarmed and nervous, but Ford had managed to maintain his composure, and eventually they got through everything. It was tedious and horrible and Stan hated every moment of it. Hated having everything about him picked apart, of having old memories drawn up. Hated that Ford made him talk about each scar. When it was over with, Stan was relieved.

Until Ford said, “Alright, pants next.”

Stan was shaking his head before he could even think about it.

Ford arched a brow. “Do you need help with those too?”

“No! I—” Stan glanced at Doctor Yarrow. He looked back at Ford pleadingly. “Can’t I just tell you?” he whispered, not wanting to be overheard. “About the scars there? We don’t… There’s no need to—”

“I’d rather see for myself,” Ford cut him off firmly. “You can either take them off on your own or I can do it for you.”

No, no, no, no!

Stan’s lip trembled embarrassingly. His arms once again reflexively wrapped around his torso, eyes darting back to Doctor Yarrow.

Ford followed his gaze this time, and his eyes hardened. “Turn around,” he barked at the doctor.

Doctor Yarrow jolted and did so quickly, back stiff.

It didn’t really help, but Stan appreciated the effort. He knew he should move now. Do what was being asked and take off his pants. This was the best chance he was going to get. But he just… couldn’t. He felt frozen. He didn’t want Doctor Yarrow to be punished for his actions (or inactions) but he simply could not move. He looked up at Ford, staring at him with wide eyes, silently begging.

Ford sighed, and a moment later Stan felt something settle around his shoulders. His hands quickly moved to grab at it and pull it closer, covering himself. He looked down at it, blinking at the pristine white of Ford’s lab coat.

“Better?” his brother asked.

He didn’t wait for Stan to answer, hands moving to tug down Stan’s pants, batting Stan away when he tried to stop him. Stan pulled the lab coat even tighter around himself as his pants were taken. Ford crouched to remove Stan’s shoes and socks with it, and Stan winced and gnawed the inside of his cheek when he heard Ford suck in a sharp breath.

He knew exactly what his brother had found.

“What. Is this.” Ford’s voice was hard with cold fury, but his hands were gentle as they grasped Stan’s ankles to get a better look at his feet.

“…Burn scars,” Stan murmured.

Ford’s nostrils flared, brows twisting. “These are more than just burn scars,” he hissed. “These are brands.”

And they were. Stan didn’t like remembering those either. Didn’t like thinking about being held down. About the way Jorge had smiled so sadistically as he’d approached, white-hot brand in his hand. Of the way the sensitive skin on the bottom of his feet had sizzled and bubbled and burned as the brand had been pressed into them, one at a time. Of the way both of his feet now had a distinct “R” scarred into the bottoms of them.

He didn’t like thinking about it, but Ford didn’t like his silence.

Quick as a flash, Ford had straightened up, one hand grabbing Stan’s chin and forcing him to look into his brother’s furious face. “Tell me what happened,” Ford demanded quietly. He was not asking. “Who did this?”

Stan felt pinned under that fierce gaze, inches away from his own, and his tongue loosened. “…The cartel. It’s the punishment they give to people who try to escape their debts. They mark you as a runner.” Stan grimaced at the memory of recovering from the incident. Of how badly it had hurt to walk for weeks. “Hard to run when your feet are messed up.”

Ford growled. Like actually, legit growled. It was a noise that bordered on inhuman and sent the hair on the back of Stan’s neck standing up.

“RICO.”

“Jorge,” Stan corrected, even as he mentally screamed at himself to shut up. Why was he even still talking? “Rico always sent him after the runners.”

“Jorge…” Ford’s eyes narrowed. He was silent for a moment, head tilted to the side as if thinking, then he hummed and stepped back. “Ah, yes. The one I let get away.”

“What?” The massacre earlier was still fresh in Stan’s mind, even though he was trying hard not to think about it. He was sure that at one point he’d seen Jorge trying to run, but he hadn’t thought much about what that meant.

“Cartels are large operations, Stanley,” Ford explained, as if Stan wasn’t already well aware of that. “I may have taken out Rico and everyone there with him when I picked you up, but it’s not as if there aren’t many more people involved with that cartel. I gave instructions to allow one man to escape. Let him lead us back to the rest of the cartel, like a rat retreating to its hole. I have him being tailed as we speak, my forces ready to continue hunting the cartel until it is destroyed in its entirety.”

Stan took that all in, blinking. Jorge had gotten away? Had escaped? (The irony of him now being the one on the run from Ford’s hunters was not lost on Stan.)

“I’ll have to amend my instructions,” Ford was muttering to himself. “Have them keep Jorge alive. Once the cartel has been wiped out I’ll have him delivered to me so that I can deal with him personally.”

Stan stuttered, “F-Ford, you don’t have to—”

“Shhh.” A finger pressed lightly against Stan’s mouth to shush him. Ford’s eyes gleamed with something that made Stan’s stomach churn. Something malicious. “My sweet little brother, you wouldn’t try to take my fun from me, would you?”

Fun? Stan grimaced, shrinking back from Ford. From the man who considered the idea of torture and murder fun. Sure, he didn’t particularly care if Jorge died. Stan knew he was too much of a coward to do it himself, but Jorge’s death wouldn’t bother him. What did bother him was the idea of Ford doing it. Of his brother being the one to not only slaughter the man, but take pleasure in doing so. It forced Stan to view Ford in a way that he didn’t want to view Ford in. One that he’d rather turn a blind eye to, even if that was cowardly too.

Ford patted Stan’s cheek condescendingly. “But now isn’t the time to talk about such things. Let’s continue.”

Thankfully, Stan didn’t have quite as many scars on his legs as he did his upper body. Also thankfully, Doctor Yarrow barely even looked at him, eyes glued to his clipboard. A light sheen of sweat had gathered on the man’s brow, and he kept throwing sideways glances at Ford, as if worried Ford would turn around and rip out his throat if he looked at Stan for too long.

Stan could understand; Ford was in a foul mood. His brother was attempting to hide it, but Stan could see the storm brewing in his eyes, the tightness coiling through his posture. Like a boiling pot with a lid that had started rattling. Ford’s repressed anger was filling the room like a toxic cloud, making breathing uncomfortable. Stan’s skin prickled with unease at every touch of Ford’s fingers. And even though Ford’s hands remained gentle, each old wound he discovered only darkened his countenance more.

It was only after they had gone over Stan’s exposed legs, reaching his thighs where his boxers still covered him, that Ford’s expression pinched into something akin to awkwardness, the darkness retreating momentarily. He paused as if having some sort of internal debate, and Stan felt his breath catch in his throat. He clutched the lab coat around himself in a white-knuckled grip and prayed that Ford would not force him to strip entirely.

Stan wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. Not in this situation. The bath had already been hard enough. Stan couldn’t do it again. He’d fight, he knew it. He’d fight and Doctor Yarrow would die because of it and please, Ford, don’t ask me to—

“Stanley.”

Stan tensed so hard he started trembling, ready to lash out if Ford even dared to—

“I’d rather not remove these.”

Stan was going to—wait. What.

Ford’s face looked mildly uncomfortable, which was not an expression Stan had seen on him since they were teens. But his tone was serious as he continued, saying, “I’m going to give you the opportunity to simply tell me if you have any injuries or ailments in this area. I will take you at your word for it and expect you to be honest with me. Because if you aren’t, and I find that out later…” Ford pinned him with a dark look. “You will regret it.”

Despite the threat (semi-threat?) Stan felt a rush of relief so strong he almost went boneless on the exam table. At least there was some scrap of dignity that Ford would allow him to keep. Some parts of himself that he could keep private. (He felt thankful, and wasn’t that strange? To be thankful to the person forcing him through all this in the first place? That wasn’t right, was it? He shouldn’t be thankful, so why was he?)

Stan swallowed thickly, throat dry. “I, uh, I—no. There’s nothing of, uh, concern there.”

“No other scars?”

Stan hesitated. There was one. One scar on his thigh that was just high enough to be covered by the hem of his boxers. It was… It was Stan’s worst. The one he hated the most out of all of them. A scar that was true and fitting for Stan.

He didn’t want Ford to see it.

Stan looked his twin in the eyes and said, “No.”

Ford looked right back, and their stare became a contest of wills. Stan fought to keep any tell off his face, to prevent any suspicion. He was already regretting it. The moment the denial had slipped out he remembered the deal with Doctor Yarrow. This could easily do it. If Ford caught onto him, Stan might have just signed the doctor’s death certificate.

Ford was dead silent and still as a statue staring him down. It was eerie and unsettling and Stan felt paralyzed under his gaze. He felt like one of those moths Ford used to catch and pin to boards when they were kids.

After a long moment, Ford’s head tilted to the side and his eyes cleared with realization. “…You’re lying to me,” he whispered in hollow astonishment. “I granted you this allowance and you’re lying to my face.”

Stan’s stomach dropped.

Ford let out a huff of something that could have been a laugh, if there had been any amusement in it. He glanced back at Doctor Yarrow, who didn’t even know his life was on the line but looked terrified of what was happening between the brothers.

“My good graces spat back in my face,” Ford mused, voice soft but sharp as a razor. “Perhaps I was too kind, giving you a choice. Cooperation is clearly beyond your scope of abilities right now. I expected too much of you.”

The words burned Stan. (They shouldn’t. He shouldn’t even care. Why should Ford’s opinion of him matter? Why was he letting this get to him?) He physically flinched back. Panic ate at the edges of his mind. The air in the room felt electric. The lid on the pot was about to blow. He had to do something; had to abate Ford’s anger. But what could he do? He’d been caught in his lie and sorry wasn’t going to fix it. Ford was about to explode and Doctor Yarrow was going to get hurt (Stan was going to get hurt) and—!

Ford shifted his weight on his feet as if he were about to turn around, and Stan’s hands shot out before he’d even fully thought the idea through. He grabbed at Ford’s shirt and yanked his brother close in a move that clearly took him by surprise. But Stan didn’t pay that any mind as he proceeded to bury his face in Ford’s shoulder and wrap his arms around Ford in the tightest hug possible.

It was similar to earlier, except this time Stan was fully aware of what he was doing as he mumbled, “I’m sorry! I…” He turned his face upward so Ford could see him, letting his fear shine through his eyes and his voice waver. “I was scared. There’s one scar, but I don’t like it and I was scared to tell you, and—” Stan bit his lip, unsure of what to say to convince Ford. Fear mixed with humiliation in his gut at having to do this at all. “I-I didn’t mean to. I’m—I’m sorry… big brother.”

Stan had never called Ford that before, and he watched something in Ford’s eyes light up upon hearing it.

It successfully put all of Ford’s attention back on him, Doctor Yarrow all but forgotten as Ford cupped his face and cooed at him. “Scared? My poor, sensitive baby brother. What were you scared of, hm?” He reached down and adjusted the lab coat back around Stan’s shoulders from where it had started falling off. “There’s nothing to be scared of here. I just want to help you. I can’t do that if you hide things from me.”

He poked Stan on the nose, and Stan flushed with shame and dropped his head.

“Silly little brother doesn’t know what’s good for him.” Ford’s tone was light, but deceptively so.

It set Stan’s teeth on edge. The lid hadn’t blown off, but the pot was clearly still boiling. He wasn’t sure what else to do. What else to say. Begging for his life was something Stan was unfortunately familiar with. Begging for someone else’s was not.

“Show me,” Ford said. He worded it like a request, but they both knew it wasn’t.

Stan really, really didn’t want to.

But he had no choice. So it was with shaky hands that he let go of Ford and shifted to hiked the hem of his boxers up his left thigh. It was with a hitched breath that he turned his leg to show the back of it. It was with burning eyes that he closed them to try and block it all out. This particular scar was…

He wasn’t going to think about it. He wasn’t going to think about it. He wasn’t going to think about it. (He’d been in prison when it had happened. One of the other inmates had gotten a knife from somewhere.) He wasn’t going to think about it. (He’d been held down and—) He wasn’t going to think about it. (—they had carved into his skin.) He wasn’t going to think about it. (And then after they had… They had—)

He wasn’t. Going to. Think about it.

But when there was no immediate reaction, Stan opened his eyes. A mistake, since they automatically followed Ford’s stunned gaze downward, and there it was. Stan’s constant reminder of who he was, what he was, scarred in messy, blocky letters on the back of his thigh:

UNLOVED.

It was at that moment the lid on the pot exploded.

Ford turned, grabbed the nearest thing off the counter, and threw it with great might across the room, where it smashed into the wall and broke with a sharp clatter. Stan practically choked as the very air suddenly felt heavy and oppressive. Loose papers went flying, medical equipment rattling in cupboards and on walls from the maelstrom of Ford’s fury. A table was overturned, surface cracked and dented from the strength of Ford’s grip.

Doctor Yarrow plastered himself against a wall with a yelp, cowering away, clipboard clutched to his chest. Ford didn’t seem to notice him, too busy snarling under his breath, eyes blazing a horrid yellow. He spoke in a language Stan didn’t understand. One that didn’t sound like anything Stan had ever heard before. Whatever it was, it was non-human and felt like it scraped unpleasantly against Stan’s eardrums.

Stan wanted to move. To duck down like Doctor Yarrow and hide. The base, animalistic part of his mind was screaming danger, predator, run. But he felt frozen to the spot, exposed and vulnerable to the demonic rage in front of him. It wasn’t until something went sailing past Stan, close enough for him to reflexively jerk away with a shout, that the paralyzed trance he’d been under broke.

But it was also that noise that turned Ford’s attention to him, and Stan went lightheaded with the sudden rush of adrenaline that flooded his body when those yellow eyes landed on him. DANGER! everything in him shrieked. RUN!

Stan was practically helpless to his own instincts as his body scrambled to get away without him even commanding it to. He scuttled backwards, practically falling off the exam table and just managing to catch the edge of it to keep his feet under him. His fear wouldn’t allow him to turn his back to the threat, so Stan shuffled backwards as fast as he could. When he hit a wall he slid sideways, pushing himself into a corner as if that could hide him. His eyes never once left the threat, glued to Ford through the blur of terrified tears that welled in them.

As such, that was what allowed Stan to catch the minute changes in Ford’s expression as he stared at Stan. Rage to confusion, confusion to realization, realization to something similar to regret and… horror? Heartbreak? Stan wasn’t sure. But whatever it was that had flashed across Ford’s face was solemn.

Without a word, Ford turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The silence left in his wake rung in Stan’s ears, but it was quickly broken by the muffled sounds of destruction outside, Ford seemingly taking his anger out on the other room.

Stan’s chest heaved for air. He slid down to the floor, ignoring Doctor Yarrow’s shaken form across the room. The lab coat had fallen to the floor nearby during Stan’s mad scramble to get away, and he reached out with a heavily shaking hand to grab the edge of it. He draped it over himself like a cover, curling up into a ball in the corner and hiding under it.

He wanted his mom.

Chapter Text

Stan sniffled quietly. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t. He’d already cried in front of Ford once earlier and that had been embarrassing enough. He had to hold it in, he was stronger than that (he’d always been a crier). Weirdly, he found himself wanting to go back to the bath. It had been safe there. He wanted that feeling again; the gentle and attentive care. Not… not the yelling and rage. Maybe it was kind of sad that the bath was the safest Stan had felt in months, but it was.

It was a kind of safety that reminded him of being held by his ma when he was little. He wanted that again too. Stan wrapped his arms around himself beneath the cover of the lab coat, but he couldn’t replicate the feeling. He’d never been able to, no matter how many times he’d tried to hold himself in the years he was homeless and alone, imagining his ma there with him. Maybe she’d never been able to actually protect Stan, but he’d always felt comforted in her arms anyway.

He wanted to see her. He was tired of dealing with Ford. Tired in general really, but definitely done with the whole “nice one moment then seething the next” thing his brother had going on. Trying not to set Ford off felt like walking on a tightrope and Stan was so past stressed and he just wanted to sleep. He buried his face in his curled up knees and let out a shaky breath that verged on a sob, trying to block out the sounds of destruction happening in the next room.

There was a shuffling noise across from him, and Stan’s whole body tensed as an unfamiliar voice whispered, “Hey.”

With a slow, trembling hand, Stan lifted a corner of the lab coat that he’d draped over his head, peeking out from underneath.

Doctor Yarrow was looking at him, face a mix of fear and concern, clipboard clutched tight to his chest. “Are you alright? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

Stan just blinked. This was the first time he’d heard the doctor speak since he’d met the man. His voice had a strange quality underlying it, almost like a crackling sound. Human enough but just off. Stan firmly put that weirdness in the same box as the third eyelid blink and locked it away. He didn’t want to think about that right now. Instead, he silently shook his head in response to Doctor Yarrow’s question.

Doctor Yarrow shuffled closer, but he kept throwing fretful glances over his shoulder, like he wanted to approach Stan but was afraid of Ford’s reaction. Stan didn’t blame him. He rather thought the doctor was lucky he was still breathing.

“I-I’m sorry that happened to you,” Doctor Yarrow said quietly.

Stan stared incredulously, brows furrowing. Why was Doctor Yarrow apologizing to him? He should be the one apologizing to Doctor Yarrow. Ford was his brother, and Stan hadn’t been able to calm him down enough to prevent that outburst. Sure, he couldn’t control Ford, but Doctor Yarrow’s life depended on Stan’s good behaviour, and Stan had been failing at that. So in a way, it was his fault. Doctor Yarrow hadn’t asked to be there, he’d been forced into this situation (so had Stan) and was just trying to get through it.

Stan curled further into himself. “You shouldn’t—” The words died in his throat. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t particularly want to speak right now.

“It’s not your fault,” Doctor Yarrow said, surprisingly firmly. “His behaviour is not your fault. How he acts, how he treats you… it’s not acceptable. You know that, right? This isn’t okay.”

Stan shrugged, fixing his gaze on his knees. Of course he knew it wasn’t right. Of course he knew the way Ford was acting wasn’t okay. But what was Stan supposed to do about it? Ford was like an unstoppable force. The only thing that Stan had managed to successfully do against him so far was play into the weird big brother obsession he’d developed. And even then, did it really count as going against Ford? It was what Ford wanted. And while it kind of worked in influencing him, it still felt like Stan was losing overall.

What had even happened to Ford anyway? The man who’d just started destroying things in a demonic rage… That couldn’t have been his brother. Sure, he’d been moody sometimes as kids, but his anger had always been more cold, manifesting as snark and snubbing people. Ford had never been one for big, emotional outbursts—that had always been Stan.

And why had Stan even reacted like that? Ford was his brother (Ford was scary), but in that moment it was like his brain hadn’t even recognized Ford as… as human. Stan could admit he’d been in plenty of situations that had terrified him before; been in front of plenty of people who had terrified him. But none of those had evoked such a primal sort of response from him. In the past, even when he’d been scared out of his mind, there’d always been a small part of him still trying to figure a way out of his situation. Some small measure of rational left.

But that… whatever had happened there, Stan hadn’t even been able to think. He’d just been filled with a compulsive, animalistic need to get away. He’d felt like prey, in a way that even being hunted by the cartel hadn’t been able to induce in him. It was hard to describe even to himself exactly how it had made him feel. It was the kind of fear reaction one had to something unknown, to something inherently unnatural.

It couldn’t have been his brother. But it was. And perhaps that was the scariest part of it all.

A sharp inhale caught Stan’s attention, and he looked back up to find Doctor Yarrow had frozen in place, gaze fixed on the door with fear. It was only then that Stan realized that at some point the other room had gone silent. His eyes also locked onto the door, every part of him tense, waiting.

A minute passed, then two. Stan’s heart rate felt like it was increasing with each second that ticked by.

Then, the door opened. Ford walked in, looking calm and put-together. Stan wondered how much rage he’d actually gotten out of his system, and how much was simply being masked by the placid expression he now wore. Stan supposed it didn’t really matter. At least Ford’s presence didn’t feel like it was poisoning the very air he was breathing anymore.

At his appearance, Doctor Yarrow immediately scrambled to the opposite side of the room from Stan. Ford’s eyes were drawn to the movement, and before Stan could even blink, he had bodily crowded Doctor Yarrow up against the wall, one hand latching around Doctor Yarrow’s throat and pinning him there.

Doctor Yarrow wheezed, terror on his face. “Please, I—”

“Hush,” Ford cooed, cutting him off with saccharine sweet mockery, his other hand coming up to stroke the doctor’s cheek with the back of one finger. “You’re going to do as I say, right?” His face was inches away from Doctor Yarrow’s in a way that clearly made the doctor uncomfortable. “You’re going to do the job you were brought here for. Maybe you’ll leave with your life at the end. It depends on how well the both of you behave. Understand?”

Doctor Yarrow nodded rapidly.

“Good boy.” Ford patted his cheek in a patronizing manner. Then his voice changed to a snarl as he said, “Now get out.”

He threw Doctor Yarrow away from him, the man stumbling and flailing to stay upright. Doctor Yarrow’s mouth opened and closed a few times, clearly confused but not wanting to risk saying the wrong thing.

“Well? Wait outside until I call you back, you imbecile,” Ford spat.

Doctor Yarrow’s gaze flicked to Stan for the briefest moment. Stan gazed back, trying to wordlessly urge the man to leave. Disobeying Ford could be deadly right now.

Thankfully, Doctor Yarrow did not lack self-preservation, and he fled the room.

Unfortunately, this once again left Stan alone with his crazy brother. He curled up tighter under the lab coat, his stomach in knots. Ford might appear calm at the moment, but he was so unpredictable that Stan really didn’t know what to expect. And while he believed now that Ford didn’t want to kill him (he’d had many opportunities to do so already if he’d wanted to), he didn’t trust that Ford wouldn’t hurt him.

So the footsteps he heard approaching only made him tense up more, holding his breath as he sensed Ford stop next to him. There was a quiet sigh, and then the lab coat was lifted off Stan’s head. Ford crouched beside him, a small furrow developing between his brows as he looked at Stan.

“Oh, Lee,” Ford whispered sympathetically to whatever he saw on Stan’s face.

Stan’s breath hitched, feeling like someone had twisted a knife in his heart. He hadn’t… he hadn’t heard that name in years. His childhood nickname. The one he’d dropped as a young teen in favour of Stan, insisting everyone call him that instead because he’d felt like Lee was too childish. He’d wanted to be taken seriously, like a man. He’d wanted Pa to be proud of him. So he’d changed his nickname, changed his whole style, and started slicking back his hair and putting on an air of bravado.

Lee had been a brash, big-eyed and naive child with silly dreams. Stan had proven to have had silly dreams too, but at least he’d been tough. He’d been confident (fake), charming (fake), able to give as good as he got (true). Stan was able to take a hit and keep going. Able to pretend he didn’t care what others thought of him. Stan had taken Lee and carefully buried him deep down where he couldn’t be hurt. Somewhere safe.

Ford digging up that nickname in this situation, after all he’d done, hurt like pinching an exposed nerve.

“It’s alright to cry if you need to,” Ford told him quietly, his arm wrapping around Stan’s tense shoulders. “That must have been scary for you, huh?”

Stan didn’t fight as he was gently tugged out of the corner and pulled against Ford. He didn’t want to be touched right now, but there was no point fighting it. He was tired. He couldn’t get away from Ford, so why bother trying? He let his head flop against his brother’s shoulder, but remained curled up in a tight ball, arms holding his knees to his chest.

“You almost got hit by that flying object. I saw how that frightened you. I truly didn’t mean to lose my temper like that. I just had a hard time controlling it, seeing all that has happened to you. I love you so much, you know, and it hurts me terribly to see your scars.”

Right. Poor Ford. He must be going through such awful suffering. Stan snorted softly. And how did he manage to make it sound like it was still Stan’s fault somehow? Not fair.

“I was so upset it slipped my mind how much violence frightens you. I know that was scary for you to see, but you don’t have to worry. I would never hurt you.”

Stan still wasn’t in the mood to speak. He simply allowed Ford to engulf him in his arms, to rub his back and whisper reassurances in his ear. They rang falsely, but a part of Stan clung to them anyway, even if he knew he shouldn’t. He couldn’t help the way his eyes watered, even if he refused to allow any tears to fall. It was strange to feel any sense of comfort from the very person causing his suffering in the first place, and Stan’s head hurt if he thought about it too closely. The motion of Ford rocking him back and forth was soothing, so he focused on that instead.

“Stanley?”

The motion stopped, and a finger pushed Stan’s chin up so Ford could see him better. Ford’s eyes roved over his face with a frown.

Stan gave a questioning grunt.

“You’re being very quiet. What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

Besides everything? What a question to ask. Stan shook his head. “Just tired,” he excused.

Ford made a sympathetic noise and stroked his fingers through Stan’s hair, which felt really nice. “Of course, of course. It’s been a very long day for you. You can sleep as long as you’d like once the exam is finished, alright?”

Stan scowled faintly. “I want to see Ma,” he reminded Ford. He was not about to be dragged back to his room after this. As much as he may want to sleep, he needed to see the rest of his family with his own eyes first. Ford had promised.

“Yes, I know.” Ford patted his head soothingly. “I’m just saying you’re under no further obligations today once the medical exam is complete. You can sleep whenever you want after. I just need you to be really brave for me and sit through the rest of this, yes?”

As if Stan had a choice. He shuddered at the thought. What else was going to be done to him? What else might reveal some rather unpleasant things that had happened to him? He knew there was still stuff that Ford didn’t know about. How would he react? Would he blow up again? Would that anger coming pouring out?

Stan’s breath hitched at the thought. At having to be face to face with that horrible, almost inhuman presence. The fear in his chest that hadn’t fully died away sparked again and Stan wheezed. Ford’s arms tightened around him in response, and Stan wriggled in his grip, feeling like he wasn’t getting enough air. He needed space.

“Lee? Oh, Stanley, it’s okay.” Ford didn’t give him space, pressing Stan to his chest and crooning at him. “I’ll be right here with you the entire time. There’s no need to be scared anymore. Breathe slowly for me, okay? In through your nose and hold, then out through your mouth. You’re alright now. Big brother’s got you.”

It was the kind of gentle care and attention Stan craved, and yet it felt suffocating. He wanted space. He needed to get away. To take a moment by himself and keep it together. But he was trapped in Ford’s arms, forced to accept the reassurance and affection his brother gave him. It was… It was everything he had dreamed of on lonely nights in his car; someone who cared about him holding him close and telling him everything would be alright. It was what Stan had always wanted. But now that he was getting it, it didn’t feel right. It sat bittersweet in his stomach.

But maybe this was the way love was supposed to be. Stan didn’t know. He didn’t remember. He hadn’t been given any in so many years. Maybe this was the kind of love he deserved. (The scar on his thigh felt like it was burning, reminding him of what he was.)

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Ford began to whisper, “There is nothing unloved about you. You are so loved. You are wanted and cherished and wonderful. I know Ma and Sherman would agree with me.”

A tear slipped down Stan’s cheek. He tried to turn his face away to hide it, but Ford’s thumb swiped it away before he could.

“Your scars don’t define you, Stanley. You are worth so much.”

Stan shook his head as if to rid his ears of those words. If that was true, then Pa never would have thrown him away. But it wasn’t, and he had, because Stan had never been worth much.

Ford cupped his chin and forced Stan to meet his eyes. “Yes, Stanley. You have so much value. I’d burn the world for you.”

And Stan finally spoke, because he didn’t think Ford was exaggerating when he said that. “I don’t want that.”

“But I’d do it.”

“But I don’t want it.”

Ford’s stare was piercing. “Then don’t ever leave.”

Stan felt something sour in his gut in the face of his brother’s possessiveness. But there was a tired sort of acceptance that settled on him too, because what else could he do? Even if he did get the chance to escape, it would mean leaving behind the rest of his family. He would be on his own again, struggling to survive. Was it even worth it? How much did his freedom mean to him anyway? (It meant a lot, but could he maybe learn to live like this? Could he accept this as his life? He didn’t know.)

Stan didn’t want to think about that right now. There was so much he didn’t want to think about. He was so tired, and he just wanted this all to be done with.

“Can you call the doctor back in?” he croaked out. “I want to get this over with.” Putting it off was just going to make him more anxious.

Ford gave him a fond smile and bumped their foreheads together. “Of course. Just be brave for me, alright? It’s all for your own good.”

He hated when Ford said stuff like that. It was ominous and demeaning. “I’m not a child,” Stan huffed grumpily. “I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

Ford hummed unconvincingly. “You might change your mind.”

Stan was scooped off the floor and placed back on the exam table. “Can I have my clothes back?” he asked. He was sick of being only in underwear and the lab coat. It felt too vulnerable.

“Soon,” Ford told him. “You can have them back once the exam is over.”

Ford turned to leave, and Stan felt his heart leap into his throat. He was both nervous for the exam to continue and anxious for it to be over with. He reached out and grabbed Ford’s arm to halt him.

“I…” He looked down at the floor, absently taking in the mess Ford had created earlier. Only part of the room had been trashed, thanks to Ford leaving, but it was still quite the glaring reminder of what his anger could do. “Promise you won’t get mad?” Stan asked quietly, feeling somewhat ashamed for it. It felt like a display of weakness to ask such a thing. “Promise me that you’ll, uh, stay calm? For the rest of this? No matter what?”

He was met with silence, and it wasn’t until Stan dared to look up at his brother that Ford responded.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Stanley?” he asked. His tone was soft and coaxing, but his eyes were cool and calculating.

Stan felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. “U-Uh…”

“What you just asked of me implies you know there are still discoveries about you that would make me upset. Would you like to tell me about them now? Before I get the doctor?”

Stan’s mouth went dry, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t want to tell Ford, no. What if Ford got mad? What if he exploded with anger again and Stan was here all alone in the face of it? He didn’t want to deal with that. He was so tired. (He was scared.) But then again, would it be better for Doctor Yarrow if Stan just told him now? (He didn’t want to.) He was sure Ford was going to find out anyway, and maybe this way would help? (He couldn’t do it.)

“No,” he forced out in a whisper. “I can’t… I know—I know you’ll find out but I can’t…” He looked away and shook his head, unable to get the words out.

He heard Ford sigh, and his brother gently extracted his arm from Stan’s death grip. “Very well.”

Stan found himself flinching, feeling as though he had somehow disappointed Ford (and why did he even care?).

A hand caught his and squeezed it reassuringly. “It’s alright, Lee.”

Ouch. Stan flinched again at the nickname.

“I don’t expect much from you right now. I did just save you from that dreadful cartel this morning.”

Stan was pretty that wasn’t what happened.

“It’s been a rough day for someone sensitive like you. It’s okay if you’re struggling. You don’t have to tell me things right now. I’ll find out for myself. And if it makes you feel better, I’ll do my best to stay calm.”

That would make him feel better. Not by much, but it was something.

“I understand that this is very stressful for you, and naturally you’re looking to your big brother to be a steady, dependable presence for you during all this.”

Okay, that was going a little far. Stan was definitely not doing that.

“So I promise to be that for you. I know you said you don’t need to hold my hand, but I’ll be right there for you in case you do.”

Ford’s hand squeezed his again, and Stan peered up to see Ford smiling at him.

“You can trust in me,” Ford said, sounding sincere.

Stan hoped his doubt didn’t show on his face too obviously.

“And no matter what, I love you. You are worthy of love, and you are loved. You are a part of this family and you will always have a home with us. You will never be driven away again. You will never be unloved again. You will never be without. Whatever you want, I will give to you. You’ll never have to worry about food or money or safety ever again. Tell me you understand this.”

Stan’s jaw dropped, thoroughly overwhelmed with all of that. “Huh?”

Ford put both hands on either side of Stan’s face and began squishing his cheeks together, ignoring the disgruntled noise Stan let out. “Tell me you understand you are loved.”

“I understand,” Stan grumbled, slightly garbled from the squishing.

“Understand what?” Ford pressed.

Stan smacked at his brother in irritation, prying Ford’s hands off his face. “I understand that I’m… loved.” The words felt strange on his tongue.

Ford beamed, and he looked so different from the raging demon he’d been earlier that it was jarring. “Wonderful. And make sure you don’t forget. Otherwise I’ll be forced to”—he reached up and playfully flicked Stan’s forehead—“knock those silly thoughts right out of your head.”

It hadn’t hurt, but Stan rubbed his forehead anyway and huffed.

Ford just chuckled and went to the door, opening it and beckoning sharply with his hand. A moment later Doctor Yarrow slunk back into the room, clearly reluctant to be anywhere near Ford.

“Let’s continue,” Ford said. “Doctor, if you would?” He curled his fingers, and a large, metal briefcase floated up from the floor, dented but otherwise intact. Ford then pushed his hand forward, and the briefcase floated over to land on the counter.

Doctor Yarrow skirted around Ford nervously, inputting some sort of code into the briefcase. There was a quiet beep, and the case unsealed itself, Doctor Yarrow opening it and grabbing some sort of device from inside. Stan eyed it as the doctor approached him. It was big and vaguely gun-shaped, but emitting an orange laser-ish light on the end. Above the handle was some sort of large screen that Doctor Yarrow was tapping on, full of symbols that Stan didn’t understand or even recognize.

As Doctor Yarrow fiddled with the device, he tried to speak, but ended up only stuttering a few times as Ford came and stood nearby, very much looming. Doctor Yarrow’s hand went white-knuckled around the device, but he took a deep breath, and focused solely on Stan, clearly attempting to ignore Ford’s presence.

“D-Do you, or have you ever, consumed alcohol?” he asked Stan quietly.

Stan didn’t understand why he was being asked, but he answered anyway. “What grown man doesn’t?”

“Regularly?”

Stan wished. “Nah. Couldn’t get my hands on it enough to be regular.”

Doctor Yarrow scribbled something one-handedly on the clipboard he had still tucked under his elbow. “Do you, or have you ever, smoked or chewed tobacco?”

“Did before the flippin apocalypse, yeah.”

Another scribble, another question. “Do you, or have you ever, taken illicit drugs?”

Stan went quiet, eyeing Ford. But that was the wrong move, as Ford straightened up and eyed him right back with a suspicious squint.

“…No,” Stan answered, averting his gaze.

“Stanley,” Ford said warningly.

Stan huffed. “Yes, okay! Fine. I’ve done drugs before.”

The doctor only nodded and jotted it down, but Ford crossed his arms, looking supremely disappointed. Stan didn’t like to see that. He knew he was a disappointment. He hated being reminded of it.

“We will be talking about that later,” Ford told him.

That sounded like a future scolding that Stan was not looking forward to. He tried to change the subject, pointing to the device. “What is that?” he asked Doctor Yarrow.

Ford was the one who answered, to Stan’s annoyance. “You wouldn’t understand the intricacies of it, I’m sure. In simple terms, it’s a medical imaging scanner. It acts similarly to a combination of an MRI, ultrasound, and CT scan. It also has additional features to that, but I won’t bore you with the details.”

Stan had started off feeling offended with Ford implying he was too dumb to understand (not that he was wrong, but it didn’t mean Stan liked to hear it). Now he was kind of glad Ford didn’t elaborate, because he was sure he wouldn’t understand how it did all that. It was a handheld device. How could it do all that?

“That sounds impossible,” he said.

“There’s a reason Doctor Yarrow’s dimension is one of the leading dimensions in medical advancements. Their technology is far superior to what our world currently has to offer.”

“So, what? You’re just gonna scan me with that thing and figure out everything wrong with me?”

“Basically, yes.” Ford looked proud of himself for some reason. “I did tell you I would try to make this exam as non-invasive as possible. With this device, we can gather a comprehensive evaluation of your health without Doctor Yarrow even touching you.”

Stan didn’t think Ford had done a very good job at the non-invasive part so far, but he didn’t say so. He sat quietly as Doctor Yarrow began to scan him with the device, the orange laser light slowly running over Stan’s body, up his legs, his abdomen, his arms, his head. When it was over, Doctor Yarrow stepped back, staring at the screen that was now displaying whatever images it had taken of Stan. The doctor then twisted the lower half of the device’s handle, which detached. It looked hollow inside.

“Your hand,” Doctor Yarrow requested.

Stan hesitantly extended his hand. Doctor Yarrow slipped the hollow part over his pointer finger, and Stan had a brief moment of confusion before something sharp inside suddenly poked the pad of his finger.

“Ow!” Stan jerked his hand back, eyeing the tiny drop of blood beading on his fingertip.

“Apologies,” Doctor Yarrow said. He reattached the piece back to the handle of the scanner, and the device’s screen lit up with new information. “Just running some blood tests.”

“Could’ve warned a guy,” Stan muttered, hunching his shoulders as he felt Ford pat his back. He didn’t need to be comforted over a pricked finger.

Doctor Yarrow stared intently at the scanner, tapping away at it. Eventually, he asked, “Did you break your right wrist in the past?”

Stan looked at the wrist in question. “Er, yeah, I did.”

“And do you still experience problems with it?”

Ford was looming closer now. Stan tried to ignore him. “Uh, yeah. It like, it kind of clicks? When I twist it like—” He twisted his wrist in demonstration, feeling the usual, uncomfortable click.

“Mm.” Doctor Yarrow nodded. “It’s misaligned. It wasn’t set correctly.”

“It wasn’t set at all,” Stan admitted. He regretted doing so when he heard Ford inhale sharply. He tried to push down any fear of his brother reacting badly. “Couldn’t afford it.”

Doctor Yarrow thankfully didn’t comment, only nodding and typing something in on the screen. Then he reached out and snapped his fingers near Stan’s right ear. “Can you hear that clearly?”

“Yes?”

Doctor Yarrow snapped his fingers near Stan’s left ear. “And that?”

“I mean, I can hear it,” Stan said.

“But it’s muffled, isn’t it?” the doctor pressed.

“…Yeah.”

“Thought so. There’s scar tissue on your left eardrum. I imagine that’s causing some partial hearing loss. You’d need more extensive testing to evaluate the severity of it, but it’s easily treatable with a hearing aid or surgery.”

Stan shuddered at the idea of surgery. He would never undergo another surgery as long as he was alive. Not by choice, at least. And he’d lost part of his hearing in that ear so long ago he didn’t even think about it anymore. He’d adjusted to it. Sounds were muffled on that side, but he still had another perfectly working ear. He didn’t feel as though the partial hearing loss was a problem that even needed any sort of fixing.

“I’m also assuming objects on the far side of the room are difficult for you to see clearly, yes?”

Stan sighed. “Yeah.”

“Makes sense,” Ford commented. “You did need glasses when we were young. You just started refusing to wear them once you decided they were ‘uncool’ when we were teens.”

The glasses hadn’t matched Stan’s desired tough guy image, so he’d ditched them around the same time he’d ditched the nickname Lee. “I can see perfectly fine without them,” he insisted. “My eyesight isn’t that bad.”

Ford pursed his lips. “You still need them, though. You could be straining your eyes, Stanley.”

“If corrective lenses are not your style, laser surgery is available. It would be a more permanent solution for your eyesight,” Doctor Yarrow offered.

Again with the surgery options. Stan tried not to wince too openly.

“That could be a good option,” Ford mused. “I imagine correcting his wrist would be a surgical procedure as well. We could simply set up all the various necessary procedures to be done at once, rather than having multiple surgeries. I would bring him to your dimension for it, as your hospitals would be equipped to accomplish such a thing.”

Stan felt bile in his throat as Ford practically planned a surgery for him without asking. He didn’t want to do that. He wouldn’t do that. No way. Ford would have to drag him kicking and screaming. And what did he mean by necessary? Stan didn’t think any of it was particularly necessary. Sure, maybe it would be nice to have some things fixed (not at the cost of surgery), but it wasn’t necessary. Stan had been living with these issues for years and he’d been fine.

But before Stan could speak up for himself, Doctor Yarrow asked, “Would you want to do a kidney transplant as well?”

Stan watched Ford’s face spasm. His tone dropped to an octave that set off warning bells. “Excuse me?”

“He’s missing one,” Doctor Yarrow said carefully, edging away from Ford. “But we could easily synthesize a new one using his own DNA. Growing one for him would ensure compatibility; there would be no risk of rejection like with a donor.”

Ford looked like he was barely listening, his eyes focused on the surgical scar on Stan’s abdomen. His nostrils flared, hands clenching into fists.

“Stanley. Why are you missing a kidney?” he asked.

Stan’s mouth worked open and closed, unsure of how to answer. He absolutely did not want to tell Ford. (Hands holding him down on a cold table. A sharp, piercing pain in his stomach.)

Ford continued pressing, “When did you have it removed?”

Stan’s arms came up to wrap around his midsection protectively. He stared blankly at the floor. (Someone was screaming. His throat hurt.)

“Stanley?”

(“He shouldn’t be awake!”

“Someone shut him up!”

“Knock him out.”)

“Stan?”

He was going to throw up.

Something suddenly covered his head, obscuring his vision and startling him out of that horrible, TV static state his mind sometimes slipped into. Stan sputtered and flailed, but his arms were trapped in something soft. Then hands grabbed his wrists and guided his arms through—oh. Realization came to Stan as his hoodie properly settled on him, Ford pulling the neck-hole over his head.

Stan sighed, some tension leaving his body. It felt nice to be back in clothes. Realistically he knew it didn’t do much, but mentally it felt like a layer of armour covering his vulnerabilities. He was so grateful to have his clothes back that he didn’t even complain when Ford helped him with the rest of them. Didn’t jerk away when Ford finger-combed hair out of his face, where it had gotten messy from struggling with the hoodie.

Doctor Yarrow was watching him with concern, but Stan didn’t pay much attention to him as Ford’s hands settled on his shoulders.

Ford’s eyes searched his face. “Better?”

Stan nodded mutely.

“Good.” Ford gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Answer me this one thing then—you don’t have to speak, just nod or shake your head. Was your kidney removed with your consent?”

Stan shook his head.

Ford’s hands tensed, squeezing just a bit too hard for a brief moment before he forcibly relaxed them. “Okay. Okay.” He took a slow, measured breath. “Okay.”

To his credit, Ford did seem like he was trying his best to stay calm this time. Stan weirdly appreciated that.

“Let’s—okay.” Ford turned to Doctor Yarrow. “We will do the kidney transplant as well.”

Stan no longer appreciated it.

Doctor Yarrow jotted something down on the clipboard, then hesitantly looked between the twins. “It is possible to fix all these issues in one session in my dimension, as you previously stated. I can easily book a surgery date at your convenience.” His eyes slid to Stan. “If that is what you would like to do?”

Stan wondered what his expression looked like right now. His throat felt tight with fear.

“Of course,” Ford answered for him. “We can discuss the details later, but likely within the next two or three weeks.”

Doctor Yarrow straightened his spine, but his voice shook as he said, “I was asking the patient.”

Ford stilled.

Doctor Yarrow quavered.

Stan held his breath.

Then, Ford smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “How sweet of you to consider Stanley’s feelings. I appreciate that. Unfortunately, he doesn’t always know what’s good for him. So I will be making the decisions in his place, and you will listen to me. If I say he’s having the surgery, then he’s having the surgery.”

Ford was going to force him to do it. Stan dry heaved with a rush of panic.

The noise drew attention back to him, Doctor Yarrow stepping forward as if to help, then immediately backpedaling at the dark glower Ford sent him. Ford went and pushed himself into Stan’s personal space, wrapping his arms around him and shushing quietly in his ear.

“It’s okay. It’s alright. You need to calm down, Stanley, you’re hyperventilating.”

Stan clawed at his brother, trying to get his lungs to work.

Ford’s hand stroked down his back. “I know the idea of surgery might be daunting, but you don’t have to be scared. I’ll be with you the whole time. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“Please,” Stan gasped out. “I can’t—”

“I know. I know, shh. It’s for your own good. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to for our own benefit. I said I would do whatever is necessary to ensure you are healthy and strong again, and I stand by that.”

“No!” Stan managed to yell out of his strangled throat. “No surgery. I won’t—I won’t!”

“You will.” Ford said it simply, like it was a settled matter.

Stan started struggling, trying to get out of Ford’s arms. A small part of his mind blared warnings that he shouldn’t. That he was supposed to be behaving to save Doctor Yarrow’s life. He shouldn’t be fighting Ford, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t do this.

Ford easily held him in place though, clicking his tongue like Stan was some fussy child. “My poor, sensitive brother, does it bother you that much? Tell you what. I’ll book the surgery but keep the date a secret from you. I’ll make sure you aren’t even aware of what’s happening. You’ll simply go to bed as normal one night, comfortable in your room, and wake up in the recovery ward of the hospital after the surgery is complete. That way you won’t have to worry about it. I’ll ensure you’re asleep for the whole thing.”

That was worse, actually. To think he might go to sleep in bed and wake up in a hospital in a whole other dimension, his body having been altered without him even being aware of it, was horrifying.

Stan didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to change Ford’s mind. He needed time to figure it out. He needed to delay it. So against his instincts, Stan forced himself to stop fighting and instead leaned into his brother.

“No, I—I want to know,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I’ll do it, I just… I just need time. To, um, prepare. Mentally. You said three weeks? Maybe four?” If he could get Ford to delay the surgery for a month, it would give him time to hopefully figure something out. Some way to get out of it.

“I said two or three,” Ford corrected.

Stan gulped. “Four.”

Ford hummed considerately. “…Four,” he agreed.

Stan practically collapsed against him. But relief mixed with disbelief. He didn’t know if he could trust that. What if Ford tricked him? What if he did what he said he would do anyway and drugged him for the trip? What if Stan went to sleep one night, unsuspecting, and woke up in a hospital?

No. He couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t allow himself to think like that. He’d fall apart if he did. He’d just have to hope Ford would keep his word.

“Four weeks,” Ford repeated. “We’ll work on this fear of yours in the meantime, so you’ll be ready for your surgery when it happens.”

That sounded like Ford was going to keep his word. (He couldn’t afford to think otherwise.) Stan nodded in agreement.

“Very well.” Ford finally let him go. “Now, I believe we’re almost done here. Just one last order of business and you’ll be free. Doctor Yarrow, if you would?” He gestured back to the briefcase.

Doctor Yarrow hesitated, looking torn. “I don’t think—”

“I’m not asking you to think,” Ford cut him off sharply. “I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m telling you to do it. And you will. I know Bill gave you the correct tools, yes?”

“Well, yes, but—”

Ford started backing Doctor Yarrow up, stalking after him intimidatingly. “Then get on with it, Doctor. Or do you value your life so little?”

“But… I—Sir, in good conscience I cannot.” Doctor Yarrow floundered. “It was made illegal to do so on sentient beings in my dimension.”

Stan felt a jolt of unease. Illegal? Ford was trying to make Doctor Yarrow do something he considered illegal? It wasn’t as if Stan cared much for the law himself, but that sent alarms ringing through his head. If Doctor Yarrow was this against it despite the threat to his own life, than whatever it was couldn’t be good for Stan.

“In your dimension,” Ford pointed out. “But this isn’t your dimension, and it is not illegal here.”

Wherever this was headed, Stan didn’t like it. His whole body tensed, hands gripping the edge of the exam table.

Doctor Yarrow’s will unsurprisingly bent under Ford’s, and he grappled for the briefcase with shaky hands, exchanging the scanner for another, smaller device. The doctor set it on the counter as he rifled around for something else, and Stan’s eyes widened at the sight of it. It looked like a mix between a gun and a syringe, with a long, thick needle capped at the end of it.

What the hell was he about to use that for?

“Send me a copy of the scan and blood test results,” Ford said to Doctor Yarrow. “I’ll go over them myself later to create a proper health plan for Stanley.”

As the doctor muttered an affirmative and washed his hands, Stan hopped off the exam table, drawing Ford’s eye. His own were still warily fixed on the syringe-gun. Stan wasn’t afraid of needles, but he was worried about what that one was supposed to do. It was the biggest needle he’d ever seen.

“What is that for?” he asked.

“Safety precautions,” Ford said. “Now sit back down, Stanley.”

Stan did not. He watched Doctor Yarrow put on a pair of medical gloves with a resigned look on his face. “But what is it?”

He was surprised when Ford answered honestly. “A microchip injector.”

Stan frowned. “What?”

“The microchip is a tracker; it will allow me to keep tabs on your location at any given time. Helpful for if you get lost, or if something were to happen to you. The chip itself is minuscule in size, so don’t worry, you won’t feel it once it’s in.”

Stan’s mouth went dry. “You’re going to… put some sort of tracking device inside my body?”

“Yes.” Ford had the audacity to smile, as if nothing were wrong. “I know the size of the needle might be intimidating, but I didn’t want to go with a standard subdermal implant. I wanted to eliminate the risk of anyone potentially attempting to cut the chip out in the future, so we are going to implant yours much deeper than subdermal.”

Stan’s legs shook. The edge of the exam table felt hard against his spine as he reflexively flinched back. His gaze flit over to Doctor Yarrow, who winced at him apologetically.

No.

No, no, no, no, no. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going to let Ford do this to him. A permanent tracking device in his body? He’d never be able to get away from Ford. He’d never be able to hide. He’d never be able to go anywhere without Ford knowing about it.

Ford put his hands up and stepped towards Stan like he was a skittish horse. “It’s okay if you’re nervous, Lee. The others were too. It’s just going to be a big pinch, and then it’ll all be over. But you can hold my hand for it if you’d like.”

The others? Stan choked. Holy Moses, Ford had put tracking chips in the rest of the family?!

He had to get away. He had to get away. He had to get away!

Despite the nagging exhaustion, a surge of energy zipped through Stan. He dodged around his brother and bolted.

A sigh rang out behind him, and Ford muttered, “I had a feeling this would happen.”

Stan ignored him, desperate hands reaching for the door. But just as he touched it, something wrapped around his wrist and yanked him backwards. Stan yelped, looking down to find a glowing, blue manacle on his wrist. And just like earlier that day, Ford used the chain to reel him in. Stan struggled desperately, but all that got him was a second manacle on his other wrist.

“No!” he screamed. “Let go! Let me go, Ford!”

“Oh, hush,” Ford scolded, but he didn’t sound unkind, just somewhat exasperated. “You’re making this out to be a bigger deal than it needs to be.”

“It is a big deal!” Stan yelled, still writhing furiously despite the fact that he was caught. “You can’t do this to me!”

“I think you’ll find that I can. It’s for your own good, after all.”

Stan hated that excuse. He hated it. He let out a wordless screech of anger and fear. He couldn’t believe Ford was doing this to him. (He could believe it, but he didn’t want to.) It was a complete invasion of his privacy, his autonomy. What right did Ford have to microchip their entire family?

(He was horrified. He was terrified. This felt like a point of no return. This would change everything. This would ruin any plans or thoughts of escape.)

“Calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself like this.” Ford rubbed his temples with his free hand. “Honestly, Stanley. You keep making me out to be the bad guy.”

“Maybe you are the bad guy!” Stan spit acerbically. He wasn’t going to play nice. Not about this. He was sorry to Doctor Yarrow, but he couldn’t sit back and let this happen without a fight.

Ford rolled his eyes. “I’ll accept being the bad guy if it means you’ll be safe and sound where you should be. Now.”

Two more manacles materialized and clamped themselves around Stan’s ankles. Ford flicked his hand and the four chains flew out and anchored themselves to opposite walls, leaving Stan on his feet in the middle of the room, arms and legs spread wide and unable to move. His chest heaved at the feeling of being trapped like a fly in a spider’s web.

“Can’t have you wiggling around and disrupting the placement of the tracker.” Ford stepped close and lifted the hem of Stan’s hoodie up, exposing his midsection. A finger reached around behind him and tapped on his spine. “We’re going to implant your tracker along your spinal column, in the lumbar region. Think of it as similar to getting an epidural injection—though the needle isn’t going quite that deep, of course.”

Stan didn’t really understand any of the anatomy stuff, but it sounded horrible. He twisted in his bonds as best he could, breaths coming out in panicked gasps. It was practically useless, though. His efforts only made Ford wrap an arm around his back, forcibly holding Stan still.

“None of that now. Didn’t you say you’d behave? Be brave for me,” Ford murmured into his ear.

“Don’t—don’t do this to me.” Stan hated that he was reduced to begging. “Please. Please, Ford. Let me go. I’ll behave. I won’t leave. I won’t go anywhere, just—just don’t do this.”

He was ignored.

“Doctor Yarrow, if you would?” Ford called over Stan’s shoulder.

Stan couldn’t see where the doctor was behind him, and he flinched when he felt something damp wipe across the skin of his lower back. The astringent scent of rubbing alcohol reached his nose. His body tensed up so hard it trembled. Later, he would be ashamed of the little whimpers of “no” and “please” that fell from his lips, but at the moment he couldn’t think past the fear. He tried to look over his shoulder to see what was happening, heart threatening to jump right out of his chest, but a hand covered his eyes, keeping his head still.

“Don’t look. It’s okay,” Ford whispered. “Deep breath and big pinch.”

Stan felt something sharp poke into his back. (Something sharp in his stomach. Cold, metal table. Rough, cruel hands. Jeering. Shouting. Screaming.) He would have jerked away if he hadn’t been so effectively immobilized. As it was, all he could do was sob. It hurt. It pinched and burned and sunk deep into his flesh.

And then it was over. A bandage was taped over the injection site, but Stan still felt the ache. His hoodie was lowered back down and the manacles and chains disappeared like nothing had happened. But something had happened, and Stan would never feel the same again. There was a tracker in him now. A figurative manacle chaining him to Ford permanently.

Something roiled in his gut. It was… He felt… He couldn’t put a name to it at first. Not until Ford tried to wrap him in a hug; tried to soothe Stan as if he weren’t the one to do this to him in the first place. He felt sad, and angry, but above all that…

He felt betrayed.

Chapter Text

His back hurt. His back hurt.

That was all Stan could really think about as he reeled from what had happened. Every other part of his body felt numb, all his senses attuned to that one throbbing point on his back. In contrast, his mind felt like a whirlwind, trying to come to terms with it all. Ford had… He couldn’t—! Stan squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, feeling something wet streak down his face when he did so. Intense emotions fought within him, all clamouring to be the dominant one.

“Come now, Lee, it’s over,” Ford said softly. His arms came up to try and hug Stan. Again.

Stan snapped.

“Don’t touch me!” he yelled furiously. He shoved at Ford with shaking hands, but even with his full force behind it Ford didn’t budge an inch.

Ford developed a pinched expression. “I understand you’re upset—”

Stan ducked away before Ford’s arms could close around him. “No, you don’t! If you actually understood then you wouldn’t have done that to me! How—” He broke off to swallow back a sob. He wasn’t going to cry about this. He didn’t want to cry about this. He was supposed to be angry! But it didn’t stop the waver in his voice as he asked, “How could you do that to me?”

Ford’s head tilted to the side. Strangely, he looked… almost confused. “What do you mean? I did it for your own good. I’m looking out for the best interests of our family. I had a feeling you wouldn’t be happy about it, but I didn’t expect such an emotional overreaction.”

Overreaction?

Ford’s response only confirmed to Stan that he did not understand. At all. It was a little horrifying even, to realize that Ford didn’t seem to think what he’d done was wrong in any manner. How could he just… not understand? How could he not see how violating and betraying this was? How could he stand there and look puzzled as if Stan’s anger didn’t make any sense to him?

“Overreaction?!” Stan shouted. “I’m not overreacting! I’m just—! I’m—!”

He couldn’t find the right words to explain himself; to make Ford understand. Everything was so much and so confusing right now. He wanted to yell at Ford, to make him feel hurt the way Stan felt hurt. He wanted to cry. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep. He wanted his ma. He wanted to be alone.

Overwhelmed and unable to express himself, Stan gripped his hair and yanked on it, growling wordlessly and stomping his foot to release some frustration.

Ford crossed his arms. “Shall I wait until you’re done with this little tantrum?”

Stan’s cheeks flushed with humiliation. It wasn’t a tantrum! He had every right to be upset! How dare Ford try to boil down a serious situation to something like a childish tantrum. When had he become so pathetic in Ford’s eyes anyway? He used to be the strong twin. The protector. Stan had always been the first one to swing at bullies. It had made sense to him. Ford was smart, so Stan had to be strong. Brains and brawn.

Had Ford secretly always thought he was weak? Had he always looked down on Stan this way and Stan had just never noticed? (Or had he just chosen to ignore it?)

“Don’t—stop looking down on me! I have a right to be upset about this!” Stan protested. He hated the way that he still felt foolish despite himself. He knew he had a right to be upset about it. He knew any other person would be too. And yet, Ford still somehow managed to make him feel silly for it.

Ford raised his hands in a placating manner. “Alright, alright. You can be upset. The others were too, but certainly not quite to this extent—though Sherman did try to punch me. Perhaps I should have expected you would react the most, considering how sensitive you are.”

Stan covered his face at the reminder of their other family. His heart ached imagining how Ma and Shermie must have felt, being held down and microchipped like Stan had been. He couldn’t believe Ford did that. That he would disrespect their mother and older brother like that. Stan grit his teeth. He also wanted to punch Ford.

He quickly realized that covering his face had been a bad move, however, when a few seconds later he felt arms wrap around him. Ford squeezed him just a little bit too tight, likely spiteful from Stan rejecting him earlier.

A hand patted his back, and Ford said, “Perhaps I don’t quite understand. But truly, I don’t think that particularly matters. What does matter is the fact that, regardless, you are upset. So I’m here for you, okay? I’ll support you.”

“Oh, the cause of my problems is going to help me now?” Stan spit sarcastically, pushing at Ford to try and get him to let go.

Ford just sighed, as if Stan were being difficult. “Alright. Well, clearly you need some time to calm down.”

Stan let out a yelp of surprise as he was suddenly hoisted over Ford’s shoulder. He was carried a few feet away and dropped down into a chair.

“Why don’t you sit there and calm yourself, while I finish up dealing with the mess you have created, yes?”

The mess…?

Stan’s eyes widened. Oh. Doctor Yarrow.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. Stan froze in his seat, feeling helpless. Doctor Yarrow had seen too much. Heard too much. Stan had talked back to Ford, yelled at him, refused his twisted form of comfort. And Doctor Yarrow had witnessed it all.

Ford would never allow him to live after that.

Doctor Yarrow seemed to understand this as well, as he rapidly back-pedalled from the approaching threat. “Please!” he cried, his hands raised as if he could ward off Ford. “I did what you asked!”

“Certainly,” Ford agreed. “But he didn't.”

The jab was clearly directed at Stan, who flinched and leapt to his feet. He needed—he needed to do something. (What could he do?)

Doctor Yarrow kept backing up, trying to reason with Ford, trying to bargain with him, trying to say anything to persuade him to let him live. Ford ignored all of it, stalking after the doctor slowly, as if he were enjoying the way Doctor Yarrow fled from him, practically tripping over himself. When Ford finally had Doctor Yarrow backed into a corner, the doctor slid downwards to try and get away, shaking at Ford’s feet. He had a look on his face that Stan had seen before. One that only happened in people who were face to face with the stark reality of their own death.

Doctor Yarrow held up his hands pleadingly. “P-Please, I beg you.”

“Oh? Well, go on then.” Stan watched Ford reach down to the man, cupping his cheek in mock affection as he whispered, “Beg.”

Stan couldn’t watch this. (He had to do something.) His stomach was in knots. (He had to do something.) He couldn’t bear to see another life taken in front of him, and by his own brother. (Do something.) Especially knowing it was his fault. (Do something you coward!)

Stan ran forward. (His back hurt.) Every step felt like he was crossing a chasm. His heart was in his throat. For Doctor Yarrow, for himself, for the anger he might unleash from Ford with his actions. (He remembered the way Ford had grabbed Rico’s neck. The way Rico’s head had just exploded like a popped balloon.) But Stan moved anyway. He crossed the distance and forcibly shoved himself between Ford and Doctor Yarrow as best he could.

“Don’t.” He tried to make the demand firm, but it came out shaky. (Maybe he really was pathetic.)

Ford went still, almost unnaturally so. Yellow-ringed pupils stared at Stan blankly, and Stan felt a cold sweat break out on his skin. His mind flashed him with the very recent memories of Ford’s previous fit of rage. Of the panic he’d felt. The sense of helplessness of prey before a predator. (But sometimes even prey fought back when cornered.)

The stillness broke when Ford’s brows rose. “What is this? Defiance? Don’t you think you’ve been disobedient enough, Stanley?”

Stan’s mouth went dry. Ford didn’t like defiance, he knew that. Trying to demand his brother leave Doctor Yarrow alone likely wouldn’t work well in his favour. Could he reason with him? Doctor Yarrow had tried that to no success, but perhaps it would work for Stan? Or should he—

The idea of appealing to Ford (again) made Stan want to shrivel up and die of embarrassment. But… Doctor Yarrow had already seen him at his worst, so what did it matter? He had little pride to preserve at this point. And he owed it to the doctor to try everything he could to save his life. This was Stan’s fault, after all.

It was easier than Stan wished it was to make tears come to his eyes. He hunched his shoulders and reached out to grasp at Ford with one shaky hand. “I-I’m sorry,” he sniffled. It grated to apologize when he’d done nothing wrong. “I tried my best! I really did!”

Ford’s face softened slightly at his tears, so Stan pushed forward, wrapping his arms around his brother despite wanting nothing more than to throttle him. It was still strange (and frightening) to think that he was no longer strong enough to physically fight off Ford. That if Ford really wanted to kill Doctor Yarrow, Stan wouldn’t be able to stop him. All he could do was hope that Ford would listen to him.

“Please, don’t hurt Doctor Yarrow. I tried to be good, but it was really scary for me and—and I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt. I-I can’t handle that right now.” None of the words were even truly a lie, but it still burned Stan to have to say them.

Ford sighed. “Of course, Stanley. You don’t have to see. I know violence is upsetting for you. How about you go wait for me in the other room?”

He returned Stan’s embrace, using it to swing Stan around so he was no longer between Ford and Doctor Yarrow. But when Ford tried to let go, Stan clung on harder, doing his best to obstruct Ford’s movements.

“No! No, please. I can’t stand even knowing it happened. Let him live! Please, big brother?” Stan tilted his head up to hit Ford with his best pleading expression. “I—We need him. He’s gotta plan my surgery for me.”

“There are other doctors I can plan the surgery with,” Ford said dismissively.

“But Doctor Yarrow is the best! Right?” Stan was only guessing, but it seemed a decent shot. Ford would have only requested the best for him. He hoped he was right, otherwise his next words would be a miss. “Don’t I deserve the best?”

Ford paused. “Of course you do.”

“Then I want Doctor Yarrow. Please, big brother? Please, please, please? It would make me happy. I’d be more comfortable with the surgery knowing you and Doctor Yarrow are there.” Stan wondered if he was laying it on too thick. It certainly felt like it.

But it still worked. Ford’s gaze flicked down to Doctor Yarrow, then back to Stan’s teary face. He eyed Stan considerately before heaving a sigh. One hand came up to pat Stan on the head. “Alright. I shouldn’t be rewarding bad behaviour, but I suppose you did try. It’s not your fault it was so difficult for you. And how could I deny my baby brother anything when he asks so nicely?”

Stan’s legs nearly collapsed under him, and the next tears to slip out of his eyes were ones of relief.

Ford thumbed them away. “No more tears. I don’t like seeing you cry. You can have your Doctor Yarrow for now, Stanley.”

The for now echoed ominously in Stan’s head, but at least it was something. The doctor’s death would not be on his shoulders today. He was safe for now. Stan would have time to convince Ford to let him continue to live later. “Thank you!” he murmured, words muffled in Ford’s shirt as Stan buried his face there. “Thank you, thank you.”

Ford just hummed, and Stan was lifted off his feet again. “Bill will be here soon to take you back to your dimension,” Ford told Doctor Yarrow. “Do tread lightly, Doctor. You’ve been granted a great blessing today. I would hate to see my little brother heartbroken because you squandered it.”

Stan was carried out of the room, thankful to leave the horrid place behind and not eager to ever return. But he was also rather annoyed with the fact that he was once again in his brother’s arms. He’d spent more of the day being carried than walking on his own two feet at this point and was thoroughly sick of it. And he couldn’t even complain, considering what had just happened. He didn’t want Ford to suddenly change his mind because Stan decided to act “ungrateful” or something.

(He hoped Ford’s agreement wasn’t a ruse. That he was actually allowing Doctor Yarrow to leave alive. That Ford and Bill weren't going to kill him as soon as Stan wasn’t around to witness it.)

No. No, he was going to put it all out of his mind. (His back hurt.) He was going to see Ma and Shermie now. He should focus on that. He could finally see the rest of his family, alive and hopefully well. He didn’t want to think anymore on what had just happened. It was best to leave those memories back in that room.

…So why was he still crying?

“Stanley?”

Why couldn’t he stop?

“Lee?”

A wounded noise left Stan’s throat, and he covered his mouth with his hand. It did little to hide the way his chest began to heave with quiet cries. Tears poured down his cheeks uncontrollably, and Stan tried so hard to swallow them back but he couldn’t. He was shaking and sobbing like a wuss, and he didn’t even understand why. It was over now. He’d managed to (more or less) keep it together during the medical exam, so why was he crying after the fact? It didn’t make sense.

He didn’t understand why it felt like everything was caving in on him now. He should be fine. He got through it. He’d managed. He was even going to see his family now. So why. Couldn’t. He. Stop. Crying?

“Oh, no,” he heard Ford murmur, voice dropping to a soft, sympathetic croon. “No, Stanley. What’s wrong?”

Stan didn’t even know. Everything? He couldn’t even pick out a reason why he was crying, it was silly. He couldn’t tell if he was sad or upset or relieved or what. He just felt. And he was crying about it.

Ford bounced him in his arms as if to try and soothe him. Stan heard his brother mutter something under his breath, but he was crying too hard to make it out. All he knew was that they were heading towards wherever Ma and Shermie were, and then suddenly they weren’t. Suddenly everything was dark and quiet. He didn’t know where they were. He couldn’t see a thing. He could only feel as Ford shifted to sit down somewhere (the floor?), and placed Stan on his lap, keeping his arms around him. He pushed Stan’s head to his chest, until Stan could make out the steady thump of Ford’s heartbeat.

“I think you’ve gotten a bit too overwhelmed,” Ford whispered, cradling him like a child. “But that’s alright. Let’s just take a moment to calm down here. We can stay like this until you feel better, there’s no rush. Take your time. You’re safe here, I’ve got you.”

This was embarrassing, but Stan still couldn’t stop crying. He didn’t want to be held like this, but he weirdly didn’t want Ford to let go of him either. Just minutes ago he couldn’t stand being touched by Ford—and he was still pissed off—but now he couldn’t fathom being left alone like this. He needed someone there. He still wanted to hit Ford; he wanted to scream. But he also wanted Ford to hold him tight so he didn’t float away.

Stan’s emotions were like a boat, and somehow Ford was both the storm and the anchor. He wasn’t sure how that had happened. But he knew it was dark and quiet and if Ford tried to let go now, Stan would break down harder. So he clung. He held onto his brother like he would disappear and sobbed raggedly into his shoulder.

Ford rested his cheek on the top of Stan’s head. “It’s okay, Stanley. You’re okay. You can break apart in my arms. I’ll put you back together, I promise.”

Stan was so tired. He was tired. He was tired of dealing with all of this and he kind of… He kind of wanted to let Ford deal with it instead. To let it all go and not worry about it and just let his older brother handle it in his place. The idea was tempting, and that scared Stan. How could he want that, even just a little? He knew he wouldn’t do it—he was a grown man and could handle himself—but the fact that he was even entertaining it was horrifying. He knew what Ford was capable of; what Ford had done. How could he trust someone like that?

(And yet he wanted to. Despite everything, despite himself, Stan still wanted to trust his brother. He was angry with Ford. He was so mad and betrayed and hurt and… and he still loved him. Stan could never stop loving Ford. Maybe he should hate him for what he’d done, but he couldn’t. Not fully. He didn’t think he would ever be able to.)

Stan couldn’t say anything. His throat was choked up and all he could do was continue to have his humiliating crying fit. His shame didn’t stop him from pressing into Ford’s comfort, though—and didn’t that make his head hurt worse? He wanted Ford and he didn’t want Ford but also he did. It was exhausting to deal with and Stan squeezed his eyes shut with a whine. He was getting snot and tears all over Ford’s shirt, but Ford didn’t seem to care. He was cooing so gently at Stan that it was hard to remember he was the same man that had been threatening another’s life only minutes ago.

“I’m sorry,” Ford murmured quietly into Stan’s hair. “It’s my fault you’re like this.”

Stan jolted in shock. Had Ford just apologized? Stan hadn’t heard him say the word sorry once this whole time and now he’d just accepted fault? Did he—did he understand now? Did he finally realize what he’d done? To Stan? To their family? To the world? He leaned back to try and see Ford’s face, but it was too dark for him to make out anything but the yellow rings around Ford’s pupils.

“I shouldn’t have ever abandoned you. Look at how unstable it made you. It was an oversight on my part; I wanted so badly to make a name for myself. I wanted to stand out from everyone, proud and extraordinary. I wanted to be independent. And yet, in my eagerness and youth, I failed to realize that you didn’t. You never wanted to learn how to be independent, did you? You never wanted to learn to be on your own. You were forced to, but you wouldn’t have ever chosen it. You wanted to stay with me forever, didn’t you? You wanted to depend on me.”

Stan was speechless. Ford had finally apologized, but not for anything he should have been apologizing about. Instead he was claiming to be sorry about… whatever this was.

Ford cupped one of Stan’s cheeks in his hand, smearing the tears there. “My opposite, craving dependence where I wanted independence. I was too foolish back then to provide you with what you needed. Too self-focused and short-sighted. But I’ve grown now. I’m stronger than I was; I’m wiser than I was. I’m someone you can safely depend on now, Stanley. You don’t have to worry about me leaving. You don’t have to worry about being alone again. Don’t fret about independence anymore, you don’t need it. Depend on me instead. I’ll provide everything you need.”

Stan didn’t think it was possible to be shocked out of a breakdown, but here he was. He was so astounded he’d stopped crying. His mind was having a hard time processing everything his brother had just said to him. All he knew was that it was a whole lot of creepy. Ford was seemingly sorry that Stan… had grown up to be an independent adult? Like everyone else? What?

Admittedly, it was nice to hear Ford express some kind of regret about their separation. To hear him say he shouldn’t have abandoned Stan. It provided some relief to the ugly, gaping chasm of ache that Stan had carried deep within himself since the night he’d been tossed out like trash. And sure, he’d had to learn complete independence in a very sudden and harsh manner. But he’d learned it, and that kind of thing was hard to unlearn.

What Ford wanted from him was… unnerving. Realistically, Stan knew it was good to have people to depend on. People to support you and help you. But Stan hadn’t had that in years. Hadn’t been able to have that in years. He’d learned the hard way not to trust like that, when he was younger and foolish himself, not yet fully aware of the dangers the streets held. He knew now, though. Even when you made friends they weren’t truly your friends. You could never fully trust someone, fully depend on someone. To do so was foolhardy.

Stan didn’t know if he could do that anymore. (He wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. All he’d ever wanted was safety and home and trust and love, since the day it had all been ripped away. He wanted people he could depend on. Family. But he was scared to get burned again.) He wasn’t sure he was even capable of it anymore. But he was certain that, like with many things now, Ford wasn’t actually going to give him a choice. (His back hurt.)

Stan didn’t want to argue about it right now though. He was not in the mood. He was just tired and hungry and done with the day. He didn’t want to address Ford’s latest deranged statements, he just wanted to see his mother.

“Can we go now?” he asked quietly. He wondered if his tone sounded as defeated as he felt.

“Are you feeling any better?” Ford questioned in return, fingers drumming a steady pattern on Stan’s back.

Stan shrugged. Ford would easily catch him in a lie if he tried that right now. “Not really,” he said. “But I want to see Ma.”

“There’s no rush. You don’t need to push yourself, Stanley. You can always—”

Stan didn’t bother listening to the rest. He let out an exasperated groan and began to push himself up, trying to crawl out of Ford’s grasp. He managed to make it to his feet, but probably only because Ford hadn’t been expecting it. He heard his brother make a noise of confusion, then jump up himself, and within a moment Stan’s feet were once again no longer on the floor.

“So impatient,” Ford grumbled.

Stan squirmed. “You do know I can walk, right? I have legs.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s dark in here. You might trip.”

Stan let himself be carried out of whatever room they had been in, squinting as his eyes readjusted to the light of the hallway. “Well, it’s not dark anymore,” he pointed out.

Ford smiled at him patronizingly as he walked. “You must be exhausted though, hm? Especially after an episode like that. It’s been a rough day for you. Let big brother help until you’ve had some food and rest.”

Stan huffed. It was hard to tell if Ford actually viewed him as being so weak he would collapse without help, or was just being controlling. “Fine. But only until we reach where Ma is. I want to walk in and greet her on my own.”

Ford raised a brow, looking amused. “Embarrassed about the rest of the family seeing you be carried?”

“You should be embarrassed too,” Stan muttered, crossing his arms.

Ford only laughed. “Why? There’s nothing embarrassing about it. You’re just sensitive.”

“I am not!” Stan scowled.

“It’s okay to be,” Ford said. “But you can continue pretending to be tough if that makes you feel better right now.”

Stan bristled, but before he could say anything he was gently set down on his feet in front of a set of double doors. He stared at Ford in surprise, not having expected him to actually listen to his request.

“What? Isn’t this what you wanted?” There was humour in Ford’s eyes. “You’re so fussy.”

Stan flushed with embarrassment and anger, but he was still so drained from all the events of the day that he couldn’t find it in himself to start yelling like he normally might. The anger in him felt cold instead of hot like it usually was, blanketed by a snowy layer of fatigue. He ended up saying nothing as Ford opened the doors and ushered him inside.

Stan found himself looking around what he could only assume was some sort of grand parlour room, filled with overly fancy furniture and decorative art pieces likely worth thousands of dollars. It had a high ceiling, and the back wall was pretty much all large windows, framed by rich blue drapes. But none of that really mattered to Stan. What did matter to him was the lone woman perched on one of the settees.

She was older than Stan remembered. It made sense, of course—he hadn’t seen her in many years. Age had deepened the lines around her mouth and eyes, had settled on her forehead and sprinkled small hints of silver in her dark hair. The dress she wore was still red, her favourite colour, but far more elegant than the simple slip he remembered her wearing when he was young. Her ears and neck and wrists all glittered with gold and diamonds that were a far cry from the cheap costume jewelry she used to own.

But despite all that, Caryn Pines looked tired, worn down. The glimpse he caught of her expression before she turned to them was one of vacancy. Her eyes landed on Ford first, who had swept past Stan to approach her while he stood there numbly.

“Mother,” Ford greeted, lifting her hand and kissing the back of it as if he were a gentleman.

“Stanford,” she greeted him in turn, but her gaze quickly flicked over him to land on Stan, and her face melted into shock and joy and hope.

“I told you I’d bring him home,” Ford said smugly.

One of Ma’s hands had moved to cover her mouth, but the other outstretched in Stan’s direction, fingers trembling slightly, as if she was worried he’d disappear. “Stanley?” she called, voice fraught with emotion.

Stan found himself practically stumbling forward, reaching for her just as desperately as she was reaching for him. He crashed to his knees in front of her, almost throwing himself into her lap and wrapping his arms tight around her waist, like he did when he was little and couldn’t reach any higher.

He couldn’t help the pathetic cry of, “Ma!” that choked out of him.

Her arms settled around his shoulders, just as comforting as they used to be. “Oh, my little free spirit,” she whispered.

And for a brief moment, everything felt like it would be alright.

Chapter Text

Stan kept his face firmly buried in his ma’s lap for a minute, holding back tears. He’d done enough crying today. He was sick of it. He didn’t want to cry anymore, and certainly not in front of his ma. Ford having seen him cry was embarrassing enough, no need to bring the rest of the family into it. It made him suddenly glad that Ford had insisted he clean up before seeing her. He didn’t want to think about how much more pathetic he would look if he was still scruffy and unwashed.

“I missed you,” he mumbled into her dress.

“Oh, honey, I missed you too,” Ma whispered to him. Her fingers trembled where they stroked gently through his hair.

“I also missed you,” Ford decided to add in.

Stan heard Ma sigh, and he lifted his head up to see that Ford had sat himself next to her, lounging on the settee casually, his arm over the back around Ma’s shoulders.

“You saw me just a few days ago before you left to get your brother, Stanford,” Ma said.

“And I missed you and the rest of our family the entire time I was gone.” Ford’s eyes were soft as they bounced back and forth between Stan and Ma, but there was something annoyingly smug in his face too. “You’re all very precious to me, my dear.”

Ma gave him a sideways glance, but ignored him in favour of cupping Stan’s face in her perfectly manicured hands, lifting him up further. “Let me have a look at you,” she murmured, her eyes roving over his face, taking in the gauntness of his cheeks and the heaviness in his eyes. Her brows twisted in concern. “Oh, Stanley. My youngest, my baby.” Her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones softly. “You’re so thin.”

“Don’t worry, Ma,” Ford tried to console her. “I’m planning a diet for him to address his nutritional concerns. We’ll get some weight back on him and have him healthy again soon enough.”

She nodded along, but her eyes remained firmly fixed on Stan, as if he would disappear if she looked away from him. Stan didn’t mind, drinking in the sight of her in return. It had been so long. So long. He’d gone many lonely nights dreaming of her holding him the way she had when he was young. Dreaming of the safety and security and comfort he felt wrapped in her arms as a child.

He wasn’t sure if his need was written on his face, or if she just felt the same way, but she tugged on him gently. “Come here.”

Stan shifted further up on his knees to hug her properly. He was bigger than she was now, but it didn’t stop him from trying to shrink into himself to fit neatly into her arms. His face rested in the crook of her neck, her stray hairs tickling his skin. She still wore the same perfume, the smell familiar and comforting and reminding him of home.

“My brave Stanley,” she whispered to him, her voice thick with emotion. She pressed kisses into his cheek, his temple, the side of his head. “I love you, and I missed you so much. My free spirit, sent out to fly from the nest too soon. I’m so sorry.”

Stan knew she was. She wouldn’t have been able to stop Pa, he knew that too. But she had never even tried and that had always stung, even as Stan understood why. They both knew it wouldn’t have changed anything even if she had, so he’d simply buried that hurt and tried to make peace with it. She loved him, and that was what mattered. (He wished she would have spoken up for him, even if it wouldn’t have made a difference.) Her easy declaration of it warmed him. It had been a long time since he’d felt loved.

“I love you too,” he croaked back. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come back to see you sooner.” (I’m sorry I never made those millions.)

“It’s not your fault,” she soothed. “I’m just happy to see you now—despite the circumstances.”

Ford huffed from next to them, rolling his eyes.

Stan jolted as the sudden sound of a door slamming interrupted them, pulling back from Ma to see what was going on. Ford hopped off the settee as Stan looked around wildly, and his gaze had only just landed on the figure of Shermie when Ford was there too, enveloping their older brother in a bear hug.

“Sherman!” Ford said delightedly, lifting their brother off his feet and twirling him around before setting him back down. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“It hasn’t even been that long,” Shermie wheezed out, pushing at Ford’s arms. He looked rather disgruntled, but an air of resignation hung around him.

“It’s been nearly a week,” Ford said. He finally let go of Shermie and gestured towards the settee proudly. “But look who I brought home.”

Shermie’s surprise was visible as his eyes went to Stan, his shoulders slumping in what looked to be relief. “Stanley.”

Stan smiled tiredly, lifting a hand in greeting. “Hey, Sherm.”

He pushed himself to his feet, Ma’s hands helping steady him. But he didn’t have to go far, as Shermie practically launched himself across the room towards him, pulling Stan into a tight hug.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” Shermie said, clutching at Stan like something might rip him away.

“I told you you’d see him again,” Ford muttered grumpily from behind them. “Why is it none of you believe the things I say?”

“Excuse me if your recent actions haven’t inspired much faith,” Shermie shot back, tone snippy.

Stan was getting the vibe that he wasn’t very happy with Ford.

“You’re excused,” Ford returned cooly.

Shermie grumbled something under his breath but ignored Ford, pulling back and placing his hands on Stan’s shoulders to eye him up and down. “You look terrible,” he stated.

Stan felt a shocked laugh bubble out of him. Shermie had always been rather blunt, just like their pa. It was good to see some things hadn’t changed. “Thanks,” he said dryly.

“Sherman!” Ma scolded. “Don’t say such things about your brother.”

“What? It’s true. Look at him, he’s skin and bones.”

Stan snorted, using the moment to properly look at his brother for the first time in years. Shermie was much older than the twins, and had moved out of their childhood home when Stan and Ford had still been kids. He used to visit them fairly often though, living close enough that when he and his wife had their first baby, Ma became their default babysitter. She had actually been watching the baby the night Stan had been kicked out; Shermie had been on a work trip out of state that week.

Stan hadn’t known if he would ever see Shermie again either.

He remembered spending that first night homeless outside his older brother’s house, huddled in the doorway and wishing Shermie had been home. Wishing he could stay with him. But Stan had known it wasn’t a good idea. He hadn’t wanted to intrude on Shermie and his growing new family. He hadn’t wanted to stay in Glass Shard Beach where he’d have to see the rest of his family from afar, knowing he wasn’t allowed to go home with them, knowing they didn’t want him anymore. He couldn’t stand that.

He had wanted to go home so badly, but if he couldn’t then he didn’t want to be in his hometown at all. Didn’t want to look at what he used to have from a cold, lonely distance. So he’d left. He’d spent that first night crying on Shermie’s empty doorstep, and then the next day Stan left Glass Shard Beach. He’d stayed in New Jersey at first though, stupidly looking for treasure along the coast and trying not to let the other beaches remind him of the one he knew best.

Stan hadn’t even tried calling Shermie until weeks later, after he’d finally left New Jersey behind entirely. He’d fretted over calling for a long time, both ashamed to speak to Shermie after what had happened, and worried that Shermie would try to convince him to come back. Stan didn’t want to hear that. He’d wanted to go back so badly that it would’ve hurt too much to hear an invitation like that, knowing he couldn’t actually accept it. He didn’t want to cause a rift between Shermie and the rest of the family by staying with Shermie.

So it had been a great relief to Stan that when he’d finally mustered up the courage to call, no one had been home. He’d gotten Shermie’s answering machine, and had left his older brother an awkward but sincere message. He’d told Shermie how sorry he was and how much he loved him and not to worry about Stan. It hadn’t sounded quite that nice of course, Stan having bumbled his way through most of what he wanted to say, trying to ignore how pathetic his voice had sounded, but he’d gotten it out.

He’d never tried to call Shermie again after that. But it was just as well, as a few years later Stan learned from Ma that Shermie had moved to California, and the old phone number he had in his memory no longer belonged to his brother. Stan had never asked for the new one.

“You’re a foolish knucklehead with dumb luck and more lives than a cat,” Shermie said, drawing Stan’s mind back to the present. His tone was light and fond. “And you’re a darned sight for sore eyes.”

“Your eyes do look sore,” Stan teased, grinning impishly. “Look at all those wrinkles you’re developing, old man.”

Shermie had aged—obviously, given the decade it had been since they’d seen each other. It was strange though, to look at him and see the lines on his face, the moustache he had grown at some point while Stan was gone. Shermie was nearing forty by now, but he wore it well. He still stood like their pa had, back straight and shoulders squared. He’d always been the tallest of the Pines, though not quite as stocky as the twins or Pa; Shermie had always looked more like their ma.

Stan sputtered as knuckles came down on his head to roughly noogie him.

“Rude squirt,” Shermie laughed. “Not surprised your mouth still gets you into trouble.”

Stan chuckled along, although a bit awkwardly. Shermie didn’t know just how accurate he was with that statement.

“Can’t believe you made me wait ten years to see you again. Didn’t even bother calling your poor old brother to let him know how you were doing. Only way I knew you were still alive at all was whenever Ma told me you had called her,” Shermie grumbled. He was doing the same thing Ma had, eyes roving over Stan repeatedly as if Stan would disappear if he looked away.

Still, his words made Stan wince. Stan had his reasons for not calling his brother, but he knew they wouldn’t be good enough for Shermie. “I… sorry,” was all he said, looking down.

“Apparently he had been calling me,” Ford interjected. “But I never knew it was him because he refused to speak and would hang up quickly.”

Stan startled. That was true, he had called Ford many times over the years. Sometimes just to hear his voice, sometimes because he wanted to talk to him. He just never got the courage to actually speak. Even the times he’d wanted to, he’d always ended up chickening out once he heard Ford’s voice.

“How do you know that?” he asked, eyeing Ford from over Shermie’s shoulder in confusion.

Ford shrugged casually. “Bill told me.”

Yeah, that made sense.

“Honestly, if only you’d tried to talk to me, or at least given me some indication it was you on the other end, we could have solved this problem years ago and had you in a safe home much sooner.”

Stan felt a wash of guilt. If only he had chosen to speak during one of those phone calls. Maybe he could have changed things. Maybe he could have prevented Ford from siding with Bill, or even meeting him at all. He wondered what things would have been like if he had. Would Ford have forgiven him? Invited Stan to stay with him? Would Stan be living a normal life in a normal house with his brother?

(Was it his fault this had all happened? Was Stan’s inaction to blame for the apocalypse? If speaking up could have saved the world, then maybe he did bear some responsibility for it.)

Shermie’s hand squeezed his shoulder in a comforting manner. “I would’ve helped you, Stan, if you’d have called me,” he said.

That was what Stan had been afraid of; that Shermie would have offered help he couldn’t accept. But he’d also been afraid of Shermie not offering help. Maybe it had been a silly fear, but his mind’s eye had always replayed those curtains closing on him that night, and the thought of his other brother also spurning him had scared Stan away from finding out if he actually would or not. So it was relieving now, to hear Shermie say that he would have tried to help.

Stan gave his older brother a tired smile. “I—”

The doors opened again, cutting Stan off, and his eyes widened as a small figure darted into the room, running in the careless way only a young child could. It was a little boy that Stan didn’t recognize, maybe somewhere around five years old, with bright eyes and a happy grin.

“Uncle Ford!” the little boy yelled gleefully. “You’re back!”

Stan whipped around to where Ford was standing, worried about how his twin might react, but Ford’s face had broken into an adoring smile. Stan watched him crouch down low and open his arms, catching the little boy when he collided with him and scooping him up.

“David!” Ford cooed, nuzzling their noses together playfully, to the boy’s giggling delight. “I missed you!”

“David?” Stan repeated to himself quietly, a bit stunned to see Ford interact so easily with a child. Stan always remembered him being awkward around them when they were teens.

“Ah, yes,” Shermie said from beside him. “We had another son. I wanted you to meet him when he was born, but of course I couldn’t get a hold of you—since someone wouldn’t call me.”

Stan did recall Ma telling him about Shermie and his wife having another baby. He hadn’t been in a great place at the time of that phone call, and remembered how much it had hurt to hear another member had been added to their family that Stan couldn’t see. He’d ended the call shortly after and tried to put it out of his mind. Tried not to think about how much he wanted to be there; how much he wished he could hold the new baby and congratulate his brother.

“David, what did we say about running?” a woman’s voice called out, and Stan turned back to see his sister-in-law, Judith, enter the room, followed closely by an older child.

His youngest nephew (he had a second nephew!) pouted, little arms wrapped firmly around Ford’s neck. “But Daddy ran,” he said, not answering his mother’s question.

Stan side-eyed his oldest brother, who coughed into a fist and wouldn’t look at him. “You were that excited to see me?”

“It’s been ten years, Stan, don’t go getting a big head.” Shermie knocked his shoulder into Stan’s playfully.

Stan jostled his brother back. “Nah, Ford’s got that covered.”

“Ugh. Tell me about it.”

Ford had made his way over to greet Judith, little David tucked in one arm. He smiled warmly as he grabbed her hand and lifted it up to kiss the back of it, much the same as he had with their mother. “Darling sister.”

“Stanford,” Judith said evenly.

The boy next to her waved. “Hi, Uncle Ford.”

Ford released Judith’s hand to drop a kiss on the top of the older child’s head, ruffling his hair after. “And hello to you too, Alex.”

Alex. Stan felt his breath catch. He hadn’t seen his oldest nephew since he was a baby. The young boy that stood next to his mother was in his double-digits now, and looking at him made Stan really feel the years that had passed. Alex was tall for his age, and he had Shermie’s nose and Judith’s eyes. And when he smiled a small dimple formed in his left cheek, same as the one Stan and Ford shared. The sight made something in Stan’s chest clench.

He must have missed the rest of whatever his family had been saying, as the next thing he knew, Ford was in front of him with their nephews.

“A second Uncle Ford!” David said cheerfully, still looking fully at ease in Ford’s arms.

Ford laughed. “Boys, this is your Uncle Stanley. He’s been away from the family for a long time and we just got him back.”

Both kids accepted Ford’s words without question, greeting Stan by uncle, to which he felt himself choke up a little. Nephews. He had two nephews.

“You’ve gotten so big, Alex,” he croaked out. “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby.”

“We were on our way to get the boys a snack when we got the news that you were here,” Judith said, coming up on Stan’s other side. “Sherm couldn’t wait to see you.” She reached out and gave him a gentle side-hug. “It’s good to see you, Stanley.”

“Yeah, uh, you too.” Stan returned the hug, and she gave him a quick squeeze before letting go.

“Must be a bit overwhelming for you, hm?” Judith smiled knowingly, eyes tired and sympathetic. “I’ll take the boys to get their snack. You should catch up with your mother and brothers. You’ll have time to get to know your nephews later.”

Judith’s thoughtfulness and insight had been two of the main reasons Shermie had been drawn to her. Stan imagined they were serving her well as a mother. And he appreciated her interference; as much as he wanted to talk to his nephews and learn about them, he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. There were a lot of people in the room now, and while they were all family, Stan wasn’t used to it anymore.

“I’ll go with you,” Ford said to Judith. “I need to get something for Stanley to eat. It’s been far too long since he’s had a decent meal.”

Judith did not seem particularly enthused about his company, but she only smiled thinly. “How thoughtful of you. You can help me with the snacks as well then.”

“Of course.” Ford began to follow her out of the room, David and Alex with him. But he paused in the doorway, looking back at their ma. “I’ll bring you some chamomile tea, my dear. It’s nearly nightfall and I know you’ve been having trouble sleeping recently.” His gaze shifted to Stan and Shermie. “Watch him while I’m gone, Sherman.”

“I don’t need to be watched!” Stan grumbled to Ford’s retreating back. “I’m not a kid.”

Shermie only gave him a consoling slap on the back, moving to slump down on a chair across from Ma. “No offence, Stan, but as much as I wish you weren’t trapped in this situation with us, I’m also selfishly glad that you’re here to take up most of Ford’s attention. Now he’ll bother you more and maybe leave me alone some.”

Stan grimaced, practically collapsing onto the settee next to their ma. It felt like a minor weight had lifted from his shoulders now that he no longer had Ford breathing down his neck. (He ignored the part of himself that missed his twin already.)

“Is it that bad?”

Shermie nodded, looking drained, fingers idly tapping an armrest. “He practically shadowed me every step I took for what felt like a week. It was like every time I turned around he was there. Even when I thought I had locked a door, he was somehow still inside the room next I blinked.”

“It was the same for me.” Ma sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Stanford did always struggle with boundaries, he just… never used to be this bad.”

Stan pursed his lips, thinking back. As a child, it hadn't seemed that big a deal to him, but he did remember many instances as kids where Ford had upset someone because he crossed their boundaries or personal space in some way. And Ford never seemed to understand why what he had done was wrong, or why people became upset with him about it. Eventually, he just started copying how Stan acted and the issue lessened. But it was apparent now that Ford had never actually really learned from it; that he was truly only ever copying Stan without understanding the why.

“Are you two… alright?” Stan asked, knowing it was a loaded question.

“Nothing is alright,” Shermie complained, swiping a hand down his face tiredly.

Ma reached over and slipped her hand into one of Stan’s, holding it gently. “I was worried for you,” she said quietly. “We were all worried for you, knowing you were out there alone in that. And as much as I wish it were better circumstances, I’m so glad to see you again, safe and sound.”

Shermie nodded in agreement. “I’m glad to see you again as well. But I’m also not happy to, because it means he caught you. Now you’re trapped up here like the rest of us.”

“It—it ain’t so bad,” Ma said weakly. “We’re safe here, for the most part. We have everything we need and then some. We just…”

“We just lost our freedom, Ma,” Shermie bit out gruffly. “Everything we need at the price of our independence. A fancy cage is still a cage.”

“Ain’t it better than starving on the streets, though?” she returned. “Would you rather be fighting for your life everyday out there?”

This was beginning to sound like an argument they had clearly had before. Stan decided to try and intervene, to change the subject before it got out of hand.

“My back hurts,” he grumbled, slumping into his ma’s side.

Her eyes scanned him over immediately. “Are you injured, hun? Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

Whoops. He hadn’t meant to worry her. “No, no. It’s just from the, uh… the chip.”

“Put one in you too, did he?” Shermie’s face grew dark, a hand clenching around the armrest. “Of course he did. What else did I expect?”

“He said you tried to punch him?” Stan asked.

Shermie scoffed. “Course I did. He put tracking chips in my children.”

Oh. Stan hadn’t even considered the kids. He paled at the thought of his poor nephews having experienced what he did. “Are they—are they okay?”

Shermie grunted. “Ford made sure they were asleep when he did theirs. They don’t even know.”

That was a relief at least.

“Doesn’t change the fact that he did it though. He deserves a good punch to the face. Maybe knock his ego down a peg.”

“Sherman,” Ma scolded quietly.

Shermie threw a hand up. “No, Ma. Don’t go taking his side.”

“I ain’t taking his side,” Ma said. “Not saying what he did was right, just… He’s still your brother.”

“I know,” Shermie grumbled bitterly. “He’s my brother and I still love him, and that’s what makes it all so bad. Because he’s family but he turned around and did this to us.”

Ma practically wilted. She looked so tired. “He did. And ain’t nothing to be done about it now.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to just sit back and accept it.” Shermie crossed his arms, glaring off to the side.

Ma grit her teeth, her hand tightening around Stan’s. “And what do you want me to do, Sherman? He’s my son and I—I love him. I’m not happy with him. I’m not anymore pleased with all this than you are. But we don’t got a way to escape, and even if we did, it’s worse out there than it is in here. I don’t know how to accept it, but what else am I supposed to do?!”

Stan flinched at the way her voice rose up at the end, frustration clear on her face. He tensed as Shermie straightened up, scowling.

“Can we—” Stan rushed to break the tension before Shermie could do something like yell back. “Can we not fight? I—come on, I don’t…”

He wasn’t sure how to voice what he wanted to say without sounding weak and pathetic. This was his first time seeing them again in a decade, and he didn’t want to listen to them argue the whole time. He didn’t want to deal with that right now, and he didn’t want to end up being pulled into it and made to pick a side.

Ma deflated almost immediately. “I’m sorry, hun. It’s been rough for you, hasn’t it?”

Stan just sighed heavily.

Shermie didn’t look happy, but most of the thunder faded from his expression, and he slumped back in his chair again. “Ah, you’re right. I shouldn’t be taking my frustrations out on you, Ma. We’re all in the same situation here.”

“That we are,” Ma agreed tiredly. “At least the kids are happy.”

“And safe,” Stan mumbled, body relaxing now that the tension in the air had broken. “Safer in here than out there.”

Shermie’s lips thinned, and he huffed through his nose. “That… yes. We only experienced a few days of this, uh, weirdmageddon, but it was chaos. People were so panicked and confused; everything became dangerous. Judith and I tried to barricade the house, keep the kids safe. But Ford found us quickly, probably because we were the closest to Oregon. Snatched us all up before heading east to get Ma. I’m… Well. I don’t like being trapped here. I don’t like what he’s done, but I am glad that it means the kids weren't exposed to all that horror for long.”

Stan nodded along mutely. He’d been living in that horror for weeks now. He knew how bad it was. He was glad his nephews hadn’t had to deal with it for long.

“I looked for you,” he told Ma, staring down at their clasped hands. “When it started. I drove up to Glass Shard as fast as I could. Wasn’t fast enough though, you were gone by the time I got there. I searched all over for you for days, but I couldn’t find you. I didn’t know about Ford at the time, and the house was a mess when I got there, so I was worried that maybe… Maybe…”

Ma’s thumb swiped over his knuckles. “I know. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, after Stanford came for me. All the rest of the family was safely accounted for, except my little free spirit. I couldn’t sleep well at night, knowing you were out there somewhere, facing all that on your own.”

“You’re a brave man, Stan,” Shermie said, “and smart. Not many could survive all that on their own for as long as you have. You gave Ford a run for his money trying to hunt you down too. You got a strong will.”

Stan stared at his older brother with wide, disbelieving eyes. Brave. Smart. Strong. Those were never traits Stan had associated with himself. He didn’t think he fit them. It made him feel some kind of way, to hear Shermie compliment him like that. Like his whole body had warmed with a tentative sort of happiness. He didn’t know how to respond to it, ducking his head awkwardly and hoping he wasn’t flushing.

But thankfully (or maybe not), the doors opening once more saved Stan from having to find something to say, and his eyes glanced up to meet a matching pair that had latched onto him with intense focus. Ford was back.

Chapter Text

Ford entered the room holding a large silver tray. He smiled as he approached, an expression that was not reciprocated by any of the other family members. This didn’t seem to bother Ford at all, though, as he set the tray down on the glass coffee table in front of the settee. Stan eyed the fancy teapot and cups as Ford gracefully poured a cup of tea, presenting it to Ma.

“Here you are, my dear,” Ford said.

Ma accepted the tea with a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Sherman, would you like some?” Ford offered.

Shermie waved a hand to decline. “You know I don’t care for leaf juice.”

Leaf juice. Stan snorted in amusement.

Ford huffed fondly, rolling his eyes. “I’m aware. Just thought I would ask, since I can’t offer you coffee this late into the evening. It’s too close to bedtime to be drinking such things.”

“I can drink what I want when I want,” Shermie grumbled.

“It’s not good for you to have too much caffeine at night,” Ford insisted firmly.

“It’s not good for me to have you trying to boss me around either, and yet here you are.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to face Shermie.

Shermie straightened up in his seat, narrowing his eyes right back.

Uh-oh.

“Where’s Judith?” Stan asked loudly, hoping to cut off the argument he could see brewing between his brothers. He pointed to a covered bowl that was on the silver tray. “This is for me, right?”

He tugged the tray closer to himself, his stomach clenching hungrily at the thought of food. He lifted the cover off the bowl to reveal a modest portion of oatmeal with fresh fruit on top. Oatmeal was not his favourite, but Stan couldn’t find himself disappointed, not when faced with his first hot meal in weeks. He almost dug in with his bare hands, only just remembering to grab the spoon that was next to the bowl as he scooped up oatmeal and banana and—

His wrist was caught before the first bite could make it to his mouth.

“Ah-ah!” Ford scolded him gently. He grabbed a small medicine cup full of various pills that Stan hadn’t noticed was on the tray, holding it out to Stan. “I need you to take these first.”

Stan eyed them suspiciously, as did Shermie. Ma simply watched quietly, sipping her tea.

“You’re drugging him?” Shermie asked, looking ready to leap forward and swat the pills from Ford’s hand.

“The pills are just nutritional supplements,” Ford explained. He guided Stan’s hand down and made him let go of the spoon, shaking the pills into Stan’s palm instead. “I had Doctor Yarrow give me copies of all your test results. I looked your blood work over quickly to get an idea of where you’re at. Not that I need blood work to see that you’re malnourished, but with the fact that you’ve been practically starving, I’m worried about your risk of refeeding syndrome. We’ll have to take reintroducing you to food carefully.”

“Refeeding syndrome?” Stan asked.

He proceeded to only half-listen to the rambling explanation Ford gave. Something about metabolic disturbances and electrolyte imbalances or whatever. He stared at the pills in his hand, contemplating them. He wasn’t sure he trusted what Ford gave him, but at the same time, he didn’t see a reason to distrust it either. Ford had drugged him once, but there was no reason for Ford to drug him again. What would even be the point of doing so right now? Stan was already here and trapped.

With a mental shrug, Stan popped some of the pills in his mouth. Ford had mentioned they were chewable, so he chewed them. They didn’t taste bad (they didn’t taste particularly good either) but they were a bit chalky in texture, which made his nose scrunch up.

As he threw the last of them in his mouth, he asked again, “Where’s Judith and the kids?”

“Still having their snacks. Judith thought it best to keep the boys in the dining room while they eat,” Ford said.

“She probably just stayed behind to avoid you,” Shermie muttered under his breath, propping an elbow up and resting his cheek in his hand.

Ford sighed exaggeratedly. “My sweet Sherman—”

“Don’t call me sweet.”

Ford didn’t miss a beat. “My sour Sherman,” he corrected himself.

Stan couldn’t help the way a bark of laughter tore out of him. He turned his head into his shoulder, trying to muffle it, but it wasn’t good enough. His brothers both looked at him, Ford with delight and Shermie with annoyance.

“Stop laughing and eat your oatmeal,” Shermie grumbled.

Stan didn’t argue with that—he really did want to eat. He grabbed the spoon again eagerly.

“Slowly!” Ford tutted as Stan began shovelling the food into his mouth. Ford sat down beside him, once again grasping his wrist to stop him. “Don’t eat too fast, you’ll make yourself sick. Take your time; no one is going to take it away from you. Chew slowly and wait a minute between bites.”

Stan didn’t want to wait. He wanted to eat now. He wanted the feeling of food inside him, of the heaviness of a full stomach. It had been so long since it had felt anything other than empty. It was rather frustrating to have his twin hovering right next to him, forcing him to slow down if he thought Stan was going too fast.

Once the bowl was finally empty, Stan stared at it sadly, then grabbed it and brought it to his face to lick the remnants out. He was still hungry. The portion size had been small, and Stan’s stomach howled for more.

“I see your table manners haven’t improved,” Shermie teased, snickering.

“Stanley!” Ford pulled the bowl from Stan’s hands.

Stan jolted back in surprise when his face was suddenly attacked with a napkin, Ford wiping at his cheeks and mouth. He let out a garbled noise of offence, batting Ford away. “Hey!”

“You made a mess, my silly baby brother.” Ford tossed the napkin back onto the tray, then pushed a small cup of tea into Stan’s hands. “Drink.”

Shermie’s face twisted in disgust. “Don’t treat him like that, Stanford, he’s a grown man. And he’s not your baby brother, he’s your twin. The only one who could call him baby brother if they wanted to is me.”

The look Ford levelled at Shermie was frosty. “I can call him that if I wish. I am, in fact, older than him.”

“By fifteen minutes. That doesn’t make you a big brother.”

Ford sighed with disappointment. “Must you object to everything I say? I am being very patient, Sherman. I’m aware this is all a big change for our family, and I’ve been giving you all grace by allowing you some time to adjust. But you argue with me on just about everything, and I’m warning you that the adjustment period doesn’t last forever. I won’t tolerate blatant disrespect in my own house.”

Stan went stiff. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ma do the same, her hands tensing like claws around her teacup. The tension between his brothers was palpable, and Stan felt a pit open in his stomach, replacing the hunger with worry. Ford wouldn’t treat Shermie like he had Doctor Yarrow, would he? Shermie was family. Ford wouldn’t hurt him, right?

Shermie’s face had flushed with anger. “Blatant disrespect?” he echoed disbelievingly. “Why, I—”

“Sherman.” Ma, who had been rather quiet the whole time, cut in sharply. But despite her tone, her eyes were pleading as she stared at her eldest. “Please.”

Shermie paused, eyeing Ma for a long moment. Then he scoffed, but the tension went out of his shoulders. Whatever he had been about to say he clearly held in, instead muttering, “If you’re going to insist on it, then why don’t you call me big brother in turn? If you make Stan call you that because you’re the older twin, then it’s only fair you call me that too.”

Stan looked to his twin, curious and wary as to how he would react to that. He had no idea how Ford would feel about the tables being flipped on him, especially not so soon after that near outburst.

But Ford didn’t look angry at all. He only tilted his head, expression and tone flat as he said, “Alright, big brother.”

Shermie visibly cringed and waved a hand as if he could smack the words away. “Actually, never mind, I don’t want to hear it. It’s just too weird. It was only cute when you were a kid.”

Ford’s eyes widened and he put on an exaggerated pout, leaning forward. “You don’t think I’m cute anymore, big brother?”

“Absolutely not.”

Ford laughed and slapped his knee. “Fair enough!”

Stan stared down at his tea, mind swirling. He’d thought Ford was mad. Ford had visibly been growing upset by what Shermie had said earlier, but now he was laughing? The bad mood was just gone? Or was the good mood an act? Stan couldn’t tell. The emotional whiplash was hard to keep up with; it made his head hurt.

Slender fingers tapped the side of his teacup, and Stan startled, looking to his right.

Ma gave him a strained smile. “It’s not going to disappear just by you staring at it. You have to actually drink it, you know.”

Stan took a sip to appease her. “I’m still hungry,” he complained.

“I know, Stanley, but you can’t have more food right now,” Ford spoke up from his other side. “We don’t want to overwhelm your body with too much at once. We’ll have to ease you back into regular meals, and I’ll be monitoring your blood biochemistry for the next week to make sure everything is going well.”

“Letting me starve tonight then, huh?” Stan made sure to put a joking tone to his words, not wanting to upset Ford or have him take them the wrong way. “You’re killing me. And all this after you said you didn’t want me dead.”

Ford chuckled. “Oh, you won’t die. I won’t ever let any of you die.”

“What? What does that mean?”

Ford just smiled.

Stan didn’t like that. “Ford? Ford, what does that mean?”

Ford pinched one of his cheeks. “Don’t worry your silly little head over it.”

Shermie scoffed loudly. “Talk to your brother with some respect, Stanford.”

“Why don’t you speak to me with some respect?” Ford shot back sharply.

Stan held in a groan. He thought they had successfully dodged this argument. He appreciated Shermie speaking up for him, it truly was nice to have someone in his corner. But he really, really just wished they wouldn’t fight right now. He was too tired to deal with that, and he got the feeling Ma felt the same. She had been so quiet since Ford returned, and it was unlike her.

Ma had always been chatty, talking a mile a minute about anything and everything. It was a trait Stan and—to some extent—Ford had picked up from her. The three of them had never been at a loss for conversation when they were together, filling the space with noise while Pa sat there silently. Sometimes he would be listening, sometimes half-listening, and other times ignoring them entirely. His stoic nature had never seemed to bother Ma, though.

At the thought of his pa, Stan leaned towards Ma, ignoring his brothers to quietly ask, “What happened with Pa? I know you wanted my help with funeral arrangements but then, uh, this whole thing happened. So what… Where did Pa…?”

“He’s here,” Ford answered, making Stan a bit annoyed with how he kept butting in when he wasn’t being spoken to. “I collected him as well, of course. The family should stay together.”

“Wh—?” Stan cringed away. “What do you mean you have him here?! Did you stuff his body or something? String it up like lights?”

“Don’t be crass, Stanley,” Ford scolded. “I would never do such a crude thing, you should know that.”

Stan only raised a brow in disbelief.

Ford lifted a hand, crooking his fingers in the direction of a large fireplace on the other side of the room, and an ornate urn on the mantlepiece rose into the air and floated towards them. Ford grabbed it when it was in reach, then carefully placed it in Stan’s hands, taking his now-empty teacup from him.

“Our father is right here.”

Stan stared down at the urn that apparently contained Pa’s ashes. The surface of it was so shiny he could see his distorted reflection in it. He stared into his own eyes, not knowing how to feel.

“He was cremated?” he mumbled.

“I wanted him buried,” Ma said bitterly. She scowled at the urn like it offended her. “He wanted to be buried, it was in his will.”

That’s what Stan had thought. Ma had mentioned something like that over the phone, what felt like a lifetime ago now. He set Pa’s urn down on the table as he asked, “So why was he—?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to leave him behind,” Ford said. “I went to the morgue where his body was being kept and I had him cremated so that he can always be with us.”

“I asked you to bury him for me.” Ma had a fire in her eyes now as she glared at Ford. “I was worried he wouldn’t get a burial because of weirdmageddon, and you told me you would take care of it.”

“And I did.” Ford sounded very self-assured.

“You lied to me!” Ma pointed an accusing finger at him. “You went against both our wishes and cremated your father! Now you won’t even lay him to rest, you keep him displayed on the mantle!”

Ford’s tone turned condescendingly patient as he said, “Mother dearest, you know I don’t like it when you speak to me that way.” He reached across Stan to gently grasp Ma’s hand, holding it despite how clearly she wanted to rip away from him. “I did what was best for our family. I recognize you feel upset about my decision, but just trust that I know what’s best. Pa did not deserve to be left behind and forgotten in the ground.”

“He wouldn’t have been forgotten!” Ma insisted, voice rising with dismay. “And now all you’ve done is dishonour his memory by disrespecting his last will, and I’m forced to be reminded of it every time I see that urn.”

Ford leaned further over, causing Stan to shrink himself back into the settee as far as possible while Ford reached up and cradled their ma’s face in his hands. Stan felt incredibly awkward, wishing he wasn’t trapped between the two of them as Ford stared Ma down with unnerving eyes.

“I need you to calm down, my dear,” Ford said, the words oozing with a sickening sweetness. His thumbs rubbed absent circles on Ma’s cheeks. “You’re getting yourself all worked up. You know I hate seeing you upset.”

“Well then maybe you shouldn’t do things to upset her,” Shermie hissed, jumping to his feet. “I just can’t stand listening to you talk to our family like this.” He grabbed Ford’s arm, yanking on it. “Get your hands off our mother and show her some actual respect!”

Ford was unmoved by Shermie’s attempts to pull him away, but his attention certainly slid from Ma to their brother. Stan felt his breath stick in his throat as Ford stood slowly, curling a hand into Shermie’s shirt collar and tugging so they were eye to eye.

This was going terribly. Stan’s hands shook, body frozen with indecision. How did things suddenly go downhill so fast? He’d just wanted to spend some time with his family for the first time in years. But the relief and joy of reuniting with them was being overwhelmed by the contention filling the room. He didn’t want to see them fight. He’d already witnessed what Ford was capable of with strangers; what would he do with family?

“Sherman,” Ford spoke quietly, his tone holding an undercurrent of darkness to it. “I am being. So. Patient. And I don’t think you’re appreciating that properly. But you should start to, because I’m reaching my limit for how much of your nagging I’m willing to put up with today. Either excuse yourself or mind your words, because if you speak to me like that one more time, I’m going to ban you from seeing Mother and Stanley for five days.”

Stan jolted. Ban Shermie from seeing them? Ford couldn’t do that! He had no right to do that! (How would he even do that?)

Wondering if he could try and de-escalate the situation, Stan stood and hesitantly reached for his twin. “Ford, you can’t—”

“Stanley Pines, you sit down right now!” Ford snapped at him.

It wasn’t a yell, but it was a near thing, and Stan felt his legs give out from under him, sending him back onto the settee. (Strange. Ford had startled him, but not enough to make him trip over himself like that. Why did he fall? His legs felt oddly weak.)

Ford looked irate, a muscle in his cheek jumping as he ground his teeth, glaring at his family. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do,” he hissed. “I’m the head of this family, and what I say goes. Do you all understand?”

He was met with silence.

“I said, do you understand?” Ford growled, his gaze darting between the three of them.

Stan didn’t want to agree, but he also didn’t want to see what would happen if he said no, so he simply nodded his head.

Ma’s eyes dropped to her empty teacup. Her mouth twisted as if she’d bitten a lemon, but she muttered out a quiet, “Yes.”

Ford turned back to Shermie, who was trembling minutely in his grasp. Stan wondered if it was from anger or fear—probably both. He watched his older brothers stare each other down, their noses inches apart. Shermie looked furious and ready to brawl, while Ford… Ford actually looked as though he was trying to reign his anger in. It still clearly showed on his face, but compared to the outburst Stan had seen during the medical exam, this was tame.

When Shermie remained silent for too long, Ford whispered, “Five days, Sherman. I could also add Judith and the boys to the ban list. You’d only be able to see me, and maybe I’ll even decide to keep you away from everyone until I think your attitude has improved. Should I do that?”

Shermie took a long, loud inhale through his nose, visibly trying to calm himself. “…I understand.”

Ford smiled, shark-like, and patted Shermie on the cheek. “Very good.”

He sat back down on the settee as if nothing had happened, and Stan unsubtly scooted further towards Ma, not wanting to be so close to Ford at the moment.

Shermie continued to stand there, his hands balled into fists, glaring off to the other side of the room.

“Sit down, Sherman,” Ford said, nonchalant as could be. “Or leave, if you wish. I’m sure Stanley’s feeling tired by now anyway, he probably won’t be awake for much longer.”

“What?” Stan furrowed his brows. He was certainly exhausted and had been for a while, but there was something odd about the way Ford had said that.

Ford turned to him, brows raised as if surprised. “Are you not sleepy yet?” He reached for Stan, and Stan pressed himself into Ma’s side to avoid him. “Maybe I didn’t give you a high enough dose.”

“So you did drug him?” Shermie accused, still stubbornly standing. “You said you only gave him supplements!”

“I said the pills were only nutritional supplements,” Ford corrected. “And they were. I didn’t lie about that.”

“But you… you’ve drugged me?” Stan asked incredulously.

For some reason he felt disbelief, even though he probably shouldn’t. He should have expected this from Ford, and he didn’t know why he was surprised. Sure, he hadn’t thought there was any reason for Ford to drug him. He didn’t understand why he did. But it still shouldn’t surprise him.

And now that some of the tension and worry of the potential fight had faded, Stan realized that he did actually feel rather tired. Not that he hadn’t felt that way since before he’d even been captured by Rico, but this was more insistent. This was a sleepiness that tugged at his eyelids, made his body feel heavy and his mind sluggish.

Ford patted Stan’s knee, giving Stan what he likely thought was a reassuring smile. “I put a mild sedative in your tea. Nothing harmful, of course, a very low dose. Just to help promote calm and relaxation. I’ve seen how stressed you’ve been all day—what with having multiple fits—and I wanted to make sure your anxiety doesn’t get in the way of you getting a good, restful sleep tonight. You need to recover, after all.”

Stan’s alarm must have shown on his face, as Ma set her teacup aside and wrapped her arms around him. He easily leaned into her, practically snuggling into her as her hand gently rubbed his back.

“It’s alright, hun,” she murmured into his ear. “Stanford used to give me the same for the first week I was here. It’s safe, there’s no side effects from it.”

Stan wasn’t really worried about side effects so much as the fact that his brother had once again drugged him without his knowledge. But he knew Ma couldn’t really say much about that with Ford right there, and he appreciated her comfort regardless. Her arms felt so warm and welcoming. Stan hadn’t fallen asleep in them since he was a young child, and yet they were still familiar to him. He supposed that was only natural though, as hers were the first arms to ever love and cradle him.

She coaxed his head down onto her shoulder, and his eyes closed in contentment. And once they were closed, Stan found he had a hard time opening them again. He could still hear what was going on around him, but it was growing harder to care when Ma’s fingers carded through his hair tenderly. He heard Shermie’s voice, then Ford’s, but neither were yelling, so Stan felt no need to try and focus on what was being said.

Nothing was alright (his back hurt), but for this brief moment in time, Stan was safe in his ma’s arms. He found it easy to drift off like that. Easy to believe the lie that nothing bad could happen to him as long as she was holding him.

Chapter Text

Stan woke up feeling way better than he expected. He still felt rather like garbage, but less so than he had since before the apocalypse had started. A weird but nice change of pace. He shifted lazily in the—he was in a bed?

Brown eyes popped open and Stan looked around the room. Yes, he was in a bed. His bed apparently, in the room Ford had given him. In the hat on top of the pyramid, where he was now trapped with the rest of his family. Right. Couldn’t forget that.

“Oh? Are you awake for real this time?”

Stan turned his head to the side. Ford sat in a chair next to the bed, a book on his lap that he closed as soon as their eyes met.

“Seems you are.” Ford leaned forward. “Good morning, little brother. You’ve been asleep for about thirty-six hours now. How are you feeling?”

Stan just stared at him. Thirty-six hours? There was no way.

He pushed himself upright, his brows furrowing at an odd tugging sensation in his arm. He pulled the arm up, eyes catching on a tube attached to it that led to a metal stand which held bags of—

The moment Stan’s brain registered it as an IV, he was ripping at the medical tape on his arm to try and get the needle out.

“Do not!” Ford jumped forward with a shout, making Stan flinch back reflexively. Ford’s grip was firm but gentle as he grabbed Stan’s wrists, stopping him. “Leave it alone, Stanley.”

“Get it out of me!” Stan struggled futilely. “I don’t want it!”

“Calm yourself,” Ford said soothingly, pinning Stan’s arms down to the bed. “I’ll take it out now that you’re awake, but I need you to cooperate with me, okay?”

As if Stan had much of a choice. He couldn’t even escape his brother’s grip. He forced himself to go lax, nodding curtly.

Ford slowly released Stan’s arms. “Good. Now just stay still and I’ll remove it.”

Stan glared at the bags hanging from the stand as Ford worked. Who knew what was in those—what was now in Stan—and how long he’d been hooked up to them for.

“Why did you stick me on an IV?” he grumbled.

“To help with your recovery,” Ford said, as if that was a good enough explanation. “I had a feeling you would crash out for a while, considering how far you’ve been pushing your body’s limits the past few weeks.”

“You just kept me drugged so I’d keep sleeping, didn’t you?” Stan accused, absently rubbing where the needle had been.

Ford gently smacked his hand away and placed a bandaid over the spot. “No. I didn’t give you any further sedatives beyond the one in your tea. Your body simply needed the rest. You didn’t sleep straight through the entire thirty-six hours either. I roused you a few times to eat and relieve yourself. You were pretty out of it even when awake, but surely you remember something about it?”

Stan paused, eyes squinting in thought as he wracked his somewhat foggy mind for any memory of what Ford was talking about. There wasn’t anything clear, but he recalled vague impressions. The sensation of arms pulling him upright; of being propped against a warm body and spoon-fed hot soup. He remembered hands in his hair and a deep voice in his ear, but not what was said. The hands that had held him had felt like home in a way nothing else had in a very long time.

Stan also recalled smaller hands; thinner ones with longer nails that held his own. A woman’s voice—his ma, he knew it had to have been her—singing to him quietly, in a way that had felt nostalgic and familiar. He recalled her comforting touch on his cheek, her fussing with the blankets and pillows around him. Her voice speaking with the deeper one that must have been Ford.

“Ma was here?” Stan asked, looking around as if she might still be in the room.

“Yes, she kept a vigil by your bedside a few times.” Ford propped some pillows up behind Stan’s back, then slid a tray of food onto his lap, sitting down on the bed next to Stan’s legs. He picked up a medicine cup filled with various pills and shook it coaxingly. “Take these before you eat.”

“More vitamins?” Stan guessed sarcastically.

“No, I gave you all the supplements you needed for the day through your IV.”

Stan didn’t like that, and now he was definitely suspicious of the pills Ford was trying to give him. “So what are these then?”

“Just some medications you require. I had the chance to look over all your tests more thoroughly and follow up with Doctor Yarrow. You have some medical conditions we’re concerned about and the potential to develop another, so you’ll be on a few different medications for a while.”

Super vague. Stan didn’t trust that. “What medical conditions? What exactly are each of these pills and what are they supposed to do?”

Ford just smiled. “You don’t have to worry about any of that. Big brother has it all taken care of. Just take your medication and eat your lunch.”

Stan scowled. “No! You’ve already drugged me twice. You think I’m just going to let you trick me again? Why would I take anything you give me.”

Ford’s smile became more a gritting of teeth. “Because it’s for your own good. I would never give you something harmful. I'm looking out for your best interests and taking the responsibility for your health so that you don’t have to worry about it. All you have to do is trust me.”

He laid a hand over one of Stan’s with those last words, and Stan felt half-tempted to flip the tray of food over onto his brother. He only didn’t because he really was hungry. Not because he was worried Ford would be angry or something. Nope. Of course not.

“You’ve given me like zero reasons to trust you!” Stan started counting on his fingers. “You captured me, drugged me, put that tracker in me, drugged me again. None of that inspires trust.”

Ford had the audacity to look amused. “That’s a funny way of saying I saved you, cleaned you up, had your health assessed, and took measures to make sure you stay safe and healthy. But alright.”

“That’s not—!” Stan sputtered. Maybe, by technicality, Ford had done those things. In a way. “Y-You’re twisting it around to make yourself look good!”

“Sure. If that’s the belief you need to hold in order to take your medicine.” Ford held the medicine cup out insistently.

Stan crossed his arms. “I’m not taking them.”

Ford sighed heavily, as if Stan were some stubborn child. His voice went stern as he said, “I don’t want to force these down your throat, Stanley. You wouldn’t enjoy that and frankly neither would I.”

And Stan couldn’t even say he wouldn’t do it, because he knew Ford would.

“I didn’t think you’d be so grumpy after sleeping for so long.” Ford’s eyes held a warning as he rattled the pills in the cup. “Last chance. Make this easy on yourself.”

Stan snatched the cup with a glare. If it was going to happen anyway then he might as well keep as much control over the situation as he could. He down the pills with some water, throwing the empty medicine cup back at Ford after.

Ford let it bounce off his shoulder, unperturbed. He beamed at Stan. “Good boy.”

“I’m not a dog,” Stan grumbled as he began eagerly working on the food Ford had brought him. Sure, it could potentially be drugged too, but he was so hungry he was willing to chance it.

“Of course not. You’re my darling baby brother. You’re worth so much more to me than a mere dog.”

“What a compliment,” Stan muttered around his food.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s impolite.”

Stan made sure to chew his next bite open-mouthed, letting the food mash noisily between his teeth just to piss his brother off.

Ford grimaced. “Disgusting. I know Ma taught you better manners than that.”

“Yeah.” Stan snorted. “Better manners like my foot up your—”

“Stanley,” Ford snapped warningly.

Stan’s hand stuttered on bringing his next forkful of food up, but after a pause he continued eating, eyes firmly on the tray.

He heard a sigh, and Ford shifted on the bed. “After you’re finished, pick out some clothes and go take a bath. You need to freshen up.”

“What? You don’t plan to follow me into the bathroom this time?” Stan asked, voice edging on snarky but just subdued enough to not set Ford off.

“I only assisted you last time because you were weak and tired. I assume you have enough energy right now to do it yourself.” Ford hesitated. “…Unless you want my help?”

“No!” Stan said quickly, finishing up his lunch.

“Alright. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Ford took the tray from him and stood. “Do take a bath though, not a shower. You’re still recovering and the last thing you need is a fall.”

“Whatever.” Stan kind to wanted to argue on principle, but he did want to take a bath. It had been a long time since he’d had the luxury to sit and soak in a big tub like that and he wanted to take advantage.

He crawled out of the large bed, ignoring Ford’s hands that hovered around him as if he were going to faint just from being upright. Sure, he did feel a little lightheaded once he stood, but it passed quickly, and Stan could handle himself. He brushed past his brother to the dressing room, slamming the door shut between them and listening with satisfaction to the offended noise Ford made.

It took him a while to pick something out, mainly because he’d forgotten just how much stuff Ford had given him. There were so many clothes, and it took Stan a minute to remember what was where. Once he had an outfit, he debated on whether to go straight into the bathroom from the dressing room, or to poke his head back into the bedroom so Ford would be less likely to disturb him. He could easily picture his clingy twin barging in because he thought Stan was taking too long and got worried. Better to cut off the possibility of that happening so he could enjoy his bath in peace.

But as he went to go back, a second voice coming from the bedroom made him freeze with his hand on the door handle. A voice that he unfortunately recognized. With a scowl, Stan threw the door open.

He pointed at the offending triangle. “What is HE doing here?”

Bill’s eye slanted angrily. “I could ask you the same thing!”

“This is my room!”

“Well, this is my fearamid!”

“Well, th—”

“Enough, Stanley,” Ford cut him off. “I believe I asked you to make an effort to get along with Bill.”

Stan crossed his arms and grumbled, “I never agreed.”

Ford levelled him with a look of disappointment. “Alright. Then I’m telling you to get along with him.”

“Here I am doing you favours and being shown no appreciation in return.” Bill somehow sniffled without a nose, and theatrical tears dripped from his eye. Except instead of going down, the tears floated upward, turning into large, shiny bubbles that began floating around Stan’s room.

Kind of gross. Stan hoped there was nothing weird in those.

“Somehow I doubt you’d do a favour for me,” he said sceptically.

The waterworks disappeared immediately. “Oh, I’m not.” One of Bill’s arms extended and wrapped around Ford, tugging Ford close to him. “I’m doing it for your twinsie! Because that’s apparently what friends do!”

Ford smiled warmly, laying a hand over Bill’s. “And I appreciate it, Bill. You know I’d do it myself, but considering my circumstances…”

“Yeah, yeah. You’d rather watch your twin sleep for thirty-six hours.”

Stan was not surprised to hear that, but it was still weird knowing Ford had probably stared at him like a creep the whole time he was out. And Ford would probably excuse it as having been “necessary” to “keep an eye on his recovery” if he asked.

“Meanwhile, I’ve been getting into arts and crafts.”

Okay, Stan was surprised to hear that. Bill? Arts and crafts? He wondered if Bill’s version of it included bones and viscera.

“On that note!” Bill drew away, and a spotlight came out of nowhere and illuminated him. He held out empty hands. “Tada! I made you a friendship bracelet, Fordsy. I heard that’s what you humans do.”

Something suddenly materialized in Bill’s hands that could, by a stretch, count as a bracelet. Stan thought there were far too many teeth on it. His guess of bloody arts and crafts may have been too on the nose.

Ford laughed. “Bill, it’s hideous.” He sounded weirdly delighted about it, taking the bracelet from Bill with eager hands.

“I know! Isn’t it great?” Bill’s eye arched up like a smile. “You’ll have to make me a matching one later so everyone knows we’re besties.”

“I’ll make you one with some of my old baby teeth,” Ford promised.

Stan did a double-take at that. Ford’s old baby teeth? Where would he get—?

Bill’s form pulsed a pleased orangey-pink colour, practically emitting sparkles. Stan had never seen him look so happy. It seemed like teeth really excited the guy.

“Yes!” Bill cheered. “No take-backsies! It’s the least I deserve for all I’ve done for you!”

“Of course, my dear muse. I’ve never had a friend like you before. You’ve been so good to me.” Ford slipped Bill’s bracelet on, admiring it.

Bill puffed up and unnecessarily straightened his bowtie. “Well, I AM the best. Of course I’d ace this friendship thing.”

Privately, Stan wondered how much of their “friendship” was just the two of them inflating each other’s egos.

Bill reached up and pulled a handkerchief out from under his top hat. “And I know you’ll miss me terribly, so feel free to cry into this while I’m gone.” He threw the handkerchief at Ford, twirled his cane in the air, and shouted, “See ya!”

Bill disappeared on the spot in an explosion of sparks that then whizzed around the room, popping all the weird tear-bubbles.

It was very abrupt, and Stan was left reeling and confused by the whole interaction. But whatever, at least Bill was gone now. He was left with so many questions though. What was this apparent favour? Why couldn’t Ford do it himself? Why did he have to invite Bill over? Why couldn’t Bill just stay away from them all forever, thanks?

The only thing that ended up coming out of Stan’s mouth was, “You have your baby teeth?”

Ford glanced up from where he was carefully folding and pocketing the handkerchief. “Yes, of course?”

“Don’t say it like you’re confused why I would ask such a thing! Why do you have them? That’s weird?”

Ford looked at him like Stan was the crazy one. “They’re just teeth, it’s not that weird. I have your baby teeth too, you know.”

Stan felt like his whole brain stuttered. “What?”

“I have all of your baby teeth—well, most of them. I saved them.”

“…What?” He understood the words Ford was saying, but he was still trying to comprehend them. What did he mean he had Stan’s baby teeth? Where did he even get them?!

“Remember when we were little and we’d try to set traps for the tooth fairy, but we’d always fall asleep?” Ford said. “Well, one night I managed to stay awake and saw Ma come into our room, take the tooth we had hidden under the pillows and replace it with a penny.”

Of course, Stan knew the tooth fairy wasn’t real. He’d figured it out as they’d gotten older that it had been their ma doing it. But he wasn’t sure why Ford was bringing it up.

Ford continued, “I admit as a child I was rather disappointed to discover that the tooth fairy was just our mother. But then I realized that meant she had collected our teeth, so I snuck into our parents’ room one day to look for them. I found them in her jewelry box and I took them.”

Stan didn’t get it. “Why?”

Ford shrugged. “I wanted them.”

“But why? I know you always liked collecting things. Rocks and moths and shells and bottle caps and whatever, but our teeth?” Stan couldn't help the way his voice rose in bewilderment. “Our baby teeth?”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Yes. Why are you being so dramatic about it? Acting like it’s weird.”

“Because it is weird!” Stan practically yelled.

“Oh, but it’s not weird that Ma had been collecting them in her jewelry box?” Ford huffed, crossing his arms.

“That’s—! That’s different!” Stan insisted. “She’s our mother!”

“And I’m your brother! Why is it weird when I do it but not her? I don’t appreciate the double-standard.”

This was going nowhere. Stan wasn’t sure how to make his brother understand. (Sometimes he wondered if Ford was even capable of understanding. If there was something wrong with him that prevented him from understanding. Or if he simply chose to refuse to understand. Stan wasn’t sure which one was worse.)

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” he said. “You’re not normal.”

Ford snorted dismissively. “Who gets to decide what normal is anyway? Why should I have to change myself to fit other people’s standards and definitions? Bill showed me how much better it is to just be myself. And now…” Ford’s face split into a manic looking grin as he spread his arms out. “Now that we have taken over, we can reshape the world however we want. Make it our image of ‘normal’.”

Stan grimaced. “So Bill did this to you.”

He wished that were true. He wanted that to be true. Wanted to place all the blame on Bill. Wanted so desperately to be able to excuse Ford as having been manipulated. (He knew he couldn’t.)

“We’ve been over this, Stanley. All Bill has done is help me. Enlighten me. I spent my whole life before him trying to fit in, hiding under a mask of ‘normal’. Bill was the first being to accept me for who I am; who encouraged me to stop trying to be someone I’m not. He freed me from society’s constraints.”

Stan didn’t know what to say. (He didn’t want to accept that as truth. He didn’t want to believe that Ford had always been like this from the start and had just been hiding it. He knew Ford had always been different. He knew Ford had always had something off about him. But not like this. Never like this.) He still believed that Bill had done something to Ford, and Ford just didn’t realize it.

“…I’m gonna take a bath,” he muttered, turning away from Ford.

Ford’s tone lightened, his whole demeanour changing. “Ah, yes, you should get on that. Bill should have the hairstylist here by the time you’re finished.”

Stan looked back, clutching the clothes he was holding tighter. “The what?”

“Hairstylist,” Ford repeated, heading to Stan’s bed and beginning to straighten the sheets and blankets. “Now that you’re up, I asked Bill to bring the hairstylist in. I’ve had her here before to do Ma’s hair and my own. I’m sure you’ll like her.”

“Another appointment? I just woke up!” Stan was aware he sounded a little like he was whining, but he really didn’t want to put up with more “appointments” so soon. Not after the disaster with Doctor Yarrow.

“Oh, come now, it’s just a haircut. I thought you might appreciate looking a little less ragged. Even if you want to keep it long, you at least need a trim.”

“And let me guess, I have to ‘be good’ or else?” Stan made air quotes as he spoke, bitterness seeping through the words.

“Well I should hope you’d want to set a good example for our nephews by behaving,” Ford said, fluffing Stan’s pillows.

Stan frowned. “What do our nephews have to do with it?”

“Judith mentioned the other week that she wanted to have their hair cut soon, so she and the boys will be there as well.” Bed done with, Ford walked over to Stan and began shooing him towards the bathroom. “Now stop dawdling and take your bath.”

“Yes, Ma,” Stan grumbled sarcastically.

He wasn’t sure if having more family there would make the appointment worse or better. It could either mellow Ford out some or key him up more, and Stan had no way to predict how it would go.

As it turned out: not so bad. Judith had sneakily gotten the kids to distract Ford, preventing him from practically breathing down the poor stylist’s neck while she cut Stan’s hair. Their innocent nature and good moods had put Ford in a good mood, attentively listening to whatever they had to say. Alex had been more calm, but David had an insatiable curiosity, asking Ford dozens of questions, all of which had been answered with a surprising patience.

The whole thing had gone far more smoothly than Stan had expected, and now he was staring at himself in the mirror of some random room, having slipped away after his haircut while Ford was still distracted with Judith and the kids. He was sure his brother would hunt him down soon enough and give him an earful about “wandering off” or something, but that was future Stan’s problem. Current Stan wanted to explore the new gilded cage he was trapped in.

The place was huge. The entire hat-shaped section above the pyramid was their “house”, and there were so many rooms and halls and stairs. There was even an elevator, the likes of which revealed buttons to ten different floor levels. The place was crazy big and at this point Stan was rather lost, but whatever. He had no particular place to be at the moment anyway.

Curiously, he tugged on one of his curls, watching it bounce back into place when he released it. It had been a little strange to see at first; he hadn’t even remembered his hair could get this curly. The stylist had talked a lot about curl patterns and proper care routines for his hair. She had recommended a list of products that Stan knew he probably wouldn’t bother to use, but was certain would show up in his bathroom in the next few days anyway.

He’d kept his hair long like he’d wanted, but the stylist had cleaned up his look and practically worked magic. Stan’s hair had looked horrible the last few weeks—living in the apocalypse would do that to a person. But now it was freshly trimmed and whatever various goops she had put in his hair made it look healthy and glossy. It made it easier to look at himself in the mirror and not immediately grimace at his own reflection.

Sighing, Stan walked out of the room and wandered down the hall to continue exploring. So far he’d found multiple sitting rooms, an entire gym full of various equipment (and even a boxing ring that had made Stan’s heart beat with excitement and nostalgia), a ballroom for some reason (Stan doubted Ford would ever invite people over to visit, let alone party, so what was the point of having one?), and a kid’s playroom with an entire indoor jungle-gym. He’d also found various bathrooms, closets with cleaning supplies, and a few smaller rooms that were completely empty of anything.

And he hadn’t even gotten through half of the floors yet, there was just so much. It almost seemed like a waste on such a small family as theirs, yet another part of Stan greedily enjoyed it all. It was all theirs (his). He didn’t have to fight for it, didn’t have to steal for it, didn’t have to swindle for it. Everything he’d seen looked like it cost a fortune, and knowing it was his made him feel wealthy. (He tried to ignore for a moment the fact that he was trapped there. Of what had happened to the world that resulted in Stan having all this.)

As he rounded a bend in the hallway, a familiar and expected voice called out to him from behind. It seemed Ford had finally found him. Stan sighed in annoyance and sped up, pretending he hadn’t heard. He smothered the tiny part of himself that missed his brother and wanted to wait for him. They hadn’t even been apart that long, Stan didn’t understand why he missed Ford whenever he left. (Yes, he did. He’d always missed Ford.) He shouldn’t miss Ford. Why did he miss him? He was upset with Ford and it didn’t make sense that he missed him to any degree.

Ford’s footsteps picked up the pace behind him. “Stanley Pines! Don’t you ignore me!”

Oooh, last name use. Stan winced and glanced behind him warily. Ford didn’t actually look angry though, which was a relief. He just seemed mildly frustrated.

“You’re going to burn all your energy going at that pace, and then I’ll have to carry you around again because you’ll be too tired,” Ford called out. “Is that what you want?”

Ugh, no. Stan reluctantly slowed down, because Ford wasn’t actually wrong. He was slowly getting tired—physically anyway. He’d been surviving the apocalypse through adrenaline and spite, and now that he’d finally crashed once he could feel the repercussions the last few weeks had had on his body. Or maybe he’d always felt it and had just ignored it because he couldn’t afford to dwell on it. He hadn’t been safe. (Did that mean he felt safe now? He couldn’t be, right? Ford wasn’t safe.)

(…Wasn’t he?)

Ford caught up to him with a huff. “Honestly, Stanley. If you’d wanted to look around you could have just told me. I would have given you a tour.”

Stan shrugged, not wanting to tell Ford he’d just wanted some space from him. He didn’t think Ford would take that well. “Didn’t think you’d let me.”

“Not let you what?” Ford’s brows rose. “Explore your own home? You’re free to go wherever you’d like up here, it’s perfectly safe. There’s nothing in our home that can harm you.”

And no way out, Stanley mentally added.

“Then why don’t you just leave me to it? If it’s so safe then you don’t need to hover over me.”

Ford sniffed disapprovingly. “You’re still recovering, and I know you have a tendency to push yourself and no good sense of when to stop. I don’t want you wandering around on your own until you’re stronger.”

The constant monitoring was already old. “You’re so overbearing,” Stan grumbled.

“I love you too, Stanley,” Ford said sarcastically. “You always say such nice things about me.”

“Really? Well let me say a few more.” Stan cleared his throat, trying to think of some things he could say to piss his brother off without toeing over the line. Ford hated being directly insulted, and Stan didn’t want to set off his rage right now.

He didn’t even get the chance to try though, as the moment he opened his mouth again, Ford’s hand came up under his chin and shut it.

“Don’t go pushing your luck,” he warned, wagging a finger in Stan’s face. “You know better.”

Stan smacked the offending hand away. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

“Then don’t act like one.” Ford reached up and pinched Stan’s ear the way their ma did to them when they were in trouble as kids.

Stan yelped and jerked away, rubbing his ear when Ford let go. He glowered at his brother.

Ford chuckled at his reaction. “Oh, don’t pout. I’m giving you a grace period just like the rest of the family, but you will learn to behave. And I expect you to do so at all your appointments.”

Stan stomped off down the hallway with an aggravated groan. “How many more appointments can there even be?”

He knew about the surgery (he was trying not to think about it), but that wouldn’t actually happen. Stan would find a way to put a stop to that. (He doubted he could.) What else could he possibly be dragged to?

Ford trailed along after him. “Well, for one, there’s the dental appointment you have in a few day’s time. The facial and massage I booked for you tomorrow—”

“The what?” Stan said incredulously.

Facial? Massage? Like the kinds people got at those fancy spas? Stan had never done anything like that in his life.

“Of course, you don’t have to undress for the massage if you don’t want to. The masseuse will work with your comfort level.”

Ford clearly did not understand what Stan had initially been shocked about, but he brought up a good point. Stan certainly didn’t want to lay nearly naked on a table while a stranger touched his body. No thanks. These days he barely even wanted to touch his own body, and he’d definitely had enough of strangers touching him when he didn’t want them to.

His discomfort must have shown clearly, as Ford’s head tilted to the side, gaze considerate for a long moment. “You don’t have to at all if you really don’t want to,” he said. “You can refuse the massage entirely if you’d rather. But the option is open. You’ve had such a hard time these past years; you deserve to be pampered a bit.”

“I’ll… consider it,” Stan replied.

The concept of getting a massage sounded really nice. The idea of being pampered sounded nice. The idea of having money to blow on expensive spa treatments just for the enjoyment of it sounded nice. Stan just didn’t know if he could handle being touched like that by a stranger. It was exposing. It was vulnerable. It wasn’t safe.

…Would it be safe if Ford was there? Ford wouldn’t allow anyone to harm Stan. If he kept watch then Stan would be safe, right?

No, no. Ford wasn’t safe. He couldn’t forget that. Ford wasn’t safe. (His back hurt.) Ford captured and drugged him and was holding him against his will. (Ford had also killed two men just for shoving Stan. Ford would never let anyone outside the family touch Stan if Stan didn’t want them to. Ford wasn’t safe, but Ford would also protect him in that respect.)

“I’ll consider it,” Stan repeated.

“Of course. There’s no pressure.” Ford placed a hand on his back and directed him towards the elevator. “Now come, there’s lots left to see. Let me show you around the next floor and then we’ll take a break.”

Chapter Text

“Make a list for me,” Ford said.

It had been a week since Stan had been “rescued” by his brother, and he was still settling into the new place he’d been trapped in. He’d had appointments what felt like almost everyday, for things like a hearing aid, glasses he didn’t like wearing, skincare and massage therapy, and a dentist from the same dimension Doctor Yarrow had been from.

(“We’ll schedule to have his teeth fixed at the same time he’s getting everything else done,” Ford had said after the dentist had informed them Stan would need dental surgery. “That way he doesn’t have to worry about multiple surgeries. We’ll get it all done at once.”

“As you wish,” the dentist had agreed nervously. “Our hospitals are equipped to handle it.”

“Of course they are. Your dimension is the most advanced in medical technology, there’s a reason I chose it.”

“Of course, of course.” The dentist’s hands trembled slightly. “I’ll coordinate the dental work that needs doing with the other surgeons. He’ll have a perfect smile when we’re done.”

“No,” Ford had said sternly, startling both Stan and the dentist. “Not perfect. Don’t touch the gap between his front teeth.”

“S-Sir?”

“I know it’s an easy fix, being such a slight gap. But Stan has had it since his big boy teeth grew in. It’s an endearing characteristic and I want to keep it on him.”

Stan scowled. Ford didn’t even ask if he wanted it fixed or not, just decided for him. Typical.

The dentist nodded. “Very well, Sir.”)

Stan blinked his groggy eyes open, taking in the sight of Ford leaning over the bed above him. “Wha—?”

“Come now, Stanley, it’s time to get up. Today you can make a list for me of all the things you dislike about your appearance and want me to have fixed for you during your surgery.”

Stan turned on his side away from his brother, curling up with a dismissive grunt. A second later the blanket was ripped off of him.

“Up, up.” Ford poked him. “We have things to do today.”

A twitch started up in Stan’s left eye. He hadn’t been sleeping very well the past few nights. (He was afraid he’d wake up in a hospital bed, having been tricked and taken into surgery without his knowledge.) Without any sort of substance to assist him with falling asleep, Stan’s mind plagued him with worries and questions while he lay in bed.

Internal debates consumed him, where part of him condemned Ford while another part of him defended his brother. Constantly cycling around the fact that despite everything he still loved Ford, and he hated himself for loving Ford, because how could he love someone who did all that Ford had done? What does that say about him?

Needless to say, Stan was not in a good mood. He was tired, and he was sick of all the appointments and activities Ford had been dragging him to everyday. He just wanted to lay in bed and wallow and do nothing. Maybe feel a bit sorry for himself. Maybe throw a little pity party. He felt like he deserved it after putting up with his brother.

He could feel his irritation building as Ford bustled around his room, chattering on about things Stan was tuning out. He shoved his pillow over his head with a groan, wishing Ford would just go away. It didn’t happen, of course. Ford just came back over to poke at Stan some more, trying to coax him out of bed. When Stan refused to respond, Ford grabbed the pillow and wrestled it away from him.

Stan had had enough. He rolled over with an angry grumble, got to his feet, and impulsively decked Ford in the face. Which had little effect other than making Ford blink rapidly, clearly taken aback.

“Violence so early in the morning?” he asked incredulously.

“You—!” Stan sputtered, feeling furious for reasons he couldn’t fully parse at the moment. (His back hurt.) “You! I’ve had enough of you and your—your evilness!”

It really was too early for all this. Stan didn’t know why his brain had decided that now was the time to express how fed up he was with Ford, but it was happening.

Ford covered his mouth with a hand, trying to hide a laugh. A snort escaped him anyway. “My evilness?”

He was laughing about it. How dare he! After he’d captured Stan, betrayed him, forced him to go through so much, caused the apocalypse that Stan had fought to survive in. After he’d kept their family chipped and trapped and made to play his weird game of house. Now he was laughing about it?!

Stan’s fist went flying out again, but this time Ford caught it.

“Calm down, Stanley.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Stan yelled loudly. “I’m sick of you telling me what to do!”

He swung with his other fist, and Ford caught that one too. He pushed Stan backwards lightly, making him tumble down onto his bed with a little bounce. It didn’t hurt, and it only made Stan more angry that Ford wasn’t bothering to fight back.

“You have so much excess energy this morning. I figured this would happen at some point.” Ford observed him thoughtfully, then stepped back and spread his arms out wide. “Alright then, get that restlessness out.”

Stan stared dumbly until Ford crooked his fingers in a beckoning motion, then he leapt up and all but flew at his brother. If he was getting a free pass to hit Ford then he wasn’t going to decline. Ford didn’t let Shermie hit him, so it was surprising that Stan was being allowing to do so—especially considering the various spiels about “respect” Ford had gone on about. But whatever. Stan didn’t care about Ford’s reasons for allowing it; he only cared about landing a good left hook in Ford’s smug face.

It didn’t do much. Ford’s head barely tilted from the impact, his expression unchanged.

Annoying.

Ford grabbed Stan under the arms and gently tossed him onto the bed again.

“You know better than to leave yourself open like that,” he chided. “Keep your guard up!”

“Shut up!” Stan yelled, bouncing to his feet and bull-rushing his brother. “I don’t need your ‘advice’!”

He went for Ford’s middle, landing a few rapid hits to the solar plexus, trying to knock the wind out of Ford.

As soon as he was done, Ford grabbed him under the arms and gently tossed him onto the bed.

Stan rolled back to his feet with fury. Ford was playing with him. There was a glint to his eyes and a curve to his lips that betrayed his amusement at Stan’s efforts. He was treating this like a game. The same way he treated everything else. Like Stan and the family were toys he could play with, and not people with their own agency.

“Take me seriously!” Stan shouted, lunging for his brother with his hands outstretched, intent on simply trying to strangle him in frustration.

Ford grabbed him by the arms and swung him in a circle, then gently tossed him onto the bed. “You don’t want me to take you seriously. Trust me.”

Stan bounced up and tried to tackle Ford to the floor.

Ford let it happen, playfully rolling around on the floor with Stan, wrestling him. Stan fought furiously, dead set on trying to do some sort of damage to Ford—or at least wipe the smile off his face—but he was easily overpowered and pinned down.

Then Ford went and sat on Stan, the absolute jerk.

“Get off!”

“I will once you calm down.”

Stan flailed his limbs, but Ford was sitting on his back and it did him no good. He cursed his brother out, just barely holding back from slinging insults at Ford—though maybe he should. Maybe angry Ford would be more tolerable for his pride than amused Ford. Maybe angry Ford would take him seriously.

Ford leaned over to catch his eye. “Do you have something to say, Stanley?”

“You don’t even want to know the kind of things I want to say to you,” Stan grumbled. If Ford was expecting him to cry uncle then he could shove it.

“Oh? Do enlighten me.”

“You piss me off, you smug, insufferable—”

Ford shifted so he was practically lounging atop Stan, squashing him down further.

Stan grunted, energy slowly running out as he wriggled uselessly to try and dislodge Ford from his back. It didn’t work, of course, and eventually he slumped in defeat against the floor.

“I hate you,” he said tiredly, voice muffled in the large rug that splayed out from under his bed.

“You might wish you were able to,” Ford responded, far too cheerfully for the situation.

And he was right, unfortunately. Stan couldn’t hate his brother, no matter what had happened. He was upset with Ford, felt betrayed by Ford, but the hurt inside him simply refused to evolve into hatred. He loved Ford to his own detriment.

Ford rolled off of him when it was clear Stan had given up, grabbing Stan under the arms and easily hoisting him to his feet. He patted invisible dust off Stan’s shoulders with a smile.

“There. All better now.”

Stan glowered silently.

Ford’s smile remained unchanged. “Is something still the matter?”

Everything was still the matter. It wasn’t as if Stan’s failed attempt at a fight had fixed anything. There was no “all better”. Ford was entirely unapologetic about everything he’d put Stan and their family through, and it grated on Stan. Ford could at least show some remorse or understanding for the things he’d done, but it seemed like he had no ability to.

Stan crossed his arms. “I want you to say sorry.”

“For what?” Ford had the audacity to look genuinely confused, nose crinkling.

“For everything,” Stan said. He wasn’t going to list every incident. Ford should know.

Ford’s expression was skeptical, like he didn’t get it, but then he pursed his lips considerately and softened his features. “I’m sorry.”

It was clearly an act, and that fact burned. “No, you’re not.”

“I thought you wanted me to say it?”

“I want you to mean it.”

Ford scoffed lightly. “You’re so difficult to please. It’s a good thing I love you, hm?”

Stan scowled harder. “How can you love me and not be sorry for what you’ve done to me?”

“What I’ve done is what’s best for you,” Ford insisted. “But I am sorry that you don’t feel that way. I am sorry you’ve been having such a rough time adjusting. I am sorry that you can’t yet see that I have your best interests in mind. But that’s alright.”

Stan balled his hands into fists and grit his teeth, but Ford just playfully pat his cheek.

“One day you’ll realize. One day you’ll learn to accept my care and the decisions I make for you. But until then just know that I’ll always love you.”

Stan felt a pang of… sadness? “I don’t know if what you feel is love. I don’t know if you’re capable of that.”

Indignation crossed Ford’s face. “Just because my love isn’t the same as what other people experience doesn’t mean it isn’t real. You can’t tell me what I feel isn’t true.”

“Your actions don’t really show that it’s true,” Stan grumbled.

“What do you mean?” Ford sounded exasperated, crossing his arms. “I tell you I love you all the time! Look at everything I’ve given you! Everything I’ve done for our family!”

“And look at what you’ve done in the process!” Stan retorted, voice rising to match Ford’s. “Look at the world you’ve destroyed! The lives and society you’ve taken away! You think that makes us happy? You think we feel loved, trapped up here under your control?”

Ford snarled, “You should! I know what’s best for you! I saved you!”

“Saved us from a problem you caused in the first place!” Stan accused. “And you have no remorse for it. You even intend to keep making things worse, with that lofty ambition of a multiverse empire or whatever. You think we approve of that?!”

“I don’t care what you approve of,” Ford hissed back coldly. “I don’t need you to approve anything. All of you are mine, and I can do what I want.”

The statement of ownership sent a fresh burst of anger through Stan, and he whipped out his fist once more. But this time it was caught, Ford using it to push Stan back, making him stumble. Stan’s lips twisted into a snarl, but he froze as the yellow rings in Ford’s eyes glowed brightly. The anger was quickly doused by trepidation, memories of the cartel and the doctor’s visit flashing through Stan’s mind. He had to tread more carefully.

Deciding to play into Ford’s possessiveness, Stan slumped his shoulders and lowered his voice to a hurt mumble. “Do you really need world domination when you have us? Me, Ma, Shermie… are we not enough for you?”

Ford responded to the perceived hurt in Stan’s voice just as Stan hoped he would. His brother’s expression smoothed into something calmer almost immediately. “Of course you’re enough. My family is always enough.” Something flashed through Ford’s eyes then that sent shivers down Stan’s spine. “But why should I settle for just ‘enough’ when I can have everything?”

And why should he? Stan knew his brother had always been motivated, driven by curiosity and a zeal for the things he wanted. Ford was not the type to stop or give up when he desired something, but he was the type to spurn those who got in the way of his goals. If Ford felt like he should have everything, Stan wasn’t sure how to convince him to settle.

He stared at Ford helplessly, at a loss for how to talk to someone who simply didn’t care how his actions hurt other people.

Ford sighed and stepped forward to lay a hand on Stan’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. “You can enjoy this life, you know. You can enjoy everything I have given you and will give you, if you let go of that misplaced guilt you feel.”

“It isn’t misplaced.” Stan knocked Ford’s hand away. “You’ve destroyed our world.”

“And you did nothing to cause it, so why do you feel guilty about it?”

Stan paced back and forth restlessly. “Exactly! I did nothing! I could have—”

“You couldn’t have done anything, Stanley. Be realistic. I’m the one who did this. I made these choices and I don’t regret them. So it puzzles me why you feel guilty in my place. You could easily just relax and enjoy the life I have provided for you if you wash your hands of it.”

Ford just didn’t get it.

Stan gesticulated wildly. “How can I enjoy all this, knowing what the state of the world is like? Knowing what you plan to continue doing?”

“Why do you care?” Ford sounded genuinely puzzled, as if Stan just didn’t get it either. “You are safe and loved here. Why should it matter to you what happens beyond your scope?”

“Oh, I don’t know, empathy maybe? Something I know you struggle to understand. Some of us have morals, Ford. None of what you’re doing sits right with me, so how can you expect me to just ignore it?”

Ford clicked his tongue dismissively. “Pesky thing, morals. You should let some of those go as well. Rather than being upset with the way Bill and I choose to go about it, why not be content with the fact that our end goal is noble? We do not wish to destroy things permanently, just subdue and rule them.”

“Noble. Right.” Stan scoffed. “You want to take over everything and you’re willing to kill whoever stands in your way to do so.”

“And what of it? In the end, we will change things for the better. We will mold the universe in our image and it will be beautiful. But in order to accomplish this, sacrifices have to be made.”

The conversation was going nowhere. It felt like arguing with a brick wall. Stan sighed tiredly and rubbed at his eyes. “You don’t want things to be better. You just want them to be the way you want them to be.”

“So? It’s the same thing. Obviously what I want is better.”

“Because you know best,” Stan muttered sarcastically.

But Ford only smiled, as if Stan had finally gotten it. “Exactly.”

Stan wanted to go back to bed. The rumpled sheets were calling to him, promising an enticing break from consciousness. He shuffled over to the bed, but Ford intercepted him, grabbing him by the shoulders and twirling him around, pushing him towards the dressing room.

“No, no. It’s time to get ready for the day, little brother. I have a surprise waiting for you today, and I want you to start on that list for me so I know what to add to your surgical procedures.”

“Oh boy, a surprise,” Stan cheered flatly. He wasn’t even going to touch the surgery stuff right now. “Another appointment?”

“Not this time.” There was a spark of excitement in Ford’s eyes. “You’ll like this one, I promise.”

Stan did like it. He stared at the glass cases holding a large assortment of jewelry with wide, greedy eyes, hands itching to grab what he could. There was gold and silver, and diamonds and sapphires and emeralds, and all sort of precious stones. The cases held a variety of watches, chains and necklaces, earrings, rings, and even bracelets and anklets. Jewelry in various styles for both men and women.

“You can have whatever you want,” Ford told him, gaze soft. The greed on Stan’s face seemed to make him happy. “Ma should be here in a minute as well. I procured all of this for our family, so you are all welcome to take whatever you desire.”

Ford had “procured” (Stan knew well that Ford hadn’t bought it) enough jewelry to fill a store. Actually, the room kind of looked similar to the inside of a fancy jewelry store. The glass cases were on tables and counters that lined the room, with little lights on the inside of them that illuminated the valuable contents. There was a lot to go through, and Stan almost didn’t know where to start.

Ford didn’t have the same issue, as he wandered away to a table at the far end of the room. Stan decided not to pay him much attention, instead moving to inspect the jewelry in the case closest to him. As such, he wasn’t prepared for when something landed on his head a minute later. It startled him, and Stan whipped around to where Ford was suddenly right behind him, looking pleased.

“That one’s nice on you,” Ford said.

Stan reached up for whatever was on his head, pulling it off to inspect it. His jaw dropped when his eyes landed on it. It was a… crown? A fancy circlet headpiece? Stan wasn't sure what it would be called, but it was made of a material he’d never seen before. Something clearly precious but not of earth. It felt durable like platinum, and shone with iridescent colours that shifted when the light hit it at different angles.

Whatever material it was, strong but thin strands of it weaved together in complex patterns to create the headpiece, and jewels were encrusted into it that looked similar to ones of earth, but almost seemed to glow as if they were lit by something from within. Stan didn’t really know what he was holding, but he knew he was never giving it back.

“A crown?” he asked, totally enraptured by the beautiful jewelry in his hands.

“A coronet,” Ford corrected. “Or, what would be our earthly equivalent of one.”

He reached for it, and Stan jerked back.

Ford laughed. “I’m not going to take it from you. Just put it back on.” He pointed towards a large, floor-length mirror that was in one corner of the room. “Go take a look.”

Stan did, and… it didn’t look right on him.

It wasn’t the jewelry, the coronet was perfect. It was Stan who didn’t look right. He looked haggard and hollow and entirely unfit for it. Like putting riches on a beggar.

“Do you like it?” Ford asked.

“I thought you didn’t need me to approve of anything,” Stan said bitterly.

Ford rolled his eyes, but there was a fondness in them. “I don’t, but I do want your happiness. I want you all to be happy, because I love you.”

“Okay,” was all Stan said. Talking about his happiness right now would be like opening a spring-loaded box, and he didn’t want to get into another argument so soon. “I like it.”

Ford beamed as if he’d just achieved a great accomplishment. “Excellent.”

“Oh! Honey, you look so handsome!”

Stan turned to see Ma in the doorway, eyeing him approvingly. It reminded him of the way she had fussed over him and Ford when they’d put on their prom suits, telling them how good they looked and how they had matured into fine young men.

“Doesn’t he?” Ford agreed, adjusting the coronet on Stan.

Stan flushed, ducking his head. “You’re just saying that,” he mumbled, fully aware of all his flaws.

“Nonsense,” Ford snorted. He started admiring himself in the mirror. “You’re my identical twin and I’m gorgeous, which means you must be as well.”

It sounded less like a compliment towards Stan, and more like Ford just preening his own ego. But Stan wasn’t going to say anything. He was sure Ford thought he was being reassuring.

As Ma approached, Ford slipped away and let her take his place beside Stan in front of the mirror. Ma smiled at Stan, reaching up and tucking a stray curl of hair behind his ear. She lifted his chin with a finger, making him stand straight.

“Keep your chin up,” she murmured. “Pines stand strong and tall through all seasons.”

Stan attempted a wobbly smile.

Ford was back at their sides a moment later, gently placing another coronet on Ma’s head. “There you are, my dear. It suits you.”

Ma’s coronet was clearly not from earth either. It looked like it was made of something similar to white gold, but the material shone like starlight. It had a more delicate design to it than Stan’s, and crystals glittered across the surface, sparkling in the light. It caused the grey in her loose hair to stand out in a way that made it look like beautiful silver.

“Oh.” Ma looked at herself in surprise, her eyes lighting up with more interest and curiosity than Stan had seen in a while. “Well, isn’t that lovely?”

“Come look at the rest,” Ford offered, taking Ma’s hand and leading her to the glass displays. “You can pick out whatever you’d like.”

Stan joined them, eager to turn away from his reflection and the weird feeling it gave him. The three of them spent at least an hour going through all the jewelry Ford had brought, Ford encouraging them to try different pieces on. Stan ended up with a lot of nice things for himself, including a few pairs of earrings.

He debated which ones to wear right away, settling on a pair of diamond studs. They were simple in design, but still clearly worth more than Stan’s kidney had been sold for. In his excitement as he hurried back to the mirror to put them in, it slipped his mind that his ma didn’t know he’d pierced his ears. He paused in his task, eyes fixed on Ma’s reflection.

But Ma only raised her brows when she noticed. “Your father would have never approved,” she said.

“I know,” Stan replied, relieved that Ma didn’t seem bothered by it. He hadn’t thought she would care much, but it was still nice to know.

“Speaking of your father,” Ma started quietly, coming to Stan’s side, “I have—”

The sound of a loud party horn being blown interrupted her, and the both of them startled as Bill materialized in the room, noisemaker dangling from his fingers like a cigarette. He took a puff on it like it was one—and weirdly enough smoke that smelt like burnt cake actually came out of it—then tossed it into the air and swallowed it whole.

“It’s party time, babes!” Bill announced.

Ford approached him with a smile. “Hello, Bill.”

“Pookie-bear!” Bill’s eye turned into a pair of lips and made exaggerated kissing motions at Ford. Then he turned to where Stan was. “Pookie-brother.” He made the same dramatic kissy motions.

Stan grimaced in disgust. “Ew, don’t call me that. I’m not pookie-anything.”

The lips turned back into an eye that immediately rolled. “Yeesh. Old wet towel over here. This is why you aren’t the fun twin.”

Stan stiffened when Bill’s eye then locked onto Ma, who’d drifted closer to the wall when he’d appeared in an attempt to stay out of his notice. Stan wasn’t sure if they’d interacted before, but he hated the idea of Bill being around his family.

Bill’s eye immediately turned back into a pair of lips to make kissy motions. “Pookie-mother.”

“Don’t talk to my ma that!” Stan snapped defensively, stepping in between them to try and block Ma from Bill’s sight. “Don’t even look at her!”

“Why not? The view’s great.” Bill straightened his bow tie, leaned casually against nothing in midair, and wiggled his eyebrow. “And it’s open season for cougar hunting.”

Stan and Ford made twin noises of disgust, their faces screwing up in the same way.

“Bill, that’s disgusting,” Ford said, clearly not amused. “Please refrain from commenting on our mother. She’s a lady of class.”

“And I’m a triangle of class.” A wine glass with a silly straw in it appeared in Bill’s hand, and he took an exaggerated slurp. “Think about it, Fordsy, I could be your stepdad.”

Stan felt vaguely ill at the idea.

“You could also be the next bug I squish under my shoe,” Ford threatened, clearly unamused by his so-called best friend.

“Ooooh, that’s a great idea for the next party game!” Bill ate the wine glass, silly straw and all. “Giant shoes that come down from above and try to squish you. Last one to not get squished wins. The henchmaniacs would love it!”

“Then why don’t you leave and go play with them,” Stan suggested gruffly, itching to land a punch right into that taunting eyeball. How dare Bill talk about their ma like that!

“We’ve got other plans. I just came here for a pick up.” Bill blinked at Ford—or he might have winked, but he only had one eye so it was hard to tell.

Ford sighed. “Right now? I’m in the middle of something.”

“You’re always in the middle of something. Now it’s time to be in the middle of something else.”

Bill held up his wrist, off of which a bracelet dangled. Stan spotted some small teeth on it. Must be that friendship bracelet Ford had said he’d make for Bill with his baby teeth. Gross.

“Come hang out with your bestie for a bit,” Bill cajoled. “You promised you’d come on our next outing, remember?”

“I did.” Ford turned to Stan and Ma with an apologetic expression. “We’ll have to cut this short it seems. You’re free to keep looking around if you wish, though. I’ll be back later.” He then pointed at Stan sternly. “Don’t get into trouble.”

“Don’t get into trouble,” Stan mocked under his breath.

Ford crossed his arms. “Stanley.”

Stan crossed his arms too. “Stanley.”

“Boys,” Ma called exasperatedly.

“Yeah, boys,” Bill chimed in, unwanted. “Listen to your dear mother and stepfather.”

Ford scowled, twitching like he was about to blow a gasket. “Bill, I know you’re joking, but it isn’t funny.”

“Well, that sounds like a you problem. Me? I’m having a blast.” Bill flicked his fingers and a business card materialized between them. He gave the card a kiss, a lipstick mark somehow staining it even though Bill wasn’t wearing any lipstick. “Give me a call anytime, baby. I’ll let you tell me my fortune.” He tossed the card at Ma.

Stan intercepted it, crumpling it angrily in his fist.

Bill gasped. “Stanny-boy, I didn’t know you felt that way about me! No need to be jealous.”

Stan was going to crack a tooth from just how hard he was gritting them. “That is NOT what—”

“Anywho!” Bill cut Stan off just as Ford launched himself at Bill, eyes blazing a furious yellow. Bill’s arms extended and wrapped around Ford like noodles, reeling him in so they were cheek to brick. With a friendly wave, as if Ford wasn’t spitting with rage beside him, Bill said, “Toodle-pip!” and popped out of existence, taking Ford with him.

Stan stared blankly at where they used to be for a long moment. “I hate that guy.”

“Your brother could use better friends,” Ma said, coming up beside him once more now that Bill was gone.

“At least we have a break from him for a while.” Stan tried to ignore the whisper in his mind that cried for his twin to come back. “Are you done looking through things here?”

“I am.” Ma put a hand on his elbow. “Come with me to my rooms, I have something for you.”

Stan raised a brow, curiosity welling up in him. “Alright.”

“Seeing all that jewelry reminded me that I’ve been meaning to give you this,” Ma said as she dug around in a large, ornate jewelry box.

Stan looked over his shoulder from where he’d been snooping around her room. “What?”

He wandered over as she let out a quiet “ah-ha!” and turned around, presenting him something small in her palm.

Stan recognized it immediately, mouth dropping open. “Pa’s ring.”

Pa had worn a lot of rings, some cheap and some not. But this one in particular was something of an heirloom. Stan remembered Pa telling him about it as a child, how he’d inherited it from his father, who had inherited it from his father. The ring was rather old now, worn and dull, but the sentimentality made it valuable to Stan.

“I can’t take this,” he said, ignoring the way his voice wanted to choke up. “He wouldn’t have wanted—”

“He left it to you in his will,” Ma said gently.

Stan really did choke up then. “H-He did?”

“Mm.” Ma stared at the ring in her hand sadly, idly rubbing the surface of it. “He’d been having some health troubles, a few months before the heart attack. He told me it was minor, but now I wonder if maybe he just said that so I wouldn’t worry. His death was a surprise for me, but I guess… maybe he was expecting it? Or at least had decided to plan for the worst. I didn’t notice until after he’d passed, but at some point he’d updated his will. And he left you this, along with a few other things—though most were lost in weirdmageddon.”

A sprout of something blossomed in Stan’s chest. It felt kind of like hope, but with a bitter edge. Wistfulness, maybe? Regret? Guilt? It was hard to say, but at the moment it didn’t matter. What did matter was that Pa had left him something. Pa had updated his will to include Stan, the son he’d thrown out. Pa had included him, had portioned him an inheritance. Did that… Did that mean—?

“Did he ever say anything?” Stan whispered, his eyes burning. “About me? About… you know.”

Ma’s brows furrowed with sadness and regret. “No. Not aloud.”

Stan wilted. “Oh.”

“But he did write something,” she said. “In his will. It was just a small note, but he was adamant that you get this ring. Said that Sherman and Stanford wouldn’t appreciate it properly, and that it should go to the son with good taste.”

A watery laugh escaped Stan at that. “The son with good taste,” he echoed, wiping at his eyes before tears could fall. “He said that? His… his son?”

“Yes.” Ma took one of Stan’s hands, placing the ring in it and holding it with both of hers. “I believe part of him regretted that night, even if he would never admit it. He’d taken you out of the will all those years ago after all, but just weeks before his end he put you back in. That means something, I think.”

The son with good taste.

Despite his best efforts, a tear streaked down from the corner of his eye. Stan sniffled. It did mean something. It wasn’t what Stan had hoped for, maybe. Wasn’t exactly what Stan had always wanted to hear from his pa, but it was something.

“Well, he was right.” Stan tried to lighten the mood a little. “Ford and Shermie wouldn’t know good taste if it hit ‘em in the face.”

Neither of his brothers had ever particularly cared for material goods. Shermie had always been content with a simple life, having what he needed and nothing more. And Ford had cared less about money and more about prestige and knowledge. It had been Stan who’d shared their pa’s love of money and riches. Stan who’d always admired Pa’s gold chains and rings and pocket watch.

To realize that Pa had taken notice, had remembered, had gone out of his way to put Stan back in the will just to give him those things…

Stan clutched Pa’s old ring and cried. It wasn’t quite closure, but it was something.

Chapter Text

There was muffled shouting up ahead and Stan paused, looking around curiously. A few seconds later, a door further up the hallway banged open and Ford walked out, a fuming Shermie slung over his shoulder. Ford spotted Stan quickly, giving a cheeky wave and a smile.

“We’re headed up to the rooftop,” Ford called to him. “Come join us!”

Ford turned away, and Stan couldn’t help the snorts of laughter that escaped him at the sight of Shermie wriggling in Ford’s grasp like a hooked fish. Sure, Stan had been there many times and could sympathize, but it was funny when it happened to someone else.

Shermie stopped struggling momentarily to point angrily at Stan. “Don’t you laugh!”

Stan unsuccessfully tried to hold it in.

“I can hear the snickering! Stop it! Don’t think I won’t have my revenge for that later!”

Stan laughed loudly, following after his brothers at a distance. It wasn’t like he really had anything else he was doing, after all. Might as well see what Ford was up to that demanded he forcibly drag Shermie to the roof.

Ford held the elevator doors open as Stan approached, but Stan waved him off. “I’ll take the stairs,” he said. “It’s good exercise.”

He’d been trying to get his strength back up now that he was starting to feel better—physically anyways. As annoying as it was, Ford’s careful monitoring of his health and food intake had been helping Stan’s slow recovery from near-starvation. The apocalypse had done no favours for his already poor health, but having consistent access to regular meals now had been doing a lot for Stan. He’d probably have more energy if he was able to sleep well, but he was better than he was.

“Alright,” Ford allowed. “But don’t push yourself.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Yes, Ma.”

As the elevator doors closed, he heard Shermie say, “I think I’d rather join him in taking the stairs. Put me down.”

Ford snorted. “No.”

Stan laughed his way up the stairs. Thankfully, he’d already been on one of the upper floors, so there weren't too many levels to go through. The rooftop was accessible from the library, which was on the topmost floor of the hat-house. The library was open and sprawling, taking up almost the entire floor by itself. It had multiple levels that were connected by mahogany wood spiral staircases and walkways, and a large part of the ceiling was thick glass, allowing natural sunlight to illuminate the room.

The topmost spiral staircase offered access to the rooftop through the glass ceiling—though an elevator on the ground floor of the library did the same in case one didn’t want to take all the stairs. Stan did though, making his way up to the rooftop and coming out into the lush, little garden that had been planted there. Judith had been tending to it in her free time, having requested the garden from Ford. She’d been teaching Ma how to care for the plants as well, and their efforts were paying off with beautiful flowers and shrubs.

Admittedly, Stan didn’t spend much time on the roof, the open view of the ruined world below too much for his fear of heights. Ford had assured him it was perfectly safe up there, though. A waist-high fence surrounded the rooftop on all sides, and just beyond its edge some sort of strange, invisible force field encased the rooftop in a bubble. For their safety, of course. Ford had boasted that an atomic bomb could be dropped on top of them and it wouldn’t be able to dent the force field.

On one hand, it was nice to know he couldn’t accidentally fall over the edge of the roof to his death. On the other hand, Stan was also aware that it was just another way they were all trapped. There was no way to make it past the force field even if they had some way to safely get back down to earth from this height.

Stan looked around as he walked through the garden, searching for his brothers. They’d surely made it up before him, but they weren’t on any of the benches or sitting in the shade of any of the trees. It wasn’t until he made it nearly out of the garden area that he spotted them, leaning on the fence at the far end of the rooftop. They were… doing something?

Stan squinted, maybe regretting that he refused to wear the glasses Ford had gotten him. Just a little. But as he got closer, he could swear that it looked like they were—

An offended gasp escaped him, and Stan marched towards his hypocrite of a twin angrily.

“You!” he shouted as he got closer, pointing at Ford accusingly. “Seriously? I had to listen to you lecture me for hours about how bad drugs and cigarettes are for your health, and how disappointed you were with my bad habits. And now I find you up here smoking? You—!” Stan jabbed a finger into Ford’s chest. Ford‘s eyes glittered with amusement, and that just made Stan’s ire worse. “You—! Gah!”

Ford took a drag from his cigarette and casually blew the smoke into Stan’s face.

Stan sputtered and stepped back, but he didn’t cough the way he expected to. In fact, the smoke didn’t bother him at all. It… it didn’t even smell like smoke? Stan frowned, looking at what Ford was holding with bewilderment. It definitely looked like a cigarette, but it didn’t smell like one.

Shermie chuckled next to them, but Stan ignored him as Ford smirked and pulled a small pack of the maybe-cigarettes from his pocket. He shook one out and offered it to Stan, waving it teasingly. Stan snatched it from him with a huff, inspecting it.

Up close it really did look like a generic cigarette, but Stan was getting the feeling that it wasn’t one. Ford had ranted to him about the dangers of tobacco use not long ago, after all. And while Stan could totally see Ford being a hypocrite and smoking himself, he certainly wouldn’t allow Stan to do so.

Only one way to find out for sure.

“You got a light?” Stan asked gruffly, slipping the cigarette between his lips.

Instead of handing him a lighter like a normal person, Ford lifted a finger up to the end of Stan’s cigarette, and a spark of blue fire ignited off his fingertip, setting it alight.

Well, alright then.

“Show off,” Stan muttered.

No, he wasn’t jealous his twin got weird (cool) powers. Considering what Ford sacrificed to get them—however he got them—it wasn’t worth it.

He took a puff of the cigarette and, yep. Not a real cigarette. Whatever it was, it wasn’t tobacco. It had a flavour to it that Stan couldn’t describe. Something like smoke but not quite. It simulated that same pleasant burning sensation that tobacco did, though.

“What even are these?” Stan asked, breathing the smoke out in Ford’s direction in revenge. And now that he was paying more attention, even the smoke in the air wasn’t quite the same as cigarette smoke. It was more transparent and had a faint, blue-ish tinge to it.

Ford waved the smoke away, unbothered. “You can think of them as a cigarette alternative. They’re not from our dimension, and they don’t contain tobacco or any other harmful substances. They’re perfectly safe to smoke.”

“Huh.” Stan watched Shermie stub out the butt of his cigarette on the railing of the fence. “And here I thought you were being a hypocrite again. You know, like how you lectured me about drug use, only for me to find out later that you’ve done coke yourself.”

“Stanford!” Shermie gasped, appalled.

“What?” Ford grumbled defensively, looking away. “It was only a couple of times back in college. Helped me study for my finals and boosted my productivity. I wasn’t just taking whatever dubious drugs were available for the hell of it like someone else over here.” He gave Stan the stink-eye.

Stan did not deserve the stink-eye.

Shermie apparently disagreed though, as he also then turned and gave Stan the stink-eye. “Stanley!” He sounded so disapproving.

“Don’t use your dad voice on me,” Stan grumbled in the same tone as his twin. “You don’t get to judge. Neither of you do.”

Of course, straight-laced Sherman had never touched drugs. He wasn’t even much of a smoker or a drinker other than socially. Stan didn’t know where that came from. Pa and Ma had always been drinkers and smokers—though Pa had always been firm about no smoking inside the house. As kids, it hadn’t been uncommon to see their parents relaxing in the evening, Pa with a beer and Ma with a glass of wine.

“I can’t believe the both of you.” Shermie put his hands on his hips, lips pulling into a frown. “Taking drugs like that. Cocaine, Stanford, really? As if you of all people needed anything to help you with studying.”

Stan shot his twin a smug, triumphant smirk.

“And you.” Shermie’s glare settled on Stan next. “I don’t know what all you got up to in those years you were gone, but surely drugs were not the answer to any of your problems.”

Stan grumbled under his breath as Ford shot him a smug, triumphant smirk in turn.

“I don’t ever want to hear of it happening again,” Shermie said firmly. His gaze turned back to Ford. “And I don’t think your other ‘friends’ are such a good influence in that area.”

“Bill is my friend. The other henchmaniacs are not,” Ford corrected, getting snooty.

“Well, I don’t like them either way. Bill is definitely not a good influence, and I better not ever catch you trying some weird alien drugs with him.”

It was so nice to watch Ford get lectured for once. Stan happily puffed on his fake cigarette.

Ford’s face twisted with annoyance. “What I do or do not do isn’t your business. You don’t get to speak to me this way.”

Shermie wasn’t one to back down. “The hell I don’t. I’m your big brother.”

Stan watched as Ford’s annoyance turned into offence, then flipped into consideration, before smoothing out into some sort of pleased realization.

“Aww, Sherman, I’m touched how much you care about me. You’re so sweet.”

“Don’t call me sweet.”

Ford ignored him. “Obviously, you must love me a lot to care about my health and well-being like this. Looking out for me like a good big brother.” He smiled, and it seemed genuine. “I love you too.”

Shermie stared blankly, looking just as at a loss as Stan was at Ford’s sudden mood swings. At least he hadn’t gotten mad? That was something.

Stan decided to move out from in between his brothers as they continued to snip at each other, wandering over to Shermie’s other side and leaning his back against the fence railing, not wanting to see the ground so far below. He closed his eyes as he smoked, wanting to fully enjoy his first chance to do so since the whole apocalypse thing had started. Even if it wasn’t a real cigarette, it had been way too long since he’d been able to smoke.

It brought back the memory of the very first time Stan had ever had a cigarette. He’d been a young teen, and it had been a day that Pa had taken him fishing. Ford had been sick and hadn’t wanted to go with them. Stan remembered being excited to actually have some one-on-one time with his pa. It didn’t happen very often, so Stan had always cherished it when it did.

(“Your Ma mentioned she caught you tryna steal some of her cigarettes the other day,” Pa had said.

Stan had frozen, shoulders hunching up. “Well, I mean—”

“You’re almost a grown man, Stan,” Pa cut him off.

Despite the statement just being fact and not praise, Stan felt his chest swell with pride anyway. His pa thought he was a man! Or, almost one. His and Ford’s birthday would be coming up soon; they were going to be fifteen. Would Pa call him a man then?

There was a rustling next to him as Pa rooted around in his vest. Stan turned to watch, eyes widening when Pa pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He took one for himself, then offered another out to Stan.

Stan stared in shock, eyes darting between the offered cigarette and Pa’s face.

“Well?” Pa prompted. “Do you want it not? Figure you’re old enough to try one if you’re already trying to steal em.”

Stan gleefully took the cigarette. “Do you have…?”

Pa took out a lighter and instructed, “Watch.”

Stan watched the way Pa lit his cigarette, cupping a hand around the lighter.

“Now you.” Pa tossed the lighter to Stan.

It took him a few tries to get it to catch fire, his eager hands fumbling. But when he managed it, he turned back to his Pa with a big smile. “I did it!”

Pa just grunted as he accepted the lighter back.

Stan, overexcited and wanting to impress his pa, to look like a real man, took a big inhale from the cigarette.

And promptly started coughing and choking on the smoke.

A strong hand slapped his back a few times to help as he coughed his lungs out. “You knucklehead,” Pa said, but he didn’t sound disapproving. If anything, Stan would almost say there was a hint of amusement to his tone.

A water bottle was offered to him, and Stan snatched it and drank gratefully.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Pa told him. “Just don’t make a habit of it.”

Stan wheezed in agreement, and then there was a peaceable silence between them. Their fishing lines bobbed in the water in front of them, though Stan was more focused on trying his next drag on the cigarette, slower and more careful. It worked better, and the smoke burned his throat and lungs in a way that was unpleasant, but not entirely unlikeable.

“And don’t tell your ma about this,” Pa suddenly said.

“I won’t,” Stan promised.

It hadn’t even crossed his mind to do so. This was their little moment. No Ma, no Ford, no Shermie. Just him and Pa. And if Stan scooted just the slightest bit closer so that their shoulders barely brushed each other, well. Pa never moved away.)

“Stan?”

A nudge to his arm snapped Stan out of reminiscing, and his eyes blinked open to Shermie’s questioning face.

“You falling asleep on us there?” Shermie teased him gently.

Stan straightened up, stubbing out the tiny nub that was left of his not-cigarette. He tried to wipe any tiredness from his face. “Nah, just thinking.”

“Must take all your brain power.”

Rude. Why had he ever missed his brothers again?

Stan knocked his shoulder into Shermie’s. “Jerk.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a nap, Stanley?” Ford asked, brows furrowed in mild concern. “You’ve looked rather tired lately.”

“I don’t need to take naps, I’m not a little kid,” Stan grumbled, ignoring the fact that he actually did like to regularly take naps because naps were awesome. He’d been swearing by naps for years, and it had nothing to do with his previous (dangerous) lifestyle that often prevented him from sleeping well through the nights.

“Alright.” Ford didn’t look like he believed Stan. “Well, what did you want to do then? It’s a brother bonding day.”

Stan’s brows rose. “Is it?” He glanced at Shermie. “Can’t believe you agreed to something like this.”

“I didn’t,” Shermie said shortly. “Stanford insisted on it, so I told him he’d have to drag me kicking and screaming.”

“And I did,” Ford said, rather gleefully.

Shermie’s expression went flat. “And he did.”

Ah. So that’s what the whole tussle had been about in the hallway. Stan snorted. Shermie should’ve accepted by now that Ford always got what he wanted.

“Well, if neither of you have ideas of what you want to do, I suppose I’ll decide,” Ford said. He began to shoo Stan and Shermie back towards the garden. “Come, come. I’ll make this a fun day for us, I promise.”

Stan rolled out of bed quietly, eyes as adjusted to the dark as they’d get after lying awake for the last few hours. He didn’t bother glancing at the clock to check the time; he knew it was very late (or very early, depending on one’s view). He doubted he was going to get any sort of sleep tonight, and he was sick of tossing and turning restlessly.

It wouldn’t be the first time Stan had gotten up in the middle of the night to wander the house. It gave him something to do and helped stop his mind from spiralling too much from late night thoughts. The only problem was that Ford had started locking his door from the outside. Stan thought that was very unfair and undeserved, but Ford had told him it was his punishment for the next few weeks. All because Stan had ignored Ford’s request to not use the gym unsupervised and had mildly sprained his wrist one night.

Ford had been rather upset with him, demanding to know why Stan had even been up in the first place when he should’ve be sleeping. Then going into a rant about how Stan was still recovering and shouldn’t be doing any strenuous exercises yet. Stan found it all rather annoying. A fully equipped gym, and Ford was saying he couldn’t use it without supervision until he was stronger? How was he supposed to get stronger if he couldn’t work out? It wasn’t fair.

But fair or not, Stan’s door was locked every night now to prevent him from leaving. He wasn’t going to let that stop him, though. Ford may have locked his door, but Stan would bet that Ford didn’t lock his own, and there happened to be a convenient door that connected their rooms together. Not to mention that Ford had explicitly stated that Stan was allowed to come into his room at any time.

The biggest obstacle would be sneaking through Ford’s room without waking him. But surely Stan could accomplish it, right? Right?

Ford was a still lump on his gigantic bed when Stan tiptoed into his room, silent save for the hushed, steady sounds of his breathing. As far as Stan could tell, he was even facing away from Stan, so that was good. The floors in their rooms didn’t creak, so as long as Stan didn’t bump into anything he should be home free. And Ford’s room was decently tidy (surprisingly), so Stan didn’t have any unexpected encounters as he crept his way to Ford’s door.

Stan reached for the handle with a sense of smug satisfaction. Take that, Ford. Nobody could keep Stan Pines locked in—

“What are you doing?”

Stan nearly jumped out of his own skin in surprise, heart skipping a beat in fright at the unexpected voice. He whipped around wildly, staring at his twin who was now sitting upright in bed, two glowing, yellow-ringed eyes staring at Stan hauntingly. It sent a shiver up his spine.

And Stan… didn’t have a good answer. Not one that wouldn’t make Ford mad, anyway.

“Uh… getting water?” he tried.

It was hard to make out Ford’s exact expression in the dark, but from what Stan could see, he appeared entirely blank-faced.

“There’s drinkable water in your bathroom. Go back to bed, Stanley.”

“Well, I was just—uh…” Stan debated the merits of flinging the door open and running outside before Ford could stop him. Probably not a great idea, since Ford would chase him, and when he inevitably caught Stan he’d likely be pissed.

“You should be sleeping, not sneaking around. Go back to your room,” Ford commanded.

Stan internally groaned at the thought of spending more time lying awake, tormented by his own worries and inability to sleep. It gave him a burst of defiance as he set his jaw and said, “No.”

Ford’s form went eerily still. Then, like liquid shadows, he slipped off the bed and seemed to practically float over to Stan. Stan found himself stumbling backwards until he hit a wall, feeling rather unnerved by his brother. But within seconds Ford was in front of him, blank expression looking Stan over.

“Fine.” Hands suddenly grabbed Stan around the middle. “If you don’t want to go back to your room, you can sleep here.”

Stan was tossed through the air right across the room, landing on Ford’s bed with a bounce and sharp gasp of shock. He floundered for a moment before sitting up, and in that time Ford had made his way back to the bed as well, dragging the pillow he’d been using away from the middle and to the opposite side from Stan.

“What?” Stan yelped as he took a pillow to the face when Ford threw one at him. “No! I’m not sharing a bed with you!”

“Then go back to your room,” Ford said simply, getting himself comfortable on his side of the bed.

Stan really didn’t want to do that either. He’d been having a hard time sleeping since he was brought here, and the idea of spending another sleepless night in that big, empty bed was daunting. He just wanted to walk around, get his mind off of things, but there was clearly no way Ford was going to let him do that.

With a huff, Stan roughly punched his pillow down onto the mattress, grumbling, “You better not try to cuddle me or anything. I have limits.”

Ford let out a bark of laughter. They both knew Stan had always been the one to cuddle people in his sleep. He was as clingy as an octopus.

Stan remembered one time when they were little, Shermie had taken them camping for a week. They’d all shared a tent, three separate sleeping bags on one large inflatable mattress. They’d slept in birth order, but inevitably Stan had managed to wiggle out of his sleeping bag and squish himself in between his brothers by morning.

Ford took another, larger pillow and placed it between them. Not that it was really necessary, since the bed was big enough that Stan could fully extend his arms out and he still wouldn’t be able to touch Ford.

“There, a barrier. You stay on your side of the bed, I’ll stay on mine,” Ford said, clearly doing it for Stan’s benefit. “Acceptable?”

Stan lay on his back and crossed his arms. “Fine.”

“Good. Now sleep.”

Ford flopped onto his side facing away from Stan, and the room went silent.

Stan stared up at the dark ceiling, feeling awkward. It was… it was nice, honestly, to not be alone. There was something primitively soothing about there simply being another person nearby, the soft sound of breathing reassuring. Especially the sound and presence of his twin, who Stan had shared a room with for seventeen years of his life. As creepy as Ford had looked earlier, his presence was like a balm to Stan now.

The awkward part was just that Stan felt that he maybe shouldn’t like it so much. He was too old to want to share a room with someone, twin or not. Right? Too old to need the basic comfort of someone else nearby in order to sleep. He’d spent so many nights alone, after all. He should be used to it. He should just go back to his own room and tough it out. He shouldn’t need Ford. He shouldn’t.

But he didn’t move.

And after a few minutes, Stan turned his head to eye his brother, trying to gauge whether he’d fallen back asleep or not. He whispered, “Hey, Ford.”

“Hmm?” Ford let out a tired grunt.

Oh, so he was awake. Stan fumbled for something to say, wanting to distract himself from his own inner turmoil. “I, uh, I was just wondering…” His mind reached for a topic. “How did you become… like this?”

“Mm?” Ford grunted in confusion this time.

“You know.” Stan waved a hand aimlessly in the air. “A, uh, henchmaniac or whatever. The whole weird powers thing. How did that happen?”

Ford sighed and shifted onto his back with a groan. He was silent, and for a minute Stan was worried he wasn’t going to answer, that he’d crossed some invisible boundary.

But then Ford quietly admitted, “I don’t know.”

Stan’s brows furrowed. “What? What do you mean you don’t know?”

Ford’s yellow-ringed eyes stared up at the ceiling. “I can’t remember very well. I remember some things, but a lot of it is… fuzzy. I don’t know exactly what happened.”

There was a strange uncertainty to his tone that made something in Stan go cold. “What do you remember?” he asked, voice hushed as if speaking too loudly would break the moment.

“It was dark,” Ford answered, voice just as hushed. “The atmosphere was strange. The darkness was palpable, like a living thing, and I could feel it brushing against me. We were in some sort of crack between dimensions, like a wound in the fabric of the multiverse.”

“We?” Stan had a feeling he already knew who Ford was talking about.

“Bill and I,” Ford confirmed. “The henchmaniac idea wasn’t a surprise to me. Bill offered to make me one of them long before I’d finished the portal, and I agreed. I didn’t see him for a while after that, because he said he was going to explore ways he could transform me. The easiest option would have been to make a deal, where I would have been altered by Bill’s own powers. But Bill said he wanted something more permanent, something not dependent on a contract.”

Stan scowled into the dark as he listened. None of it was endearing Bill to him. He wondered if Bill had manipulated Ford into agreeing to it all. (He knew that wasn’t true.)

“There was a place Bill had heard rumours of. That crack in between dimensions, where ancient, forgotten rituals could be performed. I don’t—I don’t remember the details of it anymore, but Bill found it. After I got the portal running and Bill was able to come here, he took me with him there. He said we had to be fast, lest I die before he was able to complete the ritual.”

Stan’s heart seized at the idea that his brother could have died. If Bill had messed up whatever he’d done, Ford could have died. And maybe it was selfish, considering what Ford had willingly agreed to and done to earth, but Stan couldn’t stomach the idea of his twin dying.

“I remember seeing a temple,” Ford said. “And it was the only thing in that living darkness. I remember hating it on sight, like the very stone itself was imbued with an energy so old and evil it made everything in me feel repulsed.”

Stan’s hands fisted the blanket angrily. “So Bill forced you to go through with it?”

“No. Bill warned me it would happen; I told him to keep going. I wanted it.”

Stan wished he hadn’t. It would be easier to accept if Ford had been forced to go through with it.

“I don’t remember much else beyond that,” Ford said. “Only that Bill performed some sort of ritual there, and used some of himself to complete it. He’d been very excited about the whole thing, boasting to me about how no one else could find the temple. How there is only one being left in existence who even knows about it beyond rumours, but Bill found it and figured it out on his own.”

“Sure loves to brag about himself,” Stan muttered sourly.

Ford laughed softly. “Yes, but he does have a lot to brag about. It isn’t without merit.”

Stan just snorted. Then he eyed his brother. “Did it hurt? Whatever Bill did to you?”

The sheets rustled as Ford shrugged. “I don’t remember. Probably? I still don’t fully understand what exactly he did and how he changed me. He says that I’m a demonic entity now, like him, since it was his DNA that was used in the ritual. But not… not fully? I’m still tethered to my humanity.”

Ford gave Stan a sidelong glance that clearly held a lot of meaning, but Stan didn’t understand it.

“Well, that’s… that’s good, right? That you’ve still got some human in you.” Stan tried to hold onto that, despite how his stomach curdled at the knowledge that Ford had changed so much. That he wasn’t the same anymore. Would never be the same as the person Stan remembered him as.

Ford’s lips twitched in a smile. “Yes, but it’s vulnerable. That human part of me is very mortal and sensitive. That’s why I do everything in my power to protect him, keep him safe and happy.”

Him?

Stan frowned in confusion, but before he could ask anything else, Ford said, “Does that sate your curiosity for now? You need to sleep, baby brother. I’ve noticed you’ve been struggling with that recently. I was hoping you’d come to me and ask for help on your own, but it’s okay if you can’t take those steps yet. I’ll help you anyway. I’ll start bringing you some of that tea I make for Ma at night, okay? It’ll help you sleep.”

“I don’t want no drugged tea,” Stan grumbled.

Ford chuckled. “It’s just a herbal blend. All natural, no hidden drugs. We’ll only look at other options if you find it doesn’t help.”

Stan kind of wanted to argue, but after the conversation they just had, he also kind of didn’t. Ford had been weirdly open and truthful with him, and Stan didn’t want to ruin that atmosphere by fighting.

Still, he had to make his stance clear, so he muttered, “Don’t need drugs.”

“Then prove it by going to sleep now.”

“Fine.” Stan rolled onto his side with a huff. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Stanley,” Ford said warmly.

This was a place Stan had never been before.

He felt like he was floating in a darkness so thick it was palpable. It seemed to tug on him as he walked forward, as if sucking him in. And even though he wanted to, he couldn’t turn back. His feet kept moving without him really thinking about it, and up ahead the darkness shifted and formed into something more solid, until the looming structure of a dilapidated temple appeared before him.

It was a strange setting to have a dream in, but Stan wasn’t all that surprised. Unnerved, yes. Creeped out, definitely. But his unconscious mind deciding to form a dream out of the conversation he’d had with Ford wasn’t all that odd.

What was odd was when the ancient temple doors parted with a near-silent whoosh, and an unfortunately familiar figure floated in the entryway.

“Well, well, well,” said Bill, looking more serious than Stan had ever seen him. “I’m guessing Little Fishie has a lot of questions, eh? Let’s have a chat.”

Chapter Text

Oh, they were going to have a chat alright, and Stan was going to start. He scowled at the being who had brought destruction to everything Stan had known.

“What did you do to my brother?!”

Bill was unaffected by Stan’s anger. “Woah! Bold accusations, Fishy. More like what did you do to your brother?”

“What did I—?” Stan trailed off, some of his ire fading away as confusion set in. “What do you mean? I didn’t do anything to Ford.”

“Sure you did! You just don’t know it yet.”

Bill was being ominous and vague on purpose. Unimpressed, Stan crossed his arms and muttered, “Where is Ford anyway?”

He would have expected Ford to show up. It didn’t happen all the time, but Ford often invaded Stan’s dreams, just like he had before while Stan was still on the run. It was a little annoying, since Stan had to deal with Ford during the day, and then he had the audacity to show up in Stan’s dreams too. He was just constantly around.

So the fact that Ford hadn’t shown up by now was surprising. Was Bill somehow able to block him out? Was he keeping Ford away on purpose?

“He’s still awake!” Bill answered, dropping his serious persona. “And currently watching you sleep.”

Stan grimaced. Creepy. Not shocking, but still creepy.

“What a freak, right?” Bill said jovially.

“Don’t call him that,” Stan automatically defended, as he’d always done.

“Why not? We’re all freaks around here. I only keep the company of freaks. It’s a good thing.”

“Wasn’t always.”

“Oh, right.” Bill snapped his fingers. “Sixer used to pretend to be bothered by that as a kid.”

Stan frowned, taken aback. “What? What do you mean pretend? He was bothered by it!”

“Mmm, no, he wasn’t. It never actually hurt his feelings, just made him mad when he perceived it as an insult. He said he used to pretend to be bothered by it because that was what was expected of him. Everyone acted like he should feel hurt by it so he played along to seem normal.” Bill studied his non-existent nails. “You know, back when he cared to do that kind of thing.”

“That can’t be true.” Stan sounded unsure even to his own ears. Maybe before all this he would have easily said it was untrue, but now…

“It is! Sixer isn’t even that good of an actor. Lucky for him no one ever wanted to look too closely at what was wrong with either of you.”

Stan felt a hot flash of indignation. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”

“Sure,” Bill agreed easily.

For some reason, that pissed Stan off more than if Bill had argued about it.

Honestly, why was Bill even here? Why was he tolerating Stan? Why allow this whole house setup with their family? Sure, Bill said he and Ford were “besties”, but Bill had no reason to put up with the rest of them. Stan had seen the destruction Bill and his minions had caused; had seen how little Bill valued people’s lives. And now he’d heard about what Bill had done to his brother.

So why hadn’t Bill just killed them all and forced Ford to keep working for him? Why bother making Ford happy? Surely Bill didn’t actually like Ford enough to do that. Bill didn’t seem like the type to truly care about anyone but himself.

Those questions prompted Stan to open his big mouth and say, “I don’t know why you haven’t killed me yet.”

…Why did he just say something so stupid? He was lucky Bill didn’t smite him on the spot. With a statement like that he was practically inviting it.

Bill waved a hand as if he were some benevolent ruler granting a subject pardon. “Of course you don’t know. You’re uninformed, and that’s why I’m here. Your good pal Bill to give you all the deets.”

Deets? Stan groaned to himself. He really hated this triangle. “We aren’t pals. And why would you do that? It seems a little too altruistic for a guy like you.”

“And altruistic seems like too big a word for a guy like you,” Bill shot back. “Shocked you know it.”

Stan wanted to punch him so much. It was too bad this was all just a dream and it wouldn’t actually hurt Bill. Also Bill might actually smite him for real if he did.

“Also, it’s because I feel like it. And because your brother has been so annoying about it.”

Ah, so that was the reason. Stan crossed his arms. “So you’re doing it just to go behind Ford’s back?”

Bill rolled his eye, looking as annoyed as talking trigonometry could manage. “All he ever talks about is you right now, and he won’t even let me have any fun. It’s all”—Bill’s voice pitched into a mocking falsetto—“Stan needs to recover, Bill. He needs some time to adjust, Bill. He’s so naggy.”

Okay, Stan could agree with that. Ford was naggy. He refused to empathize with Bill though. Screw Bill.

“I’m sure Ford will get back to his plans to take over literally everything soon enough,” he said bitterly. “He seemed excited when he told me about them. I’m sure you’ll have plenty of ‘fun’ together.”

Bill vibrated in a way that came across as annoyed. “What do you mean Ford’s plans? It’s not all his plan! I already wanted to take over and rule everything before Ford. It wasn’t his idea!”

Stan scoffed. “He said you just wanted to destroy it all.”

“Same thing.”

“How can you rule everything if there’s nothing left to rule?”

“Use your imagination, Stanny-boy. Point is, I was already planning total multiverse domination. Sixer’s just trying to take credit for my great ideas again.”

Stan rubbed his temples. He wasn’t sure he believed Bill, but he didn’t really know what to believe. “You know what, I don’t care whose idea it was. I hate it either way.”

“And this is why we aren’t besties. You’re not cool like your brother. You’re the party-pooper twin.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan groaned. “Can we get back to why you’re here? I could be having a nice, peaceful dream right now if you were gone.”

Bill looked at their surroundings with pointed skepticism. “Uh-huh. Nice and peaceful place this is. Not quite what the temple actually looked like, but I applaud your imagination.”

The sound of distant applause erupted around them.

Stan supposed that was fair. He was kind of tired of this setting too, honestly. If he was going to be forced to talk to Bill tonight, he’d rather do it somewhere nicer. The last time Bill had invaded his dream had proven that Stan couldn’t get rid of him, but he could at least change their surroundings.

Concentrating very hard, Stan willed the horrible darkness and the temple away, scrunching his eyes shut and imagining the soothing sound of waves and the smell of ocean air. When he opened them again, he was satisfied to find himself on the deck of the Stan o’ War—or what he imagined it to look like if he and Ford had ever gotten it fully seaworthy.

Bill was still there too (unfortunately), gazing around with a judgemental look. “The boat? Really?”

“Shut up,” Stan muttered.

Bill did not. “You could dream about anything and you choose this dinky little boat?”

“I like it!” Stan said defensively. “It’s my dream, not yours. If you don’t like it then feel free to leave. Actually, just leave anyway. I don’t want you here.”

“Nonsense! We’re having a bonding moment.” Bill spun in a circle and his outfit changed to a Hawaiian shirt and a sombrero. His bow tie turned into an moustache for some reason, and a pair of sunglasses materialized over his eye.

Sunglasses. The kind made for humans with two eyes, which Bill did not have. The whole outfit was a hideous combination on him.

“Wow, such a nice boat you have here,” Bill complimented with a fake simper, floating around the deck as if admiring it. “Not small and boring at all. I’m sure you would have had such a great life sailing on it with your brother if you hadn’t ruined everything.”

Stan couldn’t help but wince at that. “This doesn’t feel like a bonding moment.”

“Looks like someone’s still sore about breaking their brother’s machine and getting disowned by their family because of it. Youch, eh? I’m sure that didn’t cause you any issues. It’s a good thing your old pal Bill fixed up that mess for you.”

“I—what?” Stan was utterly perplexed. “You didn’t fix anything!”

Bill made everything actively worse, actually. Stan had no idea what he was talking about.

“Sure I did!” Bill insisted. “I changed Sixer’s mind about you. When I met him, he was still kind of mad about the whole science fair thing. I’m the one that got him to think differently about it.”

Stan gaped. “Wh—? You did?”

“Me did!”

Stan blinked rapidly, not believing what he was hearing. It didn’t explain anything. Why on earth would Bill want to do that? Why would he even care about Ford making up with Stan?

“You’re the one who convinced Ford to make up with me?” he asked doubtfully.

Bill gave a cheerful, “Yep!”

“But why?”

“I already told you, you’re two halves of one soul, remember?”

Stan vaguely remembered Bill mentioning something like that last time. He’d thought Bill was just making things up. Had thought his own mind had made Bill up even. Had thought his dreams were just dreams.

“I didn’t think that was real,” he admitted.

Bill took off his sunglasses to give Stan a flat stare. “Yeesh. I’d be offended by your doubt if I didn’t already know you were dumb.”

Stan decided to leave the comment about him being dumb alone for now. If what Bill was saying was true, there might be something far more important going on. “So you were telling the truth?”

“I do that on rare occasion! It’s funny when people don’t believe me.”

And why should they? Stan didn’t think he believed Bill either. He squinted at Bill in suspicion. “I still don’t understand why you of all beings would want us to reunite.”

“Tell me, Stanny, if I cut you in half, would you survive?”

What kind of a question was that?

“No, of course not,” Stan said.

“Exactly. Now imagine instead of cutting your body in half, your soul was cut in half.” As if to punctuate Bill’s words, his Hawaiian shirt cut itself in half as he was speaking and fluttered away in the wind. Good riddance. “Seems bad, right? A soul isn’t meant to be split. Not good for it. Honestly, I’m surprised the two of you lasted apart as long as you did.”

That… sounded impossible. A soul split in half? Stan immediately wanted to say that couldn’t happen in real life, but then he’d also thought that a lot of things that had already happened couldn’t happen. The apocalypse, the portal, Bill’s whole existence. All things Stan would have never believed possible, and yet they were.

So maybe Bill was telling the truth. Stan still wasn’t sure why he was, but he could entertain the potential that maybe it was real. (The idea that it was sat like a tangled knot in his stomach. He didn’t know how to feel about it.) There were still some things he didn’t understand about the whole situation, though.

“Say I believe you about this,” Stan agreed slowly. “You would care about that… why?”

“Because Fordsy needs you for his own health and wellbeing. And I need Fordsy’s health and wellbeing to help me take over the multiverse! As much as I love seeing him go cuckoo-crazy, I don’t need his brain deteriorating so much that it doesn’t work anymore. He’s my right-hand guy, you know; my dearest bestie. Without you, he’d crack beyond repair. And while I enjoy driving people to insanity, I don’t want that for your brother. He’d be useless.”

Stan felt a pang inside his chest. “So you’re saying it’s my fault that he’s like this?”

Bill shot him finger-guns, his fingertips actually turning into guns for a moment. “If that’s the conclusion you want to draw from all of this, sure.”

“And you think I can fix him?”

“Oh, no, no, no. He doesn’t need fixing. He’s perfect the way he is. I just need you around to stabilize him. Prevent him from just being half a soul. That’s why I convinced him to reunite with you. You weren’t supposed to split.”

“What?” Stan rubbed his eyes. It might be a long shot, but if Bill was actually going to give helpful information for once then he might as well ask. Even if it felt like his brain was currently being overloaded. “Can you explain the whole soul split situation?”

He kind of got it, but he didn’t really get it. Stan was still trying to swallow the concept of what Bill had told him, and what it could mean for him and Ford.

Bill tickled his moustache, and it wiggled like a caterpillar and crawled right off his… face? Bricks? Weird.

“So here’s the thing,” Bill said. “In many universes, you guys are twins. Meant to be Stanford and Stanley Pines. In this universe, there was never supposed to be twins. There was only ever supposed to be Stanford Pines. The fact that the two of you split apart in the womb anyway is an anomaly in and of itself. And because that wasn’t supposed to happen, things got kinda messed up.”

“You mean Ford’s, uh… whatever’s wrong with him?”

“And wrong with you!” Bill cheered. “Yes, but also no. What I mean is that twins usually have twin souls; very similar, sometimes almost identical, but distinct and separate from each other. Each twin is their own person with their own soul. But like I said, the two of you weren’t even supposed to be twins. So your single soul had already developed, and when you spontaneously split, it also split your soul in two.”

Stan digested the information as best he could. The reality of it sinking into his mind with hooks. He could feel his worldview unsettling and shifting again. That had been happening too much recently.

“…So when you say I’m half a soul, you really aren’t being metaphorical.”

“Wow! Look at your little brain cells rubbing together for once! Only took half a dozen explanations from me, but on the dot, Little Fishy. As I said before, you’re literally each other’s other half!”

“Then how come Ford’s the only one who went nuts?” Stan wondered.

Bill gave him a blank stare. “Huh?”

“If what you’re saying is true, then why did our separation only drive him crazy? You’re implying he’s gone kind of insane because I haven’t been around. So why didn’t that happen to me?”

For a long, drawn-out moment, there was dead silence. Bill went entirely still in a way that was unnatural and unnerving.

And then he broke it with a loud, obnoxious laugh. “HAHAHAHAHA! It’s funny you think you weren’t affected!” Bill wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Oh boy, that’s a good one. Not affected, haha. Sure thing, Stanny-boy, you’re the picture of mental health. Didn’t affect you at all, nope.”

Stan felt mildly offended. “But I didn’t go crazy?”

He certainly wasn’t the one who’d seemingly lost his mind and gone dark-side. Wasn’t the one who jumped aboard taking over their dimension. Sure, Ford had always been different when they were younger, a little strange and off-putting, but nothing like how he was now.

Bill scoffed. “Who’s to say you’d both crack the same way? Just because the separation affected you differently than it did him doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you.”

“I’m fine!” Stan crossed his arms defensively. “I’m perfectly normal and the same as I always have been! I’m not the one with anger issues or a weird obsession with stalking their family.”

“Mm, yeah. Fordsy is a little”—Bill made a circle motion against his head with his finger to indicate crazy—“but that just comes with the henchmaniac territory.”

“You messed with his head!” Stan quickly accused, back to anger. “He’s like this now because of you!”

(It wasn’t Stan’s fault. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It had to be Bill’s fault. Stan couldn’t stomach the alternative.)

Bill looked unimpressed. His eye turned into lips and he blew a loud raspberry at Stan. “Back to the blame game, huh?”

“He told me himself!” Stan insisted, pointing at Bill. “Said you took him to that creepy temple and performed some sort of ritual on him that he doesn’t even remember. Why doesn’t he remember? I bet you did something screwy to him!”

“Hey, hey! Before you go throwing out baseless accusations, may I remind you that Ford wanted it? I told him it would suck, and he agreed to it anyway. I didn’t do anything he didn’t want,” Bill defended.

“So why can’t he remember it?” Stan demanded with a growl. “Why did he conveniently forget most of it?”

Bill rippled his arms in a weird version of a shrug. “That kind of a ritual will really take it out of ya. But trust me, I didn’t screw with his head. The transformation only amplified things that were already there, it didn’t drastically change his personality.”

“What did you even do to him?” Stan asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. It did not escape him that Bill was being avoidant about what exactly had happened. He clearly knew why Ford had forgotten, and was refusing to answer properly. “You turned him into a demon like you?”

Bill made a so-so gesture with his hand. “Yes and no. We aren’t actually demons per se; what we are is far more complicated than that. But demon is an easy equivalent that your puny human brain can understand in its own language. Or if you prefer, you could think of us as some sort of mix of demon, eldritch being, and inter-dimensional alien entity.”

“…Yeah, so you’re demons.”

“You got it!” Bill clapped sarcastically. “Although, you could also call me a god. That would suit too.”

Stan grimaced. No way he was doing that. He’d never refer to either of them as gods. Ford would develop such a complex about it and Stan didn’t need to deal with that.

“Nah, I think demon fits you better.”

“Well, then there you go! I turned the other half of you into a demon. Very consensually. Not much more to it than that.”

Stan didn’t believe him. There was absolutely more to it than that. But Bill’s words also sparked something in Stan’s memory. Something Ford had said, just before he’d gone to sleep.

“He says that I’m a demonic entity now, like him, since it was his DNA that was used in the ritual. But not… not fully? I’m still tethered to my humanity.”

With everything Bill had told him… Did that mean he was Ford’s tether? Was Stan the remaining piece of his brother’s humanity? If so, what did that mean for Stan?

“Getting real quiet on me there, Little Fishy.”

Stan frowned down at his feet, at a loss. “Why didn’t Ford tell me any of this?”

If Ford had known about their split soul this whole time, why hadn’t he told Stan? Why had he kept it all secret?

“I don’t know. What do I look like, a mind reader?” Bill paused, then cackled. “Haha! Just kidding! I am!”

Annoying, but Stan really shouldn’t have expected Bill to be anything but insensitive. And with that answer, it didn’t seem like Bill was going to give him any more useful information tonight. Whatever candid mood Bill had been in seemed to have dried up.

“You’re not funny,” Stan said.

“I am!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s a you problem. Has nothing to do with me, pal.”

“We aren’t pals,” Stan denied firmly. He was not going to be Bill’s pal or friend or whatever. He didn’t want to be anything to Bill.

“Okay, if you don’t want to be pals then we can be worsties,” Bill offered.

That threw Stan for a loop. “What?”

“You know. Ford and I are besties. So we can be worsties.”

“That’s not a thing!”

“It is if I make it one!”

“No! We don’t have to be anything to each other! I want nothing to do with you!”

“Well, that’s too bad.” Bill sounded rather gleeful, as if he were getting enjoyment from Stan’s frustration. “Because Sixer’s one of mine now, and you’re one of Sixer’s. And I can’t let you die or else Fordsy will die too, so you’re going to be around for a looooong time. Better get used to me!”

Stan grit his teeth. He’d had enough. “Ford ain’t yours and neither am I! Now get out of my dream!”

“This is my dream, actually,” Bill claimed falsely.

“No, it isn’t? You can’t just steal dreams!”

“Sure I can! See? Watch this.”

With that, Bill clapped his hands together, and a wave of air pressure swept Stan off his feet as his vision tunnelled black.

Stan awoke with a small gasp. The first thing he registered was that he was warm, and so incredibly comfortable. The second thing he registered was that Bill Cipher had kicked him out of his own dream, which… rude. The third thing he registered was that the comfortable warmth he was clinging to was breathing.

Stan slowly cracked his eyes open. It appeared that at some point during the night he had wormed his way past the pillow barrier and cuddled up next to his twin. Embarrassing, but given Stan’s past record, not very shocking.

He had one arm slung across Ford’s stomach and his face buried in Ford’s ribs. He was snuggled tightly against his brother’s side, holding on like Ford was going to try to get away from him. Not true, of course, as Ford’s hand was in Stan’s hair, rubbing soothing circles in a way that made Stan relax, his scalp tingling pleasantly at the touch.

Ford’s other hand was occasionally flicking in the air, telekinetically turning the pages of a book he was levitating above his face. He looked perfectly content lounging in bed, not at all bothered by Stan being a clingy limpet. His face was relaxed and calm, as if he’d had a good sleep.

Stan also felt weirdly rested, despite the fact that his dreams had been plagued by Bill. He’d slept better than he had in a very long time, from far before the apocalypse had ever started. By this point it was a foreign sensation to feel so rested, and to wake so peaceful. In this quiet moment, it was as if nothing was wrong. Like Stan’s very being was soothed just by Ford’s proximity.

And maybe it was, considering what he’d just learned. Stan blinked heavily, still breaking free from the grasp of sleep. Ear against Ford’s side, he could hear the beat of Ford’s heart, a steady thump, thump, thump. A beat that was completely in sync with Stan’s own.

Stan gazed aimlessly around the room, thoughts racing. What Bill had said still seemed ridiculous, but… it also could be an answer to Stan’s own confusing emotions. Why he felt drawn to Ford, even when he was upset with him and wanted to be left alone. Why something in him kept trusting Ford, even after Ford had hurt and betrayed him.

His own actions had been puzzling him ever since he’d been brought to this place. He’d seen what Ford was capable of, seen what Ford had become. But for some reason, Stan still wanted to be around his brother. He probably shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help but want to be.

It just hadn’t made sense, and the contradiction hurt his head. Logically, Stan knew Ford wasn't safe. Wasn’t good or stable. Sometimes being around him was fine, and sometimes being around him was like walking on eggshells. If he got angry it set off Stan’s instincts in a way nothing else ever had, making him break out in a cold sweat from fear. And yet.

And yet.

Something deep inside Stan, deeper than even his instincts, said safe. Relaxed when Ford was around. Cried out for him when he wasn’t. Didn’t care how dangerous Ford was or how frightening he could be because Stan needed him.

And now he knew why.

Stan turned his head up to look at Ford, staring until Ford tore his eyes away from the book to look back. He smiled upon meeting Stan’s gaze, fingers moving down to rub at the back of Stan’s neck.

“Finally awake?” Ford asked him. “You were sleeping for a long time. It’s far past breakfast now.”

Was it? Stan glanced around for the clock, and his jaw dropped as he spotted the time. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked too comfortable. And you seemed like you needed the sleep. I figured it was best to let you rest as much as you could. No harm in sleeping in for a day.”

Stan just hummed. He wondered if he’d slept so long because Bill had kept him asleep, or if the proximity to his brother had helped his insomnia. If it had anything to do with the whole soul situation.

It was hard to say, and Stan wasn’t sure how to bring it up. He hadn’t even figured out how he felt about the fact that Ford had never told him. Should he be upset? Angry? Would he have even believed Ford if he had tried to tell him?

Stan groaned and let Ford’s head massage soothe the ache that was building in his temples.

What did this mean for them? Did it really even change anything? Apparently they had always been like this and Stan just hadn’t known it. What was he supposed to do now that he did know? Could he do anything with it? Bill had said something about stabilizing Ford, hadn’t he? What did that mean exactly? How was Stan supposed to do that?

Something else Bill had said itched at his mind, and Stan frowned.

“I can’t let you die or else Fordsy will die too.”

Stan’s death… would kill his brother? Did that mean if Ford died it would kill him too? Did their lives depend on each other because they each carried half of the same soul? How closely entwined were they? Was this why Ford had said he planned to make their whole family immortal? So that Stan would never die of old age?

Maybe that was the case. But if so, Stan was still mortal now, and a horrible thought crept up on him.

He was still human. Still able to die so easily. And if his death would be the end of Ford as well, then shouldn’t he do something about it? Didn’t he have an obligation to try and make up for Ford’s mistakes? He could rid the world of at least one evil if he took Ford out.

It would… Wouldn’t it be the right thing to do?

“Stanley?” Ford called, one brow raised. “Are you falling back asleep on me?”

Stan shook his head, conflicted at the morbid choice before him. It would be right. It was his responsibility to do what he could to make up for what Ford had done. But…

(Stan felt the pulse beneath him. Two hearts beating as one.)

But…

(He loved his brother. He loved Ford hopelessly and desperately. He couldn’t bring himself to hate Ford, no matter what he’d done.)

But…

Stan didn’t want to die.

And that was the problem. Stan had never wanted to die, even when maybe he should have. Even when others would have. Stan understood. He too had felt empty and despairing and lifeless. And yet the idea of dying had always paled in comparison to the dream of one day reuniting with his brother. Stan didn’t want to die, he wanted to be with Ford.

Maybe that was selfish of him. Maybe things would be better off with one less evil, if Stan killed Ford by killing himself. But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. He wanted to live. (But how could he live with himself like this? Knowing he could do a good deed and not doing it?) He was a selfish man when it came down to it.

“Stanley?”

Stan stared at Ford’s concerned face, numbly taking in his brother’s creased brows and small frown.

There was a strange sorrow that welled up in him as the realization settled. Stan could never kill himself, because he could never kill Ford. How could he stand to kill his own brother? To be responsible for his death? The very thought made his heart twist.

He loved Ford too much to do that. And it hurt to come to terms with, because of everything Ford had done. But no matter what he had become, Stan could never hate his brother. He could be furious with him, but he could never harm Ford like that.

Still, it felt like he was letting everybody down. Like Stan was dooming the universe by choosing to remain alive. The weight of it threatened to crush him, as if he were now solely responsible for everything that would happen. Whatever Ford did now, Stan was passively allowing it by selfishly choosing to live.

The thought made him sick. He had a way to stop Ford. He could stop Ford at any time. (Yet he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And it meant Stan was choosing Ford over the world.)

“Lee? Are you alright?”

Ford’s hand cupped his cheek. Stan found himself leaning into it, desperate for the comfort.

“I love you,” he blurted out. The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

But Ford’s responding smile was so sweet.