Chapter Text
When Stanley was young - much younger, when his head stopped perfectly at his pa’s knees and when his brother would scoop him into a tight hug as if he weighed nothing - he used to watch movies with his ma’. Tucked nicely to her side, one her arms draped across his tiny shoulder as they both watched one of many of her romantic movies. Most of them were either comedies or noir movies, containing dramatic depictions of murder or silly plots involving the characters and their routines.
He vaguely remembered one from these days, one involving one of his mama’s favourite actresses; about a woman and her husband having a baby and her family coming to grips with it, trying to adjust to the new addition to their family. He remembers how the Father would comfort his Daughter while she was pregnant, offering gifts and words of reassurance. Hugging his Daughter - although grown - as if she still were a little girl. He remembers the Father - an imposing figure, the man of the house - being terrified but so in love with the baby, a tiny being who fit perfectly in his arms in a protective hold. He remembers how warm and vibrant the colors of the film were, showing the love, joy and unity of the family.
He remembers being jealous of it.
Now, at fifteen years old, staring at the paper in his hands, the only thing he can feel is dread . Even with the glasses and eyes open wide, his vision is blurry. His hands are shaking, gripping the paper to the point he can feel the creaks on its corners. Nowhere are the feelings of happiness and excitement, numbness and desperation coiling tight in his chest, almost lurching to his stomach where he can almost feel bile rising up in his throat.
Stan barely remembers going to the hospital to report some strange symptoms - only because his Mama fought with Pops to let him go, or else he would just have to become one with the bathroom, with the way he couldn’t keep the food down -, giving the doctor a blood and urine sample, with a warning to come back after two weeks. Well, he went back, and now he feels worse than he did before. He wishes that it was a stomach bug, a fever, anything that could be fixed with pills or bedrest.
He's pregnant.
He’s pregnant and he's terrified .
With tears coating the sides of his eyes, his face contorting into something ugly, he slams the paper down on the sink and he just… stops. He plops down on the toilet bowl, dragging his hands across his face to either- give him some clarity or something that will fix this entire situation somehow. Moses, he doesn’t even want to look down, even if he’s not showing he- he doesn't want to think about it, either because he’s scared or because he doesn’t want to accept it. There’s something growing inside of him at this moment, and it will continue to do if he doesn’t get rid of… them (he doesn’t want to call it… it . It feels strange, he doesn’t want to call this anything, he has no idea of what he wants to do at all).
He roughly rubs his fist against his eyes in a poor attempt to get rid of the tears. It-- doesn’t matter now (it does, actually). He’s-- he’s going to-- he’ll go to his room, forget about this situation, maybe calm down a little, then he’s going to sleep and actually think of what he’s going to do, because right now he’s a mess (and that’s coming from him of all people so, yeah, it’s actually bad). Sounds like a plan, technically the only plan he has at this moment. He just needs to relax.
Letting out a tired sigh, he stands up and collects the paper (he doesn’t look at it, much less the contents inside of it) and goes to his room. Hands tucked into fists tightly at his side, paper hidden inside in one of them - if he focuses too much it feels like it's burning against his skin. He shoves the diagnostic and his glasses somewhere in his stand, booking it straight to his bed and curling into a ball. He just wants this day to be over, to not think about what’s going to happen to his body after some months, how he’s going to even tell this to his parents or… him about this, or how is he going to expel them out-
Stanley shuts his eyes.
His father is yelling at him. His father is yelling at him and he doesn’t understand. There are tears in his eyes ( again ) and he’s trying to to move away, but his father has a hold so tight in his wrist that he can feel his bones grinding against each other and it hurts . Filbrick Pines was never a gentle man, he wasn’t a man who offered affection to his sons nor was he one for words of comfort, practically nailing it into their heads the image of what a real man should be (although such jabs were more specifically aimed at him, especially on him). But this time is more violent, more chaotic, and he is hurting him and he just woke up and he can’t understand what he did to earn his ire this time and he wants for his father to let go of arm because he’s scared and he’s crying and he’s afraid-
He’s still screaming at him, hurling insult after insult - worse than the ones that he’s accustomed to. He calls him a “whore”, an “irresponsible slut who couldn’t keep his legs closed”, a “bitch without a leash”, at some point he starts rambling about “how the fuck did someone actually wanted to fuck you with your fucking face”. Then, it dawns on him, and he feels nothing but sheer horror at the fact that his father knows . For some goddamn reason his father knows about the life inside of him. Did the doctors tell him? Did he go through his room? Did he tell him about what happened in the –
And his father raises his hand and he tries to cover his stomach with his free hand slaps him, so hard it stings. At this point he’s crying heavily. Salty tears enter his mouth when he hiccups and sobs, snot leaking down his nose as pained whimpers and whines escape him, babbling in an attempt to ease his father’s anger and get him to listen and stop hurting him. He can’t see what he looks like, but he’s sure he looks more pathetic than he does - and his father’s assault just makes his face reddier, he’s pretty sure there’s a mark or a bruise forming already.
“Po- Pops–!”
“No son of mine is gonna be whorin’ himself out and live under my roof!! How are you gonna raise this kid?! Do you expect your mother and I to accept another mouth to feed because you thought it was a good idea to open your legs to the first man that showed the slightest interest in you?! I don’t have a single doubt you don’t even know who the father is - probably some random on the side of the road! You don’t have a single shame in your face by being more of a disappointment than you already are?!”
“POPS, PL-PLEASE--!!"
“GET OUT!!”
Stanley doesn’t remember his father dragging him through the house, when he misses a step and almost falls down the stairs, or when his father is walking so fast through the hallway that it makes him slam into the furniture and the walls while he tries to keep up - he can physically feel the bruises forming in his body. The thing he does remember is how his father just throws him out of the door, the concrete of the sidewalk scraping the skin of his shoulder and a sharp pain coming from his ankle. Surprisingly, the only thing he lets out is something between a yelp and a sob; figure shaking because of his father’s looming presence over him and the harsh, cold wind suddenly slamming into his bare skin - his loose shirt and shorts doing nothing to help his state.
“Maybe if ya’ had stayed quiet, done something worthwhile in your life, known your place- but no . You just had to blow it up by getting that- thing inside of you. A brat who couldn’t get a single grade in his life, the only job you'll probably ever get is the same one that put you in this situation. You already opened your legs for some bastard, what’s another one?” His father seethed, jaw clenched so hard he could hear his teeth grinding against each other if he tried. He couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, but he could feel his stony eyes drilling into his cowered sobbing form on the ground. “I wonder how long it will take for you to ruin them, just like everything ya’ done in your life.”
His father closes the door, and he hurts . He can feel more tears forming, blurring his already messed up vision (bastard didn’t even let him get his glasses, now that he noticed) and he feels so sad , because that was his father, the man who was supposed to help him and protect him from the start, instead, he berated him, called him every single name in the book - he wouldn’t be surprised if this was just the nail in the coffin for the man, always calling him useless and a disappointment, maybe he always wanted to get rid of him. And he feels angry , so angry that the tears fall without him wanting to; that his face twists, turns mean, jaw clenched shut because he doesn’t want to give that man any satisfaction in seeing him at his lowest and he was so- tired . Tired of crying, tired of his situation, tired of his dad’s shitty comments and snippy remarks when no one was looking. He wants to yell and scream and punch something because it’s unfair and because his father is right - and that just makes him more miserable.
What was he thinking? Laying on his bed wearing nothing aside from his beige coat, in a position where his chubby thighs were open just a tad bit to not show everything but enough to cause temptation. Shaking his ass and breathily moaning his name, not even caring about the fact that he was a slut like his father had said, completely ignoring how wrong it was. A fifteen year old with an acne ridden face with a thirty year old man? If his bullies ever caught wind of it they would have a blast - and that’s enough to make him stand up abruptly - almost falling to the ground again - and stomp to somewhere far away from that house. He can’t see shit, his arms and legs hurt, the wind sucks, and he wants to punch and claw his stomach until he gets that thing out of him, because they ruined his life, because he’s ruining their life by being their parent and it’s not their fault (even if he feels the angriest he’s ever felt, it's not his baby fault ). He just want things to go back to normal, he wished he had never done any of the things he had done, he wished he was better, wished that he never existed, wished that his mother was home at the time, wished that things were different, wished that his brother–
…
His brother .
So, he may or may not have broken the lock of his Pa’s store (sue him - please don’t - he’s already at rock bottom at this point, what's another thing in his list?) and stole some coins - because screw the bastard and he actually needs them this time. Although in his haste to get far away from the place, he stepped on a piece of glass - the little ones, the ones that stuck in your skin like glue and are hell to get rid of - because he’s blessed at this point. Not like his life is falling apart while he walks barefoot (he can feel the little pieces digging deeper in his feet and it hurts -) to the closest thing that can resemble a payphone. Thankfully, it’s dark, so no one’s able to see the murder scene that he probably left behind the store - which, now that he stops to think about it, could actually put him in trouble. He’s bleeding, isn’t he? He’s probably leaving bloody footsteps behind. Shit. He needs to find a payphone, now .
Fortunately for him, there’s one just a few blocks, fading red paint with some graffiti on its surface. It was clearly old, likely not used or taken care of enough, for a moment he worries that it won’t work and he’ll have to walk even more to find something or - even worse - someone to ask help for, his father would find another way to rip him a new one if he worsened his image around the neighborhood. As he inserts the coins in the slot of the machine and dials the numbers he memorized, he mentally prays that, for some miracle, the old tin can doesn’t decide to fail on him now and ruin his only chance at getting the miniscule possibility of help or support.
The slightest feeling of hope bloomed in his chest as he heard the dial sound, that maybe - just maybe - he wasn’t as doomed as he grew accustomed to think he was. That maybe, his brother could help him in some way, where no one even thought of doing so. That his life would instantaneously turn better once he heard his brother’s voice and he would offer him something - be it money or a gift to make him smile, he always did it whenever he came to visit. He would magically appear by his side and show him one of his inventions, going on tangents and ramblings in the middle of his explanation, and he would clap and compliment him on his genius and creativity because he’s his brother and…
…and what then?
He may be his brother, but… he’s still father’s son, just like him. Where Stanley pulled all the family’s disgrace, the older man was the pride and heart of the family. Graduated as top student in a college far away from Glass Shard Beach, acquired twelve PhDs all on his own, moved away to a lonesome town in Oregon and managed to acquire Moses knows how much money from his researches, inventions and studies - he always sent an amount to his parents, but he always gave his personally, long and strong fingers holding his hands with such care that it would make him blush and stammer nervously at his brother’s kindness. His brother was deeply protective of him, going as far to retort their father’s prejudice, hugging him and rubbing his shoulders when he was out of sight, in the safety of his room.
His brother was… better than him. It’s not a comment, it’s a fact. The man was stable financially and intellectual before he had even turned eighteen. The older man was always his number one supporter and defender, but worried to a degree it almost bordered possessiveness. What would he say if Stan were to tell him what happened? Would he actually accept him with open arms? Or would he degrade him? Call him a whore and tell him how he could have been that irresponsible? What if he agreed with father ? Would he leave him alone to raise the little life forming in his stomach? Call him a disappointment for his circumstances? Would he- would he say that what happened was a mistake-
“Stanford Pines, how may I help you?”
His brother’s deep voice suddenly coming from the phone is enough to bring him back to reality, flinching at the surprisingly loud sound echoing on the small booth. Where he once felt hope, now he only feels numbness. The same dread he felt a few hours earlier forming once again, twisting around his chest. He held the phone tightly between his fingers, he probably sounded like a creep not saying anything and just breathing into the phone, eyes wide and shiny with tears.
He really didn’t think this through. What the fuck is he going to say to him? “Oh, hello dear brother! I got pregnant and now I expect you to swoop in at this moment, right now, in the middle of the night, to help me! Not only did I ruin MY life, I'm also going to ruin YOUR life and potentially our entire relationship! Because you’re quite literally the only person that can listen or help me at this instant, because I got kicked out and disowned by our dad! Yay!”
“Listen, i have better things to do, it’s the middle of the night and i don’t have time for this–”
“Stanford.” His voice is quiet, wobbly by the nervous tears falling down his cheeks and he - desperately - tries to hold back his sniffles, he doesn’t want to worry his brother more than he already did (much less waste his time, he almost hanged up on him if he continued to not say anything, which is- fair enough).
“...Stanley? Is that you? Are you alright?”
No, he’s not. This is the worst he’s ever felt (and he is not going to touch that time where Pa made him stand up in front of the shop with that sign) because his life is literally depending in the goodness in his brother’s heart to at least- give him some kind of advice or solution to this… situation. And he doesn’t even know how he’s going to tell him that. His free hand fists his shorts.
“Stanley? Are you there? What hap-”
“I’m pregnant, Ford.”
And that’s what breaks the camel’s back. His brother goes quiet, and Stanley breaks right there, in the telephone booth. Sobs that feel like they’re being ripped from him wrecking his body, making him tremble so hard that he has to hold the phone with both of his hands, the tip of his fingers turning blue and white because of the pressure and the chill of the glass panels. He stutters to Ford, who’s way too fucking quiet of the other side of the phone that he’s scared he actually hanged up on him.
“I’m- i’m pregnant, Stanford,” he sniffles, hard. The snot trailing down the back of his throat, voice rough. “I’m- i’m so sorry, i’m so- sorry ! I- I didn’t mean to-! I’m- alone, i’m scared and- and- i don’t know what to do ! Pa, he- he said- he-! I’m so sorry!” And he just cries into the phone, babbling apologies over and over again because he ruined his brother’s life and the life who’s still forming in him. Legs shaking and buckling over nothing, chest heaving so hard he coughs into the shitty phone, entire body curved forward in an attempt to warm and protect himself from some unknown assailant.
“Stanley! Stanley, breath, it’s okay. It’s okay, can you tell me where you are?”
He feels half tempted to hang up on Ford, feeling strangely guilty over putting him in the middle of his problems and making him worry about him. But he really, really needs his help, at least to get out of Glass Shard Beach and not have to worry about his peers or his father.
“I’m- i’m in the telephone booth, near- near Pa’s shop…” He croaked out, using his wrist to wipe his eyes.
“Stanley, stay right where you are, okay? I’ll be right there. I swear.”
Wow, doesn’t that just make him feel more shitty? If he were in a good mood, he would joke about him teleporting from Oregon from New Jersey. Now, he feels a strange sense of relief, sobs getting quieter at the passing moment. “Okay, i’ll-... okay…”
Stanford hangs up, the sound of a disconnected call echoing in the booth. He shakily returns the phone to the machine, pressing both hands to his face and dragging them down - at least he doesn’t have to worry about smudging his glasses like this, that brings a hollow laugh out of him. He paces a bit inside of the stand, rubbing his arms trying to get a bit of warmth and to keep his blood flowing - though he had to sit down at some point, the pieces of glass stuck to his feet making themselves known, painfully.
The quiet of the night makes him uneasy, the flickering light reminds him of those bad horror movies he would watch with his brother. With low budget effects and an unnecessary amount of blood and jumpscares. Compared to the outside, he’d rather stay inside of the booth, where the wind and cold isn’t as strong. And he’s without his glasses, he really doesn’t want to find out if that ominous black blur in the distance is a man or a light post.
So, he stares off at the distance. Counting that amount of graffiti inside the stall, mentally tracing them because like hell he’s going to put his hands in something - he doesn’t need tetanus to worsen his state or to hurt…
Stanley blinks, furrowing his brows and slowly lowering his legs - careful enough to not damage the soles of his feet more. In an extremely slow motion, he raises his hand, moving the shaky limb over his stomach. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes (he really didn’t want to think about how scared he was of this, to actually think about his situation and accept it in some way, to actually address his baby) and laid it over his midsection, right where his womb was.
He remembers some time where his brother had become obsessed with human anatomy, showing him images of the books and throwing random information to impress him. Stanford once told him about how the mother could only feel the baby around 4 months, where some of its limbs were already formed. So, listen, he knows he’s fat, always has been chubby since he was a kid. So either he’s hallucinating from exhaustion or his mind is tricking him in a really sick way, but he feels . Nothing strong like a kick - of course not -, but enough to send a flutter through his chest. He’s so surprised he doesn’t notice his other hand joining its twins on his stomach, slightly rubbing his fat but still flat belly.
He… still doesn’t know how to feel about the existence inside of him, especially not now. He’s not in the right place - literally and mentally -, he doesn’t even know how long it will take his brother to find him, maybe he abandoned him (which makes him want to bash his head into the window immediately. His brother may call him a pain in the ass sometimes but he loves him, he wouldn’t do that). But for some twisted reason, he wants to believe that he can do his child right. Either out of spite to his father or because it’s his … It's his baby. He’s so, so scared to hurt them or fail them in the same way his father did, he would never forgive himself if he made feel like his father did or - god forbid - raise his hand towards them (he can still feel the sting of the slap).
So he dreams. He dreams that he can actually raise this child to be better than him, someone good, someone smart, someone who knows they are loved - and he really should stop thinking about this, it’s just making him feel like shit, goddamn it he can feel tears brimming his eyes again . He imagines what he looks like - how he will look after some months if he keeps them, the little life inside of him actually transforming themselves into someone, a tiny human being. He imagines his baby in his arms, and he almost cries again because of how real the image feels, small chubby hands holding his finger, shiny eyes filled with mirth and wonder at the world around them. And for a moment, he thinks about his other parent, he thinks about-
“Stanley?” Stanford taps at the door of the booth, and he immediately scrambles to get up, which proves to be a bad plan immediately. The blood in his feet has already dried up, but the sharp pain when he suddenly rose up and the pressure he put in his limbs has him going to the floor again, landing hard on his knees. He winces, rubbing his thighs tensely as he listens to his brother almost rip the door open, kneeling by his side and rubbing his shoulder.
“Shhh, calm down, Stanley. I’m here, big brother is here- by the heavens, Stanley! Is that blood?!” He only has time to let out a noise of surprise as he’s scooped into his brother’s lap, the older man checking his visible skin, becoming uneasily aware of the red and purple bruises decorating his body (he really doesn’t want to see how he’ll react to his father’s handprint in his cheek). “Stanley, what- what happened to you?” Ford asks quietly, eyebrows turned upwards with worry. Man, the guilt will really eat him up when he actually comes to his senses.
“Pops kicked me out…” he laughs in an attempt to lighten the mood, but it comes out so forced he inwardly cringes. He regrets it immediately when his brother’s face darkens, suddenly going still next to him. “He did what?” The man practically growls out, squeezing him tighter on his lap.
“...He- he kicked me out, Ford.” Stan says dejectedly, head falling between his brother’s shoulder and neck, exhaustion covering his body like a blanket. “I’m pregnant, what did you expect?”
“For him to take care of you, to treat you like his son” goes unsaid. They both know that, even if it’s the bare minimum. So, his brother huffs through his nose and lifts him in a bridal carry, finally leaving the booth and going towards his shabby yellow car. Carefully positioning him in the passenger seat - the act makes his heart clench , so different from the mistreatment he experienced earlier.
“We’ll treat your injuries later - especially your feet. For now, let’s just- get out of here. We can stop at some hospital away from here. And… get some glasses for you too.” Ford comments, trying to reassure him or himself, he doesn’t know. But he appreciates the effort.
The ride is quiet for a moment, either Ford simply finished the conversation or he genuinely doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t blame him, to be honest, the entire situation still feels alien to him. It happened so- fast . His brain is still trying to wrap itself around it.
…Ford talked about a hospital. Would they… do it?
“...Do you- do you think they would…” he stutters out, becoming nervous when Ford’s eyes turn to him, still facing the road in front of them. “...do you think they would… get rid of-”
“No.” Stanford says, his tone leaving no room for argument. For some reason, it sounded so cold . He stares at his brother, eyes wide with surprise and worry, face slowly morphing into frustration (and anger, he’s been feeling that a lot lately, it’s not good for the baby ). Either he’s getting emotional or the stress is catching up to him, but- he just cut him off! He- he doesn’t want this ! ( does he? ) He didn’t even hear him out!
“It’s dangerous, Stanley.” Ford says, voice still too serious for his liking. “Not to say, such a method isn’t allowed anymore, you would be arrested alongside anyone that performed it.”
“So what? I’ll just- have it ?!” He raises his voice - unintentionally - but it’s- so unfair . It’s easy for him to spit out it’s illegal and dangerous, to just say “no” to his face, to this . It’s not his life that was just ruined ( was it? It was, but the baby ), it’s not his body that’s going to get ruined by a- a surprise parasite ( don’t call them that, you sound like father ), nor he’s the one that’s going to- push them out of his fucking pussy ( it terrifies him, but he wants to see his baby, he wants to hold him and kiss him and hug him ) because he doesn’t have one.
“It’s… the safest option-” Ford hesitates. And Stanley growls, hands fisting his soft hair, clawing at his scalp while his brother watches him with ever growing worry.
“I don’t want it!” He does, he wants his baby, he doesn’t care about the gender or whatever weird interests they’ll have, he wants his baby in his arms but he’s so scared . “It ruined my life! I got kicked out- because of it! I- i want this thing out of me! I never asked for this- fucking parasite, it’s all your fault-!!”
“ Stanley .”
Stan flinches at his brother’s voice, the older man’s face twisted in a scowl. He knows his brother would never hurt him, he has no memory of the man ever raising his hand towards him, but he curls in his seat hands firmly in front of his stomach, turned away from him, and his brother softens immediately and he feels so bad-
“I’m scared, Stanford.” He sniffles, breaking the silence of the car. “I’m just- I don't know what to do. I don’t know what I wanna do.” He doesn’t cry, but the want is there. The teen can’t even look at his brother, face turned to the side, his hands still gripping the front of his stomach.
The car is quiet, road signs passing through them - he would’ve counted them, if he weren’t so drained. Stanford doesn’t say anything, but after some time, he feels a six fingered hand slowly wrap around his, moving it to his lap.
When they were children, Stanley always looked up to his brother - literally, he was younger and smaller than him. For him, he was the coolest person in the entire world - he still is, he’s just not so vocal about it, to avoid feeding his ego and to escape his teasing. They would always hold hands whenever they went, the then-teenager fingers were long, slim, but the extra finger always gave him a bit more width. He loved how his hands could cover his entirely, only leaving his thumb out to trace his older brother’s knuckles.
“It’s going to be okay, Stanley.” Ford whispered, sounding like a prayer, like a promise. “You’re not alone anymore. Plus…” The older man brought his younger brother’s hand to his face, lips kissing the tip of his fingers.
“Don’t you think they would like having their father around?” His eyes move to the teenager in the seat next to him, watching as his eyes are directed to the floor, until he slowly turns to him. It’s clear he’s still nervous and wary about the choice, but, just maybe , with his brother by his (and his baby) side, things would… turn out right. Or tolerable, atleast.
“You sure? Can’t back out of this one, Sixer…” His hand lays limp in his brother’s hold, brown eyes looking at him with so much hope it squeezes his heart. Stanford smiles, eyes crinkling when his brother looks away with a faint red in his cheeks (ones that don’t come from his father, ones that don’t come from the purpose of causing pain). He squeezes his hand, emotions bursting through his chest when the youngest squeezes back.
“Oh, Stanley. When have I ever?”