Work Text:
Stan held Ford's hand firmly, even though all 11 of their fingers were trembling. Ford's free hand shakily picked up the spoon, picking up a couple pieces of cereal with it, as he eats in the first time in days. he'd forgotten how important food was in terms of keeping him awake.
"...how'd you survive?" Ford suddenly asked, he's not sure if he actually wanted to know though. getting kicked out at 16 could get you to break a couple laws, and by the looks of Stanley, he probably broke a hundred. Ford looked at his cereal, uninterested as he waited for Stan's answer.
"hm?"
"How'd you survive?" Ford repeated, albeit a bit annoyed this time around.
a couple silent moments pass, as Stan tried to recount how he ever did survive. and with every passing second, Ford's stomach would practically sink to the floor with how long Stan was taking to think. he'd always convinced himself that Stanley would be alright, he was a social magnet after all, he could survive on his own, but seeing right now, in front of him?
Moses, he looked like shit. Even shittier than when Ford yelled at him all those years ago for accidentally breaking a machine that was— admittedly, very frail. It would've never survived the trip to the west coast, yet Ford never stopped blaming Stanley for the lost opportunity. and to think that Stanley’s been struggling this whole time and that it was technically Ford's fault? maybe his Muse didn't lie about everything.
“huh. not sure, actually!” Stanley finally replied, and for a second Ford saw that little glint in his eyes that said otherwise. “just kinda had to brute force my way through life. but it's all good! Chicks love that ‘broken bad boy’ type.” Stan brushed it off, but Ford didn't. he had to keep pressing.
but he had to be more calculating with his questions. “alright… I know about the conman thing… anything else?” he prodded carefully, taking another bite of his cereal so Stan wouldn't get ‘distracted’ about him not eating and steering the conversation away.
“hmm… let's see… shoplifting, dealin’ drugs, prostitution, pug trafficking—” Stan started to list off on his 5 fingers until Ford almost spat out his food.
“pug trafficking?— wait, no- PROSTITUTION!?” Ford almost slammed his hands on the table if he wasn't worried about the bowl falling off. prostitution? his brother? huh? Ford's more shocked than horrified, but he's still definitely both. Stanley looked startled by his outburst, like whoring yourself out for cash was the first thing you'd do if you were homeless.
then he started to laugh.
“wh- what? what are you laughing about?” Ford said, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed about himself, until Stan waved him off reassuringly.
“it- it's just, you're in a toxic relationship with a triangle, and you're worried about me- what, makin’ a little bit of money?” Stan brushed off his concern, but Ford kept pressing. How many times has he had to do this? does he enjoy it? maybe it's consensual, that's why Stan seemed so nonchalant about it. Maybe Ford was taking this the wrong way, that Stan just (very weirdly) liked… it.
apparently Stanley had some twin ESP because his look softened and his hand gripped a little tighter on Ford's.
“look, I know it's not ideal, but you gotta do what you gotta do, y'know?” Stanley tried to explain, but the look on Ford's face was getting more concerned, “nothin’ I could do about it, honest. Only did it out of survival.” even worse. “what- whadd’ya want me to say?” Stan finally said with an uncomfortable expression. he had let go of Ford's hand.
Ford's heart was on the floor, bleeding out.
“I'm sorry.” the words blurt out from his mouth.
Stan tilted his head with an awkward smile, shifting in the chair, “I'm… sorry?” he said, a bit unsure, before looking back at Ford's horrified expression. he ran his fingers through his hair, “look- I'm sorry, okay? I know it's kind of weird and gross, ‘specially since I'm your twi-”
“huh?” Ford interjected, snapping out of it, “what- n- why are you apologizing??” he adjusted his glasses as Stan started to sputter out of embarrassment. and by god he felt like the worst brother in the world.
“w- well because I, I thought you woulda been weirded out by me doing that, you know, based off your reaction??” Stan scoffed, crossing his arms defensively, which just made Ford feel worse.
“what? no, I wasn't telling you to…” he sighs, “nevermind. I'm… I'm sorry, Stanley. I-... I should've…” he chews on his lip, but the words were stuck in his throat. he frowned as he looked down on his cereal. “you shouldn't have to do that, you- you should've told me sooner.” he swallowed his pride, “I would've helped.” no, he wouldn't have.
Ford wouldn't even have answered the call if he knew Stan was the one calling, even if Stan was in immediate danger. He really wouldn't have. All those years of being petty and mad, while Stan's been… what, fending for his life out there? being taken advantage of? fuck, Stan was dealing drugs just for cash?
Ford wanted to tear his hair and eyes out, but he fears that wouldn't be enough to undo what Stan went through. crap. he was the worst.
Ford ran his fingers through his hair exasperatedly, which made Stan bite the inside of his cheek. “c'mon, eat Ford.” Stan nudged the bowl towards him, but the other took off his glasses, gripping it almost to the point of breaking it in half. he closed his eyes.
“I can't eat after what you told me.”
Stan shifted uncomfortably on the chair beside Ford, “sorry.” he mumbles awkwardly.
Ford wanted to throw something, but he opts for running his hands down his face and saying, “don't apologize.” and for being so incredibly annoyed, his voice was surprisingly… quiet. he wanted to rip his eyes out.
when he saw his own face in that TV, committing crimes and committing false advertising, he was livid. furiously ranted to his Muse Bill about it, and believed every single word that liar told him. He thought Stan was okay, he thought he'd been a millionaire off of… whatever, not fucking homeless and scraping by for literal pennies. He believed Bill over his concern for his own brother. Like he believed Bill over Fiddleford.
Moses, everything hurt. his head was pounding, his fingers could barely move without the pain shooting through his entire hand, his right eye hurt like a bitch, his legs were cramping. but still. this was more painful than any of that. It was his fault that Stan had to do this, had to resort to so many drastic measures just to live.
He didn't know it got that bad, to the point of… this. Bill might be a huge threat, but Ford, for the first time in forever, was more focused on someone else. Bill might be a god, but right now he was an atheist. worship hardly felt like a mistake when his brother was sitting in front of him with those sunken eyes that have done things that nobody should ever do just to feed himself.
“I want to make it up to you.” Ford blurted out, even though he knew damn well nothing was going to ever make up for what Stanley had gone through these past few years. But he wanted to try anyway, because Stan always did. and if he couldn't defeat Bill, he wanted to at least prove him wrong.
“for what?” Stan tilted his head with that same awkward smile that told Ford that he wasn't gonna accept any help. good thing Ford was as stubborn as him.
Ford paused, thinking, “for… I don't- I don't know! I didn't know you'd be scraping by for nickels in order to survive.” he adjusted his glasses as he leaned back in his chair. He glanced back at Stan for a moment, who was kind of awkwardly fidgeting with his hands.
“you can make it up to me by eating.” Stan hummed in response, gently nudging the untouched bowl of cereal towards Ford. Ford looked down at the cereal, before huffing. “only if you eat too.” he grumbled, which made Stan laugh.
Ford pressed on, “I'm being serious. eat with me.” he said firmly, before realizing Stanley might not want to be ‘patronized’ (cared for), so he switches up his tone. “it feels weird eating by myself.” he muttered as he picked up the spoon, poking at the floating pieces of cereal.
apparently it was easy to convince your brother to feed himself when you make it about you, neat! He should do this more often.
when Stanley got up to get himself some food, Ford's bandaged hands start to feed himself, as he glanced back to the door that led to the room he dedicated to Bill. and he remembers. if he fell asleep, that demon could steer the wheel into making a deal with Stanley, or worse.
Ford swallowed down the anxiety bubbling up in his chest, as the familiar paranoia swept over him like a wave once again. what if Bill hurt Stanley? would Stan think that he was Ford? would Bill scare him off forever, leaving Ford alone and paranoid until he inevitably shoots himself? the possibilities were endless, yet none of them yielded a good outcome.
Ford shakily took another bite of his cereal.
no, Stanley could overpower Ford anyday, so Bill can't beat him in a brawl if that so ever happens. Stan, however, didn't have the same mental training that Ford has had to do due to Bill’s constant possession and tweaking of his brain; so he could fall for the demon’s tricks easily, just like Ford once did. he picked at the bruise on his hand as he thought about it.
“...hey, y’good?” Stan says, sitting next to a shaking Ford. He put his hand on Ford's shoulder out of concern, and he could feel Ford relax ever-so-slightly. Ford sighed tiredly.
no. Ford could warn him beforehand, he's not making the same mistake of not sticking out for him, he'd already done that and learnt the consequences of it. and apparently the consequences were getting into a partnership with satan. Stanley was awkwardly patting his back when Ford's stare on the floor started to dig into the center of the earth.
“...yeah.” Ford smiled exasperatedly, which only made Stan worry. Ford looked back at that concerned expression, before running his fingers through his own hair. “we'll be okay, I think.”
Stanley's expression softened, before slumping lazily against Ford's shoulder, “you think too much.” he grumbled, and Ford would laugh at the little quip.
yeah. they'll be okay.
hopefully.