Chapter Text
Ford glared at his reflection in the mirror, the flickering light of the diner bathroom casting his eyes into flickers of darkness. He swore he could almost hear him again. Steadying himself on the sink of the bathroom, he shakily turned to pull the doorknob, ignoring the fear that trickled into his mind at the memories of doing this countless times before, trying to appear normal to Fiddleford in the midst of being possessed by a lunatic. ”Hey Sixer,” Stan said, looking up and smiling uncertainly. “What took you so long?”. Ford held back a flinch at the familiar nickname, and shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. “I’m fine. What did you want to do after this?”. Stan chortles in response. “There’s not a lot to do here Ford. Hell, even the mall is off limits. Kinda only half there,” Stan snorted. “I guess we’re just going to have to wait until we get on the Stan o’ War.” Ford winced at the reminder, an all-too familiar shame bubbling up. He could have lost all this. He was only saved by a miracle. Stan forgave him, god only knows why, and decided he still wanted to spend time with him, a childhood dream that was never going to happen before.
“Poindexter,” Stan started. “You good?” Ford flinched at the question, a reminder that he was failing again. This trip was supposed to be about Stan. Not about him, like it had always been. Stan deserved some happiness after everyone Ford had put him through. And again, Stan was worried about him. Always him. Not himself, though he had just wiped his memory for Ford’s sake. No, Ford had wiped his memory.
The greasy diner plate, still full of rancid food, taunted him, another reminder that Stan was paying for everything he had, both figuratively and literally. “Ford,” Stan’s voice repeated, cutting through Ford’s self-hatred (wholly deserved). “Sixer, let’s just go home okay?” Ford nodded halfhearted, vowing to not slip up again. Stan dropped a wad of crumbled up cash on the booth, and Ford felt as if every penny spent was a part of Ford’s dignity chipping away further.
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Ford looked at his suitcase, groaning at his trembling hands for messing up his folding again. Putting his head in his hands, he sat on his bed, feeling every bit of the old man he was. “Ford,” a voice yelled from downstairs. “You hungry?” Ford laughed internally at the question. Even if he was hungry, he wouldn’t allow himself to waste anymore of Stan’s time or money. Remembering that he still had to respond he yelled down the stairs an excuse. He couldn’t remember which one it was this time, that he wasn’t hungry, he already ate, he was going to make himself something (the worst one, considering Stan knew he has blown up the kitchen more than even Ford himself could count). It seemed to have worked because Stan went back to whatever he was doing prior.
Ford inched towards the bedroom door, putting his head on the cool wood. He wondered if anything he said would change anything.
Today was the day before they would board and say goodbye to gravity falls for the definite next few months. Ford was usually a very prepared person, his suitcases and planners filled with tools to keep time in his favor. However, his injuries from weirdmageddon had been troubled him to the point he couldn’t pack. He knew that the lack of food and sleep we’re probably not helping him, but he couldn’t help but think it was penance for his sins. Ford had never been a religious man, but he sure did follow Cipher’s words like a religion, and he felt like this aftermath was the only way out of his selfishness. His ego had been his downfall, and refused to let his ego even get close to what it was before. By keeping himself humble, lower than he felt he had ever been, even in the depths of self-hatred as a child, he allowed himself to live with his guilt. He did have to change his bandages however. His body was begging for a release from his pain, but the only way out would be death, an entirely selfish act after Stan had sacrificed his whole life to get him here, alive. He wished he could ever return Stan’s kindness, but for now, the only thing he felt obliged to was staying alive so he could punish himself further. Irregardless, the only thing he had to show for his last few days of locking himself in his room was an unpacked suitcase and unraveled bandages.
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Stan was grinning like an hyena, his suitcase full, everything rattling around like he had stuffed 20 bags of marbles among his clothes. Ford, on the other hand, had packed light. The only thing that would have taken up space would be his weapons, but he had never left those off of his persona for a second. Glancing at Stan brought him a small smile, relishing in the happiness that was the center of the trip. Stan suddenly stopped, and Ford worried that he was having a memory lapse before Stan dug into his other bag, pulling out two bottles of beer. “Stan, what on earth? Is that even safe after the whole,” Ford gestured to Stan’s head, bemused. “Come on, Sixer, you’re no fun,” Stan taunted, and before Ford could see his eyes turn yellow and his voice distorting, he grabbed his injured arm, relishing in the pain, putting himself in the present moment.
“Fine, Stan,” Ford said, willing his hands not to shake as he reached for the bottle. As he sipped it hesitantly, he groaned internally, knowing that it was not going to be a pleasant hangover.
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Stan wasn’t that stupid. He knew something was up, but he wasn’t sure what. Was it just guilt? Something else? Sometimes he looked at Ford, hovering around him like a ghostly presence, eyes focused on something beyond him. Ford always seemed to have excuses for one thing or another, either for not being hungry, not sleeping, and just not opening up. Stan had waited his whole life for this, a boat trip with his twin. But now, it kind of felt like he was on a trip with himself, and an echo of someone he knew. He knew Ford had changed since they were kids on the beach, but he had something in his gut telling himself something else was going on. He had never felt so distant from him, not even all those years away from each other.
His resolve (stubbornness if you will) meant he wasn’t going to back down from Ford’s problems. He knew Ford needed him and he needed Ford. He understood why Ford would be ashamed of asking for help, viewing himself as a burden, but Stan has never viewed him like that, and it stung slightly that Ford seemed to view him that way.
The first thing on his list of Operation: Help Poindexter was getting him a proper meal.
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“Ford!” Stan bellowed. Ford winced at the sound, not comprehending why Stan still felt a need to yell on such a cramped, tiny, living space. “Yes?” he responded in turn, wondering vaguely what time it was. The clock was turned on the other table, and his legs felt unstable enough. If he crashed to the floor now, Stan would definitely be concerned, more than he already was. Stan had always worried too much about others, and it took Ford a ridiculous amount of time to truly see how selfless Stan was.
Stan opened the bedroom door with a bang, causing Ford to flinch. “I made lunch. Are you coming to the kitchen?” Ford jerkily nodded, knowing that he had to avoid suspicion this time, already regretting the idea when he remembered how food tasted like asphalt in his mouth. “Good. You’re too skinny for my liking Ford,” Stan replied, a forced airiness to his tone, his eyes flicking over Ford’s face, noting the shallowness of his skin and haunted gauntness of his figure.
Ford pulled out a seat awkwardly, feeling every bit the impostor in this small, crowded kitchen. Stan slid a plate full of noodles in front of Ford, grinning at his own steaming plate before sitting opposite him. Ford groaned mentally as he stared at the empty calories in front of him. He hated how slimy the noodles looked. With a red sauce that looked a little too much like his own blood sliding down his body in Bill’s- okay, okay present moment Ford, he chided himself. Gulping dryly, he noticed the worst aspect, the meat mixed into his pasta. Ford gulped back the taste of vomit in his throat. The meat looked like his own flesh ripped and rotting in front of him like a curse-
“Ford,” Stan loudly said, grabbing his shoulder, jerking him into the present. Ford’s entire body flinched in turn, the shakiness of his figure noticeably there.
Ford stood quickly, having to grab on the table for support, his injuries jolting his nerves. “Ford,” Stan tried again, the Ford in front of him unresponsive. Ford stood there for a second, before jolting to the bathroom and slamming the hinges with a finality.
Stan ran to the door, pleading for Ford to please unlock it, all going unheard in Ford’s mind.
Ford slid down the wall, grasping his hair and pulling as hard as possible to try to make himself shake out of the memory. The pain grounded him, but not enough. He pulled on his sleeves, tugging and grasping at his past injuries. He yelled in momentary shock at the rush of pain, and foggingness took over. Stan slid to his knees on the other side of the door, nearly sobbing at the thought of his brother being in pain that Stan couldn’t help him with. In Stan’s panic, he had forgotten the emergency key to the bathroom, and he rushed to his feet.
Retrieving the key, he shakily inserted it into the knob, turning it as silently as possible, so not to scare Ford.
Ford was there, staring blankly, horrendous burn? electrocution? Marks standing starkly on his wrists. “Ford?” Stan questioned, kneeling in front of him. “Ford… what are these?” He gestured to Ford’s arms in horror. Ford froze, shaking his head fervently in a firm ‘no’. “You-You’re not s-supposed to k-k-know,” he sobbed out involuntarily. “Come here,” Stan said, opening his arms for a hug. Ford sobbed louder, rushing into Stan’s open arms. This was one of the only moments in a long time that he had someone showing comfort to his through physical touch in years without other bad intentions at play. Stan stroked Ford’s hair, allowing Ford to sob into his chest for as long as he needed. Though they definitely did need to speak about this eventually, Stan’s heart clenched at the thought of Ford struggling this badly without Stan knowing. Ford cried himself to exhaustion, his head swaying listlessly on Stan’s shoulder as Stan swung his dead weight (incredibly concerning, considering the lightness betraying Ford’s (lack) of eating habits) onto his shoulders.
Depositing him gently onto the bottom bunk, he allowed Ford to sleep for now, knowing that the conversation necessary would have to wait for later. He dimmed the lamp on the bedside table, knowing Ford would freak if he couldn’t scan his surroundings easily when he woke (though he swore Ford had some kind of night vision, he spotted everything so easily, even in the dark), exiting the room with a muffled sigh, wondering what Ford had gotten himself into this time.
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