Chapter Text
At first, you were simply the new neighbor.
After the incident with the floor, the entire Pines family had taken a liking to you. Despite literally breaking their property, you had somehow left them with a good impression. The promises you made to stop by often were honest ones, given you frequently did so to cure your boredom. Your presence was neighborly, friendly, and warm, and that included the elder Pines twins. You were kind to their niece and nephew, and they appreciated that.
It wasn’t until you had helped Ford that beautiful evening that the image they had of you started to shift in their minds.
Ford could do nothing but allow you into his world. It wasn’t just your general interest, it was the specific questions you asked, the way you engaged with his explanations, and of course, the intriguing way you offered your help. He sat there, awed, as you took the materials he had been wracking his mind over for weeks and slowly, steadily worked out the linguistic problems, effortlessly inserting yourself into his work, his journal, his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to feel negatively about your audacity when your process was so utterly fascinating to watch. You were so fascinating to watch. He found himself not only following your logic, but adapting to it, harmonizing with it. Linguistics was not a strong suit of his, nor remotely in range of his doctorates, but by the end of the evening with you, his comprehension of the subject was the best it ever had been.
After you had left to go home that evening, he couldn’t help but further study your notes. He could almost feel your energy, an electric zinging against his fingertips as they grazed the pages you had filled in his journal. It was one of the most curious interactions he’d ever had with another human being, having completely blindsided him, leaving him feeling dazed, like the most pleasant tornado had sucked him up and spat him back out.
The wistful whirlwind of his thoughts were abrasively interrupted.
”So.. you like them.”
Stan, having noticed his brother’s oddly windswept expression, had enough of the nauseating sight of his brother staring dreamily at the most recent addition to his journals, and makes the executive decision to redirect it into something much more entertaining.
“..What?”
“You’ve been makin’ goo-goo eyes at your journal for an hour. Don’t tell me you don’t like them.”
“I– I have not! What a completely asinine insinuation to make!” Ford sputtered, eyes flaring with disbelief.
Stan just grinned as he started dinner, letting Ford dig himself deeper.
“For one, I hardly know them! I asked for their opinion, they became quite invested– as if anyone could fault them– and I was just going over what they had written! Is it so awful to appreciate a peer’s work?”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” Stan purposefully smirked over at him as Ford haughtily snatched up his journal and stormed off before Stan could possibly move the conversation any further.
What a smack in the face it was, that smirk.
Not to Ford, but to Stan, when he spotted you struggling to move just a handful of days later. You were doing a good job of hiding your discomfort, and pain, but you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. He saw right through your attempts to make yourself look stronger, brighter, like a wounded animal on their haunches. While not exactly like this, he’d been there before. Hurt, poor, wielding a bat with a loud, angry voice, to protect himself from any further harm.
He isn’t a good man, but he’d be damned if he let you perceive him as a threat over something you couldn’t control. Something that was eating away at you, killing you slowly. Nobody had come to help him all those years ago, and while he had no idea what was going on with you, he wouldn’t just stand there and watch you suffer. He isn’t a good man, but he isn’t cruel.
He felt so stupid, standing there, and watching everyone else get flustered over you. Especially when Ford started to ask you questions, good questions that made sense in hindsight to ask, and watching him take your vitals and play doctor with you? It sent a prickly sensation up the back of his neck, and he had no idea why. You needed the medical attention, and Ford was more than qualified to give it to you, so why were his hackles raised internally like this?
Perhaps it was Ford’s chastising of you, the way he tried to scold you for your irresponsible actions. The way he so gallantly came to the rescue, as if he thought you yourself had crawled into the Shack and begged at his ankle for his aid. Demanded explanation, all the ins and outs, when it was something you could hardly afford to give.
“It was incredibly dangerous of you to have tried to head home in this condition-”
“I know it was.”
And yet, when you gave Ford exactly the explanation he was looking for, he faltered.
Stan could feel his words surface. The words he wished, even prayed someone would’ve lent to him in his youth. The words that he knew wouldn’t make your body work properly, but might help heal the person trapped inside of it. Sometimes, what you really need is someone to be there, to hear you out, to offer an ear to you.
Ford was thankful for it, too. He prided himself on being eloquent, educated and ready to jump into action on a whim, but words fail everyone at times. With just a few simple words, Stan had made you smile, and had inspired him to speak up in turn.
You were impressive to both of them, so ready and unapologetic about speaking to the reality you lived in, and what it did to you. Hearing you explain your illnesses to them knocked them both on their ass, mentally. They both had barely survived what life had dished out to them, and had they had to live with something like that through all they’ve gone through, they both would’ve been dead twice over. They knew you knew it would happen to you too, if you hadn’t used the rest of your energy to save up just enough money to run away. It was a grim reality that made the comfortable, uncomfortable. One that they both had finally managed to escape, but it still lingered at the back of their throats like stomach acid.
It was respect you earned that day. A bone-deep, unspoken sense of respect that resonated through the twins’ minds like the ringing of a bell. You weren’t just a stranger, or even just their neighbor anymore. You had a place at their table, a spot by their television, a place to rest your head, if you ever found yourself needing it, and Stan was keen to prove it.
Stan can’t be fancy with medical knowhow, or strange devices, but he knew he could listen to you, distract you from your stress, and feed you a meal. He finally had the means, and he was more than happy to pay it forward. That became his way of helping you. He couldn’t bear the thought of you going home after all this, being alone and primed to spiral into awful thoughts and feelings amidst your exhaustion.
You looked so tired, even as your eyes were trained on the TV, pizza in hand. It was a sad fact, but damn, if you didn’t make it work for you, Stan thought.
Ford had just taken a bite of pizza when he glanced over at his brother, who was busy looking you over. It was only when he smirked that Stan caught the movement, and realized he’d been caught red-handed.
Stan had never seen Ford look so disgustingly smug, the smirk on his face a mirror image of the one he’d given him several days ago.
’Don’t even think about it.’ Stan’s eyes said.
Ford seemed to think about it for a few moments, mulling over his options, before returning to his dinner. Stan silently breathed a sigh of relief, and his eyes returned to the TV screen in front of everyone.
Eventually, it had cooled off outside, and the entire family had seen you off on your way back home that evening. The kids went upstairs, and just as Stan was finished putting the leftover pizza away, about to head back to his chair for his nightly telenovela marathon, a voice from the open doorway of the vending machine filled his ears.
“What was that you said about, how did you put it.. Goo-goo eyes?”
Before Stan could tackle Ford to the ground, Ford closed the vending machine door in his face. It took everything in Stan’s power not to hold down the intercom button and let him have every colorful word, insult, and implied inappropriate hand-gesture he’d ever learned in his six decades of life.