Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, brother, it’s Sixer. I’m going to take a swim in the frozen lake tomorrow, and I might not ever come back, so if you don’t hear from me, I just want you to know that it’s because I never loved you. BUH-BYEEEEE!”

Stan can’t think while his body scrambles around seemingly on it’s own. He hears a clatter– did he drop the phone? He hears a door slam, a seatbelt buckle. An engine sputter and cough, then roar. 

Hey, don't worry, bro. Wherever we go, we go together. 

His gut churns. Ford wouldn’t– he wouldn’t– 

Would he? 

Stan drives faster. 

It’s not until he’s hours into his drive that he realizes he never even spoke into the receiver. 

He stands on a roof. It feels semi-familiar, somehow. But it’s a distant recognition at best. He hurts. That much he knows. His head, primarily. It’s pounding, dizzying, and he can barely see. The snow is blurry, and he can feel it heaving his eyelashes. He knows he should be cold. He should be freezing. He doesn’t feel anything on his body except a thin top layer, and– pants, he supposes. Something. Something. 

There’s something just out of reach, something distant from his mind. He can see, he can feel yellow. Glowing. It hurts his chest. He’s uncomfortable. He can’t tell if his heart is beating too fast or not at all. 

Slowly, he raises his hands in front of his eyes. He has six fingers. This seems both right and wrong. His fingers are blue. But they don’t shiver. Not a single tremor. This should concern him. Maybe he is concerned. He can’t tell. He turns his hands over and over. There’s a deep, circular scar in one of his palms. It makes him nauseous. He turns his hands again. They remain blue. Are those his knuckles? Why are they so scarred? Why are they bleeding? Something should be wrong to him, but the red is almost soothing against the white and blue and gray of the world. 

He– 

What is his name?

His head tilts slightly at the question. It sends shockwaves of pain through him, but he can’t focus on it. What is his name? 

Another question strikes his mind. 

Who is he? 

This question sends shooting pain through his head and down his neck. He doesn’t have the energy to wince. But he’s suddenly aware that his nose is running down onto his lips. He sniffles and rubs his sleeve over his mouth. There’s blood on his sleeves. He’s not sure why. 

DON'T YOU REMEMBER, SIXER? 

Who– 

A shiver runs through him. His head whips around to search for the source of the voice. The voice is familiar– so familiar. And it’s wrong, he doesn’t know why, but he knows it’s so very wrong. But he can’t hold onto it. He can’t hold onto anything. Everything is slipping quickly through his fingers and he just can’t reach out and grab it. 

But he remembers remembering. He knows, at some point, maybe even recently, he knew his name. His past. Maybe he has friends, family. Maybe he doesn’t. He feels his chest tighten. Why can’t he remember? What did he do? Why is he– who is he–

Nausea twists in his gut. It’s painful and powerful, and suddenly he’s keeling over and vomit and memories and life spill out of him. His feet slip, and his body tips over, hands sliding into the sick to hold on. Strange– he doesn’t actually feel he’d care if he teetered over the edge of the roof. His body seems to. 

Something flashes before his eyes. 

Spiders. He can feel them in his throat. 

COMIN’ BACK TO YOU NOW, IQ? 

He can’t breathe. He claws at the air, at his throat, but he can’t– he can’t– 

YOU REMEMBER MY NAME, DON’T YOU? OR DID I WIPE OUT TOO MUCH THIS TIME? 

Bill. 

He doesn’t know his own name, but he knows that name. Somehow. And it gets harder to breathe, to see, to think. He should be able to think. He should be able to. It’s the only thing he’s ever been good for. His brain. How does he know that? 

YOU’RE CATCHIN’ UP NOW, AREN’T YOU? 

He is. He’s catching up. He tries to think, but everything is shutting down. It all hurts. Is he bleeding from– 

He looks down at his shirt. There’s a long, vertical patch of blood along his arm, and he yelps. It rattles in his throat and he coughs harshly. More spots of blood appear in the snow. His stomach turns and he vomits again. The green-brown covers up the red. He gasps, heaving, on the snow-covered roof. He’s still curled up, and he doesn’t think he could stand if he tried. His feet feel like they’re on fire– he looks down. He doesn’t have shoes on. His toes are reddish. Slightly swelling. 

REMEMBER, SIXER–

I don’t remember, his mind replies, stop TELLING ME TO!

I OWN YOU. 

His heart stops. He knows– he knows. He can’t win, he can’t even think properly, can’t even see properly. Is he supposed to have glasses? Where did he leave those? Or perhaps he never had them in the first place. 

A tiny little giggle crawls its way up his throat. He looks again at his sleeve, and the laughter grows. It’s funny. Novel, in a way. Fascinating– 

No, no it’s not funny. That isn’t his thought. That thought belongs to–

He’s still laughing, and he can’t stop. Hysterical, boisterous laughter that makes his whole frame shake feverishly. It’s hot and it’s cold and he just can’t stop laughing and it hurts his chest and his stomach is clenching up and it hurts hurts hurt– 

“FORD?!?” 

Is that his name? It sounds… close. But that can’t be all of it. A nickname, perhaps? He feels like there’s something else. Another half. A missing piece. 

“FORD!!” 

Is someone…

He turns. Blinks. It’s not the same voice as earlier. This one is different, this one is… safer. Maybe. No. Not safe. But not dangerous? 

He stands, searching, bits of laughter still leaking through his lips. Everything is still blurry, dotted with black and white. No, no, that’s– that’s not right. It should only be white, shouldn’t it? Snow isn’t black. Is it? His head spins. 

He spots a figure. Blurry and hard to make out. He squints. There’s a bit of brown, a bit of red. It seems so small from here. He tries to lean in, and his feet slip. He reaches back down and steadies himself against the scaffolding, still trying to lean further. 

“FUCK– JUST STAY THERE, ALRIGHT? DON’T MOVE, I-I-I’LL GET YOU DOWN!” 

Down…

He’s not sure if he wants to come down yet. He’s come to like it up here. He tries to speak, to communicate this, but his throat locks up. No matter. He tries to gesture, but finds his movements sluggish, limbs heavy. Hm. 

He keeps trying, pushing through the haze. 

“STANFORD, STOP! STAY STILL!” 

Stanford. 

Stanford Pines, Stanford Filbrick Pines. 

That is his name. Stanford Stanford Stanford. And he’s– he’s smart, yes? Yes, he’s smart. Very smart. He’s a scientist. A doctor? His mind throbs. 

“GOOD, GOOD, GIMME TWO SECONDS, OKAY?” 

So who is that, then? The voice is similar to his, or at least, it sounds like it was at some point. It’s heavy, gravely, now. It used to be… something else. Something lighter. Unburdened. It’s so close. 

He just needs to be closer to know, he decides. Proximity is what will help. He continues to push through the confusion. 

He’s dimly aware of the feeling of his feet slipping, and suddenly he’s trying to grab at something, anything, anything to stay still, to get closer to the voice, because he knows it, he knows he does, but– 

“FORD, WAIT- JUST DON'T–” 

Ford steps forward. He knows that voice. He knows, he knows, he knows. 

YOU'RE MAKING THE WRONG CHOICE, FORDSY! 

He’s a puppet. He feels like a puppet, he feels the strings stabbing out of him like needles, and suddenly he doesn’t want to leave the roof, he can’t leave the roof, it’s dangerous, and the voice below isn’t safe, it isn’t safe at all. It’s him. It’s all him, it’s him, it’s him– 

There’s nowhere left for him to step. He teeters forward, a scream tearing out of him. At least he thinks it’s him screaming. He’s not sure if he opened his mouth. Maybe he did it for him. 

He feels, for a moment, like he’s flying down. Then something outside hits, something inside snaps, and–

Everything crackles. 

Chapter Text

“FORD?!?” 

Stan squints through the snow, heart in his throat. Whatever Ford is on, it’s gotta be strong as hell. He doesn’t move, not even the faintest twitch, as far as Stan can tell. He’s just frozen on the roof. Like he’s a statue. Almost like he’s dead. But Ford can’t– he can’t possibly– 

“FORD!!” Stan’s throat burns as he screams, the unfortunate results of driving to Oregon in a shitty car with no heater. He doesn’t care. He can’t seem to get loud enough. 

He’s about to yell again when he sees it. 

Recognition. 

Ford turns. He stumbles slightly, and Stan’s stomach flips. 

“FUCK– JUST STAY THERE, ALRIGHT? DON’T MOVE, I-I-I’LL GET YOU DOWN!” Though, he isn’t quite sure how to do that. He doesn’t see a ladder around, no sort of rope or anything, and he cannot leave his brother to his devices for even a second. He can’t, not when Ford might– 

Ford moves again, and his foot slips. 

“STANFORD, STOP! STAY STILL!” Ford stills. “GOOD, GOOD, GIMME TWO SECONDS, OKAY?” 

Stan scrambles, his eyes scanning the property. No ladder. No rope. Okay. Okay, that’s fine. He can– he can climb. He can climb up there and pull his brother down, that will work! He can do that. He has to do that. 

Ford suddenly begins to move again. He moves slowly, clumsily, and Stan screams at him to stop as he watches his brother’s feet slip. 

“FORD, WAIT– JUST DON'T–” 

Ford doesn’t listen. His foot steps onto nothing, and his body comes toppling down through the expanse of white. Stan screams bloody fucking murder as he watches Ford’s head collides with the edge of the roof on his way down. He slams into the snow, face first. 

“FORD!!” 

Stan hurries to him, slipping on the snow on his journey. He ignores the stinging ache in his joints from the cold and the way his barely stitched, throbbing side screams at him, and grabs his twin’s shoulder, shaking it violently. 

“Ford, c’mon, come on, don’t– don’t be–” he shoves the words down and rolls his brother over with considerable effort. 

Ford groans in response. 

He’s conscious. 

Stan laughs manically in relief until he sees the already forming welt on his brother’s forehead. Ford groans again, louder and more high pitched. His eyes don’t focus, and one of them is swelling and bleeding sluggishly. Christ, what is he on? (And, Stan wonders in the worst corners of his mind, where can he get some of it, because goddamnit it would be a lot easier to turn tricks if he was as out of it as his brother seems to be right now. He pushes that thought away. Far and deep away.) 

Ford takes in shuddery, wheezing breaths, eyes starting straight up, unseeing. The breaths are shallow, barely there, but loud and so fucking hard to listen to. 

“Hey hey hey, listen to me, you gotta breathe, okay?” Stan stutters out. Ford blinks, and his fingers twitch. “Gotta snap out of it, yeah? Just– y-y-you gotta– just breathe!” 

Ford twitches again, his head moving to the side just slightly. His pupils are so wide. His chest expands. 

“There we go,” Stan breathes. “Just keep– er, doin’ what you’re doin’.” 

Ford’s breathing evens out over the next few minutes, though he’s still completely out of it. Stan’s hands hover aimlessly over and around him. He’s useless in this situation. As he is in most situations. Finally, Ford moves. He sits up slightly, his body strangely not even trembling, eyes locked on Stan’s. They’re wide, terrified. His chest begins to heave again. He backs up slightly. 

“Ford?”

“You– h-how did you get–” He coughs, and Stan cringes at the noise. Ford sounds… awful. He backs up again, making a terrified sounding growl. “He– he got to y-you…”

Stan ignores what he doesn’t understand, though his throat feels like it’s closing up. Ford probably doesn’t even know what he’s talking about either. He’s not in a right state of mind. Once he is, Stan is sure his brother will recognize him. He will. “I can explain all– I can explain some things later, okay?” 

Ford backs up again, shaking his head frantically, as a new surge of adrenaline seems to begin to coarse through him. “N-No, I-I won’t let– you can’t– you can’t– n-not him too–” 

“Calm down,” Stan insists. “What’re you freakin’ out for?” he asks desperately, trying to ignore the tiny, heavy knot of frustration he feels. It’s not at Ford. Not really. 

“NO– I-I didn’t want–” Ford coughs again, curling in on himself. Once he’s able to breathe, his eyes go straight back to Stan’s. 

“God, it’s just me, Sixer!!” 

Ford’s expression shifts. 

He gasps sharply, and for a moment, he is frozen. Then he backs up frantically, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. “No, no, no– n-no–” 

“Ford–!” Stan reaches out to grab him before he hurts himself further than the definite concussion he already has. The moment his hand reaches Ford’s wrist, Ford screams. It’s piercing and guttural and horrible, and Ford wrenches his hand back with energy he most certainly shouldn’t have. Stan recoils instantly, cursing under his breath. He’s afraid to move. Ford isn’t acting human. He scrambles to his feet, still heaving, and his eyes dart around the scenery. His hands are fidgeting with indecision, and one of them reaches up to pull at his hair. His eyes flicker to the side, jaw hardening.

Stan knows that look. He’s going to run. 

Before he can, Stan leaps up and grabs him. And, hey, he knows it's probably not the best way to go about all this. But if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that you don’t let someone who’s on a major trip run off, alone, into the woods. So Stan takes his wrists and tries to choke out something reassuring, but– it comes out mostly as barked commands. 

“You gotta let me help you!! Just stop fightin’, Sixer!!” 

Ford yelps again and thrashes, finally yanking his wrists out of Stan’s grip. He shoves Stan hard toward the ground, and Stan’s side screams at him again, the recent lack of kidney hot and empty and angry as he goes straight through the snow. He cries out, instincts kicking in. But before he can even get back up, Ford is taking off. Stan realizes as he runs off that he’s barefooted. 

And Stan can do nothing but run after him. But his back is screaming and his body is really beginning to feel the cold, and he can’t get himself to move fast enough. He’s shivering so hard that everything is becoming blurry, but he follows the blob that is his brother, forcing himself to run even though all he wants to do is just collapse into a heap. 

“FORD!!” he screams, trying to quicken his steps. He ignores when stray snowy branches slap him in the face, because he can barely feel it anyways. A bad sign, sure, but convenient all the same. “FORD, COME BACK!!”

He keeps running, darting wildly about the trees, because the way Ford is bolting around suggests that this isn’t his first time running wildly through the forest. Stan’s lungs are burning, and he’s wheezing, trying desperately to keep his eyes on his brother. Eventually, he loses his voice, and just focuses on remaining upright. 

After god knows how long, Ford’s pace slows, slightly. Stan takes the opportunity to push all of his adrenaline into this final sprint, and he charges for his twin. He crashes right into him, accidentally pulling them both to the ground. Quickly, Stan rolls over so that he has Ford pinned securely to the ground. Ford howls on the way down, his limbs flailing, trying to squirm out of the hold. Stan holds him just enough to keep him down, deathly afraid to hurt him in this state. Ford squeezes his eyes shut and yanks his hands straight up. His already bloody knuckles slam into the bridge of Stan’s just recently re-adjusted nose. Stan yelps, his grip loosening, and Ford wriggles out from under him, snarling. He can already feel the blood gushing from his nostrils, but does nothing except try and ignore the spots of red dotting the snow. 

Ford suddenly lunges and pins Stan down, eyes wide and terrified and so very angry. Stan realizes for the first time that his brother has no problem with hurting him. He’s fucking high and he’s afraid. Stan knows from experience the kinds of injuries that can come with dealing with people in states like that. 

Ford makes another not completely human noise, and his hands suddenly shoot to Stan’s neck. They clamp down and begin to squeeze. Stan wheezes and pulls at his brother’s hands, but Ford is unshakable. 

“Quick, quick…” Ford stutters out in a whisper. “I’ll get him out… I’ll– I-I–” He shakes his head and narrows his eyes pressing tighter. 

“F-Ford…” Stan chokes out, breath fading. 

Ford shakes his head, muttering something indecipherable under his breath. He’s so fucking out of it. Stan isn't even sure Ford knows who he is right now. He wracks his fast-fading mind for something to jog his memories. 

“Stanford…” Stan wheezes again. “M’ your… brother…” 

Ford falters. His hands loosen. Just slightly. 

With a sudden stroke of (the closest thing he could ever get to) genius, Stan uses the last bit of his strength to raise one hand in invitation. 

“High…six…?” 

Ford’s breath hitches. One hand slowly, damn slower than Stan would’ve liked, comes off of Stan’s neck. Ford stares at his twin’s outstretched hand. He tentatively, almost as if in a trance, presses his own six-fingered hand against it. 

He interlocks their fingers and breathes out. 

Stan doesn’t dare say a word. Doesn’t dare fuck up the progress that he’s somehow made. After a beat, Ford turns back to Stan. He leans down. His free hand shoots out and pulls Stan’s eyelids down. He stares intently for a moment, still leaving their hands interlocked. 

Then he makes a choked, terrified noise, and pulls himself away. He scrambles backward, pushing himself up against a tree. His fists clench and unclench sluggishly. Repeatedly. 

He breathes frantically, practically gasping. His eyes don’t move from Stan’s. 

Finally, he makes a small, keening sound, and coughs out a single word. 

“S-Stanley…?”

Chapter Text

“S-Stanley…?” 

“Ye–” Stan breaks into a fit of coughs before he can finish answering. He gasps for air, clawing at his throat where his brother’s hands just were. He curls in on himself, nose screaming at him. Droplets of blood fall in the snow as he convulses with each hack. 

He feels his stitches on his side pull and prays to whoever might be listening that they don’t break. God, how recent was that surgery? Two weeks? He doesn’t remember, it’s all a weird, drugged up blur. He thinks he prefers it that way. He didn’t really have time to take a look at it with all the running and getting shot at and getting a phone call from his brother and driving 10 straight hours–

He can’t stop writhing until he finally sucks some air in and feels his lungs expand. Thank god. He’s shaking badly, but he forces himself up from the ground to a seated position. 

“S-Sorry,” he mutters, still choking. “Ford–”

“Stanley.” 

Stan nods, wheezing. “Yeah, s’ just me.” 

Ford shakes his head slowly. His eyes, already impossibly wide, widening further. “No.” He shakes his head again. His eyes zero in on Stan’s neck, and his head twitches. “No.” He inches closer, one shaky hand reaching out. A finger comes up to trace Stan’s neck. 

No, no, no, no, nononono– 

C’mere, pretty thing, don’t freak out on me again. Just calm down and shut up. Don’t keep ya around for your mouth, ya know. 

Stan immediately flinches hard and yelps, the feather-light touch burning. Stan coughs hard and tries to ignore the white spots in his vision. Jimmy isn’t here, Jimmy isn’t here, he’s not, he’s not, he’s– 

Ford jumps away with a terrified whine. “O-Oh god, what did I– no, no, no, no, I didn’t–” He backs up again, slamming against the trunk of the nearest tree. “I-I didn’t mean– why did you come?!” His words taper off in a growl. 

“You called,” Stan shoots back. His tone is undercut by the weak cough he can’t hold in. “Told me you were gonna drown yourself in a damn frozen lake, what did you think I’d do?!” 

“Drown… in a frozen–” his whole body shakes violently. “No, no, no, h-he brought you here!! You need to go, you can’t be here!” His breathing quickens, and he tries to get ahead of it. “You can’t, you can’t, you can’t–“

“Okay, listen, gotta calm down, you’re still comin’ off a massive trip–”

“NO!! N-No, you need to go, you need to–” Ford’s hands shoot up to his hair and begin to pull at it. His breaths come in terrified, heaving gasps. 

“Ford–” 

“He’ll kill you." 

“Who are you talkin’ about? What the hell kinda shit did you get yourself into?” 

“H-H-He’ll kill you,” Ford repeats, louder. “He’ll– he already– he hurt you, he–” His voice hitches on a strange, choked, animal sound. He pulls harder at his hair. “I hurt you, he– n-no, I– y-your face– oh god–” 

“Ford!!” 

“NO, no, no, no, no, I could’ve– I-I’m so– so– s–” his words cut off with another animal sob. He convulses, trying to back up even further into the tree. He makes an odd expression and suddenly gags. He throws himself forward and dry heaves onto the snow. 

“Shit– Ford!” Stan lunges forward and puts a hand on Ford’s back. Ford yelps, and it gets caught on a nauseating gurgling sound as he pulls away, one arm sailing through the air and smacking Stan’s nose. Stan cries out and growls, covering it with his hand. 

Ford turns and makes a sort of wheezing noise, then his body jolts away, and he stumbles over his own limbs. He finally keels over and vomits for real, just bile and acid staining the snow, mixing with tiny droplets of blood from his eye. 

“Okay, listen, bud, this is normal comin’ down, okay?” It’s not, but Stan doesn’t want to freak him out further. “Get all that shit outta your system, yeah? Just gotta breathe through it.” 

But Ford isn’t breathing through it. He’s through vomiting, but now he’s convulsing with guttural sobs, one hand clawing at the air and the snow, and the other clawing at his neck, gripping it tightly. His face– isn’t the right color. 

“Christ, Ford, calm down!!” 

He’s not calming down. If anything, he’s just getting worse, and Stan can’t even hear him breathing anymore. Maybe he isn’t. Fuck. 

“Ford?” Stan inches closer, but doesn’t dare touch him, not after last time. “Ford, come on!!” 

Ford shudders weakly, and his eyes begin to flutter. He makes a weak moaning noise, and his body begins to still, face draining of color. 

“C-Can’t– can’t… let… him…”

“Wait, waitwaitwait stay with me, Sixer!!” 

Ford twitches one more time, and then he exhales softly, and slumps, unconscious. 

“Goddamnit!!” Stan snaps. He reaches for Ford’s shoulders and shakes them hard. “Wake up!!” 

Shit, what if he took too much? What if he just fucking overdosed? Stan shakes harder. Damnit, wake up!!! No, no, no, no– 

Stan pulls his brother’s limp form to his chest, listening for his heartbeat. For a moment, he hears nothing. 

Hey, wherever we go, we go together, right, bro? 

Ford isn’t dead. He can’t be dead, that’s not how it’s– it isn’t supposed to be like this, they were supposed to make up, supposed to figure things out, supposed to– he’s not dead!

One of these days, you and me are gonna sail away from this dumb town. 

Stan lets out a sound that is suspiciously similar to the feral noise his brother made earlier. He feels tears streaming down his face, but he can’t– he can’t feel anything, everything is wrong. 

Why would I want anything to do with the person that sabotaged my entire future? 

“FORD!!” He shakes and he shakes and he pushes Ford’s chest and slaps his face, anything to wake him up, anything to bring him back– 

Stanford? Don’t leave me hangin’.

“Ford…”

Ford breathes. 

Stan drops him immediately, and his hands hover over him. He’s breathing hard, terrified, but Ford is alive he’s alive he’s alive he’s alive– 

Ford stirs and groans, eyes fluttering open then immediately closed again. Stan tentatively reaches out and grabs one of his hands in both of his own. “Ford, it’s okay, y-you’re okay, uh– we’re gonna figure this out, take you to a hospital or something, yeah?” His voice is scratchy, and the words are trying to stay in his throat, but he forces them out. “Everythin’s gonna b-be fine.” 

Ford groans again, hands twitching. His eyes flicker open and he blinks. 

“Let’s get you up, alright?” Stan pulls the disoriented Ford to a seated position. Ford’s head drops and he appears to stare at the ground. “Ford? Can you hear me? Still just me. Stanley.” 

Ford perks up. 

His eyes are wide. They’re wrong. Something about them… they’re almost…

What kinda drug makes someone’s eyes look yellow? 

Before Stan can ask him what he took, Ford’s hand shoots out and grabs Stan’s chin, hard. Stan flinches away on instinct, feeling a familiar burn run through him. 

“Ford,” he mutters, fighting the rising panic and dizziness, because it’s just Ford, it’s only Ford and no one else, “lemme go.” 

Ford tilts his head, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He squeezes harder, nails digging into the skin so hard that Stan feels a small snap in the flesh. He imagines blood dots around the nail. 

“Stanford?” 

Ford rises, his body uncharacteristically steady for someone who just OD’d. He doesn’t drop Stan’s chin, just drags him up until he’s kneeling, with his twin towering over him. 

Ford leans down, bringing their faces inches from each other. 

“YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE ANSWERED THAT CALL, STANLEY.” 

Chapter Text

Ford’s nails prick into Stan's skin. He’s so cold he can barely feel it. Ford’s voice is wrong. It’s wrong and shiny, like sheets of metal scratching against each other. Nails on a chalkboard. He’s frozen, pathetic and stupid in his brother’s grip.

“Ford,” He chokes. “What’re you–” 

“SHUT UP.” Ford shifts his grip, both hands wrapping around Stan’s neck. He pulls him up and his limbs flail. Ford smiles, and it stretches wide. It seems to reach his ears. His teeth shake. Then Stan’s head is slammed against a tree. He screams and squirms in Ford’s grip, seeing stars. His dizziness intensifies. 

“F-Ford–” 

His head is slammed against the tree again. Again. Again. His head lolls forward. The forest spins in front of him, and he can’t breathe, because Ford’s hands are still on his neck, not to suffocate, just to lift. His airways are restricted anyways. Laughing still, Ford drops him to the ground. Stan moans, curling in on himself, and covers his side protectively. Ford notices. His eyebrows raise. Smile grows. He kneels down and yanks Stan’s shirt up, revealing the festering wound. 

“YIKES, THAT SURE LOOKS PAINFUL!” He reaches for a fistful of snow and presses it softly against the wound. Stan moans in relief at the feeling. 

Then Ford stands and kicks it. 

Stan howls and spins on his side, but there’s no point when he’s on the ground and Ford is above him. Ford kicks it again, and again, and again, and again and again and again. The pain is all consuming, and his veins are on fire, and he’s shaking so hard that he can’t see, and he hears the snap of stitches breaking. All he knows is Ford’s hurting him, Ford’s hurting him again but he probably deserves it at this point. He’s a drifter. Nameless. Penniless. Pointless. 

He lets go and stops fighting it. 

And then Ford is done. He leans down and grabs Stan’s chin, the same puppet smile on his face. 

“Ford…” Stan coughs. 

He blinks. Ford’s face is fading from view. Ford laughs. The sound is wrong, more wrong than his voice. It turns to static in his ears. Did Stan take something he forgot he took? Seems likely. But he doesn’t remember– 

His head suddenly drops down into the snow, and he hears footsteps. Someone’s running. Ford’s running. Running away. 

Can’t let him go. Gotta figure it out, gotta… gotta do somethin’... figure out… 

Ford. 

That’s all his brain can supply him. He needs to get to Ford. Ford went– he lifts his head. That way. Right? Right. Probably. 

Slowly, he rotates onto his stomach. He cries out gutturally, an odd, distant sort of gargling sound escaping him. He spits up something, blood, bile. It stains the snow an odd, brown-red color. He pushes himself up. Cries out more. His cries fill his ears, but he doesn’t mind, not really, because it’s better than the silence. The silence that he’s alone in. He braces himself against a tree, scraping at the bark as he pulls himself up. He feels a nail break and tries not to whimper. Why does this small pain seem to hurt more than anything right now? It’s a nail, a fucking fingernail, and he– jesus christ, he’s crying.

Focus up. You’re goin’ somewhere. Followin’... someone. Who… where did he…

Ford. 

Right. How does he keep forgetting that? 

He peers through the snow and sees a faint, brown blob. The cabin. Okay. He can get there. He can make it. Christ, he ran from the cops with his knee bashed in, he can make it to this fucking cabin with some light stitches. He takes a heavy step forward and groans, trying to force himself to pump some more adrenaline into his journey. 

Step. 

Ford was acting so damn weird. Stan considers the very real possibility that he’ll have to take this brother to a hospital. He’s handled people who are far too out of it to know what’s real and what’s not, he’s handled people who are dangerous, people with weapons, who are too high to know what’s safe. 

Step. Pounding dizziness washes over him. 

And Ford was like a worse, more dangerous version of those people. Up until the end. After Ford woke back up. He was different. And his eyes. He’s seen shit that can make your eyes get all yellow if you took enough of it, but– he thought it happened slowly. Over time. Not in the blink of an eye. 

Step. The cabin is closer. Less blurry. 

Maybe Stan is just delirious. Maybe he’s the one who’s lost it. His head pounds painfully with each step. But Ford’s laugh…

Stan’s foot hits something, and he stumbles to his knees. Instead of snow, they hit something hard and flat. Wood. Ah. He’s at the cabin. Cool. He pushes himself up slowly and hisses, leaning against the railing of the porch. The door is already ajar, and he pushes past it. The cabin is a mess. Clothes, dishes, and books litter the ground. The smell is nauseating– like mold and grime and rotted trash. He grimaces, nostrils curling and stomach rolling. 

He hears a clanging sound from below him and groans. Of course he has to go down stairs. God forbid something about this be easy. He hears more scuffling below and hauls his ass through the filthy living room, head pounding as he thumps down the stairs. When he arrives, dizzy as all hell, Ford is feverishly flicking switches and pressing buttons, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds. Stan barely has the capacity to be aware of the terrifying, dark, mad-scientest lab that apparently belongs to his brother. He certainly doesn’t have time to think about the fact that there’s blood on the wall. 

He takes another step, and Ford freezes. 

His head turns on its own. His body doesn't follow. Stan shivers. His eyes seem to glow an even brighter yellow in the pulsating dark of the lab. He smiles. 

“YOU REALLY DON’T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT, HUH?” 

“Ford–” 

“OH MY GOD, HOW DO YOU STILL THINK I’M YOUR FREAK OF A BROTHER?!” Ford practically screams. “SIXER SAID YOU WERE STUPID, BUT I ALWAYS THOUGHT HE WAS JUST BEING DRAMATIC!” 

“I–” 

“YOU SHOULD’VE JUST TAKEN THE OUT! YOU COULD’VE DIED PEACEFULLY IN THE WOODS, BUT YOU JUST HAD TO FOLLOW YOUR BROTHER! TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH, RIGHT?”

Not… Ford? Stan’s head spins. It looks like Ford. Why… but his eyes. They cause Stan to halt. They’re not a drug induced, jaundiced yellow. They’re… glowing. It’s not natural, it’s completely unnatural in a way Stan’s never seen. 

Something’s… controlling Ford. 

“What are you?” Stan chokes out, fingers twitching. 

“NAME’S BILL CIPHER.” 

That answers absolutely nothing. Stan stares confusedly. But he knows for sure it’s not Ford. 

“I REALLY WOULD’VE LET YOU DIE PEACEFULLY, STANLEY,” Bill hisses. “NOT ANYMORE, THOUGH. GOTTA GET THIS PORTAL OPEN AND YOU'RE JUST GETTING IN THE WAY. THAT’S KINDA YOUR THING, ISN’T IT? YOU ALWAYS DID GET IN FORDSY’S WAY.” 

Stan’s chest tightens. Yeah, yeah, he did, does, but who is this Bill character to just stick his nose in–

“I’M GONNA BE HONEST, I DIDN’T MEAN FOR THAT CALL TO GO THROUGH. BUT I REALLY DIDN’T THINK YOU’D ACTUALLY COME! I MEAN, THE WAY SIXER TALKS ABOUT YOU, I THOUGHT YOU’D BE HAPPY TO SEE HIM GO!” 

How’s he supposed to fix this? Can someone be… unpossessed? How would that even work? “I wouldn’t wanna–” 

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN FIND IT A LITTLE FUNNY?” Bill continues. “YOU DIDN’T LAUGH WHEN YOU SAW HIM BLEEDING ON THE ROOF? I WAS EXCITED FOR THAT ONE, TOOK HIM FOREVER TO FALL ASLEEP AND GIMME CONTROL!” 

“That was you–?” So this guy hurts his brother? When he… falls asleep? So it stands to reason…

“JESUS, HE’S SO FUN TO PLAY AROUND WITH!! THE HUMAN BODY’S REEEEAAAALLL INTERESTING, DON’T YOU THINK?” A terrifying smile washes over his face. “WHAT AM I SAYING, OF COURSE YOU DO!! YOU GOT A LOT OF EXPERIENCE WITH THE HUMAN BODY!! WHO’S THE GUY YOU'RE SEEIN’ NOW? JIMMY?” 

His heart stops. No one knows about–

Stan shakes his head. He stumbles. Can't think about– can't–

If Ford falls asleep again, would that get rid of the guy? He’s gotta try. “Shut up–” 

“ANYWAYS, WE’VE TALKED LONG ENOUGH! I GOTTA GET GOING ON THIS POR–” 

Bill doesn't get a chance to finish. Stan’s fist slams into his face, and he tackles him to the ground. He’s just gotta knock him out. Can’t be too hard. Ford’s body seems to be at its limit. Though, does the possession affect that? Stan slams his fist in Ford’s face again, apologizing silently for the nasty headache he’ll have if when he comes to. Bill fights back, swinging Ford’s body around until he’s the one pinning Stan to the ground. His hands are on Stan’s neck again, and Stan grabs at his wrists, attempting to pry Ford’s hands away. 

“YOU’RE NOT GONNA WIN THIS, STANLEY!” Bill sneers. He lifts a leg and jams his foot up into Stan’s side, and Stan feels a terrible snap as the last thread finally tears. He feels his organs spilling out and cries out in horrible, furious pain. God, it hurts. He tries to keep the adrenaline going and ignore the way blood pours from him. He growls and launches a knee up into Ford’s stomach, knocking him onto his side. Stan curls up and coughs harshly, even as his head screams at him to get up get up get up get up!! When he finally has the strength, he pulls himself to his knees and searches the room for his twin. 

He doesn’t even have time to blink before Bill jams a knife into his shoulder. 

Stan screams and falls back down to his knees, clutching his shoulder with his free hand. 

And Bill just laughs. 

“SIXER’S IN FOR WAKE UP CALL WHEN HE COMES TO!! THIS’LL SHOW HIM FOR EVER TRYING TO BACK OUT OF OUR CONTRACT!” 

Bill leans down and yanks the knife from Stan’s shoulder, earning another guttural scream, and lays Ford’s hand flat on the table. 

“HE ALWAYS WAS SELF CONSCIOUS ABOUT THOSE SIX FINGERS OF HIS!” 

In a swift motion, Bill slices the polydactyl from Ford’s left hand. 

And Stan can’t breathe. His vision blurs, going red, and his ears are ringing so loud he can’t hear anything else. His eyes lock onto the lone finger. 

It rolls onto the floor and twitches of its own accord. Stan’s stomach rolls violently. 

He doesn’t think as he shoots up and slams a fist into Ford’s face. He pushes them both down, pinning Ford to the concrete. He keeps going, over and over and over and he sees Bill laughing but he can’t hear it, he can’t hear anything, and he can’t keep upright, because everything is spinning and he feels sticky hot blood pouring down his side and he’s still punching and punching and punching and– 

Bill falls unconscious. Ford falls unconscious. 

Stan immediately tips over, back hitting the ground, and gasps for air as his vision continues to blur. 

He doesn’t have the strength to look at his brother before everything goes dark.