Chapter Text
One week.
It had been just one week since Stanford Pines’ life was ruined. Just a week since the person who he had trusted more than anyone else on the planet sabotaged his future.
Just a week since he had watched his brother get cast out onto the streets. Alone and helpless.
Going to school the next day had been difficult. He hoped expected to see his brother’s familiar red El Diablo parked out front. He expected to see Stanley in class, in his usual seat by Ford’s side. He expected an apology. But all he got was an empty parking spot and a barren seat.
He had walked home from school, scanning the roads and the parking lots. He had looked into the windows of restaurants and local businesses, but…there was no sign of Stanley.
He wasn’t worried…he wasn’t. On the contrary, Stanford was angry. Stanley had the gall to ruin his future, and then had just left?! He had barely apologized and was off to who knows where. Stanford certainly didn’t know, and he convinced himself he didn’t care.
By the second day, Stanford had decided to push himself to focus on the remainder of his senior year. If he got good enough grades, he might have a chance at a semi decent college. He could still be something.
He did his best to not think about his brother. And he did his best to ignore the nightmares he had every single night that week. Nightmares that placed him directly in his brother's shoes. Nightmares where he had to look up at himself from the street, and watch as a mirror image of himself shut the curtains, and left him behind.
By Friday, he was entirely exhausted. He had been working himself to the bone, forgoing sleep and rest to focus on his end of year exams, and that night was no exception. He had been staring down at his calculus homework for the better part of an hour, and the numbers and symbols on the page had begun to look more like gibberish than anything else. He spared a glance at the clock that hung above his door, and sighed. It was somewhere in the ballpark of three A.M., and he hadn't even completed half a page.
Staying up this late to do homework wasn't unusual for him by any means, but there was usually someone there to remind him he needed sleep. Stanford groaned, and thumped his head down on the desk. Stop thinking about that, and focus. After a moment, he sat back up and scrubbed a hand down his face, moving his glasses out of the way to rub at his eyes. If he fell asleep at his desk again, his mother wouldn't let him hear the end of it until Monday.
On any normal night, he'd risk dealing with her fussing over him if it meant an extra hour of work getting done, but…since what had happened with Stanley…she had been even more overbearing and worrisome over him.
After taking a final moment to think it over, Stanford sighed, flipped his notebook shut and stood up from his desk chair. He quickly climbed past the empty bunk, and flopped down onto his bed. He didn't take off his glasses, opting instead to stare at the ceiling.
Falling asleep the past few nights had been…troublesome to say the least. He had a gnawing pit of guilt in his stomach, and anger rising in his chest every time he was left alone with his thoughts. His bedroom felt so much smaller, and so much quieter when it was just him.
He rolled over and buried his face into his pillow, trying his best to ignore how loud his brain was being. He laid there, facedown on his pillow, glasses digging into his face for several minutes. He felt too exhausted to still be awake, but the pit in his stomach made him feel sick.
Just go to sleep.
Stanford didn't know how long he spent laying there, but by the time he opened his eyes it-
He…wasn't in his bed.
He wasn't even laying down. He blinked, adjusting his glasses until the dark world came back into focus. He was standing in the middle of a city. He whipped his head around, trying his best to get his bearings. Wherever he was, it wasn't Glass Shard. It was run down, sure, but it wasn't home. He felt a cold chill run down his spine, and squeezed his eyes shut.
Fantastic. Another nightmare.
He slowly brought his hands up to his face and pressed his palms into his eyes, digging his fingers into his curls. Moses, he just wanted one night. One night without this again. Please wake up. He thought for a moment, and realized it was…abnormal that he was aware this was a dream. He let that sit for a second before he decided he didn't care. He just wanted to wake up.
He took a deep breath in, trying to calm down. The stench of cigarettes and car exhaust filled his lungs, and he choked. Finally, he moved his hands, and…he was still on the street. He felt like crying.
He decided to start walking, not knowing what else to do. The concrete felt cold underneath his sock covered feet, and he grumbled for a moment. If he had to go through another nightmare, why couldn't he at least have some shoes? He looked around. The city seemed empty of all life, save for the occasional car driving past. There were a few buildings with boarded up windows, and the dim street lamps cast ominous shadows across the sidewalk.
Stanford wrapped his arms around his torso. There was a chill that crept deep into his bones that his thin pajama shirt did little to shield him from. He kept his head on a swivel, feeling like he was being watched. Like something was going to attack him at any moment. But then he saw it—parked at the end of the street, was a car. Stanley's car.
His heart leapt into his throat, and he picked up the pace. In the moment, betrayal didn't matter. Stanford just wanted something familiar...or more accurately, someone familiar. But as he got closer, he realized with a sinking feeling that nobody was inside.
Frantically, Stanford scanned the nearby buildings, looking for any sign of his brother. He opened his mouth to call out his name, but his voice died in his throat as he heard the sound of a scuffle coming from an alleyway.
"-teach you to back out of a deal! You, grab his-"
"Go to hell!"
"Shut the fuck up, Pinefield."
Stanford flinched at the sound of something being slammed into a wall. As quietly as he could, he ducked behind a dumpster, and clasped his hand over his mouth. He had always been thin for his age, so he took full advantage, squeezing into the small space between the dumpster and the wall. Nightmare. It's just a dream, you'll wake up soon. It's just a bad dream.
Stanford's heart thundered in his chest, his knees pressed as close to his torso as they could go. From behind the dumpster, he could almost see what was going on in the alleyway. He stared through the small sliver with wide eyes, and watched as someone was slammed backwards into the wall, head loudly hitting the brick. The man let out a pained yelp—which quickly turned into a wheeze as someone punched him in the gut, and he crumpled to the ground.
"Or, should I say 'Pines'? You think you can just take the money and bail? You know damn well that ain't how it works-"
Pines?! Stanford stifled a gasp, which was thankfully covered up by the man on the ground trying to talk.
"H-how'd—" the man wheezed out, before he was kicked in the head. His assailant let out a sadistic chuckle.
"What? Ya plaster your face and name on TV for years, it ain't that hard to find out which name's the real one." he said, grabbing the man's shaggy hair and dragging him into a sitting position.
Stanford hoped that meant it was almost over, he felt sick—but luck wasn't on his, or the man's side. He watched the assailant grab the man's shirt, and squeezed his eyes shut just before he heard a blow land. The man let out a punched out groan, but his attacker didn't relent. Stanford stayed hidden and listened as blow after blow landed. He sat there for what felt like minutes, but in actuality was only a handful of seconds.
Eventually, the alleyway was filled with an agonizing silence, save for the man's ragged breathing. Stanford slowly opened his eyes, and was met with the sight of the man lying on the ground, completely motionless. The assailant crouched down, and reached into the man's pocket, pulling out what Stanford assumed was the man's wallet.
His suspicions were confirmed when the assailant reached in, and grabbed a stack of cash, thumbing through it rapidly. He let out a small chuckle, and tossed the empty wallet back at the man, who showed no reaction.
"Look, since I'm so nice, and since all the money's here, I'll let you go—" The assailant grabbed the man's face and brought him close before he continued, "—but this? It wont happen again, you got that?"
The man let out a wet, wheezing noise, and nodded. The assailant dropped the man's head back onto the hard concrete, and stood back up.
Stanford inched further behind the dumpster and into the alley as the attacker and two other men walked out. He stared at them, unblinking, as they got in a car across the street, and sped away.
Even though the coast was clear, and the sound of the car's engine had faded into silence, Stanford kept his hands clasped over his mouth, not daring to move. What did he just witness?! It—this is just a dream, that wasn't real…it felt real…but it couldn't have been.
After an agonizing minute, he slowly inched his way out from behind the dumpster. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run, but…he had to check on that man. The assailant had called him Pines, and given the…nature of this dream, he had to check.
Quietly, he tiptoed deeper into the alleyway, and saw the man lying there. His hair was long and curly, so long that it covered his eyes. He was wearing a white shirt, which was now spotted with fresh blood. And his face—he had an eye that would be black in the morning and a busted lip. His nose was crooked and starting to bruise. Blood oozed out of his nose and a gash on his cheek, coating his face. He looked terrible.
But something in Stanford's gut twisted as he looked closely at the man's features. His shaggy brown curls, his voice earlier…
Wake up
He took a step forward. Is…is that…?
No. It’s not—it can’t be, just. Wake up.
He took another step forward, finally finding his voice.
“…Stanley?”
Wake up. Just a nightmare. Wake up. Wakeupwakeupwakeup—
The man slowly raised his head, and looked at Stanford with a familiar pair of brown eyes. He squinted, and then his eyes widened. He sat up, and dragged a hand across his face. Quietly, he croaked in a voice that felt all too familiar to Stanford.
"No…Not this shit again..."
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As Stan drifted on the edge of consciousness, the only coherent thoughts he had were ones of pain.
He knew he was still awake, mostly because he could feel the cold concrete against his face. But for once, he couldn't muster the energy to get back up.
Such a fucking idiot.
He should've seen this coming. It was a simple job. His 'boss' had decided he'd make a good getaway driver, and had made the stupid choice to pay him upfront. Stan wasn't dumb, he could see how flimsy their plan for this robbery was. It was a prison sentence waiting to happen, and Stan didn't want to spend any more time behind bars. He'd only been out a handful of months, and he wasn't exactly in a rush to go back. So, once the coast was clear, he took the money, and drove off. He knew what they might do if they found him, and he still decided to bail.
All things considered, things could be worse. Him just getting beaten up in an alleyway was the luckiest thing that had happened to him in recent memory. He felt the blood drip across his face, and scoffed. Stan was many things, but lucky wasn't normally one of them. He decided to just lay there until he had the energy to get back up, but his stomach dropped when he heard someone speak just in front of him.
"…Stanley?"
Stan's heart leapt into his throat, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins. All of his energy, all of the fight that he had left was just beaten out of him. And now he was alone, defenseless in an alleyway with someone who knew his name.
Slowly, despite how much it hurt his head, he dragged his eyelids open and looked up at the person speaking. The world was dark, and he was seeing double. He couldn't get a clear look at anything. It took him a second for his vision to clear, and for the world to stop spinning. He narrowed his eyes, his vision finally clearing and…
Fuck.
"No…Not this shit again..."
Stanley Pines was no stranger to a head injury. Nor was he a stranger to a drug induced hallucination. Over the years, whenever things got really bad, his brain had an annoying habit of…
…imagining his brother.
At first it was comforting, to believe that Stanford would care enough to help him out when he was at his lowest. To picture his mirror image offering a hand, telling him to keep going. But as time went on, as Stan grew up and this imaginary version of his brother didn't, it became more of an annoyance than a comfort. Any time he tried to grab Ford's hand, filled with false hope, and his hand only found empty air in its place, Stan just got more frustrated.
And now, looking up at the horrified face of his brother from a decade prior, Stan just felt… tired. He was tired of this song and dance, tired of the false hope, and he was tired of talking to ghosts. Stan propped himself up, gathering his energy to keep going, and did his best to avoid looking at the apparition.
"Stanley, wh- what does that mean? What do you mean 'not this again'?" Ford's voice asked, as Stan took stock of his injuries. The apparition took a step closer, and Stan kept his mouth shut.
"Stanley, you can hear me…right? I-I know this isn't…can you please talk to me?" Ford's voice sounded shakier than normal. Like he was scared. God, his mind was really being an asshole today, Stan thought. He pushed the thought to the back of his head and felt his ribs. He didn't think any of them were broken, but it couldn't hurt to check. (well, it actually hurt a lot, but that was besides the point.) After several long moments of silence, he glanced back up at the apparition, hoping it was gone, and felt a wave of guilt wash over him.
Usually, these mental ghosts of his brother were well put together. Dressed in a normal collared shirt and jeans, like the ones he wore daily in high school. But this time was different. He was in pajamas, shirt wrinkled and hair frizzy. His glasses were slightly crooked on his face, and he didn't even have shoes on. But, worst of all, was how terrified he looked. He stood just a few feet away, wringing his hands together. His eyes were wide and his brows furrowed. The sight sat heavy on Stan's shoulders, and he looked away once more.
"…yeah, I can hear ya." he replied, unable to bear the silence any longer. Even if it wasn't real, it was still nice talking to someone that wasn't trying to kill him. Ford let out a shaky breath before responding.
"Okay, okay, that's….that's good. Are you okay? Who were those men?" he asked, his voice shaking. Stan touched the side of his nose, wincing as his fingertips met broken skin. He pressed harder, and swore under his breath. Broken.
"They were uh…just some guys I owed cash to. And, yeah. I'm just peachy." He said, trying to get this over with as fast as he could. He couldn't stand the pitying look in his brother's eyes.
"Are you sure? Y-you're bleeding."
"I'm fine." Stan replied, grabbing onto the side of a trash can to pull himself back up and onto his feet. Unfortunately, his foot slipped on the slick grime that coated the alley floor, and he fell right back to the ground. Ford gasped, and rushed forward, holding out his hand.
"Here, let me help you."
Stan looked up at his brother's outstretched hand, and leaned back against the wall, anger rising in his chest. He knew it was useless to argue with someone who wasn't really there, who wasn't real. But he had nothing better to do. He gestured between them, and spoke.
"What's the point, Sixer? None of this is real. It's not like ya can really help me, can ya?" Stan said, egging the apparition on. Ford looked taken aback, and frowned, but he kept his hand outstretched. Tears danced on the edges of his eyes, and he leaned forward even more.
"I…I know its not real, I just...I want to help you Stanley…please?"
Stan rolled his eyes, and glared at his brother's outstretched, painfully familiar, six fingered hand.
"I said, there's no point. It's just gonna be the same damn thing!" Stan seethed. In a moment of anger, and feeling the need to illustrate his point, he quickly raised his arm and moved to slap Ford's hand out of the way.
Stan's mind went completely blank when his hand made contact with Ford's.
Ford ripped his hand away, rubbing at the back of his palm. His face screwed itself into a frustrated expression, the pity in his eyes vanishing.
"Ow! What was that for, you knucklehead?! I'm trying to help you, and you're…" Ford trailed off, looking at Stan, whose face must have betrayed his shock. Stan stared, eyes wide at his brother. His brother who wasn't supposed to be there, who wasn't supposed to be real… Who's hand felt like a solid object, not a hallucination or a mental projection. Real.
"Stanley?" Ford said, looking Stan in the eye and raising an eyebrow. Stan quickly looked Ford over, trying to find something. Anything that proved he wasn't really there.
"Sixer? y- what? How're…No, ya can't be…Ford?!" Stan babbled incoherently. His brain was going ten times faster than his mouth, and he didn't know what was happening. Ford stood there, staring at Stan with confusion written plainly on his face. He stayed silent, and so Stan had to find his words.
"Ford…are you real?" he asked after an agonizingly long pause. Ford furrowed his brow and looked down at Stan.
"Well, yes I'm real? This is a dream, you're just a figment of my imagination. Most likely due to stress, or exhaustion…or a mixture of the two."
Stan stared incredulously at Ford, before he scrubbed a hand across his face, lost in thought. As far as he knew, there were only a few possibilities before him. Either he had accidentally taken some kind of hallucinogenic, and this was all some sort of fucked up drug trip—which if it was two years ago, he would put that at the top of his list. The other, equally possible option, was that he had finally completely lost it.
Or, the least likely of the three…there was the possibility that this was all real. And if that were somehow true, it opened up a whole new can of worms.
Hesitantly, Stan held out his hand. Getting the hint, Ford quickly grabbed it and started to pull Stan to his feet. And…he did. Stan could feel his brother's tight grip, and the force that Ford exerted in trying to lift him up.
Stan dusted some of the grime off of his hands and arms as he stood next to a breathless Ford. He… didn't know what to do. If this was real, which he was becoming more convinced by the second that it was, he didn't know why. He was never the smart one, and whatever was going on was way above his level of expertise. Quietly, Ford cleared his throat, causing Stan to jump.
"Are you okay, Stanley?"
Stan looked at his younger mirror and blinked, trying to clear his head. He hadn't felt this confused in a long while, and every new piece of information only added to his slowly growing headache, and—fuck, did he have a concussion?!
"uh…yeah. Yeah, I uh…Sorry, this is a lot to take in…" Stan stuttered his way through his sentence, before looking Ford in the eye once more. In all of the years he had been on his own, this is the most there that Ford had ever felt. Call it blind hope, or maybe just the fact that he didn't want to be alone anymore, but…this time, Stan wanted to believe that he was real.
"Yeah, I'm okay. Uh…do ya think you could help me check something out?"
Stanford furrowed his brow and nodded quietly.
"Great, my car's this way."
Stan started making his way out of the alley, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He whipped his head around to see Ford holding out his empty wallet.
"They—you uh…almost forgot this." He said, as Stan reached out to take it. Stan gave him a small smile and nodded. He continued forward, stepping warily out onto the street, his head on a swivel. Once he confirmed that they were gone, he finally let himself breathe.
"So uh, how exactly didja get here?" Stan said, opening his passenger side door and starting to dig around in the glove compartment.
"What do you mean?"
"Like, why are ya in New Mexico of all places?" Stan replied. If this was some weird sci-fi time travel shit, why the hell wasn't Ford back home?
"New Mexico? Hm…interesting. Well, I went to sleep in m- our bedroom, and then when I… 'woke up', I was just down the street. Then I started walking over here, saw your car, and hid when I heard the…altercation."
Stan hummed a response as he continued rummaging through the glove compartment.
"Explains why you're in pajamas." He called over his shoulder, finally finding the penlight he had been looking for. He closed the car door, straightening up and testing the light to make sure it worked before he continued.
"But uh, if this was a dream, couldn't ya dream yourself up a pair of shoes?" He turned to face Ford once more, and gestured to his sock covered feet. Ford looked down, the joke completely lost on him, and then replied.
"…I'm not sure it works that way, Stanley."
Stan shrugged and leaned against the hood of his car, turning the penlight over in his hands.
“If ya say so…Anyway uh, kid? You ever checked someone for a concussion before?”
"Uh...besides you? Don't you remember when Patrick knocked you down at the tournament?"
"Oh uh...not really. Once ya get knocked out for real, teenage fights kind of blend toget-" Stan took note of the look of horror on his brother's face and shut his trap. "Either direction, its been a minute so lets go over the steps."
Stan clicked the penlight on and handed it to his brother.
"First off, check my eyes, make sure they ain't different sizes, or that they don't look weird. I'll make sure the light doesn't hurt more than normal."
Ford did as he was instructed, carefully shining the light into both of Stan's eyes. Stan did his best to keep his eyes open. Other than the general discomfort of a bright light being shone into his eyes, it didn't hurt, so he took that as a good sign. After another moment of familiar, brow furrowed concentration, Ford clicked the light off and shrugged.
"Well…I believe you're okay? Your pupils are dilating normally, and they don't appear to be different sizes."
"Great, it didn't hurt my eyes either so, that's a good sign. Alright, lets see…I ain't dizzy, and I don't feel sick, so…Next thing is memory. That's easy, just ask me things that I should remember, and I'll answer."
Ford clasped his hands together behind his back, a nervous habit he'd had ever since they were kids, and shifted his weight uncomfortably. Stan glanced down at his still half bare feet and grimaced. He thought for a moment. His old sneakers were still in his trunk, they'd probably be a good fit. Finally, Ford spoke up again.
"Alright…how about—Oh! Do you remember what your grade on our chemistry test last week was?"
Fuck.
Stan wracked his brain, trying his best to remember. After he was kicked out, everything from his senior year started blurring together, and the length of time since then wasn't helping. He decided to give it his best guess.
"Oof, uh…lets see, I probably failed it, right?"
"No, you got a C-, which isn't the best, but you didn't fail." Ford replied, furrowing his brows. Stan just stared at him, until he spoke up again.
“Okay then, our last report card! Do you remember my grades? You teased me about them for a week.”
“Well, ya probably got straight A pluses and I called ya a nerd.” Stan could tell, purely based on the way that Ford's expression soured, that he was wrong. Ford shook his head before replying.
“No, I got a D in Physical Education.”
Stan did his best to stifle a chuckle. A fondness that he had been missing made his heart ache. Ford on the other hand, started pacing, a worried expression plastered across his face. Stan opened his mouth to try and calm him down, but Ford beat him to it.
“So, are you concussed then? I don’t think you should be driving in that condition Stanley, I mean, you could get into an accident and hurt yourself worse! Or-“
“No, kid! We just…didn’t do that test right, okay? I don’t remember that junk because it was ten years ago.”
"Ten…ten years?!" Ford went right back to pacing, running a hand through his frizzy curls. He was muttering, thinking out loud, and Stan could only make out bits and pieces.
"doesn't make sense…a decade?!…why New Mexico…what does it mean…"
Stan had almost forgotten how much Ford could get into his own head when he didn't know something. And to be honest…he had missed it. Even on the off chance that none of this was real, it felt like his brother cared about him again. Stan smiled sadly to himself, and then reached out his hand to stop Ford's spiral.
"Hey kid, calm down, alright? Yeah, the fact that you're here right now is…a little insane, but safe to say, I don't think I have a concussion. So that's one less thing to worry about!"
"But, what about the memory test?! How can you know that for sure without all the data! And aside from that, I still haven't figured out what any of this means, because none of my other nightmares this week have been this vivid, or…" He paused for a moment, glancing at Stan's blood-soaked face, before finishing his thought.
"…or this graphic."
Stan absentmindedly wiped at the now dry blood under his nose, and sighed. He stood up from where he was leaning, and made his way over to the trunk of his car. He popped it open, and started rummaging around in the mess of old unsold products and ill fitting clothes.
"The memory test ain't as important as the other stuff, its just a final precaution. And as for this being one of your 'nightmares'…I hate to tell you this, but unfortunately I am pretty sure that neither of us are dreaming." Stan said, eyes finally landing on his old duffel bag. He quickly unzipped it, and grabbed his old pair of sneakers… And then his eyes landed on his old hoodie.
It had been a handful of months before…before the end of their senior year, and their ma had saved up enough cash from her phone psychic gig to get them a gift.
Stan and Ford alike weren't that big on what you might call "school spirit", skipping all of the games and school events up until the science fair, but when their ma had snuck up to their room and proudly handed them matching "Glass Shard High School" sweatshirts, saying that it was the last matching outfit she'd ever buy them before they went off on their own…they didn't have it in them to deny the smile on her face. Ford had accepted his and hung it up in their closet, and Stan had tried it on right then and there. It fit perfectly.
It had lived in his closet until the night that he had left home, and when he took a chance to look through his now meager belongings…he had found that hoodie folded up at the very top of his duffel bag. It had left a sour taste in his mouth back then, a gift that was supposed to be matching, a part of a set, was now just another reminder of the home and the brother he couldn't go back to. He'd angrily tossed it into the back seat of his car, not wanting to look at it again. But…once winter hit and he hadn't made enough money to get anything better, he had to rely on that sweatshirt as his only source of warmth.
And now, he held that same hoodie in his hands, now torn, and patched up and faded with age. He ran his thumb across a stitch line on the shoulder, and took it out of the duffel bag, slamming the trunk. He turned back to Ford, who was now staring at him confused, and held out the sneakers.
"They ain't the best, but ya can't go walking around practically barefoot." Stan said, holding out the old sneakers until Ford finally took them. He looked down at them for a moment before sitting down on the curb to put them on.
"…These are the shoes you wear every day," he said finally, tying the loose laces into a tight knot. Stan shrugged.
"Yeah, I did. Had to get new ones a few years back though, couldn't duct tape em back together anymore. Plus, y'know, they didn't fit the best." Stan said with a chuckle, trying to ignore the solemn expression on his brother's face. Once Ford was done with the shoes, Stan offered him a hand to help him back up, and shoved the hoodie into his hands.
"New Mexico doesn't get the coldest, but it's still winter. Don't want ya getting sick or something."
Ford stared at the hoodie for a moment, as if taking in the level of wear and tear that it had accumulated, before pulling it on. Stan walked back around to the drivers side door, and slapped the roof of the car.
"Alright kid, hop in. We've gotta figure out what the hell's going on, and I dunno about you, but I'm starving. I saw a 24 hour diner up the road a ways, lets go get some grub."
Stan climbed in, with a puzzled looking Ford following suit, who, after clicking his seatbelt into place, finally broke his silence.
"Those men…they took all of your money."
"That's where you're wrong poindexter, they took most of my money. I'd have to be an idiot to keep all my cash on me." Stan said, waggling his finger in the air. "I've got enough to get by, don't you worry about that, okay?"
Ford silently nodded, staring out the windshield. Stan gave him a small smile, and then turned the key, the engine roaring to life.