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Ford goes to open the door after the third round of incessant knocking. It’s angry, almost desperate. He hoped that after two rounds of ignoring it, it would go away and he could get back to work.
Clearly, whoever it is isn’t giving up.
Or whatever it is.
The thought speeds up his steps slightly– he’s only been here a week in Gravity Falls, but it could be some new anomaly, perhaps! The idea invigorates him, and he hurriedly whips the door open, instantly hit by the fall chill, even in both his sweater and trench coat.
And then he’s struck to silence.
Not an anomaly.
At least, not the kind he was hoping for.
It… no.
Why would– why would he… ever…
“Stanley.” His voice comes out hoarse. He stands up a little straighter and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Ford…”
Stan’s voice is rough. It’s tired. Ford tried to ignore it.
“Stanley.” It’s all he can say. Stanley. His brother.
“Ford, I–” Stan coughs, his body hunching slightly. Ford backs away instinctively, eyes running up and down his brother’s frame.
Then he sees it.
“You’re bleeding,” Ford chokes. “Stan, you’re– what happened?!” His arms reach out without a thought, both hands gripping at one of Stan’s arms.
Stan sways.
He looks drawn. Thinner. Paler.
(Why, why, why, why does he look like that? Why is he bleeding, why is he bleeding?)
When Stan only blinks at him through bloodshot, faded eyes, Ford shakes his twin’s arm.
“Stanley, answer me! What happened?!”
Stan flinches back, and the motion is enough to make his knees buckle. Ford rushes to catch him on both arms. Stan’s face is smushed against Ford’s shoulder, and his (dead) weight pulls them both to the hard, wooden floor of the porch. He begins to shake. Perhaps he was shaking the whole time.
“STANLEY!!” Ford demands again, though his voice doesn’t come out as firm as he needs it to be. It sounds–
It doesn’t matter how it sounds.
“What happened? Where are you– are you okay?!!”
“Ford,” Stan croaks, his voice thick with– something. Something he’s barely holding back. “Need– sorry, I’m– Ma tol’ me about your– c-cabin–”
“Tell me what happened!!”
“Need– need help–” He’s cut off by a sob.
It’s a bone deep, soul deep sob. Stan convulses with it, swimming in his oversized, grimy jacket and Ford’s arms alike, and suddenly clings onto Ford’s biceps, nails digging into his trench coat, pulling at it like it owes him money. His face is pressed up against Ford’s shoulder, and he’s sobbing and shaking and bleeding and he’s crying he’s crying he’s crying and he’s not fine. He was supposed to be fine, oh god.
Ford can’t move for a second, his arms suspended slightly in midair while this person– this brother he hasn’t seen in years, ages– clings to him so desperately. It’s not right. It doesn’t make sense, and Ford can’t compute it in his mind. Stan should be fine. He should’ve been fine.
Why isn’t he fine?
There’s a small pool of blood growing on the wood. Staining it. Maybe forever.
Ford wraps his arms around his brother, impossibly gentle. He doesn’t want to break him. He’s like a glass balancing precariously on the edge of the counter, sobbing and shaking and… wrong. So, so, so wrong.
“Ford,” he sobs, his voice slurred and barely audible through gasping, hiccuping wails, “m’ sorry–”
“It’s fine.” Ford swallows. “It’s okay. I– calm down, alright? Breathe. You’re going to exacerbate the wound.” He’s not sure what wound he’s even talking about. But Stan flinches back. Perhaps Ford was too harsh. He adjusts. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”
Another wail. “I’m sorry, I’m so–” Stan convulses. “M’ sorry, so suh–sorry, sorry, need help…”
“Yes, you do.” Ford takes a steadying breath, though he feels like someone’s broken a wasp’s nest inside of him. “I’m going to help you. Come on. Inside, now.”
Stan doesn’t make an effort to move, so Ford drags his twin to his feet. Stan coughs again and slumps against Ford seemingly without realizing it at all. He’s still crying, but it’s beginning to taper off with obvious exhaustion. He doesn’t comment as Ford drags him inside and down to the lab. He doesn’t protest as Ford sits him down.
He does, however, grunt and push away when Ford attempts to lift his shirt to find the source of the wound.
“No…” he mutters. “G’off me…”
“What the hell are you doing?” Ford hisses. “I’m trying to help you.”
Stan starts crying again.
Fuck.
“No, no, Stanley, I– shit, I didn’t mean to–” Ford forces himself to breathe. Emotion has no place in this situation. “I’m trying to find the source of the bleeding. That’s all. Let me do what I need to do. Please.”
Stan slumps, eyes fluttering. He doesn’t protest again.
Not when Ford finds a rather deep wound near his side, an impale that could’ve only been made by...
There’s only one sort of weapon that could’ve made a wound like this. Ford isn’t an idiot.
Stanley, on the other hand…
Ford shakes his head. Stanley needs help right now. Focus. You can get the whole picture later.
Stan barely seems to notice as Ford cleans and bandages the thing, trying to ignore the very large and very elevated scars that litter his torso.
(He was supposed to be fine, he was supposed to be fine, he was supposed to be fine. Ford can barely breathe, he can’t even– Stanley was– is– fuck–)
Stan is nearly unconscious when Ford has properly bandaged him and decontaminated his own hands.
“Come on,” Ford mutters. “You need rest if this is going to heal properly.”
Stan blinks at him, bleary and unaware.
“Christ.”
Ford helps him to his feet, taking on his weight when he unsurprisingly falls against Ford’s side. He leads them both up the stairs, ideally aiming for the bedroom, but, when it’s clear that Stan simply isn’t able to make it that far, he settles for the new loveseat in the living room. He eases Stan down (gentle, gentle, gentle, don’t hurt him) and covers him with a healthy heaping of throw blankets as Stan’s eyes finally close.
He kneels down beside the chair.
“Stanley? Can you hear me?” A small moan. “Alright. Rest. We’ll talk in the morn–” he clears his throat. “When you’ve recovered a bit.”
Stan doesn’t respond, so Ford stands, aiming to resume his work.
(He won’t be able to focus on it, not when Stan is here and Stan was bleeding and Stan was supposed to be fine.)
He takes a step forward (anyways), but he’s stopped by a clammy hand tugging at his wrist.
“Stanley, what is it?” Perhaps he should’ve gotten him water. Food, maybe? But now he seems too tired– shit, shit, shit. “Do you need something?”
“Stay…” Stan’s voice is audibly distressed, though slurred and distant. “Ford… stay…”
Ford swallows.
His brother is begging him. Begging him to stay.
(It seems as if it’s been a long time since Stan has had someone stay. Or been someone who stayed.)
“Alright,” Ford says, voice strangled. “I’ll– okay.”
He sits down beside the love seat, and rests his head against the sides of Stan’s knees. Slowly, he feels a hand come to rest in his hair. Stan’s hand.
He forces himself to breathe.
“Ford…”
“Yes, what is it?”
Stan sniffles. “Than’ you…”
Of course, of course, of course, of course, of course.
Ford’s voice breaks as he answers.
“Just rest. We–” a small sniffle. “We’ll talk when you’re– we’ll talk later.”
They’ll talk later. Ford will make sure of it.
For now, though, Stan will rest.