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“And this is?” Stan asked, gesturing to a giant set of double doors that were, quite frankly, rather ominous looking.
They were on the lowest level of the hat-house, where Ford’s labs were set up. As usual, Stan had been wandering around, and it hadn’t taken long before Ford had shown up out of nowhere to shadow him.
“These doors connect our home to the fearamid,” Ford explained.
Stan eyed them dubiously. “What sort of horrors are hiding behind there?”
“A staircase,” Ford deadpanned at him.
It was a bit odd to Stan that Ford would allow such a large exit out of the house to just be out in the open, where anyone in their family could find it.
“Right. So can we go down there?”
Ford smiled at him like Stan was being silly. “Of course not. There’s no need for you to go down there when everything you need is up here. The fearamid is not as… human friendly as our home.”
Stan set his jaw stubbornly and crossed his arms. “Well, what if I want to go down there anyway? Just to look around?”
“The doors won’t open for you.” Ford slipped his hands into his coat pockets and shrugged casually. “They’re attuned to only open for Bill and myself. You’re free to give it a try if you want, of course. But I warn you, I made sure those doors were completely baby-proofed to discourage any wandering.”
Baby-proofed, huh? Stan rolled his eyes. He was great at breaking into (and out of) places. Picking locks was like second nature to him. He didn’t really understand what the whole “attuning” thing was about, but surely he could figure it out.
It was a little weird that Ford wasn’t discouraging him from messing with it, though. Something about that made Stan wonder if it was some sort of trap. But then again, Ford was cocky, and was probably just overly confident in his work and didn’t believe Stan would get the doors open. He might just want Stan to try so that he could boast about it after—which, ugh.
None of that was going to stop Stan from trying, though. Not when a clear escape out of the house had been shown to him. So, with a sideways glance at his brother, Stan sidled up to the doors and looked them over.
There were no visible locks or any sort of mechanisms that Stan could see, which was odd. The doors had elaborate hoop handles, but that was about it. It was rather suspicious, but without anything else to check out, the only option was to try the handles and open the doors. So, hesitantly, Stan reached out and grabbed one of the handles, giving it a tug.
The door didn’t move, but immediately a buzzing sensation rushed through Stan from his hand, like his entire body was being afflicted with pins and needles. He reeled back, letting go of the handle and stumbling as he was overtaken by a dizzy sensation. There was a strange moment of vertigo, everything swirling around him and the ceiling stretching higher than normal, and then suddenly everything snapped back into place like it had never happened, and Stan felt fine.
“What was that?” he asked incredulously.
Immediately, he slapped his hands over his mouth, shocked at the voice that had just come out of him. High and squeaky and… and childish?
Wait, his hands didn’t feel right either.
Stan ripped his hands away to stare at them. They were tiny and soft with stubby fingers, drowning in sleeves that were suddenly too large for him. In fact, all of his clothes were now too large for him, and Stan could only look down at himself helplessly as his brain pieced together what had happened.
“You tricked me!” he cried out angrily, pointing at his brother.
Ford was smirking, his eyes filled with a wicked glee. “I did no such thing. I very much told you exactly what would happen. I warned you the doors were baby-proofed.”
“This is what you meant by that?!” Stan scowled. “So now I’m a baby?”
Ford looked him up and down. “You’re about two or three, I’d say.”
Stan scowled harder, not impressed. Ford had totally tricked him! He'd known this would happen and had encouraged Stan to try the doors on purpose!
Ford cooed loudly, one hand coming up to rest on his cheek as he gazed at Stan fondly. “Look at your little angry face! So cute!”
Oh no.
Stan was filled with a sudden dread. He knew where this was going. He could see it in Ford’s expression and in the twitchiness of his body. It was time to run.
He turned on his heel and booked it as fast as he could. Unfortunately, with tiny legs and big clothes now in the way, it wasn’t very fast, and he could hear the unhurried footsteps of his brother follow him.
“Stanley,” Ford sang, “come here!”
“No!” Stan shouted back, trying to run faster.
The footsteps got closer.
“Stanley!”
“Go away!”
Large hands snatched Stan right up into the air and he squeaked in surprise, kicking his feet as Ford raised him above his head.
“Look at you!” Ford sounded way too delighted. “You’re so little! My baby!”
“I’m not your baby!” Stan yelled back, thoroughly offended.
He smacked at Ford’s arms with his small hands, but it did nothing, and Ford simply brought him down to cradle Stan to his chest.
“Of course you are, baby brother. Look at those baby teeth, and those chubby little cheeks!”
Stan made a disgruntled noise as fingers gently pinched his cheek. Ford’s eyes were alight with a joyful mania that was almost scary. It took a moment to place what about it was so off-putting, but eventually it clicked in Stan’s brain. Ford was gazing at him with greed, as if Stan were a priceless treasure he’d found and wanted to hoard all to himself.
Stan huffed and smacked Ford in the face, but it was ineffective. In fact, the hit only seemed to provoke Ford, who clutched Stan tighter and leaned down to pepper little kisses all over Stan’s head and cheeks.
“Ewww!” Stan complained, trying to push Ford’s face away. “No! Gross, Ford!”
“You’re just so cute.” Ford nuzzled their noses together, swaying back and forth and rocking Stan. “It’s been a while since one of you tried the doors.”
Stan blinked. This had happened to someone else before?
“Who—?”
“Sherman,” Ford answered, already knowing what Stan was going to ask. “He’s tried a couple of times, but not for a while. I think he got annoyed with constantly turning into a baby.”
“Probably got annoyed by you and your overbearing coddling,” Stan muttered.
If Shermie had been in this situation, Stan could not imagine he took it well. Shermie was not a particularly tactile person, and he could only imagine how overwhelming this treatment from Ford had felt to him. No wonder he hadn’t tried again for a while.
“Put me down,” Stan demanded.
“Absolutely not. Your tiny legs will get tired walking all the way back upstairs. Big brother will carry you.”
Stan groaned loudly and wiggled, but Ford’s arms cradled him through it, not giving in the slightest. A hand patted his back to calm him, and eventually Stan sighed and let himself collapse against Ford. There was absolutely no way he was getting out of this.
“Don’t worry,” Ford said softly, carding his fingers through Stan’s curls. “This wears off after a day. I’ll take care of you until then.”
Stan adjusted his new shirt, scowling at the childish design of it. Ford had borrowed some of David’s clothes for him. David was a couple years older than Stan’s body was right now, so they were a little big, but it was better than nothing. Stan was grateful to at least not be in a giant t-shirt anymore.
True to his word, Ford was still carrying him. He’d refused to put Stan down for anything except to help him into the new clothes. It was a little annoying, but loathe as he was to admit it, Stan quickly realized he was at quite a disadvantage at this size. There were many things he couldn’t reach, and his short legs took longer to get places.
(Everything was so much bigger at this height. It felt… scary, though Stan wasn’t sure why.)
Obviously that was the only reason he continued to allow Ford to carry him. Nothing else.
“Now, let’s see,” Ford said, carrying him into the art room.
Ford had decided they were going to do finger-painting. Stan felt he was too old for finger-painting, but Ford had insisted. And seeing as Stan couldn’t exactly get away from his big brother at the moment, finger-painting it was.
Someone else was already in the art room, though, and Stan lit up at the sight of his ma. An excited energy zipped through him, and he bounced eagerly in Ford’s arms.
“Ma!” he called.
Ma turned around, brows furrowed in confusion. Upon spotting Stan they shot straight up her forehead, her mouth falling open in shock. The paintbrush she’d been holding dropped from her fingers.
“What—? Stanley?”
Stan reached a small hand out to her. He found himself overtaken by the desire to be held by her, encompassed safely in her arms the way he had been as an actual child, where it felt like nothing could hurt him. He wanted her familiarity wrapped around him.
“Stanley tried testing out the doors downstairs,” Ford explained.
Understanding dawned on Ma’s face, and her eyes softened when they landed back on Stan. She looked at him in an almost wistful manner.
“It’s been so many years since I’ve seen you this small,” she murmured.
“Ma,” Stan called again, insistently reaching for her. He couldn’t outright ask for her to hold him—that would be too embarrassing—but he hoped she understood.
She did. Ma approached them swiftly, her arms coming up for Stan. “My baby.”
Ford turned his body away from her, curling over Stan possessively.
Ma gaped. “Stanford!”
“He’s mine,” Ford grumbled.
Huh. Ford didn’t usually have a problem with sharing Stan with the rest of the family. Especially their ma.
Stan huffed and wiggled. “Ford! I want to see Ma!”
“You can see her. She’s right there,” Ford said stubbornly, keeping Stan clutched close.
Time to try something else.
Stan widened his eyes and wobbled his lower lip, making grabby hands at Ma and mumbling, “But Mama…”
Ford faltered.
Ma saw the moment of weakness and seized it. “A baby needs his mother. You wouldn’t deprive your brother of his ma, would you?”
Ford’s lips thinned in displeasure, but he sighed and turned back to Ma. With clear reluctance, he allowed her to take Stan from his arms.
Stan couldn’t help but kick his feet happily as Ma grabbed him. She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes growing misty. Then she tucked him close and kissed all over his face and head. Just like Ford had earlier.
“Ew! Ma, no!” Stan complained half-heartedly. “Yuck!”
Stan wondered if this was where Ford had copied the behaviour from.
“My baby,” Ma said thickly, rocking him.
This was definitely where Ford had copied those behaviours from.
The man in question was staring at them enviously, hands twitching like he already wanted to snatch Stan back. Stan had the feeling it wouldn't be long before he was in Ford’s grasp again, so he needed to soak up his ma’s affection while he had it.
He wrapped his stubby arms around her neck and nestled into her. The faint scent of perfume on her skin was familiar and nostalgic, reminding him of all the times she’d held him just like this when he’d been a child. Times when her arms had felt like the safest, most comforting place he could be.
(For some reason, it didn't feel as safe now as Ford’s arms did.)
Ma pulled back to look at him, one perfectly manicured thumb rubbing Stan’s cheek. “You were so cute at this age.”
“I'm not cute,” Stan protested.
“You're adorable!” Ma told him. “Right, Stanford?”
Ford nodded seriously. “Very adorable.”
Stan huffed and crossed his arms, his face flushing. “Can we finger-paint now?” he asked grumpily, not wanting to hear anymore discussion on how cute he supposedly was.
Ma brightened. “Finger-painting! A wonderful idea.”
She swiftly spun on her heel at the same moment Ford lunged to snatch Stan away from her, dodging Ford’s grabbing hands and taking Stan over to the cupboards full of various art supplies.
Stan snickered at the way Ford’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance. He wondered how long Ma could play keep-away from him for.
(He wouldn't admit how the two of them fighting over him made him feel wanted and loved.)
Stanford had not truly been sleeping when the door between his and Stanley’s room opened, just dozing. Therefore, he was fully alert to the sound of little feet padding into his room, and—more concerningly—the distraught sobbing that accompanied them. He cracked open an eye as they drew near, and his heart clenched at the sight.
Stanley was at the edge of his bed, too small to get up on it by himself. His face was twisted with distress, chubby cheeks red from how hard he was crying. Stanford sat up as two little arms reached over the top of the bed for him desperately, Stanley bouncing on his heels as he cried for his big brother.
Looking at his precious baby brother, Stanford felt something stir within him; an emotion that only Stanley was really able to make him produce.
Compassion.
Stanford cooed sympathetically, reaching out and picking Stanley up. He rearranged himself so he was cross-legged, placing Stanley in his lap and holding him in the cradle of his arms.
“My poor baby,” he crooned to the sobbing toddler, rocking him back and forth. “What’s the matter, little one?”
Most likely a nightmare. Stanford had told Stanley it was best for him to stay the night with his big brother while he was young like this, but Stanley had all but thrown a fit about being a big boy and sleeping in his own bed. Eventually, Stanford had allowed it, even though he’d known Stanley wouldn’t make it through the night on his own.
He’d been prepared for this exact scenario.
Stanley just shook his head, burying his face in Stanford’s chest and clinging to him with all his tiny might.
“Oh, honey,” Stanford murmured gently, “it’s alright. Big brother is here. You’re safe. I won’t ever let anything hurt you.”
Of course he wouldn’t. In his arms was the most precious thing in the entire multiverse. A twin, gifted to him by fate even when he wasn’t supposed to have one. The physical embodiment of all the things Stanford was not; all the soft, emotional parts missing from himself, given form in the shape of Stanley. The very manifestation of Stanford’s heart outside of his body.
He would never allow harm to come to Stanley. Stanford would destroy planets for the tiny, chubby fingers clutching his nightshirt.
Stanley made him feel alive; made him feel more like a person. Emotions had never come easy to Stanford, but they sparked more often when Stanley was around. Stanley was his source of connection, his remaining humanity. Stanford only wanted the best for him. He wanted to keep Stanley safe and happy, give him everything he ever desired.
It twisted something inside of him to see Stanley so upset. Stanley was often full of tears, and Stanford didn't understand them, but he wanted to soothe them. He wanted to wipe them away and make sure Stanley never felt sad again.
Still rocking his baby brother gently, Stanford began to hum a lullaby. It was one their mother had sung to them when they were little, one that Stanley used to fall asleep to. And slowly, Stanley began to calm, sobs dying down to quiet sniffles, teary eyes blinking heavily.
Safe and sound in Stanford’s arms.
A part of him wanted to keep Stanley this way forever; small, cute, and utterly reliant on adults because he was too little to care for himself. Utterly reliant on Stanford. Baby Stanley could never leave him because he’d never make it on his own. Baby Stanley could never abandon him because he needed his big brother.
But baby Stanley was also so, so fragile. Vulnerable and helpless and tiny. Human life was so easily crushed out—a child’s even more so. It wasn't as though Stanley wasn’t fragile at his normal age, but he at least had a chance, if attacked, to run away and find Stanford. Baby Stanley didn’t have much chance if something ever dared try to harm him.
The thought horrified Stanford. It was just too risky to keep Stanley like this permanently, so he simply had to enjoy it while it lasted.
“Someone’s sleepy,” he whispered teasingly, cradling the back of Stanley’s head while Stanley fought to keep his eyes open.
“Not sleepy,” Stanley mumbled sleepily.
Stanford smiled to himself. With a flick of a finger, he summoned a tissue from the nightstand, carefully wiping the tears and snot from Stanley’s face. His baby brother grumbled but didn’t fight it, yawning adorably and cuddling into him. Stanford cooed at him, kissing his little forehead softly.
Making sure he had a secure hold on Stanley, he laid them back down. He rolled onto his side, tucking Stanley into the hollow of his body and protectively curling around him. Stanley’s tiny fists were still clenched in Stanford’s pyjamas, though the draw of sleep was loosening his grip.
“Go to sleep,” Stanford crooned to him. “Big brother’s here, you’re safe. I’ll always protect you.”
Stanley’s voice sounded so innocent as he mumbled, “Promise?”
Stanford’s eyes softened. “I promise.” He brushed his fingers through soft brown curls. “My little heart. I’ll keep you safe.”
He would spare no mercy for anyone that ever tried to hurt Stanley. No matter who it was.