Chapter Text
Darkness.
“—ord! Ford, wake up!”
He was floating in a sea of black, likely because he didn’t seem to have the energy to open his eyes. Awareness flitted in and out of his fingertips, close enough for him to reach for but never fully grasp. Even without opening his eyes, he could sense that the place he was in wasn’t one he was familiar with; the scent of mildew and old, dried blood wafted through the air, the pungent odor nearly unbearable.
“Ford, c’mon, you’ve gotta get up.”
Ford’s head lolled towards his chest, neck craned at an angle that would normally be considered painful. His hands were tied behind his back. That was odd. Stanley wouldn’t do that to him.
“Please, Ford.”
The urgent voice broke on the words, strangely pleading. Stanley. That was Stanley’s voice, and he sounded worried. Stanley wasn’t supposed to feel worried; Ford was supposed to protect him from that.
He moved his head just barely to the side, grimacing as pain spiked viciously through his skull, forcing his breath to hiss through his teeth.
“Yeah, that’s it, Ford! C’mon, Ford, you can do it!”
He cracked open his eyes, wincing as light pierced one, then the other. His eyelashes stuck together as he pried them apart, sticky with forced sleep and what he hoped wasn’t blood. White stars floated in his vision, and he did his best to blink them away. His neck protested loudly, but after a moment’s pause, he was finally able to lift his head.
When he met eyes with Stanley, however, he immediately froze.
His brother was tied to a chair about ten feet away, directly facing him, arms pulled behind his back at a painful-looking angle. His ankles and chest was also bound to the chair, thick rope coiling around his frame and holding him in place. Ford could see how he was leaning to his right, as if he was trying to support broken ribs. The worst part, however, was Stan’s face; he was sporting a shining black eye and a split lip, and dried blood ran from one of his nostrils to the bottom of his chin, bright red all too prominent against pale skin. He looked like he’d taken a beating, and a bad one at that.
Ford’s tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth. “St’nley,” he croaked, his voice hoarse. God, his throat burned. “Stanley,” he tried again with only a slightly better result.
Stan shushed him, face openly concerned but also wary. He glanced around the room while he spoke, eyes darting to every dark corner. “Hey hey hey, it’s okay, don’t talk. Actually, it might be better to stay quiet right now.”
“You’re hurt,” Ford managed, the words slicing down his vocal cords and piercing his heart.
“You aren’t looking too hot either,” Stan replied, keeping his voice low. “It’s going to be alright, yeah? I’m gonna figure this out, and we’re gonna get you back to the ship real soon. It’s gonna be fine.”
Stan smiled, big and bright.
Even in his current state, Ford knew his brother was lying.
Slowly but surely, he tried to gain his bearings. His thoughts were slow, dripping with confusion and running together like molasses. The feeling was… unnerving. His intellect was his greatest asset in this situation; to be deprived of it was like losing a sixth sense. The thought sent a stab of fear into his stomach, but he shoved it away. No sense in panicking now; all he could do was try to make whatever he'd been drugged with wear off as fast as possible, then move forward.
This wasn’t the first time he’d been kidnapped. It was impossible to be one of the most hunted outlaws in the entire multiverse without getting into a few tight situations. Luckily, he’d always been able to escape, one way or another.
(And if he still had nightmares about being tied up and tortured for days on end, well. No one had to know the details.)
He began to categorize the situation, doing his best to make sense of their surroundings. The faster he could make sense of what was going on, the faster he could get them out of what was going on. His head pulsed with dull pain, the sensation blooming behind his eyes and radiating through his skull. His entire body was sore, his muscles weak, the slightest movements draining his energy all too quickly. Likely a residual effect of the drug. Upon attempting to move his wrists, it was clear that they were bound securely to the back of the chair, just like Stan’s. Similar ropes twisted around his ankles, his feet already numb from lack of circulation. A final thick rope coiled around his chest, effectively holding him in place like a moth pinned to a corkboard.
Ford tugged against the bindings once, then twice, cursing softly. The ropes were tight, the knots firm and strong. Whoever had kidnapped them knew what they were doing. Unfortunate.
He yanked at the ropes again, the chair squeaking on the ground, jolting with the force of his movements. His raw wrists already ached, scarred skin re-irritated by the coarse rope.
“Ford, hey, Ford!”
Ford paused, glancing at Stan to find his brother’s face frozen in a mixture of worry and fear. The sight sent a flicker of nerves down his spine, a heavy weight dropping deep in his stomach. He’d rarely seen Stan look so… afraid.
“I want to get out of here as much as you do, believe me, but right now, we have to be quiet,” Stan whispered, his face more serious than Ford had practically ever seen it. “Okay?”
Ford nodded slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. He was feeling more aware, now, and with awareness came a burning, blistering anger. Rage, accompanied by a faint sense of panic, slithered through his chest. They’d both been kidnapped, and someone had hurt Stan. Someone had hurt his brother, and in his current position, Ford couldn’t do anything about it. If their captors came back, there was nothing he could do to keep him safe, to protect him. He’d already failed him by letting them get kidnapped; he’d been home for less than a year, and he’d still managed to let himself get soft, slow to react.
He had to get Stan out of here. Now.
He glanced around the dimly lit room they were being held in. It looked like the inside of a warehouse; the claustrophobic space seemed smaller than it was, concrete floors and metal panel walls only accentuating the feeling of being held prisoner. The room was entirely empty except for them in the center, with one door to the right. Old, dried bloodstains littered the floor in all sizes, likely contributing to the awful smell. When Ford looked in front of his own chair, there were a few drops of ruby-red blood on the ground. His face did feel a little sticky.
When he tried to think back to what had happened, however, he turned up blank; his thoughts were still fuzzy at the edges, his memories overlapping with one another like waves on the shore. To know how to escape, perhaps it would be helpful to know what they were fighting against.
He shifted his gaze back to Stan, who was trying to slip out of his bindings with little success. “Stan,” he hissed, getting his brother’s attention. His throat was beginning to feel a bit better now that he’d been awake for a few minutes. “Do you know why we’re here?”
“D’ya remember what happened?” Stan whispered back.
Ford slowly shook his head.
A bolt of concern darted across Stan’s face, but he quickly smoothed his expression, replacing the fear with a casual air that Ford knew he didn’t truly possess. “Yeah, you hit your head pretty hard, Six. You probably have a nasty concussion. Does your head hurt?”
“No,” Ford lied. “What happened?”
Stan raised an eyebrow. “Liar.” He glanced around the warehouse again before continuing. “We were in Guatemala. D’ya remember that?”
Ford nodded. They’d wanted to take a break from the Arctic for a bit, see a few other parts of the world before heading back to Gravity Falls for the summer. Ford had been interested in searching for El Cadejo, and Guatemala was the perfect place to start. They’d docked there quite recently; approximately two days ago, if Ford was remembering correctly.
Stan dipped his chin. “Good.” He thought for a second, staring somewhere in front of Ford before snapping back into reality. When he spoke again, he seemed to pick his words carefully. “We were walking through the port’s downtown area looking for supplies for an expedition. We had explored the area a bit the day before.”
Ford nodded; he remembered that. The area was beautiful, and he had been excited to set out for a few-day trip to the last recorded location of El Cadejo.
His brother hesitated, his face getting a little pale. “I… I didn’t remember,” he said slowly.
A note of concern rang through Ford’s head. Stan had recovered nearly all of his memories from the effects of the memory gun, but here and there he’d recall something new. The fact that they were tied up in a dingy warehouse probably meant whatever Stan had remembered wasn't exactly a happy memory. “Didn’t remember what?” he prompted carefully.
His brother looked even more nervous now, and Ford watched as he swallowed. His eyes darted around the room again. Stan didn’t get scared easily, but right now he looked eerily close to panicking, no matter how much he tried to hide it. Apprehension, sharp and cold, wrapped gnarled fingers around Ford’s throat.
Stan cleared his throat quietly, his eyes horribly haunted. “I got into, uh… some not great things. Near this area. Back when I was… y’know.”
A shard of ice slid down Ford’s spine, his chest tightening. “In your twenties?”
Stan nodded. “Yeah.”
Fuck. That… wasn’t good. Stan had bad nightmares often about what he’d gone through during his days on the road, and Ford did his best to pick up the pieces every time. It was his fault Stan had been forced to endure so many horrible things; the least Ford could do was be there for his brother now. Thick, tarry guilt about what he’d done to Stan—what he’d put him through, forced him to endure—curdled in his stomach constantly, and it spiked every time his brother woke up screaming, no matter how many times Stan insisted it wasn’t his fault.
Ford blew out a breath. “Okay,” he said finally. “That’s okay. It isn’t your fault for not remembering, that’s the memory gun, and you know that.”
Stan gave him a tight smile. “Sure,” he murmured, self-loathing curling around the word.
“It isn’t.”
Stan tilted his head, flashing a signature grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Whatever you say, Six.”
Ford frowned.
Stan continued, his smile fading. “But, yeah. We were walking, and someone must have given them a tip, because we got nabbed. They pulled us into an alley, beat us up real bad, you know the drill. You held your own for a while against a bunch of guys, but then you hit your head. You went down hard, Ford.”
Flashes of the fight flickered in the corners of Ford’s memory. Getting grabbed, instinct taking over. His hand grabbing for his gun before remembering that they’d left it at the ship. Bones breaking under his fists and elbows, ducking and spinning and dodging before being shoved backwards, losing his balance and slamming the back of his head into the ground. He didn’t remember much else from there.
“I remember some of it now,” he said slowly. Stan brightened, nodding rapidly.
“Good, that’s good. There was.” Stan paused, the haunted look in his eyes growing in the dim light. “There was a lot of blood.”
Something guilty and red and horribly angry slithered through Ford’s stomach. He was supposed to protect Stanley, and he couldn’t even do that, couldn’t hold his own against a couple of thugs. He should’ve been faster, been stronger, been better. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Not your fault,” Stan immediately filled in after him. “Nope, not accepting that. I’m just glad you’re awake. They drugged us pretty hard after that, and I woke up a little before you did.”
Ford hummed, the sound low. Guilt still pulsed through his veins—you failed him, you failed him, you failed him—but he pushed it away for the time being. They had to focus on getting out. “Do you know where we are now?”
“A small base. We’re still in Guatemala, but we’re pretty far from where we were before. A few hours from Guatemala City, maybe.”
Ford looked up, his thoughts whirring. Even moving his eyes made the pain in his head spike, but he ignored it. They had more important things to worry about.
They were kidnapped, drugged, tied up, injured, and far from the ship. Ford could figure this out. He’d been in worse situations before.
Those situations, however, didn’t have Stanley in them. And Stanley couldn’t get hurt, not more than he already was. Ford wouldn’t let him get hurt. He’d already failed him once; he wouldn’t fail him again.
He’d do anything to protect his brother. Anything.
He looked back at Stan again, who was currently craning his neck back to try to look at his tied hands. Ford didn’t miss the way he hissed out a short breath as he pulled his wrists.
“Don’t rub your wrists raw if the rope’s too tight. We’ll figure out another way.”
Stan glared at him, the look more exhausted and worried than anything else. “My wrists are perfectly normal. I’m sure yours are in worse shape.”
“My wrists are fine, thank you.”
“You’re a bad liar, and it’s even worse when you’re concussed.” Stan turned back to shifting around on the chair carefully, doing his best to not make a sound. Ford did the same, flexing his wrists and pulling his arms every which way, every motion dedicated to trying to find a weak spot in the ropes.
“We’ve gotta—” Stan grunted quietly, yanking his arms so hard Ford was surprised they didn’t pop out of their sockets. “We’ve gotta get out of here before they come back.”
Ford mirrored Stan, rotating his wrists so aggressively something sticky and wet trickled down his left palm, pooling on his fingertips. He ignored the dull ache. “Who’s they?” he muttered back.
It was then that the door to the right flew open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang.
Ford stopped twisting, snapping his gaze to the open door. Whatever—or, rather, whoever—they were facing, being able to assess them quickly was an advantage that Ford knew all too well the benefits of seizing.
The first two men who entered clearly looked like guards, their silhouettes large and intimidating, twin guns hanging from holsters on each of their belts. They were packed with muscle, their postures rigid and their faces menacing. The taller of the two walked with a slight limp, and the shorter had an inflamed-looking slash on his bicep. Ford pocketed the details; any weaknesses they could exploit were to their advantage.
The men flanked the door, crossing their arms in tandem, leering at Stan and Ford with disgustingly amused grins. The third man walked through the door slowly, clearly dragging out his entrance.
He looked to be about Stan and Ford’s age. His build was a touch smaller than the other two men, but still strong-looking. His face was clean-shaven, hair combed neatly, eyes bright and cunning. His fingers and wrists sparkled with gold jewelry, and a heavy-looking chain hung around his neck. A thin scar slashed across his forehead, the mark faded but visible all the same. He stepped in confidently, assuredly, a smug grin already present on his face.
This must be their leader, Ford concluded. He dared a glimpse at Stan, and his stomach dropped, his heart sinking from his chest to feet in an instant.
Stan was terrified.
His brother’s face was practically translucent with how pale it was, his lips pulled back into a frozen grimace. His chest rose and fell shallowly, like he couldn’t get enough air in, and his arms jerked at his sides, still trying to escape with the few seconds he had before the man drew closer. Ford could see the fear in his eyes, could practically smell it coming off of him.
Protective rage rose in Ford’s chest, something jagged and angry rising in his throat. This man had clearly put Stan through something that scared him. He’d hurt him. Stan wasn’t supposed to be afraid, not anymore.
In that moment, he made a promise: he’d rip this man apart limb from limb, and he’d enjoy every second of it.
He glared daggers into the man as he walked closer, each controlled step forward making his lip curl into a snarl. He kept tugging at the ropes, not bothering to care how loud his efforts were. When he glanced at Stan again, his brother had very clearly slapped a mask on; his Mr. Mystery smile was firmly in place, his eyes jaunty and his posture relaxed.
It was a good disguise, but not to Ford. He could see the way the relaxedness was forced, how his brother clenched his teeth to keep his smile from breaking.
“Rico!” Stan said loudly, amplifying his voice so that it bounced off of the metal walls of the room. “Long time no see! How are you, pal? It’s been forever, wow, you look old—”
“I’ve waited for a long time to find you, Stetson,” the man—Rico—cut in. His voice was deep and calm, a Spanish accent curling around the words. Stan swallowed, shrinking back just barely before puffing his chest defiantly. “Or should I say, Stanley.”
Stan laughed nervously. “Stanley? Who’s—who’s Stanley, that’s a dumb name—”
“Oh, please. Don’t play games with me, Stanley. I don’t appreciate it.” Rico interjected, the words almost sweet.
Stan stopped talking.
Ford growled, the sound throaty and menacing. No one talked to his brother like that. No one.
Rico’s eyes flicked to him, and he smiled, the wide grin stretching across his face until every tooth was visible. “And look! You found yourself your own guard dog during your time alone! I heard he put up quite a display.” Rico walked over to Ford’s chair, reaching a hand out as if to pinch his cheek. Ford snapped at his fingers with his teeth, forcing the other man to pull his hand back. “Luchador, this one. He gave my men a fight, unlike you.”
“Don’t fucking touch him,” Stan snapped, the words sharp and low. His brother’s lips had curled into a snarl, fake relaxation replaced with a searing glare. Protective rage glinted in his eyes, and Ford could see the way his hands were white-knuckled even where they were bound to the chair behind him.
Rico swiveled back to Stan, smile still secured in place, pristine and unbothered. He began to walk towards him, steps slow. “Did you know, Stanley, that when you sold me out, I had to build my empire from dust? Desde las ruinas? By the time I got out of jail, many of my men had run. It took me a long time to get to where I was before.”
“Looks like you’re doing just fine now,” Stan interjected, “so maybe you should just let us go, and we’ll never bother you again, huh?”
Rico laughed, loud and deep, the sound raking sharp nails down Ford’s spine. He hissed out a breath, going back to twisting against the ropes as hard as he could while Rico’s back was turned. He could feel blood on both of his palms, now, the substance oozing in rivulets.
“You have always been a funny man, Stanley Pines.” Rico continued walking forward until he was directly in front of Stan, nearly blocking him from Ford’s view. He could still see, however, the way Stan’s face dropped, complexion turning a shade paler at Rico’s use of his full name. “You sell me out, and I let you go? No,” he chuckled. “No, I don’t think so.”
Stan forced a laugh. “Right, sure,” he said, the words dripping with fake joviality, like he was in on a joke. “I get it, you wanna get your dramatic revenge or whatever. Classic.”
Rico began to walk in a circle around Stan, the motion sickeningly teasing. Stan held his defiant expression, refusing to strain his neck to follow the man’s movements. Ford, however, could see the fear that leaked through the cracks, the way his brother’s fingers twitched with every quiet tap of footsteps. “Many nights, I dreamt of snapping your neck when I found you, Stanley Pines. Crushing you under my heel like the worthless pest you are.”
Ford growled louder, the sound reverberating off of the walls as pure rage slunk through his veins, his hands, his chest. Rico’s eyes flicked to him, then flicked away.
“But then, I had a better idea, and a more merciful one at that. Because I am merciful, aren’t I, Stanley?”
A muscle flickered in Stan’s jaw. He remained silent, staring resolutely forward. He raised his chin just a touch, his gaze flicking to the ceiling, then back to Ford.
Rico paused, then sighed, beckoning a guard over with a hand. “Come on, Stanley. You know not to make things difficult.”
Panic spiked in Ford’s chest. No. They couldn’t—Stanley couldn’t get hurt, he couldn’t, Ford had to protect him, he had to—
“Don’t hurt him,” he hissed. The guard walked forward with strides that were far too languid for the situation at hand, almost seeming bored. Ford jerked his shoulders against the chair, sending it moving forward an inch with a screech. “If you lay a finger on him, I’ll kill you.”
Rico laughed again, and Ford bared his teeth, tugging as hard as he could at his bindings. “He speaks!” Rico exclaimed, almost seeming delighted at Ford’s words. “You two are tan lindos, you are. So precious.”
“Bud, stop talking.” Stan said, his voice firm and loud. “It’s fine, yeah? It’s gonna be fine.”
Ford kept talking over him. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll dismember your atoms one by one if you so much as touch him, I’ll unwind your biological signature strand by strand, I’ll—”
“Six, shut the fuck up.”
Ford clenched his teeth together so hard he heard his jaw crack. He dragged his gaze from the approaching man to Stanley, who was looking at him intently. Barely noticeably, his brother shook his head from side to side, something pleading in his eyes.
Ford thrashed. “I’LL KILL YOU!” he yelled, voice echoing through the room. He could taste blood in his mouth.
It didn’t matter.
He could only watch, panting, his mind screaming, as the guard walked up to Stanley and punched him across the face, once, twice.
Ford’s breathing hitched. Anger and rage and horrible guilt ripped through his chest, because they were hurting Stanley right in front of him, and he couldn’t do anything at all.
He curled his hands into tight fists, something he couldn’t name breaking in his chest.
This was his fault.
He’d make those men pay if it was the last thing he did.
The man finished by slugging Stan in the stomach, drawing a gut-wrenching oomf out of him. By the way he curled into himself, it was clear he definitely had broken ribs, like Ford suspected. Finally, the man stepped away, leaving Stan heaving. New, slick blood dripped from his lip, arching lazily down his chin. Stan spat red forward, then leaned back, stubborn as ever. Ford leaned forward as much as he could.
“Aren’t I merciful, Stanley?” Rico repeated.
When Stan didn’t reply again, Rico nodded to the guard. Slowly, almost painstakingly, the guard took a step towards Ford.
While this made Ford relax a fraction—it didn’t matter if he got hurt, he’d been through this enough times in the multiverse, and he deserved it, anyway—Stan visibly grew rigid. “Yeah,” he choked out. “Super merciful.”
“And what do you say?” Rico said in a sing-song voice, clearly enjoying every moment of Stan’s suffering.
The guard took another step towards Ford.
“Thank you,” Stan gritted out between clenched teeth.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Rico said, clapping his hands. The guard moved back to stand by the door, and Stan deflated. He glanced at Ford again, but Ford didn’t get the chance to decode the emotion in his eyes before he looked away.
Rico continued prowling around Stan, giving the impression of a lion circling its prey. “I decided that you’re still useful to me, Stanley Pines. You were one of my best men, you know. Slippery, silver-tongued. I could use more men like you.”
He ran a hand along Stan’s shoulders as he walked behind him, the possessive motion making Ford’s skin crawl, his vision instantly turning red. How dare that man put his hands on his brother. How dare he touch him. He yanked against the ropes again to no avail.
Stan snorted, the sound dull. “That’s funny. I’ll never work for you again, jackass.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. Let me rephrase: you will work for me, carrying out my every order without question or complaint, with no thoughts of any sort of betrayal, while your brother remains our… guest.” Rico paused, letting his words hang in the air, awful and condescending and dripping with disgusting enjoyment. He stopped circling Stan, standing to his left so that both brothers could see him clearly.
Finally, he smiled, extending a hand in Ford’s direction. “Or I’ll kill him.”
Ford blinked. Oh.
Stan went ghostly pale, horror filling his gaze. “No,” he murmured, the quiet word slipping from his lips seemingly before he could stop it.
Rico looked almost gleeful, the way his smile grew. “Oh yes, Stanley Pines. You brought us quite the treat when we spotted you walking with him, hm?”
It clicked in Ford’s brain instantly. As long as they had Ford, they had Stan.
Ford couldn’t let that happen.
Ford kept his breathing steady, his posture steel. He would die with no complaint, his head held high, if it meant Stanley had even the smallest fraction of escaping. This way, he would protect him, give him a chance. Keep him safe.
He would die over and over again, every damn day, as long as Stanley was safe.
“No,” Stanley repeated again, louder. His voice shook, his eyes wide and frantic. “He has nothing to do with this, Rico, you’ve gotta let him go, he won’t tell anyone—”
“My terms have been laid before you,” Rico interrupted. “What will you decide?”
Stan was trembling; Ford could see it from where he sat. His eyes bounced from Ford to Rico, words horribly desperate. “Please, Rico. I’ll do anything if you let him go. You just gotta let him go, okay? I’ll–I’ll work for you, follow your orders, whatever you want. All you have to do is let him go.”
No. Stan couldn’t sacrifice his life—his soul—for Ford. Ford wouldn’t let him.
“Stanley,” Ford interjected. When Stan’s panicked gaze found his steely one, he shook his head. “Don’t. It’s okay.”
Stan shook his head, turning back to Rico. “C’mon, Rico, let him go. We’ll make a deal, huh? You let him go, I’ll work for you. Done.”
A deal. The words bounced through Ford’s head, forcing him to inhale raggedly. “Stanley," he hissed again, a horrible, all-consuming fear rising in his chest. Stan couldn’t make a deal. He couldn’t.
Rico tsked, the sound only making Ford feel more queasy. “Those aren’t the terms I gave you, Stanley. You should know better than to challenge me.”
“I’m giving you what you want,” Stan fired back. “All you have to do is let him go, and I’m your guy. Forever.”
From now until the end of time. Ford was going to be sick.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying to you, Stanley,” Rico replied, his voice silky smooth. “Perhaps you require a small demonstration.”
Rico motioned with a hand again. This time, both guards peeled from their positions by the door, gazes fixed on Ford.
Stan’s face dropped, eyes widening, sheer terror etched into every one of his features. He writhed in his chair, pulling as hard as he could against the restraints. “NO! Nope, no demonstration needed, I’m all good! Fine, I’ll work for you no matter what, it’s done!”
Rico shook his head, another low laugh rippling through the room. “It’s too late, Stanley. I think you need some motivation, eh?”
Ford kept his eyes defiant as the men approached, chin held high and chest puffed out. He could take whatever they gave him. Don’t react, don’t show pain, don’t give in. He’d been tortured before. He could do it again.
The guards drew closer to Ford’s chair until they were only a few steps away. Stan kept yelling, thrashing against the ropes that held him, his words increasingly more frantic as they moved in, vultures descending on their prey. “Don’t touch him! Leave him alone, hurt me instead, it’s me you want, come on—”
Rico smiled. “Watch, Stanley. This is what happens when you misbehave.”
Ford met Stan’s horrified gaze, and he tried to give him a reassuring look. It’s okay, he mouthed, widening his eyes to amplify the words.
Stan only grew more panicked, his chest heaving. He twisted against the ropes as he yelled, the words full of rage and agony. “DON’T TOUCH HIM, DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING TOUCH HIM—”
The taller guard stepped forward, punching Ford across the face with a hard smack. Ford felt skin split under the man’s knuckles as his head snapped to the side, but he kept his face stony, not allowing a flicker of emotion.
For Stanley, he’d endure anything.
The man punched him again.
And again.
And again.
The man kept hitting him, the flurry of fists forcing stars to form in front of his eyes. His head ached, and his skull felt like it was going to split apart any second now, his neck snapping to the side again and again and again until the world spun. He refused to unclench his jaw, refused to let the man see him break. Tighten your fists. Bite your tongue.
Distantly, he could hear Stan yelling, his voice loud and raw and pleading, but he couldn’t make out the words.
The man punched him again. Something crunched under his fist, and Ford bit off a hissed breath, unwanted tears flooding to his eyes as fiery, all-consuming pain ran through his nose. Almost instantly, he felt hot, slick blood running down his face, the metallic liquid seeping into his mouth and down his chin, dripping onto his shirt.
The guards switched, the shorter man positioning himself in front of Ford. One, two, three hits to the face. The room blurred and refocused, the corners of his gaze turning oddly fuzzy. Black spots crept into his vision. His brain rattled in his skull, forcing his thoughts to mush together, soft and sticky. The pain in his head and nose was nearly unbearable; still, he gritted his teeth, curling his hands even tighter into fists, the action surely leaving five deep, red crescents in his palms.
He couldn’t show a reaction; that was what they wanted. He’d stay strong for Stan. He blinked the black spots away, forcing his eyes to focus.
Once the man had seemingly gotten in enough punches, he moved to Ford’s side, shoving against the chair until it tipped over. Ford’s head cracked against the concrete painfully, a bolt of pure agony running through his temple, all of the breath leaving his lungs from the impact. The world kept spinning, tilting to the side until it almost seemed right-side up again. He caught a glimpse of Stan, who was still yelling, screaming, face red with effort.
Ford didn’t have time to draw another breath before the shorter guard kicked him, his boot driving directly into his ribs, steel toe making itself known by the way it hurt. Ford made a choked noise, the sound driven unbidden from his lungs.
And the man kicked him again.
And again.
And again.
Ford couldn’t breathe, couldn't speak, couldn’t do anything but lay there and endure it; endure the feeling of his ribs popping and snapping, one by one, as the boot made a home in his chest.
He could take it. He’d been through worse; this was how he protected Stan, he had to protect Stan.
He could do it. He was fine. He choked in a choppy inhale, tried to make the warehouse room stop spinning around him. If he didn’t think about it, it was like the man wasn’t kicking him at all, really.
And then the man walked around the chair and stomped down on one of his hands.
Ford heard it crunch, felt the exact moment his bones splintered and his fingers bent the wrong ways, and he couldn’t hold back a muted cry, a fresh wave of unwanted tears flooding to his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut as jagged pain raked knives through his hand, sending shockwaves of agony radiating up his arm.
The man walked back around to the front of the chair, putting his steel-toed boot to use as he slammed it into Ford’s chest yet again.
His eyes were forced open at the impact, and he looked around the man to find Stan, his gaze blurring and spinning. Ford was pretty sure he was still yelling, but he couldn’t really tell anymore; his hearing was oddly muffled, like he was underwater. His gaze dropped to his brother’s mouth to try to catch what he was saying.
Please.
Stan was begging.
His shoulders were shaking, and when Ford was able to look again, he saw that Stan was crying, tears shining in the warehouse light.
Stan wasn’t supposed to cry. Ford was supposed to protect Stan. He needed Stan to be okay.
Another one of his ribs popped, and Ford barely held back another cry of pain. His vision was blurry enough now that he couldn’t see Stan. He couldn’t see much of anything, really. His entire body ached, and hurt, and part of him wanted to give in to the unconsciousness that lapped at the edges of his vision, to let himself slip away into oblivion.
But no. Stan needed him.
Ford’s eyelids fluttered.
Splinters. Two young boys on a boat, shining with possibility. A dynamic duo. An arm slung around shoulders, a hand in his. Six fingers in five, a perfect fit. The only friend he really needed. Leaning on a shoulder, more comfortable than he’d been in years. A hug, the feeling of arms around him bringing tears to his eyes. Two old men on a boat, shining with love, with trust.
After what felt like an eon, the kicks stopped coming, leaving Ford gasping on the ground. He didn’t move, didn’t raise his head. It seemed to take all of his energy just to cling to the edges of consciousness, to inhale one panting, ragged breath at a time. His head throbbed, the feeling permeating every corner of his being.
Someone—one of the guards, most likely—pulled his chair up, placing it on all four legs again. Ford’s ribs and hand screamed at the sudden motion, but he held his pained yell in, only letting slip a quiet groan. His head lolled towards his chest once he was upright; his neck seemed to be unable to keep his head up for some reason. Faintly, he could taste blood in his mouth, coating his tongue. He couldn’t move his jaw.
When he mustered the strength to open his eyes, he saw his shirt was covered in red. That was odd.
Someone grabbed his chin, sharp nails digging into the side of his face, forcing his head upwards and sending a near-blinding jolt of anguish through his temple. The room spun dizzyingly behind the figure, their face blurring into the background as Ford blinked, dazed. A small voice within him whispered to lean back, to spit, to show any display of defiance; his body, however, didn’t seem to want to listen. A voice spoke, the words muddled in his ears. When Ford made no move to reply, the person let go, the loss of support making his head fall forward limply.
It was all he could do to blink slowly as he tried to make the floor stop spinning, the world drifting in fragmented focus around him. His hearing came back before he could lift his head.
“—ord, you’re gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay, okay? I’m gonna–I’m gonna get you out of this, and you’re going to be fine, yeah?” Stan’s voice hitched on a sob. “I love you so much, Ford. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Ford wanted to raise his head, wanted to shout and scream and rip the men who made Stan feel this way apart, wanted to give Stan the biggest hug he could muster. He wanted to wipe away Stan’s tears, to say I love you back. His neck, however, still wasn't listening to him, and he just kept blinking, eyes half-lidded.
“Decision time,” said another voice. Rico. “Work for me, or we finish the job. If it’s not already finished; he’s lost a lot of blood, eh? And he probably has a nasty concussion.”
“Please take him to a hospital,” whispered Stan.
Rico chuckled, the sound making Ford’s stomach twist. “And lose our best bargaining chip, just as el juego da comienzo? Your brother will be fine with us, Stanley Pines. So long as you agree to our deal.”
No. Ford couldn’t let that happen.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head from his chest, white stars erupting in front of his eyes when he opened them as wide as he could. His head spun, and his vision flickered woozily.
“St’n,” he slurred, the sound barely audible.
Stan, who had been looking at Rico, snapped his gaze to Ford in a heartbeat, eyes wide and full of panic and relief and guilt. “Ford,” he said, voice thick. “Ford, don’t talk right now. You’re going to be okay, I–I promise. I’m gonna keep you safe, okay?”
“St’n,” Ford murmured again. He shook his head, just barely, the motion sending fresh waves of pain through his skull. “D’n do it.”
“It’s okay, it’ll be okay, Ford. I love you, okay? I love you so much.” Stan’s voice broke on the words, and strangely, Ford felt like he was going to cry.
“L’you,” he responded, the words sticking in his mouth, running together like watercolors. “No deals.”
A tear ran down Stan’s cheek, sparkling in the dim light, cutting through the blood smeared on his face. He inhaled, flicking his eyes to the ceiling in an attempt to gather his composure, then exhaled.
Rico clapped his hands together, the loud noise making Ford twitch. “As touching as this display is, it’s well past time to make your decision.” He walked over to Ford’s chair until he was standing directly behind it, then put his hands on Ford’s shoulders. Ford squirmed weakly, bile rising in his throat, but Rico held him firm.
He could hear Rico’s grin in his words. “So, Stanley Pines, what do you say?”
Stan opened his mouth. Ford began to shake his head again, then gasped in pain as Rico grabbed his hair and forced his head backwards, exposing his neck. Something cold and hard found its way to his throat in a fraction of a second, the sharp tip beginning to dig into the scarred skin there.
“STOP, STOP STOP STOP!” Stan yelled frantically. "Stop, I’ll do it, I’ll work for you! I’ll do anything, just leave him alone!”
The cold thing—knife, Ford’s tired brain procured—moved away from his neck, and Rico let go of his hair. Ford slumped forward again, chin dipping towards his chest as new pain bloomed behind his eyes. The black spots weren’t going away anymore.
“See?” Ford could hear the grin in Rico’s words. “Easy, Stanley Pines.”
For a moment, all that echoed through the room was breathing; Ford’s gasping, shallow breaths, and Stan’s stuttering, fast ones. With great effort, Ford slowly raised his head again, the black spots multiplying as he moved. He wasn’t going to last much longer.
Stan inhaled shakily. “Let me patch him up,” he said, words quiet. “I’m working for you, but let me patch him up. Please.”
Rico pretended to think, putting a hand to his chin, the gesture mocking. “Hm… no, I don’t think so. I’ve got an assignment for you already, Stanley Pines. And remember, if you betray us…” He trailed off, pointing the knife in Ford’s direction.
Stan looked at Ford, eyes lingering on his shirt, his face. He swallowed, then visibly hardened, steeling himself. He turned back to Rico. “Okay,” he murmured, the word small, dull. “What is it.”
Without warning, a loud clunk echoed through the room. Ford flinched.
Rico opened his mouth, then paused. He turned to his guards. “¿Oyeron ese ruido?”
The guards nodded, hands going to the weapons on their belts.
There was another clunk. Stan’s gaze flicked back to Ford, eyes searching.
“Vigila la puerta,” Rico ordered, sending the guards running for the door. He whipped his gaze back to Stan, eyes fiery. “What did you do,” he growled, voice low.
“I didn’t—what? I didn’t do anything! I’ve been here the whole time!” Stan protested, words coming fast, tinged with disbelief. “Really, this isn’t me!”
A third clunk made itself known. Rico made a noise of frustration, then turned back to the guards. “Nos vamos,” he snarled. “Knock them out.”
“Wait,” Stan interjected. “You can’t—you can’t knock him out, he’s got a concussion. Just—he’s not even aware, really, just leave him alone—”
“Cállate la boca, or else we’ll give him a bigger concussion,” Rico snarled.
A fourth clunk. The guards began to walk towards the twins, moving to hold their guns like clubs.
The last thing Ford heard was an oddly mechanical-sounding bang against the door, the sound echoing through the warehouse. The noise was followed by another bang, then another, until they were almost constant. The door clearly wouldn’t last much longer. He found Stan’s gaze, who looked just as confused as he felt. Suddenly, Stan’s eyes grew wide with alarm, panic flashing across his face. He opened his mouth, as if to say something—
Then, something swiftly hit the back of Ford’s head, and everything went dark.