Chapter Text
Stan and Fiddleford dragged their feet across the terrazzo, slogging their way to the musty elevator through a maze of scuffed walls and hospital halls. Rather than glances or words, they exchanged yawns as the elevator whirred and clunked its way to the third floor. The doors rumbled open and the mutterings of multiple conversations and pulsing of fluorescent lights greeted the pair. The staff at the nurses station didn’t deviate from updating each other on patient statuses or leaning over computers with keys clicking below their fingers as the two old men lumbered by, groaning under their breath as their muscles punished them for their continued movement. Why did room 325 have to be three miles down the hall?
In what felt like twenty-thousand steps but was probably more like thirty, the two reached the faded wooden door to Ford’s room. They’d barely stepped inside when a voice which struggled to express enthusiasm greeted them from behind the blue curtain dividing the room in half.
“Grunkle Stan! Mc Gucket! You’re alright!” Mabel squeaked, leaning around the curtain to examine the pair, her eyes underscored by darkened blotches.
“Yep! More’r’less,” Fiddleford replied, his words dragging to match the feeling in his limbs.
“Yeah, just tired,” Stan answered with a wide yawn and added with a half-hearted chuckle, “and, well, I didn’t think it was possible but I’m pretty sure even the air around me hurts right now. It’s been a long night.”
“So how did you do it? You did say you trapped it, right?” Dipper asked, somehow mustering more excitement than his sister as he peered around the curtain, “Is everything safe now? Will the shape shifter be trapped forever?”
“Whoa there,” Stan said, holding his hands up, “Don’t use up all yer energy babbling out questions. We trapped it in that sap goo. It’ll probably only last until summer, though. We’ll tell you all about it later. Right now I just need to know if Ford’s alright.”
“Well, he… he’s alive,” Dipper offered in a meek, uncertain tone.
“The doctors won’t tell us much,” Mabel added, shrinking back in her chair, crossing her arms, and pouting, “They’re treating us like little kids who can’t handle the truth.”
“Sorry, pumpkin,” Stan’s shoulders drooped as he made his best attempt at an explanation, “but you are still minors and they’re just trying their best to look out for you. I think if he was in real danger, they would have- or at least I hope they would have told you.”
“Yeah well if that was the case they could have warned us or at least asked us about…” Dipper’s annoyed muttering trailed off as he noticed his grunkle’s attention had shifted back to the curtain and what awaited him beyond it.
With Fiddleford close behind, Stan edged closer, unable to concentrate on anything other than the lingering worry clenching his stomach. He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to prepare himself for a vision he didn’t want to see. His hand shielded his eyes from a slit of dull light bleeding through the vertical blinds and glinting off of the laminate floor, or perhaps simply gaining himself one more second before looking toward the bed to his right.
As much as he’d tried to prepare himself for that moment, tried to imagine the scene, he wasn’t ready for it.
Lying on his side, among the sheets and a speckled hospital gown, among wires and monitors and an IV taped to his arm, among the puckered, reddened scars, branding his wrists and neck and bared for any onlooker to see, his brother looked so small. Gauze completely covered the visible sliver of his back and traced the ring of whitened hair among his tousled silvery-brown. But he was breathing. The rise and fall of his chest were slow and his exhalations nearly silent, but that minuscule motion untied the knots binding Stan’s heart. Dipper was right. He was alive.
From the light gasp beside him, Stan could tell Fiddleford must have felt the same plummet of his heart to his stomach at the initial impact of the sight. Or perhaps worse. He turned to find Fiddleford evaluating the situation, studying the barely audible but rhythmic breaths. His shoulders relaxed and he whispered as if any sound too loud might wake Ford, “Only times I ever seen him even sleep before was a few times in college when he wore himself out too much an’ fell asleep at his desk or curled up onna bed with all’a his clothes still on… mosta the time he stayed up later’n me an’ was up earlier.”
“Yeah. To be honest, when we were kids he used the top bunk and I’m not really sure if he slept much back then. If he did, he always fell asleep after me and woke up before, too.”
“Dipper and I saw him fall asleep on you once,” Mabel added with a forced smile. “But it was after you fell asleep and he was up again before you woke up…”
“Wait, what? When was this?” Stan asked with a quirked eyebrow.
“When you guys were watching your old home movies,” Dipper answered.
“I have a photo of it that I didn’t put in my scrapbook yet…” Mabel’s voice trailed off.
“Wait, you got a photo?!” Dipper asked, “And here I tried to draw it! Why didn’t you tell anyone you… oh.”
“Blackmail,” Mabel answered with a dismissive shrug.
A genuine laugh bubbled up through the sludge of worry and woe churning in Stan’s stomach. Clapping a hand on Mabel’s shoulder, he praised her, “I am so proud of you right now.”
Fiddleford looked to the family with flattened eyebrows, sorry he’d brought up the topic and too tired to care about anything other than finding a doctor and learning more about Ford’s current state of health. He knew that the family was kidding, that they were trying to cope in the best way they knew how, with a moment that could easily break them, that teasing each other was how most people interacted and showed they loved one-another. But he also knew Ford never quite understood that. He’d take it seriously and think there was something wrong with him, something they didn’t like about him, something he needed to change but felt he couldn’t.
He crept past Stan and the twins and lowered himself into the cracked vinyl chair at Ford’s bedside. Just as his bottom hit the seat, a dark-haired doctor rapped his knuckles against the open door, ducking to walk through its frame. Fiddleford was back on his feet before the final tap.
“Hello, there,” the doctor said in a friendly tone, “I see Dr… Spruce has attracted a few more visitors.”
“Yeah, hi. I’m his brother, Stan Pi- er Spruce,” Stan answered, extending his hand for the typical formalities of a greeting.
The dark-haired doctor returned his handshake heartily and replied to the somewhat stuttered introduction with a knowing nod, “I’m Dr. Jules-”
Before the doctor could say another word, Stan blurted out, “Oh good! So, what can you tell me about my brother? Is he gonna be alright?”
“We believe that with plenty of rest and follow-up with physical therapy, he will make a full physical recovery. However, I had hoped to speak to you about his mental health.”
“W-what about it-?”
Dipper interrupted before Stan could even finish, “We have a lot of questions too! Like why…? Argh why didn’t you at least tell us or ask us or or or… anything! Argh I’m still piss- angry about it!”
“Dipper?” Stan raised an eyebrow, wondering what could have gotten him so riled up, “What is it?”
Mabel clutched her brother’s arm, half trying to calm him and half wanting to expand on his rant. In as much of a reasonable tone as she could muster she answered in his place, “He… They… When we finally got to come in here and see Grunkle Ford, they had these leathery strap-thingys tying him down…”
“They had him restrained,” Dipper finally managed in more of a growl than he intended.
Stan’s gritty answer thundered, "Wait, what?! Why did they have to do that?" his words trailed off as he remembered seeing his brother suffer physical reactions to… he didn’t really know. He had some nightmare-inducing ideas but couldn’t be certain. Whatever it was that his mind had conjured, projected, or remembered must have been horrific because he’d seen Ford’s desperation with his own eyes, heard him howl as if in unfathomable pain with his own ears. If Ford had experienced something similar while under the hospital staff’s care, he couldn’t exactly blame them for… No. He still hated the sound of it and the image his mind flashed before him. It was bad enough seeing him lying helpless in a hospital bed, he didn’t want to envision his wrists bound to the sidebars and… and… Shit. The kids saw it. Dipper and Mabel saw him like that!
Stan’s face reddened as he tried to hold back the rush of anger; to keep his yells from growing too loud. The Doctor replied as calmly as he could, defending his stance while toning down any graphic details for the sake of Ford’s family.
Between the yells and anger and questions, Fiddleford listened for the slumbering rhythm of Ford’s breaths. With Stan’s initial roar, the beat faltered. He leaned his arms on the bed’s side, watching for any further sign of movement or awareness but none came. The anticipation washed away and he released his held breath in a sigh. His eyebrows furrowed into a melancholy tilt as he gazed down at Ford’s tousled hair, stray strands draped over his forehead. He always said he hated the feeling of it against his forehead, he thought. Not that it currently mattered considering the strips of gauze wrapped between his hair and skin, but still, seeing it stray from the typical upward curl felt like witnessing a mountain crumble to dust.
Should I fix it? His heart pounded at the memory of suppressing the desire to reach out and ruffle Ford’s hair on the nights he’d find him hunched over his books in their dorm. It had always looked soft and plush and he’d always told himself to shut up! at the thought. What would his family think? Or their professors? Or the other students? He’d wholeheartedly believed what the world around him had told him; that what he was feeling was unnatural. He’d responded by pushing himself to find a girlfriend as quickly as possible, to fill the void with something “acceptable”.
But now? Now, thanks to the young twins currently defending Stanford, he knew better. They’d welcomed the idea, had been excited about it even. They didn’t care about gender or orientation, they just wanted their grunkle and himself to be happy. But he still didn’t know how Ford felt about him or anything relationship related aside from his newfound discovery of asexuality. Would he mind if I-? Or is he uncomfortable with being touched? Does he even want a relationship? As far as I knew he never had one before the portal and was adamantly opposed to the idea… but what about while he was stuck wandering other dimensions? Did he ever meet anyone? Did he dislike the idea of having a relationship because he thought he had no other choice? Because he really believed that no one could ever…” He couldn’t bring himself to even think the rest of that thought. Why did he believe that? He mentioned he was bullied as a kid but was it really that bad that it made him believe no one liked him?
“He did what?” Stan’s concerned question caught Fiddleford’s attention.
“If I didn’t see it with my own eyes I wouldn’t believe it. The anesthesia we administered should have been enough to allow him to rest during the debridement of his wounds but he awoke, fought his way past nurses and security guards, and tried to leave. He assaulted members of our staff, tore the stitches out of two of his wounds, and caused himself further blood loss by damaging his IV during a blood transfusion, not to mention the damage caused to the surrounding equipment and the room. We were forced to administer powerful sedatives, most of which seemed to have little to no effect on him. I do apologize but we felt restraining him was our only recourse for his safety and the safety of our medical team.”
Stan gripped the wash station sink, struggling to keep himself upright, and gave a disgruntled sigh, “Yeah. I get it.”
Mabel slipped out of her chair and offered it to him. He fell into it, the legs scratching against the floor under the momentum of his landing. His hands cupped over his face, his elbows resting on his knees as he added in a muffled voice, “I’m sorry kids but I… I get why they didn’t talk to you about it. As much as you and I believe you’d be able to, the law isn’t going to let you make decisions for him and they had to do… something I guess.”
“Indeed. We did what we had to in the absence of medical power of attorney,” Dr. Jules explained.
“Well I’m here now and I got all the paperwork bullsh- I mean mumbo jumbo at home somewhere.”
“Yes Mr… Spruce,” the doctor sighed, lowering his clipboard to his side as his arms fell limp, “Alright, Look. I’m going to level with you. This entire hospital knows who you really are. We’re going to do what we can for you and your brother, Mr. Pines. Your niece and nephew removed his physical restraints and were adamant that we do not replace them.” He turned to address the younger twins, “I understand it was alarming for you and you mentioned that something happened in the past which could make the presence of restraints detrimental to his mental health so we respected your wishes. However, due to the need for further safety measures,” He looked back to Stan who’d lowered his hands and was currently looking up to him with exhausted eyes, blurred behind smudged glasses. He took a sharp breath and continued, “We were forced to make the decision to chemically restrain him.”
“WHAT?!” Dipper shot up from his chair, his voice rumbling through the room and out into the hall. Mabel looked to him wide-eyed, torn between mimicking his response and being at a loss for her own.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Jules apologized, “but we couldn’t allow you to visit him if there was any risk of a repeat of earlier events.”
Dipper lowered his voice to respond but retained the indignant edge, “But we’re here! We can help him if-”
“No one can say that for sure,” the doctor defended in a calculated tone.
“But!” both twins interrupted.
“Whoa,” Stan said, lifting himself to his feet and raising his hands calmly to shush them, “Dipper, Mabel… I know we’d all like to think we can help him through whatever this is but the truth is, the doc, here, has a point,” he clenched his eyes shut for a moment, the gravity of the situation pounding in his head. He reopened them and spoke in a defeated grumble, “We don’t know if we could. I know Ford would never do anything to hurt us on purpose. And considering the entire reason he’s here right now, I know he’d put his life on the line for us, but, to be honest, we don’t know what it is he’s going through or if he’d even recognize us when it happens. What if he thought one of you was that demon? What if he thought you two were in danger and hurt himself? I’m sorry, kids, but, we’re not professionals. I think they did the best they could to keep all of you safe.”
“Thank you Mr. Pines.”
Another tap on the door interrupted the doctor's apologetic gratitude and a stout nurse peeked inside. “Hi, I’m just here to take Dr. Spruce’s vitals and give him a bit of medicine to help with the pain…” she said with all the sweetness of a grandmother offering cookies to her family.
“It’s alright, Nari,” the doctor addressed her in a lowered tone, “I’ve already spoken to them about everything,” he turned to Stan and continued, “This is one of our best nurses, Nari. She’s been keeping a close eye on your brother’s vitals to assure his safety and well-being while he’s been chemically restrained. However, now that you’re here, Mr. Pines, we need a decision from you regarding further treatment.”
“So… I gotta decide whether or not to keep him knocked out?” Stan asked, his eyes clenched shut as he massaged his forehead.
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it. We are going to need a decision quickly or the current dose will wear off.”
“No! Absolutely not!” Dipper commanded.
“No, please!” Mabel begged.
Fiddleford’s thoughts mimicked the younger twins but he said nothing, feeling as though it wasn’t his place. ‘S bad enough that protectin' me is part 'a the reason he’s here inna first place.
Stan looked to them, his expression raw and torn. His glance focused on Fiddleford and followed his saddened gaze to his brother.
“He needs the rest, Mr. Pines,” Dr Jules added.
“And he won’t experience any discomfort or pain, I assure you,” Nurse Nari added.
Stan pinched his nose and let out a heavy breath. “Fine,” he said despite the simultaneous protests from the younger twins, “One more dose for now. And then… I don’t know. We’ll see. I don’t like this.”
Dr. Jules turned and nodded to Nari, giving her the final approval. Fiddleford watched as she monitored Ford’s blood pressure, jotted down the results, then checked his temperature, heart rate, and respiration. She spoke calmly to them, telling them the name of the drug which he couldn’t pronounce nor remember if he tried, and attempted to reassure Stan that he’d made the right decision. It was kind but did nothing to help ease Fiddleford’s mind. He’d hate this. I know Ford would hate this! But… no… Maybe not. Not if he knew it was for them. To keep them safe… No he’d agree to it but he'd hate it even more. He’d hate that there’s a legitimate fear that he could hurt them.
He cringed as she readied a syringe, struggling to hold himself back from stepping between her and Ford. He hated this, hated it as much as he figured Ford would, hated it with a bitterness that burned through his limbs and left a rancorous taste in his mouth. He looked away, first toward Stan who stood in shadow, his shoulders hunched and head hanging low. Mabel had slouched back into her chair, her legs dangling motionless from the seat and her arms hanging limply over the armrests. Dipper gripped his as though he might tear the vinyl pads away from their metal frame. He’d looked away as well, teeth gritted and legs curled stiffly under the chair’s seat.
Fiddleford’s fingers fidgeted on the bed’s edge as he turned back. He instantly wished he hadn’t. His stomach churned from the split second of witnessing the nurse administering the syringe’s contents through the IV taped near the crook of Ford's arm. His attention focused back on his lightly closed eyes, on his matted sideburns, and those out-of-place hairs that bothered him as much as they would have bothered Ford if he could feel them brushing against his forehead.
Fiddleford didn’t know whether what he did next would be soothing or unnerving to Stanford, had he been awake. Regardless, he reached out and gingerly swept the stray strands of graying brown upwards into something resembling his usual style. Perhaps it was selfish, he thought. Perhaps it was only to ease his own discomfort, but he hoped that somehow it would be even a minor comfort to him, that it could allow him some shred of dignity in a situation he had no control over. It's no wonder he reacted the way he did when they were fixin' him up. I dunno what happened to him over the years but I... I remember him bein' a paranoid mess the last time I saw him, before I erased more a' my memories... Havin' all 'a these other people have complete control... that'd be devastating fer anyone! Even fer someone who ain't been controlled and... and TORTURED by a demon at some point!
“What…” Stan asked, his head still lowered and his tone more downtrodden than ever, “What do you figure is causing him to… do whatever it is he’s done?”
Ford’s breathing hitched and Fiddleford stifled a gasp. His heart jumped as Ford inhaled through parted lips, then sank again as he slipped back into the sleep-induced rhythm. He chewed his bottom lip as heat rose in his cheeks and leaked from the corners of his eyes. What happened to you? What were you subjected to that’s putting you through this now?
Dipper answered Stan’s question before the doctor had a chance, "It was probably just like what happened earlier. I think he was having more flashbacks or hallucinating or something.”
"We have to talk to him when he wakes up," Mabel added, her tone laced in concern, "He needs help."
"What you mean, like a shrink or something?" Stan asked.
"Well we'd prefer to call them therapists," the doctor replied, "And yes. There's no shame in seeking help or even needing medication.”
"Eh. I know. I'm on it myself." Stan admitted, shrugging as if trying to brush it off.
Dr Jules continued, "Well, then you know the importance-"
"Yeah yeah. Look, we'll talk to him, alright. I get it. He's been to Hell and back. I don't care how many degrees he has, he can't keep trying to get through whatever this is on his own. Though, heh, I gotta admit I'm almost proud that trying to sedate him was like trying to take down an angry moose,” he attempted to joke but his faltering laugh failed to support it.
This... This is it. This is why we had so much trouble trying to talk him into getting to a hospital. Shit. This is why he wanted to go home and try to deal with glass and metal wedged in his damn back by himself!
After an uncomfortable pause Stan sighed and said, “Alright, here’s the deal. No more drugging him after this. I know it’s dangerous but I can’t… I can’t do this. I want him to have a say in what happens with his own treatment. Maybe it’s selfish but I don’t care. I hate seein’ him like this! I know or... I guess I don't know. But I think he wouldn't want this. We’ll deal with whatever happens when he wakes up as long as you kids promise to get out of the way if things go south. You promise?”
“Promise,” they spoke in unison, willing to do whatever it took.
“Mr. Pines, there is a good chance he’ll refuse medication or therapy.”
“Yeah I know. I’ve been there myself. But people forcing me into it made me worse for a long time. I don’t know if I ever would have gotten help without it but I always wished I’d had the choice.”
“What do we do if he does refuse and things get worse?” Dipper asked.
“We keep trying. If things get out of hand…” Stan sighed, “We probably got no choice but to go back to more of this. I... I know that doesn't make it much of a choice for him really but, I guess what I'm sayin' is that he needs to at least have the chance to accept help on his own terms. He’ll get better faster if he actually wants to do it. And if he doesn’t… is it selfish of us to make him?”
“That’s an ethical question I have often asked and I feel there are far too many variables for there to be one correct answer,” the doctor replied with a weary expression.
“I guess we gotta just see how everything goes, then.”