Chapter Text
Stan stared through his disgusting windshield, streaked with dirt and grime. Even if he could see past the filth, all he would be able to see would be the snowstorm, which wasn’t exactly any more appealing to him. It was hard to completely make it out, but the brownish blur in the distance was, according to the postcard in his hand, the right place.
He’d always thought Ford would end up somewhere more… well, less… hermit-y. His brother is weird, sure, he’s always known that, but Stan always kind of thought all those brains he had would buy him some sort of sleek penthouse or something. He supposed Ford’s never really been traditional, but this feels… wrong. Certainly not like Ford.
He shifted in his seat and hissed, a sharp pain blooming on his side. It’d been three months since Rico took his fucking kidney, and, yeah, it had mostly healed, but it hadn’t healed right. The scar was nasty– he tried not to look at it. His skin was pulled weird and unevenly, and he could feel a nasty sort of throbbing with any sort of movement. He’d had to train himself to ignore it. It wasn’t like he had the money to fix it with some plastic surgery or something. And the important part was that he got away before Rico could succeed in getting the other one, too.
Good thing you only need one kidney, huh?
The thought of Rico made his throat close up, slightly. Part of him knew– when he got the postcard, when he’d made the drive, even now in the car– that he shouldn’t have come. It was too dangerous. Rico could’ve followed him, anyone could’ve followed him.
But it was Ford.
Ford had asked Stan to come. Ford needed help. Stan knew his brother, and Ford didn’t just ask for help. No, something had to be very, very wrong for that to happen. And if Ford needed help, Stan would be there. There wasn’t anything else to it. He… couldn’t live with himself, if Ford needed him and he wasn’t there. He could barely live with himself as is. He couldn’t fail his brother again, he couldn’t ruin everything again–
So now he was here, frozen in the driver’s seat, the cold becoming almost unbearable.
Come on, idiot. Get outta the car. He sighed, obeying his own instructions. He forced his trembling legs to swing over the side of the seat and planted his feet firmly in the snow. He stood, and was immediately hit with a wave of dizziness. He leaned heavily against the car, vision blurring just slightly. Jesus, why is everything fucking spinning? His legs felt like boulders, each slow step feeling a bit more like walking in quicksand. His heart, however, was the opposite– racing and stuttering against his ribcage.
When he reached the door, he checked the postcard one final time. Ford needs help. That was all that mattered.
He raised a fist to knock on the door.
Then he stopped, frozen.
Who the hell was going to be on the other side of that door? It’d been ten years, it certainly wasn’t going to be the same brother he knew. Stan knew Ford deserved to still be mad, if he was. He probably was. But maybe, if helped him with whatever’s going on, Ford could come to forgive him. They could even… be brothers again. They–
Christ. Stan took a deep breath. There wasn’t a point in thinking about all that. Getting his hopes up. Man up, Pines. He knocked on the door.
There was a moment of silence before he heard the click of at least five locks. The door was yanked open.
“WHO IS IT?! Have you come to steal my eyes?!”
Stan yelped and flinched back, heart hammering. He was suddenly face to face with a fucking crossbow. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been held at gunpoint or anything before, but– damn. A crossbow was new. But the weapon itself wasn’t as concerning as who was holding it.
Ford.
But not… the same Ford.
His brother’s eyes were wide and bloodshot, pupils so wide that they swallowed his irises. Around one of his eyes, there was a fresh bruise, blue and purple and slightly swollen. His breathing was quick, ragged, stuttered. And– jesus christ, it looked like there was dried blood around one of his eyes.
“Well. I can always count on you for a warm welcome,” Stan muttered, still leaning uncomfortably backward to avoid getting shot.
Ford blinked, eyes softening with recognition. He dropped the weapon to his side and cocked his head, slumping against the doorframe. “Stanley…” he muttered, voice hoarse. It sounded like he hadn’t even used it in decades. “Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”
“Uh–” Stan cleared his throat. “Hello to you too, pal?”
Before they could continue with the most awkward reunion of Stan’s life, Ford grabbed Stan by his sweatshirt and yanked him inside. He slammed the door shut, then immediately shone a bright light in Stan’s eyes. Stan blinked and yelped, momentarily seeing spots. He shoved Ford back on instinct.
“Ford, what is this?!”
Ford stumbled backward, hand shooting out to grip the stair railing for support. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Did Stan really push him that hard?
“Shit, are you okay–”
“Sorry,” Ford muttered, blinking rapidly. He put his hands up in surrender. “I just had to make sure you weren’t–” He paused, clearing his throat. “Nevermind. Come in.”
Stan followed, a dark, gnawing pit growing in his stomach as his brother led him around the house. Well, house wasn’t exactly the right word for it. It was more like some sort of fucked up hoarder’s shed, maybe a mad scientest’s abandoned lab. It was all a blur. His head was so cloudy, for some reason. He hardly even noticed that they were downstairs until something in Ford’s ramblings– portals, danger, something along those lines, Stan couldn’t really make it out– made him freeze where he stood.
“I have something to ask of you: remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?”
Yeah. Yeah, he fucking remembered that. It was the only good thing he still had, that dream, that memory of the two of them building the Stan O’ War. The dream part of him still hoped for. The dream that had gotten him through his worst moments, his worse nights, the blurs of lights and pills and booze and touching–
Is Ford… asking him to sail the world together?
No. That’s stupid.
Right?
He wasn’t exactly sure. It had been ten years. That was a lot of time, plenty of time for Ford to realize Stan would never intentionally ruin Ford’s future. Maybe Ford realized it had really been an accident. Stan felt a warm sort of hope blossoming in his chest. He nodded faintly as Ford held out a thick, overflowing journal, indicating for Stan to take it.
“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can! To the edge of the Earth! Bury it where no one can find it!”
What?
Oh.
God, Stan was stupid. He should’ve known. How could he have possibly believed that Ford would honest-to-god ever want him around again? How could he have let himself hope for that? He’s lived long enough to know hope wasn’t meant for people like him. He should’ve learned his lesson. Should’ve known better.
“That’s it?” He croaked out, taking the journal as it was shoved into his hands. “You finally wanna see me after ten years and it’s to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?”
Ford began to pace, pulling at his hair. “Stanley, you don’t understand what I’m up against! What I’ve been through!”
Stan felt something break inside of him.
Of course Ford would think Stan wasn’t capable of understanding what it felt like to be in deep shit. As if that’s not the one thing Stan is capable of understanding. But, looking around, Stan felt a hungry bitterness eating at his heart. Ford thought he had it hard? Ford had a fancy cabin out in the woods, Ford had a place to live, a place to sleep! Food, water, clean clothes! He had money! He still had family. He had everything he could possibly need, anything he could ever want. And Stan certainly wasn’t on that list.
And what did Stan have? The clothes on his back. A nearly dead car. At least three separate gangs after him.
“No, no–” The words spilled out of him, biting and angry. “You don’t understand what I’ve been through! I’ve been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! The mafia, the mob, and the cartel all want me dead! You think you’ve got problems? Really!? I’ve got a fucking mullet, Stanford!”
The last one was a bit of a reach, sure. Give him a break. He stormed forward, jabbing a finger in his brother’s chest. “Meanwhile, where have you been? Livin’ it up in your fancy house in the woods, selfishly hoarding your college money, because you only care about yourself!!”
Ford’s expression was full of fury. “I’m selfish? I’m selfish, Stanley? How can you say that after costing me my dream school?! I’m giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life, and you won’t even listen!!”
Stan froze.
The first worthwhile thing in your life.
Ford thought he was worthless. That his life had no worth.
And he was right. Stan wasn’t an idiot, he knew Ford was right. But that didn’t mean he needed his brother throwing it all in his face. He’d thought– jesus, he’d hoped– that maybe Ford could forgive him. Could come to understand that he’d never break the project, he’d never meant to, he’d never wanted–
But it didn’t matter. He didn’t. He didn’t understand him, he didn’t trust him, and he didn’t love him.
Stan gave up.
He held up the journal. “Fine. You want me to get rid of the book?” He pulled his light from his pocket and opened it. “I’ll get rid of it right now!”
“NO!”
Ford lunged at him, grabbing at the journal back. Stan held it out of reach.
“You don’t understand!”
“God, I get it, I’m too stupid to understand what your precious research is for!” Stan spat. “But you said you wanted me to have it, so I’ll do what I want with it!” He held it close to the flame.
“My research!!”
Before he could think, Ford was pinning him to the ground, eyes crazed. He reached for the journal with more intensity than Stan had ever seen. For a brief moment, he wondered if his brother was on something. They were all over the room, playing tug-of-war over a fucking book. Stan could feel his strength fading fast. It had only been three months since the surgery, he didn’t have his usual strength. This could’ve been over much faster if he just had both kidneys.
The fight bled into a smaller section of the lab, a cramped and cluttered little office with flashing buttons, latches, and shelves stacked with creatures floating in clouded jars. Stan didn’t have time to process it. Ford was still clawing at him in desperation. They tumbled onto the ground, and Ford had him up against the counter, the breath knocked from Stan’s lungs. He tried to shove Ford off of him, but his brother just grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer to grab the book.
Stan growled. “You left me behind, asshole! It was supposed to be us forever! You ruined my life!”
Ford pulled back. “You ruined your own life!!”
Ford kicked Stan in the chest, pinning him to the side of the counter.
Stan screamed.
The pain tore through his whole body. It was sharp, searing, agony like he’d never felt. It was impossibly hot, like needles in his skin, like fire. For a moment, he saw white. The pressure left his chest, and he crumbled to the ground.
“STANLEY!!”
Stan curled in on himself, shaking. His vision was getting blurrier. God, it hurt. It hurt so bad. He glanced up and blinked at his brother, who stood frozen, hands hovering in the air. “I-I’m so sorry, I– oh god, I didn’t mean– Stanley, are you–?” His words came out choked and babbled.
Stan didn’t have any fight left in him. He groaned, and used the counter to assist him getting up, muscles trembling with the effort. His skin burned. He knew there were tears trailing down his face, but he didn’t have the strength or the ability to wipe them away. He sniffled.
“I’ll take the damn journal,” he muttered. He let his head drop, holding his hand out.
He waited, but when nothing was placed in his hand, he glanced up. Ford stared at him, face pale, eyes impossibly wide. His mouth was slightly open, but no sound came out. There was something similar to… guilt in his eyes. Horror, maybe. But it wasn’t just that, not with Ford. There was something else, something that overpowered any guilt Stan suspected Ford didn’t even feel. Suspicion.
“M’ not gonna burn it or anythin’,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll hide it somewhere safe, like you wanted. I will.”
Ford hesitated, then bent down slowly, picking up the journal from the ground. He stared at the cover, hands trembling around it. “Y-You’ll… hide it somewhere safe?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry.” Stan inhaled shakily, voice dropping to a barely audible whisper. “First worthwhile thing in my life, right?”
Ford’s face twisted. “Stanley, I didn’t mean–”
“PINES!”
They both froze.
“PINES, I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE!”
Stan’s whole body tensed. He knew that voice. He couldn’t forget that voice if he tried.
Rico.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He felt sick. He felt really sick. Rico had followed him. And Rico never came alone, ever. Stan had put Ford in danger. Stan had ruined his life, a second time, oh god they’ll hurt Ford you can’t let Ford get hurt you can’t–
“Stan–”
“Shut up.”
There were two sets of footsteps alongside Rico’s. Three men total. Stan was gravely outnumbered.
“Stan, who–”
Stan glanced at Ford. His brother was trembling, breathing choppy. His whole body was sort of shaking, and he looked pale and worn and utterly exhausted. God, he isn’t gonna pass out, is he? He was certainly in no condition to fight. But it’s not as if Stan would’ve ever let him try.
It’s not like you’re in fighting shape right now, either, Stan’s mind hissed. He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let Ford get hurt. He wouldn’t ruin things, not again.
“Stay here,” Stan muttered. He started for the stairs.
“What? Wait, I–”
Stan whirled around, already a few steps up. “I said stay here.”
Ford shook his head and followed him. Stan cursed under his breath and hurried back down, blocking the stairs, and gripped Ford’s shoulders. His brother flinched at the touch.
“Sixer, I need you to stay here.” The footsteps above grew louder. Please.”
Ford wavered. His lip trembled. But, thank god, he nodded slowly, backing up on shaky legs. He braced himself against the counter, looking on the verge of collapse. His breathing sped up again, as his eyes flickered between Stan and in the directions of the footsteps.
He gave Stan a desperate look. “Please be careful, Lee.”
Stan swallowed. “Yeah.”
Then he turned and climbed up the stairs.
This was his mess, and he wouldn't make Ford pay the price for his mistakes. Not again. Not ever again. Ford could not get hurt.
Stan wouldn’t let it happen.