Chapter Text
Ford woke up. He stung. Everything stung. His head was laying flat on the desk, squishing his glasses awkwardly on his face.
If the world were kinder, he would’ve had a few moments of blissful ignorance before the memories of the last time he was awake came barreling back at him. But the world wasn’t kind. And he remembered everything immediately. Regret hit like a train.
You said you were done with this. You were done with this. You’re a fucking failure, you can’t just keep it together, can you?
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What did you do?
He shouldn’t have done it. He shouldn’t have. It was selfish, he was making things about him. It was supposed to be about Stan, he had to take care of Stan, to make things right with Stan.
Fix it. Get off your ass and fucking fix it. Stan can’t see this, Stan can’t know he can’t know he can’t find out he can’t—
A little, unfamiliar voice in the back of his mind told him it might be good to bandage the cuts, put some ointment on them, maybe even stitch the deepest one. But a louder voice, his own voice, reminded him it wouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter. So he threw on the old, slightly bloodied sweater that was still laying on the lab counter, and let the wool fuse through blood with his skin. Like a second layer.
His eyes welled up again, and he felt tears streaming down his face. He didn’t even bother to wipe them away. They were perpetual, at this point.
He needed to go upstairs. To be with Stan. To apologize, to— fix things. Somehow. He forced himself to stand, ignoring the way his legs shook and his head spun. He held onto the railing tightly as he crawled up the stairs. He took quiet steps until the doorway to the kitchen was visible from the farthest point of the living room.
Stan was at the counter. He was crying softly. His body was shaking, and he kept rubbing at his eyes like that would make the tears go away. He was curled in on himself, leaning over the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He looked destroyed.
You ruined him. You did this to him. He’s— he’s like a shell of himself.
What have you done?
Ford stepped forward. A floorboard creaked.
Stan shot up. Looked around. He wiped at the tears and hit the bandage on his face. He hissed, pressing his lips together, and shook himself out, still visibly tense. He was forcing himself out of it. He didn’t want anyone to see. Ford’s heart shattered.
Ford took a step back and felt around until his hand reached the doorknob to the basement.
Don’t break him even more. Give him time.
He went back downstairs.
The next morning, Stan was upstairs in the living room, scrubbing the grime from the windows. If he was going to be here, he might as well make himself useful.
Ford still hadn’t come upstairs. Stan had pushed him too far, right when things were becoming okay again (or at least on the path to becoming okay again). He’d even thought that maybe— maybe Ford wanted him to stay.
He shouldn’t have brought up the kidney. He shouldn’t have told Ford to leave, he shouldn’t have gotten so angry. Why wouldn’t Ford want to fix him? He was a fucking mess, any sane person would only see him as a project.
Still. It was his brother. When they were kids, Ford would’ve never said that. He would’ve never even thought it. But they weren’t kids anymore.
And as much as Stan hated to admit it, he was angry. Not at Ford. At himself. He’d thought that maybe things had changed. That he’d changed enough to… be enough for Ford.
He wasn’t stupid, Ford had changed. He couldn’t have imagined it. He was— apologetic, almost guilty. He seemed different. Stan had thought— he’d thought he’d gotten his brother back, if only for a moment.
I can fix you.
He couldn’t blame Ford for thinking his brother was broken, but he could damn well be angry about it.
He scrubbed harder at the window, ignoring the way it made his shoulder ache. It was easy to forget about the brand, with all that had happened since but— damn, it still ached with every movement. Ford had said that was normal and that it was healing correctly. Stan didn’t really care either way.
“Stanley?”
He whipped around. Ford stood in the basement doorway. He was wearing his old, bloodstained sweater that he wore in the unicorn grove, leaning on the doorframe. He swayed slightly.
Stan raised his eyebrows in question.
“We should stitch the cut on your face.” His voice was scratchy, face still flushed with fever. He cleared his throat.
“Already bandaged it.”
“Unicorn horns cut deep. I don’t want to risk it getting infected.”
“S’ fine, Ford.”
“Just— please?” His voice wavered on the last syllable. And— if Stan wasn’t mistaken, his brother’s eyes looked glassy. Probably just from the fever. Had to be. “I worry.”
Stan hadn’t known what to think of that the first time he’d said it. He certainly didn’t know what to think of it now. Ford seemed sincere. He seemed guilty.
“Yeah. Alright.”
Ford visibly relaxed. “We can do it up here, I’ll go grab the supplies. Just— take a seat.” He gestured to the couch before turning on his heel.
Stan sighed and sat down on the couch, letting his nails dig into the fabric of his pants, waiting for his still uncertain-on-his-feet-brother to return. His breaths were getting quicker. Shallower.
He felt a familiar pang on his side. He didn’t like stitches.
Ford was back in an instant, panting softly, face pink. He’s gonna over-exert himself, he’s still sick. When he sat, he sunk into the couch and deposited the small bin of supplies onto the side table. He pulled out his little bottle of knock-out potion with gloved hands.
“I-I wasn’t sure if you would want— I mean—”
He wakes up, wrists tied tightly. He doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know— what happened? It hurts, it hurts, it hurts— he’s cold, he’s cold all over and it hurts and he can’t think, he can’t think—
“NO!”
Ford flinched at Stan’s volume, his eyes widening. “W-What— what did I say?!”
“Shit— no, I—” Stan shook his head and resisted the urge to slap himself in the face. “Sorry. I just— no. We don’t gotta use the stuff. I’ll be fine.”
“Lee…” Ford stared at him for a moment, concern clear. His voice was so goddamn soft. Careful. “Are you alright?”
“Fine.”
Ford wanted to say more— it was clear on his face. But, by some miracle, he didn’t. He simply began to gently peel the bandage off of Stan’s face. He made a tiny whine when his eyes caught the wound, but he stifled it quickly and took in a shaky inhale.
Stan flinched when he began to dab at the wound with a wet washcloth. Ford clearly noticed, but said nothing, just dabbed at what Stan could only assume to be crusted blood and fluids around the swollen wound.
“Just— brace yourself, alright?”
Ford began to stitch.
Stan fought the urge to scream. Goddamnit, it fucking hurt. His whole face throbbed. Stan’s nails dug deep into his thighs, probably drawing blood. But he didn’t care. It didn’t help. He let out a tiny whimper and felt his head twitch.
“Sorry,” Ford whispered miserably. His hands shook. Just slightly. “Lee, I’m—” A pause. “Yesterday, a-after we… talked. I…” He trailed off.
Stan waited until Ford’s hands had stilled. “Yesterday…?”
Ford shook his head. “It’s just that— well, I went to the l-lab. And I— I mean—” He pulled too hard on the stitches. Stan yelped and pulled away, fighting the tremors. “Shit— I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” His voice cracked, and he suddenly took Stan’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be more careful. I’m so sorry.”
Stan squeezed back. “S’ fine. Barely felt it.”
Ford’s face crumpled. He sniffled thickly and turned back to the stitches. Shit, what did you do? Stan had been aiming for comforting, he’d been trying to make Ford feel better—
It didn’t matter. Clearly, he’d fucked it up again. And he didn’t even know what it was.
They finished the stitches in weighted silence. Stan tried to keep himself from shaking. Keep himself from remembering when he’d woken up in a tub of ice and—
No.
Once he’d tied off the suture thread, Ford deposited the supplies into a plastic bag and sealed it up. He gently applied a new bandage to Stan’s face, his hands almost shaking too much to keep it secure.
“Okay,” he breathed. “All done.”
He suddenly wrapped his arms around Stan and pulled them both back against the couch with a heavy exhale.
“Oh— Ford?” Stan asked quietly. “You alright?”
“Mhm… tired.” Ford curled up and let his head fall onto Stan’s chest. Part of Stan wanted to push Ford off of him, because he didn’t deserve anything from his brother, he didn’t deserve his affection, he didn’t—
But he was so tired. He was exhausted. And— he wanted the affection. He wanted his brother to— need him. It was wrong, but since when had he not been selfish?
He allowed it. Just this once, he told himself. Just once.
He let his chin rest on his brother’s head and exhaled softly, wrapping his arms around Ford. It was nice. Reminded him a bit of when they were little kids, when one of them would have a nightmare. Either way, Ford would always climb into Stan’s bed. Even if he was the one who’d had the nightmare, he would never make his twin face his fear of heights. They’d always stay close, like they were now, until they both fell asleep.
He’d missed it more than he’d realized. And it was nice to have it back, even if it was temporary.
“…Lee?”
Stan hummed in question, absently running his hand along his twin’s finger splint. Healing well, he noted absently.
Ford shifted so that he was looking up at Stan in the eyes. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, why?”
“It’s just—” Ford hesitated, his fingers curling tighter. “You—” another pause. “Never mind.”
Part of Stan wanted to press. But Ford was comfortable. Ford was safe. So Stan just let him burrow back into his chest and closed his eyes. He listened to the quiet rumble in his brother’s breathing. It almost sounded like a cat purring. Stan fought the urge to point it out.
A moment later, he lost the fight. It was the annoying little brother in him, he supposed.
“Six, you kinda—” He didn’t know how to phrase it so that Ford wouldn’t be offended. “Have you ever noticed that you kinda… purr… when you’re gettin’ sleepy?”
Ford offered a nonplussed blink. “I— what?”
“Just— you kinda… purr.”
“Like… a cat?”
“Yeah, like a cat.”
“That—” Ford stared at him for a moment as his cheeks quickly turned pink. “I’m—”
Stan suddenly couldn’t keep himself from laughing. It bubbled up in his chest and through his throat until it was boisterous, and he was practically holding onto his brother to keep from toppling over. It ached in his stomach where the bullet had hit, but, for some reason, he didn’t mind.
Ford seemed rather offended. “Stanley, I don’t do that!!”
“Yeah- hah- you- haha!- TOTALLY DO!”
This only made Ford’s face turn more red. “I do not do that!” he squeaked. “I-I— it’s just because— I don’t!!”
Stan shot him a look that said oh, really? and suddenly, Ford was chuckling in his brother’s hold. The chuckling turned to loud, unrestrained laughter, and he was clutching at Stan for support.
His laughter suddenly turned to harsh, chest rattling coughs, and he jolted to turn away while Stan instinctively reached a hand out to rub his back. Where’s that goddamn bucket, he’s practically gagging over here. For a moment, Stan had forgotten how bad things were. How high Ford’s fever had gotten, how close he’d come to—
“Just— er, breathe, you’re alright,” Stan murmured, rubbing his back slowly. The fit tapered off, and Ford sucked in gulps of air. “You want me to get you some water?”
“N-No, I’m alright,” Ford said quietly. He cleared his throat and winced. One of his hands was looped in Stan’s. “I don’t— you shouldn’t walk too much, with the frostnip.”
Oh. Stan had all but forgotten about that. It had gone away pretty quickly once he’d gotten some socks without holes on.
“S’ mostly gone, I’m fine to walk.”
“I’m not thirsty. Just stay here.” Ford’s voice was soft. It wasn’t demanding, it was— requesting. So Stan stayed. They fell back into the same position, curled up on the couch like when they were little.
Time passed, he assumed. For once, he felt relaxed. It was so warm.
Stan was nearly asleep when Ford finally spoke again.
“Stanley?”
Stan blinked and hummed in question.
“I’m— there’s something I-I want to—” He hesitated, squeezing Stan’s hand. “Can I just—” Another pause. He sighed nervously.
“...Yeah?”
“I—” he hesitated again. “Yesterday, after we had our… d-discussion…” His hands were shaking against Stan’s.
Stan tensed. “What about it?”
“Er— I mean—” He stopped again, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and shaking his head. “Well, a-after we talked, I went down to the lab. A-And I sort of forgot that I have— security tapes. I-In the lab. They get… visual and audio. Of the lab. And the— padded room.”
Stan’s chest tightened. No. He didn’t— he wouldn’t have. He immediately, instinctively pulled himself away from his brother. Ford reached out for his twin’s hands. Stan didn’t reciprocate. He averted his eyes, face hardening.
“And I went and—” His voice was shaking. “I-I watched the footage from… when I was— possessed.”
No, no, no, no— come on— Stan’s heart pounded against the ribcage. Why couldn’t Ford just leave it alone? It didn’t matter. It didn’t fucking matter.
His words came out as a growl. “Ford—”
“Just—” He made a tiny, miserable sound. “Let me get through this.”
Stan didn’t need this. He didn’t need any of it.
Ford swallowed before continuing. His voice was wavering and soft. “I just— Lee, what Bill said— everything he said— none of it is true. H-He was just lying, he would’ve done anything to get out of the room, and he was—”
Stan's whole body felt like it was on fire. “Drop it, Six. Doesn’t matter.”
Ford let out a wounded noise. “That’s not true! It does, because you obviously believe it!!”
“Why shouldn’t I?!” He shot up. Why couldn’t he stop fucking shaking? Why did Ford care about it so much? Stan knew it was all true. It had to be. Bill had said Ford only saw him as something to fix, and Ford had confirmed it. So it was true. Well— at least— no, no, no, he didn’t know anything. Because now Ford seemed to care, and when he was delirious he just kept apologizing and crying and saying he fucking loved Stan, and it—
He was so fucking confused. And so fucking tired.
“I’m telling you, Stan, it’s bullshit! Y-You don’t— you don’t hold me back, and you don’t— you’re not a fucking burden—”
“Shut up!” Stan fought the urge to punch something. “Just— shut up! Drop it!”
“I'm not going to just drop it, I can’t—”
“I don’t wanna talk about it!!”
Ford was up on his feet now, pacing behind Stan. “Well, I do!! Bill was wrong, of course I missed you, of course I want you here—”
“Leave. It. Alone—”
“NO! God, why are you trying to push this away? You’re pushing me away, you’re pushing everything away!! WHY?” Ford demanded, his eyes burning. “I’m trying here, Stanley!! But you just don’t know any other way, do you?! It’s just who you are— y-you haven’t changed a bit!”
You don’t know any other way, do you?
Rico is staring at him from across the counter, a gun in his hand. Stan has to fight. He can’t get out of it. He can’t— he can’t change. He doesn’t know any other way.
Jimmy is ripping his pants off of him. Stan is lying there. Letting it happen. Taking it. He doesn’t know any other way. And he’s too much of a fucking coward to figure it out. It’s just who he is.
Even Ford knew you can’t teach a broken dog new tricks.
“You didn’t want me around then. So why,” Stan spat, “would you want me around now?”
Ford’s face fell, eyes widening and welling up. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Stan didn’t bother waiting for his genius brain to catch up to it. He spun on his heel and started for somewhere, anywhere else—
A hand grabbed his wrist.
Get back in the fuckin’ bed— we’re done when I say we’re done— you like that, don’t you, bitch?— get back here, you’re not goin’ anywhere— you’re mine — Jimmy grabs his wrist and pulls him back to bed. Jimmy is forcing him down. Jimmy is taking his pants off. Jimmy is very drunk. Stan can’t breathe. He lets it happen— what else can he do? He can’t do anything, he doesn’t know any other way, he’s alone, he’s alone, he’s alone—
The officer is shoving him in tight handcuffs. Everyone already ran, everyone left him alone— there’s a baton. His knees are bashed in and he can’t stand up he’s going to die, he’s going to die here on the street and he’ll never get to tell Ford that he’s sorry—
He’s on a table. The cuffs are tight and cold and something is plunging into his skin and he’s awake he’s so very awake and it hurts— it all hurts— they’re taking something out— what are they taking—
“STANLEY!!”
Hands were on his shoulders. Jimmy, it’s Jimmy, he’s back, he’s here, he’s going to— he can’t—
He was forced to sit. He drew his knees into his chest. He knew what was coming. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard, breathing fast. Waiting.
But nothing came.
He looked up.
Oh.
“Ford?”
“Yes, Lee, it’s just me,” Ford breathed. His face was blurry. Stan reached out to touch it, make sure it was real. Ford let it happen. “What— what happened? What did I do?”
Stan’s head hurt. He just shook his head and pulled his hands away. Ford just watched, tears running down his face.
“Lee—” He was crying. “Lee, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— I shouldn’t have yelled, I-I shouldn’t have— that was wrong.” Stan couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get his lips to open. “Stanley, please say something.” Nothing. Ford was sobbing, now. Pulling at Stan’s hands. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, just— please just say something, t-tell me what I did, please!!”
You just don’t know any other way, do you?
He couldn’t change.
He shook Ford off and stood up. The room was blurry. He started walking.
“Lee, wait— don’t go— please, just—” Ford’s words were muffled by his sobs. “I’m sorry!!”
Finally, Stan’s mouth got the words out. They felt wrong in his throat.
“Leave me alone.”