Chapter Text
Stan fiddles with the lock until it finally clicks open. He’s barely able to keep everything in his hands, but, somehow, no bottle escapes him and shatters on the cement. He nudges open the door with his hips and gently closes it the same way— Jimmy doesn’t like him to be too loud. He creeps over to the uneven table in the tiny motel room. He sets the bottles and the crinkled paper bag down. The most important part of his whole errand. He takes off his boots and tosses them to the floor.
He doesn't know when Jimmy’s supposed to get back. He never does. But he’s alone in the room, for what feels like the first time. And if he’s alone, he’s gonna shower in fucking peace.
He takes his shirt off right there, no longer able to stand the dirty, grimy coating on it for one more second. He’s actively removing his belt as he hips open the bathroom door—
Shit.
Jimmy has a girl in the shower. He’s pulling at her hair and kissing up and down her neck, she’s pulling away, squirming in Jimmy’s grip, and she’s saying something, but Stan can’t make it out, because Jimmy’s seen him. And Jimmy is angry.
Stan knows Jimmy likes to bring girls in. He knows Jimmy keeps Stan as a dirty secret, and fucking women makes him feel normal. Makes him feel sexy to have some hooker by his side for the night. And Stan knows Jimmy hates that Stan is aware of this.
But Stan’s never walked in on Jimmy and one of his girls.
And Jimmy looks goddamn pissed.
His hold on the poor girl loosens, and he drops her to the ground. “Git outta here, Darla,” he growls. She nods frantically and runs, grabbing what Stan assumes to be her clothes from the sink with a quiet whimper. Her neck looks bruised. At the very least, Stan can be grateful that his intrusion led to her being able to leave. He hears the door open then slam shut.
“Stan,” Jimmy growls. He steps out of the shower. “The fuck are you doin’?”
Stan’s heart stops, and suddenly, he can’t speak. He waves his hands in an attempt to explain. Jimmy narrows his eyes, face growing red.
“What?!” he demands. “What was so important ya just had to come in here?!” Jimmy stalks forward and grabs Stan’s chin in his hand.
No, no, no, nononono I didn’t mean it, I didn’t know you were home—
“J-Jimmy,” Stan finally chokes out, backing up until he hits the sink, “didn’t mean to—”
“Christ, shut up,” Jimmy mutters. “Git in the bed.”
“C’mon, Jim, I-I just got the stuff, don’t you at least wanna—”
“I said shut up. Don’ care about the blow right now, s’ just the cheap shit anyways, like you always fuckin’ buy. Git in the bed.”
“I don’t—”
Jimmy loses his patience and grabs Stan’s wrist, nails digging into flesh. Stan tries to keep breathing. Jimmy’s eyes are on fire. Stan can’t breathe. It’s gonna happen again, he knows it’s gonna happen again, and he can’t do anything about it, he just has to sit here and take it. What choice does he have? It’s not like he knows any other way. He can’t fight as Jimmy pulls him to the bed, still dripping from the shower.
Jim yanks him down by the wrist onto the grimy motel bed and reaches for Stan’s belt, unbuckling it and tossing it aside. Stan makes a tiny little whimper and he knows he’s crying and he knows Jimmy loves it when he cries and Jimmy’s laughing he’s savoring the moment—
“Baby, p-please,” Stan whimpers, a final effort.
Jimmy laughs again. “Keep whinin’,” he mutters, “bitch.”
Stan knows what will happen. He closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, it’s dark and he’s alone.
He hears faint laughter from somewhere, it’s dark and throaty— a smoker’s laugh. Stan would know. He tried to reach out. His wrists are tied together with thick, splintering rope. He can faintly smell blood where they must be scratching his skin. He brings his hands up, and they hit something solid.
No.
No, no, no.
Someone pounds the surface on top of him. “Little warm in there, Pinefield?!” Rico yells, bubbling over with smoky laughter. “Just wait ‘til we shut off the engine!”
Stan pounds the top of the trunk with both tied fists, because he can’t die in here, he won’t, he never even got to apologize to Ford, he just can’t, he CAN’T—
“RICO, C’MON,” he stutters out at full volume, “I’LL GETCHA THE MONEY, JUST LEMME OUT!” That’s as close to begging as he can get, as close to begging as he’s ever gotten with Rico. Rico knows he’s won.
More pounding atop the trunk. “See ya in hell,” Stan hears. There might have been more, but his ears have started ringing. He’s gasping, and he knows that’s bad, because he’s using up all his air, but everything hurts and he can’t breathe, and oh god, his stomach is turning—
He’s barely able to turn his head in time before he starts retching right there in the trunk. The smell fills the tiny space and it’s so bad that he almost vomits again. He can’t breathe, he can’t hear, he can’t see. This is how he’s going to die. In a puddle of vomit, overheated, trapped in his own goddamn trunk, limbs tied.
His mind floats to his brother, as it often does in shitty situations like this. He sees his brother closing the curtains, utterly convinced that Stan wanted to ruin his life. He’s probably having a grand old time right about now, without Stan there. He would probably be content if Stan never entered his life again.
No.
No, he can’t go like this. Stan has to apologize, he has to make things right, get his fucking twin back, prove that he’s— goddamn worth something. He has to be worth something, right? He has to be.
He’s not. Stan isn’t stupid, he knows he’s good for nothing. But maybe he could be, if he could just apologize to Ford.
Stan pulls his wrists, trying to squirm out of the rope, but it’s too tight. Far too tight. It needs to be cut, he can’t just wiggle out of it. Rico took his pocketknife, he doesn’t have anything sharp enough—
Oh.
Fuck.
He suddenly knows exactly what he has to do. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t. His ears are still ringing, his body still shaking. He pushes past it. He brings his wrists up to his mouth, the rope centimeters from his lips. He makes a tiny whimper and doesn’t bother trying to stifle it. There’s no one around anyways.
He sinks his teeth in and pulls back, hard. He nearly screams. It hurts, it hurts so bad. But he can’t— he’s gotta get out. There’s not a lot of air left. He bites and pulls. He can taste blood. Bites and pulls. He hears a crack. Bites and pulls. He’s crying like a fucking baby.
After god knows how long of biting and pulling, the rope is frayed enough for him to yank his hands apart. He spits on the carpeted trunk, and he can’t see anything but he knows it’s full of blood and teeth.
And before he can do anything else, the trunk pops open.
He squints in the sudden light, momentarily blinded. He blinks and sits up, and it should be harder to get up after being in the trunk for hours, but— he feels strangely light. His surroundings are blurry, fuzzy. Not very real. But he knows where he is. He’s back at the pawn shop. The shitty, run down building towers over him and its night and that makes sense for some reason. It shouldn’t be night, he knows, but— it is. It’s nice. He hasn’t seen Jersey stars in a long time.
“Stanley?”
He turns in the trunk, and he’s face to face with—
“…Ma?”
He forces himself out of the trunk, legs shaking. His mouth aches, and he doesn’t know how many teeth he has left, but you can’t hear it in his voice. He stumbles towards his mother.
She backs away slightly. “Stanley, what are you doing back here?"
“I-I don’t know, Ma, I-I don’t—” He was just in New Mexico, wasn’t he? “I missed you,” he offers quietly.
She shakes her head. “You need to go.” She sounds afraid. “You can’t— you can’t just come back here.”
Stan moves closer. “Ma, c’mon, it’s me.” He wants to hug her. He misses his mom. He misses her so fucking badly, and he’s overcome with the desperate urge to be protected by her, to be in her arms. His Ma. “Please,” he says weakly. His voice cracks.
He reaches out, needing her, needing her so badly, but she stops him. She grabs his wrists and pushes him off.
“You got money?” she asks. “You made your millions yet?”
Stan can’t answer. He shakes his head. Her face falls, shifting to anger.
“You gotta get outta here,” she whispers. “If Filbrick sees you here,” her voice falters. “He’ll kill you, Stanley, he’ll— you gotta go. Now.”
“I’ll go, I-I swear, Ma, please, just—”
“Get OUT!” she says, louder this time. Her eyes burn, and Stan can’t— he can’t— he can’t move.
“What are you,” a voice growls from behind him, “doin’ back here?”
He turns.
“P-Pa—”
“I told you not to come back unless you made millions,” he sneers. “You’ve got nothin’, look at you!” Filbrick stalks forward, grabbing Stan’s wrists with tight hands. “You don’t got a home here, you’re a goddamn trespasser!” His fist slams into Stan’s cheek, and Stan sees stars. He falls back-first to the ground, sight going out for a moment. He blinks once it’s back.
He’s staring up at his brother.
But it’s not his brother, not exactly. His eyes are yellow, with tiny black slit pupils. He’s laughing and it sounds wrong, it sounds so wrong but Stan can’t figure out why.
“Ford— w-what are you—”
Ford bends down and grabs his brother’s chin. “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?” He’s almost sneering. “I’m sick of hearing you talk.”
And suddenly, Stan can’t talk, and his face is on fire. He reaches up, searching for the source, and he finds string. Suture threads, stitched into his mouth and it hurts, he can feel blood dripping down his neck and he tries to scream but it’s agony, so he listens and he shuts the fuck up.
“I don’t know why you came back,” Ford sneers. “I told you, he told you, everyone told you,” he leans closer. “No one. Wants you. Around.”
Stan shakes his head frantically. Ford told him, he told him, that he loves him, he forgives him, that he fucking matters. Why did he lie?
“I don’t know what made you think any differently, but let me tell you know,” Ford growls, voice low, “I will never forgive you. I wouldn’t care if you left, and I wouldn’t care if you died. So you might just be better off that way.”
Stan can’t breathe. His ears are ringing, and he feels like he’s back in the trunk, he’s back in the motel room, he’s back in the pawn shop, and it hurts it all hurts he can’t breathe, he just can’t, he can’t, he can’t—
Ford is bringing his fist down and launching it at Stan’s face but Stan can barely feel it. He sees Ford laughing but he can’t hear it. He squeezes his eyes shut and he tries to go somewhere else, anywhere else, but he can’t, he’s stuck, he doesn’t know any other way, he hasn’t changed a bit—
Everything goes dark.
Stan woke up, heart pounding. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t— he was back, he was back there. Everywhere, and he was—
He launched his hands toward his mouth— no stitches. No stitches. Why couldn’t he breathe, then? He was gasping, clutching at his chest, his neck. It wasn’t goddamn helping. He heard himself make a tiny whimper and he felt like a fucking baby but he couldn’t stop sobbing and gasping. He heard laughter, Ford’s laughter, but not really, no, it was— different, somehow. He couldn't think, it was all so loud, it was too loud, it was always going to be too loud! Too loud for school, too loud for a home, too loud for— Ford.
He was bad. He was the same stupid misbehaving child he’d always been, and he was rotting like he was still in the trunk, decomposing in his vomit and teeth, and everyone was right, fucking right about him. He couldn’t be a good brother like this, he wasn’t worth keeping around like this. He couldn’t keep living like this, he just couldn’t. And he still couldn’t fucking breathe—
He shot out of the bed— Ford insisted he slept in the bed, it was the only thing he’d said to him after Stan had stormed out and ensured his brother would never forgive him. His feet hit the floor and suddenly was stumbling around the cabin like he was drunk and he felt a little drunk except not the good fun kind and he still couldn’t breathe and he was sobbing and it was hot it was so hot.
He was down the hall, now, near the kitchen, and part of him thought maybe some water would do him good but most of him couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything. He kept going. He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t know anything, but his legs were pumping his feet and he was stumbling around and shitowdamnitfuck did he just hit something? Was that broken mug there before? How did he— when—
He stared at the thing, but it suddenly didn’t look like a mug, no, it looked like— like—
And until you make us a fortune, you’re not welcome in this household!
No, no, no— not again, goddamnit, come on, please! Please, not that—
Ford closes the curtains. He looks like he wishes he’d done it years ago.
NO, GOD, HE DIDN’T MEAN IT!!
Stan ran away from the broken machinedish. He was near the door to the lab, breathing hard. He had to think. What was he doing? Where was he— how did he—
“…Stanley…?”
Stan turned, clutching at his chest, to find his brother groggily rising from the couch. Ford rubbed at his eyes and found his glasses on the side table, placing them on the bridge of his nose.
Ford’s voice was soft. Worried. Laced with sleep. “What— what are you doing up…are you alright?”
Stan couldn’t answer, he just let out a sound, something between a wheeze and a whimper, and he knew he needed to escape, Ford couldn’t see him like this, no one could, especially Ford and he needed to get the fuck out of here but he was trapped he was up against a wall—
He wasn’t up against a wall.
“Stanley, wait, please, what are you—”
He threw the door open and slammed it shut before Ford could say anything else, before Ford could stitch him up again, before he could hurt him even though it was deserved, before he could tell him the truth, that he didn’t want him around anymore. Stan locked the door for good measure and bolted down the stairs— he needed to get away, he had to.
He was in the lab, and he heard Bill’s laughter, Ford’s laughter, he didn’t know at this point and honestly, he didn’t care, it was all the same. His knees suddenly gave out and he was on the floor sobbing, dry heaving, pulling at his face and chest. Even his clothes felt constricting and he barely fought the urge to pull them off. Air. He needed air.
His head was darting in all directions and he just wished it could all be blank, all go away, could it just go away—
His eyes caught something. Teetering on the edge of the counter, barely visible in the light except for a tiny, golden glint of metal. He forced himself up and flicked on the floor lamp, suddenly drawn to the thing like he was being hypnotized. His hands clamped around it. The memory gun. It was cold in his hands. It felt nice. Safe.
BET YOU GOT A LOT OF SHIT YOU’D RATHER FORGET, HUH?
He couldn’t get the dream out of his mind, the memories out of his mind. He was stuck with them, and he couldn’t escape, and wouldn’t it just be so nice to… free of it all? To be a blank slate, to just ignore all that shit? Like a high, a damn good one, but it would be one that never ended.
Pa’s anger, Pa’s fists. Ford closing the curtains. Jimmy holing them up in that shitty motel and making him do whatever Jimmy wanted. Rico shoving him the trunk, leaving him for dead in a pile of teeth and spit and blood. Ford holding a crossbow in his face, Ford knowing his brother would NEVER be good enough.
Stab stared at the memory gun for a moment.
SIXER COULDN’T HOLD ANYTHING AGAINST YOU IF YOU USED IT, COULD HE? YOU’D GET A CHANCE TO BE THE BROTHER HE ALWAYS WANTED!
Bill was right. He couldn’t— he couldn’t be a good brother, he couldn’t make up for how badly he’d fucked things up, like this. He couldn’t be better like this. He was a fucking monster like this, just a husk. But— he could be better. He could fix it. Make it up to Ford, give him a good brother, a real brother, one that never made all those mistakes. And it wasn’t like his brain was good for much else anyways.
He turned the dial. Punched in his name. Selected all.
He held the bulb to his temple.
He could be better. He would be better.