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“You ready to get beaten, Dip-Dop?”
“Oh, like you’re winning this, Mabel!”
Ford chuckled as the pair started up their game, a pang of nostalgia echoing through him as they grinned challengingly at one another. It wasn’t exactly the kind of contest he and his brother would have done but the sentiment was there as they readied themselves for ‘battle’.
He preened as the thought rose up again inside him. The thought that they trusted him to judge their competition without Stan also keeping watch felt like the best commendation there was.
To be fair, it hadn’t been just that, which had made him agree - though he was sure he would have agreed to do anything with them. But he had also been kind of curious about the whole experience.
After all, paintball hadn’t existed when he and his brother had been kids.
Dipper had been delighted to explain something to him when they’d said what they were doing that day and had instantly dragged him out to ‘join in the fun’. He had nodded along and tried to keep up with Mabel’s babbles about finding the guns in the attic when they were rifling around and her ideas as to why Stan had them. He wasn’t sure he’d caught all of them but they seemed to range from ‘somehow using them in the mystery shack’ to ‘maybe he was a professional player but no one knows!’.
Which had led him to this point, sitting with a spiral notepad Dipper had given him to try and tally up how many times they each got hit. They were playing until Ford called it or one of them gave up but Ford had a sneaking suspicious that sibling rivalry would rear its ugly head and they’d end up here all day and all night if he didn’t put a stop to it.
Or so he had thought until they started.
He winced as Dipper cried out as the first paint ball hit him in the stomach. Logically it made sense that the paintballs hurt from the velocity they were being shot out of the gun but he hadn’t actually thought about that before they started.
Maybe Stan had hidden them for a reason, one that was about to get Ford in trouble for condoning the match.
But the twins had wanted to play, and had told him multiple times that they’d played with the guns before so he marked a ‘1’ down on the book and left them to it for now. He’d stop them if they got too hurt but Dipper hadn’t slowed for more than a few seconds so he could only assume it would leave a mark but wasn’t all that bad.
Within a few minutes it seemed both of them had gotten used to the sharp sting of the paint. Taunts and squeals flew through the air as they covered one another and the yard in bright splatters of paint.
It didn’t take long for their first round of bullets to dry up and they both came bounding over for a drink and to check the score.
“So are you two finished?”
“I guess. We are out of bullets, we couldn’t find any more when we searched in the box with them.” Dipper looked disappointed at the admission but Mabel nudged him with a wide suspicious grin.
“Pssh, no! Luckily for you bro, I thought of that last night and made some more!” Mabel’s grin grew impossibly further as she dived behind the sofa where she’d thrown a bag as they passed. She grabbed a few plastic bags out with a proud beam as she shook one at Dipper.
“Nice! You even added red ones!”
“Dipper, Dipper, you’re underestimating me. There’s an entire red set if you want to make this more interesting.”
Dipper nodded before she’d even finished, arms gesturing out for the bag without a word.
Ford raised an eyebrow, sneaking one or two of them out himself to take a look at. “You can make paintballs, Mabel?”
Mabel gave him a deadpan look before skipping back over to her gun to refill it. “I can make lots of things, Grunkle Ford.”
He didn’t doubt her for a second.
Ford held his tongue, utterly bemused and slightly worried.
Sometimes it was better not to ask.
The ruckus started up almost immediately after that. Ford chuckled at the theatrics as both kids decided it was more fun to be dramatic with the red paint. He squashed down the small voice in his head that shuddered at the morbid play, the spark of worry. It was just a game after all.
He’d never let anything actually happen to them.
A ball veered off as Mabel ran passed the house, splattering the porch floor next to Ford’s foot. “Oi! Watch it you two!” His smile showed there was no bite, amusement dripping off every word as he stood up. “Don’t make me cover over there and join in!”
“Bring it!” Mabel screeched happily, spinning around to take aim.
“What on earth is going on out here? Can’t a guy have a decent nap on his day off?”
The trouble with paintballing, Ford would later scribble down in a separate journal, one now filled with his adaptions to this dimension, was that accuracy and precision fell at the wayside.
He didn’t have chance to think it at the time though, as Stan wandered through the porch doorway completely unawares in bemused amusement at all the noise and was hit in the side by the stray paintball.
His mind blanked out as Stan’s face went white, hand gripping as his side only to pull his fingers away and stare at the red paint in horror.
“Grunkle Stan?”
Ford’s protective instincts kicked in as Stan glanced up at the voice, going impossibly paler as he stumbled back. His eyes were glued to Dipper yet somehow glazed, frenzied in a way that Ford knew only too well.
It can’t be though-
A soft whimper escaped him, adding fuel to the protective fire as Ford took a step forward, his heart aching.
Stan shouldn’t make that noise.
The thought was a warning bell, a plaintive helpless note to defend him but he didn’t know what from.
And with it came the reasoning that Stan wouldn’t want the kids to see whatever it was.
“Kids, leave this to me. You go back to playing.”
“But-”
“Mabel, sweetie, please.”
As Ford spoke he took another slow step forward, the floorboards creaking loudly under his feet.
Stan jumped, eyes locking with his for a moment with such unabashed terror that Ford froze again, hands visible and open to show he was no harm, ignoring the biting beating his heart took at Stan looking at him like that.
Before he could do anything more, or even utter a word, Stan vanished.
He darted back into the house, footfalls loud and heavy, his hand clutched tight to his side, leaving behind a confused guilt in his wake that extended through the rest of his family.
“Grunkle Ford, what did we do wrong?”
Mabel’s voice was high and quiet yet somehow travelled to Ford with little trouble. He winced sympathetically, his heart going out to her.
Somehow even he hadn’t handled the situation properly.
He tried to give her a reassuring smile but it fell flat. She seemed to appreciate the sentiment though. His mind span, trying to think of something to calm her with, without going down the route his own brain was jumping too. “Might be something to write in that scrapbook of yours.”
He shook his head as the words slipped out. Now was not the time to think of next times and what should have beens. He had a brother to go look after. “I’ll be back with Stan right as rain in no time at all, don’t you worry.”
The world shattered, going pitch black for a blinding second in one quick gust of breath as pain blossomed in his side.
Everything seemed to slow to a crawl, just for a moment as his hand shot down automatically and came back covered in blood.
The world went silent as he stumbled back and leant against a wall, yet his ears rang with the sounds of gunshots. Shock took over as he blearily tried to blink passed the pain and see his assailant, tried to shake off the sudden haze that threatened to engulf and leave him more wide open than he already was. He needed to keep going, needed to fight, his survival instincts kicking even as his brain told him it was hopeless.
Such an idiot. Why did I ever think we could-
“…Stan-”
The familiar voice jarred through the fuzz of pain. He sluggishly moved his head towards the sound. It took a few blinks, a few shakes of his head to get the person to stop moving in his vision, the figure doubling and spiralling with every small movement of his head.
The adrenaline kicked in as the figure became focused. The pound of his heart deep in his chest seemed to choke him, a small noise of anguish making it passed his closed throat.
His colleague. His partner in crime. They may have known each other for only a few months but people came and went in his transient life. The longest anyone had stayed in a long time.
And therefore the person who could be called his closest friend at the time was lying on the road in front of him, a pool of his own blood slowly growing around him, drenching him as rivulets swam from gaping wounds. He stared up at him with glassy fearful eyes, his arm outstretched before him, pleading with him for help.
He wasn’t ready to die, neither of them were. Far too young and yet they’d seen too much, done too much and now it was falling around them, reminding them that the world took no prisoners and life was fleeting if you weren’t careful.
Stan grasped the wall beside him, pulling himself up as his other hand clasped his wounded side tight. He tried his hardest to ignore the heat, the warm pulse of blood slipping between his fingers as he took a shaky step.
Can’t leave him there. Gotta help him- he won’t make it- Doesn’t matter! I can’t just leave him. He can’t go through that alone.
Ice tore through his veins and offset the heat as soft even footsteps screamed an alarm bell in his ear. He spun around, cursing the pain that flared all the way through him at the movement.
And suddenly it was hard to breathe for more reasons than the injury.
How did he find us? Of all the people, it just had to be him, didn’t it-
His options were suddenly numbing clear. He took one last look at his friend, how his breaths were getting shallower, a clear rattle to each one as blood trickled from his mouth.
He was trying to say something but it was taking all his strength and Stan still couldn’t make anything out of the gargle.
There was no way he could save him.
This wasn’t someone they could handle, they both knew that. Especially not when they were both far too injured to take on anyone.
He’d gotten the drop on them. Now it was just up to him whether there would be two casualties here or one.
He did what he had to. Tears streaming down his face, hand pressed firm to his wound, he bolted.
He knew it would haunt him for the rest of his days. Knew the guilt would eat at him and his friend would be there waiting for him alongside the other ghosts that bayed for his blood when the nights grew dark. He’d stand blood drenched and betrayed alongside his brothers shattered dreams and his father’s ceaseless anger.
I’m sorry , I’m so sorry . Please- Please forgive me-
His footfalls reverberated through his ears as he darted into an alleyway and continued struggling forward. He knew he should be quiet, knew he should stem the blood flow so he didn’t leave a trail but there was no time. He had to keep moving, bite down the whimpers as he jostled his wound, breath shallowly through burning lungs that wanted to stop him in his tracks and leave him to his fate.
Gotta run, gotta hide. Can’t stay- I’m sorry, I can’t die yet-
A fork in the road left him fumbling for his choices, buildings lining one side and another alley to stumble down. His mind struggled to think, fought against his body crumbling in on itself and telling him to rest, to sleep. To let all the pain bleed out of him and relax into the embrace-
He shook himself, gritting his teeth and squaring his shoulders as he took a gamble, high risk and flawed but so were most of his decisions. He darted to the closest building. He could hear music coming from inside and prayed to whatever gods were out there that party goers came and went easily from the back exit.
A joyful wheeze left his lips as the door handle moved under his heavy hand, stumbling painfully through the door in a heap as the door swung inwards. He managed to stay upright barely and tried to see passed the gloom that assaulted him. There was no time to be picky though and with one final glance behind him, he slipped fully inside, closing the door and leaving himself in pitch darkness.
He took a shuddering breath, let air fill his lungs as he tripped and fumbled his way carefully across the room and slipped down beside a wall, hoping against hope he was hidden from sight if the door opened. Fabric brushed passed his fingers as he sat down and he grabbed it quickly, uncaring of what it was as he pushed it up tight against his side and hoped it would be enough to stem the blood flow until he had a chance to take a proper look at it.
Now all he could do was wait and pray he wasn’t found.
“Stan?” Ford knew there wasn’t much point to calling out, knew that Stan would likely not answer him even if he heard him.
Yet somehow he couldn’t help but hold out hope that something would go his way today and he wouldn’t be left floundering for an answer.
Unfortunately, reality had other opinions.
As he stood debating what to do next however a loud slam of a door made him jump and glance through the ‘museum’, the sound ringing plain as day and letting him know exactly which direction his brother had gone in.
Not looking a gift horse in the mouth he slowly slunk after the noise, very aware that his brother might not be happy to see him at the other side of this and taking necessary precautions.
His mind spun with distraught thoughts that he couldn’t push aside.
What was all that? What’s happened to him to make him react like that? Has he been on the wrong end of a gun before?
Has he been shot before?
He gulped, trying not to let the thoughts throw him off his task, his body faltering with each additional swirl to the spiral.
What could he have done- why would someone want to shoot him? Was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Who tried to hurt him? Where are they now- I won’t let them do it again. They’ll have to go through me first.
Another sign awaited him at the other end of the room. He’d expected to have to start searching, to call out again and hope there was a sign but it seemed someone was helping him today in odd stomach churning ways.
A red handprint glistened back at him from the closet door, a small part of him very grateful that he knew it was paint whilst another part irrationally tried to scream at him that Stan was injured, in danger and needed his help.
He heard a shuffle and a small dismayed noise as he clicked open the door slowly. He drew back, waiting to be lunged at, waiting for the fallout.
Nothing happened.
He gulped, opening the door wider and squinting into the gloom that was still present.
His heart shattered at the image that accosted him.
Stan whined, eyes closing at the sudden bright light as he backed further into the closet, desperate to hide. He curled inwards, head against the wall as if he could physically push through it and waited with dreaded anticipation for what he assumed was about to follow.
“No, please. Please don’t.” The words were drawn out, long and grief filled and left Ford hollow with the implications of who Stan thought he was.
“Hey, it’s OK. It’s alright, everything is fine.” His voice was low, a rumble of comfort that tried to coax his twin to him. He tried to make himself small, harmless and benign as he gestured open hands towards him and slowly shuffled closer. “I’m here, OK? Nothing’s going to hurt you now.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled out of his brother, leaving him winded and lost. “God, I’ve lost too much blood, I’m hallucinating.” Stan closed his eyes, relaxing back into the wood, body slumped and drained of energy. “It’s OK, no one’s here. He hasn’t found you. You’re safe.” The mantra was a mumble, thick and laced with pain as he tried to convince himself he would survive this.
“Stan.”
Stan’s eyes popped open again, his eyebrows furrowing as he took in Ford with a shake of his head. “You are a persistent hallucination. Oh shit- is this it? Was I not fast enough?”
“No. God, no.” The words tumbled out in a stream of panic as Ford shuffled closer. He touched his brother’s shoulder, getting a wide eyed look of alarm at the gesture. “I’m real, this is all real. You’re not there, Stan, whatever you can see, whatever you think is going on, it’s all far behind you. You survived it, I promise.” Stan continued to stare at him blankly and his mouth went completely dry. “Do you- do you even recognise me?”
Stan’s frown deepened, his mouth a thin line as he tried to take in Ford’s appearance. Realisation hit him slowly, his eyes becoming more focused as he concentrated on him. The tight hold on his shoulder never let up throughout his inner battle, grounding him to the present and halting the drift into the past. “Wait, I don’t get it- how…what’s going on?”
Ford wanted to bundle him up as his face went slack and his eyes became lost to confusion, his mind tugging him in two directions at once. “It’s me, it’s Ford, your brother.” He tried a new tactic, a thought swimming up from their childhood. “Come on, Lee, you can do it. Your great niece and nephew are waiting outside wondering what’s going on.”
“Dipper?...Mabel…”
“That’s it. Come back to me. Come back to them.” Relief filled him as Stan’s gaze grew steadier and sharper. “You’re ok, you hear me? Nothing’s going to hurt you. Whatever you can see, it’s done, it happened and you survived it.”
Stan seemed to relax with every word, his breath evening out slowly as he watched Ford's mouth move and the words slowly filtered through to his brain.
Ford inwardly cursed as his hard work was dashed within an instant, Stan’s breath hitching again as his eyes closed.
“No, no, no, Stan, keep listening to me.”
He’d reached up to cover Ford’s hand with his own and in doing so caught sight of the ‘blood’ that covered it again.
Ford grasped his other shoulder, trying his best to centre him as he crouched in front of him. He looked down as Stan’s hands flitted above his side, furling and unfurling as if straining against the impulse. Ford struggled desperately to hear the fast gush of words slipping quietly passed his lips as he squinted agonisingly up at him.
“It’s not real, it’s not real. Ford’s here. Mabel. Dipper. It’s not real, it can’t be real.”
“That’s it. That’s it, Stan, you’re doing great.” Ford squeezed his shoulders, smiling haphazardly as he was rewarded with Stan’s eyes opening marginally further. It was obvious that his words were helping so he scrambled around for something more, something to pull him out further. “It’s just paint, just paint, that’s all. The kids found some paintball guns, don’t know why you had those lying around-”
His words seemed to relax his brother and shake him up further as he shook his head.
“Wait, no, that’s not right. It can’t be that, you’re wrong.”
“W-what?”
“Can’t be paint. There’s no, no red ones. Soos got rid of them years ago.”
Ford cursed, remembering suddenly what Mabel had said but at least Stan knew it was the present now, seemed focused again even if completely confused and disbelieving of the scenario. “You’ll have to talk to Mabel about that one.” He swallowed, trying to think of something and suddenly the lightbulb went off. He smiled warmly, tried to coax his brother back. “So you and Soos used to play?”
Stan stared at him for a few moments blankly as if his words didn’t make sense. A light seemed to flicker behind his eyes as a crooked smile took over his face and he stared off into the middle distance. “Yeah. The kid really liked the sound of the paintball place a few towns over but his Abuelita couldn’t take him. It cost too much to go.” Stan’s smile turned mischievous. “So I went and stole us some instead.”
Ford tutted jokingly, a small chuckle threatening to escape but he knew if he started he wouldn’t be able to stop and that would probably end terribly. “Of course you did.”
“Yeah…” His smile turned sad. “Then first time we used ‘em, bam. S-Soos took all the red ones out after that.” His face faltered as he glanced back at Ford. “A-are you sure this is real?”
Ford nodded, scared to do anything else as Stan’s voice wavered plaintively. “I promise. The kids are waiting for us outside. I’ll make sure they get cleaned up before you see them.”
“But I was so sure…”
“I know, Stan, I know.” Ford tugged him forward, finally giving in and encasing him in a hug.
Stan shook in his grasp, a full body tremor that left him gasping and clutching at Ford’s coat. “But I saw him, it was so real. I looked up and he was there, covered in blood. He was dying, Ford, and there was nothing I could do.” His words were a torrent of anguish, leaving him as mechanically as blood once seeped out of him. He had no control over the storm that fell from his lips and cast a scene Ford wished he could erase from his memory entirely, blank out the horror and let it haunt him no longer.
Ford shushed him quietly, rocking him back and forth as he let him get everything out. He could feel a wet spot forming on his shoulder but he paid it no mind, his heart heavy with the thought of what Stan had been through. He could only assume with a jagged shard of pain that it was Dipper covered in paint that had sparked that particular memory but he didn’t bring it up, his stomach rolling nauseously at throwing Dipper into the scene instead of an unknown face, to let Stan think about it as well.
“Nothing I could do. I was hurt and he was losing too much blood and I-I had to leave him behind, Ford. I had to leave him, I didn’t want to, I promise I tried but- now he’s dead and it’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”
His words choked on a sob and Ford clung to him tighter. “Shh, you did what you had to. You survived, if you hadn’t-” The words caught in his throat, his mind’s eye painting a suddenly terrible and bleak outlook before him. “I-it doesn’t bear thinking about. You’re alive, you’re alive because of your choices and that’s the main thing.”
“But-”
“No, no buts. I’m glad you saved yourself, I’m so relieved that you’re here today because of it.” Stan sagged against him at his words. Ford closed his eyes, his head hitting Stan’s shoulder as he continued to shake.
He wondered if this was the first time he had spoken about the trauma to someone else.
Wondered if this was the first time someone had said ‘it’s ok, you did the right thing’ and let his mind rest because of it.
He hoped he gave his mind some peace, just as Stan had done for him more than once in the short time they had been reunited.
They stayed like that for what could have been hours. Ford didn’t care, he’d stay as long as he was needed as the shaking slowed and the tears dried up. He whispered small words of praise, shushed him whenever he tried to blame himself again and gave logical answers to all his guilt until he could feel him sagging, bone weary and exhausted from the entire ordeal.
Though it felt like an age, he knew it couldn’t have been too long as two small voices started to call out to them.
Stan locked up, muscles tense as he jolted back and stared Ford straight in the eye, panic deep within them. “T-they can’t see me like this, Ford.”
Ford nodded, conceding to him even though he wanted to argue that it was OK to show weakness, that they would understand and want to help. “If that’s what you want.” His brain screamed at him to not let his brother go but he untangled himself anyway. “I’ll go get them cleaned up and tell them you need a moment…unless you don’t want me to go?”
“N-no, that would be great, Sixer.” Stan ran a hand through his hair as he sat up straight, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. “Just need a minute to sort myself out.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Ford opened the door, gesturing quietly when he saw the kids look up at the noise to make sure they stayed quiet and left them for a bit longer.
“Sixer?”
“Yeah?” Ford turned back to him, concern etched in every movement.
“Thank you.”
Ford nodded, smiling reassuringly before giving him his space. Once he was out of view he took a shuddering breath, let himself have a moment as his hands shook at everything Stan had unwillingly imparted to him. He ran a hand through his hair, standing up straight after only a few seconds to check on the kids, determination at keeping them altogether thrumming through him.
They’d get through this, just like they’d gotten through everything else that life threw at them.
One step at a time.