Chapter Text
TWO MONTHS LATER
Stan picked up the journal from where it sat on the chair. It was lighter now. The contents that had been ripped from it lay right next to it in a neat stack. The very top sheet seemed to laugh at him. It was an odd sort of circle graph next to a crudely written message: TRUST NO ONE. Stan shivered inadvertently and flipped it to the other side.
Ford joined Stan and grabbed half of the stack, seeming to barely be aware of the motion. He motioned for Stan to follow him to the fireplace. They paused in front of it. Ford refused to look at the papers. The reflection of the fire burned in his eyes. There was almost a total lack of emotion on his face. He was blank.
“Ford?”
Ford didn’t respond. Just kept staring.
“Ford.”
Nothing. Stan raised his voice. “Ford!”
Ford finally twitched his head to the side. “Yes, what is it?”
“You alright?”
Ford blinked owlishly. “Fine, why?”
“Cuz I said your name like, three times.”
“Oh.” Ford shook himself out. “Just– distracted. Are you ready?”
Stan nodded and crumbled up a few of the pages. He threw them on the fire and watched as the flames licked at them until they were nothing but soot. Ford did the same, but moved much faster than Stan. He threw the pages in methodically, almost desperately. Stan supposed it made sense why he might want to be rid of them quickly. Now that the portal was completely dismantled, their only purpose was reminding Ford of some of the worst days of his life. If Stan could barely stand to look at those bloodied drawings of Bill on some of the more chaotic pages, he could only imagine how difficult it must be for Ford.
They kept burning them, silently, until Ford’s breath suddenly hitched, eyes locked on one particular page. His hands were clenched tightly around it. He was shaking.
Stan tentatively stepped closer. “Ford?”
Ford looked up at him, eyes welling up. Stan glanced at the page. It was mostly covered in thick, unruly scribbles and messily drawn eyes. And, looking closer, it looked like a few drops of blood had bled into the ink and stained the paper. Some of the writing on it was in some weird language Stan couldn’t decipher, but what he could see made his stomach turn.
MY MUSE WAS A MONSTER!
I WAS A PUPPET!
F WAS RIGHT!
“Ford? You okay, buddy?”
“I’m–” his voice cracked slightly. “It’s just–” he shook his head.
“You don’t have to worry about… him… anymore, you know.” He reached out slowly and took one of Ford’s hands off of the paper, squeezing it gently. “You want me to toss that one?”
“No, I– I’ll do it.” He continued to stare at the paper, a tear streaming down his face. Slowly, he crumpled it up. Then he froze. “I’ll do it.” His hand trembled more violently. “I have to– I need–”
“Hey.” Stan dropped Ford’s free hand and put a hand on the crumpled paper. “Wanna do it together?”
Ford stared at him, wide eyed. He took a shaky breath. “Yes.”
Together, sort of clunkily and awkwardly, they tossed the journal page into fire. The flames jumped it immediately, and it shrunk into a tiny ball. The flames didn’t let up, attacking the page until only ashes were left in its wake. Stan felt Ford’s posture relax slightly, and he suddenly pulled Stan into a tight hug. He buried his head in the crook of Stan’s neck, sniffling quietly, and wrapped his arms around him.
“Lee?” His voice was shaking.
“Right here.”
“Thank you…”
“Don’t gotta thank me,” Stan murmured, squeezing him tightly. “S’ alright. You’re okay.” Ford shuddered, then slumped into him, almost concerningly so. “Woah, Six, you’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?”
“Mm… no…”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” Ford murmured, finally sounding content. He stayed another moment then finally pulled away and smiled, glancing at his watch. “It’s nearly seven, are you getting hungry for dinner?”
“Yeah, a bit.”
“Well, what are you thinking? We have that leftover pasta from last night, or I could– I could try and whip something up–”
“No,” Stan interrupted, raising his eyebrows. “I’m never lettin’ you ‘whip somethin’ up’ ever again.”
Ford scowled. “Nothing even happened, Lee.”
“Yeah, you only almost burned the kitchen down.”
“No one died!”
“Not really the mark of a great chef, Six.” They each held their scowls as long as they could, making them cartoonishly intense.
Stan broke first. He erupted into laughter at the very memory of Ford’s last attempt to whip something up for them. He’d heard a sharp yelp from the kitchen and ran in to find Ford frantically waving his own sweater in the air, trying to put out the fire that was licking at the sleeve. He’d slapped it against the also burning stove, only succeeding in spreading the fire.
Stan had let out a yelp of his own and yanked Ford’s sweater away, throwing it into the sink with the dirty dish water. Then, he’d shut off the stove, rummaged through the cabinets until he’d found the baking soda, and poured the whole box on the stove to smother the fire.
Stan’s laughter was loud and boisterous, and only seemed to further enrage his brother, who was clearly trying hard to maintain his composure.
“It’s not funny!!” Ford insisted, but soon, he was laughing too, holding onto Stan’s arm to support himself while each laugh wracked his frame.
After a moment, Ford regained his balance and wiped at his eyes. His amused scowl returned. “Really, it wasn’t… that bad.”
“It was way worse than bad,” Stan chuckled.
“Well, perhaps you can give me some lessons in the kitchen, then? It’s just– I mean, I said I would cook, a-and I want to. It just happens to be… the opposite of my specialty.”
Stan brightened, the idea making him feel even lighter. “Yeah, Six. Sounds great.”
Ford sighed contentedly. “Alright. Let’s warm up the pasta, then.”
After a bit of bustling around the kitchen, and some pointless arguments from Stan that black coffee wasn’t the smartest beverage to have at seven at night, they sat at the table, peacefully eating their dinners.
Stan scowled at Ford’s mug of coffee. Even though that demon was gone, and wasn’t coming back, Ford still struggled for sleep almost nightly. He simply couldn’t sleep alone, and most nights he woke up from what were pretty clearly awful nightmares. Of course, Stan was usually right there with him. He’d have some horrible dream-slash-memory and wake up goddamn terrified. But Ford was there. Ford was always there.
But it had recently gotten to a point where Ford actively avoided sleep. And, Stan couldn’t lie, sometimes he did too, but not nearly as often as Ford did.
Stan took a bite of his pasta. “So… can’t help but notice you’re havin’ coffee with your dinner.”
“What about it?”
“S’ just… that’s your sixth cup today.”
Ford’s hand stilled around his fork. “And?”
“Not gonna be able to fall asleep with that much caffeine in your system.”
Ford’s frown deepened. “I– that’s alright. I have a bit of work to get done tonight.”
“What work?”
“Copying down notes from the remaining journal pages onto… clean paper,” Ford said, his voice dropping uncharacteristically low. “I– plan to burn the rest of them, once I’m done.”
“I could… help you,” Stan said softly. “If you wait until mornin’. Lot less to copy if you got two people doin’ it.”
Ford shook his head. “It’s fine, I’d rather get it done tonight.”
“Then I’ll stay up and help you.”
“No, no, you should get your sleep.”
“And you shouldn’t?”
Ford blinked, nonplussed. For a moment, he just… stared. Then he took a tiny bite of his dinner. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and took a sip of coffee.
“You need more hours of sleep than I do, on average.”
“Yeah, most normal people do need more than zero,” Stan spat. A hurt look flashed across Ford’s face, and Stan immediately regretted his words. “Sorry. I didn’t– I mean, you’re not–”
“It’s fine, Stan.” Ford’s voice was clipped. He took another sip of coffee.
“Just want you to sleep, s’ all.”
“Yes,” Ford murmured, almost more to himself than to Stan. “So do I.”
“Then why not try?”
“It’s not that easy.” Ford scrubbed at his face. “You know that!”
“It won’t get any easier if you keep avoidin’ it.”
“As if you don’t do the same goddamn thing!!”
Ford was angry. It was Stan’s turn to blink. He had hoped Ford hadn’t picked up on that. He sighed heavily, words not coming to him.
Ford’s eyes suddenly widened, and his cheeks grew slightly pink. “I’m– sorry.”
“S’ fine,” Stan murmured. He didn’t really have it in him to be angry, right now. He just wanted his brother to be okay.
Ford reached across the table and squeezed Stan’s hand. “I’ll– alright. Okay. After dinner, we can copy down some of the old notes, and then… I can– we can… try and sleep.”
Stan squeezed his hand back and finally, finally relaxed enough to eat the rest of his dinner. He took special care to make sure that Ford ate all of his, too.
“So, I was thinkin’,” Stan mused, pulling Ford’s his sweater off, leaving his white t-shirt on its own. “What if we moved the tv in here? Sometimes it’s easier to fall asleep when the tv’s on? And then, sometimes you end up dreamin’ about whatever was playin’ on it.”
Ford made a quiet tick sound. “I suppose there’s no harm in trying.”
“Wanna try tonight?”
“Mm… no, not tonight.” Ford shifted in the bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin, staring at the ceiling. “Already here. And that television is… complicated.”
“If you’re sure.” Stan shrugged. He flicked on the small, dim, desk lamp, then shut the overhead off. “Wanna read for a bit?” He settled into bed beside his brother, then picked up Ford’s giant copy of Lord of the Rings. “We can start from where we left off.”
“I’m not really in a reading mood tonight.”
Stan awkwardly set the book back down. “S’ there… anythin’ I can do to make this easier, Six?”
Ford just stared owlishly at him for a moment with wide, innocent eyes. Slowly, he pulled toward his twin and let his head rest on Stan’s chest. He curled up closely, like a nervous cat. His hands trembled faintly, and he drew them close to his own chest. Stan didn’t skip a beat, just wrapped his arms around him and ran a hand through his hair. Ford leaned into the touch and made his quiet purring sound. A sound that Stan knew meant that he felt safe.
Ford yawned, and barely attempted to stifle it. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes fluttered closed.
He wasn’t asleep, Stan knew that. It would probably take quite a few hours for that. But he was trying, and that was enough.
Stan awoke with a start, heart nearly beating out of his chest. Just a dream. Just a dream, just a dream, just–
God, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was stupid. Stupid stupid stupid, Rico wasn’t here. His kidney wasn’t anymore, either, but that– it didn’t matter. He didn’t die. Why the hell did it matter? He couldn’t breathe. He just couldn’t. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. He glanced to the side. Ford was asleep. And it seemed like he was sleeping soundly. His face was peaceful, and he made quiet little snores.
Stan couldn’t wake him up. He couldn’t, that would be cruel, after all that work he did to just get Ford to sleep. He all but jumped from the bed and silently paced back and forth across the room. He just had to calm down. That was all. Just calm down. He walked and he walked and walked and walked and walked–
And he tripped on– something. His own feet? His sweater he’d thrown on the ground? It didn’t matter. It didn’t. Stupid. Stupid. He was on the ground, body shaking from adrenaline and panic and the initial shocking type of pain that came with eating shit in the middle of the night.
Come on, idiot, breathe!!
“Stanley?!”
Stan flinched at the sound of his name. His head twitched up and he saw Ford. No, no, no, nonononono you idiot!! You woke him up!
Ford was getting up, Ford was coming to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder. And Stan flinched back again at the touch, even though he knew it was Ford, and Ford wouldn’t hurt him.
Ford yanked his hand back, eyes wide.
“Stanley, it’s just me!!” When the only noise Stan could make besides wheezing was a tiny little whimper, Ford scanned over him for possible injuries. “What’s going on, a-are you– why are you on the ground?!”
Stan couldn’t say anything. He just kept struggling for air. Goddamnit, just breathe!! He shook his head frantically, hoping it coveted what he couldn’t say to Ford.
“O-Okay, just– you have to breathe!! Just, come on– l-like this!!” He demonstrated anxiously, moving his hand up on each inhale and down on each exhale. Stan tried to follow. It didn’t work. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, come on–
“Try again, Stan,” Ford insisted, desperately. “Just– come on!”
Stan tried again, focusing on Ford’s hand as it rose and fell in front of him. Up, breathe in. Down, breathe out.
Ford waited while Stan’s breathing steadied. Once Stan was able to, he pushed himself up. Ford made a quiet, confused sound but said nothing, just followed Stan as he exited the room, walked through the house, and finally ended up on the porch. He took a deep but shaky breath. Fresh air was good. He sat down on the bench, and Ford, as confused as he seemed to be, sat down beside him. Ford pulled at his sweater, seeming to wish it was a bit thicker.
After a moment, Ford cleared his throat. “Lee?”
“Mhm?”
“Are you–” he stopped himself, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to go grab you a coat. We can sit out here, that’s– fine, but– you’ll freeze if you don’t have a coat.”
“Grab one for you, too,” Stan said quietly. He wasn’t sure if Ford heard him as he went in. He waited in silence, his own shaky breaths the only sound.
Ford was back almost instantly, carrying two large, thick coats. He handed one to Stan and put the other on himself before sitting back down.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
You’re not gettin’ outta those cuffs, idiot. Who knows, maybe we’ll take both kidneys, just for the hell of it.
“…Not really.”
“That’s alright,” Ford murmured. “Do you wanna go back to sleep?”
“In a bit.”
“Okay.” Ford slowly reached out and took Stan’s hand in his own, absently running his finger along his twin’s knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They sat in silence for quite some time. Stan knew Ford must be freezing his ass off, he always did run cold, but, to his credit, he didn’t complain. But, eventually, his shivering grew too violent to ignore, and Stan nudged him gently.
“Let’s go inside.”
Ford nearly leapt up from his seat and hurried in, rubbing his hands together. Poor guy. But he paused in the living room, looking at Stan as if to ask where to next?
Stan led them up to the bedroom. They both settled wordlessly back into bed, with Ford throwing at least three extra throw blankets on top of them. Ford didn’t initiate contact– Stan kicked himself for flinching away earlier– so Stan had to be the one to pull his brother in and bury his head in Ford’s chest. Ford pulled him right back and rubbed his back soothingly.
Stan didn’t cry. He didn’t think he could. He was simply too exhausted, in every sense of the word. But it felt nice to be in his brother’s arms.
“Ford,” he whispered. “Sorry I woke you up…”
“It’s quite alright. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“After all that shit I gave you ‘bout not sleeping, n’ it’s my fault that you–”
“You can hardly blame yourself for having a nightmare.” Ford pulled him closer. “It’s okay, Lee.”
“I–”
“Stanley.”
Stan bit back his words. “Hey,” he said softly. “Tomorrow… I can make us pancakes. That sound good?”
Ford hummed. “Pancakes sound great.”
“N’ I can show you how I make ‘em. Maybe I’ll even let you flip a few of your own.”
Ford made an amused scoff sound at that. “I’d be honored,” he said. There was a tinge of sarcasm in it, but– mostly sincerity.
“Didn’t you say something about goin’ to talk to the gnomes or whatever tomorrow, too?”
“Hm. Yes. For that barrier I mentioned, the one that can shield the cabin from threats. Typically–” a loud yawn, “–it’s used for interdimensional threats, but with a few tweaks, it can shield us against more… er, ground level threats as well. The gnomes have a black market of sorts where they’ll have some of the materials the recipe requires. For a high price, if I remember correctly.”
“Ah. Why wouldn’t garden gnomes have a black market?” Stan joked sleepily. “Makes sense.”
“They’re complex creatures,” Ford chuckled softly. “I’m curious to see what you think of Jeff. Oh– and Shmebulock. He’s odd, that one.”
“Wait, what?” Stan pulled away slightly, trying to read his brother's face.
Ford tilted his head slightly. “What– oh. Shmebulock is his name. I should’ve clarified.”
“No, just– when am I gonna meetin’ ‘em? I thought you were goin’ there, not bringin’ ‘em here.”
Ford gave a confused sort of smile. “We are going there.”
We? Stan blinked up at him. “You– want me to come with?”
“Well– yes. Why wouldn’t I? I-I mean, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to come.”
Stan felt something warm bubble up in his chest. He buried his head back in Ford’s chest, some of the heaviness dissipating. Ford wanted him to come.
“Stan? Are you going to come?”
He had his brother back. He had a life back. A life that finally felt worth living. It had been a long time since that statement had been true.
Ford was here. He wasn’t going anywhere. And, for once, neither was Stan.
“Yeah, Six. Course I’m comin’.”