#fact three- filbrick does not even care enough about stanford to say his name. he calls ford his ‘ticket out of this dump’ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

neargaztambide · 4 years

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Stan and Ford Pines: A Melancholic Story (Chapter 1)

Words: 3.775 approximately

1: Broken until weary, at the end of the road

If you were wondering about metaphors about death, and you had a cynical and dark point of view, you would compare it to the lottery. Why not? If you see it that way, it could explain very well what happened to Patriarch Pines: either you earn it today, or you can earn it tomorrow. If not, any day will be.

Ford trembled out of the car to see Filbrick, feeling a cold sweat on his back, and a huge heaviness in his body. Behind him, Stanley followed him. The blood was one of the worst parts of the stage: seeing his father agonize, staining the ground red, his eyes unfocused and lost, it was horrible. The crowd kept calling, and many more people were helping Caryn and Robert (that's how the Good Samaritan is called). –Ma… - The two children were scared, with a pale face. His mother looked at them with a hopeless look. His hands, his clothes ... although red, blood it could be differentiated from the clothes. His father looked lost, seeing nothing in particular. “- Maybe it's already… -” Stanley thought, which turned pale at even mentioning the idea. His mother, just as pale as her children, went to hug them. The two corresponded with the hug. She was trembling. Their mother was trembling with fear, with horror. She grabbed their cheeks, gently, smearing them with blood ... their father's blood. The mark on Caryn's hand was on Ford's left cheek, and Stanley had it on the right. -Oh God, I-I sorry!- Caryn said, being at the point of emotional collapse.

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The strongest twin looked at his father. It was an image that slipped into his retina so as not to leave. It was a hypnotically horrifying image: this wasn’t like an action movie. It wasn’t an eighties film with Schwarzenegger or Stallone, making it seem that getting shot is a casual thing. Stan noticed that getting shot was a cold sweat, with shaking and paleness. The face of pain and vain resistance was the real thing. Stanley couldn't stand to see that for much longer. The holes in his dad's body began to flow out a strong red liquid. The idea of dying like this disturbed him. He began to have arcades, so he had to step away from the crowd and go to the corner where the traffic light was. He vomited silently, trying not to to be heard. He didn’t vomit too much: just something similar to brown saliva, feeling the stinging of bile in his throat. -¿S-Stanley? -

Stan cleans his mouth and turns to see who’s talking to him and that is precisely Stanford. He’s about to cry, just like his mother. There are traces of regret on his face. -I'm fine, nothing happens to me. - Stan says, trying to look boastful with a carefree fake tone. Ford looks at him with a lot of sadness. Begin to cry. First, is only a whimper, but quickly turns into tears continued. They pass through his face, his nose orange. He needs help. Stan stops smiling. He approaches him and hugs him tightly. Ford doesn't want to release it, it can't. His glasses, which are now about to fall from his face, fog. -I'm scared, Stanley." W-wh-what just happened? - Asked Ford in a run. The words come from the depths of his being. He is still shocked, not knowing what to do. He hasn’t digested the facts. It hurt. Stanford doesn't like it. He doesn’t want to suffer. Should he cry for his father, after all those years of hollow interactions, after the cold and flat words? "-Yes, good job ... I'm not impressed ... - ".

Stanford thinks if Filbrick deserved this. He deserves it? Filbrick defended them at all costs, regardless of whether he was injured. Ford’s very grateful to him. But, why has he always had such an attitude like that, why does he treat them almost indifferently, as if they didn't matter what really matters? While they hug, Filbrick is only seconds away from death, feeling the wings of the grim reaper around his body. He can't almost hear anything. Everything seems to be silent. Everything is so blurry, but he sees a few people around him. He only sees two women, recognizing them for their … makeup, for their lipstick? The rest of them, he cannot see them clearly, Filbrick find it very difficult. Everything is ... how was that word? It is assumed that this word serves to define something that cannot be defined logically. Where is he, what happened, what is his name? Filbrick turned his head. It hurts a lot to move, but he must do it in the meantime. Do he hear the... do he hear them? They are on his left. Although it is very blurry, it distinguishes two figures, of a small size, far apart. Glued to each other. Recognize... his children. They are crying ... but why?

Stanley, who was hugging his brother, looks at his father from the opposite shoulder. He turned his head where they are. He doesn’t have his eyes lost, but he is staring at them, making a great effort to do that action. He stops hugging his brother, who is crying a lot. - Sixer: look. - Stan points to his father. Ford instinctively follows the finger, and knows what to do. But he can’t. He seriously can't. -Stan, I don't ...- Ford mutters in a withered voice. But Stanley is the strongest brother of the two. He grabs his brother by the shoulders, and looks at him, straight in the eye. Brown eyes, full of life. -You have to go with him ... we’ve to be strong enough... for him. - Ford is undecided. It is very painful to want to see, to have to be there, when all he want is run away. But he acquires value, and agrees to go with his brother. Stanford may want to run away from the image that drills his mind. That between the first -be going with his evicted father -, and the second - leave -, the second comes first. Although, he can't be a coward. He can’t go from the fear that death produces. A tiny part of him is what convinced him to go: Fil may never have been an exemplary father, but he is his father. A dad there is only one in this life. And deep down, really deep down, Ford want it. Maybe that's what prompted Stan to convince him to go.

-Pa ... we're here.- Stan says when he arrives with Filbrick. The man lying on the floor looks at them. –Stanley ... – Filbrick cough. He covers his mouth. The result?: blood streaks in the hand. In the view of this, Roger looks at Caryn. A look that says a lot with not much: “he doesn't have much time. There’s nothing we can do for him. -You two… come’ere. - Filbrick says. They don’t disobey. Stanley takes his hand. How could he talk so badly about his father just a few hours ago? Filbrick makes every effort to speak to them. He looks at them in a very strange way: he looks at them with worry. That way of seeing his children for the last time is weird. –Caryn ... protect them for me. - He says, with heaviness in his voice, with pain. Caryn takes him by the other hand and puts it in her face. - Fil... don’t... - Caryn is starting to think that her husband is hallucinating. He may not have shown much love in all his years of marriage, but she is his wife. And he loves her. He looks at her with a smile, telling her with that gesture that he loves her with everything that he can be named. -Take care of them for me ... I beg that to you ... and I love you, Caryn." – Filbrick cough again. The people around depart, as the ambulance has just arrived to take Filbrick. But it’s too late.

Filbrick caresses Caryn, and she cries inconsolably. Suddenly, Fil looks at Ford. Ford, who has not left him, who always came beaten from school, who helped him in his pawn shop, who was somewhat withdrawn. Who was the almost ideal son. -Ford ... I want you to know that you’re amazing ... you surprise me every day with your achievements ... - He takes one of his hands, and open his fingers. -Let no one tell you ... you can't do something- Filbrick shows his fingers to his son, as a sign that he should be proud of his six fingers. “Don’t let yourself stop for nothing and no one.” –Don’t let that to affect you ... don’t stop for a jerk who tells you that you cannot... - Ford, who has not stopped crying, nods. -Yes-yes. Thank you.- says Ford. Only Stanley is left. Filbrick has been disappointed in his son for his little academic interest. By his attitude. His fierce way of being. -Stanley ... I want you to know that ... no matter what you have done ... I still have always loved you ...- Filbrick said. Stanley couldn't believe it. Start stuttering in surprise. His father was not expected to ever say that about him. He had come to think that he hated him for his hardness. -D-did you… ? - -Always.-

Filbrick was smiling. It was not a sarcastic or ironic smile: it’s an honest smile. He is already very weak, but he has the strength to do two things. Calls for his family to stay with him, to don’t leave him alone. They are in his visual field. That’s what Filbrick now wants to look at. He may have been shot down, but it seems that the pain is leaving his body. It is not that it goes suddenly, that it goes slowly, and it is a beautiful feeling. It’s like getting out of the flames and being in absolute peace, it’s as if death wasn’t something threatening, but an old friend who comes to give you her unconditional support . -B-be careful ... - The three look at him, completely confused. When they hear that, they said Filbrick thinks thieves are close to them. They expect what he will say next...

–Good luck… -

And now, a soul flutters. Maybe Filbrick Pines' soul is going to heaven, or he may discover that there is nothing, that there is none: that everything is over. Or that he admire the rarity of the universe, and cannot express WHAT it was that he looked at. Or that he be received to a great party, that a paradise is created to his size, that recarnates in another person or animal. Or that the last thing that he feel spread throughout the cosmos. May his conscience shift to the mind of Stanley and Ford, and he have to admire their lives until they die. Or that his life be repeated exactly the same, because the universe expands and contracts continuously . That he reincarnates in another person and has to live every single life of all beings on earth, experiencing every horror and every pleasure of every man, woman and child. And then, become in a higher being as relate Andy Weir in his history, The Egg. Who knows. Let’s wish the best of lucks to Filbrick Pines.

But while he was going straight to an uncertain destiny, his family was with his body. Alive. -Pa... Pa, answer me. - Stanley cried. Caryn looks away with sadness, shedding tears. He’s gone. Her husband is finally dead. And within Stanford's mind, an alarm signal went on. Stanley shakes his father to wake up. “- He’s not dead, please God, he can’t be dead ... –” Stanley says to himself, who is now going to start crying for real. -Stanley, there’s… nothing to do. He's… gone. - Says Caryn, who takes Stanley's shoulder. Although her words are realistic and try to assimilate his world in that way, she can’t. It’s a great weight that is impossible to carry on. The blood in her hands is already dry. Ford just looks at his father’s adjacent corpse. - No. - Ford says. Stanley and Caryn stare at him. –Stanford, he’s not alive. We can’t do something…- Caryn says. -You can't ... no ... I refuse to believe it. Pa... - Ford tries to see his father, shakes him, and moves him. But he does not react.

Stanford’s mind breaks apart. It slowly cracks like glass, and then explodes in a powerful way, destroying everything in its path. Cry loudly, while trying to hold back tears. He clung to his mother, who comforted him as best she could with caresses. Stan also protects him with a hug. The three cried, feeling desolate by the feelings of emptiness.

Ford woke up from his sleep. He feels a cold sweet in his body. He looks around: he’s at a certain height from the ground because it uses a bunk with Stanley. Then, Ford look at the clock: two-nine o'clock in the morning. He had the same nightmare. He has had it for three days, and he wasn’t able to sleep. –You were making noises. Is that dream again? - Stan asks: maybe he woke up for Ford. Stanford takes off the sheets on top. He doesn't want to talk much about his nightmares. He usually doesn’t like to talk to him about those topics. He has dull ideas; he doesn't know what to say or what to think. His eyes lie down in the dark reflecting. After two days of Filbrick’s death, Ford was desolate, in his inner world. He thought about his confused feelings. Anger, abandonment and sadness. He was thinking about the funeral, the tears of his grandfather and his uncle Marty. He remembered the black clothes, the gray sky. However, there was no rain. He recalled the condolences of the relatives. And he remembered the outburst of rage when they got home. He locked himself in his room. Ford saw his posters, his sci-fi-themed decoration.

He was making fun of his pain. It all started with a distant and not very audible laugh. Stanford couldn't understand it at first. He was alone. The only voices that should have been were outside, being from his family. But the voice was one he heard so recently. It was etched in his head. It began as an echo like from a cave, but increased to a powerful degree. It rumbled in his ears. It was a sly and shrill laugh. Stanford tried to cover his ears as best he can to mitigate those laughs. -Shut. Shut up, son of a bitch ... - Ford muttered under his breath. He saw his room again, and concluded the vile chuckle was caused by the posters, by the decoration. He approached one of these -which were the sign of a green alien with a bulky head and gigantic eyes. He started it gently, not very sure of his hypothesis. When he removed it, the laughters (which had now multiplied) became a little less noisy.

Ford's face darkened. The voice was of him: his father's murderer laughed uncontrollably at his broken feelings. Gradually his chest began to grow bigger when his breathing became more animalistic. Tears and slight mucous slipped. In a fit of rage, Stanford took another poster by its edges and pulled it violently. He broke in half, making a loud breaking noise. Ford had more fierce initiative and began to get rid of his decoration that took so much effort and dedication of time. With everything he took from his place, the murderer's voices became less audible. Ford muttered the following: “-I hate you, motherfucker! I hate you I hate you, you hideous monster! – ”. Stanford took care of getting rid of all those laugh amplifiers. I couldn't believe that he could go unpunished. He wanted that murder to pay the debt. It wasn’t justice. He could be somewhat hypocritical in that: now he appreciated his father? But he regretted with all his soul the rejection he felt about his father, meanwhile he’s noticing Filbrick is not anymore in his life. Now that he lost him, there was nothing left. He could say everything he wanted to. However, he loved him too deeply in his heart. Quickly, Ford went to the kitchen for a garbage bag: he, in those moments could barely hear the laughter. Although, Ford needed to make sure the laughs were not coming back.

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Stan realized that something in his brother was weirder than usual. Although it had only been two days, Stanley noticed that Ford has been quite strange in his way of behaving. He followed him among the people at the funeral, who noticed his attempt to pass, and instantly felt sorry for him. For the children it had to have been a hard blow from now. –Hey. Do ‘ya find- Stan was going to ask in a more lively tone of voice, until he noticed the face of his twin: he was releasing fat tears, without wiping them off. The positive face he made was erased when he noticed the expression between anger and dejection from his brother. There was a hint of madness, mania. - ... well? - Stan managed to finish his question. Ford was firmly holding the door where the plastic bags were stored, which closed with some force. Without answering the question, Stanford retired rudely to his room. Stan followed him worried. Ford wanted to close the door securely, but before he could do anything, Stanley prevented him from doing so by setting foot and entering. He closed the door behind him, seeing with the characteristic horror of a child that a part of his most precious treasures was scattered on the floor. One or another of the posters was destroyed in half. A cup of a jelly man was broken into thousands of shatters, with his remains scattered on the floor. -What are you doing? - -Throwing all the garbage off. - Ford replies dryly. He shows that he isn’t kidding, when he will grab a poster and throw it away.

Stan rushes to snatch the poster from Ford, and puts it on as if it were a mask. With that gesture, try to deter Stanford in an animated way . -Are you crazy? Why are you going to throw Zording? - Ford doesn't react. -What happens, Ford: I'm not actual welcome in your mothership? - The six-finger boy doesn't pay much attention to his brother's attempts to get the truth out of him. He takes Zording and stores it in the garbage bag. He goes to the broken cup and throws it without looking. Stanford leaves his room, closing the bag. Stan follows him, down the stairs that lead to the pawn shop and then to the street. Ford stays near to the door, standing very still, with his hand on the doorknob. The burlesque sound was completely gone. Stanford didn’t turn back, even though he knew his twin was there, waiting for an answer. Stanford had a brief epiphany, a flash that indicated something: his mind was decomposing. He couldn’t find a better metaphor than that, since the brain can be considered as a great computer. In this situation, he realizes that he needs to meditate on his actions. There were never voices. His mind was playing a bad joke. He is ashamed to confess that he had a "tantrum." To avoid having to tell the truth, Ford tries to lie: -I-I'm sorry ... I didn't know what I was doing. - Stan stares at him, being completely still. There was still a trace of anger in Stanford. - What happened? - Ford just stayed there for a few seconds, before sitting on the floor, and trying to hide his face so Stan wouldn't see him cry. Embarrassed, and not wanting Stanley to see him as a crybaby, he muttered: -Why dad, Stan? Why did they do that to him? Why he? - Now, in his tribulations, and after anger, all he has left is a great tide of doubt.

- I feel so strange, with all this. It isn’t fair that he killed my Pa. It’s not fair that the deceased, he have to still alive! - A wave of boredom crossed Ford's body. Stanley kept listening until he approached him and sat next to him. Stan put his hand on his brother's shoulder. - Hey, lil’ bro: I'm feeling as shitty as you. It's ... so ... - Stan made a huge figure with his empty hand. Stanford understood that as his way of saying that the whole situation was too heavier for him. That encouraged him to think that he wasn’t alone. -I don't know why or what happened... but there is something I’m completely sure of: those two are going to get caught, and they will go to jail. - With those words, although fanciful, they encouraged Stanford. He smiled, excited. – R-really? - Stanford asks who looked up. In response, Stanley shows him the palm of his hand. –High six? - With that gesture, Stan is assuring his twin that he’s not lying at all. Stanford smiles and raises his hand. –High six. - Both crashed their hands. Stan helped lift Ford off the ground. The two of them stayed a few seconds in the pawn shop, just at the right time to see the first rays of the sun: a little hope invaded them in those moments. A small glow filtered through the windows of the store.

Stanford finishes remembering that day with love. He whispers and looks at the floor: -Stan. - -Yeah? - He asks in a tired tone. -Could you ... sleep with me, just… for tonight? - A moment of silence. Ford feels ridiculous about such a childish request. Despite feeling a little better about his feelings, he’s still afraid of his own mind and his nightmares. He hears Stan moving, confirming that his brother agreed with the petition. Ford searches through the semi-darkness for the stairs that allow him to get off his bunk. Stan made it a space for Stanford to enter. The six-finger child is positioned. And fleetingly, Stan opens his eyes, and positions them on top of his watch, which indicates the time and date:

2:15 am Jun/15/2013.

That makes Stanley smile: now he and his brother are thirteen years old. He stares at the bunk, and falls asleep with a smile.

It's been a week since Filbrick died.

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This is where the real story beggins. I wait you can enjoy it! Salvete ignotum est a terra.

#young stanley pines #young stanford pines #stanley pines #stanford pines #gravity falls #fanfic #fan fiction #my writing #reblog if you wish #the original mystery twins #stan and ford pines: a melancolic story

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under-atomic-skies · 5 years

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Never Too Late

Summary: Three years after moving to Gravity Falls, Ford gets a call from an old colleague regarding one of his patients with a fake ID who looks a lot like Ford. Could this man really be Stanley? Written as a request for Pineslover123 (AO3)

Feel free to send me requests

Warnings: implied suicide attempt

Word count: 4885

AO3

Winter was finally giving way to spring, but with the warmer weather came the storms. Stanford didn’t mind the storms all that much as he used to as a kid. There was something relaxing about listening to the sound of the rain hitting the roof or the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. It was sometimes annoying when he had work to investigate out in the woods, but luckily he had plenty of work he could do indoors to keep him busy.

He settled himself into one of the tables near the window so he could watch the storm outside. A cup of coffee rested beside the thick, maroon book he was making notes in. On the front was a golden six fingered hand with the number 2 written in thick, black ink.

He’d moved to the sleepy, backwoods town of Gravity Falls, Oregon not three years ago. The area had drawn his attention by the unusually high reports of anomalous activity, and to his pleasant surprise, he couldn’t get much farther away from his home town if he tried. More or less, he made a home for himself here. It wasn’t homey in the normal sense as it was filled with specimens he’d found and pages upon pages of notes he’d written or read, but he’d built the home with the help of some local lumberjacks and it was his own space.

It was everything he had wanted. He’d finally found a place where a person like him could fit in.

As the heavy rain beat down on the house, he could only distantly hear the sound of the phone ringing from the kitchen. Luckily, his friend and research assistant, Fiddleford McGucket answered it.

“Hello, Pines residence,” he said into the phone. His voice, twinged with a southern accent, tang above the sound of the rain. Finally noticing there was a call, Ford turned his head towards the direction of the kitchen.

“Yes, he’s here,” Fiddleford said. There was a pause before he spoke up again, “Sure, I’ll go get ‘im. Hold on.”

Footsteps neared the front room and Fiddleford emerged from the hallway leading from the kitchen.

“Stanford,” he called from the doorway, “Ya got a phone call.”

Ford sighs quietly and shuts his book, the gold hand on the front reflecting in the overhead light. Reluctantly, he stands from his desk and approaches his friend.

“Who is it?” He asks. They didn’t usually get too many phone calls here. Usually, it was Fiddleford’s wife, or occasionally his mother that called, but if that were the case now, Fiddleford would have just said so.

“Ed something? He says he knew you back at Backupsmore.” Fiddleford reports.

The name Ed did sound somewhat familiar. It wasn’t like Ford had gotten close to anyone apart from Fiddleford, so why would he be calling?

Intrigued, Ford squeezed past Fiddleford and went to the kitchen. The phone had been set on one of the counters, and Ford wasted no time in picking up the receiver and holding it to his ears.

“Hello, this is Stanford Pines.”

“Hey Ford, it’s Ed White,” the voice on the other hand said. There was a pause as Ford tried to connect the name to where he remembered the man from. Ah, yes! Ed has taken some courses with him. Psychology or something? Ford wasn’t one to like to dabble in the softer sciences, but had taken some courses none the less.

“Ed,” Ford finally spoke up, “I wasn’t expecting a call from you.”

The other laughed a bit awkwardly, sounding almost forced, “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this either if I’m frank.”

‘Frankly is the only way I speak’, his fathers voice suddenly rang in his head, causing him to wince.

“Was there a reason you’re calling?” Ford asked somewhat curiously.

“Yeah, about that,” the voice on the other end was a bit hesitant, “Look, I’m not sure if I’ve got the right guy, but I have a patient here that looks an awful lot like you, but he came in with what looks like a fake ID. Does the name Steve Pinington mean anything to you?”

Ford’s body stiffened at the mention of someone looking similar to him. Steve Pinington? He didn’t know anyone by that name, but the name sounded awfully similar to Stanley Pines. It also sounded like the kind of name Stan would give himself for a fake ID.

But what use would his brother have for a fake ID? They had turned 21 several years ago, so he couldn’t possibly need an ID to forge that.

“Not exactly, but Steve Pinington sounds awful close to my brothers name.” Ford replies, debating on whether or not he should hang up now. He hadn’t spoken to his brother in seven years, not since his brother had sabotaged his chances of getting into West Coast Tech.

His hand tightened around the receiver at the memory. Seven years had done little to lessen the anger and resentment Ford harbored for his twin.

His muscles were practically itching to hang up, but something stilled him. Ed has mentioned he was a patient, a patient with a fake ID none the less.

“Just what kind of trouble did my brother get himself into?” Ford asked with a sigh, pinching his nose. He didn’t have time for this. Stanley has ruined his life once. He should hang up and forget this conversation happened so he could get back to his studies.

“A lady called in to report a man passed out in his car a few days ago.” Ed began, his voice suddenly much quieter and softer. It put Ford on edge, “When the authorities got there, they found that he had taken a bunch of pills. They took him in to pump out his stomach and once he was recovered enough, he came to me.”

Ford felt like he was going to be sick. Stanley has taken pills? The stubborn part of his brain wanted to believe it was an accident, but he couldn’t ignore the nagging part of him that knew it was no mistake.

“You still there, Pines?” Ed asked.

Ford jerked out a nod, then remembered Ed couldn’t see him, “Yeah, I’m here.” He murmured quietly, “He came to you, you said. What does that mean? What do you do?”

“I’m a doctor at the Utah State Hospital. I treat the patients that come in here, and your brother is one of them. Since he had a fake ID, we couldn’t find any medical records or family to contact. I only happened to see that he looks fairly similar to you.” Ed explains patiently. Ford sits heavily in one of the kitchen chairs.

What if they had found family to contact? They would have called their parents first and what if Filbrick had been the one to pick up? Ford winced to think that Filbrick would hang up, not having a single care for the son he had kicked out of his home.

Was Ford really any better though? He had watched Filbrick kick Stan out and hadn’t lifted a finger. He’d been so angry at Stan that he hadn’t cared he’d been kicked out. He’d briefly thought about his brother over the years but told himself that Stan would be fine and dismissed the thought.

Now Ford knew for a fact that Stan wasn’t fine. He’d downed god knows how many pills in the solitude of his car. If he had died, would Ford have even known? Ed only knew to contact him because of their similarities in appearance. If Stan had died, Ed wouldn’t have been there to connect two and two together and Stan would have been thrown in a nameless grave.

The thought made Ford feel sick. Swallowing his bile, he spoke up again, not caring how his voice wavered. “I’m coming to see him.”

He found a piece of paper laying around and pulled a pen from his jacket pocket to write down the address Ed gave him. Ford estimated it would take him 12 hours (five or take) to get there and Ed said he’d be waiting.

Ford said goodbye and hung the receiver back up on the wall with a ‘click’ and finally had a moment to take everything in. Fiddleford slowly crept into the kitchen, finding Ford leaning against the wall with a hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

“Stanford?” He asked quietly, “What’s wrong?”

“My brother,” Ford forced the words out with some difficulty. The lump in his throat was making words hard to get out, “He— he tried to kill himself.”

Six fingers tightly gripped the edge of the counter. Fiddleford’s eyes widened and Ford realized bitterly that he wasn’t even sure if he ever told Fiddleford he had a brother.

“Stanford, I’m so sor—“

“I’m going to see him.” Ford cut him off, not wanting to hear his sympathies. He didn’t deserve it.

Fiddleford merely nodded. “Ok.” His voice trailed off as Ford pushed himself away from the wall and began pacing.

“Ed said he’s in Utah, which means it should take me around 12 hours to get there assuming I don’t stop,” he rattled off, mentally charting his course, “I’d have to stop for gas a few times, but if I keep it short, it shouldn’t put me back too much. But I...”

He continued to rattle off his thoughts, one hand behind his back as the other gripped his hair. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt Fiddleford’s hand on his shoulder.

“You can’t drive for 12 hours straight, Ford. You need to eat and sleep too.” His voice was soft, reminding Ford of their college days when Fiddleford used to remind him to nap when he’d be studying for too long.

“I can’t do that! I already failed Stanley once; I can’t keep him waiting any longer!” It was unspoken, but Ford was terrified he’d try something again.

Fiddleford’s hand squeezed, grounding Ford. “I’ll come with you, ok. We can take turns driving so you can get some sleep and we can stock up on food so we won’t have to stop.”

Ford considered his words. That would be practical, but he couldn’t ask his friend to do all of that for him.

“I dunno—“

“Stanford Pines, I think you misunderstood. That was not a suggestion. I’m not letting you drive for 12 hours in the state that you’re in. You’ll be of no use to your brother if something happens and it’s not like I have something better than helping a friend here.” Fiddleford’s words are firm and Ford knows better by now than to protest. He jerks out a nod and Fiddleford squeezes his shoulder once more before dropping his hands to his side.

“Good, now let’s pack up and hit the road.”

Twelve hours later, the pair found themselves in the lobby of the state hospital. Ford nervously fiddled with his hands as he approached the desk.

“I’m here to see Stanley Pines.”

The desk worker, a woman who looked downright bored, barely refrained from sighing as she looked through the files.

“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.” She reported.

“Oh right, try Steve Pinington.” Ford said, forgetting his brother was here with a fake ID. The woman doesn’t refrain from sighing as she looked again.

“I’ll call a nurse to take you up.”

Ford nodded and Fiddleford sat in a near by chair with Ford quickly following suit. Ford anxiously fiddled with his hands as they waited for the nurse. After a moment, Fiddleford rested his hands over Ford’s.

“It’ll be ok, Ford.” He murmurs quietly. Ford isn’t so sure, but luckily doesn’t dwell on it for long as the nurse finally arrives.

She leads the pair through the hospital halls which seem more like a maze than any planned out path. Finally, they come to a stop and the nurse finally faces them.

“He’s just returning from therapy, so he’s in this room for now. Don’t be alarmed if he doesn’t recognize you at first.” She said and promptly leaves before Ford can ask what that meant. He shared a look with Fiddleford before letting himself into the room.

The room was small with only one bed in it. A form lay on the bed, prone and still. Ford’s heart caught in his throat. Even with all the years spanning between the last time he had seen his twin and now, it was odd to see him so quiet and still. It was so different than the loud, boisterous, energetic version of his brother he remembered.

Slowly, he approached the bed, eyes drinking in the sight of his brother. His hair was longer than he remembered and wasn’t slicked back anymore. A big, bushy mustache adorned his face and Ford was distantly angry that he could sort of pull it off.

“Stanley, what happened to you?” Ford whispered. A groan sounded from Stan and his eyes fluttered open. The breath in Ford’s chest stilled as he looked at Stan, not sure how he was going to react upon seeing the brother that abandoned him at his bed side.

Stan’s eyes were glazed, almost unseeing as he blinked at Ford. There was no spark of recognition, no anger, no anything. It was as if Stan wasn’t seeing anything at all.

“Stanley?” Ford asked, reaching a hand out to take his brothers hand, noticing now that he was still restrained to the bed. The tears he had been trying so hard to keep back were welling in his eyes.

“Stan, what happened to you?”

Stan’s lips parted as if he was going to respond, but no sound came out. He stared at Ford with a dull, expressionless face. The tears were spilling down Ford’s face as he threw his arms around his brothers shoulders.

“I’m so sorry, Stan.” He whispered in his twins ears, all too aware that Stan hadn’t responded to his hug. As teens, Stan had always been the one to initiate touch, whether it was a large arm slung around his shoulder, or Stan hoisting him off his feet.

Ford couldn’t help but remind himself that Stan might not even want Ford to hug him if he was aware of what was happening. Ford hadn’t even so much as bat an eye when Stan had been kicked out. In the seven years since, he hadn’t tried to contact him once, barely even spending more than a few moments to think of Stan.

He didn’t deserve to be here for Stan now but Stan needed it. He needed someone to be there for him, and his selfish brother would have to do.

Ford wasn’t going to abandon Stan again.

“Uh, Stanford,” Fiddleford’s voice hesitantly spoke up. Ford had forgotten he was there. He released Stan from the hug as he straightened up to look at Fiddleford. The mechanic held a clip board from the end of the bed in his hands and was looking at him with a look that sent chills down Ford’s spine.

“You should take a look at his chart.” Fiddleford said, holding the clipboard out to him. Ford gulps as he reluctantly takes the board.

Ford wasn’t a medical doctor by any means but the long list of medications was concerning. God, was it even necessary to have Stan on so many medications? He was practically a vegetable by this point.

As his eyes scanned down the long list of procedures and medications, Ford’s eyes froze on one word, feeling his heart still. Suddenly, Stan’s behavior made so much sense as the words ‘ECT’ glared back at him.

“Oh God,” Ford whispered. He looked up to Fiddleford who wore a silent expression on his face. Ford turned his gaze back to Stan, still restrained and staring blankly at the ceiling.

“We’re getting him out of here.” Ford said, matter of fact. He wasn’t letting his brother sit in this hospital to be ‘treated’ any more. He remembered reading papers in college about ECT; how they were a horrific treatment option at first glance, but yielded good results in many patients.

Stan obviously wasn’t one of those patients and Ford wasn’t going to abandon him again.

“F, can you please stay with Stan whilst I talk to someone about discharging him?” Now that he had a task to do, his eyes were hard in determination. Fiddleford nodded, lips tilting in a ghost of a smile knowing what that look in Ford’s eye meant all too well.

Ford wasted no time and left the room. After taking to several orderlies, he was finally directed to the person in charge of discharge. After explaining Stan’s true identity and his relation to Ford, they began the paperwork and sent someone to help with Stan.

When Ford finally arrived at Stan’s room again, he noticed that Fiddleford had taken up place beside Stan’s bed. He was quietly murmuring something to Stan as he combed his lanky fingers through Stan’s dirty hair. Ford hadn’t gotten much of a chance to see Fiddleford interact with his son seeing as Tate was in Palo Alto, but he could tell from how he was treating Stan that he was a good father.

Certainly a much better father than Filbrick had ever been.

“They’re getting the paper work settled.” Ford said. The orderly that had led him to the room brushed past Ford, now with a wheelchair in tow. Fiddleford stepped aside as the other man wordlessly started undoing the restraints on Stan’s wrists.

Fiddleford joined Ford at his side, putting a comforting hand over Ford’s shoulder.

“Little help?” The other man spoke a few moments later as he coaxed Stan to sit up. Ford darted from Fiddleford’s side to Stan’s, helping the orderly to get him to his feet.

“Wha—?” Stan groans out, turning his head slowly, as if he was moving under water.

Ford and the orderly helped Stan shuffle a couple of steps closer to the wheelchair, “We’re getting you out of here, Stanley.” Ford replied, smiling hopefully. They lowered Stan into the wheelchair and Ford could swear he saw a hint of recognition in Stan’s eyes. Whether it was because Ford was here, or because of the change of scenery, Ford wasn’t sure and frankly, didn’t care.

For so long, he’d thought Stan’s loud, brass behavior had been so annoying— dare he even say suffocating.

Now he’d give anything just to see a shred of the Stan he used to know.

Ford took the handles of the wheelchair and nodded to Fiddleford. They left the room, following the orderly as he led them to the front door. As they stepped out into the bright sunlight, Stan flinched ever so slightly and squinted his eyes as he looked around slowly.

Not wanting to dwell in this place any longer, he wheeled Stan to the car as Fiddleford jogged ahead to open the door for him. He smiled thankful to notice that Fiddleford was offering up the front seat to Stan.

What he had done to deserve a friend like F, he didn’t know.

Together, the pair helped guild Stan to his shaky feet and lastly, into the car. As Fiddleford returned the wheelchair, Ford buckled Stan into place.

“St’nferd?” Stan asked, voice slurring syllables together. Ford’s head snapped up to see Stan slowly blinking at him with a confused expression.

“It’s me, Stan,” he said, relieved that his brother recognized him, “I’m here. We’re getting you out of here, ok?”

There was a pregnant pause before Stan jerked out a nod, resting his head back against the head rest.

Fiddleford has returned by this point and climbed to the back seat. Ford quietly shut Stan’s door and hurried to the drivers side, eager to get far away from the hospital.

Stan had fallen asleep shortly after the drive started. Fiddleford had also nodded off at some point, leaving Ford by himself at the wheel.

His brain was spinning a mile a minute, trying to figure out the next course of action. They’d have to clear out some space for Stan to sleep in. He also supposed he’d have to figure how to get Stan’s car back at some point. What was trickier was figuring out how to help Stan.

He wasn’t a fool to think that simply being there for Stan now and offering him a place to stay was going to fix all of his problems. Ford was terrified of the idea that Stan would try anything again. He owed it to Stan to do things right by him.

He doubted that Stan would consider talking to a professional, and like hell he was going to let Stan be admitted to another hospital. Maybe he could find someplace reliable to get Stan some medication that wouldn’t make him catatonic.

A groan from beside him broke the silence in the car. Ford’s gaze briefly flickered to Stan before darting back to the road.

“How’re you feeling, Stan?” Ford asked softly, occasionally darting his eyes to Stan.

There was still a glazed look in his eyes, but rather than looking like he wasn’t seeing anything, he looked like he was waking up from a deep sleep.

“Uh, I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.” Stan groans, adjusting in his seat sluggishly. His voice is still somewhat slurred, but it’s infinitely better than he was before.

“I imagine you’ll feel like that for a bit longer until all the drugs in your system wears off.” Ford said. His voice drops timidly as he continues, “Stan, I— I don’t know where to even start. I’m just— I don’t— I’m sorry.”

Stan’s looked at him, a tired look of surprise on his face, and Ford couldn’t help but smile softly. “Ok, ok, maybe now’s not the best time for this.”

Stan blinks slowly, “Where are we?”

Oh, right. “We’re in my car. My friend and I came to get you when we caught news that you were here. We’re on our way back to my home in Oregon; there’s about nine hours left in our trip.” Ford briefly wondered if there was any more relevant information to add but decided to wait until Stan was a bit more alert.

Stan looked back towards the road, not saying anything. Ford reached a hand over, covering Stan’s hand in his. As he glanced over, worried if it was ok, he saw a ghost of a smile on Stan’s lips as he closed his eyes, drifting back asleep.

Hours later, Fiddleford pulls down the winding drive way leading to their house. He had switched seats with Ford at some time during the trip, and Ford has fallen asleep promptly afterwards. Luckily, Stan stayed asleep for the rest of the line.

As Fiddleford saw the house coming into view, he reached a hand back, tapping Ford’s knees. From the mirror, he saw Ford’s eyes blink open.

“We’re home,” Fiddleford reported with a smile.

The car rolled to a stop near the porch. The sound of seat belts unclicking and doors opening woke Stan up, who looked around at his new surroundings with confusion.

Ford was at his door in a moment, a timid smile on his face.

“Welcome Home, Stanley.”

Stan’s eyebrows were bunched in confusion. He certainly seemed more aware now then previously seeing as the drugs had at least 12 hours to work its way out of his system.

Ford offered him a hand, “Let’s go inside. We can get you something to eat, and i can explain any questions you have.”

Stan lifted a hand, hanging it in between the two of them for a moment, hesitating before taking Ford’s hand. Getting to his feet still took effort, but whether it was because of the effects of the drugs, or from being crammed in a car for 12 hours was unclear.

Slowly, the twins made their way through the lawn to the porch. Ford paused to unlock the door before throwing it open for them. He led Stan to the kitchen, helping him sit down in the chair.

“What can I get you to eat?” Ford asks.

Stan merely shrugs.

“It’s been at least 12 hours since you’ve eaten anything; you gotta eat something.” Ford says.

Stan doesn’t look up from his hands resting on the table. Ford continues, to babble on about food, starting to fidget his hands.

“I don’t want food, Ford.” Stan cuts him off, sounding exasperated. Ford doesn’t seem to notice apart from getting more fidgety.

“But you have to—“

“I want answers, Stanford,” Stan finally bites out. His hands are clenched tight into fists. Ford falls still, looking at his twin with an owlish expression, “You bring me here, acting like nothing ever happened between us, doting on me like I’m an invalid. I just don’t— I don’t get it!”

Ford sighed and sits down across from Stan heavily.

“You kinda were,” Ford replied in a whisper, “You didn’t see how you looked, Stan. It was terrifying to see you like that. You weren’t... you.”

Stan crosses his arms over his chest, “How would you know if I wasn’t acting like me, huh? It’s been seven years, Ford. You didn’t give a shit about me in any of that time until now.”

Ford winced. He had a point. Wringing his hands, he shut his eyes tightly for a moment. “I was wrong.”

Stan’s jaw dropped, looking at him with a look of shock as if he never expected Ford to admit he was wrong. Ford continued.

“I was so wrong, Stan. About a lot of things. I shouldn’t have stood aside and let Pops kick you out. I should have heard you out, or tried to find you, but I was so angry, stupidly so, that I convinced myself that you were ok. I—“ Ford broke off, covering his face with his hands, “I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if you had—“ his voice trailed off, not able to finish that sentence.

Stan’s demeanor changed completely as Ford broke down in tears. “Woah, woah, relax, Sixer.” Stan replied. He pushed himself to his feet, kneeling beside Ford’s chair as he put a hand on his brothers shoulder. Ford peaked out from behind twelve fingers, eyes wet with tears.

“You called me Sixer.” He whispers pitifully, earning a chuckle from Stan.

“Uh, yeah.”

Ford frowns, “What happened to us? How did one stupid fight ruin how close we used to be?”

Stan was silent, having wondered that question many times himself over the years. Ford reached out, gripping Stan’s hand on his shoulder with a desperate grip.

“Stan, I’m sorry. I know I messed up so much in the past, but please let me be there for you now. I don’t want to lose my brother again.”

Stan sighed, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t want that, Sixer. You’ll just get tired of me eventually; you just feel sorry for me now.”

Ford shook his head, “No, Stan, I swear I won’t, but, uh, if you really think that way, why don’t we at least take it one day at a time, ok? Just give me a chance to make it up to you. I want us to be brothers again.”

It was Stan’s turn for his eyes to well up with tears. He pointedly looked away from Ford, biting his bottom lip. Ford rested his hand on Stan’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

After a moment, Stan looks back to Ford, soft smile on his lips, “I’ve missed you, Sixer.”

“I’ve missed you too, ya knucklehead.”

“Just, uh, just ‘cause we’re having a moment here, your project really was a mistake. I would never intentionally ruin something I know was so important to you.”

Ford smiled softly, “I know that now, Stan. I should have realized that back then.”

Stan’s shoulders seemed to sag with relief. He and Ford share a moment as they look at each other, hopeful expressions on their faces.

Finally, Ford gets to his feet, helping Stan up with him.

Once they were standing, Stan wraps his arms around Ford, pulling him into a tight hug. Ford didn’t hesitate as he flung his arms around his twin, glad to finally feel his twins arms around him once again, to confirm that Stan really was here and was ok.

They linger in a hug, until they at last reluctantly pull away.

“Now,” Ford says as he makes Stan sit back down, “You really should eat something. How does some soup sound?”

Stan opens his mouth but is promptly cut off by a loud rumble from his stomach. There is a moment of silence before the brothers both start giggling together.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ford laughs, pulling a can of soup from the cabinet. Stan’s laughter bubbles back down to quiet chuckles.

Fiddleford eventually joins them, sitting across the table from Stan with a warm smile. For the first time in years, he feels lighter, hopeful even. His future was still uncertain, but it was a hell of a good place to start.

With his brother by his side, they were capable of taking on anything the world could throw at them.

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