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Stanley understands, probably better than anyone in the multiverse, how harrowing an experience it is to lose your twin to some far-off, unreachable place. How much a loss like that truly changes you, or rather wakes up the parts you thought were dormant. He’d had to adapt, when Ford vanished, been forced to bring out a Stan that studied , a Stan that was sober, a Stan that was some kind of fixture in his community, made to stay still and plant roots for the first real time. These things had balanced him, made him softer, more human.
Now, having been forced to erase his brother’s mind, Ford was undergoing a similar process. Stan’s brother had been thrown into the emotional deep end, rearranging his memories, and it’d clearly affected him. Ford was constantly nervous for the children’s safety, and practically refused to leave his twin’s side. He was always next to Stan, often curled protectively around him, holding his hand, or otherwise maintaining physical contact, as if he was about to disappear.
It was odd, for Stan, but not unwelcome. He’d always been ( the clingy one ) more physical, when they were younger, and affection in general was something that had been beaten out of both of them at a young age.
However, Ford had spent more time away from Stan than with him, now, and had traveled a foreign, hostile multiverse where comforting touch was hard to find, and precious when discovered. His unique combination of animal instinct and touch-starvation acquired over there, his protectiveness (heightened by Weirdmageddon), and ( apparently ) just missing his damn brother had left Ford constantly seeking physical affection, sort of like an oversized, extraterrestrial cat. Stan didn’t mind, really. Quite the opposite, not that he’d ever say it aloud.
So, there they sit, on the couch in front of the television, twelve days after the end of the world. Stan leans back, settled comfortably into the arm of the couch, bowl of popcorn and two open sodas on the skull table next to him. Ford is curled up against his side, absentmindedly tracing patterns on Stan’s arm. They just so happen to be tuned into the channel that the trashy soap opera Stan and Ford both hate and do not love airs on in fifteen minutes. It’s all very relaxed and idyllic, and Stanley feels a warmth in his chest that he knows has been missing for a very long time.
“‘Lee?” Ford speaks, seeming somewhat drowsy.
Stan answers much the same way, with a questioning hum.
“What’re these scars on your arms from? They’re very…uniform,” he asks, voice very soft, careful.
Stan stiffens instantly, sleepiness gone. Oh Fuck. Don’t freak out, it’s no big deal. Don’t worry him, and don’t ruin this. He forces himself to relax, casting a broad, Mr. Mystery smile across his face.
“Eh, they’re no big deal, really. Can’t remember too specifically, jail maybe?” he trails off.
Shit. Ford’s sat up, slightly, clearly not fooled. It’s not surprising, considering Stan did just lie directly to his face, and he’s never been good at that with Ford. Especially not now that his brother seems to practically be able to smell his anxiety in the air, sense the tiny movements that indicate his fear. He’s craning his neck, subtly glancing at Stan’s free right arm, which he shifts in closer to himself pointedly.
“Stan…” Ford’s voice is a mix of worry and pity, and Stanley feels his heart twist a little in guilt. He forces it down. The truth will make it worse.
“Really, Sixer, it’s—”
“Some of these scars are recent, Stan,” Panic begins to creep into his brother’s tone, “only a few years old, what—” he cuts himself off with a gasp. “—Was someone doing this to you? These scars are layered, Lee!”
Stan looks nervous, feeling his palms begin to sweat. Hasn’t seen the legs. Can’t show him. He has no words, for some reason, can’t produce an excuse, and he finds it unreasonably frustrating that no lie is slipping out. He’s shrinking back as Ford’s intensity grows, resembling a scolded child.
“Stan, are these scars anywhere else?” It’s as if Ford’s read his fucking mind, as usual, and he continues, frantic. “I swear , if someone… Stan . Did someone hurt you? Do this to you? Who are they, Stan? Give me their name. Give me their name and I’ll —”
Stan’s overwhelmed by the concern, the intensity, the fear, and he can’t fabricate a story, can’t think of a single false detail, and suddenly his mouth starts moving, if only to cut off his brothers words, and, oh no, he’s spewing the truth :
“ No , Ford!” It comes out too harsh, and his twin flinches back. “No. I did this to myself , o-okay?!”
Ford looks stricken, face pale, bottom lip already quivering. Fuck. His brother gapes for a moment, and then asks,
“W-why?”
Stan lets out a humorless chuckle. The answer seems obvious to him, the question ridiculous. Why not? Once again, though, his words won’t come, and there’s nothing smooth or reassuring to say. His words come out apathetic, toneless, when he replies,
“Dunno. Was bored, I guess?” Needless to say, this response does not improve the look on his brother’s face. His eyebrows fly up in shock and then knit together, face dark. Oh shit. He’s angry. Fix it, Stan! Don’t fuck this up, you idiot!!
“ Bored?!” Ford’s voice borders on hysterical now.
“Sixer-” Stan tries, but Ford keeps going.
“You were bored , so you did this to yourself??” He holds Stan’s left arm out in front of him, and Stan doesn’t dare move it. “ Clearly over a period of years?? ” He’s in a full panic, now, and Stanley feels his own anxiety and frustration begin to rise in tandem.
Ford snaps into a clinical mode, typical for when he becomes anxious. “ Dozens of layered cuts, a variety of depths and thicknesses, in varied stages of healing, on both arms.” He rounds on his brother, eyes scanning his face. “Are they anywhere else?”
A hot flash of irritation, nerves. “Would you just leave it alone, Ford?! For fuck’s sake!” Stan hates feeling like one of his twin’s anomalies, like a specimen to be dissected.
Ford’s voice grows in volume again, yelling now. “ Leave it alone?? How can I leave it alone, Lee, how ? You’ve been hurting yourself, cutting yourself for years!” Frustrated tears well in his big, brown eyes, and he takes a shuddering breath, trying to force himself back into that doctoral tone, voice coming out stringent and commanding,
“Show me your legs.”
Stan’s heart stills, and he closes off his face. “No,” he says sternly, angrily.
Ford lets out a deep, throaty growl of frustration. He flinches back. “ Stan…”
He feels trapped, now, by Ford’s gaze, a mix of clinical and animal, and he wants to bolt. His eyes sweep the room, landing on the doorway to the kitchen and the rest of the house. His heart quickens, and his breaths sharpen, chest constricting. Before he can think, he launches himself up off of the couch and makes for the exit. He only makes it a few feet, however, when he’s knocked to the ground by the force of his brother, and promptly pinned there. Suddenly, there is a rush in his head, a screaming . No.
———
Ford’s vision is starting to tunnel. Oh my god. Stanley’s been doing this for years. Maybe since he was kicked out. Maybe longer. Oh my God. Self-harm is a symptom of depression, of extreme loneliness. What, did you think your brother was on a beach vacation this whole time? Since you let Pa kick him out? He went through hell and had no one. Your fault, your fault, your fault. He needs to assess this, to know the extent of the damage he’s caused his brother to do to himself, and he’s blurting out commands that he knows will freak Stanley out, and of course they do, and Ford smells his fear, sees him eye the door.
He’s gonna run. Sure enough, Stanley immediately jumps up from the couch and, as soon as he begins to move, Ford acts on instinct and pounces . His knee is pressed into his brother’s lower back, his hands on his shoulders as Stanley lies face down on the ground, kicking his legs up and back with a surprising amount of force. He’s not in the optimal position for Ford to keep him down, hands firmly planted under his shoulders in an effort to push himself up against Ford’s weight, and eventually Stan manages to flip himself over, staring up at him with free hands and wild eyes. Ford barely has time to process the movement before Stanley punches, hard enough to throw Ford back and make him see stars.
By the time he manages to get back up, dragging himself to his feet, his brother has bolted up the stairs, and promptly locked himself into the second-floor bathroom.
Ford thunders up the stairs after him, tugs on the handle, and, with a deep sigh, slumps down against the bolted door.
Well, that went poorly.
———
Stanley throws the door to the bathroom shut, dead bolting it, and then promptly flings himself to the floor, curls up in the fetal position, and begins to rock back and forth. His thoughts are crashing into each other, memory splicing with reality, awful thoughts and memories shoving their way to the forefront of his mind. God, he thought he’d remembered every night alone in his car, or in that fucking portal room, or trapped in a motel bed with some John who’d paid for the night. Thought he’d recalled every time he’d turned to the thin razorblade in his wallet for release. But no, there seemed to always be more, more misery and solitude to uncover from his past. He’d remembered where the scars were from, of course; a habit like that is hard to forget for too long, but he doesn’t want to relive those nights. He’d rather do just about anything than relive those nights.
Stanley shakes on the bathroom floor, desperately trying to contain his sobs as the panic and memories assault him.
— You wanted the drugs, you asked for it, boy—
—stupid, worthless piece of shit! I oughta beat your lights out, whore!—
—that clown? he’d be lucky to graduate high school!—
Where was he? When was he? What had just happened?
— I’m giving you the chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won’t even listen!—
—how bad do ya’ wanna sell those vacuums, boy?—
—You’re NOTHING without me, Pines!—
He’s hyperventilating, fingers curling into his palms, leaving red crescent moons behind. You’re damaged goods. Ford’s going to see the scars, the rest of them, the recent ones, and he’ll be completely done with you. As if that wasn’t good enough, you went and fucking punched him, you idiot! He’s going to hate you again. Typical Stan, fucking things up. Things have been good, you thought that could last? Get ready to pack your shit, stupid! He’s dizzy, the world is spinning, he’s probably dying ( good, some part of him thinks), he’s—
There’s a knock on the door, his brother’s voice.
“Lee, please. Open the door.” His voice is pleading, all traces of frustration dissipating. “I need to make sure you’re alright, please!”
That I’M alright? I just HIT you! Stan thinks incredulously, but he can’t get enough air in to speak as he half-crawls across the bathroom floor to prop himself against the door, hand clutching at his chest in desperation as he tries to suck in breaths.
When he doesn’t respond, Ford continues.
“I’m not mad at you, Lee. I’m just worried. Please, just let me in.” Not mad? His brother’s voice is breaking a little bit at the end of his sentence, and Stan knows he can’t have that. He removes his hand from his chest, and, with effort, reaches up, unlocks the deadbolt, and scooches away from the door slightly so his brother can get through.
Immediately, Ford is by his side, kneeling in front of him and grasping both of his hands tightly, assessing him quickly.
“Lee, can you hear me?” Stan manages a small nod. “Good, good. I want you to take deep breaths with me, okay? In for five,” Ford takes a long, deep, inhale, and Stan does his best to mimic it. “hold, and, out for seven.” Ford exhales slowly, and Stan does his best not to release his breath in a sharp whoosh, somewhat successfully.
“Good, good. Now, again.” Ford repeats the motion, breathing slowly and carefully until Stan’s matching his rhythm, still with a slight shake on the exhale, but it’s helped calm him down somewhat. He can speak, at least. God, he feels like shit.
“ ‘M sorry, Ford,” Stan mumbles, clutching Ford’s hands tightly. His brother looks confused.
“What on Earth are you sorry for, Stan?”
His face is quizzical for a moment. “Uh, punching you? Lying? Freaking out?” He nods to his arms. “All of…this?”
Ford looks at Stan for a long moment, and then, releasing his hands, places his own firmly on Stan’s shoulders. He leans his head in, touching their foreheads together for a short moment.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. In fact, it’s me who should be apologizing.” He shakes his head.“I was shocked, and didn’t grasp how hard this was for you to talk about. I should have been patient, not gotten frustrated or upset you, or tackled you, for God’s sake! I’m sorry, Stan.”
“You don’t need to be. I forgive you.”
Ford drops his hands from his shoulders, and sidles up next to him, pressing into Stan’s side reassuringly and snaking an arm around him. He lets out a soft whine, still worried, feeling Stan’s rapid heartbeat.
“It’s just—Lee, I can’t bear to think of you doing this to yourself. All those scars—” his breath hitches. “Please, Stan, I need to know. Are there more?”
Stan’s limbs feel heavy, tongue leaden, brain foggy. He can’t bring himself to lie to Ford. And honestly, he’s not sure how much more worried Ford can get, though he suspects he’s about to find out. He looks down at his legs, clad in his typical nighttime wear, and nods.
“Can I see?”
Stan pulls back the hem of his shorts an inch or two, and Ford makes a broken, keening sound. Stan’s heart breaks.
“L-Lee, some of these are w- weeks old…from a-after I-I— Oh God! ” His twin buries his face in Stan’s shoulder and lets out a sob, a great shudder running through his body. Stan feels silent tears run tracks down his own face, dripping off his chin and into his brother’s hair. He can’t resist crying, when Ford starts.
Stan makes some ineffectual noises of comfort, trying to calm his brother down, to pull him out of a guilt-induced spiral. Great job, Stan. You made your brother cry. Fix it!
“Hey- hey , no, Ford, it’s okay,” his voice wavers slightly, “r-really, it’s not so bad, honest, I—”
Ford lets out a pained wail. That did not fix it. “Not so bad ? Do you think I don’t know what this is, Lee? Do you think I haven’t seen—” he cuts himself off once more with a gasping sob, “I haven’t, haven’t —” the rest of his words are unintelligible, because Ford’s face is buried in Stan’s chest and he can hardly speak through his sobs.
“Shh, I know. I know, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, buddy. It was bad, real bad, but;” Stan sniffs, voice growing a little more determined. “It’s over now, okay? No more, ever.” He means it. He never wants to see Ford like this over something he’s done again.
His twin nods furiously into Stan’s chest and tightens his grip, tears still soaking through Stan’s shirt, and his shaky breaths start to lengthen again. After a moment, though, Ford looks up at him, still distressed, face pale and anxious, and Stan just knows he’s about to say something irrational and heartbreaking and completely untrue before he even speaks.
“B-but it happened, an’ it’s all my fault ! If I hadn’t let Pa—”
“ No , Six. We’ve been over this, there’s nothing you could have done! Tha’ bag was packed, Ford. It was over.”
“B-but-”
“An’ besides ,” Stan plows ahead, “every decision I made out there on the road, and in that basement, I made myself.” He nods his head determinedly, holding his brother’s gaze. “I’ve suffered , Ford, an’ so have you. Nothin’ either of us can do to change that fer the other, much as we’d like to. ‘S’all we can do t’ be there for each other now .”
Ford makes a sad little noise, but his tears have slowed to a stop. After he’s regained his composure a bit further, he says:
“I know, I know , it’s just—” He waves his hands in the air fruitlessly.
“Impossible to shake the guilt?” Stan grins wryly, though there’s little humor behind it. “Yeah, I get it. But time an’ effort’s the only way ta’ try.” He places his hand on top of his brother’s.
Ford nods once more, and intertwines their fingers together, six protecting five on every side. He meets Stan’s eyes, determination in his gaze. Ford speaks, voice low and serious, but steady.
“I need you to promise me you won’t hurt yourself again.”
Stan’s own stare is equally resolute. “I swear it.”
Ford relaxes somewhat, resting his head on his brother’s shoulder.
“Good.” They sit there, in silence, for a moment, Ford calmed and satisfied by his answer; Stan relishing in the feeling of finally making promises he knows he can keep.
Eventually, though, he feels a dull ache in his lower back, and realizes that the bathroom floor isn’t the most comfortable place to rest. How long have we been here? He checks his watch, and then scrambles ungracefully to his feet, multiple joints cracking and popping in protest. He offers Ford a hand, who, puzzled, ignores it and jumps far-too-swiftly to his own feet.
“What?!” He’s stressed for a moment.
“Ford, we’re going to miss our show!!”
“Shit!” Ford facepalms. “The opening sequences are the best part, too! The gowns, the processional—” his voice squeaks, a little embarrassed, but Stan doesn’t notice, just making a disgusted face and interrupting.
“You would like their simple daytime presentations, Ford. The mid-episode, climactic ballroom scenes always have the most fanfare! It’s dramatic! And if you’re talking about fashion—” He cuts himself off, in part due to embarrassment, and in part due to the realization he was currently wasting time.
Slowly, he catches Ford’s eye, who’s face reflects a similar mix of indignation and humiliation. Stan can’t help but let out a cackling laugh at his own absurdity, and his brother is soon to follow.
Their laughter doesn’t deter their mission, though. Both twins grab for the handle on the door, shoving their way out of the cramped bathroom. They tear downstairs like when they were teenagers, swearing, pushing, and giggling the entire way.
They end up falling asleep on the couch, Ford curled around Stan protectively, both snoring in unison.