Chapter Text
Stan can’t find Ford anywhere.
It isn’t uncommon for them to be apart for long stretches of time, now. They both have their own interests to pursue, and Ford gets cranky if he isn’t allowed his requisite Introvert Charging Time. Stan doesn’t mind the separation much, not the way he used to. He’s his own person, and so is Ford, and it’s okay for them to spend time alone. Still, there’s comfort to be found in the knowledge that if Stan’s aloneness ever does become loneliness, he only needs to head below deck to find Ford sitting at their cramped kitchenette table and waxing poetic about mutant cephalopods.
At least, that’s where Ford usually is. Today, he must have squirreled himself away somewhere else, because his seat at the table is decidedly empty. Stan checks their bedroom, then the cargo hold, then the helm; finally, he pounds his fist against the door of their tiny bathroom and still gets no response.
“Ford!” he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Earth to Stanford Filbrick Pines! Come in, Ford!”
The Stan o’ War answers him with the creak of worn rope and the slow, steady slosh of saltwater waves at her bow. Jiminy Christmas, she’s just a little trawler! It’s not like there’s a lot of space to hide, and Stan knows that if he shouts Ford ought to hear him anywhere onboard. He’s not exactly quiet. Scowling, he storms back onto the deck and shouts again.
Knowing Ford, he’s probably found himself some obscure nook in the ship that no normal human being could ever find comfortable—but that he, of course, finds exactly to his liking. He’s just caught up in his reading or somethin’ else nerdy, and that’s why he’s not answering. In spite of those rationalizations, unease begins to curl in Stan’s chest as the emptiness around him persists, and he jams his hands into the pockets of his coat and hunches his shoulders against the urge to panic. Ford’s fine. They’re both fine. Stan isn’t going to overreact just because he’s been alone for a few minutes longer than normal; that’s clingy, and Ford doesn’t do well with clingy.
Taking a deep breath, Stan heads to the cargo hold again. He looks behind each box of salted fish, each barrel of pickles and bag of potatoes and tub of spices. He claws his way through Ford’s jugs of preservative, shoves aside the repair supplies for the ship and the VHF antenna and the anomaly radar. He even drags out their lifejackets and spare clothes and the boxes crammed full of Ford’s musty old graduate papers. Ford himself remains stubbornly nonexistent.
“Damn it,” Stan says, gnawing his lower lip. His heart beats an unsteady tempo in his chest as he heads back upstairs. More loudly, he exclaims, “Sixer, you’d better not be kiddin’ around! Where are you?”
He checks the helm again, poking around underneath the seat and the control panels and the radars like Ford could even possibly fit himself there. Another cursory sweep of their bedroom follows: no Ford in the beds, no Ford under the beds, no Ford mysteriously sandwiched between the mattress and the bed railings or buried beneath the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. He isn’t hiding under the table, either, or behind the fridge, or in the fridge, or hell, even in the oven. His papers lay abandoned on the table alongside a jar stuffed full of preserved squid. The ink on his quill is dry. He’s been gone for a while.
Stan swallows hard when he realizes this, bringing his hands up and twisting his fingers into his hair. The boat lists underneath him. The whole world feels unbalanced.
...Ford’s supposed to be here, right? Did Stan forget that Ford was going somewhere else? Did he leave Ford on land recently for some unfathomable reason? Is this simply a memory lapse? Or—worse, shit, worse—did he simply imagine that Ford was here? But no, he couldn’t have done that: there’s too much evidence. Bags of jellybeans lurk in their cabinets. Papers sprawl on every spare surface (papers Stan certainly had no business writing, pretentious things that they are) and spatters of black ink stain the rich pinewood of their table. A tan trenchcoat hangs on the back of a chair, and their coffee maker displays not only the time, but their geographical coordinates (hundreds of miles deep into the Pacific), upcoming events (a call with their niblings this evening), and its own emotional state (absolutely thrilled with its newfound sentience). Ford’s here. He exists. He has to exist.
But if that’s the case, where the hell is he? If he’s not on the boat, then—then—
Stan bolts back upstairs. He trips and skids his knee hard against the deck, but he’s blind to the pain—blind to anything but the empty waves around their boat. He leans over the bow, his eyes whipping across the surface of the water. If Ford fell overboard, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, but he’ll damn well figure it out . Fuck if he’s going to let his brother disappear on his watch again.
“Sixer!” Stan shouts. His hands shake. His fingers clench, white-knuckled, around the bow. Around him, the waves curl and thrash, and the sunlight flashes off of them in silver gleams. He sees nothing but water. He races along the side of the boat, calling desperately. “Sixer! Ford, Stanford, Ford! Hey, answer me!”
His voice is raw, already, cracking at the edges. His throat feels thick. He can’t breathe. By the time he’s made his way to the stern, black dots dance in the edges of his vision and the roof of his mouth buzzes. He forces himself to stop and gasp for air—he won’t do anyone any good if he passes out hyperventilating—before he resumes his agitated lap of the Stan o’ War. His boots pound against heavy metal beneath him, and the wind tears angrily at his hair.
His next shout feels more like a scream, desperate and frightened and tearing his throat on the way out: “Ford, please! Come on! Stanford, you can’t do this to me, not again— Stanford! Sta—”
Something slams into him, and he hits the deck hard. His first instinct is, naturally, to punch—but he doesn’t get that far. As soon as he tries to scramble to his feet, a knee wedges itself into his back and two hands clamp onto his shoulders and press him down. A low, dangerous growl reverberates around him, and he freezes. Shit. Shit.
...are there werewolves this far out in the ocean?
But when he cranes to see over his shoulder, decidedly ignoring the spike of growling he gets in response, he does not see a werewolf. Instead, he sees—
“Ford?!”
Ford doesn’t even bother looking at him. He crouches low over Stan, his eyes darting from the deck to the ocean to the sky. His chest heaves around stuttered gulps of breath, and despite all those angry noises he’s making, he looks terrified. The sight sends a jolt of shock through Stan. Anything that could get his brother this worked up is something that needs to be dealt with right now, and preferably with a shotgun. He rapidly rakes his eyes over Ford, seeking out any obvious blood or injuries, and finds nothing. That’s a relief, however small.
“Ford…?” he tries again, pressing his palms to the deck and attempting to lift himself. Ford shoves him back down. Ooo-kay, not getting up anytime soon, right. He forces himself to relax, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Ford, I need you to talk to me, bud. I can’t help you fight if you don’t tell me what it is we’re fightin’.”
Ford ignores him again. Fuckin’ rude.
“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” Stan snaps his fingers and sees Ford’s eyes dart, however briefly, in his direction. His pupils are blown wide with fear, and Stan’s heart sinks. He knows that look. Whatever Ford’s seeing, wherever he is right now—it isn’t the Stan o’ War. Stan’s brought Ford down from flashbacks before, but this is different (this is terrifying), and he feels suddenly and certainly adrift.
Still, first things first: he glances at Ford’s hip and sees that his brother is armed. That makes things a whole lot trickier—especially if Ford thinks he’s an enemy.
“Shit, okay, fantastic,” Stan breathes, pressing his forehead to the deck. “Ford? Hey, Ford, it’s me. It’s Stanley. I’m not gonna hurt you. Nobody is. We’re both safe, we’re on the Stan o’ War; it’s just you and me here.”
Ford doesn’t respond, and his knee is really starting to hurt where it jabs against Stan’s back—but Stan doesn’t dare move, not yet. He’s seen firsthand how fast Ford can draw and shoot if he feels threatened and, believe it or not, Stan’s actually had his fill of being on the wrong side of his brother’s weird sci-fi guns. He’s pretty sure the one Ford has now is his laser cannon, and it definitely doesn’t look like it’s set to stun.
“You’re makin’ me nervous, buddy,” Stan says, watching Ford out of the corner of his eye. He still isn’t focusing on Stan—his eyes are everywhere but Stan, in fact—and his fingers tremble where they clench Stan’s shoulders. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Can I get up? ... Sixer, hey, I’m serious. I need to get up.”
Ford stiffens, and then he climbs to his feet in an unfairly smooth motion (seriously, what old man moves that fast?) before reaching down and hauling Stan up after him. Stan winces. Man, he isn’t as good at the whole being-violently-tackled-and-held-down thing as he used to be. Well, that, and the Stan o’ War isn’t exactly soft. He braces his hands against his lower back, but before he even has time to stretch, Ford grabs his shoulder and tugs him forward. Stan stumbles after him—he’s vaguely annoyed with the manhandling, but hell, at least he’s on his two feet now.
Ford drags him downstairs, slamming the door shut behind them and flipping all three locks. Hrm. That’s disconcerting. Stan doesn’t particularly enjoy being locked into places, and he knows Ford knows that.
“You don’t need to do that,” he says, and Ford’s eyes snap to him. He holds his hands up, palms out. “Nobody’s coming for us. Nobody’s on the ship but you and me, I promise.”
Ford tears his eyes away from Stan’s, beginning to prowl around the cabin—and prowl really is the only word for it. He moves lightly, his steps nothing but a quiet rasp against the rug underfoot and his gaze focusing with predatory ferocity on every corner of the room before moving on. He keeps his hands at his sides (near his gun, Stan notices, albeit not on the grip quite yet). He doesn’t watch Stan the way he would an enemy, which is comforting, Stan supposes.
But if Ford doesn’t see him as enemy, then what does he see?
“Stanford,” Stan says, and Ford’s eyes dart towards him again. Good. His name, at least, seems to be capable of consistently gripping his attention. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
Ford gives the cabin one last cursory sweep before he returns to Stan’s side, and then abruptly reaches for Stan’s jacket. Stan pushes his hands away and finds himself pinned with a withering glare—but there’s still terror there, beneath Ford’s irritation, and it breaks Stan’s heart. He wishes he knew what his brother was so afraid of. He wishes he could make it better.
“Alright, alright,” he mutters, unzipping his jacket and shucking it off. “See? Not armed.”
Ford’s eyes flick across his chest and sides, and he circles Stan to check his back, too. Then, so quietly Stan can barely hear it, Ford says something. The only problem is that that something is in an utterly alien language, and Stan hasn’t the faintest idea what it means.
“What?” he asks, and Ford jumps, like he hadn’t even realized he’d spoken. “What’d you say?”
“Not hurt,” Ford murmurs. “You’re...not hurt.”
Oh. Oh, shit. Ford must have heard him shouting on deck and assumed that he’d been attacked. No wonder he’s so damn jumpy. He’s paranoid enough as is, but to have heard Stan screaming for him like that—
Jesus. Stan would have freaked, too.
“No, no, I’m not hurt.” Stan reaches out, and Ford grabs his hand and pulls him further into the cabin. “Hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think I was. I was scared because I couldn’t find you, that’s all.”
But, well. Ford seems to be done talking for now—and he doesn’t seem particularly comforted by Stan’s words, either. He pushes Stan into the bathroom and then shuts and locks that door, too. He keeps Stan behind him, nudging him away from the door until Stan damn near trips into their shower. It’s a tiny bathroom, and it’s certainly not large enough for two grown men to stay here for any length of time. Unfortunately, that seems to be exactly what Ford intends for them to do.
After ascertaining that Stan hasn’t tripped and cracked his head open on the shower—that’d be just his luck, wouldn’t it?—Ford turns back to the bathroom door and settles in to glare at it. Stan groans and sits down in the shower, leaning against the porcelain wall and studying his brother. Great. This is really—this is great. Usually, he can calm Ford down with a few grounding touches and gentle assurances. This Ford does not, however, seem particularly willing to be calmed.
“Wish I knew what you were thinkin’, Six,” Stan says, rubbing his jaw. Staring at the back of Ford’s head offers no helpful clues. “You wanna talk to me?”
Ford doesn’t even humor him with a glance.
“Right.” Stan blows a breath out, tugging his knit hat off of his head and wringing it between his hands. Ford had never mentioned getting flashbacks like this. Is this even a flashback? Or has Stan really pushed his brother to a psychotic break? His throat tightens at the thought, and he takes a shaky breath to settle himself. Ford’s going to be fine. Stan will make sure of it. They’re going to figure this out—whatever this is.
He tries to think through the facts logically, the way Ford’s always harping on him to do. Fact one: he couldn’t find Ford earlier, which is weird. Clearly, Ford was onboard, but he hadn’t responded until Stan had panicked. Was he hiding on purpose? If that’s the case, was he already in the throes of—of this, and then Stan and went and made it even worse?
Ugh, no, stop with the guilt. Facts now, self-flagellation later.
Fact two: Ford is petrified because his paranoia is rearing its savage head. This happens from time to time. The good news is that they know how to deal with it: firm, logical reassurances usually do the trick. Ford’s logic is an anchor to him, and he trusts it when he trusts nothing (and no one) else. Only...only, well, Ford doesn’t seem to be thinking very logically at the moment.
Fact three: Ford isn’t paying a damn lick of attention to him. There’s nothing Stan can do to help until he can catch and keep his brother’s focus—so that’s just what he intends to do.
Fact four: Stan’s usual platitudes aren’t working. This calls for improvisation. Fortunately, he’s always been pretty good at making stuff up on the fly.
“Alright, buddy,” he mutters, and then he steps forward and sets a hand between Ford’s shoulders. Ford flinches, but he doesn’t look away from the door. “Stanford.”
Ford glances at him, eyes narrowed.
“There we go. Hey, just look at me, okay? Nothing’s comin’ through that door. There isn’t anything on this ship that wants to hurt us. We are safe.”
Ford tries to glance away again, but Stan shakes his shoulder.
“No, Ford, look here. I’m real. I need you to focus on me right now. I need you to listen.”
Unease flickers through Ford’s eyes, but he doesn’t look away again, and relief floods through Stan. He offers Ford the best smile he can, given their circumstances, and squeezes his shoulder.
“Good,” he says. “Good, that’s real good. You don’t have to be afraid of anything out there. If anything—and I mean anything— tried to hurt you or me, bro, you know we’d kick its ass. We’re Pineses! So you got nothin’ to be scared of.”
Ford bites his lip, folding his arms across his chest. The muscles of his back and shoulders are tense beneath Stan’s hands, drawn tight with fear, and his eyes dart towards the door again—but they return to Stan before he can mention it.
“What’s scarin’ you?” Stan asks more quietly. “What’s wrong?”
If he knows the specifics of Ford’s fears, he’ll be able to ease them more quickly—but he doubts Ford is going to be very forthcoming. Those doubts are confirmed when Ford shuffles his feet, his gaze dropping to the floor and his shoulders hunching. He won’t meet Stan’s eyes.
Stan breathes out, patting Ford’s shoulder. “Okay. Okay, not yet, that’s okay. Can we at least sit down?” He tugs Ford’s sleeve, pulling him away from the door. “Come on, sit down with me. I’m too old for all this standin’ up crap.”
It takes some maneuvering, but Stan finally manages to sit down in the shower, and he drags Ford down with him. Even so, Ford stays tense, his knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes riveted on the door. Stan knocks their knees together, then reaches over and loops an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. Ford doesn’t lean against Stan—he’s not there quite yet—but he doesn’t try to squirm away, either, so Stan considers it a win.
“Did I ever tell you,” he starts, “about the time Mabel got me over my fear of heights…?”
He talks for a long time—long enough for his throat to get scratchy and dry. He’d really like some water, but every time he so much as looks at the door for too long, Ford gets all jumpy-eyed again. Fortunately, as long as Stan is still and relaxed next to him, talking nonchalantly, Ford seems content to watch him and the door in equal turns. He gradually begins to relax, his body slumping against Stan’s as his breathing evens out.
“Feelin’ better?” Stan murmurs when Ford’s head finally comes to rest on his shoulder. He reaches up, smoothing down his brother’s flyaway curls. “You wanna talk now?”
“...I’m sorry,” Ford rasps.
Stan tugs his hair gently. “Hey, no, none of that crap. You know I don’t mind.”
“I tackled you.”
“Well, okay,” Stan amends, “you can be sorry for that part.”
Ford laughs—a wet, miserable little sound—and turns his face further into Stan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’m so— I’m so—”
“Hey—hey, hey, it’s okay.” Stan sits up, turning so he can pull Ford more securely into his arms. His brother curls against his chest, fingers twisting into Stan’s shirt as his shoulders shake. His tears are damp against the crook of Stan’s throat, and his muffled whimpers break Stan’s heart just as efficiently as any sledgehammer. “Ford, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay! I hurt—I hurt you, I scared you, I—”
“A little, but—listen, it’s nothing I can’t handle, and I know you didn’t mean to.” He squeezes Ford tightly. “But, if it makes you feel better, then I forgive you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t get to decide what I should and shouldn’t, Poindexter.” He ruffles Ford’s hair roughly before knocking their foreheads together. “You’re forgiven. Suck it up and stop apologizing.”
“But I—”
“Nope, no buts. Would you forgive me if I accidentally hurt you because of a flashback?”
Ford scowls. “Of course I would, Stanley, but that’s hardly—”
“It’s no different. Why the hell wouldn’t I forgive you, huh? You were freaking out!” He pauses, then adds, “You’re still freaking out. What do I need to do?”
“I don’t—” Ford presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, taking a shuddery breath. His voice cracks again when he speaks. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I thought I was over this, I thought I was done. It wasn’t supposed to happen after I came home. Things were supposed to be better.”
“What’s this, Ford? What’s happening?”
Ford’s fingers curl, digging his nails desperately into the skin above his right eye. Stan grabs his hands and pulls them away from his face, trapping them between his own.
“No,” he says firmly, squeezing Ford’s hands. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”
“You can’t help! I’m a monster!” Ford cries, finally, trying to wrench his hands away from Stan. Stan refuses to allow it, and Ford snarls in frustration—the sound has a distinctly inhuman edge to it, one that lifts the hairs on the back of Stan’s neck. “I’m a freak, I’m just—I’m just an animal, a stupid animal, and I—”
“Don’t you dare,” Stan hisses, anger searing through his chest. “Don’t you dare say shit like that about yourself.”
“It’s true, don’t you see? When I’m like— that—” Ford spits the word like acid. “—I can’t think straight. I can’t think of anything but hiding, or—or running away, or h-hurting people—”
“Like that? What do you mean like that?” Stan demands.
“Like I just was!” Ford finally manages to tug his hands out of Stan’s, and he gestures wildly with them. “I—it’s like a flashback, but it’s worse, because I can’t think my way through it. I lose everything. I can’t even talk, half the time, let alone rationalize. It hasn’t been that bad since I was in 75~A, and I don’t know why it’s worse now! Everything’s fine. Everything’s perfect. Why can’t I just fucking—”
Ford breaks off around a sob, and Stan hauls him into a hug again. He rocks them both back and forth as Ford weeps, whispering soothing nonsense into his hair and rubbing slow circles between his shoulders. His brother feels so small in his arms, tucked tightly into himself as he falls apart. Stan catches each shattered piece and holds it close, ready to help Ford put himself back together.
“You’re not a monster,” he murmurs, and Ford gasps in little shuddering breaths. “Never, never. You’re my brother. You’d never hurt anybody if you didn’t think you had to, not unless it was an accident. I know you. You can be an asshole sometimes, but you’re not something monstrous. And freak? C’mon, that’s unoriginal. Maybe you are a freak. So what? I don’t care. Dipper and Mabel don’t care. Anybody who loves you, they don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either.”
Ford pushes his head up, tucking it beneath Stan’s chin. Shivers wrack him, and Stan wishes he could slip away and grab one of their jackets—but he gets the feeling Ford wouldn’t react very well to that, right now. So instead, he grips Ford more tightly, like if he holds hard enough he can drive away all the cold and the fear through sheer force of will.
“You’re not an animal, either,” he adds. “I mean, unless you’re countin’ humans as animals, which I guess ya can. But stupid? Seriously? You and I both know that’s about as far from truth as you can get.”
“But I—” Ford sniffles, rubbing his cheek against Stan’s shoulder. “I acted stupid.”
“You were having a flashback, Six,” Stan repeats, trying not to let his exasperation leak into his voice—but man, Ford can be stubborn sometimes. He doesn’t ever get mad at Stan for having a flashback, no matter how stupid he acts. Why should he be this harsh with himself? “Nobody’s the epitome of logic when they’re re-experiencing the worst moments of their life.”
“It’s not like that.”
Stan tries to lean back to catch Ford’s eyes, but Ford clings and shoves his face further into the crook of Stan’s neck. “Not like what?”
“Not like a flashback.”
“...what is it like?” Stan prompts, when it becomes clear Ford won’t volunteer the information on his own.
Ford hesitates. “You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”
“The only thing I think is stupid is your perpetual insistence that I’m gonna think you’re stupid,” Stan says flatly. “That is never going to happen. Not on your life, buddy.” Then he hesitates, bumping his chin against Ford’s forehead. “Did I do something to make you feel like I would think that?”
“What? No, no, Stanley. I’m just—” Ford falters. “I’m ashamed. I feel stupid.”
Stan squeezes him, then says firmly, “You aren’t.”
Ford hesitates, then manages a tiny nod. “Okay,” he whispers. “Alright. Thank you.”
“Anytime.” Stan ruffles his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead and coaxing him to look up. He knows Ford may not believe it, not now, not yet, but at least he’s not arguing the point. “So, smart guy? You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
Grimacing, Ford says, “It’s difficult to explain.”
“Well, we’ve got time. Although I have to admit, I’d be more comfortable if we could do this at the table, instead of hangin’ out on the bathroom floor.”
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course, I’m so sorry I—”
“What’d I say about apologizin’?”
“Not to do it anymore,” Ford mumbles. He climbs to his feet, offering Stan a hand up. “You’re sure you’re not hurt, though? You hit the deck kind of hard.”
“I’m sure. I’m a little sore, but when am I not, right?”
Ford looks miserably at him.
“Oh, you’re pathetic.” Stan reaches for his brother’s face, squishing his cheeks together until he looks a little less like a kicked dog and more like a mildly annoyed pufferfish. “I told you, you don’t need to feel bad. You weren’t thinking clearly. Besides, I was the one who got you all worked up, shoutin’ for you like that.”
“Yes, that was—” Ford shudders. “That was a tad distressing. Why did you sound like that? If you weren’t hurt, why did you…?”
“I was scared,” Stan admits gruffly, folding his arms over his chest and looking away. “Couldn’t find ya anywhere. Thought maybe you’d gone overboard, or something had grabbed you, or—”
“Oh, Stanley.” Ford has the nerve to look even guilter, drat him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Stan flips the locks on the bathroom door, leading the way back to the table and slumping into his seat. “‘s okay. Where were you hidin’, anyway?”
Ford glances up, at the ceiling of their cabin, and Stan follows his gaze. His eyes trace the outlines of the metal panels that make up the ceiling, and he sees one that doesn’t quite...look right…
“You have got to be shitting me,” Stan says.
“It’s just a minor modification,” Ford says hastily. “A little, um, attic space. It doesn’t compromise the ship’s structural integrity at all.”
“When did you do that?”
“Last time we were at port.” Ford studies his hands, shamefaced. “I was gonna use it to store some of my recent specimens so I could stop trekking down to the cargo hold every time I wanted to study one. I did mean to tell you, but—well, we set sail in quite a hurry, since someone decided to irritate the city’s entire police department—”
“Hey, hey, don’t you make this about me,” Stan says, jabbing a finger at his brother. He can’t quite stop a smile from flickering across his face, though. Man, that had been a good police chase. “You’re tellin’ me you decided to cram yourself into our new attic, huh?”
“Like I said,” Ford mumbles, “‘s stupid.”
“Stanford Pines, if I hear you call yourself stupid one more time—”
Ford holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry! Sorry. I just—I know it wasn’t logical, or good, or sensible.”
“So why’d you do it? You said you weren’t having a flashback?”
“No, not exactly.” Ford takes a deep breath, then explains, “I spent three years in Dimension 75~A on a planet named Ferot. There were no sapient lifeforms there—only flora and fauna. I did alright for a while, but I couldn’t seem to find my way to another interdimensional rift, and so I stayed far longer than I intended. It was okay for the first few months, but—years, Stanley! Years without anyone to talk to, without any civilization whatsoever, without any way to move on—”
“Easy,” Stan murmurs, although his horror spikes sharply at the thought of his brother so scared and so alone . “You’re here now, Ford, you’re with me and you’re safe.”
Ford wrings his hands, looking anxiously at the cabin door. “Yes. Yes, of course. I assimilated as best I could, but when you’re assimilating with wild animals—w-well. I wasn’t normal after that. I wasn’t right.”
“You did what you had to do to survive. Don’t feel bad about it.”
Ford makes a noncommittal noise, his eyes unfocused. “It was a strange few years. It wasn’t completely horrible, but...well. I carried a lot of bad habits through the multiverse once I left Ferot behind. Sometimes those habits kept me alive, so I suppose they weren’t all bad; they didn’t have any place in a civilized society, though, so I did my best to rid myself of them. It took a while, but it worked, for the most part.”
His eyes sharpen, then, and he looks back up at Stan. “Or I thought it worked. I haven’t acted like that in years. I never expected to again, or I swear I would have told you before something like this happened.”
“When you’re like that,” Stan says, trying—for once—to pick his words carefully, “what is it like? You’re scared, is that it? So you get jumpy and hide yourself in weird attic spaces?”
“Sometimes. Most times, if we’re being honest,” Ford says grimly. “After I left Ferot, I used to hole up somewhere until the feeling passed. That was what I was doing when I heard you shout, and I just—god, Stanley, I thought something was killing you.”
Stan takes a deep breath. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It isn’t your fault—I should have known that disappearing would frighten you,” Ford says, shaking his head. “But when I’m in that—that ridiculous state of mind, I don’t tend to consider those things. Stupid animal really is the only way to describe me when I get like that, Stanley, I’m sorry.”
“Not stupid,” Stan says automatically. “Animalistic, maybe, alright. I can see why you’d think that. But you don’t need to feel bad about it—like I said, it kept you alive, and I’m glad it did. If it happens again, okay. We’ll deal with it. Do you think it is something that might happen again? Why did it happen this time?”
Ford’s eyes flick away, his mouth twisting—that’s a tell if Stan’s ever seen one. He’s getting ready to lie. “I don’t know.”
“Sixer.”
“It happens occasionally after I have nightmares,” Ford admits grudgingly, “but like I said, nothing like this. I just get quiet and nervous and hide somewhere until I feel like a rational human being again.”
“This was because of me.”
Ford doesn’t protest.
“Shit,” Stan says, breath hissing between his teeth. “Shit.”
“We both messed up,” Ford says, “and we’re both forgiven, right? So we don’t need to feel bad.”
“I’ve never seen you hiding before.”
“Kind of the idea behind hiding, Stanley.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Besides, I tend to have nightmares at night, when I’m, you know, sleeping,” Ford says, drumming his fingers on the table. “But I fell asleep at the table this afternoon.”
Stan brightens. “Seriously?”
“Don’t look so happy.”
“That’s reason to celebrate, Six! You’re getting better at this whole sleeping thing.”
“Yes, yes, very good,” Ford says briskly, waving him off—but there’s a pleased look in his eyes, something bordering on proud. “Of course, it would have been better if it hadn’t led to this whole ordeal.”
“You know what? I think I’m actually glad it did. This was something I needed to know about, Ford.”
“I didn’t mean for it to affect you.”
“It doesn’t matter if it affects me. It affects you, and I’m supposed to be taking care of you, ain’t that right, you knucklehead?” Stan rises and hooks his arm around Ford’s neck, scrubbing his knuckles over Ford’s scalp. Ford yelps, trying valiantly to pry his head away. “Don’t keep secrets anymore!”
“Alright, alright!” Ford laughs, pushing at Stan’s hands. “I’m sorry! Get off, already.”
Stan abruptly releases him, and at the same time Ford yanks himself backwards—this, of course, proceeds to throw his weight against the back of the chair and send it (and him) crashing to the floor with a startled yelp. Serves him right, dirty secret-keeper. “Karma,” Stan says, dusting his hands off before setting them on his hips and looking down at his brother. He arches an eyebrow. “So next time this happens, do I get to help you?”
“You know,” Ford says, seemingly content to lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling, “I don’t know if you can.”
Stan lays down next to him. From here, he can see the stark outline of Ford’s new hiding spot even more clearly. A new attic. This guy, jeez. “Why not?”
“I’m not friendly when I’m like that. I don’t find people comforting, and I can be...unfortunately aggressive. Really, it might be best for you to leave me alone.”
“Don’t much like the sound of that. I get it if you don’t wanna talk, or have me all up in your space, but—I’d like to be nearby, anyway. I’d like to know where you are.” A shiver of cold fear chases itself down his spine. “I don’t like not knowing.”
Ford winces. “I—I know. I really do feel awful about that, I—”
“Just don’t do it again and we’ll call it even, okay?”
“It’s not something I can control that easily. When it happens, I just—hiding, getting somewhere safe, it’s the only thing I think about.”
“That’s not true,” Stan says simply. “Today you thought about me.”
Ford snorts. “Because you were screaming bloody murder on deck.”
“I’ll try not to do that again,” Stan allows, “if you’ll promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Just promise that you won’t hide anywhere I can’t find you, Sixer.”
A small smile flickers across Ford’s face. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, alright. I think I can do that.”
“Promise?”
Ford holds his pinky out, and Stan hooks his own around it. “It’s a pinky promise, Stanley.”