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Mistakes, Ford believes, always leave permanent marks.
The electrical burns around his wrists, ankles, and neck are still itchy and painful, in the early stages of healing. If Ford’s managed to get to sleep at all, these past few nights, he’s been woken up every few hours from the discomfort beneath his bandages. It was even worse before Stanley insisted he treat them.
This isn’t the first mistake he’s paid for in a pound of flesh—but those blunders aren’t the ones contributing primarily to this little insomnia problem of his, world-ending as they may have potentially been. No, Ford tends to find psychological scars more perturbing than physical ones—after all, what is his body but a vehicle for his mind?
His mind—a mind he’s realizing more and more, knows far less than he thought it did, has conceived of far less. In fact, it has been, despite three decades of extradimensional travel, quite narrow.
So, he was wrong about Stanley.
Obviously.
In fact, Ford thinks, that’s a colossal understatement.
It’s not as though just a singular conclusion had been incorrect—every conclusion, and his subsequent applications of those assumptions across multiple areas of his life, had been wrong. While he lies awake, restless, Ford has taken to listing them in his head—because he’s a glutton for punishment.
Stanley broke my project on purpose. Wrong.
Stanley didn’t care about my future beyond him. Wrong.
Stanley performs poorly at mathematical and scientific tasks. Wrong—well, mostly.
Stanley’s become nothing more than a carnival barker. Wrong.
Stanley threw everything we had away. He didn’t even think about me. Wrong.
Stanley won’t come and save me. Wrong.
Stanley won’t bring me back to my home dimension. Nothing will. Wrong.
Stanley hates me, resents me. Wrong.
Stanley is selfish. Wrong. He’d never sacrifice anything for anyone. Wrong. He doesn’t regret it, doesn’t regret any of it. Wrong.
Stanley was fine, without me. He made his way. He managed. I didn’t need to call him.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. He’d been wrong about all of it. The perceptions he’d formed, the defenses he’d built up, the sentiments he’d convinced himself were true—it had all been a lie, and that has shaken Ford to his emotional core.
In reality, his brother is—his brother is his hero. Just like when they were kids. In reality, Stanley is soft beneath the surface, caring, hardworking, and self-sacrificial beyond all else.
He’d given up everything—his body, his mind, hell, he would have bargained his soul—for Ford and the kids.
Stanley never gave up, even when all hope was lost. Even when Ford, who’d been fighting this evil for three long decades, had given up.
And Ford had given up on Stan for so, so long—just like everyone else had.
He never thought he’d be like everyone else, never thought he’d see his twin that way—until he was, until he did. Now, the guilt threatens to tear him apart at the seams, and his brother is only half-there to receive his frantic, frequent apologies.
But he is, in fact, returning, because Ford was wrong about one last thing:
Stanley is gone.
He is so, so, glad to be wrong about that.
Ford has spent every possible moment working on his brother’s rehabilitation: telling stories from their childhood, digging up old photo albums and videotapes, testing his cognitive function, just talking to him, apologizing over and over and receiving confused forgiveness based only upon feeling, at first, then the beginnings of events.
Stan had seemed so much more like himself, today—a strange mix between the man Dipper and Mabel know, and the Stanley Ford knew when they were young. It’s heartening—but Ford still can’t rest.
No, he can’t rest yet, because of what else he sees re-emerging. The things that scare him, the memories that terrify his brother, that the children have to be sent from the room for, that he won’t allow them to witness coming back.
The memories that remind him, in ground out pleas and short, muffled cries, that Stanley was not okay, all those years ago. That he had not ended up alright, after being kicked out—remind him that he should have fucking called.
It’s those instances, the flashes Stan allows to slip through, flashes of what Ford knows must not be the worst of it, that have him awake tonight, lying eyes-open in the dark, thinking.
In fact, he’s been up for hours, doing just that, when he hears the scream.
It comes from down the hall, unmistakable. It’s raw and pained and loud, unmuffled. It’s terrified—Stanley is terrified.
His brother is screaming, because it must be his brother—the children are at Soos’. There’s no other option.
Stan.
Before he can even register his own movement, Ford is on his feet, the covers thrown back, making for the door. His body is outpacing his mind, and he’s running down the hallway, drawing in closer to the noise, to Stanley’s door.
Is he alright? Is he hurt? Where is the threat, eliminate the threat, protect Stan!
He tears it open, dashing inside, drawing his gun from his trench coat, unaware of how loud the door bangs shut behind him until another scared, strangled sound rings out across the bedroom. Shit.
Ford scans the room in the low light, trying to make out the shape of the intruder, the interloper, the attacker—
Nothing’s there. In the silvery moonlight, he can only make out a single figure.
His brother is curled in on himself, trembling hands thrown over his head, gasping for breath.
For just a moment, Ford stands there, frozen in shock and fear, paralyzed by indecision and lack of direction. Then, two things happen simultaneously.
His brother begins to force words out under his breath, in Spanish, and Ford realizes he’s pointing a gun at him, again. He drops it like he’s been burned, and rushes to Stan’s bedside.
“Stanley?” He asks, panicked. “Stanley, I’m so sorry! C-can you hear me?” He leans over his twin, who’s wound around himself into a tight ball, cowering away from Ford’s imposing figure. Shit, he thinks, Shit, am I making it worse? What’s going on, why is he–
“Duele mucho,” Stan cries softly, “por favor–please, just let me–ya me abriste en canal, there’s nothing else, you took it—por favor, lo siento, duele mucho–” His tone rises to a steady, desperate babble, and he rocks back and forth on his side, his eyes squeezed shut against the fear, against whatever pain he’s experiencing.
Spanish, Ford thinks, How does he know Spanish, who would have taught him—he’s begging, it’s obvious, begging for something, or for something to stop–
It’s evident that his brother is not fully present, caught up in some kind of memory, some nightmare. Except, Ford has no idea how to get him back. His heart hammers in his throat, the thought of his twin suspended in some awful moment of his past, stuck there with no sense of what’s real fills him with dread, with an urgency to move, move, do something, anything.
“Stanley,” Ford tries, still leaning over the bed, “Stanley, it’s me, it’s Ford! Please, can you hear me? Where are you right now, Stan?”
His brother’s hands come up to cover his ears once more, and a high-pitched whine escapes him. The pleading continues in a steady stream. Ford lowers himself gently onto the edge of the mattress, speaking urgently again.
“You’re dreaming, Stanley, this isn’t real! It’s just a memory, you’re alright, you’re safe, I promise, just look at me.” His voice is thick, panicked and emotional. “Please, Lee. I’m here. I’m here. It’s alright.”
Slowly, he reaches out, and rests a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Stan yelps, flinching back violently, his eyes snapping open, wide and afraid. “No–”
“Stan, Stan, it’s me, it’s Ford! Your brother! I don’t want to hurt you, I won’t hurt you, I swear–”
“No,” Stan pants, “No, no, you’re not him, he would never–he isn’t–he doesn’t know–”
The sentences practically finish themselves. He would never come and find me. He isn’t here. He doesn’t know where I am. He doesn’t care. Ford feels like he’s been punched in the chest, the wind knocked out of him, his eyes stinging with hot, guilty tears.
“I am here,” he whispers, reaching out, “I’m here now, okay? Wh-wherever you think you are–you’re safe. You aren’t there anymore, Stanley. You haven’t been there in a long time.” He extends his hands towards his brother, spreading his fingers wide, watching as Stan’s terrified eyes count them once, twice–
“...Ford?” He asks, his voice soft, broken. “Ford, is that–are you really–”
“I’m here,” Ford murmurs. “It’s me.”
“You knew,” his twin murmurs, dazed, “you really came—”
Stan clutches at his hands, suddenly, lurching forward, doubling over with a cry of pain. His grip is tight, knuckles white like he’s hanging on for dear life.
“Sixer, please–it hurts, Ford, they–they hurt me, they took it, and–”
Ford’s eyes narrow, his ears ringing with a sudden vengeful anger. Someone hurt him. Someone took something from him, something bad enough to cause this. And he was all alone. Scared, and all alone.
“Who,” he asks, quietly and severely, “Who hurt you, Stanley?”
Stan shakes his head, face pale and drawn. His hands shake in Ford’s. “I c-can’t–they’ll come after you, Ford, they’ll kill—” He sways where he sits, eyes wide in realization, looking as if he’s about to collapse. “Ford, Ford, you can’t be here, they’ll come back, they’ll come back and they’ll take you, they’ll cut you open, or sell you, or shoot–Ford, you have to go! You have to go, Stanford!” Stan’s nearly shouting, pushing him away weakly, his entire body trembling with fear and panic, all the blood drained from his face.
Ford looks him in the eye, still grasping his hands firmly. “Nobody is here, Lee. Nobody is coming. You aren’t there anymore, remember? You’re here, with me, in Gravity Falls. You’re safe, you’ve been safe for years. You just…you just can’t remember, now. Look around you, Stanley.”
“What?” Stan breathes, his eyes widening further, scared and confused. “Ford, I don’t—I don’t understand–” He looks around. “Ford, where are we? How did we get here–why doesn’t it–why doesn’t it hurt anymore? A-and why are you so–”
Suddenly, Stan cries out in pain again, yanking his hands from Ford’s and clutching his own head, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s folding in on himself, and his breathing immediately becomes irregular and too-fast. Tears leak out of his eyes, running sudden tracks down his face, and he’s issuing these little, pained gasps, remembering—
Ford pitches forward, moving on instinct, and wraps his arms around his twin. Adjusting himself on the bed, he practically drags Stanley against his chest, trying to protect his brother with his own body, cradling his head against his shoulder. One of his hands moves in circles across his twin’s back, and he finds himself whispering small comforts, like their mother might have–
“It’s okay, shh, it’ll be okay—”
“Just let it out, you’re coming back–”
“Just a dream, Lee, it was only a dream–”
These reassurances seem to break Stan down further, his body relaxing, but the sobbing growing louder, more violent, shaking his shoulders, making his chest heave. He buries his face deeper into Ford’s shoulder, making himself small in the hold, trying to hide from the world at large.
“Breathe,” Ford urges, “Just breathe. You’re alright.”
Slowly, incrementally, Stan does. He draws in the air through his sobs, sniffling and trying to come back into himself. The shaking slows to the occasional tremor, and after several minutes of reassurance and encouragement, Stan pulls out of the hold a bit, lifting his head to scrub at his eyes. His face looks tired, shadowed.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, attempting to lean away. Ford holds firm, refusing to budge. A wet cough. “Head hurts.”
“Do you remember where you are, now?” Ford asks patiently.
“Mystery Shack,” Stan replies, then repeats. “Sorry. D-Dunno why—”
“Don’t apologize,” Ford interrupts, “You had a nightmare. A memory. Not altogether surprising. Something snuck in while you were at rest, while you couldn’t defend against it, block it out.”
“Lucky me,” Stan quips, but he winces in pain.
“Do you need an aspirin?”
Stan shakes his head, but Ford reaches for the bedside drawer anyway, pulling out a bottle of pills, handing two to Stanley alongside the glass of water sitting on his nightstand.
“Here,” he offers. Stan accepts, looking sheepish.
“You screamed,” Ford explains, as if to justify his presence. “I heard it, I was awake, it—” It scared me. I thought something had hurt you, I can’t let you get hurt again.
“Sorry,” Stan repeats, looking embarrassed. “Didn’t mean to make you come in here, really.”
Ford shakes his head. “I’m glad I did. You…seemed distressed.” He pauses, swallowing. “What did you remember?”
Stan averts his eyes, pulling further back from Ford. There’s a sudden cold feeling, where he once was. His brother always ran warmer.
“I’m fine, now,” he replies simply. His hands tremble as he takes a deep sip from the glass of water, then replaces it on the nightstand. His eyes dart about the room.
“I don’t think you are,” Ford replies awkwardly. “We—we can talk about it, if you—”
“You should get back to sleep,” Stan protests.
“I—I don’t think we should just let this go, Lee.” Ford looks his brother in the eye, chewing on his bottom lip. “You were hurt. You seemed so scared.”
Stan just shakes his head. “What’s it matter, really?” It’s a weak dismissal—clearly, he’s still shaken up.
“It might help you remember more, discussing it,” Ford offers.
A scoff. “Another great reason to stay quiet.”
Ford flinches back a bit, at that. “W-What do you mean, Stan? You have to remember these things, it’s the whole point, we’re trying to bring you back!”
Stan turns his head, closing himself off, facing away from Ford. “Nothin’ worth remembering, from that time period.”
“What on Earth do you mean? It is worth remembering, it’s essential to—”
“I mean it’s nothing good, okay?!” Stan snaps. “I mean every damn memory from the decade before the Shack is nothing but—nothing but that!” He jerks his thumb behind him, referencing the incident that just occurred. “I’m always getting beaten up, or shouted at, or—or fuckin’ shot or stabbed or thrown in jail—” He sucks in a sudden breath. “A-and I know the worst hasn’t come back, yet! E-every time, I come back thinking, it’ll only get worse from here!” He’s half-shouting, frustrated. “Moses, where were—why was I—why didn’t anyone help me?!” Stan’s words are thick with tears, again, as he finishes his sentiment.
Ford feels like he’s been shot in the gut. He feels like his intestines are about to spill from him, that he’ll be holding them in, preventing his own disembowelment. A choked-off, guilty little noise escapes him, and he feels his cheeks wet.
Stan’s eyes are wide with regret, as he meets Ford’s again. “Wait,” he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I know you didn’t know, it’s just—things get mixed up, an’ they come back in pieces, and I just—really, Sixer, I didn’t mean to make it seem like—like—”
“Like it was my fault?” Ford asks, voice soft yet intense. “B-Because it was, you know. It was my fault. I didn’t do anything, I didn’t help, I didn’t know. A-and I was supposed to know. I was supposed to—”
He’s cut off by a sob, slipping out from his throat.
All my fault, he thinks, That, everything I just saw, it’s my fault, all my fault, I could have prevented it, prevented that pain, if I had just—if I’d done what brothers are supposed to do, and—
“You didn’t know,” Stan says firmly, interrupting his spiral. “You had no way of knowing what I was dealing with—and you were better off not knowing. From what I just remembered, I’m thankful you weren’t involved. It’s not your fault that you went to college. It’s not your fault that I broke the—the thing, and it’s not your fault that they took—” A ragged gasp. “—that-that they did what they did, back then.”
Stan’s retreated into himself a bit, at the reference to the incident, and it’s all Ford can think about—no part of him is inclined to forgive himself, not when his twin is half-here, half-okay, halfway in pieces because of what he did. Because of that gun, because of he didn’t help, he didn’t listen, he didn’t—
“Stan, please,” Ford begs. “Tell me. What did they do?” He’s crying, feeling the tears run hot tracks down his cheeks. “Please, tell me. Tell me so I can—so I can do something—”
Tell me, so I can hunt them down. Tell me, so I can grab the Time Tape, and prevent them ever having been born. Tell me, so I can hurt them, torture them, make them feel what they did to you.
Tell me so that there’s someone else to blame.
“There’s nothin’ you can do, Ford,” Stan answers, trying to keep his voice measured, trying not to cry again. He’d always been quick to start, after Ford did.
“Lee,” Ford gasps, desperate now, sleep-deprived and irrational, his wrists, ankles, and neck aching with the pain of week-old burns, “I can’t let you get hurt again, I need my brother back, all the way back, just please, tell me, let me help—I-I was wrong, I know I was wrong, just, please—please trust me. Please, let me help you. Please, let me protect you, even a little. Let me be there. I—I can’t not be there, not ever again, okay?”
Ford’s shoulders are shaking, and he’s sniffling by the time he finishes, pleading pathetically, foolishly. He’s never broken down like this in front of Stan—he’s always managed to maintain a semblance of rationality.
“You’re here now,” Stan murmurs, facing Ford again, inching closer, unsure what to do. “That’s not nothing.”
“It’s not enough!” Ford sobs. “This is my fault, it’s all my fault you’re reliving all of this, and it’s not enough! I can’t help enough, I can’t—I can’t show you pictures of back then, or tell you stories, or—or goddamned go back and kill whoever it was who did all this shit to you—”
“Ford,” Stan says, “Come on, now—”
“Because they deserve it!” He cries out. “Because they all fucking deserve it, Lee, if what I just heard is any indication of what it was really like for you, they all goddamn deserve it, but I can’t hurt them, and I hurt you, a-and please, if telling me will help more come back, if it will do anything at all, please tell me! Yes, I know it’s selfish to ask, I know I shouldn’t put you in pain because I want a certain version of you, but that version is my brother, and—and—”
Ford tries to catch his breath, but he feels himself losing control, overcome with unreleased emotion. “A-And it hurts, everything fucking hurts, it hurts so bad I can’t sleep without thinking or feeling it, the burns or the guilt or the image of me shooting you with that gun—oh, God—an’ I just need you to tell me that it’s going to be okay, you used to tell me it was going to be okay—”
Just as he’s driven himself past the point of words, he feels a pair of strong arms wrap around him, intentionally gentle, and he feels himself being pulled in towards someone—
His face hits his brother’s chest, and then he’s sobbing uncontrollably, a hand scrabbling uselessly at the fabric of Stan’s t-shirt, trying weakly to cling to it. He’s so tired, he realizes, so, so tired, and he just wants to cry until he’s released every pent-up emotion from every mistake he’s ever made, all the fear and sadness and loneliness and guilt—God, there’s so much guilt.
Stanley was the only person he could ever let it out to, the only person who would understand, and he’s half-here, half-trapped in a decade of horror, half-gone at Ford’s hand, and even though he’s returning, Ford has never been patient, never been able to wait, and God damn it, he just wants his brother back, he wants to know what happened to him—he wants to fix it, to at least hold him while he cries, and put it all behind them, and—and go sailing. He wants to be a child again, to dream, to do it all over again and make the right choices.
“I’m here,” Stan whispers, his hold tightening slightly, “I’m here, Six, I’m here. It’s alright. I know you’re tired. I know you’re hurt. It’s okay if you need to cry. Nobody’s here but me. It’ll be alright.”
It sounds like Stan, so like Stan, for the first time in nearly a week. It’s gruff and warm and caring in a way that hasn’t been directed towards him in so long, in a way he hasn’t deserved in forever and isn’t sure he deserves now, but he must accept before he falls apart at the seams.
“Lee,” he bawls, “Please, please don’t go. I c-can’t—I don’t know what to do. Come back, please, stay, I miss you, I missed you so, so—”
A hand lands in his hair, smoothing it down, then weaving into it, combing through the tangled curls.
“I know,” Stan breathes, “I know, buddy. I know. I missed you too. I missed you so much. I know that, Ford. God, I know that. In every memory, I miss you. You’re always there.”
“You are too,” Ford cries. “W-will you please tell me, Lee? Just—just what you can, just what helps, a-and then you’ll remember the rest, and we can—we can be brothers again?” He sounds like a little kid.
“You’re my brother now,” Stan insists. “You’ve always been my brother. Nothing could ever change that.”
“It’s not fair,” Ford sobs, “It’s not fair that you l-lost everything, that to kill him we had to—that I had to—I didn’t want to, Lee, you have to believe me—I tried to stop it, I didn’t want to—”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Stan soothes. “I’m sure you did everything you could. It’s not your fault, Sixer. Besides, I’m here, now. I’m coming back. I’ll come back, okay? Even if it’s hard. I’ll remember. Every day, I remember more. I remembered you, didn’t I?”
“N-Not everything. Not enough to h-hate me,” Ford manages.
“I could never hate you,” Stan replies softly, “No matter what.”
“You should,” he chokes out. “You should, everyone should! I hate me! I hate me, Stanley, for a-all of it, I hate—”
“Stop,” Stan replies, his voice insistent, almost angry. “Stop, Ford, don’t—don’t you dare say that, okay?”
He takes a sudden deep breath, as if taken aback by the strength of his feelings. “None of this is on you, Six. It’s him, that’s his voice, telling you it’s all your fault, that everything he blew up is on you. It’s his voice and Pa’s voice, and they’re both—they’re both fucking dead! Don’t bring ‘em back to life, Stanford. Don’t.”
He exhales unsteadily. “Sorry. I’m sorry, a lot’s coming back, right now—” Stan winces, pulling away suddenly. “Shit, Ford—”
He’s cradling his head in a hand, bracing against something unseen. Ford tries to pull himself together, wiping furiously at his eyes, sitting up and resting a hand on Stan’s shoulder in support.
“I’m sorry,” he offers hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to make it worse, I should have—I shouldn’t have made it about me, I just—”
“It’s alright,” Stan pushes out, still wincing in pain. “It’s fine, it’s just…it just brings up a lot of—shit—” He’s tense, ill at ease, and that guilt twists in Ford’s gut once more.
You’re only making things worse. Bringing up more bad memories, more for him to relive, after he’s just gone through that awful nightmare—
He’s coming back, he’s remembering, more memories means more Stan, means things will be fixed, means you haven’t killed him, means he’s really here—
You’re pushing him too hard! Selfish, wanting him back now for your own comfort, for your own safety. You’re going to hurt him again. He’s going to remember just how much he hates you.
“Lee, you don’t have to—” Ford starts.
“I’m sorry you had to do it,” His brother interrupts softly. “I’m sorry it was the only way, I’m sorry that—that I fucked up the portal, that I made the rift—I remember, I remember now.”
He sounds pained, and his head is buried in his hands. “Ford, you—I just wanted you back so badly—e-especially after the summer, after Dipper and Mabel, it hurt so much. I would just—they would be asleep and I would just be lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering where the hell you were, if you were even alive, and the dreams were so much worse again, and I got my hands on the books and I just—I had to get you back, as quickly as I could, I swear, I tried—I know you warned me, but I just couldn’t do it anymore—”
He’s audibly upset, and his voice crescendos as he continues to apologize, becoming more and more guilty, more pained.
“I can’t do it without you again,” he gasps, as if realizing this anew, “Ford, please don’t make me leave—”
Ford lunges forward, throwing his arms around Stan again, immediately squeezing tightly enough that he feels himself steal the air from his twin’s lungs and has to ease up a bit—he can’t help but translate the strength of his feelings into the hold.
“Stan,” he wails, overcome, unable to find the words. “It’s not—I don’t—I—no! Don’t go, I don’t want you to go, please—” His chest is heaving with more ugly sobs, and he feels Stan return the embrace, trying to ground him a bit.
“I’m sorry, I never should have said—I didn’t mean—never wanted—” He tries to take a breath, feeling overwhelmed. “I didn’t want you to go. I don’t—I don’t want you to go. It’s not your fault, it was never your fault, Lee, please, I was so, so wrong—I was so angry, I don’t know why I was so—it was so stupid, I should have just—”
“I was so scared you were dead,” Stan whispers, his voice thick, and then it’s completely over for them both.
They’re crying, and hugging each other, and Ford is too relieved and overwhelmed and completely caught up in his sleep-deprived wave of emotion to feel embarrassed that he is absolutely crying harder, unable to mask or hold back anything he’s repressed like water behind a dam for the last forty years. His entire body shakes like a sapling in a thunderstorm with the force of his sobs, and he’s holding onto Stan so tight, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
He can’t stop apologizing, trying to push out fragments of sentences, to say anything to comfort his brother or to ease the impact of his complete breakdown, but the emotions refuse to slow down enough to allow it.
Stan is in only a slightly better position, managing a few rough it’s okays and you’re backs through the tsunami, but neither of them have the ability or energy to say anything meaningful—they’re lost in it.
And they stay that way, holding onto each other for a very long time, until both of their faces are swollen, eyes red and puffy, until they’ve both cried as much as their minds will possibly allow in a single night.
When they’re done, or mostly done, Ford finds that all the energy has left him. He can barely keep himself upright, his exhaustion slamming into him like a ten-ton truck, as if the decades of sleep deprivation have caught up all at once.
“You tired?” Stan asks, knowing the answer.
Ford nods in response. The idea of going back to his own bed, of leaving this room, though, sounds like a prison sentence. He doesn’t want to leave Stan alone. He doesn’t, he realizes, want to be alone, perhaps ever again. He’s spent so long alone.
“Ford?” Stan asks, seeming quite embarrassed all of a sudden. “Um. Can you—” He cuts himself off, then nervously makes another attempt. “Can you sleep in here, tonight?
In a rush, Stan continues. “I mean, you don’t have to, it would probably be easier not to, you know, with your bandages, but I can get that stuff later, and, um—” He looks away, face red. “I remember we did that as kids, sometimes. I mean, we always shared a room, but like—you know, we would—um, on bad nights. And tonight—I think tonight—”
Ford lies down, pulling the blankets over him, and cuts his twin off with another nod.
“That—that sounds nice,” he adds sleepily, his head already on the pillow, eyes heavy.
Stan looks immensely relieved, and a bit surprised. “Oh. O-Okay. Good.”
Gingerly, he lies down next to Ford, and as soon as he does, Ford rolls over a bit, throwing a protective arm over his twin, too tired to be embarrassed. After a moment, Stan relaxes—but Ford’s not awake to see it.
He’s already dropped off into his first night of peaceful sleep in thirty years—and Stan’s not long to follow.