Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey brother, it’s Sixer. I’m going to take a swim in the frozen lake tomorrow, and I might not ever come back. So if you don’t hear from me, I just want you to know that it’s because I never loved you.”

Stan had held many different surnames in the decade and change he’d spent away from home. It had been too easy to throw his old one to the side, a necessity, regardless of how he felt about it. But when he got that phone call, so deep in the night that the world was nothing but shadows outside, Stan knew he’d never stopped being a Pines; Because a Pines was stubborn, more stubborn than anyone else he’d ever met. 

And he would refuse to believe an ounce of the poison Ford had slurred at him over that phone call until he saw his brother himself. 

But that didn’t stop the fear that had wrapped a hand around his throat, hindering his breathing as he’d thrown his things into the backseat of his car. Stan had sped so quickly out of the parking lot that he was sure he’d burned some rubber off of his tires.

See, he knew a thing or two about saying or doing stupid shit while drunk (because Ford had to have been, he didn’t sound like himself. Ten years between them and still Stan could hear over the phone the way his mouth seemed to trip uncomfortably over each word). Countless times he’d found himself at a payphone of his own with trembling hands, and the truth resting on his tongue, only to hang up without saying a word.

So, Ford had to have been drunk because the alternative was that he was already gone. And he couldn’t be, not after all the time that had passed since they’d seen each other. Far too long- making the weight of everything they’d left unsaid, the burning hurt that had been present on his brother’s face, the ache of loneliness that Stan struggled to escape feel heavier. It pressed deep into his shoulder blades as he drove, desperation pushing him forwards.

Stan had to hold onto the sliver of hope that his brother would still be out there, and that one day things between them might wind up okay. The alternative wasn't something he wanted to consider. How he could lose his once-best friend, his other half, if he didn't make it in time. 

And he knew, he knew with absolutely certainty that the last part of the message was meant to stop him from coming. To cut deep into his heart, and leave him broken and bleeding- Ford knew him too well for it to be anything else. Lashing out with the same thoughts he preferred to bury in a bottle.

Ford's last-ditch attempt to keep Stan far away didn't work though; this wasn’t about him, or his feelings. No amount of hatred could stop him. Not until he knew Ford was okay.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the feeling of cool air on his cheeks, surrounded by a world blanketed in white. Stan didn’t know when he’d gotten out of his car, or made the trek up to Ford’s front door. In fact, the majority of the drive was a dizzy blur that he didn't think he could remember if he tried. Blinking once, twice, Stan took in his surroundings. Before him rested a log cabin with icicles dangling off of the eaves of the roof. The windows were all boarded up, and signs littered the yard, all screaming ‘go away’ in polite, professional terms. Classic, introverted Sixer. 

It was hard to forget the day he’d heard about Ford moving out to this place. Their mother had been so proud, and she’d been quick to give Stan all the information he could possibly want about his brother’s location and life. It had felt like a slight, back then; her bragging about how successful his twin was or something, but lately Stan had figured that she was hoping this whole time he’d reach out to his brother. 

She probably didn’t expect this to be why he hauled his ass up to Oregon. Who would? Ford had a whole house and some fancy grant from his college to study whatever he wanted, apparently. The ideal life, as far as Stan was concerned! The kind of thing the both of them could only have dreamt up as kids. Stan might have missed a few chapters, but even he could skim enough to see that the story wasn't lining up- something had to have happened for Ford to call, to feel the way he did. Something terrible, Stan was sure.

He checked the napkin he’d kept tucked into his jacket since their mother had given it to him. It was crinkled, and the ink had smudged, but the address was still legible. Stan hadn’t really wanted to keep it, and contemplated throwing it out more days than not. But he couldn't have foreseen something like this, and he was glad he hadn't. 

618 Gopher Rd, Gravity Falls, Oregon. 

This was it then. Whatever his brother had actually meant by that call, he’d find out after this. He just hoped he made it in time.

His heart pounded in his chest with a thundering rhythm as he stepped up onto the porch. Swallowing hard, Stan poised his shaking hand- whether it was raised to knock, or throw the door off its hinges, he hadn’t quite decided yet. 

Settling on somewhere between the two, Stan gave the door a firm, loud, knock. The force rattled his bones, or maybe that was his anxiety. “Sixer?” He called, voice weaker than he’d have liked. The nickname weighed heavy on his tongue, and the memory of the mocking way it had been used in Ford’s call echoed in his ears.

Stan didn’t consider himself a desperate man, at least not in any way he’d ever confess. But with the way he stood there, sweating and shaking despite the subzero temperatures outside, Stan knew there was no word to describe his current state except for desperate.

Where was he?

“Stanford!” He shouted through the door. “If you don’t answer, I will break this fuckin’ door down! This isn’t funny!” He slammed a fist against the door rattling the wood. His breathing was practically gasping.

He grasped the door handle and pulled it a few times in quick succession, but it stayed firmly in place. “I don’t care how much you hate me, just let me see you’re okay!” Stan dropped his hand from the doorknob, pressing his face against the frosted wood of the door. “Please.” He muttered, “I’ll leave after. Just… open the door.” 

Stan’s body began to feel heavy, as the despair he’d be so narrowly avoiding began to set in. His breath blew out in heavy puffs from his lips, forming white clouds in the cold air. Tears of frustration threatened to form in his eyes, but he blinked rapidly, forcing them away.

He raised his fist to bang on the door again, only for it to swing open before he got the chance. Stan stumbled backward in surprise, dropping his hand. Relief surged through his form, lifting weight off of his lungs as he met the gaze of the man on the other side of the door. 

“Si-“ he began, only to have an armed crossbow thrust towards his face. 

Ford’s eyes were cold, and his expression was further punctuated by the deep bags beneath them. “How did you find me,” He spat, his gaze darting from Stan’s face, to something behind him, and back again. “Did he send you? What did he offer you? Money? Fame?” 

Stan found it hard to look away from the sharp tip of the crossbow bolt. He’d been held at gunpoint before, and this wasn’t all that different- But he still never got used to it, especially not now with his brother holding the weapon.

“Nobody sent me, you called me last night.” Stan argued, feeling a coldness sink into his bones. He slowly drew his gaze upward, meeting Ford’s. His eyes were wild, and they never quite seemed to settle. “You were drunk out of your fuckin’ mind, and you told me you were going to kill yourself.” 

Ford’s face, while already pretty pale, grew almost white, and he tilted the crossbow down. Stan felt his shoulders drop in relief, and he took a slow step back, further away from the weapon, heels on the edge of the porch. “What?” Ford whispered, all of the fury fading from his voice. “No- no, that’s impossible, the call didn’t go through!”

The concern that had been keeping him awake since he’d gotten the call faded, then, making way for pure, fiery, hot rage. A drunken mistake it was then, or worse, a drunken prank .  “Well, it fuckin’ did.” Stan snapped. “And I drove all the way here just to make sure you weren’t facedown in a fucking lake or somethin’. Glad to see you’re not, by the way, because unlike you I still give a shit about other people!” He jammed his hands in his pockets and pulled his car key out of his pocket, swinging it around once on his finger. 

His brother stayed silent, with his lips pressed together in a firm line, his head hung low. In shame, Stan hoped- it would serve him right after the stunt he’d just pulled. “It wasn’t me.” Ford said, voice lost beneath the howling wind, and Stan hadn’t even realized he had spoken at all until he repeated it, louder. “I swear, it was not me.”

Of all the excuses, of all the bullshit Ford could’ve said. Did he even care? “Then who fuckin’ was it?! Because he sounded like you, called himself Sixer, and he sure as hell knew he wasn’t talking to ‘Panley Stines’, TV salesman!” Stan swung his hands as he spoke, listening to his keys jingling. “I know you think I’m stupid, but I’m not that stupid.”

Ford shook his head  frantically. “No, no, I mean it- it wasn’t me. You wouldn’t understand.” He drew emphasis on the last word, sounding desperate.

“Oh, here we go. I understand enough to know when I’ve been fucked with .” Stan spat, his grip tightening on his keys. “Why did I even bother ?” He muttered, more to himself than Ford. He moved to step off the porch and back into the snow only to be stopped by a strong grip on his arm.  

Face pinched in discomfort and desperation, Ford clung to Stan’s wrist. His hand was trembling, and tightly wrapped in undeniably bloodstained bandages. “No, please don’t go. I didn’t- I didn’t mean like that.” Ford stumbled over his words. “I meant- I, Stanley, it's going to sound insane, I feel insane and I’ve been living it .”

Stan stopped pulling then, taking in just how terrible his brother looked. His hair was matted, sticking up in just about every direction, and Stan could see multiple places on the frames of his glasses that had been hastily repaired with masking tape. Ford’s clothing was rumpled and stained with a dark rusty brown Stan could guess was probably blood, and overall seemed to hang loose on his body. Altogether, he looked worse than Stan had ever seen him, even during the worst throes of exam season. In fact, his appearance almost rivalled Stan’s- which was crazy when they were standing right outside Ford’s house . 

His rage didn’t quite simmer out; it boiled too hot to fade right away. But Stan was able to look past it and find all of the red flags he’d noticed since he’d gotten the call. His physical appearance, the odd cadence of Ford’s voice, the paranoia written over every inch of the house as well as his brother’s form. “...Okay.” He agreed, placing a hand to where Ford was still gripping his coat. “Yeah, okay, I’ll hear you out.” Any possible excuse sounded so unbelievable, but it couldn’t hurt to try. 

Ford seemed to shrink in relief, dropping his hold on Stan’s jacket. He nodded quickly, sharply, almost as though he didn’t believe what Stan had said. “Good… that’s good. We should probably go inside, it’s cold out here.”

Despite what Ford had said, it was still pretty damn cold in the house, Stan surmised after he’d shut the door. If the house had heating, Stan had to assume that it hadn’t been running in days at the least. He fiddled with the zipper on his sweater, pulling it up in the hopes of being provided with even the slightest bit of extra warmth. 

It was pretty dark in the house, as most of the light was coming from the boarded up windows, but Stan could make out piles of what was likely some scientific junk or something cluttering every surface. There was also paper scattered everywhere in a variety of states, some crumpled, some torn, and others perfectly fine if not for the illegible writing on the surface of each. 

Stan opened his mouth to comment on it, when he was cut off by Ford. “I apologize for any discomfort this may cause, but I need to check…” His brother trailed off, and before Stan even thought to ask him to continue, something bright shone in his eyes. 

He blinked harshly, shaking his head to clear the dots out of his vision as the light disappeared. “What was that?!” Stan asked, raising his voice and bringing a hand up to his face to rub at his eyes. Once his vision was clear, he noticed the penlight that Ford was tucking away into his pocket. “Fuck, that hurt, did you have to shine that in my eyes?”

“Yes.” Ford answered, turning around and leading Stan to another room. “I’ll explain it all soon.” He said, looking over his shoulder to ensure Stan was following. 

Tucking his hands back into his pockets, Stan responded with a cold, “Yeah, you’d better.”

From what Stan could tell the other rooms in the house pretty much matched the state of the first one. Ford had never been the tidiest person, but this house looked almost like a hurricane had come through. Furniture was knocked over, laying in the middle of the walkways, and from the crunching underneath his boots, a good number of it was probably broken too. Stan could also make out more rust-coloured stains if he squinted closely at the furniture or at the walls.  

The kitchen, a room which Stan only deduced as such after seeing the countertop space and appliances buried under other junk, was the only room to have an actual light turned on. On the dining table, Stan noticed the rectangular shape of postcards laying on its surface. It was hard to make out exactly who they were addressed to, or what they said as he was walking past, all except for one. In bold, hurried scrawl, Stan read the words ‘PLEASE COME!’

Before he could read anymore, Ford swept them off of the table and onto the floor in an overly dramatic fashion. Ford gestured for Stan to sit, but made no move to do so himself. Instead, he crossed the room over to one of the counter spaces and fiddled with an odd machine that rested on it. Ford cursed quietly, before smacking the machine with his fist. The bitter smell of coffee filled the room, and Stan heard the splattering of the machine filling a mug with liquid.

After a few more seconds, Ford came back over with two steaming mugs in hand. He placed one in front of Stan with shaking hands, and the other he kept for himself. “Sorry if it tastes like shit, my assistant ‘upgraded’ it months ago, and it’s never been quite the same since.” That would explain why it looked unrecognizable to any coffee maker he’d ever seen. “And I couldn’t make it how you like it, I haven’t been shopping in a while.” Ford explained before Stan even took a sip. He wasn’t even sure if Ford still remembered how he took his coffee. 

“I’m sure it’s fine.” He was absolutely not sure, especially after Ford’s colourful description, but Stan wasn’t about to turn down free coffee. Not after the 24-plus hours he’d just had. It was a lot more bitter than he’d usually like upon first taste, but it couldn’t be helped- he’d just have to drink it slowly.  “Are you gonna sit down?” He asked, noticing that Ford had seemed to settle himself against the wall rather than in the chair. “I doubt the chair is gonna bite ya.”

Ford shook his head, taking a long drink of his coffee. “You can never be too sure about that,”  he said ominously, “Besides, I’m fine up here. Better even.”

“Whatever you say.” Stan said with a sigh, taking another sip. 

In the light of the kitchen, Ford looked even worse somehow. His glasses rested low on his nose, and there were what appeared to be freshly-scabbed-over scrapes along his cheeks.  The worst part though, was his eyes. They seemed to struggle to focus on any one object in the room for long, and his right eye appeared incredibly bloodshot and swollen, even from a distance. Stan wasn’t sure how he’d missed it earlier, but it looked painful. 

After another extended swig from his mug, Ford spoke up. “How do you want me to go into this? Do you want the full story or just the events leading up to…” He averted his gaze, and his voice grew weaker. “Last night.” 

“I want the full fucking truth, I deserve to know why the fuck I got that call last night.” Stan argued, the air weighing heavier in his lungs at the reminder of what they were supposed to be doing. What Ford was stalling on. “Every damn important detail, Sixer.” 

Ford looked at Stan then, with a wide gaze, growing somehow paler once again. He opened his mouth, before shutting it quickly, and turning back to look into his cup. Whatever he wanted to say now long forgotten, shoved aside for what he said instead. “Almost three- no, four years ago now, I found myself stuck in my research of this town, and its anomalies.” Ford began, almost wistfully. “Every new piece of information I learned just gave me more questions, and I didn’t know how to make sense of it all.”

Stan nodded, wrapping a hand around the warm porcelain of the mug. He didn’t know that when Ford had said beginning, he meant it began literal years ago but it’s not like he had anything better to do than sit and listen to his brother. “Anomalies?” He questioned. 

“Like- gnomes, unicorns, hybrids of animals incapable naturally. All things thought to be a myth by your average person, they run rampant in the woods of this town.” Ford explained, sounding the most like himself since they’d started talking. A stranger may not have believed what was being said, but not Stan; he knew that this kind of thing had always been up Ford’s alley. If anyone could hunt down the strange and unusual it would be him. “I'd been recording and investigating everything I saw here for a few years at this point. One of these anomalies was a being, not from our world, that I came to know as,” Ford dropped his voice to a whisper, “ Bill Cipher. He was a being of incredible knowledge and power, who told me he’d chosen me of all people to visit and inspire me in my studies. I thought he was the answer I’d been hoping for, about why anomalies are so common here.”

A cold shiver ran down Stan’s spine. If there was one fact he’d learned about the universe over his life, it was that most things that sounded far too good to be true, were too good to ever be true. Especially not for some nobody kid from Glass Shard Beach. But Ford had never been like him, despite all of his brother’s paranoia, all it took was praise to win him over. “But he wasn’t, was he?” Stan asked, already knowing the answer.

Ford was silent for a moment before he responded, still staring into his drink. “No, no he wasn’t. He promised me a lot of things, Stanley.” Ford said, words spilling out of his mouth faster and faster. “He- he said he was my friend, a muse that’d help me change the world forever. He told me I was special, and important, and I trusted him. Like a fool, I trusted him!” Ford grew more and more worked up as he spoke, and Stan couldn’t find even a second to cut in.

“He gave me instructions to build some portal to his realm, so he could enter ours and destroy it. But he didn’t tell me that, oh, no, he kept just spinning his web of lies and I was too blind to see that I was caught in it.” Ford’s hands trembled worse, and Stan heard the splatter of coffee spilling over the edge of the mug, down his hands, and onto the floor. “I’ve made so many mistakes.” Ford muttered, his voice broken and wavering. He’d been barely holding himself together for this whole conversation, and things had escalated to a point where he was gasping through his sentences. 

Stan stood, pushing his chair back with a loud scraping sound, and walked over to where Ford was standing. “Hey. You need to take a breather, okay? I know- uh, it's hard to talk about, but I need you to calm down.” He said, his voice firm, as he guided the mug out of Ford’s hands. 

Ford said nothing, but Stan was satisfied to see him attempting to work himself through breathing exercises. It was a practice his brother had begun in highschool, and seemingly had carried on even all these years later.

Stan placed the mug on the counter, and grabbed a rag off of the sink’s tap. It was grossly stiff, but would hopefully still work well enough for his brother to wipe the coffee off his hands. He handed it off to Ford before leaning against the table, rather than returning to the chair. 

“Better?” He asked, tapping his fingers on the wood behind him.

Working the cloth over his hands, Ford shrugged. “Enough.” He blinked quickly a few times before dumping the towel on the table beside his mug. Ford inhaled deeply once more, before continuing his explanation. “I- During the work on the portal,” Ford began picking up where he left off, “I often found myself frustrated with the lack of progress due to the need to sleep. So because of the uh- nature of Cipher, he came up with a deal that would… help me work around it.”

Ford was hesitant and he chose his words carefully, very clearly avoiding saying something . Stan had seen Ford use the same tell when he was trying to talk them out of trouble as kids. It was why Stan took over the responsibility, once Ford had proven to be deeply unsubtle. He didn’t interrupt, but a sinking feeling buried itself in his gut; he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what he heard.

“He- we- I agreed that while I slept, he would be able to take control of my body, and- and continue our work. Speeding the process along, and allowing me to take advantage of otherwise lost time.” Ford explained, hands wringing the fabric of his shirt. “So, I think you can see the problem I’ve found myself in.” He added with a weak laugh.

Stan was right, he did not like the explanation. Not one bit. 

“So he possesses you?” Stan asked, swallowing hard through tension in his throat. “You let him possess you, is… is that why you had to check my eyes? To see if he was… in me.”

Ford dipped his head, hiding his face from Stan’s view. “Yes.” He admitted, voice barely above a whisper. 

Pieces began to fall into place, and Stan didn’t like the picture they were making. “And he’s the fucker who called me?” His voice grew louder, more desperate.

“Correct.” Ford’s voice held no real emotion in it, nothing except exhaustion. 

Stan eyed the bandages on Ford’s hands, the cuts on his face, and every other red flag that had been practically waved in his face about his brother’s appearance since he’d arrived. “And… he’s the one who hurt you, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Ford rasped. “He is.”

Fury erupted from Stan’s heart, a familiar sensation that had practically defined his childhood. This thing, this demon had hurt his brother. How dare he . “Fuck, Sixer.” Stan blurted out, leaning hard onto the table behind him. “How the fuck do we fix this?!” Nobody hurt his brother and got away with it, no matter how much shit was between them.

That seemed to bring some life into Ford again, he straightened his posture and looked at Stan with wide eyes. “You’re here.” He gasped, as though he just processed the fact. Ford muttered inaudibly to himself, feeling around in his coat for something.

Stan watched, confused as Ford pulled a red leather-bound book from inside his trenchcoat, holding it out for Stan to grab. On the cover there was a golden six-fingered hand, with the number one written on its face. “What’s this?”

“My journal.” Ford stated as though that explained anything, pressing it into Stan’s hands. “Originally, I was going to send you a postcard and ask you to come up here and take it somewhere I had no knowledge of, so that Bill couldn’t access the instructions inside. But now you’re here, you can take it!” Ford said, drawing Stan’s attention to the postcards that had once been on the table, ready to send. 

Looking from the pile of postcards, to the journal, then finally back to his brother, Stan shook his head. “Yeah, fuck no.” He pushed the book back towards Ford. “I’m not leavin’ you, you look like you got hit by a car.” 

Ford held his hands up away from Stan and the book, shaking his head rapidly. “It was just the one car, I can take care of myself.” As if Stan was going to buy that.“You need to do this, please, Stanley.” Ford spoke quickly, hardly pausing to breathe.

Stan stared at Ford incredulously, finding no humour in his expression. “Yeah, when you say concerning shit like that it doesn’t make me more comfortable leaving you with this ‘Bitch Cipher’ in your head.” He flipped the book open to a random page, finding it littered with his brother’s neat handwriting describing a unicorn. “Besides, if the portal is as dangerous as you say, shouldn’t we destroy the book instead?”

“What?!” Ford cried, reaching for the book only then. “No! We can’t destroy it!” Stan let him grab the book, giving it up a lot easier than Ford must’ve expected, as he stumbled, hard. He clutched the book to his chest, leaning against the wall.  

Frustration began building inside Stan, tightening his muscles and furrowing his eyebrows. Ford had always been stubborn, (he was a Pines,) hell, they both were, they could go back and forth like that all day. Which, if Stan was being honest, seemed like a horrible idea. And an exhausting one. "Well, we’re going to have to find something else to do with it then, because I’m not leavin’. I don’t care.” He compromised, scratching at the stubble on his chin. 

Ford stared at Stan, eyes flicking down to his hands and back up and his face a few times before he quickly tucked the book into his jacket. He kept a hand protectively over the pocket, and with the other he tried to push himself further upright. “Fine, then, if you're going to be unreasonable I suppose I can find another solution.”

Stan had to resist every instinct within himself to not roll his eyes. “Nah, don't do that.” He said instead. He was sure Ford could hear the bitter annoyance in his words, if the defensive, closed-off posture he took on was any indication. “This may surprise you, but even after all the shit between us, I still care about you, and would prefer if a demon didn't murder you.” Stan pushed himself off of the table, closing the distance between him and Ford. “I don't care if you make me sleep in my damn car, I’m not going anywhere.”

His brother had nothing to say about that, which was crazy because Ford always had something to say about everything. He knew Stan had seen right through him. “I don't- I don't have any other ideas.” Ford admitted, sounding strained. “I don't think I could think of anything better if I tried, not like this.” 

He didn't have to guess what Ford was referring to. Everything about him, from tension in the way he held himself to the way he swayed when he wasn't propped against the wall, screamed that Ford was barely keeping himself together. He knew a thing or two about that.

“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out, yeah?” Stan didn't really believe his words himself, so there was no way Ford did either. But maybe if he said it enough times he could make it come true- that’s the advice his mother would’ve given at least. “How's about we try to get you fixed up a bit, and go from there? Where's your bathroom?”

Chapter Text

Despite his years on the road, Stan was still pretty sure he knew how his brother liked to organize. Or rather, how he often didn’t.

One thing he remembered clearly was him and Ford sitting on the cool tile of their bathroom floor while Ford patched up some injury of Stan’s. Their parents had kept the first aid kit in the kitchen, a location that Ford had disagreed with so vehemently that he’d moved it altogether; he insisted to Stan that because the two of them used it more, and tended to restock it anyways, it was only natural that they got to decide where it went. It ended up in the bathroom under the sink, and Ford defended its stay with the reasoning that the bathroom was easier to clean than anywhere else. And something he didn't mention to their parents, but to Stan was that it was private. 

It was something he carried with him for years after that initial conversation. Even in his own travels, Stan found himself waiting to clean his own wounds until he made it to a bathroom. Securing them temporarily with a cut up t-shirt, or whatever else he had on hand, only letting it loose when he was near a sink.

Stan was shocked when Ford shook his head, leaning all his weight back onto his feet once more with a stumble. “The first aid kits aren’t in the bathroom, I’ve been keeping them all locked up in the basement.” Ford nodded in the direction Stan assumed the basement was in before he began to walk that way, one hand braced on the wall. “Bill can’t get in there, and I didn’t want him messing with the supplies in there,” He said before Stan could ask about it. 

They made their way through the house stepping over the clutter on the floor, which as far as Stan could tell seemed to be a constant in just about every room. Eventually, Ford stopped in a room that was pretty equally in shambles, in front of a large metal door. A metal door that had an alarming amount of rust-like stains coating the surface. When Stan squinted however, he was met with churning nausea in his gut as he noticed what appeared to be scratch marks littered along the door as well. 

Prying his eyes away and down the handle where Ford was currently fiddling with the locks was some kind of mechanism Stan had never seen before in his life, which was saying something. There was also a keypad and a keyhole, which for anyone else, in any other circumstance would be a bit excessive.  

Despite how his curiosity was piqued, Stan averted his gaze in the most obvious manner he could manage. He didn’t want to start an argument over nothing if it could be avoided; and Ford seemed twitchy with every small, out-of-place thing Stan asked him about It seemed like Ford wanted to ignore them himself; All of the windows in the house were covered by boards or sheets, and this room was no different. Some light still shone through the cracks however, an arc of light falling in just the right way to let Stan see a Cubic’s Cube, entirely unsolved and collecting dust. 

It seemed out of place in the rest of the house, with Ford’s belongings. His brother had never been a fan of the game, preferring to spend hours on a detailed jigsaw puzzle with Stan to hang on their wall when they were finished. He was pulled out of the nostalgic haze with a soft buzz followed by the sound of a heavy door opening. Ford glanced back briefly before descending down a staircase into darkness.

Neither spoke a word as they climbed down, nor did they speak when they breached the landing. Stan didn’t say a word when Ford was very obviously leaning against the wall while he called the elevator. And Ford returned the favour by not bringing up discomfort that Stan was sure was written all over his face as the cramped elevator brought them deeper into the earth. The silence hung heavy over the both of them, pressing hard onto their shoulders.

Sighing in relief when the doors finally opened, Stan felt a weight lift from his chest as they left the tiny metal box behind. For a moment, Stan thought Ford had somehow come up with a way to enter his very childhood fantasies with how this lab looked like it was ripped straight from them. 

There were all kinds of switches and buttons that did who knows what. As well as a variety of monitors, and lights, and cool grey tiled flooring. It all looked so overly professional and fancy to be in the basement of the house they’d just trudged through, like the kind of sci-fi movie bullshit Ford would’ve drooled over as a kid. 

“The kit’s on my desk.” Ford said, startling Stan with his breaking of the silence. “Which is-” he began, shoving equipment around and swiveling the chairs around so they faced each other, “-over here.” 

There was a pause between Ford flicking the light switch and them actually powering on, a loud hum ringing through the room as they powered up. As Ford said, the first aid kit was propped open on one of the two desks in the corner, alongside even more papers, tools and books strewn about on the wooden surface. Stan had only caught a brief glance however, when he noticed a large looming shape through a window. Smack dab in the centre of the next room. 

A giant triangle, of all things with a hole punched through the middle. Despite the fact that the lights were on even in that part of the room, the looming machine, which Stan could only assume to be the portal, had a darkness hanging over it, casting shadows like black holes on the floor. It was different then the rest of the lab, almost pristine, with intricately carved symbols surrounding the hole. And though it wasn’t powered on, Stan could see the dull grey of powerless light bulbs around the edge. 

Stan had seen a lot of Ford’s projects over the years, more than he could probably count on his, or Ford’s fingers. Built with compiled scrap pieces he and Ford had collected over the years, shoplifted or picked up from junkyards, even occasionally ‘borrowed’ from their dad’s shop when they found stuff he wouldn’t miss. Sometimes Stan could pick out Ford's fingerprints left behind in the paint on those cobbled-together projects. This was nothing like those, nothing like the machines upstairs either. There was something inherently inhuman about it, something too perfect. 

It was hard to pry his eyes away, even as Ford cleared his throat in an attempt to get Stan’s attention. He was sure he was caught staring, but Ford made no mention of it as Stan walked over to meet Ford at his desk. His brother was already sitting, leaning on his elbows as he watched Stan settle into the other desk chair. 

Pulling the kit into his lap, Stan very quickly realized that Ford was a lot lower on supplies than was ideal. There was still some gauze and antiseptic, which was a relief, but from what Stan could tell, the bottles of painkillers was empty. There was also, very concerningly, a bloodstained sewing needle at the bottom of the kit. Just looking at the thing sent a phantom ache rippling through his body where the scars from all the homemade stitches he’d applied over the years lay. 

“This might hurt a bit.” Stan warned, picking up a pair of scissors and taking one of Ford’s hands in his own. “Not this part, the rest of the parts.” He clarified, snipping away at the bandages. 

Ford shrugged, looking anywhere except at Stan. “I know what you meant.” He said, resting the free hand in his lap. “It can’t hurt more than doing it myself.”

Stan chuckled, pulling the cut bandages off of Ford’s hand, and for the lack of a better idea, dropped them on the floor. “Ain't that the truth.” He agreed, swallowing hard when he noticed in full detail the state of Ford’s hands. It was somehow worse than he’d expected when he’d seen the door; His knuckles were badly swollen and bruised with a deep purple. Dried blood and fresh scabs covered what must’ve been the worst of it. His fingernails were broken and raw, and the skin that was usually covered was an angry red.

For a moment Stan just stared, holding his brother’s hand and forcing down nausea. 

“He- uh, that’s from one of the first nights, technically.” Ford explained, voice grim. “I added locks to the door, and he didn’t like that he couldn’t get in.” His brother sounded almost proud that he’d managed to stop the demon, even if his hands were practically destroyed as a result. 

“How often did- does he take over like that?” Stan asked, pouring some of the antiseptic onto a cotton ball, beginning to dab it over the wounds. He wasn’t sure how much good it would do with the scabs but he felt better applying it regardless. 

Ford’s hand twitched, and Stan heard a quiet pained hiss escape his mouth before he responded. “Whenever he can.” Stan looked up and caught his brother looking down at his knuckles. “He likes pain, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. And he isn't bothered by it, not like a person is.” 

Every new piece of information Stan was told, every fact Ford admitted, had Stan wishing he could believe Ford had become well-versed in fiction, but his brother had never been a good liar. It cast a greater shadow over their situation, making it seem all the more doomed. He liked to believe that over the years he’d worked out tools and surefire strategies to handle any asshole thrown his way. But Stan was more used to ‘world’s unhappiest customer,’ or ‘cop who made it their mission to ruin some guy’s day’ or even ‘mob boss with some trigger happy friends’- This was beyond anything he’d dealt with. 

He didn’t even know that ‘interdimensional dream demon’ was a problem that someone could be facing. Stan didn’t think that this was something that could be handled by a fist armed with his trusty brass knuckles. Nor did he think that lying or running would be helpful strategies either. Which left cheating as the only possible strategy, and how was he supposed to cheat a jackass that apparently knows everything?

Stan swallowed the doubt down, ignoring the lump in his throat, and began re-wrapping Ford’s hand. “Well, you can’t avoid sleeping forever,” He muttered, focusing on his work. “So, the lock on the basement door, your weaponized insomnia, have you tried anything else?” Stan asked, unsure whether he wanted Ford’s answer to be positive or negative. 

“Many things, nothing works though, it's all more amusing to him than anything.” Ford adjusted his glasses with his free hand. “I was- I was hoping to return to where I first found him, see if there’s anything there I missed that would help me evict him, even temporarily. Had you taken my book, that was my next step.” 

Anything Ford suggested sounded good as long as Stan didn’t have to come up with the plan. “What, was it some cursed library book or something?” Stan pressed, hoping with everything he could muster that the answer was that simple, and they could just run into town when the storm passed and be done with it. “Or like, I dunno, a weird door?” He secured the bandages on Ford’s hand, and began working through the other one with scissors.

Shaking his head, Ford huffed a sardonic laugh. “No, I’m afraid it’s a lot more complicated. It was in some caves, deep in the forest.” He explained, no humour in his tone despite how much Stan hoped he was joking. 

Stan began snipping away at the other bandages and sighed. “Nothing’s ever easy with you Sixer, now is it?” Pulling the bandages off, they seemed to have pasted themselves stuck to Ford's skin. Stan didn’t see anything off at first, finding damage similar to the other hand; Likely broken knuckles, dried blood, bruising, nothing that should be causing them to stick like that. And then his eyes caught a puncture wound in the centre of his hand, fresh compared to the others. The wound wasn’t large, but it looked painful and inflamed. Tacky blood surrounded the injury on both his palm, and the back of his hand. It had gone all the way through.

 “What the fuck,” He whispered, turning Ford’s hand over repeatedly, careful not to jostle it despite his shock. 

Unlike the other wounds, Ford said nothing, his head entirely turned away. Stan repeated the cleaning process with this hand numbly, ignoring Ford’s pained whimpers as he applied the antiseptic. Eventually, Stan reached the hole in Ford’s palm, and he knew without any doubt that this was going to be the most painful part of the process.

“Hey, wanna know something funny?” Stan began, trying to ignore the barely-there sound of his brother’s blood dripping to the tile floor. “These two teeth are fakes.” He pointed to one of his canines and the tooth beside it. They weren't his only fake teeth, but the others were a much longer, much worse story. One Ford never needed to hear about. “Some asshole knocked 'em out because I owed him money- but don't worry, I took four of his.” 

Ford looked back over to Stan then. He couldn't quite read his exact expression, but Ford's eyebrows were knitted, and his mouth was open. “Stanley," He began, "that doesn't sound f-” Ford cut himself off with a yelp as Stan began to clean the injury. “ Motherfucker! ” He shouted, pulling his hand back as Stan grabbed his elbow with his free hand to keep the cotton in place. 

Stan flipped Ford’s hand over carefully, eyeing the other side of the wound and readying the last cotton ball they had on hand. “And, you wanna know what else? I nearly lost a finger doing the dishes at some shitty diner one time. We woulda balanced each other out!” He didn't mention that he was only working the dish pit to pay for his meal when he got caught trying to dine and dash. Another thing his brother never ever needed to find out about. Stan might have a sizable collection of those.

With a loud cry, Ford recoiled hard as Stan cleaned the other exit point. He kicked a foot out, and knocked the desk back with a loud screech. Stan couldn't blame him. “Is it over?” Ford gasped, his eyes tightly shut. 

Picking up the roll of gauze once more Stan began working his way around Ford’s hand. “That part, yeah. Are you hurt anywhere else? While we’re down here and have this pulled out, y'know.”

“Not anywhere that you can do anything about. It’s all scrapes and bruises.” Ford looked anywhere else but at Stan or at his hand. There was a pretty decent chance he was lying, just from everything Stan had been told about Bill. 

Stan gave him a good look over, and to be truthful, it didn't seem like Ford was holding himself in such a way that implied worse injury. Maybe, based on the way he seemed hesitant to breathe deeply without holding a hand to his chest, something was up with his ribs. Didn't seem to be as bad as they could be if they were broken, more likely bruised, which there really was nothing Stan could do about. 

Maybe they'd both gotten good at hiding injuries over the years. 

He pushed himself to his feet, closing up the first aid kit. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, and Ford was no longer wearing dirty bandages, Stan felt the weight of the night resting heavily in his chest. He was tired, exhausted even, and if he and Ford were both exhausted, they’d get nothing done. “Right. Well, in that case I think I need to take like, a couple hours’ nap? That way at least one of us is runnin' on something other than coffee and spite.” 

Ford nodded, swaying as he stood, flexing his hands as much as he could with the bandages limiting his movement. “Yes, well, some of us couldn't sleep if we wanted to.” He said defensively. Stan didn't think his brother had realized the statement wasn't meant to be an insult. “The cot down here is comfortable enough, and I can bring better blankets from upstairs.”

“What do you mean ‘the cot down here?’” Stan asked, looking around the room to see if he could spot wherever this mysterious cot was left. “Why would I sleep down here?”  

The look Ford gave him in reply induced a particular kind of anger in Stan, the bristling and shoulder-raising kind. Stan had seen it multiple times before, but never directed at him; A steely glare with a cocked chin, the kind that screamed ' I know better than you .' 

“It’s too risky to sleep upstairs where Bill can touch you, it's much safer down here,” Ford said slowly.

Fuck no. It may not be the coldest or darkest place Stan had ever slept, but that didn't change the primal, irrational unease he was filled with in the lab. 

“I’m not sleeping down here with whatever the fuck that is.” Stan threw a hand in the direction of the portal frame, still looming over them. He didn't know an inanimate machine could be menacing, but it was. The only way Stan could describe the way it made him feel was small, like an animal in the crosshairs of a rifle. “Especially not while you're alone upstairs with your mind demon!”

Ford shook his head. “Absolutely not, need I remind you he can't get down here?” He argued, words ice cold. “On the off chance I fall asleep, I need to know you're behind a locked door.” His hands reached up to fiddle with his collar once more, tugging at the tie that already hung loosely around his neck. 

“The doors upstairs have locks, don't they?” When Stan arrived, he had shoveled the idea of being his brother’s protector once more over his frustration, packing it deep and cold over his temper that was itching to shout and rant over all the shit Ford had put him through. Now, he could feel as that anger began to turn boiling hot, melting the snowy layers and rising ever so quickly, turning his words harsh. “Why can’t I sleep up there?” He wasn’t quite yelling yet, but he was sure that if this conversation didn’t de-escalate in the next two minutes that he wouldn’t be able to keep his voice any lower.

Pulling so hard on his shirt that he popped a button out of place, Ford laughed, a cruel, breathy thing. “They’re not secure like this one, be reasonable, Stanley.” Ford said, condescendingly calm, the words sticking into Stan like knives . 

Stan clenched his hands into fists so tightly his knuckles crackled. “No, you be reasonable!” He shouted, swinging a finger in Ford’s direction. “All I’ve done since I got here is play nice so you would tell your stories about your anomalies, and-  and that demon!” Ford’s expression fell, his face growing suddenly slack. Something Stan had said had upset him, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. “I drove practically a full day to get here, not sleeping or eating in the hope that the minutes I'd save would ensure that I’d get here and find you alive.” Stan swung the hand he’d used to gesture at Ford and slapped it to his chest further punctuating his words. 

Even if it wasn’t truly Ford, even if his brother was fine- or as fine as he could be, Stan didn’t think he would ever forget that call. Could never forget the sinking fear and guilt that he’d come all this way to find his brother dead. Couldn't forget the churning nausea was so violent that if he’d had anything in his stomach, he was sure he’d have had to pull over to vomit. He inhaled deeply, blinking hard, realizing in that moment that his breathing had grown fast, ragged. The air burned cold in his lungs.

Ford shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes trained on the floor. “I didn’t ask you to come here.” He muttered bitterly, so quiet Stan nearly missed it. 

Scoffing, Stan shoved his hands back into his pockets, gripping the fabric inside tightly. “Yeah, well, I didn’t ask to get stuck out here with an ungrateful asshole like you.” He spat. “Seems like the universe gives a fuck about neither of us.” What else was new.  

That seemed to set off something in his brother, a spark igniting in his eye. This whole conversation his tone had remained restrained, barely a trace of the cold fury he’d worn on his face the last time Stan had seen him. “ I’m ungrateful?! I could send you out to find somewhere else to sleep!” Ford shouted, swinging his bandaged hands wildly. “No chance Bill could find you then! You should be thankful I’m letting you sleep in the lab, where you could break something else.”

Ford’s voice echoed throughout the lab, replaying the cruelty he had spit. Stan should’ve known this would be brought up. He should’ve known that Ford would be so petty as to throw the accident in his face. He didn’t know how he didn’t expect this- in fact, he didn’t know how the two of them had made it a whole hour without it coming up. Stan bit his tongue, his eyes growing hard as the anger finally boiled over, turning the snow he’d buried it under to slush. 

Some part of him, a part that sounded suspiciously similar to the way he did at seventeen, tried to insist that he deserved this. That he was a fuck up, and that the position Ford was in now was all because he couldn’t accept that his brother could find joy or success without him. Even as the waves crashed, and drowned it out, Stan could feel some part of it hanging on. 

All he’d done since he’d got that phone call was put his own feelings aside, shoving the past away in the hopes that he and Ford could move forward. Finally get past that machine and that college. Stan was never one for believing that time healed any wounds, but for a moment there, he thought he could hope. No, twelve years and a fancy grant later, and Ford was still as furious as he had been the day Stan got kicked out.

His breathing grew rapid again, so loud he could hear it even as blood rushed in his ears. In his pockets, his hands twitched, itching to hit and shove. Stan’s jaw trembled, poison and bile building up in his mouth waiting for the right moment to crack back with everything he was thinking, every heinous thought he’d ever buried.

He felt his toes curl, his hands forming an all too familiar position. Ford was never the fighter between them, and with his weakened state it would be so easy to pin him. To let a decade’s worth of pain and anger go. 

But Stan couldn’t. And wouldn't. And with a deep, heavy breath, he put the fire out, letting his anger fade to a mere simmer. Despite how badly he’d wanted it, he let his body relax. 

Stan was no stranger to sleeping in his car, and if he were anywhere else in the goddamn world, he probably would’ve just gone and done it. But he’d never tried sleeping in it through a storm like the one Gravity Falls was currently besieged by. Stan had barely survived through ones that were much less severe. He would have to play into Ford’s hand, but he didn’t have to like it. 

“You want me to sleep in your basement? Fine. I’ll sleep in the fuckin' basement, maybe I'll trip over some shit when the lights are out, who knows?” Stan relented, throwing his hands in the air, dropping his voice from a full on shout into a hiss.

Ford showed no sign that he’d noticed any of Stan’s personal conflict. If anything, he seemed relieved that Stan was giving in. 

Stan shoveled another load of snow on top of his annoyance. 

“You’re insufferable. But fine, yes, ruin more of my work if that will entertain you- just stay down here.” Ford emphasized the last part of his sentence by shooting Stan a grave leer. 

“Sure. Whatever. I’m doing what you want, can you go the fuck upstairs now?” Stan waved his hand, gesturing in the direction of the elevator. The more time Ford stayed down here, the likelier it was that Stan lost control of his temper and got thrown out. Again. Instead, he focused his energy into unzipping his jacket.

Seemingly hesitant, Ford looked from Stan, to the elevator, to Stan once more. He opened his mouth to speak, before shutting it with a soft click. “Yes, I suppose that’s logical.” Stan didn’t watch as Ford walked away, instead he listened to the distant sounding footsteps as he shrugged his jacket off. Then, quietly, just after the ding of the elevator door opening, Stan heard his brother speak once more. “Goodnight.” 

Stan froze, his mouth kept firmly shut. He didn’t move again until he heard the elevator door’s close. Leaving him alone in the shadows of the lab.

Chapter Text

Stan would never say it to Ford’s face, and he would never admit it aloud in general, but he really wished Ford had found the cot for him before he went upstairs. The lab wasn’t all that cluttered, but there was enough of the same-y electronic stuff lining each wall, and every surface had its own set of tools, parts, blueprints and a whole bunch of stuff Stan couldn’t recognize.

By the time Stan found it, tucked against a wall and covered in even more junk, he was shivering with his jacket tied around his waist. A less stubborn man probably would’ve put it back on before the chill had a chance to set in. Instead, Stan told himself over and over that he’d find it soon, and wouldn’t have to worry about the cold anymore. Which, of course, is not what happened. 

The world however, did not continue its cruel trick on him for long, thankfully. Once he’d successfully located the cot (and removed all the loose machinery from it) it appeared to be in fairly decent condition, especially when considering that nobody had used it in weeks. It was a little dusty, and the blanket that was left haphazardly draped across it was stained, but it appeared to be better than what he’d had while in prison. Not like that was all that hard to achieve.

The problem Stan had after was trying to figure out the best spot to put the damn thing. As far as he could tell, there were more bad options than good ones. He couldn't sleep anywhere near where the elevator was, even if it was less cramped; the blinking lights that lined each wall would've been a nightmare to try and sleep with.

Stan also didn't want to sleep anywhere in the portal’s room, for a multitude of reasons. For one, the layout was way too open, and even if Ford was sure nobody could get down, Stan didn't think that was a risk he wanted to take. And that wasn't even mentioning the paralyzing fear the triangular frame filled him with whenever he caught it in his vision. There was no way he was subjecting himself to that if he didn’t have to. Especially not if he was trying to sleep.

Giving the room another examination, Stan decided, albeit reluctantly, that the corner where the desks were was the best spot to leave the cot. There was enough space between them for the cot's frame, and they would block out the lights from the servers. They would also keep him covered from any potential demonic intruders.

He grabbed one end of the cot, wrapping his hands around the cool plastic bar and giving it a hard tug, pulling it towards his body while it protested with a piercing shriek. It wasn't all that heavy by any means, and Stan didn’t think it would be hard to lift, but if he dragged it, he could scuff some of Ford’s fancy floor. 

It’d serve him right, after the conversation, or rather the argument they’d just had. Even in the period of silence he’d found himself in after Ford left, Stan wasn't sure how he felt about it all. Part of him was screaming to just pack up and go, look out for his own skin instead of his brother’s for once. That Ford wouldn't do the same if their positions were swapped, if Stan was the one that needed help. 

But the other part, the softer, more sentimental part that the world had been fighting tooth and nail to beat out of him, insisted that it couldn’t be true; and that even if it was, it didn’t matter. Ford was still his brother, even after all this time. The whispered ‘goodnight’ as he’d gone back upstairs had to mean something. 

Stan didn't want to listen to either part of himself. 

So he didn't. He forced down the urges that begged him to run while he had the chance. Pushed away any remaining hope that his and Ford’s relationship wasn’t as damaged as he thought. It felt like going against his very nature- trusting his instincts had kept him alive this long, after all. But this was not a usual situation, and if he had to behave unusually to keep him and Ford alive through it, he’d do what he needed to.  

He dropped the cot beside the desk that, less than an hour ago he’d been sitting at, getting along better with his brother than he had in years. He’d been glueing pieces of their shattered relationship back one by one, until it had fallen apart again. Phantom cuts stung on the palms of his hands from picking them up off the floor, bleeding red all over the porcelain as he clutched them tighter and tighter. Stan was tired of going around in circles. Tired of throwing blame and insults as though that changed anything.

Much like his heart, his hands felt raw from the strain of dragging the cot all the way across the floor, and his back had a dull ache from bending over to do so.  Stan rubbed his palms together hoping to alleviate the pain while he rolled his shoulders back with a loud crack. The aches still lingered, but faded more back to their usual, more forgettable amounts of hurt. Then, he turned his attention back to the cot. 

Stan stared at it for a moment, considering if there was enough dust on there to justify cleaning it off, or if it’d be fine to just flop onto. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting of the lab, but it didn’t look exceptionally dusty, especially after he’d just slammed it against the floor. And with how tempting the thought of giving up and lying on the cold ass tile if the bed needed any more care was, it wasn’t a hard decision to make. A little dust couldn’t hurt him, at least not badly. 

The lightswitch was further than he’d liked, but the flickering glow from the monitors allowed just enough light for him to find his way back to the cot without tripping on anything. While Stan was tempted to stick to his threat and knock something over on purpose, he wasn’t entirely sure that he could muster the energy for even that. Especially now that the adrenaline, which had been slowly dwindling, faded fully away, reminding him how long he’d been awake.

Untying his coat from his waist, Stan sat onto the cot with a loud creak. Ford hadn’t thought to leave a pillow down here, which, if Stan were any less sore, wouldn’t be a problem. But as it stood, he had spent over ten hours in his car, and between that and the tension from moving the bed, his back was killing him, and that would increase by at least half if he didn’t have some kind of pillow. He folded his jacket awkwardly in the dark, shifting it around in a whole variety of ways before it shaped into something more full and comfortable looking. 

With how cold the basement was, he would’ve preferred to use it as an extra blanket, but there was no chance in hell he was going upstairs to ask his brother for anything. Especially not for something as trivial as a pillow. Instead, he opted to keep his boots on- despite the extra bulk, the warmth they provided would serve more importance than the comfort from not having them on. Similarly, he tugged his mittens on as well, pulling them out from the inner pocket he’d tucked them into. Stan laid back onto the cot, throwing the surprisingly soft yellow blanket over his body. It wasn’t the worst sleeping set up he’d ever had. It was dry and private at least. 

Stan laid there for a while, listening to the quiet thrum of machinery, and his own breathing. Every so often he would shift positions to get more comfortable on the cot as the beckoning warmth of sleep threatened to take hold at any moment. Without anything else to catch his eye Stan found himself staring up at the roof overhead. 

The ceilings in the lab were high, and draped so thoroughly in shadow that they left room for Stan’s mind to conjure a whole assortment of images in the void. Images of the demon taking his brother while Stan slept, clawing and banging on the door itching to get inside. Of him taking Ford’s body and making good on his threat, dunking him in the closest frozen lake. Or taking a screwdriver between eye and bone and pushing. 

He swore then, that he heard a scraping sound upstairs, much further upstairs than he could ever reasonably hear. A mad cackle followed by banging, once, twice, and then the scraping began again. Stan heard the sound of a body thrown against metal over and over, cries of rage and frustration broken up only by the amusement pain gives the demon. There’s a dull splash of blood spilling against the floor. 

Stan’s body itches to move, to get off of the cot and back up the elevator just to make sure Ford is okay. It’s not real, it couldn’t be, there is no way for him to ever hear noises that quiet from all the way on the bottom floor. That elevator ride was long, long enough for Stan to know they were deep in the earth. It was enough to calm his quickened breathing, but not enough to stop his pounding heart. 

Then, he heard the sound of something sharp scraping and scratching against bone, the cackling growing louder and louder. He could hardly make out the sounds of screaming above the laughter, his brother’s agonized cries. Scratching, squishing, screaming, and then nothing. Something splattered against the floor, followed by that familiar dripping of blood.

Clutching the fabric of the blanket tighter, Stan blinked hard, forcing the visions of a lifeless eye laid out on the floor in a pool of red away. Of his brother’s face (so similar to his own) with a gaping socket where the eye once was, leaking blood down his cheek. Stan reached a hand up to feel the skin around his eye, swearing his hands came away sticky and crimson even with the low light. 

He felt it slinking down his face, running down the curve of his jaw. The world began to feel heavy as the blood continued to pour, staining his shirt and likely the sheets as well. Stan pressed his hand back to his face, hoping to quell the bleeding, but the gore slipped between his fingers. Gasping, Stan looked around the room, back glued to the cot- something had taken his eye, something had gotten down the elevator. Something that stalked soundlessly into the room and reached invisibly over his face.

The shadows along the walls had teeth, grinning and cackling with wide yellow eyes. They reached out to him, grabbing at his body. Stan couldn’t move, could hardly breathe as they cut into his old wounds, his scars. Each sending a bloody and long-repressed memory with the pain. Pulsing agony coursed through his body, as he blinked up at the ceiling, paralyzed. He could still hear Ford screaming and begging for help, could vaguely make out the sounds of his name within his desperate pleas. 

But he couldn’t move. 

Red rose higher and higher, tacky, thick and all-encompassing. Soon it would be over his face; soon Stan would drown in his own blood. The shadows closed in further, digging their hands into his open injuries, they found purchase on his bones, squeezing with their cold inky black limbs. Snapping and popping echoed throughout the lab, but Stan couldn’t scream as the blood began to enter his lungs.

All he could taste was metal, a taste that was familiar, but nonetheless terrifying. He was closed in, nobody was coming to save him, he was going to die alone. The only thing on Stan’s mind was the myriad of things he could’ve done differently. Could’ve skipped the heists, could’ve made better bets, laid off the booze and the cigs, avoided the mob. Could've left Ford’s project alone. 

He began to choke, wheeze, anything to try to force air into his lungs. But every breath drew in more blood, rising above his head. Stan couldn’t see anymore, the whole world was painted in shades of crimson, yet he could still hear the howling laughter of the shadows. He couldn’t feel their hold anymore, however. Stan didn’t know if it was because nerves were destroyed, or if they were leaving him alone, a crown jewel of torment for the end. 

The knowledge that he was leaving Ford behind to deal with his demons was perhaps the worst part, Stan realized despite it all. Stan promised to help him, to protect him. And yet he still failed again . Letting his brother down seemed to be what he was best at, out of everything in the whole entire world. 

Would Ford be upset or disappointed? Would he still mourn, after everything Stan had done?

He didn’t have a chance to consider the answer. The world went dark as Stan felt his eyes flutter shut, succumbing to the pain and the asphyxiation. 

When his chest stopped moving, and the pain faded away, Stan felt himself begin to sink. Falling slowly as though in quicksand, the world felt like honey around him, thick, cold. He didn't dare look, scared for what he would see. Scared that the world- or wherever he now was- would be half-dark, one eye left sightless for eternity. 

Stan floated for a while. He didn't feel anything solid beneath him anymore. He felt his body rocking slowly, a feeling that he could only describe as being similar to waves pushing a boat side to side. His limbs fell limp, and he no longer felt the warm blood that had soaked through his clothes and into his skin.

I’m sorry about that display back there. I didn't realize he’d already visited you.

He opened his eyes then- two eyes- looking for the source of the voice. Stan was suspended in what appeared to be some oversized fish tank, filled with what looked like water, and yet didn't call his lungs to panic for air. Pale pebbles were strewn along the ground, in purples, blues, greens and the occasional pinks. Against the wall, what must’ve been a water filter, bubbling with a soft hum. Spinning around, Stan saw that the tank was fairly lavishly decorated for a fish, with bright green plants swaying with the current, and a gold painted treasure chest tucked in one corner. He didn't see where the voice had come from, however.

Until he looked up. 

“W-what are you?” He asked, pushing himself away from… it. The creature was large, larger than anything Stan had ever seen. It stared down at him with an unblinking stare. Its pink body appeared to be amphibious, with frills flowing out on each side of its head and large unblinking eyes. “Where am I? What happened?”

The creature made no move to open its mouth as it spoke. 

I am the Axolotl, and I’ve come to you in your dreams to convene. But I fear something else got here first. It swam through the tank allowing Stan to get a better look of its full body. It was striking, and so otherworldly that Stan was sure it could only be related to Ford’s portal in some way.

It was only then that he processed what exactly the Axolotl had said. It was in his head, the display he’d just witnessed wasn't real. It was the result of something, no, someone else.

 Oh. 

“Bill Cipher?” Stan asked, remembering what his brother had said about the demon. How it entered his head whenever Ford slept, how it liked to hurt him and make him afraid. He recalled how the beasts had cackled, how it had preyed off his fears. Was the demon trying to scare him into leaving his brother behind? Stan reached a hand up, finding no pain as he felt around his eye. “What does he want with me?”

The Axolotl bobbed, flexing its frills. As you guessed, he’s trying to make you abandon your brother. It said, sending a rush of uncomfortable coolness through Stan. He supposed it made sense that the Axolotl knew what he was thinking, considering it was in his brain, but he didn't have to enjoy the knowledge that it could do that. You’ve ruined a lot of his plans by sticking around. By not… It trailed off. It's better I don't discuss other worlds with you. 

Stan heard the chest open behind him, followed by a wisp of air as it blew bubbles. He focused on the sound it made, a light pulse before shutting with a click, focused on the chipped painting of the castle tucked in behind the Axolotl. Anything except what the creature had said, what it had implied. “Other worlds,” Stan muttered more to himself than the Axolotl.

His mind raced, imagining what could have occurred. Visions danced through his imagination, taunting and wispy and so similar to what Bill had shown him. Other worlds. Worlds in which he left Ford, in which they played Bill’s game, in which one of them was dead. Or worlds where they both were.

It is unwise to linger on this train of thought, Stanley. The Axolotl said then, pulling him away from each agonizing idea. Those worlds are not your own; the choices made, the events that transpired, you will never know them. It swam down further, almost as an act of comfort. What matters is the world you are in now, and what you can do to avoid their fates. 

Stan trembled, heaving a deep breath. He didn't like any part of the situation he was presently in. It felt more real than any dream he ever recalled, very similar to the way it had been since he’d fallen asleep that night. It was unlikely that this was purely a dream, as much as he’d hoped it was. However, real or not, this strange pink thing offered help to kill Bill. And, while Stan didn't really trust this amphibian all that much, or even know as much as he’d like about Bill, he’d seen how terrified the demon made his brother. It wasn't- it wasn't dangerous to just hear the thing out. Probably. 

With a sigh, Stan shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, okay, I’ll bite. Tell me what your plan is.”

The Axolotl’s frills twitched, and the frigid cold of the tank seemed to fade for a moment as it swam closer. I have been able to construct a weapon, something powerful enough to kill Cipher in one shot.  

Stan liked the sound of that- he’d seen first hand how badly things could go if the first strike wasn’t a knockout. Not so much anymore, now that he had the strength to keep himself up, but there was a time in his childhood where he’d beg under his breath before boxing that he’d take his opponent out before the fight began. Facing Bill, the demon, was probably going to be more similar to those than anything from more recent years. 

I’ve constructed it using… past failures, let’s say.

“Who’s failures? Mine and Ford’s, or yours?” Stan asked, a spark of defensiveness igniting within him, even if the amphibian hadn’t exactly said anything worthy of it. At least not yet. While the physical expression of the Axolotl didn’t change, Stan felt its gaze grow heavier. It didn’t have to say anything, he knew what it was communicating. The half formed defence died on his tongue and made way for shame. “Never mind.” He muttered, pressing his tongue tightly to the roof of his mouth. “So, how do we use this weapon? ‘Cause last I checked, this guy is in my brother’s head.” 

Its expression stayed unmoving, but the heavy feeling never left. Indeed, I fear you will have to destroy his physical form. Which means being on the same plane as him. Stan pushed himself backwards, further away from the Axolotl and back within the cold of the pool. This means you will have to go through your brother’s portal, and face him in his dimension. The Nightmare Realm, as he calls it. 

Stan had only met the demon once technically, just moments ago, if the figureless shadows of his nightmares could be counted. But between that, and the state of his brother, Stan was sure he didn’t want to see what that demon found so awful he called it The Nightmare Realm.  

“No way,” He argued, shaking his head. “That sounds like a fun field trip that’ll end in our horrible deaths. Couldn't we summon him into our world? With one of those- Luigi boards or whatever, I’m sure we could find him.”

There was a chirping noise that Stan could only assume was a laugh of some kind. He was getting real sick of being laughed at. 

I think you’d much prefer meeting him on his turf than taking him into yours. The Axolotl chided. This world would crumble under even a brief reign of his. 

“Fucking great.” Stan spat as low as he could, he didn’t love the idea of cursing in front of a deity, but exceptions could be made if said deity was sending him to his death. “So how does this weapon even work? Is it like, I dunno, some glowing sword?”

The Axolotl didn’t say a word, instead it seemed to focus on something in front of it, something that wasn’t Stan. A glowing ball of light manifested in the tank if he squinted he could make out a ring circling the perimeter an array of symbols drawn along the inside. It rotated a few times, before sliding past his hand and into his pocket. Stan pulled his hand out reflexively, but it seemed no different, the light stayed in his pocket, pulsing with a dull warmth. 

That light will manifest into the weapon. The form it takes is up to you. However- do not pull it out until the time comes. While the creature spoke with little to no tone in its words, Stan didn’t need to be told twice to leave the weird light in his coat. 

He nodded, tucking his hand back in, and feeling its warmth. “Got it, anything else I gotta know or am I just gonna wake up and plan for the worst trip in my whole life?”

I’ve heard rumours about Bill’s realm, albeit I’ve never been myself . The Axolotl began, circling around Stan. It has no laws of any kind, including laws of reality or physics. Anything is possible, and Bill knows how to use that to his advantage. You must be prepared for anything. While the Axolotl always spoke with an overly serious tone, there was something about this specific instruction that felt more important than anything else. 

Stan wasn't sure how they could beat a guy with control over reality itself, but before had a chance to inquire about that, or even fully process what that meant, the Axolotl was speaking again. 

He also has a number of allies and hired help; it will not be an easy task.

Scoffing, Stan swam up, out of the Axolotl’s circle. “It doesn't just sound ‘difficult’, it sounds like you're setting us up for failure.” His hair spooled out in every direction, floating weightlessly in the water. “Neither of us are a picture of good health, and if we get there and we're outnumbered and unprepared, we're just going to die.” 

The Axolotl was silent for a moment as though considering this. I could stop him, and the beast he’s sent after your brother from reaching the house. Temporarily, of course, but perhaps for 48 hours? The Axolotl faced Stan once more flexing its frills. Would that be sufficient?

“The what he sent after Ford?” Stan questioned, voice growing pitchy with shock. “Yeah- 48 hours, whatever, what is he going to do to my brother?” Scenarios ran through his head, gory and miserable, and so similar to the horrors Bill had shown him. Except this time they were all real. And all possible, apparently.

Silence dropped over the tank once more, Stan heard the distant hum of the filter. The Axolotl seemed hesitant to answer, while it had no expression, the weight of the silence was palpable.

It… specializes in the removal of eyes. The grace period Bill gave him is almost up, but I can only extend my protection once you are awake.

Removal of eyes. No wonder Ford was so shaken when Stan had arrived out of nowhere. He had to wake up, he had to get to Ford before anything happened. “Is there any other important shit we need to know to survive, or can I go?” Stan spoke quickly, words slurred as they spilled out of his mouth. 

I’ve told you all I can, what's next is up to the two of you. The Axolotl did not seem to get the memo that they were in a rush, and continued speaking at the exact same pace it had throughout the whole conversation. You need to work together, trust each other. I don't know when I will be able to get another attempt at this.

Stan had known since this conversation started that his life was expendable to this creature. It lost nothing but the weapon if he or Ford died, after all. But to hear it stated so plainly, that there could be another version of himself out there set to fix his mistakes, it was a deeply uncomfortable thought. He swallowed hard, rolling his shoulders back. 

Responding equally as quickly as before, Stan pulled his other hand out of his pocket. “Yeah, sure. We’ll do our best, whatever.” Blinking once, Stan pushed down his unease. He had other things to focus on, like getting his ass back to his brother. 

When Stan was young, he’d had lucid dreams fairly often, every few months or so. His mother had always said he’d had a gift, that being aware of dreams came from her special bloodline, or whatever. She must've been drunk when she’d said it though, because not only had he not had one in years, but there was nothing else special about him. 

But, what he could do, even after all that time, was pull himself out of a lucid dream. Without responding to the Axolotl’s warning, or its blessing, Stan began to swim up. The water only got colder as he went, still not soaking his clothes, yet somehow cutting right to the bone. 

The Axolotl stayed below him, not speaking but he could still feel its gaze on him as he swam higher and higher. The fish tank decor appeared so small from this high up, the fake seaweed swaying lightly. 

Good luck . It whispered, right as Stan breached the still layer of water at the top of the tank.

With a gasp he woke, trembling on the basement cot. Breathing heavy, he felt an unfamiliar cold. surrounding him on all sides. Suddenly the portal frame didn't feel as dark or looming as it had before. Pressing a hand into his pocket, Stan was met with a familiar warmth. 

The damn bastard kept its word. And now Stan had 48 hours to keep his.

Chapter Text

Stan had thought the elevator ride would be less uncomfortable without Ford. He assumed that the claustrophobic weight of the mechanism was partially contributed to by the tension between them. But no, somehow it was worse, and by the time it stopped at the top floor, Stan was so nauseous he took the steps two at a time to get back to normal sized rooms. 

He didn't know how long he slept. There wasn't a decent clock or anything downstairs, at least not one that Stan saw while he was all but running out of the lab. It had to have been a while, if the sluggishness and foul taste in his mouth were any indication.

Ford wasn't all that hard to find, thankfully. Stan found him in the living room with a massive cork board leaning up against a pile of science equipment. The number of papers on the floor in the room had nearly doubled, and Stan found himself checking the floor for pins before he stepped. 

The man himself was leaning against the equipment on the opposite wall and muttering things Stan couldn't hear. He didn’t seem to notice that Stan had entered the room, fully focused on his board. One of his hands was raised mid air, holding what appeared to be a container of dental floss, and the other was knotted into his hair. And, if he wasn't already the picture of stress with just those details, his upper lip was worked between his teeth.

Stan positioned himself beside Ford, pressing his body against a table and keeping a good amount of distance between them. “Since when did you start flossing?” He asked.

Visibly startling at Stan’s voice, Ford’s head snapped over to where he stood, dropping the container to the ground with a soft thunk. His face grew slack with relief when he saw it was just Stan, and he bent over to pick the floss up, using his other hand to brace him against the equipment. “I didn't, this was my assistant’s.” He said nonchalantly, lifting himself slowly to a standing position. “But uh, he didn't floss either, he liked to pretend he did.” 

“Adds up. So, what am I looking at?” Stan turned his attention to the corkboard. On its surface were photos and drawings alike, all of various creatures, places and people with the eyes gouged out. Each photo was labeled by a card with black ink on its face, bold enough that even he could make out pieces of the paranoid scribbling. Things about being watched, places being risky to travel to, and not being able to trust any of the human figures. And that was only the half he could read, the half he couldn’t, appeared to be entirely gibberish or a series of geometric symbols. The cards and images were all connected with red pins and dental floss. Despite that he asked, Stan didn’t think he wanted to know anymore. 

Ford hummed and folded his arms, switching the floss out for a mug of coffee he’d left on the machine. “Good question.” He took a long sip of his drink. 

Unhelpful. Stan looked from his brother back to the board. “So… what is it?” He pressed, hoping for a more insightful answer. 

Pushing himself off of the metal, Ford stumbled over to the board gesturing with his free hand. “It was supposed to be a planning board for destroying Bill. But at some point I think I just started pinning paper I ripped into the shape of a triangle.” Now that he mentioned it, Stan was able to make out all the stained pieces of paper pinned to the board that were haphazardly ripped into the shape of a triangle.

Stan blinked at the board a few times, trying to decode what the correlation between triangles and Bill could be. The only thing that came to mind was the shape of the portal, but that wasn’t related, right? It probably wasn’t all that important, he could worry about his brother’s mental state later, first he needed to share what had occurred in his sleep. “Right, anyway, I had some visitors in my dream.”

Ford crossed the room more quickly than Stan thought he’d be capable of with his current state of health, coffee spilling over the edge of his cup. “What did he say? Did he offer you something? You didn’t take it did you?!” He fumbled around in his breast pocket, pulling the flashlight out once more. Before Stan could get a word in, Ford was shining the light in his eyes again. “I should’ve done this right when you came up here, Fuck! I am such a fool.” He chided, more for himself than for Stan. 

Grabbing Ford’s hand and pulling it gently away from his face, Stan continued his explanation. “No, I didn’t take any deals, Sixer-” Ford ripped his hand away, tripping over himself as he cringed away from Stan. Another negative reaction, he’d have to remember that for later. “-even if you think differently, I’m not a total idiot. He didn’t even say anything to me, he just showed me these fucking terrifying visions of us graphically dying.”

“Oh.” Ford said, tucking his flashlight back into his pocket. He wrapped both hands around the mug, dropping his gaze to the floor. “He was trying to scare you then, force you away from me most likely. He never did like when I had other people around.” He seemed to consider this for a moment before speaking again. “Wait, visitors? What else came to you in your dreams?” 

Stan winced, this part would be harder to explain. Especially in such a way that would get Ford on board with the Axoltol’s plan. “It was this gigantic pink amphibian guy, the 'Axolotl’ it called itself. It said a lot of things, cryptic shit about other worlds and past mistakes or whatever.” Ford nodded, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. “But it also said that it could help us kill Bill, gave me a weapon and everything.”

Ford’s face lit up, and despite the creases and shadows of exhaustion, he seemed the most alert since Stan’s arrival. “Well that’s great news! What is it? We need to get working right away!” He put the mug back down with a dull thud, eyeing Stan curiously. 

Holding a hand up to keep his brother from getting any closer, Stan used the other to gesture to his pocket. “It’s in here, but I was told not to touch it until we’re fully ready.” He clarified, taking a full step back. 

“Well, what else are we waiting for?!” Ford argued, shaking his head. “We have the tool to kill Bill, we need to-” He trailed off gesturing wildly. “- go get him!” His voice echoed throughout the house, and he dropped his weight against the machine once more. 

Stan leaned back, pressing his elbows against the wood of the table with a sigh. “No, the weapon only works if its used on Bill’s physical form, which means-”

Ford cut him off, slumping over on himself. “Going to his realm, or allowing him to enter ours.” They were both silent for a moment, Stan watching as Ford began to wring his hands together. “Are you sure you can trust this- this thing , Stanley?” He argued, voice growing cold and uncertain. “If it wants us to open the portal and allow Bill to enter our realm just so we can use this supposed weapon to kill him, it must be working with him!”

Shrugging Stan stuffed his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the ball of light. “It wants us to go through the portal, not let him out. Put some magical barrier around us and everything too so we could figure out the best way to get there without being attacked, gave us 48 hours.” It was still warm in his hand, and now that he held it more closely he felt what appeared to be a faint pulse. “I’m not saying we can fully put our trust in this guy, but I think it’s our only option here. Especially because you didn’t tell me that something was coming after you.” 

Face drained of colour, Ford had the decency to look sheepish. “I didn’t think it was important.” He admitted, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. 

“Yeah? It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill Bill with no eyes? That didn’t sound like an issue to you?” Stan argued, shooting Ford a steely glare. His brother said nothing in response, his lips pressed tightly together. “We got lucky this time, some not-fish deity was looking out for us, but we won’t get lucky again. If we’re going to work together, you’re going to start telling me things.” 

Ford scoffed, quiet and barely perceptible, but nodded. “I guess I can do that.” He agreed quietly. “I should probably head downstairs, see if there’s a way I can develop a feature that opens and closes the portal automatically after a set amount of time, otherwise we’ll be stuck out there.”

There was no way that Ford would be able to fully focus on any project right now, and Stan didn’t want to risk that on one as critical as this. The thought of getting stuck in The Nightmare Realm because Ford’s exhaustion had him slip up and make a mistake was not exactly a comforting one.

“Actually, I was thinking that maybe you should, I dunno, get a few hours of sleep.” Ford looked horrified at the mere mention, his jaw resting slack and his nose wrinkled in disgust. Stan waved his free hand. “Don’t give me that, with the barrier up, that demon and his friends shouldn’t be able to reach here. Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable in your ability to work on bringing us home safely if you were running on more than coffee and adrenaline?” 

Ford appeared to want to argue, holding a hand up and everything, before dropping it back to his side. “I suppose you may have a point.” He ran a hand down his face, pushing his glasses up his head. “But, if we’re going to try, we need to take precautions. You’re going to need to tie me down, and tie me down well .” Ford stated, his voice grave.

A laugh escaped Stan’s mouth before he could stop it, and Ford’s brows furrowed once more at the sound. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, tying you down isn’t an awful idea.” Stan reassured. “I’m just thinking, like, if this demon doesn’t have a normal reaction to pain, would he not just dislocate your body to escape?”

Stan felt bad about bringing it up when he saw how Ford’s already tired face grew more worn. “He probably would, yes.” Ford admitted. “And I imagine any other bindings would likely be a similar story, I… what if- you stayed in the room with me, just in case. You’re stronger than me, you should be able to take me down if he does seize control.” 

It was a bad plan, a terrible, horrible plan. But, Stan had felt the protective spell go up, had to trust that the Axolotl meant it when it told him it would keep them safe. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice not to. “Yeah, I can stay with you. Where’s your bedroom?”

“Over that way, but I think it’d be better if we went to my study, it’s more of a choke point in case he tries to run.” Ford punctuated his directions with pointing, and began to head forwards in the direction of his study. His steps were unsteady, and every so often he’d have to stop and brace himself. Stan followed closely behind, ensuring that he could catch Ford if he needed to.

With a moment of peace, Stan found himself directing his attention internally, comparing how he felt to how he’d been feeling before sleeping. While that nap had been supremely helpful in clearing some of Stan’s own lethargy, he found that the gas station snacks he’d consumed on the way up to the house weren’t doing much in the way of hunger. He could poke around Ford’s cabinets for something to eat, maybe sneak off after Ford fell asleep. If there weren’t any signs of the demon of course. Besides, he should probably start packing for their trip, picking through Ford’s stuff to see what would be suited for their mission. 

After the stunt he’d pulled in the basement, he’d probably deserve it too. Abandoning Stan down there with the portal, assuming his holier than thou mannerisms. It would be a better usage of their limited time for sure, ensuring that they were thoroughly prepared and both in better physical condition. 

Stan considered it for a moment before shaking the thought off, as tempting as it was, the potential argument that followed would be a waste of time and energy. Not to mention, he could picture Ford's distress when he woke up alone so clearly, wondering if something had happened to Stan while tugging at strands of his hair. If he could avoid putting his brother through that, he’d prefer to. 

Soon they arrived at Ford’s study, which seemed to be untouched by the general chaos of the house. Locked behind an ornate door, they found a relatively small room, appearing larger only with the furniture tucked against the walls and the large blue rug on the floor. There was no bed or cot, but there was a decent looking couch with a blanket thrown over the top, and a ratty pillow tucked against one of the arms. 

It was clear why Ford wanted to sleep here instead of in any of the other rooms in the house. Unlike the disaster of blood and paper and whatever other horrors that cluttered them, the study was more of an organized mess, with most of the junk residing on shelves or tables rather than the middle of the floor. More resemblant of their childhood room than a murder hut. Stan figured that it was unlikely that Bill or even Ford had touched this room in a while.

Ford sat hesitantly on the couch, his shoulders practically up to his ears with tension. He pulled the  comfortable looking blanket across the couch and onto his lap, but still made no move to lie down, his gaze was focused on the floor.  “How necessary do we think this actually is? I’ve been functioning just fine, it’s not worth the risk.” He argued, before Stan could even speak. 

“I wouldn't call nearly shooting me fine.” Stan challenged, adjusting the pillows on the couch until they lay at a more comfortable angle. “I know you’re scared, but we’re low on options here. You know that.” Stan sat on the protruding end of the couch, putting distance between him and Ford. 

Kneading the blanket with his hands, Ford inhaled deeply. “Scared is underselling it.” He muttered, his jaw set tightly. “The last time Bill had my body he…” Ford trailed off, clenching the blanket tight. “I can’t go through that again, I can’t wake up confused and sore because of his petty game.”

Stan gently pulled the blanket out of Ford’s grip, holding it gingerly in his hands. “You won’t. I can’t promise that he can’t take over, I don’t know enough to know if the protection extended to your deal.” Ford shrunk further in on himself, tugging hard at his sleeves. “But, I can promise that I’m not gonna go anywhere. If he tries anything I’ll knock him out. I won’t let my guard down, not until you’re awake, okay?”

Ford said nothing for a moment, remained unmoving save for the uneven rhythm of his chest rising and falling as he breathed. Then, slowly, he turned his head, looking at Stan over his 

shoulder. “Don’t forget to check my eyes. If they’re- if he-” He cut himself off, face tense with frustration. “The sclera will be a sick yellow, and the pupils will be dark slits. That’s what you’re looking for.” He pulled his flashlight out of his pocket, offering it to Stan with a trembling hand. 

He nodded, tucking the light into his own pocket, the opposite one the weapon was in. “Yellow with slits, got it.” Stan patted the fabric twice for emphasis. “You’re gonna be okay, I swear.”

Without taking his coat or shoes off, Ford let himself slump down onto the couch. He rested on his back, unease written on his face as he stared up at the ceiling. Stan threw the blanket over him, smoothing it down for good measure, taking care to avoid making contact with his brother’s chest. Crossing the room, he flicked the light off before settling down in the only other chair in the study.

Stan listened to his brother toss and turn, struggling to settle. It was hard not to, when that was the only noise in the room aside from Stan’s own thoughts. He could see why Ford had picked this room as his study. Between the unlit fireplace, and the warm reds and oranges of the stained glass window it was a comfortable space. 

He found that if squinted he could picture how his brother would’ve fit into it. Sitting on the couch with multiple books open, perhaps taking notes in the journal he’d been so keen to have Stan take. All of the lights would be turned off save for the lamp, with a small fire lit on the hearth. Perhaps, on a colder night, like the one Stan had arrived during, he’d tuck himself under the blanket on this very couch, reading one of the well-worn books found on the shelves. If the lab was a space that Ford would have only dreamt of, the study was like a false memory of their childhood imported into the cabin. 

Looking at the Ford that lay on the couch, and the Ford that must’ve inhabited this space once was similar to matching an array of puzzle pieces to the picture on the box. The pieces of the brother he knew were still in the paranoid man he’d become, but Stan couldn’t for the life of him figure out how they’d all fit together. Stan knew he wasn’t the same person he’d been before the science fair. If he was entirely honest with himself, which was rare enough as is, he’d assumed that ‘Stanley Pines’ was a person long buried at the age of 17. 

Maybe, much like his brother, there were still pieces of the boy he was before it all. Fragments that have been broken and restitched together in a near unrecognizable fashion. Maybe Ford felt the lack of recognition in the mirror too, the dissonance that could only come after losing everything. Perhaps, even in their suffering and loss, they were still twins. 

The thought caused a jolt in his heart, poking at a wound that had assumed had long scabbed over. He hadn’t had time to reflect on the Axolotl’s words, what they meant for him, for their mission. Stan thought about years of silent phone calls and biting words, of dodging the discussion of his brother when talking to his mother. Then he though about where he was at the present, perched in his brother’s mildly comfortable chair, listening to his soft snores. Not quite warm, but not exactly cold either. 

‘Trust each other’ it had said, like it was that easy. Neither Stan nor Ford has had another person in their corner in a long time, neither of them had been in each other’s corner in a long time. The days of cheating off of test papers and punching bullies in the nose were long over, the simplicity and nostalgia of childhood had long since faded. How were they supposed to return to what they were? To trust indefinitely?

Between the secrets, the pressure and the closed curtains. Stan was sure that their relationship would never be the same as it was before. That what had broken between them could never be mended, never the same strength that it was. 

But maybe that was a good thing. They’d changed as people, why couldn’t they make something new? It didn’t have to be recognizable, it just had to be theirs. Maybe they could escape the previous pitfalls of their past. 

He couldn't do it by himself, this wasn't a hole in his coat, or a flat tire. If they had any hope of fixing themselves enough to beat Bill, Ford would have to make an effort too. Even if forgiveness wasn't on the table, he would need to be willing to try. 

A week ago, Stan would've thought it impossible. So sure that Ford wouldn't ever want anything to do with him again. But now, after however long it's been, after Ford’s story, and his hands, and this bedside vigil, he thought they had a shot. A shot to bring their walls down and maybe just maybe be brothers again.

He had a lot to think about.

Ford woke around three hours later, pulling Stan from the haze he’d found himself in as he jolted up straight immediately upon waking. Holding at his chest with one hand, and squeezing the blanket with the other. His breathing was ragged stared unseeingly at the blanket he’d be tucked under. He blinked rapidly, his face tense with pain. Ford said nothing, but uncertainty and anxiety wracked his frame.

Stan crossed the room then, feeling around for the flashlight in his pocket to fulfill his promise. It was unlikely that after three whole boring hours the demon would awaken instead of his brother, but if only for Ford’s peace of mind, he would do as he was instructed. He flicked the flashlight on, shining it quickly in each of Ford’s eyes, sure enough the irises were still their warm wood-toned brown. Although the right one was still quite bloodshot, Stan didn’t think that was relevant here. 

“Looks all clear to me.” Stan said, turning the flashlight off and tucking it back into his pocket. He sat on the couch across from Ford, careful not to make contact while his brother was waking. “No signs of the demon, you got a good three-ish hours too. How are you feeling?” 

Still clutching his ribs as his breathing began to slow, Ford shifting his gaze up to Stan. “Not awful.” He replied breathlessly. “He really didn’t do anything?” His voice was small, afraid to believe what Stan was saying no doubt. “I just… sat here, the entire time? No-no gallivanting across town barefoot or throwing my body down a flight of stairs?”

Incredibly concerned, but unwilling to press further, Stan decided to keep on the initial subject of how Ford had slept. He shook his head and gave his shoulders a roll, they were stiff from his hours in the chair. “Nope! Snored too! You must’ve really needed that.”

Ford hummed, dropping his hand down into his lap as his breathing slowed to a pace that was likely no longer affecting his injured ribs. “I really did.” He agreed wistfully, blinking a few more times before straightening his posture. “Alright, time to get to work I suppose.” Swinging his feet onto the floor as he spoke, Ford moved all too quickly for a man who could hardly stay on his feet a few hours ago. 

Stan followed suit and stood, reaching his hands out in case he had to steady his brother. “Back to work? You just woke up!” He argued, trying not to raise his voice. That would just escalate things and that was the last thing they needed right now. “You're not gonna, I dunno… eat? Have a drink of water? Literally anything else?!” He placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, making sure to keep his movements obvious.

Straightening out his coat, Ford shrugged Stan off. “You said we’re on a time limit, it wouldn't be wise to waste time with a meal.” He stated as though it was an obvious fact and not the worst decision Stan had ever heard, knowing first-hand how a lack of food could affect a person’s ability to function. He didn’t know how long it had been since Ford had properly eaten, but judging solely on the state of his kitchen, Stan had to assume it was a while ago. “I’m already not very confident in my ability to figure this out on my own,” Ford admitted, wringing his hands together and ducking his head in shame. 

“Yeah but you can take like 10 minutes to have a piece of toast or something!” Stan challenged, tucking his rejected hand back into his pocket. He pushed down a rogue feeling of hurt that surfaced at the action, Ford had never been one to enjoy physical touch after all. “You look like you haven't eaten in days, it can’t hurt.”

Ford adjusted the rest of his clothing methodically while Stan spoke, seemingly more aware of his unfortunate appearance than he had been earlier. “I think you’ll find it could. I’ll eat later, once I get a good start on this portal.” He stated stubbornly, his firm tone recognizable as one often used by their parents, one that meant there was no room for argument. 

Stan didn’t want to cut his losses, but there was nothing stopping him from making something and bringing it to Ford anyway. Much like he’d done in high school during their exam seasons. Instead, he chose to change the subject. “What about me?” Stan asked, voicing a question that had been lurking at the back of his mind since they’d begun to form their plan. If Ford was going to be downstairs, did he expect Stan to sit around and wait for him?

Pausing on his way out of the room and dropping his hand on the doorknob, Ford turned to look at Stan. “What about you?” He asked, not unkindly. 

“What should I be doing while you're working?” Stan began, punctuating his words with one -handed gestures. “Do you want me to like gather supplies? We don't know what to expect in the nightmare realm, wouldn't it be a good idea to not go in empty handed.” Over his years on the road, Stan had grown familiar with the very basics a person needed to survive in pretty much any climate. In this scenario, they didn’t even have a car to dump things in, whatever they brought into Bill’s realm, they’d need to be able to carry on their person. 

Ford considered this, scratching his chin with a free hand. “Yes, that makes sense I suppose, and it would keep you from poking around the lab. Should I make a list?” He inquired, feeling around on the table by the door for a spare sheet of paper. 

Stan wanted to retort, to argue, but instead he inhaled a deep breath, and held his tongue. “...Nah, I can handle it.”

Nodding once, Ford left the room without a word, leaving Stan in the study as he trudged up the hallway. Stan listened to the sounds of the creaking floorboard growing further and further away before he himself decided to leave the room. 

It felt like any effort he made to reach out, or to help his brother was met with scorn, with distance. He wouldn’t give up, not yet, not until Ford was safe. Swinging the door shut with a soft click Stan decided something, then and there. He was going to do everything in his power to prove himself to his brother, prove that he wasn’t the same selfish idiot who screwed everything up all those years ago. 

And he was going to start, by prepping the best damn gear and supplies for their mission. Better than Ford could ever even fathom doing on his own. 

He just needed to figure out how exactly someone prepared for a place they couldn’t even understand. 

Chapter Text

If Ford were in Stan’s shoes, Stan was sure that the first thing he would do is begin to write a list, ensuring that he’d written down everything before even looking for a bag to stuff things in. It’s what Ford had always done, marking down school supplies, tools and parts needed for their boat, even grocery lists for their Ma sometimes. However, Ford had his own pair of heavily-worn shoes to be wearing, and lists had never been Stan’s thing.

Stan was more the type of person to follow his gut, pack whatever seemed to be the most important, and hope that nothing that was forgotten was all that important. He didn’t have room for error this time, though. If he forgot something important he couldn’t just run to some corner store and stuff it in his pocket, if he forgot something he and Ford might not make it out of the Nightmare Realm alive. 

So, instead, he grabbed an empty enough looking piece of torn paper off of the floor, and pushed the cork board down the hall, wheels squeaking as it moved. Then, with a pen in one hand, and a protein bar in another, Stan settled back into Ford’s kitchen. 

The first few items on the list were simple enough, things that even without the list he’d never forget. Basic necessities like food, water, and a change of clothes. After a quick glance through the fridge and pantry, and finding not much besides empty packages, cobwebs, and a few concerning bubbly liquids, Stan determined that he would likely need to run into town and borrow Ford’s wallet if they had any hope of eating anything besides cardboard and spiders. 

In a similar barren state, Stan was concerned about the lack of medical supplies Ford had on hand. Aside from the near empty first aid kit, Stan hadn't been able to find anything else in the house, Bill’s torture running Ford’s supplies dry. He considered the items they already had, before ultimately deciding to just pick up everything. It wasn't like he was paying. 

Next, Stan contemplated additional weaponry. While they had the Axoltol’s gift, he was pretty sure that was a one-time only kinda deal. What with the whole ‘only when the time is right’ thing. Which meant they’d need something else to protect themselves. The good news was that Stan never went anywhere unarmed, and the better news was that, if the absurd greeting was any indication, neither did Ford. 

The rest of the items added to the list were basic survival items, like rope or a flashlight. Those kinds of things Ford appeared to have in abundance. Tucked away in various nooks and crannies of the house, he found pretty much everything he was looking for. The only thing Ford didn't have on hand was a lighter, at least not one good for travel. Which, thanks to Stan’s less fun habits, wasn't an issue. His beat up silver lighter had been refilled dozens of times over the years, and he had no doubt in its ability to hold up for their trip. 

Which brought him to the end of his list. Merely looking at the items he needed to purchase or otherwise acquire out in town made his chest hurt. He couldn't think of a recent time he’d picked up this much stuff from anywhere, much less paid for it. And while he had no intention of paying for everything on this list, it still filled him with a deep churning nausea. That or it was the fact that the only thing he’d properly eaten in days was an old protein bar from the bottom of his bag. Either was likely. 

Thankfully, he got to stall out the actual act of going to the store a bit longer as he had to run the list by Ford, and locate his brother’s wallet somewhere in the disaster of a house. But once both things were done, there was nothing else stopping him from hopping in his car and taking it into town. And this wasn’t something he could procrastinate. 

As he drove away from the property Stan noted that the cold feeling that had encircled him since the Axolotl and given him its protection seemed to fade. They were still well-within the time limit, so that probably meant that the shield rested over the shack, not over him and Ford individually. That was a disconcerting idea that Stan pushed out of his mind the minute it struck him. He’d be back in the shack soon enough, and he had doubts about Bill having any interest in the lesser twin. If he stayed on guard, he’d be fine, and there was rarely a moment where he wasn’t anyway. 

Stan’s first stop was a convenience store on the outskirts of town. While a grocery store would be more cost effective for their food and water, this store was, from his experience with stores like it, easier to steal from. It was smaller, sure, but grocery stores always had people stocking the shelves, or families getting their food for the next week. Nobody had any fucks to give in convenience stores, and while he prided himself on his slight of hand, the uncaring attitude always helped.

He was able to tuck two small boxes of protein bars in his coat, alongside a few bags of beef jerky. The larger stuff; the canned vegetables and case of water bottles he brought up to the check out. Even though the store was quiet, Stan felt as though every other patron in the building had their eyes on him. He awkwardly shuffled from foot to foot, keeping a firm hold on Ford’s wallet in his pocket, a reassurance that it was there, that he belonged in this line. 

Stan ran his finger along the worn leather, feeling to ensure everything was in place, reminding himself of where it all was so he wasn’t fumbling at the checkout. The coins are in a zippered pouch, the cards all line the outside in little pockets and the cash is in between. 

He hadn't been this nervous when shoplifting since he was young, he'd gotten good, gotten comfortable . That comfort had gotten him in more trouble than his anxiety had, and all it took was one small mistake to throw off their whole plan. Stan had to pull this off perfectly so he didn't let Ford down, and get them both killed. If he’d get caught, it’d be at the crucial moment he was presently faced with.

“Excuse me, son, are you planning on paying for that?”

“What?” Stan’s head snapped over to face the clerk who had spoken. An older woman with white hair, and thick-looking glasses. She wore a nametag that simply read ‘Ma.’ Likely not her name, if he had to guess. 

Ma didn't appear to be upset with him, at least. Her mouth was curled in a grin, and she had an eyebrow quirked, punctuating her question lightheartedly. “You’re next! You’re just standing there.” She amended, resting a hand on the counter. 

Blinking a few times, Stan realized only then that the person that had been in front of him had already left the store. Covering for his wince, Stan bent over to grab the container of water and drop it heavily on the counter. “Oh, right I guess I am.” He’d really have to sell the rest of this interaction after that blunder. 

She began scanning his items, putting them in a paper bag as she went. Stan opened his mouth to speak before Ma spoke. “Say, I don’t think I’ve seen you in here without grabbing a coffee before.” She stated consideringly, looking up at him, recognition in her gaze.

“A coffee?” Stan asked, wondering briefly who exactly this woman was mistaking him for. 

Ma hummed, tucking the last few things in the bag neatly. “Yes! You always buy a large to-go coffee when you come by. Haven’t seen you in a while, you been busy in those woods?” Right. Sixer. It had been a long time since anyone had gotten him and Ford mixed up. His stomach tugged uncomfortably with nostalgia and discomfort. Stan wasn't used to that anymore.

Pulling Ford’s wallet out of his pocket, Stan counted out bills that matched the total on her screen. “No, I- that’s my brother. The scientist in the woods, I’m visiting him and figured I’d grab him some groceries.” He gave her his winner’s smile as he grabbed the bags off of the counter. “You know those science types, always busy.”

She shook her head, drumming her fingers against her till. “He always seems to be in a rush, do tell him that the old lady at the Dusk 2 Dawn wouldn't mind a hello sometime!” Ma stated, a look of annoyance crossing her face. “God knows I’d much prefer him than those teens that hang out outside.” 

Stan was sure he was missing something, but he didn't think he wanted to know. “Will do.” He said, turning around right before exiting the door. “And uh, thanks.” He added as an afterthought. 

Ma called something out behind him, he didn't quite hear what she said. However, based on her tone he assumed it was a goodbye or a you’re welcome or some other typical retail thing. Stan shuffled out of the store, snow crunching beneath his feet and he tucked the bags into the backseat of his car. 

The snowstorm that had been brewing since he’d pulled into town was really starting to form, Stan figured he probably had time for one more stop before it became too hard for him to drive. The Stanleymobile could handle a lot, but she hadn’t seen a winter in at least five years, and she hadn’t seen a winter like this ever. Not to mention the rural road Ford lived on could be deadly in this kind of weather. 

Thankfully, the other places he had to go weren't far from the Dusk 2 Dawn.

It was no shock that the camping supplies store was empty in this weather, nobody would be planning a trip in a blizzard, not even people looking for a winter excursion. Despite this, the store was cozy, with a fire lit on the hearth, and a variety of tools for all seasons lining the shelves. However, due to its layout, the cashier would have eyes on him from any angle in the store. Stan decided not to test his luck and opted to pay for everything he needed. Ford probably wouldn’t even notice the difference anyway. 

Despite his caution, The cashier barely paid him any mind, instead he appeared to be entirely focused on a catalog that read ‘Lumberjack’s Monthly.’ Which, while frustrating, was definitely preferable. Stan didn’t think he could take someone else mistaking him for Ford so soon. 

When they were kids, it happened more often than it didn’t. From teachers at school who never really learned- or cared -about the differences between them, to customers at the pawn shop and even their own parents sometimes. Their mother used to put them in wildly different colours or outfits so she could tell them apart without checking their hands before Ford got his glasses. And Stan didn’t think their father could ever really tell them apart, calling them both ‘Stan” more often than not.

Just thinking about it made his head hurt, memories of a simpler time that, while probably not nearly as good as he remembered, was still held dearly in his heart. The carefree, carelessness of youth. It formed phantom feelings in his body when he thought too hard about it. Feelings of running up a beach with sand in between his toes. Listening to his mother chatter away with a customer through the thin walls of their apartment while he watched Ford’s expressive hand movements as he explained something. The taste of blood on his tongue from a particularly good sock to his jaw, and the smell of must that lingered in the shop. 

He hadn’t been back to New Jersey since he left it. Most of the time he tried not to think about his time there, not out of upset or bitterness, not anymore. But instead for the intense feeling of loss and longing he was met with. The kind that burrowed into his very soul and threw the rest of his day off. 

This was turning into one of those days.

Gnawing at his lip for a moment, as he tucked his purchases into his car, Stan decided at that moment that he needed a cigarette. He’d been good about not doing it at Ford’s house, knowing how his brother felt about the acrid smell of smoke, so he’d have to do it here, and do it quickly  so he could make it to the drugstore and back to Ford’s house before the storm really kicked in. 

Stan pressed his back against the logs of the store, fumbling with his lighter and using a hand to block out the breeze. The sooner he got this lit, the sooner he could get back and avoid the worst of the storm, and-

“Stanford?! Stanford I thought I saw you go in there!” A voice cried frantically followed by the sound of stumbling footsteps approaching rapidly.

Startling, Stan dropped his lighter into the snow, just barely keeping a grip on his smoke. It was starting to feel like this town was out to get him. He had assumed, apparently incorrectly, that it was going to be Bill or some other awful creature that wanted him dead, but apparently the townsfolk were more intent on it. 

The voice in question belonged to an exhausted looking man with dark blond hair. His glasses sat lopsided on his face, and he wasn’t dressed properly for the weather, wearing a thin-looking suit jacket rather than anything with actual substance. Most intriguing, however, was the fact that his hand was resting on something inside his coat. Stan stared apprehensively at the hand, playing an internal game of ping pong to decide whether or not he believed this guy was going to pull a gun on him. 

He stared at Stan, eyes blinking rapidly before something shifted in his gaze. Whatever recognition he’d found in Stan, seemed to fade away. “I- sorry, I thought you were someone I know. My memory’s not up to par lately. I’ve been mistaking things, and getting lost and-” He cut himself off. The man pulled his hand away from his coat and ran it through his hair, tousling it furiously. “It doesn’t matter, I’ll get out of your hair before I make more of a fool of myself.” He apologized with a nervous laugh, rocking from foot to foot. 

Stan examined the man, pulling apart each piece and considering what they could mean. From his anxious demeanour, to his formal, yet disordered attire. He was willing to put his life savings, which, albeit was very little, onto this man having been the person working with his brother. Ford had been careful about not mentioning any specific details about the man, or what incited his absence, but the way this man held himself was far too similar to how his brother did.

“Nah, ‘s alright, I get it a lot.” Stan waved him off, ignoring the lingering ache, taking a drag instead. “I’m his twin brother, Stanley. He called me up to help him out with a few things.” He had to be careful with his wording, he had no proof this man (who he decided to call ‘Twitchy’ in his head, if only because it was better than ‘the guy’) was who he believed he was. “You his friend?” That was probably easier to explain away than assistant, in the worst case scenario.

Twitchy seemed to consider this, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he responded. “Yes, at least, I think so? I… I think he was at my wedding? Or was it a funeral… or…” He trailed off, a grim look crossing his face. “He's not still trying to- to do whatever it is he's doing is he!? Dragging everyone else into his mess… he’s going to end the damn world with that nonsense!” Twitchy spoke frantically, his pitch raising with every word, the most coherent he’d been since this conversation had begun. Stan watched as his hand inched back toward the inside of his coat. 

Lifting his hands hesitantly in the universal sign of surrender, Stan let his cigarette fall into the snow. “E-easy, man. Nobody’s tryin’ to end the world-” 

Cutting him off with a shout, Twitchy retreated inward on himself. “You don’t have to try! You’re gonna do it anyway!” He pointed a finger at Stan, his knuckle trembling from the tension. “You’re going to help him destroy us all, unleash that- that monster onto this world! Fear- fear the- fear.” Twitchy was gasping, losing his balance and stumbling to the ground, and yet his grip never dropped from what was inside his coat. 

Every instinct was screaming at Stan to run to his car, and leave this man to his rambling before whatever was in his coat wound up pointed at him. But despite it all, his feet remained planted to the floor. Stan didn’t think this guy knew that Ford had shut the portal down, because what else could he be talking about? He doubted that his brother had another secret basement floor with another potentially-world-ending machine. “Hey.” Stan called down to Twitchy. His neck craned upward, but his hand didn’t move from where it had once again found its place in his hair. “I understand that whatever you and my brother were doing together was terrifying and dangerous, but I promise you, he knows now. We’re doing everything we can to stop it, ensure that portal never gets turned on again.” 

Except for the time in like a day when he and Ford needed to go through. But Stan didn’t think this guy needed to know that part. At least not right at that second.

Dropping his hand from the coat, Twitchy planted his palms into the ground. “I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it, huh. ‘S not like I have any interest in rejoining that mess.” He admitted with a grimace. “‘Sides I could always…” He trailed off again, looking away from Stan, expression lifeless. “You’d better run off back to Stanford, I have my own business to attend to anyway.” He stood then, brushing off his clothes.

Stan nodded, the snow had started to fall while they’d been talking. He’d really have to hurry at the drugstore now. “Yeah, I… you gonna be alright?” He asked, pulling his keys out of his pocket. 

Twitchy shrugged. “I reckon I’ll manage.” He stated with a faraway gaze. 

Without the time to press further, Stan nodded once more and ran off with a wave and slid into the driver’s seat. He’d met a lot of people in varying stages of distress in his years on the road, and been in that position a few times. Yet he tried so rarely to be on the other end of it, the caring soul who really couldn’t do that much good anyway. There was something different about his brother’s once-friend, he didn’t know what it was. If it was newfound empathy in their situation, or, more likely, the tie this man had to his brother. Whatever it was, he didn’t have a chance to reflect on it as he pulled out of the parking lot. 

As he hit the road, Stan swore he saw a bright blue light flash behind the building. However, with how hard the snow was starting to come down, it was equally likely to be a trick of the light.

It was probably a trick of the light.

Stan pulled back into Ford’s driveway just in time for the snow to be laying down a thick blanket over the earth. It took three trips to bring everything inside, and once it was done, Stan collapsed onto Ford’s armchair, weighed heavily beneath the exertion and the events of the afternoon. 

He spent the rest of the day packing a bag for himself and for Ford while the wind howled outside. While he loved his duffle, Stan was also very aware of the impracticality of bringing it with them. Instead, he’d dug around Ford’s house until he found a worn backpack, and a brown leather messenger bag. Inside, he’d tucked all of the supplies he purchased, stolen or found around the house. 

They were a little heavy, but they’d work just fine. They were low on time now, and Stan was hoping that Ford would be able to get some more sleep before they went through, but he hadn’t checked on the construction in the basement yet. He’d been dreading it, dreading going back down where the shadows were armed with his darkest memories and fears. But he had to, if only to bring their supplies down.

With a bag on each arm, Stan descended in the elevator, which had thankfully been left behind an unlocked door. Ford had been very hesitant to, but even he had to admit that it was pretty important for Stan to be able to get down when he needed to. Besides, insisted that the anxiety of knowing the door locked should be enough to keep him awake and working on the portal.

Ford was slouched against his desk when Stan found him. His jacket hung on his chair, and his shoes discarded off to the side. He didn’t appear to notice Stan's approach, muttering quietly as he worked on a small device with a screwdriver. 

Stan dropped the bags on the floor with a soft thump, and leaned against one of the desks brushing some of the papers to the side. Ford snapped around to look at where he’d dropped the bags, shoulders lowering in relief when he saw Stan. He turned back to face his work without another word. 

“How’s it goin’?” Stan asked, craning his neck to try to see over Ford’s shoulder. 

“It’s go ing well. I think, I hope.” Ford stated, his back turned. He growled with frustration before spinning around in his chair to look at Stan once more, screwdriver still in hand. “I don’t have much more to work on, I estimate another two hours of labour? Maybe one?” He tapped the tool against his jaw with a hum. “Regardless, it won’t be long until we’re… there.” Ford spun back around, dropping his voice for the last word. 

He didn’t appear to want to explain any of what he was doing to Stan, which was fine, he didn’t think he would be any help anyway. While he knew his way around a set of tools, he’d never worked on anything like this before. Besides, he would probably just break something irreparably. “Shopping went well.” Stan said instead, settling into a chair while he watched Ford work. “Grabbed a lotta shit that’ll be useful. Like food, which you had basically none of, for some reason.”

Ford shrugged, and a low buzzing noise emitted from whatever he was working on. “Food has been the last thing on my mind lately, besides I haven’t been low for that long. Maybe three days?” 

The glare Stan gave Ford was intense, enough so that he’d be surprised if his brother wasn’t at least semi-aware of it. If he was, he showed no sign of it, however so Stan continued to talk. “Anyway, I also ran into a friend of yours in town. Lovely guy, seemed like he was ready to jump out of his skin, thought I was you. Said something about you ending the world or something.”

There was a dull thunk of Ford dropping his screwdriver onto the desk, but he made no move to grab it. “Did- did he say anything else?” He asked, voice hollow. 

Stan fiddled with one of the drawstrings on his jacket. This was, unsurprisingly, a sore subject. “Nah, that was pretty much it, had a hard time placing you in his mind though. Poor guy didn’t seem all there.” While his tone was nonchalant, Stan watched Ford carefully for any kind of physical reaction, trying to gauge any new information about Twitchy that he could. 

Ford’s body remained still however, eerily so. His brother had always been a fidgety person, having a hard time staying still no matter the circumstances. It had irked every adult they’d ever had in their lives, the one thing they tended to like Stan better for. He was upset, that much was obvious, but how much so was impossible to say without seeing his brother’s face. 

“It- um, he was my assistant. He got… hurt , while we were working on the portal.” Ford said emotionlessly, choosing each word carefully. “Things between us ended on bad terms, so I-I thought he’d have gone back home but-” He swallowed audibly. “-clearly that is not the case.”  Ford remained frozen for a few moments longer, his shoulders rising slowly as he breathed. “Never mind him. I need to get back to work, I can’t be distracted with so little time left.” Although, with the way he said it, quick and reassuring, Stan assumed the sentiment was more for himself than for Stan. 

They sat quietly for the rest of the time while Ford worked. Stan made it about ten minutes of watching without really seeing anything before the ticking of the clock above Ford’s desk started to get to him. Instead, he kept himself busy by organizing and reorganizing the stuff he put into their bags. First by contents, then by colour (more for fun than for practicality), and finally, and most conveniently, by putting an even amount in each bag, thinking hard when it came to odd numbered supplies.

Then, when he inevitably got bored of that, he got up to watch over Ford’s shoulder. Which was somehow more uninteresting than sitting and staring at the back of his brother's head. Ford was working on some kind of sleek watch-looking device, and every so often he would input something into a bulky screen built into one of the servers. Even when Stan was caught staring, Ford still opted to not communicate any piece of what he was doing. Unsurprising, but still a little hurtful when Stan remembered how much his brother used to love explaining every individual aspect of all of his experiments before. 

In the end, Stan decided to curl up on the cot he’d met the Axolotl on. He wasn’t sure he would fall asleep, especially not with the weight of what they had to do resting on his shoulders. But it was nice to lie down and stare at the backs of his eyelids for a while, he wasn’t sure when he’d get the chance again. 

Time passed like molasses, trudging heavily along while Stan listened to the clunking and shifting of Ford working at the desk nearby. It was a lot cozier than it had been when he’d fallen asleep on his own. Or well, as cozy as the lab could get. 

He must’ve fallen asleep though, because one moment he closed his eyes and Ford was still sitting at his desk. The next, his brother, and the watch were gone. Stan pushed himself upright, shaking off the enticing warmth of sleep and scanned the room for his brother. When he came up empty, he stood, bracing himself on the desk as the lingering lethargy threatened to drop him back down. 

Stan found Ford standing in the portal’s room, adjusting the settings on the watch, and watching the red numbers on the screen above the portal change. He turned when he heard Stan’s approach. “I think I’ve found a way for the wormhole to re-open itself after a set amount of time.” Ford explained, tapping another button. “Which means that we need a way to keep track of how long we spend in the Nightmare Realm, so we can ensure that we make it out in time, thankfully, we already had this device connected to the portal as a way to track its opening.” 

Sure enough, the time on his watch appeared to be synced to the screen. Both numbers read ‘168:00:00’. Hours, minutes, seconds. “So you’re giving us a week in there? Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?” Stan asked, having calculated how long that would be in his head.

Ford shook his head. “Not with Bill, the more time we have as a buffer, the more likely we will find success against whatever he throws at us. Are the bags ready to go?” He asked, nodding back in the direction of the server room.

“Yup, packed them with anything we could possibly need. Covered everything on our list.” Stan shared, proudly. He had not in fact fucked up the one task he was given.

Dropping his hand that bore the watch to his side, Ford inhaled a deep breath. “Okay, go grab those. The sooner we head through, the sooner we get this over with.” He instructed, clenching and unclenching his hands. 

Stan moved to grab them, pausing just before he left the room. “Wait, don’t you want to sleep first? We should have enough time for you to have a quick nap, Poindexter.” He asked, placing a hand on the doorframe.

“No.” Ford responded quickly, too quickly. “It’s better if we go now. I’ll be fine, I can’t wait any longer, I’ve been waiting too long.” There was a desperate tinge to his words. Stan didn’t know how long his brother had been facing this demon alone, how long it had been since his assistant had quit. But he had a feeling that it had been weeks. That Ford had been undergoing this hellish psychological torture for weeks. 

Long enough to break a person. He couldn’t blame Ford for wanting to move quickly now that they had a secure plan.

Stan lugged the bags back into the room, tucking the backpack over his shoulders and handing off the messenger bag to Ford as he ran around the room flicking different switches. He watched from a distance, until he noticed a teal glow behind him growing brighter and brighter with each button press. The wormhole flickered as it began to take shape in the portal, and anything that was over the warning tape on the floor started to elevate weightlessly. 

Taking another cautionary step back, he observed in awe, his jaw falling slack. After a few more clicks behind him, Ford stepped up beside him, bag slung over a shoulder. He looked over at Stan, his eyes hardened with determination. “Ready?” He asked, flicking his gaze once over to the portal. 

Clutching the straps of his bag tightly, Stan nodded. “Ready.” He agreed.

Together, in unison they crossed over the warning tape.

Immediately they began to feel the effects of the anti-gravity. Stan’s feet left the floor, and his body began to be pulled as though it were a magnet up and into the gaping mouth. The intense glow sent black spots across his vision but he couldn’t look away, mesmerized.

And then, with a quiet pop, he was swallowed into the abyss.