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There’s knocking at the door.
There’s not supposed to be knocking at the door. It’s no guest. Guests don’t come here. It’s an intruder, Ford is sure of it. He knows Bill keeps his word, in his own twisted way.
It’s here to steal his eyes. It’s here to beat him to a bloody pulp, knock him out so that Bill can take over and finish the portal, and then–
And then Ford will die. It’s obvious, Ford supposes– he’s been too defiant, too difficult, and once Bill gets what he needs, there will be no reason to keep a broken puppet around. Part of Ford is grateful that he’s close to reaching his end. The world owes him nothing, and he’s expecting nothing from it. He’s not sad about it anymore, it simply is. Ford Pines has nothing left to live for.
Save for keeping Bill from finishing the portal.
That is his sole reason to stay on this Earth. But he doesn’t have any wild premonitions of being humanity’s protector against dark forces. He’s the one who invoked danger. The least he can do is protect the world from it. From himself, really.
The world owes nothing to Ford Pines, and he wishes he were dead. But he still owes the world to keep Bill out of it. So he can’t die. Not yet.
Meaning, he must be prepared. He must stay alive, and he must keep his eyes while he’s at it.
Another knock.
His brain is foggy. There’s danger, he knows it. He knows it.
He grabs his crossbow and opens the door, but his fingers twitch. His grip tightens.
And before he can speak, he’s shot his twin brother.
“STANLEY!!”
It comes rushing back. The postcard. Ford forgot about it, with the threat of Cipher looming. How could he forget?
“LEE! N-NO, NO, I-I DIDN’T MEAN–”
The crossbow tumbles from his grip as Stan stumbles backwards and falls to his knees, blood beginning to squirt out from his neck, where the bolt has entered his insides. He makes an awful gurgling sound and still tries to speak through it, he’s trying, he’s trying, but Ford can’t interpret beyond the wet, wounded sound.
He crouches besides his twin, body feeling like it’s on fire. No, no, no, no Stan wasn’t supposed to be here this wasn’t supposed to happen why did he come why did he come I killed my brother, killed him killed him killed him–
Stan’s hand shoots out and squeezes Ford’s, eyes locked onto his brother’s. He has a knowing look. He’s afraid, but acceptant. He knows it’s not worth fighting. But Ford doesn’t.
“Stan, Stanley, don’t– listen to me, o-okay?! Why did you–” A ridiculous question. When has Stan ever not come? “Lee,” Ford sobs, openly now, pressing his face into Stan’s chest, barely able to keep the words out, “m’ sor– I-I’m so suh– sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry– don’t go, Stanley, stay with me, PLEASE, PLEASE I’M SORRY–”
He lifts Stan, whose eyes are beginning to flutter closed, into his arms and rocks him back and forth, unable to hear his own sobs over the faint gurgle of Stan’s throat. His neck, his chest are covered in blood, blood that is now on Ford’s hands, seeping into his skin, and Ford will never, ever escape it.
As Stan’s eyes close for good, and the gurgling fades into the air, Ford can’t stop repeating the same two words:
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry–”
Stanley needs far less sleep since being brought back to life. Ford strictly limits caffeine intake, which hurt a lot at first but, Stan can admit, probably is the root cause of the more constant energy he’s had in the past year. He thought maybe sleep would go back to normal, but to no avail. Apparently, zombies only need about five hours a night.
The nightmares don’t help either. He’s sure that his body probably has some innate fear of sleep, fear of more nightmares, memories he can’t escape. But tonight, the frustration is more mundane– it’s not that he can’t get back to sleep, he simply can’t get to sleep at all. Better than a nightmare, though.
Instead of spending hours laying perfectly still on the too-hard guest bedroom mattress (Stan’s bed, now. and has been for the past year, but Stan still can’t help but think of it all as temporary), Stan takes to watching the TV at a faint volume while his brother sleeps upstairs. Sometimes TV helps him forget.
He really ought to be grateful. Ford did all that work to bring him back (he’d killed him too, but it’s not as if Stan hadn’t tried that a few times too. Another thing Ford did better than his loser twin, Stan thinks.), so he doesn’t really deserve to be wishing to forget things. He’s got everything he could want, really. And he doesn’t even look that undead. A few odd, permanent stitches, a few grey patches of skin, and one of his eyes has a yellow base instead of white, now. And of course there’s the scar where the fatal blow had landed, which Stan usually keeps covered with a bandage or one of Ford’s turtlenecks. Stan doesn’t mind the mark, but he sees the way Ford stares at it with this guilty look on his face. The sight of the scar even reduces Ford to tears, once. So Stan keeps it covered. It’s just easier.
He feels emotion welling up at the thought of his brother. Guilt, particularly– the thing they have in common. Stan just hates it, is all– the way Ford looks at him like some sort of glass figurine, moments away from shattering. Ford holds himself completely responsible for Stan’s death, and any unpleasantness Stan may face post-death. Even though they’ve gone around in circles about the issue; Stan doesn’t blame Ford for acting (for lack of a better word) crazy when he was being tortured by a damn interdimensional demon for that long. Ford wasn’t in the right mind. He still isn’t, usually. Whatever screw was loose when Ford fired the crossbow completely fell out the moment the bolt made a home in Stan’s neck. Ford is anxious, quiet. He barely speaks, and he usually relies on sign language (something Stan’s picked up over the course of the year) or stuttery, one word answers. He doesn’t like being away from Stan hardly ever, and, though he won’t admit it, he has just as many nightmares as Stan.
Stan realizes that he hasn’t been paying attention to the television, too busy being lost in thought.
Then he hears a shriek.
There’s only one place it could be coming from, one person who could make that sound.
Stan dashes up the stairs to Ford’s bedroom (where he usually ends up sleeping most nights anyway) and throws open the door. He switches on the light– post-death, his eyes aren’t great at adjusting to the dark– and searches for the danger. He scans all the spots– the window is unopened, the closet is closed, and Ford–
Ford is asleep.
Oh.
A nightmare.
Better than something having broken in and attacked, certainly, but still not great. But Stan can handle it– he’s handled it before.
“Ford?” He still doesn’t fully recognize the sound of his own voice. It’s hoarser, after coming back to life. Like he somehow smoked ten packs a day while dead. “Ford, it’s a nightmare, that’s all it is. Wake up, Ford, please.”
To no avail. Ford continues to thrash, limbs tangled up in the sheets, crying out in a loud shriek. Damnit, he’s terrified.
“Ford!” Stan calls out, firmer this time, “You’re safe! You gotta wake up for me, okay?” He begins to shake the bed post. He doesn’t dare touch Ford. “Ford, please!!”
Ford’s breaths are quick and shallow, and Stan is beginning to grow desperate. “FORD!!”
Ford shoots awake, eyes wild and wide and panicked. He shrieks upon waking, bolting upright in the bed, breaths getting even faster. Stan thinks he might be hyperventilating. There are tears running down his face, and he looks entirely somewhere else. Stan has to get him to come back.
“Ford, Ford, hey, Stanford!! Breathe, okay? It’s alright, I promise you, you’re safe, it was just a dream, okay? Just a dream.”
Stan’s not sure what his brother's nightmare was about. Bill, he suspects. What he wouldn’t give to kill that bastard himself. He’s out of Ford’s head, for good, but Stan doesn’t like the idea of him being alive at all.
“Ford, listen, you gotta breathe. Don’t want you passin’ out on me.” Nothing. “Stanford, please.”
It hurts to see him like this, so different from the Ford Stan remembers from childhood. A guilt that Stan is unable to place blooms in his chest.
“Ford, listen to my voice. It’s Stanley, your brother. Your– your little brother,” he tries, grasping at straws. He and Ford used to argue about the fact that Ford was technically older, something he’d hold over Stan’s head in a pinch. He would call Stan his little brother to get on his nerves. He doesn’t pay the word any mind now. “Damnit, Stanford, please!!”
Finally, by some miracle, Ford’s eyes flicker to him.
“Good! Good job, Ford! It’s me, alright? It’s Stan, you’re safe, I promise.”
Ford doesn’t quite seem to understand, but at least he’s acknowledging Stan’s existence. Better than nothing. But he looks like he’s getting a little woozy– Stan’s gotta get him breathing.
Carefully, Stan perches on the edge and end of the bed, Ford watching every slight movement as if Stan is going to pounce on him.
“Can you try breathing in with me?” Stan demonstrates, taking a deep breath in through his mouth for three seconds. Ford looks at him as if he were an alien. “Come on, you can do it.”
Stan demonstrates again, then holds, and breathes out. Then again, and again, and again. Come on, Ford. Please.
Stan is halfway through an inhale when Ford practically lunges at him.
His hands come to Stan’s neck, and Stan flinches and panics, for a moment, before he realizes that Ford isn’t trying to strangle him, but he’s being gentle. His trembling hands run all across Stan’s neck– unbandaged and bare, at night, because bandages and turtlenecks alike tend to itch– and they’re searching, and Ford just looks so terrified, and his eyes are darting to every stitch, every uneven, discolored patch on Stan’s body, and it immediately clicks.
“Hey, hey, Ford, I’m alright, okay? I’m safe. I’m safe, I’m alive.” Ford only whines, as if Stan’s words mean nothing. “I know. I know, Ford. I’m right here.”
Ford whines again, hands finally slowing along Stan’s neck. When he seems sure that there’s no blood, no gaping hole, only flesh that’s been killed and brought to life again but is alive, alive, alive, his eyes move up to meet Stan’s, and he takes another shallow, terrified breath. His shaking only seems to grow. Stan’s best guess, now, is that Ford relived the day Stan died– not the day Stan was murdered– but hasn’t quite realized the reality of the brother in front of him. He’s confused. So Stan explains.
“I’m here, okay? Gotta breathe. You brought me back, remember? I’m alive because of you. You saved me, Ford. I’m here.” He takes Ford’s hands and squeezes them gently.
Ford squeezes back, then lets out a heart wrenching sob, and collapses into Stan’s chest. He yanks his hands out of the hold and instead opts to wrap his arms around his brother’s torso. He burrows in like a bear cub, legs curling up as he scooches forward and places himself in Stan’s lap, beginning to sob rather hysterically. It breaks Stan’s heart so much he feels like he might die all over again.
“Shhh, it’s alright. I know,” Stan coos, settling in a bit. Ford will be okay. He just has to get through it, and Stan will be with him the whole time. “I’m here. You saved me. We’re safe.”
He repeats the same mantra, over and over and over. I’m here, I’m alive, you saved me, you’re okay, we’re both safe. Stan says these things a lot, in the hopes that some day Ford will believe it all.
He rubs Ford’s back, making slow, soothing circles and soft noises of comfort. Assuring Ford that he’s alive. He can feel Ford’s anxiety in the way he’s holding on– he leaves no space, and his ear is pressed up against Stan’s chest, searching for a heartbeat. It hurts to think that there was a moment where he did that, searched for Stan’s heartbeat, and found nothing but dead air. And a dead brother. It briefly crosses his mind how stupid it is to feel guilt about dying. But it’s hard not to, with how it affected Ford. Stan got the easy part– he was the one that got to die. Ford’s the one who had to bring his sorry ass back to life. Stan owes him the comfort. And, quite literally, he owes Ford his life.
He doesn’t know how long they go on like this– Ford, squirming, crying, his head burrowed in Stan’s chest, and Stan rubbing his back and comforting him quietly. It could go on for hours. It has before.
But eventually, Ford hiccups and looks up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes, still leaking tears. They’re puffy. He sniffles loudly, and one of his shaking hands comes up to Stan’s neck again and runs gently over the raised scar.
“L–” He clears his throat. “Lee–” He struggles for words, still hiccuping. “Sor– sorry–” he seems to give up and attempts to sign a few words, then gives up yet again when his hands are shaking too badly for Stan to decipher. He can figure what Ford was going to say, anyway.
“Don’t apologize. S’ alright. I forgive you.”
Stan has taken to saying he forgives Ford, even though he doesn’t think it was Ford’s fault in the first place, not really. But saying that only ever seems to make Ford upset, so it’s better to simply forgive.
“Killed– mu-urdered–”
“No, you didn’t, so don’t fuckin’ say that.”
Another sob, and Ford is once again burrowing into Stan’s chest. Damnit. Stan was too harsh. He has to lighten the mood, somehow. Usually Ford’s a bit more calm by now, and the break from protocol is making Stan nervous. Which usually leads to him saying stupid shit.
“Hey, easy, Ford,” he says, an edge of humor in his voice. “You’re actin’ like someone died or somethin’.”
Yeah. Like that.
Ford lets out another cry and squeezes Stan harder, refusing to show his face.
“Shit, I-I’m sorry,” Stan stutters out. “Not funny. That’s on me, I’m sorry.”
Ford shakes his head furiously. Stan knows what he means.
“If I don’t have anything to be sorry for, then neither do you,” he murmurs, answering Ford’s unspoken protest. “It’s okay. We’re both alright, I promise.”
The remnants of Ford’s sobbing slowly taper off until he’s less clinging and more slumped, curled up in Stan’s arms like a baby, eyes beginning to flutter. He looks exhausted. He always looks that way, in all honesty.
Ford glances up, sleepiness clear in his eyes. He lifts his hands and signs, Sorry. Nightmare. Overreacted.
“You didn’t overreact, you were just scared. S’ alright.”
Woke you up, Ford signs.
“No, you didn’t. I was already up, watchin’ TV.”
Ford immediately looks distressed. Did something happen? Nightmare? Are you okay?
“Yeah, hey, hey, I’m fine, Ford. Just couldn’t sleep, s’ all. Happens.”
Ford still looks concerned, but his exhaustion is winning out. He nods, still frustrated, but seems resolved to let the issue lie until morning, when he’s sure to grill Stan about the whole sleeping thing. But that’s tomorrow. Tonight, Stan will make sure Ford gets some quality, dreamless sleep.
He adjusts under his brother–earning a frustrated, pouty noise– and shifts them so that they’re both in a suitable position for sleep. Not completely laying down, but laying against the pillows, Ford still buried in Stan’s arms and clinging on, legs folded up and partially covering Stan’s. He’s kind of like a big cat, it seems, sometimes. Stan can even swear he’s heard his brother purr a few times, but he doesn’t dare bring it up. He’s not that stupid.
Ford is already fading into unconsciousness, so Stan begins running a hand through his brother’s curls to speed up the process. Ford gives a little huff– he knows what Stan is doing– but can’t do much to fight it, and he’s asleep in a few minutes, still holding on just as tight, so tight that part of Stan thinks he’ll never let go.
That's okay, though. Not only will Stan let him hold on as long as he needs, Stan will hold on right back. They’re brothers; it’s what they do.
He could die a thousand times, and he could be brought back to life a thousand and one, and he’d still let Ford hold on with each new breath.