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It’s three days after the universe ended and began again, and Stanford Pines can’t stop shaking. He stands in front of the mirror in the upstairs bathroom of the Mystery Shack, six fingered hands clutching the sink for dear life. He looks at his knuckles and finds them white - the sight should concern him, but it doesn’t. He might have locked the bathroom door but he can’t remember. He hopes he did. He considers going over to check it but his legs are locked in place and the shaking will not cease. It had started in his hands but was quickly spreading, claiming his arms, and his shoulders and now his legs and knees too.
Things were almost too good lately. Stanley was recovering his memories at an incredible speed, although Ford wishes that he could be whole again even faster. After all, the whole situation was Ford’s fault. Even still, he will do his best, stay by his twin’s side and remind him every time his memory falters until it doesn’t anymore. He should be there now. He should. He can’t move.
So far Ford had been so good at hiding the effects that the apocalypse had on himself. He would slip out during moments the twins were busy with Stan, during breaks in the day, to change his bandages and clean his wounds. He was very lucky that it wasn’t out of the norm to see him in turtlenecks and long sleeves, as they covered not only his old scars but his new ones as well. He even waited, the first day they got back to the house, to lose consciousness until he went to the bathroom. He woke up, passed out on the floor, shakes wracking his body. He stayed there, face pressed against cool tile until the violent spasms had stopped. The kids hadn’t even noticed he was gone but Stan had. He hasn’t asked about it yet, though, seeming almost hesitant to intrude, and Ford hasn’t told him.
Because it’s embarrassing, if he’s being honest. To be free and safe for three whole days and for it to still hit him sometimes. To look around the house and be gripped with terror. He hates the way he has to lean against the furniture to make it through the room, hates the way his hands tremble and flinch without permission, hates the perimeter he has to patrol each night before he can possibly lay down for a fitful, nightmare-filled rest. He spent the last thirty years preparing himself for when this day came, for when Cipher was finally defeated and now? Now that it was true? He was hiding in the bathroom.
Ford grits his teeth, snarling at his reflection. The man in the mirror looks pale, circles under his eyes and a tense set to his jaw. His posture is rigid. His hands are shaking. If Ford were to see this man during his adventures in the portal, maybe in a marketplace or on the way to a detention facility, he would avoid them. Disheveled, he reprimands his reflection. Rancid.
Feral.
Ford shakes his head as if to displace the thought. He runs a hand through his hair, and the hand shakes with him.
“Stanford?” A familiar voice calls out.
Turning around quickly and falling against the sink, Ford sees Stan in the doorway. He looks hesitant, almost fearful, and for a moment Ford wonders if he’s having a memory lapse. There’s been one or two quiet moments, usually in the early morning after fitfully waking, where Stan has looked at him again with blank and confused eyes. It had been an easy fix, but each lapse worried Ford more than he liked to admit. He knew they worried Stan too.
“Is everything alright?” Ford asks. He cringes against the uncertainty, the wavering in his own voice. He might not be able to control his body but he should be able to control his mind.
“I should be asking you that,” Stan replies. Each step forward he takes is more confident, more himself, and by the time Stan reaches Ford he’s clearly present again. “You disappeared after breakfast. Kids are worried about you.”
Ford cringes. “I should be out in a minute,” he lies. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Uh huh.” Stan clearly doesn’t believe him. “Then I’ll wait here with ya.” Seeing no way to get out of this situation without damning himself, Ford nods. He turns back to his reflection, squaring his shoulders, before removing his hands from the sink. He stumbles forward, and Stan reaches out to steady him. “Easy there,” Stan says, guiding him back. Stan pauses, eyes widening. “Shit, you’re shaking. You cold?”
“I’m fine,” Ford mutters, gritting his teeth against the fear and embarrassment racing through him.
“Like hell you are. What’s really going on?” Ford turns his head away but Stan holds him firm. “Look, I’m not gonna judge. But I can’t help what I don’t know.”
I’m supposed to be helping you , Ford thinks, not the other way around. Some kind of brother I am. He takes a hand and pulls it away from it, absent-mindedly scratching it at his face. Can’t even do that right. Can’t do anything right. His fingers find purchase and he scrapes harder.
“Hey,” Stan says as he grabs Ford’s hand to pull his fingers away. As he grabs his wrist.
“Shit,” Ford hisses in pain, pulling away hard. There’s a hand wrapped around his and he’s in danger, he needs to get away, he’s not safe, he’s -
Stan lets him go. “Ford?” He asks. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
Ford breathes out, trying to displace the fog. For a second the room had flickered, the blinding light above them had darkened and turned red, the walls had slanted and fell in, Stan’s worried face had morphed into...into laughter. If Ford listens closely, which he doesn’t, he can’t, he can still hear the echo of that laughter.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, closing in on himself. Stan reaches a hand out, as if to help, but catches himself, taking his outstretched hand and putting it securely on his hip. “Don’t touch my wrist. Please,” Ford adds, and Stan doesn’t argue, simply nods.
“I’m gonna ask you questions now,” the conman says, “and you’re gonna answer them. Just a nod or a shake of your head, okay?” Ford nods. Stan exhales through his mouth. “Alright. Are you hurt?” Ford hesitates, a hand moving to his head as the world closes around him. “Ford,” Stan glares, “are you hurt?” Ford nods. Stan runs a hand over his face, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Was it from the whole apocalypse thing you keep telling me about?” Again, Ford nods. He refuses to look at Stan’s face, eyes roaming the floor. That’s the wrong move too. If he looks close enough he can remember the way the tiles looked splattered in blood. He wonders if there’s any of his blood left there, after all this time. “Let me see,” Stan says, hand outstretched.
“No,” Ford replies, face tilted to the floor.
Stan grunts. “That wasn’t a question.” Still he hesitates, hand inches from Ford’s. He won’t touch you unless you give him permission, Ford realizes. If he wanted to he could shoulder past Stan and leave this cramped space. He could still escape. It’s almost tempting, but instead Ford takes a trembling hand and places it in Stan’s outstretched palm. Even if it was forty years too late, he was going to trust his twin. Even if it hurt.
“Thank you,” Stan exhales, voice barely a whisper. He gingerly takes the cuff of Ford’s sweater and pulls it up, revealing the gauze Ford had put there this morning, already damp and slightly bloodied. Stan hesitates a moment, almost scared, before slowly unwrapping the gauze to a sight that Ford knows all too well.
His wrist is wrapped in damaged tissue, a thin red band where chains used to be. Ford can almost feel their weight. Instead he focuses on Stan’s hand lightly tracing the areas around the indents, on the way his brother lightly mutters.
“If you tell me you had these this whole goddamn time,” Stan whispers, “I’m gonna kill you.” Ford laughs, a small breathy chuckle that makes Stan’s face briefly light up. It falls again as he continues. “Are there others?”
Ford sighs. “Both wrists, both ankles, and my neck,” he admits.
“Shit.” Stan releases his hand, carefully rewrapping the gauze. “No wonder you were shaking.” There’s a pause as Stan wraps the bandages and Ford tries to be invisible. Just like in his childhood, it doesn’t work. “I want to ask how,” Stan finally says, “but if you’re not ready for that, that’s okay.”
Ford looks up, eyes scanning the ceiling. “Stop being so accommodating,” he grumbles. “I wish you weren’t so good at this.”
Stan laughs but it’s a gritty, hysterical sound. “Good at this? I have no clue what I’m doing. I barely got you back but fuck, I don’t want to lose you again.”
Ford’s hand reaches forward and tightens against Stan’s. “I don’t want to lose you either.” Ford exhales. “Bill...the demon who started the apocalypse, he wanted information from me. He captured me, he tried to get it out of me, and he…”
Stan’s eyes widen. “Ford...” he says.
Ford looks away. “I didn’t give it to him.” He tries to stay proud but it’s hard with the way his body trembles.
“Of course you didn’t,” Stan mumbles, but it’s fond.
“He tried...other methods of persuasion.”
Stan bites out a curse. “Is that what the shaking’s from?”
Ford shrugs. “That’s my guess but I’m not sure. Despite my specialties, I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Yeah,” Stan sighs, “we need to get you to a doctor right away. You’ve got these cleaned up well but there might be nerve damage. Who knows what that fucked up triangle did?”
Ford twitches, jerking backwards. “I don’t want anyone touching me. I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you don’t look fine,” Stan says. “You look like hell. I get it, I wouldn’t want anyone touching me after this either but it needs to get checked out before there’s any more damage or surprises.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Ford spits out.
Stan pauses. “Like that?”
“Like I’m some victim.”
“Ford,” says, voice tight. “I know you’re scared and it ain’t your fault that any of this happened.” Ford bites back his retort at that as Stan continues. “But there’s nothing wrong with being a victim. Doesn’t make you worth any less. So knock it out.”
Stan’s voice is fierce, his posture tense. “Sorry,” Ford mutters.
Stan exhales. “It’s okay,” he says, relaxing. “Shit, I didn’t realize until you said that how mad it makes me. But I’ve been there before. Plenty of times. Ain’t nobody's fault but the bastard who did it to you.” Ford goes to mutter but Stan stops him. “Nope, not gonna hear anything otherwise. It wasn’t your fault. End of statement. I may be an amnesiac, but I know that.” Stan takes Ford and gently places him into a hug. Ford tenses, ready to flee, and Stan opens his arms to let him move if needed. Ford slowly, carefully, returns Stan’s hug. The conman exhales a breathy laugh, returning his hands around Ford’s back.
“I’ll let you get me checked out,” Ford finally says, “if you go and get assessed with me. I don’t trust you to not pretend you weren’t injured.”
Stan laughs. “You can’t say nothing, you did exactly that. But alright,” Stan concedes. “If that’s what it takes.”