Chapter Text
This was a bad idea. The thought started looping through Stan’s head the moment he parked the car. Terror seized his chest, the familiar anxiety at any thought of his old life, of Ford, that he would have happily shoved off and ignored for another 10 years if given the option. This was a bad idea. He wasn’t ignoring it, now. And for his brother to have contacted him after this long…well he must be in some deep shit. Maybe deep enough that the problems of the past wouldn’t matter anymore. Hell, it wasn’t like Stan really gave a shit about them anymore. Things happened, things changed, end of story. That’s what he liked to tell himself, at least.
“Stop being a pussy,” he muttered to himself, a familiar mantra that tended to come before serious mistakes. He took a deep breath and practically lunged out of the car, slamming the door before he could change his mind. Fuck it was cold here. He’d been south for the winter the past couple years, not willing to brave the changing seasons when he wasn’t sure if he’d be somewhere with heat or, you know, walls . Each slogging, frostbitten step to the front door of this…spooky cabin? What the hell was he doing out here anyway? Was accompanied by another syllable.
This. Was. A. Bad. Id-ea. It proceeded like a drummer’s beat to his futile marching. By the time he reached the wooden steps, solid, if not slippery as hell (he nearly ate shit halfway up), he had almost managed to ignore the meaning behind the words. Look, Ford contacted him. It was on him to decide how this would go. Stan was going in with an open mind for once, and assume that things were fine. No reason to panic before he knew there was a good reason. He knocked before he could lose his nerve, and hadn’t even finished before the door flew open he found himself at the end of something very sharp, very shiny, and—was that a goddamn crossbow?
“Who is it? Have you come to steal my eyes ?” Stan leaned precariously, frozen. For a moment, he couldn’t see past the bolt, the finger on the trigger. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to be shot through the head right this fucking second, he stared at Ford instead. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small bit of him bloomed with excitement at seeing his brother’s face again, but mostly he was taken by surprise.
He didn’t know what he expected. Just a larger version of the kid he had known in high school, really. Stan knew he wouldn’t look like him anymore. Sure they were identical, but Stan hadn’t been the person who looked like his brother in a long time. New scars, constant stubble, greasy mullet, dirty clothes, couple new teeth…He wasn’t exactly his best self. Ford seemed to be doing just fine, last he heard, what with his fancy house up in the Pacific Northwest wilderness, so he had assumed that he would be more…stable.
“Well I can always count on you for a warm welcome,” he deadpanned, almost involuntarily. He still wasn’t able to take in Ford completely, what with the medieval weaponry in his face, and the snow battering him, and the fucking weirdness of this whole situation. Finally, after a million years, Ford let the crossbow drop, pointing at the ground.
“Stanley?” Ford looked genuinely confused, like he didn’t expect to see him here. For a moment, Stan wondered if this was some sort of elaborate setup. Then the confusion in Ford’s eyes hardened into something like understanding. “Did anyone follow you here? Anyone at all?”
“Eh, hello to you too, pal,” Stan grumbled, just a bit. Ford ignored that, and grabbed him sharply by the collar to pull him inside. Stan stumbled through the door, feet catching on ice, and barely caught himself as Ford locked the door behind him. Bolt. Bolt . Chain. Jeez, what was this guy so afraid of way out here? Could bears use doors? Stan barely had a second to think before a bright light was in his eyes, with Ford pulling back his eyelids to see clearly. He flapped his arms at him, not really trying to hurt him, but what the fuck . Finally he shoved him back, rubbing his eyes to see clearly past the spots now dancing in his vision.
“What the fuck, Ford?” he asked, indignant, confused, cold, pissed. Ford stood back, staring. His gaze darted between Stan’s eyes back, forth, back, forth, as though he was looking for something in them. Stan waited, expectant, but Ford’s blank expression changed to something almost embarrassed and he turned away.
“Sorry, I just had to make sure you weren't... uh, it's nothing. Come in, come in,” he offered, flapping his hand behind him as though he wasn’t being the weirdest guy in the fucking world right now. He darted from the room, long strides cutting over piles of books, notes, and…were those bones? Vials of suspicious liquids and powders and electronics were on nearly every horizontal surface.
Wow, this guy has really leaned into the mad scientist thing, huh? Stan thought to himself, growing concerned. What had he gotten himself into? Maybe he should have just stayed in New Mexico. He shook his head. No, clearly Ford was in some deep shit, here.
Stan stared at Ford, really taking him in for the first time. He noted his shaking hands, the relentless pacing he had picked up, back and forth through the room like a caged animal. He took in the unshaved face, the sunken eyes with dark shadows so deep they may as well be bruises. He looked pale and skinny, like he hadn’t been eating enough (and Stan would know). There was a bandage over one hand, covering the palm, and a dark stain on his coat—and that was another thing, he was in a full trench coat indoors— that looked suspiciously like dried blood. Stan took in the pace he kept, quick but hitching…like Ford was moving past a limp. Still, Ford stared ahead, hands clutching a book he had picked up in his rambles, eyes flicking back and forth like he was reading the blank air.
Ford was on something , that was for sure. Amphetamines? Coke? Maybe some hallucinogenics? Stan had seen the look enough and if he didn’t know better, he’d say meth, judging by the fidgety way he was moving and the sallow look of his skin, but Ford really didn’t seem the type, even if he could probably work up a sweet lab here. Oregon didn’t have a lot of traffic. If he were a betting man (and boy was he), Stan would put his money on prescription amphetamines. He knew those were hot with the college kids from his time, ya know…selling them to college kids.
“Look, uh…you gonna explain what's going on, here? You're acting like Mom after her tenth cup of coffee,” Stan started cautiously. Stan was nothing if not a conman, and even though it had mostly ruined his life, it had left him with some excellent people skills. It never hurt to start gentle, when you didn’t know what you’re dealing with. Callback to childhood (reminding him of trust), introduce stimulants to the conversation …maybe he could get Ford to tell him what he was ODing on, so he could figure out if they needed a hospital or just a wind-down. Hell, he might still have some downers in his car.
Ford looked up at him, almost startled, like he had forgotten he was there, then rushed back to Stan a few steps, almost tripping over his piles of shit all over the floor.
“Listen, there isn't much time,” his eyes darted back and forth nervously again, and he clutched that book to his chest like it was a lifeline. “I've made huge mistakes and I don't know who I can trust anymore.” He turned the head of a skeleton (why did he have a skeleton) away, as though it may be watching. His eyes finally focused on Stan, almost pleading, and he began to understand. Fuck. Ford was in some deep shit. How many times had Stan wanted to call him when he was in a bind? And finally, one of them had broken down because yeah, they did trust each other. No matter what had happened in the past, there was that. Stan held up his hands, defensively, concerned by the wide eyed concentration in his brother’s face.
“Hey, uh, easy there. Let's talk this through, okay?” He still didn’t know what kind of drugs Ford was on, and didn’t really want to risk setting him off.
“You don’t understand Stan, I’ve—” Ford swayed on his feet, stumbling. “I’ve done things that are…unbelievable I have…I have to show you…” He blinked and, if possible, his pale face got even whiter.
“Woah, ok, take it easy there champ,” Stan reached out to steady him and Ford flinched back, clutching the book to his chest and staring at Stan like he was…about to bite him or something. “Hey, hey,” Stan held up his hands again. “Look, Ford I…I’m just tryin’ to help. Why don’t you rest a minute, and then you can tell me…whatever it is you want to tell me,” he tried to reason. Be gentle, Stan, real gentle. Don’t want to spook the horses. Ford shook his head, frantically.
“No,” he muttered, half to himself, half to Stan. “No, can’t rest. If I sit down I’ll fall asleep and I can’t sleep— ” He took one hand off the book and hit himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand a couple times, hard . He shook his head back and forth, blinking. Stan wasn’t sure how to respond to this, honestly. If he were any other junkie he’d give a “have a nice life” and move on but this was Ford, having some kind of genuine breakdown, and admitting he needed help which really drove home how dire the situation was.
“Ok fine, no resting,” Stan said, carefully. Ford was still swaying precariously, and Stan sure as hell wasn’t going to sit down until he did, because it looked like he was going to hit the deck any second now. “Let's get you some food, then. Or water.” Ford shook his head again, and it was like the movement went all the way through his body, shaking him to his feet.
“No, no, no time,” he mumbled, becoming less clear by the second. Stan barely caught him before his head cracked into what must be a coffee table, but was so covered in nerd science stuff that he really couldn’t tell. He could make out a tool chest, half a dozen books, and what appeared to be a taxidermy…fish thing.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he grumbled. Ford’s body twitched a few times, fingers curling, legs giving little kicks, before he fell fully still, mouth slack. Stan waited to see whether he would wake back up immediately, and when his breathing fell into a regular rhythm, he shrugged. “Guess not,” he muttered. “Let’s see if we can get you to bed, Poindexter.” He gently let his head fall to the floor, and walked around the first floor to see if there was anything to be found.
The cabin seemed to be in a similar state to the room they had been in before (living room? Maybe?) Notes, books, trash, weird shit scattered right and left. If there was a bed, it was upstairs and Ford was skinny but not so small that Stan was willing to climb up a flight of stairs for him. In the end, he went back to the living room and swept the piles of papers and miscellaneous shit off the couch (Ford could forgive him for it later), scooped up his limp brother with a grunt of effort, and deposited him on the (now clear) couch. He’d give him a blanket, if he knew where the hell they were. It barely seemed like Ford had been living here. It looked more like a library without enough funding and a terrible housekeeper.
He wandered his way to the kitchen he’d seen while poking around. Cans, cartons, and plastic packaging formed a small mountain over a trash can that had long stopped being emptied. Dirty dishes piled the sink, and the counter next to the sink…and the floor. A broken mug was mixed in with the bowls and plates. And spoons… so many spoons. No other silverware. No knives, no forks just… spoons.
“This shit just gets weirder and weirder,” Stan muttered. He started rustling through cabinets, looking for a clean cup. Maybe he could make himself useful and try to get the genius some water for when he woke up. Empty, dusty cabinets looked back at him. He frowned, trying a drawer to see if he got the same result. His hand came away sticky, and he lifted it in the shitty winter light filtering in through the window to see what it was.
Dark, rusty, half-dry liquid stuck to his fingers. He froze, trying to process. Maybe it wasn’t what he thought. Maybe it was a weird coincidence. He looked down, seeing matching drips, crusted to the floor directly below the handle. He cautiously, almost fearfully raised his hand to his face and gave a quick sniff.
It wasn’t the first time he had found blood somewhere he really didn’t want to. But this wasn’t a trap house or a used car that was suspiciously cheap—it was his dorky brother’s house. Mad scientist house , a part of his brain pointed out. Stan raised his eyes from the floor, really taking in the kitchen. The handle of the oven had a similar dark spot, there was a series of drips from where he was standing to the living room, and on the door frame, he spotted a single burgundy six-fingered handprint.
They couldn’t be that old. Not if they were still red, not if it wasn’t even fully dry. This had happened in the past day or so. Stan noticed, for the first time, the bleach spray on the counter, the paper towels in varying shades of brown on the trash pile, and his stomach dropped. Was this after it had been cleaned? How much…what had he done to himself?
Stan strode out of the room, not just looking, but looking, now. The first floor was an academic hoarder house, sure, but he started to notice things that were just weird. No paraphernalia that he could find, unless there were some new, incredibly niche drugs in this house. There were scrawlings on the wall that were either gibberish or a language he didn’t know, that looked like they had been done with magic marker. Next to them were nails, pins, and duct tape holding up notes at eye level across the room. He started pounding up the stairs and paused with his hand on the rail, because looking down, right on the edge of one of the steps, he saw another dark stain and a chunk of brown hair stuck to it.
Stan prided himself on a strong stomach, but Christ if that didn’t make it turn.
“What the fuck,” he muttered out loud, backing down the steps. “What the actual fuck, Ford?” He turned, retreating, intending to go back to the guy in question, and while getting turned around (seriously, what was the fucking deal with this place?) came back out in a room he hadn’t seen yet. At first, it seemed like it was in better shape than anywhere else, clear of all the shit that had been piled up or stuck to the walls, and then Stan noticed the door.
Heavy, metal, with some sort of electronic keypad next to it, it didn’t really match the rest of the “cabin in the woods” thing Ford had going on, but it wasn’t the design that brought Stan up short, rather the goddamn claw marks over where the door must open. It was the blood smeared in distinct, six-fingered parallel lines, like Ford had spent hours and hours and hours trying to physically pry it open until long after his fingernails broke off. He felt his stomach turn again, and fought down the urge to vomit. There wasn’t a square inch on the steel that wasn’t marred by scrapes or bloodstains.
“What the fuck,” he whispered again, unable to make his brain think of anything more concrete. He was drawing a blank here. He thought he had been prepared for anything his brother would have had to offer. He’d been around the world, sure, he’d seen a lot, but he could honestly say he had no idea what was going on here.
It was about then, that he heard the distinct thunk of someone falling off a couch from the other room. He couldn’t be sure but he thought he heard Ford give a little giggle as he shuffled up from the ground. Stan booked it, moving past the door and the kitchen back to the living room, finally. Ford was leaning over Stan’s bag that he had left abandoned, back to him, rifling through it, unzipping pockets, moving clothes.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Stan asked, somehow finding it within himself to be indignant that Ford thought he could go through his shit just because he was having some sort of…episode. Ford stood then, half stumbling, sticking his hands in his coat pockets as he turned to look at Stan. There was a smile on his face, wide and toothy, giving Stan an ache in his jaw just to look at it. There was something distinctly… off about it. It was too casual and too formal at the same time. He leaned at a sharp angle, not seeming to really notice. Whatever Ford was on to get him in this state, it clearly hadn’t worn off yet. Stan sighed.
“Woah, look…Stanford,” he started, holding his hands out. It felt strange to have his brother’s full name come out of his mouth. Not ‘Ford’ or ‘Sixer’ or ‘Poindexter’ or even ‘dumbass,’ which was the one he’d love to be using. But maybe Ford would respond a little better to some formality right now. “Why don’t you sit down and we can talk about…whatever’s going on here, ‘kay?” The smile grew, somehow, impossibly wider. Stan tried to smile back, but felt it mangle on his face. Ford leaned down, picking up the book he’d had earlier, ditched on the floor when he passed out, and started thumbing through it, eyes flicking back and forth between the pages and Stan. His gaze was piercing and wrong and it was too dark for Stan to see past his glasses in the winter light to figure out what the fuck was going on with him.
“Nah, think I’m ok pal,” Ford said, almost cheerfully. There was a curiously sing-songy intonation behind the flat affect. “You can go ahead and go…” he gave half a wave. Stan could see now, the missing fingernails, the bloody skin where he had tried to get into that damn door. “Wherever it is you came from.” Stan felt the first flare of real anger behind his breastbone, at that.
“Oh yeah, sure, let me just make that two day drive back in this fucking blizzard,” he responded sarcastically. He stepped forward. “What the hell is going on, Ford? Why am I here?” Ford shut the book with a dull thud, and focused his attention fully on Stan again. He took a step closer too, cocking his head to one side, as though thinking intently, though his expression didn’t change.
“Are you sure you really want to be here? I mean, it’s not like we’ve talked in the past decade. Frankly, I don’t know why I asked you here in the first place. You’ve never helped before.” Stan felt the truth behind the words, and they hurt, sure, but they would have cut deeper if this whole situation wasn’t so goddamn weird. The strange smile was still pinned to Ford’s face. It looked like it hurt. “Hey, I didn’t mention anything about where I’d put my research journals before I passed out, did I?”
“No, but—”
“Shame, well, try not to crash on the way out of town,” Ford told him, laughing a little to himself.
Stan was tempted, sorely tempted, to give him that “have a nice life” talk after all. He could make it out in this snow, probably. Head back to warmer climates, start over again in a new city with a new name. Ford didn’t care so he wouldn’t either. What a fucking waste of gas, driving this far north for nothing. Stupid to think anything would have changed in the past decade. He was still a disappointment, and Ford was still a jackass. Sure, he wasn’t always this much of a jackass, but the drugs were probably amplifying some of his innate qualities.
Stan opened his mouth to say as much, (telling Ford to go to hell suck the devil’s dick was an option) but his words caught when he noticed a dark trickle of blood creeping out from behind his brother’s glasses, out the crinkled corner of one of his smiling eyes. Ford didn’t move to blink or rub it away, curiously still after the frantic motion of earlier in the day. It was like he forgot his body was there, just staring relentlessly at Stan.
Stan, for once in his life, decided to swallow his pride. He wasn’t just going to pick up and leave when things got rough this time. In a moment of lucidity, Ford had asked him here. He needed help, and he’d be damned if he was going to leave again just because of this… breakdown. Involuntarily, Stan remembered a childhood night spent squashed under the lower bunk in their room when Ford refused to come out. He didn’t remember exactly why. Nightmares or bullies or something. But he remembered that, despite the cramped space, and the bruises on his elbows, and all the spiders they found, he didn’t leave until Ford did.
“Look…Sixer,” he started, hesitant. “I’m not going anywhere. There’s something wrong…with you,” he flinched a little bit at his phrasing, but Ford didn’t seem to have any reaction. “I’m not that much of an idiot, and I don’t know what I can do that you can’t, but until I know what the hell is going on here—” he put his hands in his pockets and gave a little shrug. “You’re stuck with me, I guess.” Ford shrugged back, holding his book to his chest, moving a little closer, again. It should have been a comfort, a show of trust, but instead Stan had the urge to get away, to step back. Enemy, a part of his brain hissed. He stared at Ford, trying to read his face, to know what he was thinking as easily as he had when they were kids. It was then that he was finally close enough to figure out what was wrong with his eyes...
“Suit yourself,” Ford said, nonchalant, and swung the heavy journal into the side of Stan’s head.