Chapter Text
Ford’s eyes snapped open to the basement. More specifically, the ceiling of the basement.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, sharp bursts of pain lancing down his left side as he moved. Swallowing the hiss that threatened to push between his gritted teeth, he put a hand to his throbbing head in a futile attempt to assuage the pain between his temples. Moses, what had happened?
He winced as his fingers brushed against a wet spot in his hair, and he lowered his hand to find a smear of dark red blood. Lovely.
Wiping the blood on his stained lab coat, Ford glanced around the expansive space. The pieces of the portal were strewn around wildly—why were they here, he could have sworn he had gotten rid of those—and the air was murky and foggy, as if he’d accidentally set off one of Stanley’s smoke bombs down here.
Stanley. Where was Stanley?
With some effort, Ford managed to reach a standing position. The world spun around him, dark spots flickering in his vision like gnats. He blinked them away as fast as he could. His own health was irrelevant; Stanley was missing. He had to find him.
“Stanley?” He meant to shout his brother’s name, but it came out as more of a flat, croaking sound. He coughed, fire running down his left side with the jerky movement. His throat burned, like he’d been inhaling smoke for hours on end. “Stanley?” he tried again.
No response.
Something was wrong.
(What had happened?)
Stumbling, Ford lurched out of the portal room. He could feel blood dribbling off the edges of his hair as he walked, leaving a trail of red dots in his wake. He started towards the elevator—if Stan wasn’t downstairs, he had to be in the upper levels of the shack, he had to be—but paused as a yellow post-it note caught his eyes on a nearby lab table, forcing him to stop.
Something twisted in his gut. Yellow was a bad color, he knew, but when he tried to remember why his thoughts fell apart like a house of cards folding in on itself. Still, the sight made a tremor run through him; it cut through his bloodstream, inky poison shooting through his veins in fractals. Even with his heart in his throat, however, he was drawn to the paper. He was a scientist; naturally curious, so they say.
He took a shaky step forward. Then another. A second hiss of pain escaped him as he misstepped; his legs collapsed under him, and it took all of his energy to catch himself on a nearby countertop. His ragged breaths permeated the eerie silence of the lab as he waited for the stabbing burst of pain to subside. Moses, his head hurt.
After what seemed like an eon, Ford released the countertop, staggering forward until he stood in front of the post-it. It was flipped over, edges curling upward against the table. He reached out—hesitated for a fraction of a second, hand hanging in the air unmoored, trembling—and gritted his teeth, grabbed the post-it note, and flipped it over.
Upon reading the message, Ford inhaled sharply.
No.
No, no, no, no, no—
Ford clenched the post-it between his hands, breaths coming faster and faster as he read the jagged handwriting he knew all too well a second time, then a third time.
MISS ME, SIXER?
And suddenly he was floating, falling, he was spinning and he was going through the portal again, he was reaching out and screaming for Stanley to help, please, do something, his atoms were being ripped apart and reconstructed over and over and over again, he was lost and he was falling and he was never going to go home, and—
A cackle echoed around him as he fell, a cackle he had heard thousands upon thousands of times before, a cackle he was sure he would never have to hear again because Bill was gone, he was gone, and—
Ford’s eyes snapped open for the second time, this time to a scene that instantly made his stomach churn, bile rising to his throat.
He was in the penthouse of the Fearamid.
The gaudy walls pressed in on him, each second making the room feel smaller and smaller. Heavy blue chains coiled around his wrists and throat, choking him, cutting off his airflow by the second.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
Directly across from him was an unconscious Stanley, who had the same treatment as Ford: blue chains wrapped around his wrists and his throat. One of his eyes was badly swollen, and bruises peppered his face. His right arm was twisted at a grotesque angle—surely broken—and his white dress shirt was ripped to reveal a long, inflamed gash running from his shoulder to his navel. It was oozing pus and blood, quickly staining the shirt to a copper brown.
Something horribly cold shot through Ford’s chest, fear coiling around his heart.
Not Stanley, not again, no, no, not Stanley, please—
“Stanley,” Ford said, voice quivering. His hands shook at his sides. “Stanley.”
Stanley didn’t move.
Ford lurched towards his brother, only to be jerked back painfully by the chains. The movement choked the breath from his lungs, leaving him wheezing.
He recovered as quickly as he could, gasping and coughing as he rammed against the chains again.
And again.
And again.
The chains held.
“Stanley!” His brother’s name ripped out of his aching throat, voice anguished. The shout echoed through the chamber, and the silence that followed only made his heart pound faster, blood rushing in his ears like the swell of an orchestra. “Stanley, please, you have to wake up, please—”
He was cut off by a flash of white-hot light. Ford snarled, throwing up a shackled hand to block his eyes from the sudden burst. His breath caught in his throat as he heard the cackle from earlier, this time louder, as if it was reverberating within the depths of his soul.
As abruptly as it started, the painful light stopped. Ford lowered his arm, his fists clenched with rage. His heart slammed against his ribcage. Part of him knew, long before he opened his eyes, what—or rather, who—he was going to see.
Locking eyes with Bill Cipher, however, still made his blood curl and his entire being scream at himself to get out, because this couldn’t be happening, not again, not again—
FORDSY! The demon perched in the air directly between him and his brother, leaning on his cane as if they were friends having a casual meeting. I’M SO GLAD YOU COULD MAKE IT! He twirled in the air once, flipping upside down as his cane disappeared. ENJOYING THE PARTY?
Ford bared his teeth and growled, allowing rage to cover him like a protective shield. His nails dug into his palms. It was futile to believe Bill wouldn’t notice how his hands were shaking violently, but Ford hoped against hope that he didn’t anyway.
“You let him go, Cipher.” His voice was low and full of barely-restrained fury, but even he could hear the quiver of fear that ran through it. “He has no part in this.”
Bill cackled again, his eye twitching into a smiling position. WOW, LAST NAME? THAT’S COLD, SIXER! I THOUGHT WE WERE CLOSER THAN THAT. He floated down to be directly in front of Stanley, placing a hand on his brother’s head. MAYBE ME SPENDING SOME QUALITY TIME WITH YOUR BROTHER WOULD MAKE YOU FEEL MORE… OPEN-MINDED.
Ford saw red.
He thrashed against his chains, throwing himself towards his brother again and again, but pulling against them only led to them feeling tighter. His breath began to come faster, his lungs constricting against his ribcage. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Ford couldn’t let this happen. Bill was taunting him; he was going to hurt Stanley, it was all his fault, oh Moses, it was all his fault—
“LET HIM GO!” Ford yelled, mask of pure anger thrown aside. Bill knew he was afraid; what did it matter if he saw the true depth of his fear? “DON’T YOU DARE HURT HIM, DON’T YOU DARE—”
UGH, YOU HUMANS ARE SO EMOTIONAL, Bill said, rolling his eye and flapping a hand at Ford. JUST MAKES IT MORE FUN FOR ME THOUGH! ENJOY THE SHOW, FORDSY! WE’RE GOING TO BE HERE A WHILE!
A blue glow surrounded Stanley, lifting him up into the air next to Bill. Stanley’s unconscious limbs flopped lifelessly, his head sagging towards his chest. Ford felt like he was underwater. Distantly, he could hear someone yelling, but he wasn’t sure where the sound was coming from. The collar sliced into his skin as Bill lifted his hands towards his brother.
“NO! STANLEY! NO!”
—
Stanley Pines jolted awake to the sound of his brother screaming.
He moved instantly, throwing his blankets to the side, not bothering to take the time to form a coherent thought. He practically fell out of bed, banging a knee hard against the floor of the Stan O’ War II.
He didn’t feel the pain. All that mattered was getting to Ford.
They shared a bedroom on the ship, just like they had when they were kids. They both had initially wanted a bunk bed, but agreed on two separate beds when Ford made the point that falling out of the top bunk due to choppy waters wouldn’t exactly be a fun experience. It ended up being a good thing in the end; call him an old sap, but it was nice to be able to look over and physically see Ford sleeping next to him on those nights he woke up out of breath and sweating, a sore feeling in his jaw and all-too-recent screams in his head.
He snatched his glasses off of his nightstand and shoved them onto his face. As the world cleared into straight lines and sharp edges, he frantically looked over to his brother’s bed, expecting the worst—he’s gone, he’s in trouble, you’re too late—and relaxed the tiniest bit when he saw a Ford-shaped lump in the blankets.
A nightmare, then.
After… everything, both brothers had their fair share of nightmares. It was hard to fight a magical dream demon to the death and walk out of it scot-free, physically and mentally. Not exactly a fun experience; Stan could attest to that.
This nightmare, however, seemed worse than usual.
Ford was wrapped in sheets, covers coiling around his frame in a way that looked almost painful. His fingers gripped and re-gripped the blankets, and his chest heaved with exertion as he gasped for air. His breathing was ragged, ripping against his throat.
“NO! No, no, no…” Ford’s voice trailed off into a mutter as Stan quickly crossed the room to his side.
Having been on the wrong end of Ford’s alien gun a few too many times, Stan knew better than to touch him. “Ford. You’re having a nightmare. You’re okay.”
Ford’s breathing only sped up, the sound harsh. His hands clenched into tight fists against the rumpled sheets, knuckles turning white with the strain. Stan’s heart sunk out of his body and into the floor. He gritted his teeth, raising his voice.
“FORD! Snap out of it! You’re having a nightmare!”
Ford let out a keening noise, the sound pained. He opened his mouth to yell again, and Stan was speechless at what came out, his voice faltering in his throat.
“NO! STANLEY! NO!”
For a half-second, Stan stared at his brother, frozen.
Is he having a dream about something I did?
His stomach lurched. Scenes flashed before his eyes in milliseconds: Ford’s project, whirring to a stop. Ford yelling at him to do something as he disappeared into the gaping maw of the portal. Refusing to hold Ford’s hand over a stupid jab when the literal world was at stake.
Ford had been through so many terrible things, had experienced so much pain, because of everything Stan had done.
Why can’t I ever do anything right?
He set his mouth in a hard line. No time. Have to wake him up.
Stan grabbed one of Ford’s bedposts, shaking it wildly. “STANFORD! WAKE UP!”
Ford shot up into a sitting position so fast Stan jumped backward, narrowly avoiding tripping on the rug that spread across the floor of their bedroom. To his surprise, Ford didn’t go for the gun on his nightstand like he usually did. Instead, he stared forward blankly, gaze frozen in the middle distance like he was still trapped in the nightmare, seeing something that Stan couldn’t. He sat completely motionless, every muscle tensed. The only sound that echoed around the room was his breathing, still ragged and uneven from the nightmare.
Stan watched, frozen, as Ford slowly brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, curling himself into the tightest ball he could manage. His gaze was still empty, still somewhere that Stan wasn’t sure he could pull Ford back from. Ford blinked once, then laid his forehead on his arms, hiding his face.
His brother took a halting breath, then another. Without warning, his shoulders started shaking.
Ford was crying.
Guilt slathered Stan in oily swathes as his brother, his twin, his best friend, dissolved into heartbreaking, near-silent sobs, his breath hitching on every inhale.
Because of him.
Your fault, your fault, your fault—
Stan pushed those thoughts away. The only thing that matters right now is helping him. My fault or not.
Stan approached the bed slowly. “Ford.”
Ford gasped for air, and Stan grimaced at the raw sound that came out of his throat. “Stanford. You’re okay.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, Ford lifted his head, turning it to look at Stan. His eyes were red-rimmed and his entire body was shaking, but he stilled when his gaze met Stan’s. His eyes widened. Stan did his best to give his brother a soothing smile, raising his hands in what he hoped was a comforting motion. “You’re okay, Ford. We’re on the Stan O’ War II. We’re safe.”
Ford’s bloodshot eyes trailed over his figure, almost like he was examining him for injuries. That couldn’t be right, though; whatever Ford had just dreamt about, it was clearly Stan's fault. He was probably just making sure he was unarmed or something. Ford’s breath was still coming in harsh pants. Concern mingled with guilt in Stan’s chest, creating a cocktail of anxiety.
He continued to move closer to Ford, steadily putting one foot in front of the other until he was standing directly next to where Ford was curled up on the bed. He took a breath, then carefully sat down next to Ford, who was still watching him as if he was going to disappear into thin air before his very eyes. “Ford, whatever your dream was, I’m so sorry—”
Stan’s words were cut off by Ford slamming into his chest, arms curling around him in a giant hug. A choked sob ripped out of Ford’s throat, his shoulders trembling. Stan froze for a moment, confused, then returned the hug with just as much intensity, rubbing circles on Ford’s back as his twin clutched at the material of his shirt and sobbed.
“You’re okay. It’s alright. We’re safe now,” Stan murmured. He repeated the words over and over as Ford let out his emotions into Stan’s shoulder. He could feel his shirt growing wet, but he didn’t care.
Stan had never seen his brother so upset after a nightmare.
Sure, Ford got angry. Ford got scared. But Ford very rarely cried, especially in front of other people.
Stanley Pines could proudly say that he wasn’t afraid of much. He had fought angry gang members with his back pressed to the wall, armed with nothing but his knuckledusters. He had chewed his way out of the trunk of a car, bleeding and delirious. Hell, he had punched a giant yellow trigonometry demon in the eye.
But his brother—his genius, loving, amazing brother—falling apart in his arms?
That sent a stroke of fear into his chest.
Not because he didn’t want to take care of him—Stan had been trying to protect Ford since they were born, thank you very much—but because Ford was… Ford. He was the strongest person Stan knew. Whatever he had just gone through, it had taken a huge toll on him.
Ford’s sobs were subsiding, quickly becoming replaced by sniffles and muttering. Stan leaned back slightly to hear what he was saying.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, you’re okay, I’m so sorry…”
Wait. What?
What could possibly make his brother want to apologize, want to know that he’s okay? The dream must have been his fault, Ford was calling out for him—
Oh.
Oh.
The answer hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Stan held Ford closer, tightening his arms. “Ford.”
The muttering stopped, replaced by still-too-fast breathing.
“I promise I’m okay, okay? Fit as McGucket’s fiddle. We’re on the Stan O’ War II together. Everything is fine.”
A pause.
Then a sniff from his shoulder. “Fidds plays the banjo.”
Stan counted the response as a win.
Ford exhaled shakily, resting his forehead on Stan’s shoulder. Stan waited.
They sat in that position for what felt like hours. Stan listened to the repetitive, soft crash of waves against the boat. The ship creaked as it rocked from side to side, the noise not entirely unlike the occasional groans of the Mystery Shack. Two seagulls cawed from somewhere above the pair.
Stan felt his eyes drifting closed, then blinked them open rapidly. He glanced at Ford, who was still leaning on him and whose breathing had evened out. I should check to see if he fell back asleep.
Just as he was about to pull away, Ford spoke. His voice was hoarse. “He had you.”
The sudden noise in the moonlit room made Stan jump, but he tried to mask it by shifting his position on the bed. He was at least seventy percent sure Ford noticed anyway. “What?”
Slowly, Ford pulled away from Stan. He refused to meet Stan’s gaze as he moved backwards, keeping his eyes downcast on the blanket. After a moment, he rubbed his hands over his face, pausing briefly before lowering them to be palms-up in front of him. He stared at them, eyes flitting through emotions too rapidly for Stan to place.
He inhaled shakily, then replied. “Bill. He–he had you, and he–” Ford cut off, covering his mouth with a hand, a stifled sound escaping him. The tears pooling in his horrified gaze glinted in the soft moonlight of the room.
Stan had heard enough. “Ford. Look at me.”
His twin turned to face him, his eyes finding Stan’s. Stan met all of the emotions oozing from his brother—his fear, his guilt, his sadness—and smiled gently. “I’m fine. Bill is gone, I promise. We got him, remember?” He knocked on his skull, winking in a way that he hoped would convey his light tone. “He can’t hurt us anymore. And even if he came back, you and I would stop him together again.”
Something hardened in Ford’s eyes. He laughed mirthlessly, the sound empty. “Stanley, we wouldn’t have had to stop him in the first place if I hadn’t made a—an agreement with him. If anyone—you, Moses, the kids, had gotten hurt…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he turned away. His voice grew uncharacteristically small. “It would have been—it was—all my fault.”
Stan sighed. “Ford, you can’t blame yourself for what happened—”
Ford whipped around to face him, his expression suddenly full of rage, nostrils flaring. “Don’t you get it, Stanley? If I hadn’t been stupid, none of this would have ever happened!” He raked his hands through his hair, eyes blown wide with guilt and fear. “Someone could’ve—you could have died, Stanley, and in the dream I couldn’t do anything to stop him, I was utterly helpless, and you were at his mercy, and—”
“Ford!” Stan snapped. Ford froze, his mouth slamming closed. Stan winced. “Sorry. Look, Ford. Bill tricked you. He preyed on the things that he knew would get to you; I’m a con man, believe me, I know all of the tricks.” He locked eyes with Ford. “Yes, you made a—an agreement with him. But you can't blame yourself for his actions. You didn’t do any of that; Bill did. It was all him.”
He paused. “We’ve talked about this about a thousand times, but I’ll say it one more time just to get it through that thick nerd skull of yours. What Bill did wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. He tricked you and manipulated you, Stanford. You aren’t—and will never be—at fault for the things he did.”
Ford opened his mouth to interject, but Stan held up a finger to cut him off. “No buts about it, Six. It’s true.”
He paused as he looked at Ford, who was watching him with watery eyes. The fire had gone out of him, his face weary.
Stan smiled, a corner of his mouth tipping upwards. “I’m okay, Ford. You and the kids, you saved me, remember? And now we’re going to sail around the Arctic Ocean until our ship is so heavy from notes on anomalies—and treasure, don’t forget the treasure—that we are forced to turn back around to Gravity Falls. Check in on Soos and Wendy and McGucket and all them. Maybe even say hi to the kids down in Piedmont.”
He’d deny it if any of those knuckleheads asked, but he couldn’t help a grin from breaking out on his face as he thought of each of them in turn. His weird, beautiful mosaic of a family.
When he returned back to the present, eyes meeting Ford’s, a small smile had appeared on his brother’s face. His heart began to feel lighter.
“We’re all okay, Ford. And we’re all going to stay that way—if I have any say in it, anyway.”
Ford’s posture sagged as he mulled over Stan’s words, the pent-up tension in his muscles finally releasing. He blew out a breath, then nodded once. “Very well.”
Relief coursed through Stan’s body. Slowly, so that Ford could pull away if he wanted to, he brought an arm around his brother’s shoulders. He mostly expected Ford to shake his head, but was pleasantly surprised when he accepted the touch, leaning into Stan.
“I’m sorry for waking you.”
“Pshh, don’t be. I would have woken up sooner or later from the racket those damn seagulls are making anyway.”
Ford hummed noncommittally. Stan could feel him growing heavier against his side. When he stole a glance at his face, his brother’s eyes had drifted closed.
A thought drifted through Stan’s mind, a thread of guilt weaving through his chest. “Y’know, Ford, you might never have even made that agreement if I hadn’t accidentally broken your machine and ruined your future.”
A pause.
Ford’s voice was tired, but strong nonetheless. “Stanley, nothing was your fault. You didn’t ruin my future.”
“Uh, Poindexter, I don’t know if you magically forgot the broken project and the demon possession and the thirty years you spent in other dimensions or something—”
“You saved me, Stanley.” Ford’s eyes were still closed, but his tone was sincere, voice unwavering, like he was stating the simplest of facts. “You saved me.”
Stan stared openly at his brother, mouth agape. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to stay calm even when his heart felt like it was about to explode out of his chest. When he spoke again, his tone was strained. “Heh. Don’t get mushy on me now, Sixer. You know it makes my blood pressure go up.”
Ford snorted. “How much Pitt did you have this week?”
“Hey, smart guy, you’re the one who had seven cups of coffee in one day last week. One day, Ford.”
Ford grumbled softly, but was interrupted by a yawn.
Stan ignored the growing warmth in his stomach and the feeling of buoyancy that settled across his limbs. Moses, this room has a lot of dust in it.
After a moment, Stan tapped Ford on the shoulder lightly. “Alright, Poindexter. Feel up to going back to bed? I don’t know about you, but” —he stole a glance at the clock— “three in the morning seems too early to start the day. I know you nerds love getting up and at ‘em, but I need my beauty sleep.”
His twin hummed again, latching a six-fingered hand onto the material of Stan’s shirt. Stan had to strain his ears to hear his mumbled reply.
“Can you stay?”
Oh.
Hundreds of emotions—hope and pain and guilt and love, endless love—slammed into Stan at the same time, and suddenly, he was nine years old again.
He had been having a bad dream again. Like always, he couldn’t really remember the details; it just left him with the overwhelming feeling of not being good enough, ever.
When he lurched awake, he managed to hit his head on the bottom of Ford’s bunk. He hissed, rubbing the already-sprouting bump on his head. Ugh.
Abruptly, the bunk above him creaked. “Lee?” Ford poked his head out from the side of his bunk, blinking his eyes blearily. His hair was ruffled, curls sticking up all over the place, and he squinted as he tried to see Stan clearly without his glasses. “Are you okay?”
No, he really wasn’t, but he was the strong twin. The protector. He couldn’t show any weakness about something as dumb as a bad dream. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just, uh…. hit my head, I guess.” He tried to make the words light, but they came out sounding flat.
Ford narrowed his eyes, his eyebrows twitching up. He gave Stan a signature Ford Look. Capital L.
Stan rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever. I had a bad dream, but it’s nothing. I’m all good now, see?” He laid back down and folded his covers over himself to accentuate his point.
Ford fixed him with disapproving eyes, but ultimately sighed. “Okay. If you’re sure you’re okay.” He began to move backwards, then paused. “Do you want to come up here for a little bit?”
There was a beat of silence in the darkness of the room.
“...Yeah.”
“Well, then, hurry up. The book I checked out from the library last week said that kids our age need at least ten and a half hours of sleep each night—”
“I’m coming, I’m coming! Nerd.”
Stan clambered up the ladder and slid into the bunk next to Ford, giggling softly at the state of his twin’s hair.
He sat on the edge of Ford’s bunk for a minute, watching and listening as his twin began to ramble about the science of sleep while rearranging his pillows. As Ford talked, he could feel himself relaxing. If Ford let him be on his bed, he must not be that much of a disappointment and an embarrassment to be around. Ford was the coolest person he knew, so he could trust his judgment. As long as he had Ford by his side, he was good enough. As long as he was a good brother, he was good enough.
That, he knew he could do.
Ford switched topics, changing from rapidly explaining side effects of bad sleeping habits to the benefits of sleeping with the right alignment of pillows.
“Hey, Ford?” Stan’s voice cut into the dark room.
His brother paused, looking at him with eyes somehow both heavy from sleep and sparkling with exuberance for sleeping habits. What a nerd.
“Can I stay here tonight?”
Ford blinked at him, and Stan was so stupid, why would he ever ask that, Ford’s going to laugh at him and think he’s dumb and—
His mental panic screeched to a halt as Ford grinned at him, his answer full of youthful joy. “Of course you can stay!”
He jumped to switch around how he had situated the pillows. After a moment of digesting Ford’s words, a beaming smile crossed Stan’s face, relief echoing through his stomach.
Once the bed was deemed adequately prepared by Ford, the pair shimmied under the blankets. Stan pressed his back against Ford’s, already yawning. “Thanks, Sixer.”
When he was with Ford, he was safe.
“Good night, Stanley.”
Stan was asleep in seconds. He didn’t have any more bad dreams that night.
Stan blinked, and he was back in the cabin, his brother curled against his side.
His arm around Ford tightened.
“Of course I can stay.”
(His eyes were not watering. They weren’t.)
Carefully, Stan maneuvered his brother into bed, gently tucking his covers around him. He laughed softly as Ford—eyes still closed—scrunched up his nose, reaching out a hand for his brother. “Jeez, Poindexter. Someone’s impatient.”
Ford mumbled drowsily as Stan climbed into the bed. It was a bit of a squeeze, but comfortable nonetheless. “Alright, Six. All good?”
Ford’s previously-outstretched hand found Stanley’s wrist, his thumb resting lightly on his pulse point. A warm glow grew in the pits of Stan’s stomach, and his eyelids grew heavy.
“Good night, Ford,” he said softly.
He barely heard Ford’s quiet reply over the undulations of the waves. “Thank you, Lee.”
As he drifted off, the boat’s gentle rocking and his brother’s radiating warmth gave him a sense of peace. Yeah, they had nightmares that haunted them, enough tragic memories to make even Manly Dan shed a tear, and an exceedingly abnormal number of skeletons in their closets. But they also had each other.
Wherever we go, we go together.
(And if the brothers woke up the next morning curled together, Stan’s arm draped over Ford’s shoulders and Ford’s head resting on Stan’s chest, well. At least Mabel wasn’t there to take a blackmail image for her scrapbook.)