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Ford’s mind has not stopped reeling for the past few hours. His heart was sore in his chest, having spent much of that time hammering away with stress and fear. His legs were nearly trembling with fatigue, hands shaky with exhaustion.
He finds a moment of reprieve, of quiet, and that unsettles him. His heart rate picks back up as he listens for his brother. His ears strain for small footsteps, quiet giggling, or-- his fear supplies-- the metallic shnnk of metal on metal.
Ford takes a moment to ensure that all the sharps in his home (silverware, knives, scissors, even the metal chopsticks Fiddleford gifted him a year ago) are secured up and away from small, dangerous hands. Stanley-- or, rather Bill -- had already gotten his hands on a pair of scissors. His entire nervous system twinges at the memory of Bill using Stanley’s hand to raise the scissors up, up, up, before piercing the blades down into Stanley’s thigh.
Ford must make sure that Bill cannot hurt Stanley further.
Ford knows it is a futile effort.
“Bill?” he calls out, stepping out of the kitchen. He walks slowly, ears straining for any hint of life in the cabin. He hears the telltale creak of a floorboard, and his legs carry him to the staircase before he consciously registers it. The heart in his chest stutters at the sight.
Bill’s yellow eyes are glowering down at him from the top of the stairs, set into Stanley’s face. The expression he wears is disinterested, but his eyes are amused, twinkling with something sinister.
Using Stanley’s vocal cords, he calls out. “I’m bored. You can have him back!”
Don’t-- Please, don’t--
Bill turns around until his back is facing down the stairs. Ford startles, rushing to the bottom of the stairs as he pleads for Bill not to do what he fears he’ll do. He’s not fast enough, and can only watch as Bill reaches out and pulls on something unseen. As he does, he leans back.
“What--” Stanley starts, suddenly inhabiting his body again. As Ford begins to rush up the stairs, Stanley falls backward. His arms thrash around, trying to find purchase on something, anything, as his world turns upside down.
He tumbles, legs now over his head as the back of his hips crash into the stairs. The momentum continues and the top half of his body continues down, threatening to crack his skull against the wood. Stanley’s eyes squeeze shut, both to block out the sight of falling and to brace against the impact.
Stanley lands against something soft and firm instead. He hears ragged breathing just above him and feels the warmth of his brother’s chest against him. Ford’s heart is beating nearly too fast to feel, his whole body vibrating from the rush of adrenaline.
“Stanley?” he asks, praying for the first time in years. Please, don't be hurt.
Brown eyes, blown with panic, stare back up at him. Ford feels something sharp and tight suddenly unravel inside his chest, and his eyes start to burn.
Stanley (small, vulnerable Stanley) twists to wrap his arms around Ford’s shoulders. He’s pressing his face into Ford’s neck, almost as if he’s trying to burrow inside of him.
“I’m sorry--” he hiccups, voice broken and afraid. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-- he said he was h-hurting you, and, and I panicked, he had a knife, and he--”
Ah, Ford thinks as he listens. That’s how Bill got him to make a deal with him.
Without thinking, he pulls Stanley closer to him, securing him against the bulk of his body. He quietly shushes into unruly curls. His chest aches something cruel and hot, and he cannot place the emotion with it. He doesn’t give it much thought, instead maneuvering them until he can stand.
Ford is careful as he loops an arm under Stanley, careful not to jostle the scissors still sticking out of his thigh. His care is in vain, and the boy keens high in his throat as the pain rips through the haze of shock.
On weakened legs, Ford carries them to the living room so he can collapse on the couch. His eyes avoid the bloodstains on the floor from Bill’s earlier shenanigans. Upon sitting, Stanley curls in as close as he can, and Ford lets him.
Against the top of Stanley’s head, Ford mutters apologies and desperate words of comfort. The adrenaline drains out of him and leaves him empty, aching, and buzzing with a mixture of relief and fear. His eyes sting in the back of his awareness, and he distantly acknowledges that he’s crying.
How could I let this happen?
The thought is quickly shoved down, crammed into the recesses of his mind where he puts everything else unpleasant.
He forces himself to focus on the boy in his arms. He reflexively tightens his hold on Stanley, and the action soothes him. From here, he can feel Stanley’s heartbeat through his chest. It’s quick, frightened, and in pain, but it’s there. Time ticks by as he listens to the thump-thump slowly calm down. Stanley’s whining and hiccups begin to quiet, but he does not move from the safe haven he’s carved out for himself.
Ford would not ask him to pull away, anyhow. Not yet.
In the back of his mind, Ford lets himself savor the embrace. He cannot recall the last time he’s been held like this.
After a long time, and far too soon, Stanley turns his head to the side. Cheek pressed against Ford’s shoulder, his mouth is free to speak.
“What happens now?” he asks with a hoarse voice.
Ford’s brain is slow to supply any insight. It’s unlike him, and he doesn’t like it. He takes in a shuddering breath in hopes of jump-starting his thoughts.
“Now,” he says slowly, “we patch you up. Make sure the bleeding stops. Then we find a way to break your contract with Bill.”
With a sniff, Stanley pulls back enough to look into his brother’s face. His brown eyes are heavily lined with red, swollen and puffy from where he was pressed against Ford. There’s a small rash from Ford’s stubble on Stanley’s forehead.
“What about you?” he asks.
Something painful twists inside of Ford’s chest, reawoken after years of hibernation. He doesn’t know what it is. “What about me?”
The response is immediate, spoken as if it’s a simple truth of the universe.
“I don’t want you to get hurt, either,” Stanley says. “Can we break your contract too?”
Ford can’t help but think back to the last decade of his life. Bitterness comes up his throat, quick to place undue blame on the boy in front of him. He knows better now than to let it come out, so he tamps it down.
“We’ll try,” he says. He doesn’t know if he’s lying or not. “What works for you should also work for me.”
Stanley takes his word as truth, visibly relaxing into Ford’s arms. His eyes unfocus as he nods, and he looks so young. With a pang, Ford averts his eyes from his face. Silver glints in the light and catches his attention.
“We need to get these scissors out,” he says as gently as he can. Stanley makes a noise, but Ford can’t be sure that he’s fully listening.
The eyes on him are tired and trusting as Ford rearranges them. He sits Stanley on the couch by himself and kneels in front of him. In the back of his mind, he wonders if he should wash his hands first. He simply wipes his hands on his pants instead, unwilling to leave Stanley's side.
When he goes to reach for the scissors, however, Stanley is suddenly alight with panic. In a moment, he's pressed up against the back of the couch, legs pulled up and away from Ford’s reaching hand.
“Wait--” he cries, shrill and fast. “Don’t.”
Slightly thrown off by the sudden change of energy, Ford raises his hand in a way he hopes is appeasing. “It’s okay, Stanley. It’ll be quick, but we need to get those out of your leg. I promise I’ll be gentle--”
“No,” Stanley shakes his head, bangs a mess on his forehead. “It’s going to hurt.”
“Yes,” Ford starts, and immediately knows it’s a mistake. His brother curls into a tighter ball. “But! It’ll be fast. I promise --”
“No,” he whines again. “No, please, don’t--”
“Stanley,” he tries to be firm. “We can’t clean it--”
“ Please, ” he pleads, eyes wide and bright. “I can’t--”
Ford rises on his knees slowly, one hand dropping to the edge of Stanley’s periphery. He keeps his other hand raised, moving to catch Stanley’s attention.
“Listen to me, Stanley.” Ford forces his voice to be louder than Stanley’s racing mind. “It’ll be okay. I know it hurts. I know it’s not comfortable.”
His hand finds the space right by the scissors. Stanley’s panic-blown eyes stay trained on Ford’s face and raised hand.
“I know that, I promise. It feels like fire, and it’s weird,” he continues. “It’ll be over soon. It’ll be out of your leg, and--”
Ford reaches up, wraps his hands around the handle of the scissors, and yanks. Stanley reflexively jerks away, causing the blades to come out at a painful angle. A shriek rips from his throat as the raw nerves inside his thigh lit on fire, sending wave after wave of pain up his spine. In the time between one breath and the next, Ford suddenly fears that Stanley will stop trusting him-- that this will be the final straw, the action that severs the frail connection that holds them together.
The fear is stopped in its tracks as Stanley immediately presses into his side. His small hands squeeze his thigh and he whimpers pitifully. Something eases out of Ford’s shoulders, and he quickly scoops Stanley back into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he finds himself whispering as he carries his brother to the kitchen. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Ford tries to deposit Stanley on the counter, but one of the boy’s bloody hands quickly grips the front of his sweater when he tries to pull away. He whines something incoherent, and Ford can’t force himself to leave him. Balancing Stanley against him, he works to pull the first aid kit down from where he hid it away from Bill.
More apologies slip past his lips as he returns to the counter. He uses the shears to cut a hole in the thrifted jeans, exposing the skin around the wound. It’s swollen and hot to the touch, irritated from the hours spent in contact with the scissors.
Stanley makes a panicked noise at the sight, and Ford finds himself pushing Stanley’s face back into the crook of his neck.
“Don’t look,” he comforts. “It’s okay, I’ve got this. I’ve got you.”
Thankfully, his brother stays where he is. His trembling doesn’t subside at all, but Ford can’t hold that against him. He has intimate knowledge of pain like this. A flash of a memory-- cleaning his hand after Bill stabbed a nail through it-- crosses his mind and warps itself. In the distorted memory, Ford is replaced with Stanley, and the boy is forced to clean up the wound himself in the quiet solitude of the morning. It sends a jolt of something hard and cold through Ford’s stomach, settling into a tight knot.
He pushes it down as he dabs the blood away from the wound. He will make damn sure that Stanley won’t have to do this by himself.
Does his Stanley have anyone to clean his wounds?
The thought is shoved into the dark corner of his mind. He refuses to think of him. He has nothing to do with this, not right now.
Ford’s hands are far more gentle with Stanley than they are with his own wounds. It’s slow work, making sure that the wound is clean before he carefully packs it with strips of pre-prepared gauze. Stanley puts up a fight when he begins, whining at the odd feeling of gauze in the wound. Arms wind back around Ford’s neck, and he doesn’t mind even when they squeeze tight.
“It’s okay,” he says softly as he works. “I’m sorry. It’s okay-- I’m so sorry.”
He fixes him a glass of water to drink with a few painkillers. He has Stanley shimmy out of the blood-soaked, ruined jeans so he can wrap a bandage around his leg, and helps him pull on a pair of warm sweatpants. Stanley doesn’t move away from him after they’re on, standing as close as possible as Ford cleans the countertop.
“We’ll check it in a few hours,” Ford explains as he fastens the first aid kit closed. His voice is heavy with exhaustion. “Clean it as needed, change the bandages twice a day.”
He feels Stanley sway on his feet beside him. When he looks down, Stanley’s eyes are closed and his face is slack.
“Stanley?” His voice is softer than it has any right to be.
“Hm?” his brother responds without opening his eyes. His head bobs once, twice before he jolts. His eyes blink open. “What?”
Something soft pushes against Ford’s ribcage, a fondness soothing the harrowing events of the last several hours. Brown eyes, bleary and exhausted, gaze up at him. A sliver of something protective sneaks its way in, too.
“Let’s go back to the sitting room,” he gently urges. When he gets a nod in response, he slowly picks Stanley back up. Hands grip his sweater as a warm cheek finds his shoulder.
The couch is a little bloody, but it’s easy enough to sit on the other side. He’ll have to make sure to find that bloodstain remover he made a few months ago. It goes on his ever-growing list of tasks to complete as he settles into the cushions. Stanley is a welcome weight on top of him, only uncomfortable for a moment while they find a good way to rest his legs.
Ford knows it would be dangerous to let himself fall asleep. He fishes a book from the side table along with the television remote. Stanley asks what he’s doing a few times, desperate to stay awake but unable to do so.
“It’s okay to sleep,” he tells his brother. His chest aches as he watches Stanley fight it off.
“Don’t wanna,” Stanley slurs. His head bobs before he catches himself. “Bill--”
“Shh,” Ford hushes him. “I’ve got you. Let me handle Bill.”
Stanley tries to argue, but all that comes out is a nonsensical mumble. Ford is briefly reminded of his childhood: laying in the dark, armed with a flashlight as he rambles on about whatever new book he’d just read. Stanley, splayed out next to him with his crayons and sketchbook, trying his best to listen. He’d rest his head in his arms or on his drawing, gazing over at Stanford as he talked. His eyes would droop, clearly fighting off sleep, but he’d keep responding to let Stanford know he was listening. He never remembered anything in the morning, and they both knew that he didn’t really care about the subject, but it was important to Stanley to keep Stanford company. To let Stanford know he cared.
Within minutes, Stanley is relaxed and quiet against him. He doesn’t so much as shift in his sleep. With each gentle breath, stress slowly drains out of Ford’s muscles. Not all of it-- never all of it, with the looming threat of Bill-- but it’s enough to settle his nerves. Enough that he can at least read his book for a while before he needs the extra stimulation from the TV. Stanley makes a sound when it turns on but settles back down within moments, nuzzling his face back into the warmth and softness of Ford’s sweater.
Ford’s mind drifts to many different things as he lets Stanley nap. It drifts to their current predicament of twisted timelines or mismatched realities, to what to do about Bill’s deal with Stanley, to the impending meeting with his own brother. The book is forgotten after long, simply resting in his hands as his mind is elsewhere.
What am I going to do? It’s up to me to fix this whole mess… We wouldn’t be here it if wasn’t for my stupid mistake.
He takes a moment to look at Stanley. At this angle, he can really only see a mess of brown curls.
He wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me.
(We wouldn’t be separated if it wasn’t for him.)
He knows it’s unfair. He’s upset with his Stanley, the man he’s seen on TV who shares his face. Not this little boy, stolen from his home timeline-reality-dimension and forced to endure Ford’s problems. Not him.
I have to make sure he gets home in one piece.
He sighs, and rests his cheek against the top of Stanley’s head.
He’s going to make sure Stanley gets home, without Bill as an unwanted passenger. Even if it means that he has to stay longer, he will protect Stanley.