Chapter Text
If he had the choice, Stan would die in his car : away from prying eyes, laying down and listening to the radio, totally spaced out, holding that weathered photo. It's a selfish choice. His rotting body would stain the back seats so completely that she'd be unusable. Leaving the radio on, even at the lowest volume, would eventually drain her battery. Whoever found the scene would definitely scrap her. She'd die with him. Stan had always been a selfish man, so maybe it's for the best that he has no idea where she is. That way, she'd have some more adventures ahead of her. That way, he wouldn't have the chance to stain that good memory of his brother with blood and all that other gunk.
It's probably for the best that he's out of money too. If he'd had anything meaningful to spend, he'd have gotten a motel room and made an awful mess, stain bedsheets so badly they'd have to be thrown out with him. Sometimes they hire teens to man the counters or some college student as a janitor, he'd hate to be the reason they see their first corpse.
So, no, this isn't where Stan would have wanted to die, wouldn't even be his second choice, but it isn't the worst place. He can sit down and still hold the phone to his ear. If he doesn't look up, then the street lamp isn't that annoying. It's late enough that the streets are pretty quiet, empty really. No one who doesn't know how to mind their business is up and about at this hour, the few stragglers he'd seen on the way to this phone booth had all had the sens to avoid eye contact. Besides, these things get cleaned by the city, right? So he won't have to worry about festering too long and the cleaning won't be too much of a hassle either, there's a drain not a foot away. Then, he'll get an official death certificate and Rico might be satisfied enough to forget his face. Really, all things considered, dying here isn't so bad.
He'd considered other options, briefly, earlier that day. He could die slumped next to a dumpster, certainly would make things simpler for the shmuck who finds him. He could die on some place's doorstep like the bum he is, it would give his feet a rest at least. Or, he could put his last few quarters to good use. It's not like he's going to be able to spend the change later, so why not?
The idea had been planted the moment he'd seen the phone booth, he'd felt those stray coins weighing the inner pocket of his pants, and found himself walking to it. It was as good a place to die as any. The decision was basically made for him.
He'd known the moment he sat down that he wouldn't be able to muster up the will to stand up again. So, there was nothing left for him to do but accept it as his final resting place. He's taken to leaning against the glass walls of the booth just to keep himself semi-upright. It isn't the most comfortable position, there isn't enough space to fully extend his arms or legs and give them respite, but it's enough. This way he won't collapse mid call and bash his head in on the way down, he's heard head wounds can make your brain dream up weird things before death. With his luck, he'd have a split-second of pure hell.
It's hard to find the energy he'd had days before, the overwhelming urge to live that had him digging his teeth into rope, again and again. He can't imagine it now, what kind of feeling had pushed him to keep at it, to push past the mind-numbing pressure against his teeth, past the sharp pain of stray fibrous edges cutting into his gums, past the unbearable sensation of his front teeth being forced back into his gums with every bite, all while choking on his own blood and spit - past the mind-splintering pain when they shattered under that pressure. The mere memory of it has his gums ache, and yet, he knows he'd somehow found the will to go even farther. He has proof of it : shredded, bleeding gums, pierced with shards of the one tooth that he hadn't managed to spit out. He hadn't stopped biting and tearing until his wrist had been freed, hadn't stopped until he didn't have enough teeth left to smile with, until he couldn't feel any semblance of relief unless he breathed with his mouth gaping, the air of every inhale briefly cooling wounds that might never heal.
He'd once had the strength and drive to hobble out of the desert, one step at a time, limbs aching, until he'd found this city. Now, Stan couldn't stand upright, couldn't get his hands to stop shaking long enough to place a single quarter. He'd missed the mark several times, nearly dropped that damn thing once or twice.
The past few days are a blur, it feels like he has the memories of a different person. He tries to see himself in that desperate man who'd felt the desert heat turn his tomb into a sweltering, suffocating oven, who knew nothing beyond pain, the sharp smell of gasoline, the bitter tang of his own blood, and hadn't stopped struggling for even a moment. He can't picture himself doing any of that now. He doesn't even have the strength to properly lift his head. Even his cravings are duller, he probably wouldn't be able to get up even if it meant having some kind of upper or something numbing.
With the adrenaline, and whatever innate will to not-die-in-the-trunk-of-a-shitty-car he'd mustered up, gone, Stan has been able to accept reality. He's alive, yeah, but he won't be for long. He keeps coughing up blood, for one, and with each scratchy cough he gets reminded that the closest thing he's had to water all day is his own sweat. He feels too nauseous, too much like his puckering stomach is trying to digest itself, to be hungry - which must be some kind of final stage of starvation he'd never quite reached before. Or, who knows, maybe his shitty stitches didn't do jack shit to prevent the tear in his side from getting infected. Hell, who's to say not having a kidney won't kill him first? Or maybe the bleeding gash in his arm will do him in. He'd probably gotten tetanus from that junk car's broken bumper. Adrenaline does funny things to you, it'd only started hurting miles after it'd teared into his forearm until it met bone, never stopped bleeding since.
He can hide away and scrounge up supplies, he can bribe his way into getting some kind of treatment, but Rico has guys all over the state. If they haven't noticed he's not dead yet, they'll find out soon and they'll finish the job. Once they start looking, nowhere is safe : hospitals, motels, clinics, grocery stores, he's probably got a few cop buddies too. Even if he miraculously doesn't die from his wounds, which frankly doesn't seem possible with the amount of blood he's lost in the last hour, Stan's a dead man either way.
The phone is his hand, has been for a bit, while he does nothing but listen to his own shaky breathing. It's late into the night, maybe even late enough to be morning, though the sky is pitch black. There's no more putting it off.
One last call, that's what he's about to do. It isn't sappy as much as it's pathetic. Stan reaches up with his good arm to carefully press each number, it drops like a weight next to him, then he presses the phone to his ear with the other hand. He's used the last of his strength, but that's alright. This is it.
He doesn't register it until the third ring. It's only as he finally raises his pen from the paper, finally having inscribed the day's observations, that he takes notice of the tremors wracking the desk and the shrill sound of bellringing.
Stanford briefly considers letting it ring. More than half of all phone-calls he receives are telemarketers and juvenile pranks, which have only been somewhat alleviated by a well-placed curse or two, but there's always the possibility that it's his mother or Fiddleford calling. Then, it'd be something voicemail-worthy and he'd have to make a call anyhow.
So, reluctantly, he answers it :
"Hello, this is Dr. Stanford Pines speaking."
There is no answer. Seconds of silence pass, all he is greeted with is the faint sound of someone breathing. Stanford quietly seethes, of course it was this again. He has been nothing but polite and gracious and still he's considered the perfect victim for a dumb joke. It's infuriating. He has half a mind to finally give this miscreant exactly what they deserve, to start screaming and berating and-
"Hey,"
All of his thoughts grind to a halt.
Before Stanford can even think of replying, they continue: "…how's it been?" They cough, the sound is grating, revolting even, as it's accompanied with a wet quality that infers a build-up of snot. It doesn't deter them from adding weakly: "…had a good day?"
That voice unsettles him. It isn't a voice he could've anticipated. It has a raspy, nasally quality to it that implies they're congested to such a degree that they can only breathe through their mouth. Every word is delivered weakly, as if the act were a great strain. What's more, every breath sounds like it causes them pain, for, as soon as they stop speaking, they begin to take big, frail breaths that border on gasps.
They speak with a perplexing lisp that threatens to slur their words together into a jumble. From it's auditive quality, it seems to be in equal parts likely a result of lethargy and physical impairment. Without the context of the words' order, it nearly sounded like they'd said "owz it bin" and later "adagu dey". If he'd been someone less meticulous, he might've missed the words they were meant to be entirely. Thankfully, he has practice interpreting heavy accents of many regions. Still, Stanford has the impression that this isn't a matter of accent, that the caller is making a concentrated effort to properly pronounce their words and that this is the best they can do.
It takes him a moment to register their words …this is what they have to say? Assuming it's indeed the same person as all the times before, that would mean that after years and years of silence this is all they have to say.
"I…suppose I have." He eventually says. As strange as this is, he'd been asked a question. "Who is this?"
"That's good." The sound of a disgusting cough is once again projected directly into his ear. "So…what you been up to today?"
The caller boldly ignores the most pressing question and instead insists on engaging in small talk. It's discombobulating to speak to someone who refuses to be frank and paradoxically seems to be so genuinely curious about something as mundane and insignificant as his day.
After a moment of careful consideration, Stanford hesitantly answers. It isn't likely that this is genuinely what they're looking to hear, but the truth is what they asked for. Maybe they'll finally tire from bothering him if they realize that he isn't much for casual conversation.
"Well, I have spent most of my time today observing a few moths with anomalous coloring and behavior." Then, he firmly states: "Now, I insist that you tell me who you are and why you've called me at such an egregious hour."
"Huh…What about those little guys' is uh, animalus?"
The odd brusqueness and casual wording is jarring and, simultaneously, disarming. Logically, he shouldn't entertain this prank caller's attempts at deflection. Still, it would be a betrayal of his personal principles to deny someone in the pursuit of knowledge, however unlikely it may be that this is genuine.
As a compromise, Stanford briefly details the species of moths that have been his current focus, their anomalous qualities, as well as, essential context such as : the relevance of this species in the local ecosystem, the relevancy of this species to his research, the current focus of his research, and the field of Oddology. He delivers this information in record time.
"Wow…that's cool stuff. That's- good to hear you're having fun out there, being a nature doctor or whatever." He'd expected sarcasm or mockery of some kind, but there isn't any to be found. If anything, it seems like this caller is content, relieved maybe, if a little confused. There's a levity to their tone that hadn't been present - an indication of interest, perhaps? Does he dare to imagine that it's the result of lips stretching into an attentive, delighted smile?
"So you're happy?" They suddenly ask, their voice has lowered to a dry croak. "Successful?"
Well, he isn't exactly successful just yet, but…as of late, he does feel content with his lifestyle. Soon enough, he won't have the time to observe and record at his leisure. Soon, he'll hit a point in his career when conferences and press releases will replace days of eclectic discovery. Yet, in spite of the temporary nature of this period in his life, it is satisfying work. Although he'd never thought of it in such a way, it is true that he is the, well, happiest he's been in many, many years.
"…yes, I am."
As silence greets him, Stanford is reminded that this caller is a complete stranger that has decided to bother him horrendously late and has thoroughly refused to identify themselves or their intentions. This isn't a casual conversation, so it's time to forgo pleasantries.
He demands: "Who is this? Why are you calling?"
"I guess I just…" They inhale and Stanford is forced to wait as shallow hitches of breath turn into a series of discomforting coughs. If he couldn't hear the effort it took them to catch their breath in between painful hacking, he might've mistaken the noise for spitting. He has half a mind to suggest they end the call right then and there to have themselves checked out for pneumonia or some other kind of respiratory illness. Of course, it surely can't be that bad, not if they've taken to harassing a stranger instead of seeking medical attention. Surely it just sounds worse than it is. It's probably just a cold.
"Just wanted to know how you're doing, how your day was…stuff like that…"
Another deflection.
It's late. This is a waste of time. He has, frankly, many things he could be doing, all of which are pursuits that are more worthy of his time than entertaining the whims of a stranger who insists on wasting his time. All of this talking, all to have accomplished nothing of use!
"Look, I do not have the time to entertain you. I have been courteous enough. This is your last chance to state your name and your business with me."
"I-I'm sorry."
He can barely hear it, that feeble mumble, but it makes Stanford lose his nerve. He's only heard this tone a few times in his life and it's always a painful sight. He hears it solely when he's faced with someone on the verge of tears, when circumstances have beaten the verve out of them, when grown men are reduced to little boys. It doesn't get easier to witness and he can never manage to help in any meaningful way, whether it's a classmate, a stranger on the bus, a shadow lit behind a curtain.
So, like every time before, Stanford lets that tone paralyze him. He presses the receiver harshly against his ear, the pressure is welcome as the voice on the other side of the line delivers every word with the cadence of a sob.
"For calling, I shouldn't - just, I'm sorry, for everything, for breaking your project- for everything."
…Project?
What does-? Is it-? It - surely it couldn't be-
"I-I know it doesn't mean much, coming from me," That feeble voice that can barely pronounce a legible word, that tells him nothing about the person on the line other than they're sick and teary, continues to mumble: "but I'm so happy you're doing good. I just know you'll be some hotshot someday, well, more than ya already are-"
"Stanley…?"
For a moment, all he's met with is the phone's ambient sounds, then: "…hey, Sixer."
"…why are you calling? Why do you sound so…"
Suddenly all the descriptors he can conjure are thoroughly inadequate. Awful, weak, raspy : none of them communicate even a fraction of the unease that came with the knowledge of what that voice had once sounded like, that this voice in his ear is something far worse than merely unwell.
"Just…wanted to know how you been…you should tell me more about those moths…"
Stanley avoids the most pressing question, just like he'd done the entire call, insisting on small talk, repeatedly asking questions that…encouraged him to talk as long as he'd like. Even now, that's what Stanley is doing : prompting, encouraging him to go on a tangent about his work, his life, his day…
He hadn't called for advice, hadn't called for medical insight despite having referred to him as a doctor, maybe that's why Stanley keeps on avoiding the subject. He called to apologize, as discombobulating as it feels to realize, that's the truth of the matter. Not only that, he called to hear about Stanford's life, his research…
Stanley, sick with…some sort of harmless cold surely, hadn't called just to apologize either. He's interested in his work, happy for his success, and regretful for his actions.
Something mends in him and Stanford starts to wonder what it would be like if they were to call each other, every so often. He's still angry, on some level assuredly, but the emotion is just out of reach.
For every moment of betrayal, there's something he's missed about his brother. It's been a long time since he'd spoken to anyone without any professional purpose, since he'd been one in a pair : taking turns unabashedly speaking for hours on end about anything and everything. Stanford finds he has so much he'd like to tell him and, knowing Stanley, he'll likely have just as much to say in return. Maybe, although they now live different lives, they can still have that.
"…only if you promise to tell me everything." In spite of the circumstances, he finds that he's begun to smile.
"Yeah…that'd be…that'd be great." Stanley huffs out, unmistakably eager. Stanford imagines they might be matching now.
"So, how was your day?"
He coughs, once, twice. The noise is just as jarring and disquieting as it had been the first time. Then, he simply says: "Nothing much going on."
"Well, you should really get yourself checked out, that cold sounds merciless."
Stanley isn't an idiot. He may be a little blase, but they both learnt together, up against relentless bullies, that letting hurt fester only makes it worse. He wouldn't have called if this sickness was something to actively worry over, but Stanford's own anxiety can't let go of the gut feeling he'd gotten when he'd heard that very first word.
"Ha, yeah…"
Stanley laughs in a stilted, breathy manner for a moment, but it very quickly becomes wheezing, gasping breaths that then transition into those awful, violent, wet coughs. This time, they don't stop.
"Stanley? Are you alright?"
Stanley doesn't answer, the coughing does not relent or improve, not even for a moment. In fact, it seems that with each subsequent cough, Stanley loses more and more strength and the compulsion to cough only becomes stronger.
"Stanley?" He's really starting to panic, Stanford can barely hear his own voice, as his mind helpfully focuses solely on the sound of struggling lungs. "What's going on? Stanley!"
Eventually, the noise subsides and Stanford can hear breathing again. He waits for the rational explanation for his coughing, the state of his voice, the weak delivery of his words, but when Stanley finally speaks, he offers no such thing.
Instead he says : "Don't gotta worry 'bout me anymore, Sixer. I'll be out of you hair in a moment. This was just- I missed you and I just- just wanted to say goodbye."
"Stanley, what- what do you mean by that?"
He's met with silence, all that he can hear is the distant sound of labored breathing, that of which is quickly drowned out by the echo of his rapidly-beating, panicked heart slamming against his ribcage.
"…Stanley?"
"Goodbye, Ford."
"Stanley-!"
The dull noise it makes once the call disconnects drums in his ears, accompanying a mounting surge of dread.