moonstoneciphers said: Ford and vampires
Sitting in a vat, stinking of cinnamon and formaldehyde, his eyes fixed on the pulse jumping in his best friend's throat, Stanford Pines was forced to admit that his cure for undeath may not have entirely worked.
“Yeah, that don’t look like it’s working,” his twin helpfully observed from where he slouched in Ford’s wheeled office chair across the room. “You still seem pretty dead to me.”
“Thank you, Stanley, for that insight I could not possibly have come to on my own,” Ford ground out, between gritted teeth. There was a curious pressure in his jaw which was starting to border on pain, and he really didn’t want to consider the implications too closely. Scientific inquiry was all very well and good, even when the science tried to eat you, but permanent transformation into a creature of the night had not been in his future plans, and, from what Stan had had to say so far, seemed likely to put a serious crimp in his research.
Stan jerked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the front door. “I can get Susan back here, offer of blood still stands.”
“Thank you, Stanley,” Ford muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. It was difficult to tell, with his glasses so displaced, but he thought he caught a glimpse of Fiddleford nodding vigourously in Stan’s direction. “Yes. Definitely. I just can’t wait to sink my teeth into a nice side of vermin. Sounds positively mouthwatering.”
The unfortunate part, Ford tried not to reflect, was that it did.
“Hey now, don’t you go a-badmouthin’ vermin,” Fiddleford said, and Ford decided he didn’t want to know.
Stan heaved himself up out of the office chair with a long-suffering sigh. Ford hated himself for the way his voice quavered as he demanded, “Where are you going?”
Stan jabbed a thumb in the direction of the door again. “Gonna grab you some grub. Be back in five.”
“I thought I just told you, I’m not interested in -”
“Honestly, I don’t care what you’re interested in right now,” Stan said. “Your stinky bath isn’t working, you’re gonna have to eat something, and I think I’m speakin’ for all of us here when I say I’d like that something to not be Fidds.”
Fiddleford blinked indignantly in Stan’s direction, but Ford didn’t miss the nervous glance he shot back in Ford’s direction. “ ‘Fidds’?”
“Please, Stan, I can take care of myself,” Ford said. “And this ‘stinky bath’, as you so eloquently put it, takes time to work -”
“Yeah?” Stan asked. “How much time? A week? A month?”
“Stanley -” Ford started, but Fiddleford cut him off.
“Nah, Ford, man’s got a point. You were dezombificated by this time last time we hadda use this.” He rubbed the side of his neck, letting his palm rest over the artery pulsing just under the skin. A sudden jab of pain shot through the roof of Ford’s mouth, and he slapped a hand to his lips until it ebbed.
“We can’t give up now!” he said, when he felt brave enough to open his mouth again, aware that he was coming dangerously close to begging.
“Stanford -” Fiddleford started, but Ford cut him off with a flourish, spattering formaldehyde across the study wall.
“I am not going to be a - a monster for the rest of my days!”
Fiddleford crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head as he met Ford’s gaze. Stan took a step back, his expression going shuttered, but Ford didn’t pay either of them any attention. The pain in his jaw was growing worse, the pit of his stomach hollowing out to match it, the stench of the bath stung his nostrils, and there was a threatening wobbly quality to his vision that he didn’t like at all. “I won’t let him have the satisfaction, do you understand? I will not let him win!”
For a moment, the study rang with surprised silence.
“You’re talkin’ about that Bill guy,” Stan said, at last.
Ford bit down on his lower lip, nodding stiffly.
“Ford, we banished him,” Stan started, and Ford gestured down at himself.
“And yet, somehow, he still gets the last laugh! One final jest from beyond the grave! I suppose I should just learn to accept that I will never, ever be free of him, is that it?”
“No, you dumbass,” Stan said, taking a deep breath and seeming to unfreeze. “What you should do is get some damn blood in you before you keel over and fall out of your stinky bath. It ain’t gonna do anybody any good for you to starve while you’re waiting for it to kick in.”
“He’s got a point, Stanford,” Fiddleford said sternly. “Ain’t nobody hurtin’ you now but your own fool self.”
Ford sucked in a breath, ready to argue, and then let it out, slow. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so old.
“All right,” he sighed, sinking down in the tub. “Blood, then. But I’m not getting out.”