#thcm

[yuna-greecks]

Teaser to the new crossover fanfic and comic I started in collaboration with @wolfsblut-666

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“You know, Ther was a sort of urban legend. Back when I was a cop”

Hannibal moved a bit, his interest was there. “What was it?”

“There was this Totem, on a graveyard. Made out of Huma corpses. And apparently it was built by this crazy family.” Will said. His voice was distended. Like he tried to recall something distend.

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[as-be-low]

THCM Chapter 12.

There is no chapter title this time.

There's no song quote this time. We're just rollin' right on into it.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

Stanford had made a mistake.

He should have paid attention; the signs had all been there, staring him in the face with glassy eyes, and he hadn’t bothered to recognize them for what they were. Stanley was sick.

Stanley was sick and Stella was sick, and Stanford had dragged a sick man and a sick child out all day and then had the audacity to make them suffer through furniture construction, of all things.

He’d taken Stanley’s huffs and grumbles as more of his own, special brand of self-involved annoyance, and, if he was honest with himself, Ford welcomed the thick, heavy ropes of annoyance that draped across him in reaction to his brother’s piss-poor attitude. It served as a reminder of the way Stanley used to be.

But Stanford had loathed that attitude when they were younger and had been willing to be rid of it. He had no right to welcome it now.

For Stella, however, the fussiness seemed decidedly uncharacteristic. It was a far cry from the gentle, sweet little girl he’d met nearly a week prior. He’d chalked it up to the child feeding off of her father’s ever-souring attitude and emulating it with one of her own. He didn’t fault her for it, he couldn’t have; she was only a child.

She’s only a child. It was a phrase Stanford found himself spouting out as an excuse often. It was an excuse he’d never have accepted before. What made Stella so different as to merit the use of such an excuse? What about her made him mean it?

The toddler had spent the afternoon perched in her father’s lap, in the midst of a number of small screws and wooden slats.

“Trust you to pick out the most convoluted baby gate there is,” Stanley had grumbled, “one with lots of tiny pieces for a baby, and not only did you buy one of these multi-piece pieces of crud, you had to get two. Two. ” The man had been horrible since they’d left the store and had complained about everything and nothing under his breath for a good part of their trip.

Stella, for her part, had fallen asleep almost as soon as Stanley had thrown the car into gear. It was with a white-knuckled grip that he had nosed the car back to the cabin. Ford hated to admit, if only to himself, that the seething anger dripping off of the man had stung. It was uncalled for, and surely both of them knew it.

There were more pressing concerns at hand.

Ford turned his attention back to his brother and his near-permanent scowl and offered the man a glare of his own, His niece wriggled in her father’s lap and eventually curled in against him, her face half-buried against Stanley's shoulder. Ford sent the child a soft smile, only to receive a small, yet scalding glare in return. Oh. That was unexpected. He scoured his mind to recall any slight that might have warranted such a compact display of ire. The little girl stared at him for a while longer, then flopped and flailed against Stanley doing her best to curl herself around Stanley’s arm. Half of a gate slipped from his hands, followed by a huff of his own.

“No, sweetie. If you’re gonna sit with me, I need you to sit up.”

“No.”

“…You want some milk? Let’s get you some milk.”

“Yeah.” The pair lumbered up, making an uneasy march to the kitchen. It wasn’t long before footsteps shuffled closer. Stanley’s face was a surprise; his uneasy-strained look felt out-of-place with the abrasive rapport that had built between them.

The milk seemed to placate the child if only for a moment, and she quickly settled back into a compact ball, furled into her father’s lap. A thick silence coated the room for a while.

“Is… Is everything alright?”

It took Stanley a moment to respond. “I… Yeah.” He paused to worry his lip. “Yeah, she’s okay, Ford.” It was the third time Stanley had gotten up to pace with his young child, before finally lowering himself back down to the floor with Stella in his lap. They sat quietly for quite some time.

“Sit up, sweetie, my arm’s fallin’ asleep.” Stanley mumbled, earning himself a whine as he shifted a listless Stella and propped her against his chest. Ford watched his brother sigh as the child burrowed down, nestling against him in a way that further impeded his movement.

“Why don’t you just put her down?” As much as the man complained about constructing the gate he needed for his child, he seemed willing to draw the process out into an intolerable exercise in testing both of their patience. Ford returned Stan’s baleful look with one of his own.

“I can’t, Ford. She won’t let me.”

“Nonsense.”

“Really, now?”

“She’d be far more comfortable elsewhere, and you know this.” Ford’s cabin wasn’t that terrible; the child could stand to sit by herself for an hour or so. Stanley refused to break eye contact as he let his screwdriver clatter to the floor and slipped his hands under his daughter’s armpits. He didn’t flinch as the child immediately began to screech, her little fingers clawing for purchase at his borrowed shirt. He lowered her back into his lap and earned himself a raspberry for his troubles.

“But sure, I can move her, though, can’t I?”

“There’s no need for obstinacy.”

“Just. Stop talking.” Ford had little incentive to continue any conversation and settled for tuning his brother out.

It was an ordeal putting together a child-proofing gate, it turned out. It was as if the concept itself existed purely to spite Stanford. Stella, small as she was, seemed hell-bent on spiting the process and thwarting his and Stanley’s work with two small, pudgy hands. Ford glanced at the child sprawled across the floor, one foot on her father, the other between her balled fists. She was lying across the slat he needed.

He wasn’t sure if he should disturb her; Stanley simply leaned over and across her as needed, with the occasional muttering under his breath that Ford knew for a fact was a series of complaints lobbied against him. He’d hold his tongue for now.

Stella let out a sigh and rolled over, one little hand flailing out to capture a pack of screws.

“Sweetie, no. Don’t play with that.” Stan dwarfed the tiny hand in his to work the packet out of the child’s grip, earning himself a series of vocal complaints. “No, sweetie. It’s not a toy, okay?” He received a flail in response. “I—Okay, sweetie.”

With a huff, Stanley labored to his feet and scooped Stella up to deposit her into a nearby chair. Stella responded in kind by latching on to Stanley’s arm with a whine.

“Oh, honey.” He sighed. Ford could see the hesitance etched across his brother’s face. He himself wasn’t certain of his place in all of this. He watched as Stanley eased himself back down to the floor, cradling his daughter in the crook of one arm. “We can sit for a little while, sweet pea, but Daddy’s gotta finish puttin’ the thing together, okay?” The small child burrowed down in her father’s arms. “I…alright.” His shoulders fell slack, and Stanford found his own body doing the same.

There was something so…unnervingly docile and sweet about the way his niece clung to his brother, yet all the same, it left him ill at ease.

Stanley said nothing, barely moved, even, save to rock the child while a tiny six-fingered fist crumpled his shirt and an errant lock of hair together. The little eyes lolled closed; Ford couldn’t help but wonder why she fought so desperately against the sleep she so surely wanted. Wordlessly’ Stanford turned his head and dropped his attention back to his lap. This moment was not for him.

And so they sat, Stanford silently wishing himself elsewhere, while Stanley seemed decidedly absent. His haggard face was flat and distant as he stared down at the child struggling to doze in his lap, his eyes unfocused.

Surely it wasn’t the best of expressions he’d ever found crossing his brother’s face, but Stanford found himself almost afraid to break the trance Stanley was in. He resolved to finish the child gates. If anything, he could take the discomfiting moment as a respite from Stanley’s mumbled complaints.

It turned out, as it was, that any gripes from Stanley were significantly better than the tears and wails from his niece.

His brother had changed. He’d never known the man to be so patient.

No, he reminded himself, Stanford had never known the man at all . He’d cut ties with him when he watched him get forced out was seventeen. There was no trace of that child anymore.

It was a thought for later. There was work to be done.

For a few blessed moments, Stanford had his respite before it was broken by a child’s whine and a crumpled bit of plastic to the face. “ Ford! Geez! Will you listen, or what?”

Ford was tempted to lob something far more substantial in return. “What could possibly be so important as to warrant you throwing things like an overgrown child?”

“You’re doing that upside down , genius.”

Stanford’s eyes dropped down to the perfectly square wooden frame balanced across his leg. Upside down. He was attaching a square piece of wood to another square. He had built an inter-dimensional portal that functioned, and here he was, listening to his brother call him incapable of attaching one wooden square to another. “You’re shi—Stanley, it’s a square. ”

“It’s upside down. It’s not gonna fit right.” Stanley’s sullen scowl didn’t budge as he shifted the seething lump that began to stir in his lap. An absent hand moved to rub Stella’s back. “It may be a square, but it’s still got a right ‘n a wrong way.”

“Mm. I’m assuming you garnered this after you finished putting your gate together.” Stanford drawled. Stanley could barely pick up a sheet of paper before Stella would begin to fuss. There was no way he’d figured out a part of the assembly he hadn’t gotten to yet.

“I’m tellin’ you, it—”

“Daddy, shhh! ”

Stanley paused, holding his tongue long enough for the child to quiet. His tone was even and hushed as he rifled in his pocket and pulled out a pacifier. “It’s a square, yeah. But it’s still got a right way up.”

“I daresay I understand the basics of simple engineering and construction, but I appreciate your concern all the same.”

“Y’know what? Screw it. Do what you want.”

“Stanley, don’t turn something asinine into an ordeal.”

“ Ordeal? Me trying not to—”

“Shhh!”

“…You wasting my time is an ordeal. Get over yourself.”

“I’m merely stating that this is a child-proofing gate, sold to the masses. There is no reason for it to be a convoluted endeavor.”

“And it isn’t. There’s nothin’ hard about you just listenin’ to what I’m tellin’ you.”

“And how would you know which direction it faces? You’re nowhere near that step, Stanley!” Ford’s eyes briefly scanned Stella as she sat upright in his brother’s lap.

“Because I have eyes, Ford.” Whap. “Ey!” Ford watched Stanley frown as he lifted his daughter to eye level. “That wasn’t very nice, sweetheart. That’s really mean.” Stella let out a croak of a whine. “No, sweetie. Don’t do that. I don’t hit you, ‘n you don’t hit me. Alright?” His voice was surprisingly stern.

Ford was stunned. His docile little niece was a ball of unbridled, unadulterated anger wrapped in such a small package. When had that happened? Her little hand reared back, and with all the strength she could muster, she shoved six pudgy fingers into her father’s face Ford couldn’t help the expletive that tumbled out of his mouth. He hadn’t expected that.

“ Stel-la! That hurt! ” Stanley’s eyes were watering as he held his child at arm’s length, and his voice was something Ford had never anticipated from him. That Stanley could sound so… parental was baffling. Disconcerting, even. It was a shock to see him as a father. But to see him actually parent? “You do not hit people. Do you understand me? ” the two stared off for a brief, uncomfortable moment before the pacifier dropped from Stella’s mouth and her eyes began to well. Stanley’s entire body seemed to crumple. “C’mere, sweetheart.” His broad arms pulled the toddler against his chest, muffling the keening wail that warbled out. “Oh, sweetie.” Stella’s little body shook and Stan pushed wooden pieces aside, one by one, and shoved himself to his feet.

“I know. I know, sweetie. I know. You’re tired ’n you want Daddy ’n you also want daddy to shut up.” The keening whine the child struggled to snuffle back pitched surely upwards into a full-bodied wail.

“Oh, baby. My sweet girl. I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry. I know you’re tired.” Broad hands rubbed circles across her small back as Stanley began a bouncing pace back and forth. There was something heavy in his eyes that Ford wished he hadn’t noticed.

His brother wasn’t supposed to look this resigned.

“Oh, sweetie. Oh, sweetie .” Instead of muffling her cry, Stanley’s neck seemed to cause an echo of the shriek as Stella’s face wormed its way against him.

Ford didn’t know what to do. It was painful enough to watch without the added ringing in his ears as an unwanted bonus. What soothing words could he offer that wouldn’t end up spoiling on his tongue? What was he supposed to do in a moment like this?

Soon enough, Stanley tiptoed his way through the disarray strewn across the floor, past Stanford, and soon enough, the hiccupping wails and gentle shushes trailed up the stairs with Stanley’s heavy footfalls.

Ford dragged his eyes down to his lap. All of this, and for a simple piece of furniture? What was it that made the pair of them react so poorly to something so simple?

Why did something for Stanley’s benefit create a reaction so damned acrid?

Why did Ford even bother?

Because you know you need to fix it. It wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t. But was it Stanley’s? He shook the thought from his head. Culpability aside, it was an issue that needed resolution, and Stanford was a grown man. He was capable of finding a way to resolve whatever problems lay stark between himself and his brother.

Just as he was capable of putting together a damned child gate. He hoisted the frame against his knee as he fiddled with the latticework. Upside down my entire ass. He was a scientist. Finding solutions comprised the breadth of his expertise. Finding resolutions to his and Stanley’s issues should prove perfectly reasonable. Difficult, yes, but doable.

He just needed to find a way to stop creating more in the process. Ford was beginning to believe any action he took, regardless of intent, would be perceived as a slight by Stanley out of sheer spite.

Surely Stan wouldn’t. What reason did he have not to? Was that not what Stanford himself had done?

No. It hadn’t been intentional, Ford’s reaction. He’d never intended for things to sour so horribly between him and his brother. Stanley’s behavior had been spiteful itself, or so he felt. It was only a natural response. But had his own spite been warranted in response? He gave the wood in his hands a shove, only to have the material spring upwards to nearly hit him in the face.

Ford wasn’t sure what he felt as Stanley dragged himself back down the stairs and into the living room. He watched with unease as his brother stood in the center of the room, Stella draped across his arms as he swayed.

“I… You were right.”

The look on Stanley’s face was somewhere between apprehensive and baffled. “…What?”

“The lattice. It didn’t fit.”

“Hmm.”

The simple quiet that hung unsettled Ford. “Somehow, improbable though it remains, I had my… square of wood in an incorrect position for the frame provided.”

Another long pause sat between them. “I fuckin’ told you.”

“So you did.”

Stanley pressed both thumbs against the bridge of his nose. “Fuck it. Whatever. This shit just needs to get put up.”

Ford struggled to fight past the dirt and dust drying out his mouth to spit out his tongue.

“Eh.” He paused, clearing his throat for the sake of it, “That was…surprising.” He couldn’t say he’d expected that from either of them.

It wasn’t as though he knew either of them.

Stanley cut his eyes towards Ford but otherwise did not move. After several moments, he heaved a sigh through his nose.

“She’s little, Ford.”

“I am aware, yes.” That wouldn’t have stopped Filbrick.

“No. I mean, she’s little. ” Stanley sat forward.

“And you’re not…upset by her lashing out like that?” Filbrick would have knocked the two of them into next week for that.

Stanley’s voice neared a rasp. “She’s tired, Ford. She’s small, ‘n she had a long day. The lil’ gremlin needs to sleep.” He eased himself down to the floor with a worried glance down at the child in his arms. He was quiet long enough for her to settle again. He continued. “Put it this way. Y’know the feeling when you’re just too tired to function, ‘n you probably just feel bad in general ‘cause of it?”

He wished he didn’t.

“Imagine that, but you’re too small t’ do anything about it. You’re upset. You wanna be comforted, but there’s too much goin’ on, ‘n even that’s botherin’ you. There’s too much light in the room. Somebody keeps movin’ ‘n makin’ noise. Maybe your head hurts.

“You wanna go to sleep, but the things you can’t control won’t let you. She’s too little to really go, ‘hey, I’m exhausted ‘n I need you to take me home ‘n put me to bed right now,’ or ‘I need you t’ hold me so I can feel better, but stop movin’ around ‘n talkin’ so much, ‘cause it’s botherin’ me ‘n I really need t’ sleep.’ That’s a lot t’ ask.”

Stan’s head wavered side to side. “I mean, yeah, she can talk, but still. She’s just a baby. Things get to bein’ too much a lot easier when you’re little.” He stared down at his daughter. “I mean, it’s hard for adults to get stuff off of their chests when they’re frustrated. Y’ can’t really expect a tiny person still figurin’ all this stuff out to get it right.” He gave a half shrug. “She doesn’t mean t’ act out like that. She just can’t help it.”

“That’s… That’s very insightful of you, Stanley.”

“Eh. Doesn’t mean we won’t have a talk about hitting.” He mumbled. “That actually hurt.”

Ford worried his lip for a moment. “You’re quite good at this, Stanley.” Where had all this patience come from?

“…Yeah. I hope so.”

A few hours’ time saw the gates finally put in place. In the meantime, Stanley had put Stella upstairs to bed after she’d fallen fully asleep. He’d assured Ford that she wasn’t likely to wake with the noise of the drilling, but he wasn’t inclined to agree, and instead installed the gates in short bursts, listening for any signs of an upset child. No such signals came.

“’M gonna go check on her.” Stanley mumbled, his feet shuffling slightly before he trudged his way past Stanford.

“Of…of course.” Ford found his feet pulling him in line behind his brother. He lingered in the doorway, peeking in at the small lump Stanley perched over. His brother shook his head. “Is…is everything alright?”

A pause. “Yeah.” Stan mumbled. “I’m sure she’ll be fine in the morning. Don’t worry about it.

“Right.” Stanford worried his lip for a moment. “Well, good night, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

That night, like many before it, left Ford sleepless.

First of all, let me say that this hellsite has broken the html formatting for its own goddamn site and I hate everything about this. I don't even know if it's worth posting here anymore, at this point.

It’s been over a year since I last updated. What’s happened since then?

My work contract ran out, so no more job or money.

I moved three times with friends I’m really lucky to have.

I failed to find another job and started the process of trying to scrape up some freelance sewing projects here and there.

My idiot brain goblin has decided to get fully back on its bullshit and has taken over my life.

I have made a number of bad life choices.

I entered a mental hellpit of “I can’t do things I like while being a financial strain on someone else!” which blends itself into skills I have that could potentially be lucrative.

I got further fucked up over the fact that I’ve had this chapter and the rest of what it was supposed to be outlined for TWO YEARS and I can’t emotionally bring myself to just go ahead and write it.

I had an existential crisis over the fact that writing commissions technically exist, but aren’t nearly as viable as art commissions unless you’re writing corporate content for companies.

I then proceeded to lament that the writing and work I enjoy creating cannot be used in a portfolio to get a freelance writing gig for said corporate content.

I’ve also repeated a number of these actions far more than can be considered healthy.

On the subject of health, I have gotten constantly and repeatedly ill for just about every month for the past year and a half. I do not know what the word energy is, and at this point, I’m not sure I ever will. I’m just tired.

Hell, I'm sick right now. Sitting up to type this is a painful mistake. I've been sick for the better part of a month this time, with a cocktail of illnesses no one asked for. I don't know what healthy is, at this point, and I've started to resign myself to it. So yeah, here’s the latest chapter, though it’s much shorter and far less substantial than I’d hoped.

I can’t find it in me to find a song that I feel corresponds with the mood of the chapter, so there’s no chapter title or description this time. Maybe one day I’ll come back to add one in.

I've also been terrible in responding to comments and I'm sorry for that. I just don't have it in me to do much of anything, but please know I treasure each and every one of you. Anyways, Sorry. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[as-be-low]

Time Has Changed Me, Chapter 11

I Long To Belong (But I Always Have To Go)

Home ties me up with discontent Since the day I first went Yearning to be back again, How will I return, and when?

Billie Marten—Ribbon Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 10

Though tranquil, Sunday was filled with small challenges, most of which included trying not to step on tiny fingers. Breakfast had hardly consisted of anything. Stanley had been quiet and unresponsive and Stella turned her nose up at the leprecorn-infested cereal and refused all but the plain toast Stan had cajoled her into accepting.

There had been no tears on Sunday, but Stanford wasn't sure the sheer malaise was much better. After eating half of the toast and leaving the rest as crumbs across her face and Stan's lap, Stella stuck out a little leg in order to climb down. Stanley wrapped an arm around her middle.

"Wait, sweetie."

"But I want to go outside."

"You're not dressed for outside, sweetie. How's about we go outside a little later 'n right now we play somethin' inside?"

"Okay." Stanley set her on her wobbly feet and she tottered off towards the living room with Stanley not far behind.

"Can we play giggle bunny?"

"...Giggle bunny?"

"Punch buggy with more laughin'." Stanley mumbled. "That only works for cars, sweetie. We'll have to play somethin' else."

Her little face puckered into a frown of concentration. "I spy?"

"That might work, sweetie, but I dunno."

"Giggle bunny spy!" She hopped as she made her proposal.

"What?" Ford couldn't stop the word from slipping out.

"We play I spy and...and...'n we giggle when we see something!" Another hop.

"This game doesn't sound sustainable."

"Shut up, Ford."

"But–"

"Giggle bunny spy. Alright pumpkin. Let's play."

"You go first, Daddy."

"No, you go first. You gotta show me how t'play, remember?"

"Oh." Stella was silent for a moment before snickering.

"Has the game started?"

"Yeah."

Stanford would never understand this "game," and resigned himself to his fate.

Giggle bunny spy soon turned into a nap in the floor for Stella after she laughed herself into a coughing fit. "Giggling is tiring work, it seems." Stanford mumbled as he stared down at the child asleep in the threshold.

"Everything's tirin' work when you're three."

"That may be true." Ford hovered in the doorway.

"You can just step over her, y'know." Step over her?

"No, it's fine."

"You're tryin' t' get out of the room 'n you're just standin' there. Just step over her." He sniffed

"I..."

"Ford. You gonna just wait for her to wake up ‘n move? Just go."

He refused.

With a groan, Stanley stood and ambled over to the pair and hunched over to lift Stella. Ford slipped past, and when he returned, he found the child once again sprawled out across the threshold.

"It's where she wanted to be." Stan shrugged. He made no motions to move her. Well, damnit. Ford lifted his foot high, and with one white-knuckled hand gripping the jamb, stretched to tiptoe over the sleeping lump.

"There. Now, was that so hard?"

Yes. "I could have stepped on her." He could have broken her tiny fingers. His heart raced at the prospect. His thoughts wandered back to his childhood, when he and Stanley had been cornered by the neighborhood bullies and gotten into a fight. He’d made a fist wrong and broken his hand and had to be taken to the hospital and gawked at. He didn’t want that for Stanley’s child. She didn’t deserve it. “I could have stepped on her.” He could have broken her fingers and ruined her hands and—

"Ford. It’s fine. Calm down." A few minutes later the child sat up, groggy and rubbing her eyes. She bumbled to her feet and crept closer to Stanley, who pulled her into his lap. She hunkered back down. "Still sleepy, sweetie pie?" She didn't reply. "Alright, sweetie. Go back to sleep." Ford watched as Stanley began to rock her from side to side, the movements slow and clearly practiced. Sure enough, Stanley's eyes began to fall heavy-lidded themselves and the two were soon sound asleep. Ford watched them for a long moment before actually moving. A pen slipped into his hand while the other slapped flat against a leather-bound book. The scene was too pristine to let it pass unnoted, and he’d yet to document their visit.

And so he sketched, taking care to hatch out the details of the napping scene across from him. There were better, more precise ways to commit it to memory, he knew, but this one brought him the most satisfaction in that moment.

His hand traced the lines of Stan’s face, which was a great deal more relaxed than he’d seen in over twenty years. He wasn’t smiling. There was just… an absence of anything, if he was honest with himself. Stanley was just asleep. No sleeping with a smile, no frown. An absence of any discernible anything. Even as children, when Stanley slept like the dead, there was a certain careless ease with which he did so. Not anymore. Even his sleep seemed to hold that standardized disinterest Stan seemed so eager to front.

And so Stanford wrote.

After many years since our last encounter, Stanley actually agreed to meet with me once again. Imagine my surprise when my long-estranged brother returned, and with a child in tow, no less! I have a small niece, and her name is Stella. I have yet to ask for her second name. I suppose I should get around to it soon, before the question becomes out-of-place. She’s quite small; Stanley says she’s three years old, yet I’d assumed she was barely two. Despite her small stature, her resemblance to Stanley is quite striking. Stanley refuses to tell me who her mother is, so I find it safe to assume that I wouldn’t know her anyway. Nonetheless, there’s something familiar in the features she doesn’t share with Stanley, or myself by extension, I suppose. Her hair is certainly curly, as would befit any Pines, but there’s also something about it I can’t quite place.

Hair aside, she and I share the distinct misfortune of having inherited the polydactyl gene, though she doesn’t seem to have noticed yet. She’s too young to understand the birth defect now, but I fear she will learn, in due time, how distinct her hands are in comparison to others. I can only hope that other children will not be as cruel to her as they were to me. Though he insists that he does not want to turn her hands into an ordeal for her to be ashamed of, I can’t help but worry that Stanley’s indifference towards the matter will cause more harm in the long run, from our personal experience. Our very first day of school was none too enjoyable with the realization that my hands were decidedly not the norm.

He hatched out the details of the little girl’s hair as she dozed.

Little Stella is certainly a charismatic child and it’s evident that Stanley loves her dearly. He’s changed a great deal from how I remember him.

Is it my fault?

Stanford’s brow furrowed.

She seems to be a content little girl, despite the circumstances. I question the normalcy of it, though I suppose I should rather appreciate her versatility than wish upon her the turmoil that such a life must surely bring. I can’t help but wonder how Stanley managed it. She seems accustomed to such a life, though not bitter or resentful about it in the least. Is it that she doesn’t know enough to feel indignant? I shouldn’t wish such on either of them. Stanley has suffered enough. It’s a wonder that he appears to have shielded his daughter from the brunt of it.

Her current interests include:

Naptime, apparently

Being held—she seems to be a very affectionate child. She must get that from Stanley

Stanley himself—she insists on remaining in his company and the depth of her affection nearly moved him to tears the day prior

Coloring and the color green

Giggling, running and playing in water—she’s quite adept at all three

And worst of all, the Leprecorn! I don’t understand what it is she sees in the horrid creature. It does nothing but play annoying music, stand in the way, and giggle. Maybe she likes it for its giggling. If that happens to be the case, perhaps a hyena would make a better companion.

Stanford left the pen in place as he stilled, the ink crawling across the page to feather into a crackling pattern as the nib lingered.

How was it possible for Stan to care for a newborn with no means, and from the backseat of a car, no less? I shudder to think of the ways in which such a situation would have compounded the inherent difficulties of childrearing. It’s astounding that Stella survived infancy. Statistically speaking, she should not have survived.

His eyes flitted back up to Stanley, catching the hint of a frown that began to curl across his features. Stanford let the ink dry into the page before flipping to the next.

It pains me to accept it, but Stanley appears to be much worse off than he was the last two times I saw him, which is saying a great deal, since he was (still) homeless the first time, and just plucked from who knows where on the other side of the portal the second. He seems worn out completely. It’s as though he’s just done with everything that arises. It’s a long ways away from the brazen and outgoing child he’d been when we were young.

His physical condition is more shocking than I anticipated. Stanley has numerous scars and injuries, though I must admit I do not know at what juncture each appeared, save for one.

His hand lingered as he hesitated over the words, inadvertently bolding them with his shaky letters.

I do not know how Stanley survived the brand.

His thoughts strayed back to an earlier journal entry, the one he’d written after sending his brother through his hellhole. Fool Fool FOOL FOOL FOOL—He’d nearly gouged through the page with the force with which he bore down on the nib. The same frenetic force had kicked Stanley against the metal that seared and bored into his skin. I killed my brother. I know I did. I killed him and he is dead. Stanley is dead because I killed him I did it myself I—

Ford remembered the page well. His eye had wept tears and blood again, and the oxidized stains crackled when he turned the pages. These two pages had blessedly stuck together, though it didn’t matter. They were still stuck well within the forefront of his mind. I never wanted to but he won’t know that because he’s DEAD and it’s entirely my fault I killed him twice I killed my brother three times—It was true. Thrice he’d killed Stanley. He’d killed his dreams when he’d shut the curtains on him and turned away. His future died along with them. He’d killed his flesh when he kicked him into the branding plate, and he’d killed and damned his existence when he sent him through the portal. He’d been so eager to condemn him for his past affronts that he stepped into the roles of both jury and executioner without a second thought. He hadn’t considered that it would actually take him from this earth until it was too late.

He’d managed to bring him back if only the husk, but it was far too late to bring his spirit back, wasn’t it? That died and withered a long time ago.

The only thing that seems to engage Stanley, other than frequent spats with me, is Stella. The child has him wrapped around her little fingers (all six!!) and I doubt he would have it any other way. I don’t know how not to instigate a fight with him, apparently, as most interactions end with at least some tension. I believe outward actions may be a better means of communication in this circumstance, though the theory remains to be tested. He seems to take offense at several smaller gestures, though with the potential aid of my own mouth.

I can only hope this will prove successful.

Stella sneezed in her sleep and woke herself in the process. Stanford raised an eyebrow, forcing back a chuckle as she sat up and searched for the culprit. She squinted at him.

“I believe we’re supposed to cover our mouths when we sneeze, Stella.”

“No.” she rubbed her eyes before settling back down. Sleepyheads, the both of them. Ford smiled. He’d let them sleep for the time being.

  Hours later, a sharp inhale of air preceded Stanley’s eyes peeling open. “Ugh.”

Stan had woken up stiff and sore, Ford could tell. He’d made that same face enough. “…You alright?”

“Yeah.” He grumbled back.

“If you need, I’ve got some—”

“I’m good.” So he wouldn’t admit to his obvious discomfort. Alright.

Stella was still sound asleep in her father’s arms as he inched his way to his feet to pace with her. Wasn’t that for children who were upset? She was asleep. What was the point?

When she finally did wake, Stella slapped a hand to her face to rub at her eye, letting out a little whine as she tried to take in her surroundings.

“Hi, sweetiepie,” Stanley cooed, in a voice so gentle it unnerved Ford. “Hi! Oh, sweetie, you’re okay.” The child had begun to whine as she turned her head from side to side. “It’s okay.” Stanley shifted her to place an onslaught of kisses to her pudgy cheek and gradually the small whimpers turned to faint giggles. She rested her head against his shoulder. “That’s more like it.”

He stood in place and rocked for a few moments before she spoke up. “C’n I go play?”

“Outside?”

“Yeah. I wanna play outside.”

Stan mulled it over. “You’ve been so quiet all day. Sure.”

“’Kay.”

“Let’s go get your coat.”

The pair wandered outside while Stanley finagled a little arm through a sleeve, his own thin jacket tossed over his shoulder. “Lucky!” Stanford heard a set of hooves lope across the porch. “Hi!”

“TOP ‘O THE MORNIN’ TO YA!”

“OHH. Oh. It… It actually does talk. Geez. Okay. Alright.” Ford heard a series of stomps and hops interspersed with laughter. He could have done without the leprecorn’s laughter. “Yeah, you two practice gallopin’. Good plan.” Stan’s voice was muffled.

Stanford let the syncopated clomping fall to the background as he turned his attention back to the stacks of paper strewn across his worktable.

By the time he looked up from his work, the sun had long since set and Stan and his daughter had been tucked away upstairs for what might have been hours.

≈

The following day, Ford waited for Stan to make his way down the stairs before stopping him in his tracks. “We should go out today to buy a baby gate.”

“The f—I don’t know what it is you’re gettin’ at, but whatever it is, it’s too early for this.”

“It’s necessary.”

“Ford, can I at least set my child down before you start throwing sh—throwing stuff at me?”

Ford relented long enough for Stanley to do just that, and watched as his brother sat his groggy daughter in the kitchen chair. She let out a whine on contact with the wood, and he promptly lifted her back up. “It’s a good investment.”

“Listen t’what you just said and think about how that makes any sense.”

“Stanley, I’m serious.”

“So’m I. We’re not gonna be here that long. What sense does it make to buy a baby gate?”

“The point still remains that it would be useful while you’re here.”

Stan paced in place for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as though he were interrupting himself. “Why are you doing this, Ford?” his voice was barely above a whisper and everything about that screamed wrong in Stanford’s ears. Stanley wasn’t supposed to sound like that. That broken, ragged tone was not supposed to leave his mouth.

Stella, who was slung over Stanley’s shoulder, looked around for a moment before giving Stanford a grin. “Hi!”

“Good morning, sweetling.” He hummed. She stuck her hand out and it took Ford a moment to realize he was probably supposed to take it. “Oh.” He offered her his hand and she strained to grab it, clamping two of his fingers in her tiny fist. Ford stared at the small digits. It earned him a coo. How sweet. She was certainly a happy baby, and for that, he was thankful.

Stanley moved to step forward, not realizing she had a grasp on Stanford, and garnered a yelp from all three parties for it. As he froze, Stella stuck her free hand out towards her uncle.

“I… You want me to carry you?” She was already in Stanley’s arms, why would she want him? Her little free hand waved in the air and he reached for her, hesitant until she slid out of Stanley’s arms and her weight dropped into his. Ford pulled her close and tried to imitate Stanley’s posture, unable to school his face into anything other than shock as she wiggled and made herself comfortable. He craned his neck to get a better look at her. “Ah, good morning?” Her warm little cheek pressed against his as she leaned in despite his efforts to inspect her face. He couldn’t bring himself to mind. “Stella, would you like to go to the store today? We could get some things.” He offered.

“Stanford!”

“Yeah.” Stella hummed, unenthused yet without her father’s outright disdain for the idea. Her hand came up to his shoulder and she balled the fabric of his shirt into her fist. He might’ve been dismayed if he’d ever cared about wrinkled fabric.

“I…” He wasn't sure what else to say. How did one hold a conversation with toddlers? “Are you...having a good morning?"

“Yeah.”

“Good. I'm glad.”

"Stella, sweetie, let's get some breakfast in you. You want some of your cereal?"

"No." She reached for Stanley all the same.

"No? But it's got Lucky on it."

"No."

"Toast? How 'bout toast?"

"I don' want any." She frowned. Stan sighed.

"Okay. Whatever. You'll pipe up when you're hungry. What about thirsty? D'you want some milk?"

She thought about it for a moment. "Okay. But only a little!“

Stanley plucked his child from Ford's arms and placed her back in the chair, ignoring her little huff as he pulled out a glass. "Here, pumpkin."

"And you?"

Stan paused. "What?"

"What'll you have?"

"I'm good."

"Stan."

"Ford." He mirrored his tone.

Ford pursed his lips. "I'll repeat. What should we have for breakfast?"

"I'm fine, Ford." Stanley mumbled, clearing his throat shortly after. That didn't sound fine. His brother eyed him. “Stop worryin’ about it.”

“Someone has to if you won’t.” he grumbled under his breath. Stanley shot him a glare and he made it a point to ignore it. "I'll try not to ruin the eggs again."

"Ford, don't bother."

"I will do exactly that." He heard Stanley force a groan from between pursed lips. "I'm assuming scrambled is fine? Because I'm afraid any more than that might be asking a bit much at this stage." He turned to look at his brother, unnerved by the way he'd contorted himself to lay his head against the table without disturbing Stella and her glass of milk. "Are...are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Ford." Stanley sighed. "It's just a headache." It sounded like an afterthought.

"Are you sure?"

"Ford."

"Right. Sorry. Maybe. Possibly. I suppose."

"Oh, sweet Moses."

Stella jerked her glass away from her face with a cough and Stanley bolted upright. "Shit, sweetie, are you okay? Please tell me you're okay." She wiped at her eye as he patted her back and it took Ford a moment to realize the egg in his hand was now the victim of his balled fist.

"You said a bad word." Her little voice was watery.

Stanley's nervous chuckle was high-pitched and wavering. "Sweet Moses, don't scare me like that. Don't drink so fast, okay?"

"I didn't!" Her small voice had a slight rasp and she struggled to clear her throat. Stanley leaned her forward as he thumped her little back. After a few moments she began to hum, her voice rattling.

“Now you’re just playin’. Feel better?”

“Yeah.” She drawled the word out.

“Good.”

Ford’s shoulders loosened as Stanley pressed a kiss to her forehead and he looked down at the egg dripping from his wrist with a scowl. “Tch. Wonderful.”

Stanley turned, poised to speak, then paused. “Oh. Egg. Gross.”

“Suffice it to say my appetite has been lost.”

“I was tellin’ you that before.”

≈

“Ford, enough with the baby gate. It’s fine.”

“Didn’t you say it only takes a second?”

“I—Oh, fuck you.”

Ford had kept at it for hours. Stan did his best to ignore him, but he was only a man. He could only put with so much before he snapped, and he refused to do that in front of Stella again. He gave in instead. He only wished he could wipe that stupid smirk off of Ford’s face as he buckled himself into the passenger seat of the Stanleymobile.

“It only takes a second.” Stanley mimicked as he finished buckling Stella into her car seat and folded himself behind the wheel.

“What?”

“Nothin’, sweetie. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” She seemed uncertain as her little feet flopped to and fro in the seat.

Baby gates.

They were headed two towns over for a baby gate. What sense did that make? What did he have to do to get Ford to understand? They weren’t gonna stay for long. Coming up here was a stupid idea.

They just needed to grab the cheapest baby gate they had and run back out. That wasn’t too tall of an order.

This was Stanford Pines. Of course it was a tall order.

Once inside, Stanley grabbed a basket and plopped Stella in the seat. It’s too early for all of this. “Baby gates. C’mon.”

“Why?” Stella piped.

“The baby gate? It’s for you.” He gave her a quick peck on the nose, satisfied with her little grin. That’s my girl.

“Why?”

“Beats me.”

“Now, Stanley—Oh, wait.” Stanford stretched out an arm to still Stanley, his spare hand reaching out to point to a shelf.

“What?” Stanley’s eyes trailed upwards to follow the line of Stanford’s arm. “No. Not at all. Absolutely not.

“Stanley, be reasonable.”

“I’m perfectly reasonable. You be reasonable. No one needs 100 Toaster Pops. Put that back.” He caught Ford wincing at his daughter and glanced down. Stella’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men as she gripped the basket’s handle bar, one hand creeping towards Stanley’s. It seemed her worried little face was the only thing that convinced Ford to acquiesce.

“Fine. But bulk stores like this are an excellent opportunity to stock up on much-needed items.”

“Mmm hmm, and Toaster Pops ain’t one of ‘em.” It was with determination that Stanley pushed the basket up and down the aisles. “Really, Ford?”

“What?” This was why Ford wanted to come all the way out here? Did Ford not expect him to catch on? Jesus Christ, he was dumb, but he wasn’t that dumb.

“Really, Ford? Really?”

“What? What, Stanley? What?”

He’d caught the man in the middle of tossing something extra into his basket. “Really?”

“A multi-pack of shirts is a necessity, Stanley. You know this.” A necessity for who? Stanley just stared at him. This was all too ridiculous for words. “You know I buy shirts in multiple sets.”

“And you have those sets, Ford. You don’t need any more.” Stan grumbled. “You’re not buying this for yourself.”

Ford was silent for a moment as Stanley scowled. “And if I’m not? It that really so bad?”

“Yes. Put ‘em back.” The pair stared at each other, long and hard. Fords scowl matched Stanley’s and he cocked a brow, reaching for a nearby pack of socks. “Ford.” Stanley’s shoulders fell. Why was he doing this? It was damn near taunting.

“It’s going in the basket, Stanley.” Ford’s voice was soft but he still found it abrasive all the same. Where the hell did he get off with all of this? Ford sent him a searching look. Oh. He was trying. Was that it? Trying or not, Ford was out of line. Stan glared at him for a few moments.

“Come on. We’re not even on the right aisle for Pete’s sake.”

“Very well.” Very well. Stan was able to stop himself from mimicking Ford out loud, but only just.

“C’mon, sweetie pie.” Stella’s little hands splayed out over his as he pushed the basket. She was pouting up at him. He leaned down to place a kiss to the tip of her nose. Still frowning. He kissed her again. And again. And blew a raspberry against her forehead. There we go. “There’s that lil’ baby laugh.” He grinned, speeding the basket along. He’d find the baby gates his damn self. Maybe Ford wouldn’t be able to pick up more shit without a basket to throw it in.

He’d been wrong. Stanford went and got a basket of his own and passed by father and child as they made their way across the store. Damnit. Stanley wanted to shove the damned thing against a wall. He paused to hold Stella for a little while, after she’d grown fussy and tired of riding in the basket. He figured he’d get tired of riding backwards with nothing to look at but his ugly mug, too. The only problem now was that she refused to get back in the basket.

“Sweetie, I need you to sit here. What’s wrong?” What had gotten into her?

“No. I wanna stay with you.”

“I’m right here, pumpkin. Right here. You know that.” Stanley sighed and hefted her higher in his arms. “What’m I gonna do with you, huh?”

“No.”

“Let’s go find this gate before you get any fussier.”

“No.”

“Oh, geez.”

Ford had beaten to the children’s section. He’d propped two gates in his basket—because of course he did, when one was already overkill— and was mulling over diapers? Stanley thanked his lucky stars Stella had been easy to potty train. It had still been absolute hell, but considering his circumstances, he figured he’d gotten off easy. “Stanford, she literally doesn’t need those.” He leaned in to inspect a brightly-colored box at the bottom of the basket, underneath the gates. “Ford, put the Blebbos back. Seriously? Space Princess Magic Castle?” Ford had always loved the stupid little blocks when they were kids. Of course he’d pick up a set.

“She may like it, Stanley.” Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. And where would she play with it? For once, reading would actually save Stanley. He lurched forward to reach into Ford’s basket, ignoring the little whimper Stella gave him as he stepped away.

“Look.” He stretched an arm out to place a hand on her tummy, hoping to placate her. “Ages six and up. Choking hazard.” He watched Ford blanch.

“Shit.”

Stella whined.

“I didn’t realize. I just thought she might like to put it together, I didn’t—“

“Ford. It’s fine. It’s fine, okay? She just doesn’t need that.” Ford gave him a crumbling nod and placed the box back on the shelf. Stanley turned back to his own basket, adorned with his wet-eyed baby doing her best to reach for him. She let out a little hiccup. He wilted. “Oh, sweetie.” He pulled her into his arms and she immediately grabbed a fistful of his hair. He figured there was no putting her down now. He settled for swaying from side to side, letting her bury her wet little face in the crook of his neck. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Ford swooped in and transferred the contents of Stanley’s basket into his. “Oh, for fu—would you just leave it?” he hissed.

“No.”

Stanley let out a guttural groan. “Let’s just go, okay? We’ve been here too long.”

They didn’t make it three yards before Stanford stopped to look at an endcap. He was staring at more baby items. “Stanford, no.” Stan whispered, one hand rubbing smooth circles along his child’s back. “No. Just stop.” This was entirely too much. He wanted to be sick.

“What does she need?”

“She needs you to not do this, how ‘bout that?” He didn’t appreciate the glare Ford sent him.

“Stanley, be reasonable. I want to do this.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to.” Her stuff was fine. Some of it was big enough that he didn’t have to worry if she hit a growth spurt soon. It’d be fine. He’d get away from Ford and all this stupid shit and he’d be able to start scrounging and saving up again once he paid him back, and he’d be able to get her stuff when she needed it. Right now, she was fine.

“I’ve decided it’s my duty as an uncle.”

“You don’t do these things for Isaac, I bet.”

“Isaac doesn’t—“ Isaac doesn’t need them. He dared him to say it. “Isaac isn’t here right now.”

“Stanford—“

“I only have one niece.” He only had one nephew, too, if they were gonna play this game. “And one twin.” Stan was certain he wasn’t supposed to hear that. He didn’t want to hear it. He bit down on his tongue and pushed a heavy sigh from his nose. Deep breathing never calmed him, but there was a first time for everything. “What does she need, Stan?”

Stanley shook his head, holding his lip captive between his teeth. “No.” There was no way in hell.

“Stanley. I want to do this. It’s the least I can do, all things considered.”

The least he could do was stop humiliating him in public, but Stan didn’t see that happening in the next century.

“What about socks? I didn’t see many that had mates.”

“Oh, for… She needs some of those lil’ stretchy baby pants. ‘N some jammies.” Stan grumbled. He did his best to keep his voice as soft as possible. It was either that or shout, and even he wasn’t dumb enough to want to do that in the middle of a store. His little girl looked on the verge of tears as it was. Part of him hoped that Ford didn’t hear him. Another part knew that he’d only ask again if that were the case. This shit was mortifying, why couldn’t he figure that out?

Stella began to scrub her face against his shoulder. “Look, can we speed this up, Ford? I think she wants to be here ‘bout as much as I do.” She was probably tired. She’d never had a definite naptime, but she’d usually have fallen asleep at least once by this point.

“Right. Okay.” Stan watched Ford reach into a rack of children’s clothes before he paused. “She wears a size—”

“Get 3T.” Ford’s brow wrinkled at that, but Stanley chose to ignore it. It might be too big, but she could grow into it that way. If he was gonna waste money, there was no need to waste money on something she wouldn’t be able to use as long. He began to bounce slightly with each step, pacing back and forth along the aisle. He was too busy soothing his fussy child to notice Stanford grab an oversized stuffed unicorn and shove it in the basket, underneath the second baby gate.

Of course Stanley noticed the stupid horse once they reached the cashier.

“What is this?”

Stanford pretended not to understand for a moment. Smooth. Real smooth. “It’s a stuffed animal.” He sniffed.

“Ford. Seriously? She doesn't need that thing.”

“Look at her. She loves it.”

“Her eyes are closed and she can’t see it.”

“She wants it.”

“She—You didn't even ask. She didn’t ask.” A trickle of both shame and panic ran down his spine. What if she would have asked? He would’ve had to say no. What if she didn’t ask because she knew that already? Did she understand how decidedly not well off they were? She didn’t need to grow up that fast. It’s my fault if she does.

“It's a unicorn. She likes unicorns. Of course she wants it.” Ford rolled his eyes as he held the large fabric beast up for the disinterested clerk to scan. “She should have nice things.”

Stanley’s lips curled back taut and pressed against his gums. “Are you saying I don’t think my child deserves nice things?” His voice was low and gentle, but oily black venom dripped from behind his teeth all the same. It was a disgustingly low blow. His stomach coiled and knotted like a spring. “Is that what you think?” He loved his little girl. He knew damn well that she deserved this world and a thousand more. He knew there were so many things she deserved that he couldn’t provide, and he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He knew he was failing her as a parent. He was failing her, but he was the only parent she had, and he hated it. He hated that she was stuck with his sorry hide, and he couldn’t help the thick, heavy guilt that accompanied his joyful pride for having her. He could have strangled Stanford, then and there, if it wouldn’t have woken his daughter. He could have strangled him, and it wouldn’t have meant a thing because he was right.

“I—That’s not what I meant.” His voice was emphatic. Of course it wasn’t. As smart and well-spoken as Ford prided himself on being, that wasn’t what he meant. Sure. Stanley turned away from him and stalked out towards the parking lot. “Stanley—“

“Shut up, Ford.” He could hear the basket wheels trailing behind him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care either way.

The two fumed their way towards the Stanleymobile, and Stanley buckled Stella in while Stanford maneuvered the large boxes in around Stella. She’d woken up with a whine in the process and Stan fumed as he watched Stanford reach into one of the bags to pull out the stupid unicorn. He handed it to the disoriented child, bleary-eyed and confused by the fuzzy waste of money she couldn't even wrap her arms around. It was as big as she was. Why the fuck did he buy that thing? Part of Stan was sure Ford bought it just to piss him off. She didn’t need that thing, hadn’t even noticed or asked for it, and Stanley didn’t have the space for it. Where was he supposed to keep it? Maybe she could use it as a body pillow back there until she outgrew it or it got too worn-out to keep.

Stanley couldn’t afford these things, and Stanford knew it. All he was doing was setting a precedent that Stanley wouldn’t be able to keep up. Another entry to the list of things he couldn’t provide. It would end up being nothing but trouble.

He kept his eyes trained straight ahead on the road as Stanford mumbled out the occasional direction back into Gravity Falls.

Here, have a thing that I did.

[as-be-low]

THCM, Chapter 10

Won't You Take Me Home?

It poured down from the mouths of babes Locusts in a land of grey I am wild-eyed and gone astray Oh brother dear, bear me away

Nine Pin—Kaia Kater Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 10

It was cold, but there was still a smattering of other children in the area that Stella could play with. Stanley and his child seemed to move like a well-timed machine; as soon as he plucked her from the carseat, she shoved a little hand in his and the pair ambled exactly three feet to the trunk, where they dropped hands long enough for Stanley to fish through their worldly belongings to unearth a scuffed little ball and a half-crumpled cigarette carton, the latter of which he shoved into his pocket with a mumbled “nice.”

Ford frowned for a moment. He hadn’t known Stanley smoked. The little hand slipped back into Stanley’s much larger one and the pair inched their way towards the grassy field, with Ford following close behind. He couldn’t help but snicker as he watched Stanley’s arm jerk and jostle with the child’s skipping and jumping. Her doe eyes were locked on Stan as they made their way into the park, and she hovered by his side even as he ambled his way towards a vacant bench. She hiked a wobbly little leg up to climb onto the bench, though her eyes never left Stan long enough for her to give the endeavor the full attention required, and ended up just waving her foot in the air. Stan himself had a deep scowl in place as he scanned the small park, one arm outstretched towards his child and slowly dropping as though he got distracted halfway through reaching for Stella.

“Alright, kiddo. Go ahead.” And with that, Stella dropped all climbing attempts and darted off, doubling back around only to grab her forgotten ball. Stanley’s hawk-like eyes never left her for a moment.

“You know, Stan, I…” Ford trailed off as he turned towards Stanley, worrying his lips together. Stanley’s eyes were still locked on Stella.

He tried again. “She’s quite adept at tag.” More drawn-out silence. “I mean, she’s—”

“She likes runnin’.” Stan grumbled back. Somehow, the simple response startled Ford into a brief silence as Stanley dropped down onto the bench with a faint whump. It took Stanford a moment to follow suit.

Ford had to go and open his mouth once more. “You certainly keep a vigilant watch.”

“It only takes a second.”

His mouth went dry. Ford nodded, the movements slow and jerky, before giving his feet an idle shuffle. “I suppose you’re right.” The fact disheartened him. What had made Stanley so afraid? It was a far cry from the childhood they had known. He remembered the two of them, running wild wherever they pleased as long as they weren’t overtly in anyone’s way—which, in retrospect, he had to admit, they often were. Until they found the boat. No one had cared where they’d gone off to, ever. Free-range children. Was that not a thing anymore? He turned his attention back to his niece, who had found herself a little friend to run in circles with, her ball clasped between mittened palms. Ford wasn’t sure who was chasing whom. Her grin was broad and infectious and he found himself chuckling along with her from a distance.

He had to speak.

After a while, Stanford let out a small, shaky huff as he steeled himself. “Stanley.”

“What, Ford?” his flat tone unnerved Stanford.

“I know…” he trailed off. “I know we haven’t had the best…track record for communicating with one another in a long while. A long, long while.”

“Oh, geez. Here we go.”

Ford made it a point to ignore Stanley’s derision as he continued. “But I’m trying.” Stanford leaned forward and dug his elbows into his knees, his fingers sliding through his hair. “I’m trying, Stanley. I’m trying. Look, I… I know we’re likely to continue to fight. I know these things will take a while. It’s been three days, counting today, and I think we’ve only stopped bickering for a collective few hours, discounting time spent sleeping.” He ran a hand over his face. “I know I can’t rightly ask you for anything—” he ignored the huff, “but I just need you to know that I’m trying, okay? I don’t… I don’t want things to stay like this for us, alright? Even… Even with my head so far up my ass, as you so eloquently put it, that’s not what I truly wanted.”

Stanley remained still. Once again, he went back to keeping his silent watch, though after a few torturous moments, Ford caught a strained, slight nod as Stanley clenched and unclenched his jaw, working the muscles in a slow, rhythmic pattern. The tense muscles of his shoulders seemed to loosen, if only slightly. Stanford couldn’t help the tentative smile that fought to break its way across his face, nor the hand that reached up to slap his brother across the back one, two, three hesitant times. Maybe they could figure things out. Not simply, not painlessly, but at the very least, it seemed distantly, tentatively possible.

Ford’s eyes wandered back to his niece. “Is that a dog?”

“Yeah.” She and her little friend had plopped down in the dead grass to pet a small, fluffy dog that seemed quite happy for the attention.

“I wish she’d found another dog instead of the leprecorn.” Ford mumbled. “I still need to decide how to get rid of the damned thing.”

“Switch it out with a dog.” Ford turned to Stanley, his eyes searching.

“You’re serious.” A laugh began to bubble up, deep in the back of his throat.

“I’ll hold the damn thing down ‘n help you dye it, if it gets rid of that weird ass thing.”

“No, that wouldn’t suffice. We’d need to attach an artificial horn to the dog as well.”

“I got glue.” Stanley shrugged. “I hate that thing.” Ford guffawed.

Sooner than anticipated, Stella tired of the puppy and retrieved her discarded ball, abandoning her friend in favor of toddling over to the bushes. Stan tensed once again. She stared at the bushes for a while, which unnerved Ford, before finally moving to nudge the ball into the bush.

“Oh, kiddo. Why?” Stanley rubbed a hand across his face. Soon after, the ball popped out of the bush and over Stella’s head, bouncing away a few yards behind her.

“Well, that’s new.”

The little girl darted off after the ball and ran back to shove it back into the bush with a similar result. This time, she clapped and squealed before chasing after it once launched. Was there a gnome or three in the bush intent on playing fetch with children? He’d have to return later to suss them out.

Stella’s little friend reappeared and they both stared at the ball before shoving it back in and chasing after it once more, bounding off hand in hand across the park. Stan snickered beside him. “Atta girl.”

Ford had to admit, it was easily one of the sweetest things he’d seen in a long, long while. Ball retrieved, the two tottered back, taking a detour towards the bench. They started what Ford assumed was meant to be a skipping contest, though neither child was particularly coordinated enough to do much more than hop. Uncoordinated as she was, Stella tripped and landed face-first in the brown grass. Stanley was on his feet before Ford could process that she had fallen and darted over to stand the child upright. He brushed her off while she looked confused with the entire situation.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He gave her a once-over before nodding. “Good. Who’s your little friend?”

“Where?”

“Standing right next to you, pumpkin.” He tilted his head towards the other child. “Hello, sweetie.”

“Hi!”

“Hi. What’s your name?” The child just grinned.

“Ooookay. Fair enough.” He patted his daughter’s tummy. “You two go play some more, okay?”

“’Kay!” Stella picked up the ball she’d dropped, shoved it towards her father, then darted back off with the mystery child.

“Stay where I can see you, okay?” he called out.

“Okay!” her voice wavered with her bouncing steps. Ford heard Stanley chuckle as he ambled back to the bench. He dropped back down into his seat and Ford spared him a quick look, watching him scrub at his face briefly with his palm. As Stanley stooped forward with his elbows on his haunches, Stanford leaned against the bench’s back. Silence settled over them for a long while and, for what felt like the first time in ages, Ford felt no compulsion to break it. The pair sat quietly and watched as Stella and a gathered assortment of children worked their way through the lightning-fast rounds of whatever game they’d made up.

Had it been that simple when they were children? It couldn’t have been; they were always off by themselves. They wouldn’t have been so ostracized if that were the case. Though, Stella had to have gotten her easy charisma from her father.

“She certainly isn’t shy.”

“Nope.” Stanley popped the ‘p.’

“…That must be some sort of record in friend making. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it happen so quickly.”

“Eh. Get it where you can, I guess.” Stan shrugged.

Ford stared off somewhere behind the children. Why had it been so difficult for them, then? Had Stanley been born a singleton, he likely wouldn’t have had such issues. An uneasy weight pinched at the nape of his neck and settled across his shoulders and he scowled down at the dead grass between his feet. Now wasn’t the time to dwell.

Hours passed before Stella’s short little legs carried her back over to Stanley and she climbed her way into his lap. He lifted her up.

“Hey, pumpkin. You tired?”

“No.” The way she nestled down said otherwise, but Stanley made no comment, just raised his brow.

“Just wanted to come sit down?”

“Yeah.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, watching her make herself at home. “Can I have a hug?”

“Yeah.” She wiggled around and slung herself over Stanley's shoulder.

He laughed through his cooing noises as he patted her back. “You havin’ fun?”

“Yeah!”

“Good. I’m glad.” He hummed before leaning back to inspect her face. Ford craned his neck to do the same. Her cheeks were rosy, as was her little nose. She grinned down at Stanley for his troubles, her smile punctuated by a wet sniffle.

“Uh-oh. You okay?”

“Yeah!”

“You sure?” She gave him an emphatic nod.

“Wanna go play some more?”

She began to bounce along with her nod. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” Stanley cringed and lifted her out of his lap, setting her back on the ground.

“Alright, kiddo. Go play, then.” He looked a bit startled when the toddler latched on to his hand and began to tug.

“Okay, you come, too!”

Stanley shoved his eyebrows upwards. “Me? Don’t you think your uncle’ll get lonesome by himself?”

Stella leaned to the side to squint at Ford, still dangling herself from Stanley’s wrist. “Nope.” Well, damn.

Stanley cackled. “Alright, I mean, if you’re sure…”

“Yes, I’m sure! C’mon!” she tugged with all her might.

“Alright, sweetie pie. I’m comin’.” He hummed. “What’re we playin’?”

“…I don’t know.”

“You don’t? We gotta figure it out, then, don’t we?”

“Yeah!” The two voices trailed off as they loped away and Ford settled back to watch his brother and niece. Stanley had one of her little hands in each of his and marched around, hunched over while she stood on his feet. Ford jumped at a shriek she let out, but found himself smiling as Stan lifted her into the air, her feet flying outwards.

“Again! Again!” That much he could discern without difficulty.

They moved on to running in circles. Stanley had scooped her up onto his shoulders and was bouncing his daughter with each prancing step while her shrieks and giggles trailed far behind them. It was a sight he’d have to catalogue for posterity when they got back home. Maybe he could figure out a way to transcribe memories into photos. Surely Stan would want one for his…scrapbook.

He needed a proper scrapbook before anything else, but Ford knew any such gesture would be most unwelcome coming from him.

While Stanford was lost in thought, Stan and Stella returned, the child flushed but obviously pleased with herself while Stanley looked worn-out though content.

“Alright, missy. I think it’s time to head back.”

“’Kay.” She stuck a small mitten in Stanley’s bare hand and he used his free hand to snatch up the ball as Stanford shuffled to his feet.

“Ready?”

“Well, yes, I suppose. Have we—”

“I was talking to Stella, Ford.” Again.

“Oh.” Stella dissolved into a fit of giggles. That was reasonable. “Fair enough.” Stanley snorted at him, and was surprised to note that his eye rolling didn’t seem particularly ill-natured for once. He’d take it.

He watched as Stanley contorted himself into the backseat to fasten Stella into her carseat. “Good to go.” He patted her tummy. Ford folded himself back into the passenger’s side to the tune of the child’s self-made song. Was it a song? He couldn’t discern any actual words. “Oookay.” Stanley sank behind the wheel and Ford watched him peer back at Stella in the rearview mirror before pulling off. She seemed content, if her little smile was any indication, and Ford chuckled at the way her little feet kicked to and fro.

“Hi.” She’d spotted him looking at her from the rearview mirror.

“Hello, dear.” The pause was not uncomfortable for once. “…Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yeah!”

“I’m happy to hear that.” The small child sent him a bright little grin and Ford was grateful to have been dragged along and subjected to such stilted conversation, if only for that smile.

But now what?

She had played through the majority of the day into the early evening. Surely she’d be tuckered out.

But what if she wasn’t?

What if she had another untapped reserve of energy to draw from? Surely coloring would only keep her entertained for so long. What did Stanley usually do to keep occupied? His brow furrowed as he preoccupied himself. He caught Stanley stealing odd glances at him from the corner of his eye and forced himself to straighten his expression.

“We’re here.” Good. Finally. Ford stood and pushed himself out of the car, stretching for good measure while Stanley crawled into the backseat. He emerged with a very confused child on his hip. “Wake up, sweetie pie. We’re here.” Oh. She’d fallen asleep. Ford supposed that answered his question.

“Where?”

“Ford’s house.”

Stella squinted at the exterior of the cabin, cast in shadow by the last tendrils of sunlight throwing their light behind it. “Why?”

“‘Why?’ Because it’s where he lives?”

“Why do we go too?” Ford strained to hear her mumble.

“I don’t get what you’re asking, honey.”

“We’re not s’posed to go too.” Ford paused with his keys in hand. What was the child getting at?

“Not supposed to—I don’t understand, sweetie. I’m sorry.”

The little girl let out a huff he barely caught. “We go in the car. When do we go back to the car?” Oh. Oh, fuck.  Ford was going to be sick. He froze in place, eyes averted from parent and child. She wasn’t supposed to understand. She wasn’t supposed to have those questions. She wasn’t. If he’d said it once, he’d said it a dozen times. Stanley was more than welcome to stay with him, but Stanley kept brushing him off.

Living out of a car was preferable to living with him.

He’d thought they were making some sort of progress, slow though it may have been, but damned if he wasn’t wrong. No. That’s not right. These things would have to take time, and he knew that.

It didn’t change that fact that Stanley still preferred a car to him, and so, it appeared, did his child.

It took a while for Stanley to respond. “…I don’t know, sweetie.”

“Uncle Ford’s gonna come with us?”

“No, sweetie, he’s not.” He mumbled back to her. Sweet Moses. Ford had to strain to hear him and the small peck he pressed to her forehead through the fumbling jingle of his keys. No more. He shuffled his way up the porch steps, making as much noise as he could to avoid eavesdropping any further. He didn’t need to hear any more. He didn’t have the stomach for it.

“Ohh, fuck you.” He narrowly avoided tripping over the leprecorn sound asleep on the doormat. He’d set the damned mat on fire if it kept the stupid beast away.

“Bad word.” Stella whispered in the distance. He shuffled his feet in faint apology. The stupid creature scrambled to its feet in a clatter of hooves and turned from side to side as it tried to find the disturbance.

“Oh, come on. It shouldn’t take you that long to spot us, all, we’re all right here.” Ford shoved his key into the lock and turned the bolt, pushing the door open with a light shove.

“Hi, Lucky!” Stella shrieked. Stanley leaned as far away from her screams as he could without dropping her.

“Jesus, Stella. My eardrums.”

“Hi, Lucky!” she hissed in a poor approximation of a whisper. The stupid beast swatted its tail and pranced from foot to foot as Stella all but leaned herself into falling out of Stanley’s arms.

“Stella, sweetie, please.” He sighed, leaning with her to counter the sudden drop of her weight. “Oh, fine.” He set her down on her feet and straightened her coat while she wiggled out of his grip and away towards the multicolored abomination. She flung her arms around its stubby neck and the faint bagpipe music hit a high note Ford could have lived without hearing.

“Mwah!”

“Oh, no no no no, we do not kiss that thing!” Stanley swooped his daughter back into his arms and skidded through the threshold. “That thing is dirty. You don’t know where it’s been!” The little girl let out a single wail of protest as he took her into the kitchen. “C’mon, let’s go rinse your mouth out.”

Ford heard the faucet run as he battled the leprecorn with his foot, hopping backwards as he tried to get inside without the creature slipping past him. “You are not getting in. You shouldn’t even be on my porch. Why are you even here? Go bother someone else!” he paused. “Is that…Is that Danny Boy with everything flat?” The faucet turned off and Ford heard a soft thud, followed by pattering footsteps as Stella zoomed down the hallway, past his line of sight. “Stan! She’s headed for the stairs!” A metallic clatter left the kitchen, followed by Stanley’s thundering footfalls.

“Stella! No stairs!” He caught her hiking her leg up to stumble up, one small hand pressed against the wall. She pouted as he placed her on his hip.

“But I wanna go upstairs!”

“I get that, sweetie, but you can’t go by yourself. You could fall, ‘n that would make me sad. Okay?” he bounced her gently, his soft voice belying the panicked spark still fresh in his eyes.

“Lucky needs a blanket!”

“No, he doesn’t, sweetie. He’s like…half horse. Mostly horse. He’s got fur. He lives outside. He’s used to outside. He doesn’t need your blanket, but it’s awful sweet of you t’ wanna share.” Stella didn’t seem to agree.

“I’ve got a blanket for it, Stan.” He sent the man a quick nod as he roughly pushed the creature out the door with his foot, swinging the door halfway closed. He hurried off towards the treeline. Hopefully that towel was where he’d left it earlier.

Ford came back several minutes later, disgruntled but carrying the towel. “Here. Leprecorn blanket.” He held it high in the air for Stella to see, then dropped it onto the creature with a distinct lack of concern. “Now he’s not cold and we can all go inside without him.”

“Great! I think that sounds good. Does that sound good to you, sweetie?” she opened her mouth to speak, but Stan cut her off and hurried back through the door. “Great, that’s good, now let’s go inside where that thing isn’t.”

“That sounds preferable, yes.” Ford shuffled them all back inside and slammed the door in the beast’s face. He told himself the little twinge he felt was just allergies, nothing more. Certainly there was no guilt. That thing was objectively awful, and he stood by that statement.

It didn’t stop him from opening the door just a sliver to check on the damned thing.

≈

Dinner that evening proved to be uneventful. Stan and Ford slapped together sandwiches and Stanley settled in with Stella in his lap to share one.

Just the one.

Ford hid a frown. Stanley had always had the appetite of a ravenous beast. It was unlikely that part of a sandwich would sate him, though granted, Stella wasn’t much interested in food and only accepted the minimum amount Stanley deemed acceptable.

Now only if Stanley would do the same for himself. Ford stared at the pair for a moment, while Stanley stared at some uncertain point on the kitchen table. Stella had made herself at home against Stanley’s chest and was playing with the long tendrils of his hair that had come loose, her eyes slowly falling closed and shooting back open, only to drift back off again.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.” She mumbled, tilting her head up to stare at his jaw. Stanley rubbed at his scalp.

“It’s okay, sweetie.”

“Sorry.” She repeated. Stanley propped her up in order to give her a peck on the forehead.

“You look sleepy. Time for bed, huh?” He stood with a grunt and swung her onto his hip. “Let’s get you ready to go to sleep.”

“No.” She buried her face against him and closed her eyes despite her protest.

“Right.” He drawled. “Upstairs it is. Say goodnight, I guess.” He shifted the child onto his shoulder, where she peered over at Ford. She sent him a sleepy little wave and he smiled, wiggling his own fingers as a farewell. He wouldn’t wish her sweet dreams. He’d heard it enough in his own nightmares to send thick, inky dread down his spine at the thought of it.

It was too much of a threat at this point.

His eyes dragged across the sandwich materials still strewn across the counter. If he made another one, maybe he could “forget” about it and get Stanley to eat it when he came back down. That sounded like a reasonable course of action.

And so he waited.

His thoughts kept him company, unwelcome though they were. Stella was so used to the car, staying in one place for any length of time seemed unnatural. They were only on their third day with him, and she expected to be gone by now. He’d only just met her, Ford thought they were beginning to make headway in getting acquainted and reacquainted, but what did he know? Fuck-all, apparently. Stability must have been a foreign concept to the child.

Get it where you can, I guess. Wasn’t that what Stanley said? Was that why Stella was so…effervescent? If she didn’t make friends on sight, would she make any at all? She hadn’t bothered to learn any of the other children’s names. Was that normal? He wasn’t sure. None of the other children seemed inclined to care, either. Maybe it was.

He had to convince Stanley to stay. None of this was alright. It likely wouldn’t be until he and Stanley could actually talk without couched words and unintended slights and more fights. He didn’t know how long that would take, but he had to do something now.

When Stanley returned after putting Stella down, Ford was still lost at sea in his own little world, his dread and dismay crashing against him from all sides as he drummed his fingers against his cheek.

“Uh, hey.”

Ford jumped, staring up at the distraction. “Oh! Stanley. Good evening.” Stan gave him an odd squint for that.

“Uhh, yeah.” He hesitated near the doorway. Stanford didn’t know whether he should urge him in or let him be. Stan inched forward of his own accord. That settles that.

What unsettled Ford, however, was the brown blob he caught moments later drifting past out of the corner of his eye. His hands slapped against the edge of the table and his knuckles whitened as he jumped, sending Stanley into a stiff, defensive stance as it drifted towards the table.

Stan spun around. “Wh—Stella?” his arms fell limp and dangled for a brief moment before he lifted them up in disbelief. “What the heck, sweetie? What did Daddy say about the stairs? You could hurt yourself.” He fussed.

“I didn’t hurt myself.”

Stanley crouched down to lift the child, her little mouth puckered into a pout that clearly defined her feelings on the matter. “Yeah, but you could have.”

“I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.” He hummed. “The point is,” he drawled, “that you’re not supposed to play on the stairs.”

“I didn’t play!” How could someone so small sound so affronted? “I walked.”

“Mmm-hmm. No playing on the stairs and no walking up or down or on or around the stairs without a grownup with you, okay?” She frowned at Stanley. “I’ll take that as a yes. Now, come on.”

Ford chuckled at the pout pasted on Stella’s face as Stanley carried her away once again, her head bobbing along with his steps.

“I didn’t play.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay. But don’t go on the stairs again, okay?” their voices trailed up the stairs and Ford smiled at the fading noise, his cheek pressed against his fist. Maybe the second time would be the charm.

Stanley returned a short while later and dropped into the seat across from Ford with a sigh.

“…Kids?” Ford offered.

“I guess.” Stan propped his arms against the table as he leaned forward. A fond smile wrapped across his face. “Yawnin’ ‘n tired, but still won’t go to sleep.”

“I’m certain she comes by it honestly.” Ford hummed into his fist. “I seem to remember a certain someone refusing to sleep himself.”

“Hey, now, I loved my sleep. Used t’sleep all the time back in the day. You can’t pin that one on me.” Back in the day? What about now? Ford wasn’t one to speak. He could admit to that much. Insomnia was one hell of a state.

“That never stopped you from staying up late with a flashlight trying to read comics.”

“That was your idea, and you know it, Ford.”

“I think you’re missing the point.” The huff that masked Stan’s snicker was one of the most welcomed sounds Ford had heard in years.

“If the point is that you came up with that idea first, then yeah. I’m missing it.” He mumbled. “I’ll also miss the point’a the time you had us up reading that scary book until we were too scared t’ sleep at all.”

“Ma was so pissed off.”

“Psh. You ain’t foolin’.” Stan shifted and leaned back against the chair.

“We were in for it when Pa found out we neglected to sleep the entire night.”

Stanley was silent for a long moment. “Yeah.”

And once again, it seemed, Stanford Pines managed to ruin something. Stanley refused to look at him as he dragged his finger along the whorls that stretched along the kitchen table.

As the pair sat in prolonged silence, Stanford heard a small but determined whump and turned to his brother. Stanley tensed for a moment then sighed, pushing himself into a standing position as though resigned. Ford followed suit and the pair slipped into the hallway to find an errant toddler sitting confused at the foot of the stairs, her fingers splayed out on the floor at her sides.

“Stella.” Stanley huffed. His tone was firm as he crouched down to lift her to her feet, his joints popping. Ford almost winced. “Sweetheart, you’re supposed to be in bed. And you’re not supposed to go down the stairs like you did.” His child frowned up at him. “You know why? Because you could fall, like you just did, and you could hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t fall!”

“So you just decided to sit on the floor? Okay.” Stan moved to squat so that he was eye-level with his child.

“No. I jumped.”

“You—Stella, that’s not good.”

“Yes.”

“No, sweetie. You jumped ‘n fell ‘n you could’ve hurt yourself. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. That’s why you’re s’posed t’ be in bed, missy.”

“I didn’t fall!” Her little voice was outright petulant. All she’s missing is a foot stomp.

“You jumped ‘n you landed on your bottom, huh?” Stanley deduced.

“Yeah. I didn’t fall.”

“Sweetie, that’s fallin’.”

“I didn’t!”

“Okay. You didn’t fall. Fine.” Stanley paused to run a hand through his hair, stopping as his hand snagged against the vestiges of the bun he’d put it in earlier. “You can’t be jumpin’ off the stairs, okay? You scare me doin’ that. Okay? It’s really important, Stella. Daddy’s scared you might really hurt yourself that way.”

The little girl let out a sniffle. Uh-oh. She looked absolutely distraught. “But I w-wanna be with you!”

Ford witnessed the very moment Stanley’s heart fell to pieces. “Oh, babydoll.” He pulled her into his arms. “Oh, honey.” He rocked back from his haunches to sitting cross-legged in the floor, pulling the child into his lap. She wiped her nose across his shirt, Stanford noticed, but Stanley didn’t seem to mind. “Were you lonesome? Is that what it is?”

The little girl hiccupped.

“You just didn’t wanna be by yourself did you, sweetheart? That’s okay.” He swayed side to side as he rocked her in the floor, his own voice wavering. “That’s okay, sweetie. That’s okay. Just… Just let me know next time, okay? That way we can skip the whole me-fussin’-atcha thing.” He tried to force a little laugh into his words. As far as Ford could tell, it didn’t work. “Sweet lil’ girl. You didn’t mean t’do anything you weren’t s’posed to.”

“I didn’t fall.” She wailed.

“I know you didn’t, sweetie. I know. Just… Please don’t scare me like that, okay? Please.”

The sudden realization that he was an interloper watching the two doused Stanford like a bucket of ice water. He excused himself from the intimate scene.

It felt strange to watch Stanley do something so mundane, so gentle as to comfort a worked-up child, and even more so for him to be worked-up by it himself. Stanley was supposed to punch away his feelings, but here he was, talking them through with a baby. Stanley’s baby.

Filbrick would have never.

The thought tasted like dust in his mouth and was just as welcome. He heard the floorboards creak as Stanley moved to stand, the sound ebbing and slowly slipping away. He must have been pacing. Sure enough, Stanford looked up in time to see Stanley turn on his heel, jiggling the child in his arms with each careful step as he patted her small back.

“Daddy’s here, sweetie. You know that. I’ll always be here, okay? Always.” He buried his face in the girl’s hair.

Ford felt an inexplicable ache deep in his chest as Stanley spoke.

A hushed silence stifled the kitchen as Stan and Ford sat, while Stella curled herself into Stanley’s lap.

“Finally asleep?”

“Yeah.” He could hardly hear Stan’s response. His brother ran a ragged hand down his face as he sighed. Stanley wasn’t supposed to make that face. He wasn’t supposed to look so vulnerable. He was the strong twin.

“I…You certainly are popular today.” Stanford offered.

It took Stan a long while to respond. “Yeah.” Another stiff bout of silence. “Gotta stop ‘n enjoy it while I can.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Stanley looked agitated. “She’s still little. They still like you when they’re little.”

“Stan, that’s not how that works. That’s not how that’s supposed to work.”

“Sure it is.”

“So you’re telling me you hate Ma now that you’re an adult?”

“What? No! Of course not!” he fidgeted. “That’s different.”

“How is that different?”

Stanley pursed his lips as he glowered at Ford. “It just is.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Enlighten me.”

Stanley rolled his eyes, his tone tinged with whatever longsuffering indignation he’d engineered for himself. “I screw everything up, so it flip-flops. She’s the one who’s s’posed to—”

“Don’t you dare finish that thought, Stanley.”

“But I mean—”

“If Stella gets older and makes a mistake, will you suddenly hate her?”

“Of course not! I could never—”

“Then why would you expect Ma to hate you?” He stared at Stanley for a long moment.

“That’s just how it works, Ford. I ruined things for everyone.” His voice was just above a faint grumble.

“Why would that—oh.” Fuck. He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up on a large scale. A large, overarching scale with no discernible end in sight. “Oh, Stanley…”

“It just is.” He wrapped his arms tighter around the child in his lap.

And how could Ford argue? Their father had tossed him out like trash without batting an eye. If he didn’t want him, why would their mother? He didn’t have much reason to think otherwise, did he?

Worst of all, Stanford had made it so. He’d enforced that mindset himself. I ruined my brother’s life. He’d ruined his brother’s life and made the man shoulder the blame himself. How could he have fucked up so badly?

“I…Then surely you must hate me as well.” He ventured, wincing as he opened the proverbial door. No, he didn’t just open it. He might as well have kicked it down. Maybe Stan could have a good time wading through the rest of the insecurities he’d tucked away inside there, while he was at it. Stanley remained silent and refused to look at him, and it put Ford on edge. “I certainly made my share of mistakes.”

Stan groaned. “Ford, everything I got, I had comin’ to me ‘n we both know that.” Stanley bit his lip with a frown as he paused. His shoulders slumped. He looked so resigned. The last time Ford had seen that look was when they were teens and Stanley had gotten rejected by some girl or another. No, this wasn’t the same. There was something dark and heavy and quiet lingering behind his face now, more so than the morose ambling he’d known years ago. “I don’t… I don’t know, Ford. Okay? I don’t know about a lot of things. I think I’m still mad. I know I don’t wanna be here, that’s for damn sure, ‘n…” Ford winced at the look of sheer distaste curdling Stanley’s face, “ ‘n I know this is all one great big mess, but I don’t think I hate you.” Stanley sighed. “I’m angry, for sure. With you? Sure. Maybe. I guess. About? I dunno. Somethin’. A lotta things. Nothin’. Everything. I don’t know.” His hand flew back to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look. Can we… Can we not do this right now?”

Ford gave him a chalky nod, soft and crumbling. “Of… Of course. Certainly.”

“Good.”

Neither man spoke or moved, save for Stanley’s hand rubbing gentle circles along Stella’s back. Stanley broke the lingering dread with a sigh. He shifted the child so that she rested on his shoulder and pushed back his chair to stand.

“Are…Are you going to bed?”

“Nah. I need a cigarette.” Stan grumbled. Ford frowned, but caught himself.

“Do you… Do you want me to hold her?” his fingers twitched and he moved to push them under the table and out of sight. He caught Stanley scowl at him for it.

“I got ‘er. It’s fine. And stop…stop doin’ that, Ford.” He grumbled as an afterthought. “Quit hidin’ your hands. Doesn’t make any sense.”

Ford ignored him. “I’m fairly certain you aren’t supposed to smoke with small children that close.”

“Yeah, well, do what y’ gotta.”

Ford frowned. “Stanley, you don’t have to. I’m right here, I can hold her. She’s asleep.”

“She might wake up.”

“If she wakes up, I’ll tell her you went outside. It’s fine.”

Stan was silent for a moment. “But she wanted to stay with me.”

“Stanley. You’re going outside. It’s cold. She’s not dressed for cold. Look at her. She’s dressed to sleep, which she is. Asleep. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt. You can’t take her out like that.” He wasn’t dressed for the cold, either, but Ford was willing to let that slide. Stanley shuffled his feet, a frown crossing his face. You know I’m right. “Look. I’ll stand right here with her. I can see you from the window. If she wakes up, which she probably won’t, she can see you and it’ll be fine.”

Stan shuffled his feet. "You'll let me know if she wakes up?"

"Of course."

With a reluctant huff, Stanley crept close enough to pass off the child. "Here. Just...Just be careful, okay?" He whispered. Ford felt it obvious that Stanley didn't tend to let others hold his child.

"I can assure you, I'll stand here, in this exact spot, with the utmost of care." Stan either ignored the light jab or missed it altogether, giving Ford a shaky not as he fumbled through his pockets.

"I'll–I'll be right back. Right back." Moses, the man was spooked. He hadn't had this much difficulty in leaving when he went off in search of a fight ring. As he watched the man all but back out of the door without taking his eyes off of the child, it occurred to him that he might have gone through the same reluctant song and dance when he’d left to go and fight. Stella shifted in her sleep and Stanley all but leapt back through the half-closed door, eyes wide.

"Stanley. It's fine. Go smoke. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can take her back."

"Right. Fine." The door shut with a gentle click, and was immediately followed by Stanley's muffled yelp. "Fuck! Fuckin’ leprechaun! Can't you sleep somewhere better? Fuck's sake!" His footsteps thudded down the steps and Stanford turned on the porch light as an afterthought. At least now he’d be able to see the leprecorn. Better late than never.

Stanford began to pace as well, doing his best to imitate the motions Stanley had done moments before. He froze the moment Stella began to squirm, letting out a puff of relief when she settled back down. He knew he'd acknowledged it several times before, but she was miniscule. How could a person fit in his arms so completely? He found himself suddenly overwhelmed.

A tiny arm shot up and whacked Stanford in the face, nearly knocking his glasses askew.

Maybe the concept of holding small children was more involved than he anticipated.

*slides new chapter across table and runs away*

[as-be-low]

Time Has Changed Me, Chapter 9

I Never Really Knew What to Do

And I’m a goddamn fool, but then again so are you And the lion’s roar, the lion’s roar Has me seeking out and searching for you And I never really knew what to do

The Lion’s Roar—First Aid Kit

He hoped it would be a walk in the park.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

The morning was quiet.

Stanford crouched down to sit on the porch and watched the rimy dew glitter across the glass. His fingers tapped a lazy rhythm against his steaming mug. The abominable leprecorn was still present and was asleep on the porch, off to the side, but Ford chose to ignore it. Let sleeping dogs lie. He wished it were something as plain as a stupid dog. He and Stanley had always wanted a dog, growing up. There hadn’t been any room for pets in their small apartment. Pa would’ve said no, regardless. He hunkered down, letting his first two fingers tap a lazy rhythm against his mug. Yesterday had been a bust.

He refused to dwell on it.

But those scars. His mind kept lingering on those scars. They were etched into his mind, much like they were into Stan’s skin. He’d never be able to pick them away.

Neither of them would.

Ford heaved a heavy sigh as his fingers tapped a lazy rhythm against his mug. He’d apologized, on pain of a child’s tears, but he knew that wasn’t enough. He just didn’t know what else to do. He’d folded his brother’s clothing, sparse though they were, along with his niece’s belongings. She had more than Stanley, which gave him some comfort, but without the blanket Stan so often wrapped her in, the entirety hardly filled a diaper bag. Stanley had shoved their belongings into the worn, multicolored bag and dumped it all into the washer barrel before Ford could get a good look at anything. He’d done that on purpose, and Stanford knew it. Ford had stared at the caricature of a smiling lion on the bottom of the bag while it was upended. The baby giraffes and bears and elephants dancing around the big cat came in as a close second for visual interest.

His mouth contorted up and to the side in a pucker while his eyebrows furrowed. It had taken him a while to fold the child’s clothes. The tags said the majority were sized for a two-year-old. He wasn’t sure if he should have found that concerning. Who knew how fiddly such small garments could be? A small smile tickled the corner of his mouth. He knew his niece was tiny, but her shirts were downright miniscule. They looked like an oversized doll’s clothes. Is that why Ma used to call them and any child she came across “little dolls?” Stanford could see the similarities. He’d left her tiny socks in a pile. Half of them seemed to be missing mates, and socks were fiddly enough as they were.

He’d made a child cry yesterday.

It wasn’t as though he’d done it all by himself; Stanley certainly hadn’t helped the situation.

He couldn’t blame this all on Stanley. In no way was that reasonable. The man couldn’t fight himself, and as such, he’d done his part to make the little girl cry. Stanford let a hand slip away from his mug to rub at his face, his fingers lingering across his stubble. She’d forgiven him, though. Just like that, she’d said “okay” and had forgiven him. How had it been so simple? Clearly the child didn’t know any better. Stanford swore to himself not to take her kindness for granted, however long it lasted.

Ford had fought with his brother. Again. He’d fought with him and hurt him and burned him and fought with him again.

He’d never learn.

He set the mug down, careful not to disturb the sleeping beast. It was too early for bagpipe music. That damned thing was infuriating and bizarre, even by his standards, but the thought of running it off was beginning to form a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He’d try moving it in its sleep. That was much more subtle.

Twenty minutes and a full sweat later, the leprecorn dozed near the treeline with an old towel draped across its back to ward off the morning chill. Ford wasn’t a complete animal. By the time Stanley finally came down the stairs with his bleary-eyed child on his hip, the stupid creature had gone from quietly sleeping to snoring with the intensity of two grown men. He was glad he’d moved it.

Stanley gave the girl on his hip a slight bounce as she rubbed her eye. “Can you say g’morning, sweetie?” he earned a whine for his troubles. “I guess not.” Stella buried her head against his collarbone. “Alright. I guess we’re gonna be cranky this mornin’.”

Ford squinted. “Actually, no, I think she’s grinning at me?”

“Figures.”

Stanford straightened back up. “I, uh. I folded the both of your clothes and placed them back in your bag. Except for the socks. They’re… They’re in the bag, though. Just not folded.” He watched Stan’s jaw tighten.

“You what?”

Oh, here we go. “I folded your laundry, Stanley. I hope that’s not too concerning.” He tried to keep the drawl out of his voice.

Stanley was silent for a moment and shifted from foot to foot. “But why?”

“ ‘Why?’ Why not? It wouldn’t make sense for me to separate mine out and just leave your belongings in a pile.”

Stanley didn’t seem mollified. “I was gonna do it, Ford—”

“And now you don’t have to. It isn’t as though I was doing anything productive at the time—”

“Tch.”

Ford chose to ignore that. “Anyway, I placed it all back in your, uh, diaper bag. It’s all upstairs, near your door.” He grumbled. Stanley made a noise, deep in the back of his throat. Stanford scowled before his attention shifted to the way Stella wiggled in his brother’s arms, her eyes darting back and forth between two matching frowns. Stop it. The last thing anyone needed was a repeat of the previous day’s excitement. He reached up to grab her tiny foot, giving it a gentle squeeze. Six little toes wiggled against his palm. “Good morning, Stella.” He forced a brighter tone. A tense little moment passed before she gave him a small smile. There it is. His own smile widened in earnest. His eyes flickered back to Stanley. “There’s… There’s still coffee, if you’d like.”

Stanley nodded, the edge wearing off of his scowl. “…Thanks.”

“I want some.”

Stanford cocked an eyebrow. “My dear, I don’t know if that’s—”

“We’ll get you some, too, sweetie. Don’t worry.” Stanley kissed her crown.

“But—”

“We’ll get you some.” He repeated, sending Ford an even glare. Damn. Well, fine, then. “Hey, how’s about after you finish your coffee, we find somethin’ fun for you to do?” Stanley hummed into the child’s hair, swaying her from side to side as he stared off, anywhere but at Ford himself. Ford’s face fell. Stan was still eager to avoid him. Of course he was. He’d made his daughter cry. Who wouldn’t want to avoid that?

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Stella began to chant, letting her little legs flail against Stanley’s back and stomach.

“Ow! Ow, ow, hey, ey, ey! Jesus, sweetie, don’t kick a man while he’s down!” Stan grumbled with a wince carting her off towards the kitchen. Despite himself, Ford couldn’t mask his chuckle. He inched behind Stanley into the kitchen, trying to hide his look of disappointment. Stanley busied himself with settling Stella into a chair before reaching for two mugs. Ford inched closer and grabbed the coffee pot, eyeing it with unease. Why was he giving a small child coffee? Didn’t that stunt growth?

He leaned in. “Stanley, isn’t that bad for—”

“Hush, Ford. Where’s your milk?”

Ford was silent as he trudged towards the refrigerator, returning with a can of evaporated milk and the gallon jug for good measure. Stanley filled one mug with sweet milk and splashed a bit of coffee in, just enough to discolor the milk.

“Baby coffee.” He mumbled.

“Oh.” Oh. It was a means of placating her. He should’ve known. Ford watched Stanley hand Stella her mug before fixing his own. He shuffled back over to the child and used his free arm to scoop the girl up and sit down, placing her in his lap in one practiced movement. He brought the warm mug to his lips and glanced down to watch Stella fumble with both hands around her own. The broad hand around her middle came up to steady hers, guiding the milk as she lifted it. Ford watched him help her set it down.

“There we go. Like it?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad.”

Stanford pressed a hip against the counter as he leaned back to watch the two sip from their respective mugs, though sip may not have been the best word to describe it. Stan nursed his mug, while Stella had hers upturned in both hands, and chugged it dry. She slammed it back onto the table with the weak force only a child could take pride in. Stanley looked down at her with eyebrows raised, his hand creeping away from his mouth.

“Okay. I’d like to think I have no idea where you got that from, but that’s probably considered lying to us both.” Neither Stella nor her milk moustache seemed to understand.

“What?”

“Nothin’, sweetie.” Stan pressed another kiss to the top of her head.

Baby coffee sufficiently drained, Stella switched to playing with her father’s fingers as he balanced her on his leg. He gave her tummy the occasional pat as she wiggled, earning himself a small coo here and there as he gave his leg a lazy, rhythmic bounce. Stella leaned forward to reach for his mug. He snatched it out of reach.

“No, sweetie. This is grownup coffee. It’s hot, see?” He eased the mug down for her to give it a gentle prod. “We might burn ourselves, so let’s not, okay?”

Stella squinted at the offending mug. “Ow.”

“Hurt your finger?”

“No.”

Stanley kissed the little digit anyway. Ford found himself smiling. Stanley nudged both mugs out of her reach and placed both hands across her stomach, patting lightly as she giggled. “Tummy bongos. Tum-my. Bon-gos.” He began to chant, before ducking his head to blow a raspberry against her cheek. Ford winced at the shriek the child unleashed and watched as a pudgy little hand shoved at Stanley’s face. She dissolved into peals of laughter and leaned against his chest with a whump. “…Ow. That had to hurt. That hurt me.” Stella didn’t look too concerned. It took her a moment to calm back down once Stanley straightened back up.

Ford opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. He was at a loss. Again. He pursed his lips for a moment. “Stella?”

“Yes?”

A smile crept back to his face. “What’s your favorite game?”

She threw her little hands in the air. “All the games!”

Ford let his eyebrows shoot upwards. “All of them?”

“Yeah!”

“Even…” he paused to think for a moment. What had he and Stanley played as children? “Even pick-up-sticks?”

“Yeah!” she chirped. “I like sticks.”

“That’s not the same, sweetie, but I’m glad you like pickin’ up sticks.” Stanley chuckled and pressed another kiss to the child’s crown. She looked put-out.

“Is too! You pick up sticks ‘n you wave ‘em ‘n the best stick is the winner ‘cause it’s the best one.”

“Sounds concernin’.”

Stella twisted to frown at her father. “You find sticks ‘n you pick them up ‘n then you win.”

“Ohhh. That’s right, that’s how you win. Silly me went ‘n forgot how to play. Think you can forgive me?”

She squinted up at him for a long moment. “Yeah.”

“Thank you. You’re too kind.”

“Yeah.” Stanford lost his composure and doubled forward, choking on his own saliva.

“You okay? You’re not s’posed t’ make that noise.” She cautioned, and made his laughter come out as a hard wheeze.

“He’s fine, sweetie, he’s just laughin’.”

“Why?”

“He thinks you’re funny.”

“But I am funny.”

“You really are, though.” Stan lifted the child and turned her to face him, placing a kiss on the bridge of her nose. She grabbed his face. “Stella, ow!”

“Sorry! Sorry, Daddy!”

“S’alright, honey. We gotta be careful messin’ with people’s faces, though, okay?”

“Okay.” She pouted.

“You’re not in trouble, sweetie. Just… Just be careful, okay? You ‘n those lil’ razor-sharp nails.” She stared at him for a moment longer before she stuck her arm out to reach for him. He pulled the child in for a hug, his smile parting his face. The little girl threw her stubby little arms around Stanley’s neck. “Oh, sweetie pie…” Stanley cooed.

She wiggled to place a quick peck against the cheek she scratched. “Better.”

“Mmm hmm. Much better.” Stanley agreed, swallowing the hoarseness out of his voice. The room was silent for a moment. “I love you, Stella.” He mumbled into her hair. Ford blinked. Four little words had thrown him for a complete loop. Though they weren’t directed at him, Ford couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard that phrase. It must have been years.

No, that wasn’t true. He’d spoken to Ma nearly a week ago. He’d used it then.

Twice in however many years most likely fell well into the pathetic category.

He watched the child smash her cheek against her father’s bruised, stubbled one. “I love me, too.” She cooed.

Stanley turned his head to get a good look at her and let out a bark of laughter. Stanford himself wasn’t far behind. He watched as Stan rocked her from side to side and patted her small back as she draped herself over his shoulder. This was absolutely Stan’s child, no doubt about it.

“Oh, sweetie.” Stanley hummed. “You are somethin’ else, you know that?” She stuck a finger in her mouth as response. She certainly had moxie; it was easy for Ford to admit. “You lil’ gremlin.” Warmth colored Stanley’s tone. Ford wondered when he’d ever heard such affection in his brother’s voice. Certainly not when they were young and foolish and still thick as thieves. That tone of voice was better reserved for their ma some thirty-odd years ago.

He furrowed his brow. Ma didn’t know about Stanley’s child. She had a granddaughter she didn’t know existed. He himself had a niece he hadn’t known existed until three days prior. Stanley had planned on never having contact with his family ever again, and the thought sent pulses of dread trickling down Ford’s neck. He had to open his mouth.

“And what’s your favorite thing?”

She lifted her head an inch. “Ever?”

“Your favorite thing ever? Well, I don’t see why not.”

She wrinkled her little face in thought. “Daddy! Daddy’s the bestest thing!” she beamed.

Stanford’s eyes shot up. This child was going to break his heart, and Stanley’s, too, if the way his battered arms tightened around her and his face sank into her fuzzy head were any indication. He watched Stanley rock his baby, though it seemed like an excuse to hide the way his shoulders trembled and shook. Stella looked a bit put-out and squirmed in his tight grip, twisting her body so that she faced Ford instead of her possibly crying father. Ford must have been giving her an odd look, judging from the confused look she shot up at him.

“Hi.”

“Hello, sweetling.” He found himself murmuring back. Stanley coughed behind her. “It appears you…surprised your father with your favorite thing. Quite thoroughly.” He amended.

“Okay.” She busied herself with playing with her fingers. Ford watched her tiny little joints articulate. Is that what others saw when he moved? He couldn’t bring himself to look away. It baffled him. How small they were, and yet they flexed and straightened so well. It bordered on surreal. Why was he so fascinated by what he saw past the end of his own nose? He’d seen six digits every day of his life. What made her smaller hands so intriguing?

The child continued to wiggle her little fingers at herself. The twelve little digits were in need of a wipe-down. Surely Stanley would notice, he hoped sooner rather than later. She really was sticky, and Stanford wasn’t even sure when the stickiness had occurred.

She started to babble a little song of her own making. “Now you’re just tryin’ t’be cute.” Stan grumbled, his voice hoarse and gravelly. “It’s workin’.” Indeed it was. Stella turned her head to grin up at him.

“I take it she does that a lot?”

Stanley looked down. “What, the baby songs?” he shrugged. “Whenever she feels like it. It’s usually just noises.” Stan was silent for a moment while Stella continued. “Like that.”

The child’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men while she babbled her tune. She let out another shriek of a giggle as the hand across her tummy switched from patting to tickling for a brief moment. It took a while for the residual giggles to die down.

Ford swallowed. “I… So, did you sleep well?” His lips pursed together as Stanley sent him a slight frown.

“Yeah. Slept fine.” Stan mumbled. Ford wasn’t so convinced.

“…Right. You don’t… You don’t need any more blankets or anything, do you? Pillows?” Ford winced at the words even as they left his mouth. Stanley sighed.

“No, Ford, we’re good. Really.”

Ford nodded. “Okay.” There was a lull.

“Thanks, though.”

“It’s certainly not a problem.” Ford watched as Stella pressed her lips together to make another little noise, then began to wiggle in Stan’s grip. Cute. “What about…” he trailed off. “What about—”

“It’s fine, Ford. Don’t worry about it.” Stan grumbled, shifting the wiggling toddler. He bounced his knee, which seemed to appease her for a few moments while he scowled somewhere past Stanford’s head.

And there she goes. Ford hummed to himself as she wiggled her way out of Stanley’s lap and to her feet. She gave his leg a quick pat before toddling off. Ford bit back a chuckle. Stan didn’t seem bothered by it. He watched the man’s countenance unfurl, choosing to remain still himself until Stanley’s gaze settled on him.

“Stan, I—” He cut himself off with a huff, dragging a hand down the length of his face. “I find myself…compelled to apologize for my behavior yesterday.” Stanley sighed. Did he just roll his eyes? Oh, honestly, the nerve of him. “Our fighting was highly inappropriate, innocent company notwithstanding.” His brother let out another huff, the line of his body elongating only to crumple and collapse back down like an accordion with the accompanying, tuneless wheeze.

“Ford’ we’ve been in one prolong fight for, what? Twenty? Thirty years? Fightin’ might as well be the baseline standard at this point.”

Ford hated that he found himself agreeing. “It shouldn’t be the standard, though.”

“There’s a lotta stuff that shouldn’t be, but it is.” Stan shrugged.

“That’s not… That’s a… less-than-optimistic mindset to hold.”

“A realistic one, though.”

Ford let out a long sigh. “Stanley. Just… Just let me apologize, okay?”

The man seemed uncomfortable with the mere concept. “What’s the point?” Stanley sent him a stare so even it unnerved Stanford. He deflated.

“The point is, just because this is the way things have been doesn’t mean it should remain that way.” Stanley shrugged. It was a start, maybe. That was better than nothing, Ford supposed. There had to be a way to alleviate the sheer unease that hung heavy between them like an illness. The silence stretched between them, long and disjoining. The longer he held it, the further away conversation slipped from his reach. Stanford opened his mouth with a gasp of air, words tumbling out. “Are you still planning on leaving? Because—It’s not that I want you to leave, in fact, I’d like quite the opposite—I mean—I just… You should stay.”

Stanley squinted as he sorted through the jumble of words. He huffed. “Fuck’s sake, Stanford.” He grumbled. “You gotta… You gotta let go of that idea.”

That hurt.

“I’ve been in your hair plenty long as it is.”

“You’ve been here for two days.”

“I know. I’ve been counting, too.”

“That’s not… That’s not what I meant in the slightest.”

“I still got a point.” Stan grumbled.

Like hell he did.

“Stan, I’m asking you to stay. Literally asking. Look. Look at me asking, because this is a request.” Ford ran a hand through his hair, making the loopy curls stand on end. “This is me, requesting the honor of your presence, here, now, and with no strings attached. Is that acceptable?” The shuffling scowl the man sent him before hiding his face behind his neglected coffee—eyes pointedly elsewhere—screamed hell no, but Ford had no qualms pushing the subject. “Well?”

“Damnit, Ford.” The stiff silence range in Stanford’s ears. “You can’t… I can’t just answer that.” The answer should have been a plain yes, as simple as that.

But when had anything been simple between the two of them?

Ford pressed his lips together in a firm line. Was it worth it just to rile Stanley up again? “You’ve got to stay somewhere.” Apparently it was. The glare Stanley sent him was venomous.

“That is not your problem to worry about, Ford. I can handle it myself.”

“I mean, Stella should be starting school soon, should she not? And—”

“What the fuck, Ford? That’s—and no, since you’re asking, she doesn’t start school ‘til she’s five. I already told you she’s too young for school.” His snarl was impressive, Ford had to admit. “I’ll… It’s not your problem to worry about.” Stan looked like he wanted to say something, but instead propped his elbow on the table and pressed his face into his palm, his spare hand stretching out to drift through the air beside him. His hand stilled, then swiped through the empty space once more before he twisted in his chair. “Where’s Stella?” the chair scraped backwards along the kitchen floor, nearly tipping over in Stanley’s haste.

Had he truly not noticed? “She toddled off a few minutes ago.”

“And you saw her? ‘N you didn’t say anything?” Ford pushed out his own chair. When he put it that way, he made it soundas though he’d idly watched as the little girl wandered into a den of wolves. He’d cleared away every potentially dangerous experiment and tucked them all out of reach.

“Oh, honestly, Stanley. You make it sound as though she didn’t just go off to color.”

Stanley huffed. “Ford, she’s three. She’s a baby. They like gettin’ into stuff. It’s one of the main things they’re good at.” Ford’s mouth puckered and he drew it off to the side. Well, if you put it that way… No. It still wasn’t an issue. The worst she could do was scribble across his rough drafts.

“Stanley, I’m sure its fine.”

She wasn’t in the living room.

Ford had to admit he might have been wrong. He might’ve even admitted it out loud, if Stanley hadn’t been on the verge of hysteria, poised to crawl underneath the worktable to check for his child.

“Stanley. She couldn’t have gone outside. She has to be in the house.” She couldn’t open doors. Could she open doors? Ford doubted it. She hadn’t managed the task yesterday.

Stanley bumped his head on the table edge on his way up. “Yeah, that doesn’t make me feel any better, just so you know.” Well, damn. His voice was stiff was he brushed past Stanford. Ford remained still for a moment before trailing his brother. Stanley had darted into his storage room, which only fed his frenzy before he took the stairs two at a time. Ford lagged behind him and watched the line of Stanley’s shoulders pull taut, then hunch forward. “Stella?” he drawled, coiled like a spring.

“Yeah?” Stanley bolted towards the little voice, muffled slightly by running water.

“Sweetie, what’re you—” he slumped against the doorframe. “Oh, sweetie.”

“What?” Her tone was too flat to be an actual question. Stan ran a hand across his face.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“What?” It was Ford’s turn to ask. He sidled his way behind Stanley and peered over his shoulder. “Oh.” That was quite the mess. Stella had lowered the toilet lid and climbed on top to reach the sink. She had to strain and stretch to reach the faucet while soapsuds and water dripped down her elbows across her borrowed shirt and pooled on the floor. At least her laundry’s done. Her front was completely soaked.

“Oh, Stella.” Stanley repeated. Ford didn’t have to see his face to know that his brother was already exhausted. His wavering voice said enough. He inched his way into the bathroom, careful to avoid the larger puddles where possible, and sat the little girl on the toilet lid. He crouched down in front of her.

“Sweetie pie, we can’t just go ’n make a big mess in someone’s house. They’ll get mad ’n then we have t’ leave. It’s not nice, okay? How did you even get upstairs?”

“I know how to do it!” she protested.

“Don’t go up stairs by yourself, sweetie. You could fall ‘n hurt yourself, okay?” Stan moved to scoop her into his arms and sighed into her hair. “Guess I shoulda been watching’ you, huh?” He finally turned towards Stanford, his body tense and eyes withdrawn. He never quite met Ford’s eye. “I’ll be right back to get this up. I just… Just let me put her down ‘n get her settled, okay? I’ll be right back.” He patted the child’s back as he slipped past Ford, who strained to hear him mumble under his breath. “Let’s get you outta your uncle’s hair ‘n lay low for a while, I guess. I’ll find you a park or somethin’. Let you run off that energy you clearly got built up.”

Stanford frowned as he watched his brother and his soggy child make their retreat. It was just water. Was he really that worked up by a few puddles? Ford was certain he’d made a similar mess while shaving some mornings. Did Stanley truly expect him to be that upset over such an inconsequential accident? Ford swallowed. Of course he did. Stan had been sent away from home over what he called an accident. Of course he expected it to be a recurring thing.

But to kick him out over the actions of a child? He had been a child as well.

It was different. They were seventeen then. Stella was three. Three was a far cry away from knowing any better. She’d just splashed water. She hadn’t broken anything.

Even if she had, it would have been an accident. She hadn’t meant to do anything. Ford doubted the thought would have even occurred to her.

Had it even occurred to Stanley?

Ford sighed and glanced around, grabbing a towel to drop over a puddle. Stanley had been kicked out over what he swore was an accident before; Ford wouldn’t be surprised if he expected the same now. He mentioned taking her to lie low. Of course that’s what he expects. “Damnit.” The thought sent a flush of shame across Stanford’s face as he shoved the towel around with the toe of his shoe. There was no way he could send Stanley away over something so trivial, and the realization that his brother thought that he might hurt. It hurt more than he’d care to admit, even to himself.

What a mess they’d made of things.

Not Stella, though. This was just a baby mess. Ford continued to drag the towel along the floor. He’d fix it up. He and Stanley both would. They had to.

Stanley slunk back to the bathroom, face downcast, and froze in front of Ford. “Stanford, what the fuck? You didn’t have to—I was gonna—I was gonna do that.” He stammered.

“Stanley, it’s fine, really. I was just standing here, so I might as well have done something.”

“I just needed to sit her down ‘n get her settled ‘n stuff, I wasn’t gone that long, you didn’t have to—”

“Stan. Listen to me.” Stanley looked a little bit affronted. “It’s fine. Why won’t you listen to me when I say it’s fine?” Stanley turned away from Ford and shifted from foot to foot, his broad chin jutting forward. “Stan.” He looked back up. “I mean it.” Ford reached forward to place a hand on Stanley’s shoulder. He tensed underneath his palm and gave a slight nod. He didn’t seem convinced. “It’s fine. It was rather cute, besides.” Ford gave his brother’s shoulder a quick squeeze. Stanley shifted as though he wanted to shrug the offending hand off, but at the last minute decided to do his damnedest to keep himself in check.

Ford continued. “You said it yourself. She’s only three. And how many times did we play in the sink when we were younger? We did it all the time. I mean…” he trailed off, running a hand through his hair, making it flip upright. “Isn’t that what they’re supposed to do? Get into things? You said that yourself.”

“S’not the same.”

Ford scowled. Not this again. “How is that—you know what, I suppose you’re right.” He chewed on his lip for a moment. “She’s cuter than the two of us ever were, combined.” he smirked at the startled hiccough that left Stan. There it is. A genuine smile. Ford gave Stanley a playful nudge. He didn’t reciprocate. Okay. That’s fine, too. It’s fine.

Ford fidgeted through another small lull. “…Look. I know you mentioned finding a park. I don’t want you to think I want you two to leave, or… or to ‘get out of my hair.’” Ford sighed. “That’s not what I want, okay? It isn’t.”

Stanley was quiet for a long, stilted moment. “I promised her the park.”

“…Right. Right.” Stanford took a full step back as he withdrew. “I’ll just… I’ll leave you to it, then.” His attention shifted closer to the floor. Out traipsed Stella, her head bobbing from side to side as she bebopped her way towards the two. “Hello again, little Miss.” Ford chuckled.

Stanley turned from side to side as he twisted to spot the child. “Wh—Stel-la,” Stanley sighed, “I very clearly remember askin’ you to stay in the room.”

“But I don’t wanna.” She was still dancing, Ford noticed. Stanley’s head lolled back as he let out a faint, guttural groan. “I wanna be with you.” Her little voice bordered on petulant as she frowned, staring up at Stan. Were those puppy dog eyes?

Stanley softened. “Oh, pumpkin. How could I say no to that? C’mere.” He scooped her up onto his hip and she used her new vantage point to giggle at Stanford. Unsure of what else to do, Ford gave her a meek little wave while Stanley leaned forward to swipe at the last trail of water with the discarded towel. “Yeah, yeah. It’s funny for you.” He grumbled. “Maybe you can run off whatever’s gotten into you in the park.”

So he was serious about the park. Ford worried his lip between his teeth once again before opening his mouth. “There’s a park on the other side of town, near the town square. Just past the courthouse.” Fiddleford had dragged him to it ages ago, when Tate was still small. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the long, inscrutable gaze Stanley fixed him with.

Finally, the man spoke. “Alright.” He pushed himself upright with a huff of effort, careful not to displace the child on his hip. “Let’s get you ready, sweetie.” That’s it? Ford watched his brother cart Stella off once again before opening his mouth.

“Wait!” he blurted. Stanley turned. “You…You saw your bag, correct?”

Stan wouldn’t meet his eye, and that bothered him. “Yeah, Ford. I got it. Thanks.” He mumbled.

They’ll be back, Stanford swore to himself, it’s just the park. They were going to the park for a short while and they’d return. They weren’t leaving for good. It wasn’t permanent. Just a temporary excursion. He’d be able to get some writing done while they were gone. It would be productive for all parties involved. No matter how much he wanted them to remain, playing host was not an easy task for Stanford Pines. He shuffled his way back down the stairs. It would be fine. They’d come back, just as he hoped knew, and then wouldn’t he feel foolish?

He settled himself down to work and pulled a stack of notebooks closer. Productivity is the best distraction. He knew this well.

If only he could stop staring somewhere past the words on the page.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when Stanford looked up, Stella was swishing her way into the room while Stanley struggled to squat walk and work her little arm into a coat at the same time. “Sweetie, be still for a moment. Please.”

“Park?”

“Yes, sweetie. We’ll get you to the park, but we gotta get you dressed first. S’cold outside.” He held her little hand in his and tugged the coat in place with the other. He’d layered the coat over a thinner jacket, Ford noted. Stan took the small scarf he’d draped over his forearm and placed it around her neck. Next came a fuzzy, pilled pair of mittens from his pocket. “Hand, please.” She stuck it in the air.

Mittens.

Ford remembered them with little fondness. He hated mittens. They were childish. They were goofy. He couldn’t hold anything or use his hands with any semblance of dexterity while wearing mittens. He had to remove them to do just about anything, which thoroughly defeated the purpose.

Stanley had always gotten a pair of gloves, while Ford had gotten mittens. Ford still treasured the first pair of gloves he’d had made, worn-out though they were. He’d always envied Stanley and his gloves.

He was distinctly bereft of gloves now.

The tables had turned. Now Ford was the twin with gloves. Ford didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the thought.

He caught himself staring and shook himself out of his stupor, clearing his throat in the process. Surely he looked foolish.

“Right. The park. It’s… If you head straight past the old convenience store, it’ll take you towards the town square. Turn right at the monument, which will wind past—”

Stanley shuffled his feet. “Aren’t you gonna come show us, since you seem t’ know where this park is?” Stella’s face once again brightened at the magic word. Was that a little hop just now? The child had hopped. She was smiling at him, of all people. There was no way he could object. Not now. His eyes trailed over Stanley briefly, and judged his uneasy expression before trailing down to his jacket. Fleece-hooded or not, it wouldn’t keep him warm.

“I…Right. I’ll be right back. Just give me a moment, I’ll…” He trailed off, pointing a vague finger towards his room. “I’ll be right back.” Ford scurried off and pulled open his closet, yanking out his coat. He shrugged it over his shoulders before rifling deeper through, ignoring the thin metallic scrape of the hangers against the rod. Here it was. He pulled out a duplicate coat and tossed it over his arm before stalking back down the hallway, visibly pleased with himself.

“Here.”

“What’s this supposed to be?”

“It’s a coat Stanley. You’ve seen one before.” Ford gave the garment a gentle shake for good measure.

Stan eyed it warily. “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”

Stanford frowned. “Stanley. You put two coats on Stella. It follows that you would wear two yourself.”

“That’s different. She’s little. They get cold easy.”

“Everyone gets cold, Stan.”

“I don’t see your two coats.”

“Underneath this coat, I’ve got on a sweater and long sleeves besides. That’s roughly the equivalent of two coats.”

Stanley squinted at him before taking the proffered coat. Ford didn’t bother to contain his grin.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, I guess.” Stan grumbled as he shrugged into the coat. It didn’t fit him as poorly as it should have. Once they hit adolescence, Stanley could never fit into anything other than Ford’s T-shirts, and he stretched those out woefully when he did. His coat was just slightly snug through the shoulders and biceps. That was it. It wasn’t how it should have been.

Perhaps he should have been thankful for that, in a backhanded sort of way.

“Alright, kiddo, let’s get you to the park.”

“Can Lucky come too?”

“Uhh, Lucky’s… Lucky’s on house arrest. For his own safety. Yeah. He can’t leave this general area or else he could get in trouble with the, uh, the magic animal police.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Stanley’s eyes darted around as if looking for straws to grasp at. “Because if too many people see ‘im, he gets in trouble ‘cause he’s not a secret anymore. Magic things’ve gotta stay secret.”

“But we can see him.”

“Yeah, but you’re in the special magic no-secret zone, so it’s different. If you weren’t in the magic zone, you wouldn’t be allowed t’ see ‘im, ‘n then he’d be in trouble.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t wanna get Lucky in trouble, do ya?”

“No.”

“Alright. Then Lucky’s gotta stay here.”

“Okay.”

It was bullshit he’d pulled out of thin air, but Ford was still unnerved by its vague similarities to some of his earlier theories. He wondered how many of his other theories, ones he’d spent years researching, could be similarly pulled from nowhere by Stan. What a fool I must be, to place such import on what must be so readily known. How many of his ideas had been spoon-fed lies? How had he been fool enough not to see?

What else wasn’t he seeing?

This took roughly 25 years, I’m aware, but the chapter draft was on page 23 I before broke down and realized this was pure nonsense and broke it down into more easily digestible bites. I’m gonna go hide in a shame corner now.

[as-be-low]

THCM, Chapter 8

His Thorns Are on the Road

Free from it all Breathe in the darkest fall We laugh and cry through a brother’s eyes for now

The Hunter–Mastodon

Stanford learns nothing, though he discovers many things he didn't expect all the same.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Shortly after Ford had absorbed himself in his work, small footsteps flapped their way down the stairs. He looked up and spotted a blur of brown and black headed for the door before he heard it skid to a stop with a soft whump against the sturdy wood. “…Stella, are you trying to go outside?” He inched his chair back, palms flat against the table.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Did… Did Stanley say it was okay for you to go outside?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Just as he moved to stand, the soft little footsteps padded into the room. He’d have to invest in a rug soon, he mused. The little girl sent a cursory glance around the room, her eyes brightening as they fell on Ford and his workstation. He hadn’t expected that. She squinted at him, long and hard.

“Books?”

He hadn’t expected that, either. He stared down at her, doing nothing to hide his confusion as she toddled over. Her hair had been washed and pulled back into loosely-braided pigtails and Stan’s—no, this was his, actually—shirt billowed around her like a tent. Stanley had rolled the sleeves up so that they bunched up around her little elbows. She made herself at home and grabbed hold of his pant leg for leverage as she climbed into his lap. He remained still, unsure of whether he should help her or remove her from his person. “Well, hello?”

“Hi.”

“Is there…something I can help you with, dear?” From this vantage point, Ford could see the small little spirals of hair at the nape of her neck that had escaped and decided to make a name for themselves.

He could also see the little flecks of Stanley’s blood that had dried along the neckline.

Her little hands trailed over his stacks of papers and he leaned forward with her, pushing them out of her reach. She stretched further and claimed a dense, spiral-bound article for herself.

“Books.”

“I’m afraid you won’t want that one.” He eased it from her grasp and set it aside, raising an eyebrow at her little harrumph. “Was it picture books you wanted? I’m afraid I don’t have anything suitable for one as young as you, my dear…” he scanned the table with a slight frown of his own. “Well,” he unearthed a thick red book and pulled it close, staring at the gold-leaf cutout of his own hand. He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t, but the child wanted books. He wasn’t going to dissuade a child from literary endeavors. This journal he knew was at least slightly more child-appropriate. In some parts. Somewhat. It would be fine. He’d ripped out the more dangerous pages and anything pertaining to Bill after he’d reconfigured the portal and shut everything back down. There were many pages of mistakes he’d since burned, much like the bridges that led him to where he currently was. “Where’s your father?” he asked, affecting a casual tone. The man had been irritated at him when he’d sat with the child he’d brought into his house earlier. He didn’t need him getting pissy at him again.

“Takin’ a sour.”

“Taking a… Oh, a shower.” Fine. That was fine. He’d just…watch the child for…however long that took. Oh, sweet Moses, hurry up and come get her.

It was fine. This would be fine. He’d just show her the sketches. That should be enough to placate a child. That’s all children’s books were, anyway. A small hand patted his, then tried to push it out of the way. He let out a nervous chuckle and removed his hand. His niece turned and squinted up at him, then pushed the journal away and off of the edge of the table. “That bad, huh?” He stood, setting her on her feet as he went to retrieve it. “Well there might be something you might find interesting in it. They do say not to judge a book by its cover.” He chuckled at his own little joke. Stella’s face remained scrunched and she blew him a raspberry for good measure.

“…Right.” He reclaimed his seat and settled the toddler back in his lap. He supposed this was to be his afternoon now. Ford flipped the book open before she had a chance to push it away again, and began idly turning pages. He distinctly remembered cataloguing several of the more benign creatures he’d encountered in this particular journal. The small child slapped a hand against the pages as he flipped, stilling his hand.

“Birdperson!” she beamed up at him. He stared in return.

“Ah, no, that’s the Mothman, not a… Not a bird person.” He tapped a finger to the heading he’d written. “See here? It says—”

“Mothman.”

He paused. Was she reading or imitating him? Surely she was too small for her literacy skills to have developed quite yet. “That’s…That’s right. The Mothman.”

“Why not a bird?”

How was he supposed to answer that? “Well, he didn’t ask to be a moth over a bird, I don’t suppose...”

“You should write about birdperson.”

“Lets move on.” Ford gently nudged the little hand aside and turned the page. The offending little appendage reappeared along the edge of the book and Stanford stared at it before slowly dwarfing it with his own, letting his calloused thumb move run back and forth across her pudgy knuckles. Baby soft holds merit as a description, it appears. The child lifted her head to send him a puzzled look. “Right.” He lifted his hand and rifled through the journal, stopping on his leprecorn entry. Stella let out a little gasp.

“Lucky!”

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s your…little friend.”

“Lucky.” She corrected.

“Apologies.” He couldn’t help the chuckle that rumbled in his chest, nor the look of surprise as his niece leaned back against the source of the faint vibration.

“You purr like a kitty.”

What on earth? “If… If you say so.” He cleared his throat. “But yes. This is the…the leprecorn. Can… Can you say that?”

“Lep’core.”

“Good enough, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

“Now—”

“That’s Lucky.” She slapped a hand against the sketch.

“Yes, I’m aware. The leprecorn is one of the…least interesting finds I’ve stumbled across.” He pulled the journal closer. “Stella, do you know what this says?”

She squinted at the page for a moment, then frowned back up at him. “I don’t wanna read that.”

Ford snorted. “Fair enough.” Maybe cursive was pushing it. It was probably best she didn’t read it. He truly had nothing positive to say about the beast she so loved.

“More pictures.”

“More?”

“More pictures, please?”

“I suppose you did ask nicely.” He thumbed through the journal. The entry on unicorns was in here. The only issue was that unicorns were assholes and he didn’t care to validate their existence. The gremloblin was decidedly out of the question. He worried his lip between his teeth briefly, and pulled a small stack of clean paper closer. “Alright. What pictures would you like?” He watched the child begin to flip the pages, tiny handfuls at a time, with the easy recklessness that came with childhood. “No, no, none of that.” He tutted, gently prying the book from her grasp. She blew him another raspberry. Cute. “How about we draw you a horse? Like earlier.”

“’Kay!”

“Alright. Good.”

Stella settled back against his chest and he began to sketch the rough outline of a horse. He let a faint smile cross his face as his focus drifted away. His hand moved on its own, each pen stroke closely watched by the small child keeping her nose pressed against the page. It did make drawing a hair more difficult, he had to admit.

A pudgy little finger prodded his hand.

“Yes?”

“Draw it a unicorn?”

He hesitated. Unicorns were infuriating, but that wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know that. He didn’t have to tell her they were real. “We can certainly make it a unicorn.”

“Yay!”

With the unicorn finished—though not without adding himself astride the beast for reasons he’d never understand—Ford found himself scribbling down Stella herself, holding onto her unfortunate beast of a friend.

“His name is Lucky! He’s a good uniperson. Yes he is. Yes.” She cooed, patting the page as he worked on it.

Odd, but all right, then. Stanford shuddered as he hatched out the finer details of the creature’s features. Whatever the child saw in the bizarre monstrosity, he would never see himself. At least she seemed quite pleased with it all, if her increasingly animated, babbling comments were anything to go by. It gave Stanford pause to see that anyone, a small child, no less, would seem to enjoy his company. She didn’t know any better. Not yet.

She’ll learn soon enough.

The floor began to creak and groan as heavy footsteps drew closer. His brother hunched in the doorway, a slight scowl in place. He seemed to wear that frown often; Ford wasn’t sure if it was for his benefit or if it had come to replace that easygoing smirk Stan had once perfected as his resting expression.

He said nothing as he entered the room, just sat in the chair furthest from Stanford and…zoned out. Stanford watched him for a brief moment. His hair was thrown behind him in a wet, loose braid, much like the plaits he’d given Stella. His ratty red jacket was zipped up in lieu of the shirt he’d put on Stella and what looked to be the jeans he’d arrived in. Surely he’d prefer wearing something else. He opened his mouth to proffer the suggestion, but caught the tired, frustrated look Stanley shot him from the corner of his eye and promptly let his mouth snap closed. Never mind, then. He’d just…go back to sketching things with Stella. She seemed happy, at least. The toddler was currently tugging at a fresh sheet of paper. He reached out and straightened it in front of her. “Are you planning on drawing?” he hoped his tone was nonchalant.

“No, you draw it.” Well, alright then.

“Sweetie, can you say ‘please?’ You gotta ask things nicely.” Stanley interjected.

Stella squirmed in Ford’s grip and twisted to face him, staring him down. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a death stare or puppy dog eyes, if he was honest with himself. He found both compelling; she had that going in her favor. “Please?”

“Absolutely.” He mumbled, huddling forward slightly. “What am I drawing?”

“Everybody!” she cheered, slapping her little hands against the table.

Shit. “Everyone? That sounds like quite the…quite the tall order.” Ford let out a nervous chuckle.

“Me ‘n Daddy ‘n you. ‘N Lucky.” He heard Stanley’s hardly-contained snort at her afterthought and looked up in time to catch him rolling his eyes. Nice.

“Sweetie, how many things have you made ‘im draw already?” she shrugged. “What if he doesn’t want to draw anymore? Don’t make ‘im tired. That’s not nice.”

“He isn’t tired.” Stella sounded affronted.

“You sure? Did you ask?”

Ford chewed his lip. “I don’t mind, really.” Stan eyed him and Ford shifted under the scrutiny.

“You don’t hafta do it just ‘cause she asked.”

“I don’t mind, Stanley. Truly, I don’t.”

Stan seemed uncomfortable with that. “Yeah, well…” His brother crossed his arms, turning his gaze away.

Ford patted the tabletop gently. “Now. Who shall I start with first?”

“Daddy.”

So matter-of-fact. He should’ve seen that one coming. “Alright then. We’ll start with… We’ll start with Daddy.” The word still felt strange tumbling from his mouth. He worked a rough outline of the man, sparing surreptitious glances upwards to scrutinize his subject. It was disheartening, needing a reference to draw your twin brother.

The three sat in silence, save for the soft scratches of Stanford’s pen. “I assume I’m drawing you next?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then.” He shifted his hand, when Stella slapped her palm over it.

“Draw me there.”

“…In his arms? I’ve already drawn them by his side. I don’t think that will turn out properly, I’m afraid.

She wrinkled her nose at that. “Okay. Draw me there?” One pudgy little finger shifted down to the space near Stanley’s feet, where he’d originally planned to place her.

“Alright.” He drawled, nudging the damp little hand away, slightly disconcerted by its warmth and sogginess. Children were strange. He slowly sketched the little girl, though he found himself needing to contort on more than one occasion to study her little face; she was too preoccupied with watching his hands move to look up as he tried to coax her to look at him. It became a challenge to work around the child as she stuck her head and various limbs in his line of vision. “That’s a very nice foot, but could you move it?” he chuckled, patting the pudgy little leg. She responded with a giggle and a small kick to the arm. He pretended to be hurt. It was minutely painful, he reasoned. He hadn’t expected her to sit up from her contorted, reclined position to kiss his forearm better.

“Now it won’t hurt.” He was a bit choked as he nodded, swallowing to work at the frog forming in his throat.

“Y-yes. Thank you, darling.” He mumbled. “That feels much better.” It did. It truly did.

“I know.” The toddler hummed. How cheeky. Just like another child he remembered. Ford closed his eyes and hunched forward, ignoring the look Stan was surely sending him in favor of pressing his nose into the child’s clean hair as he fought back the sting in his eyes. Her hair was still wet, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

Ford finished the rest of the sketch with minimal fanfare, quickly slapping his own likeness onto the page and attempting to do the same with the leprecorn, though his niece quickly called him out on the attempt. “Oh, of course. You have my apologies.” He’d mumbled at his gaffe while grudgingly adding more detail to the well-loved monstrosity.

Once the sketch met the child’s arbitrary and unknown specifications she slid out of Ford’s lap—much to his alarm as he tried to stop her from falling—and took the liberty of taking the paper down with her as she made her way to her father.

“Whatcha got there, pumpkin?”

“A picture.”

“A picture, huh? Let’s see it, then.”

She held the sheet high in the air as she tried to hike her leg up high enough to reach Stanley’s crossed knee. “Oop!” she stumbled and Stan jerked forward, lifting her to properly settle her in.

“You’d climb mountains if only you could get that lil’ leg high enough, wouldn’t ya?”

“Yeah.”

Stanley laughed. “That’s my girl.”

Drawing sufficiently made-over, Stella slid out of Stan’s lap, choosing to settle at his feet for reasons that, once again, eluded Stanford.

“You wanna color it, sweetie?”

“Yeah!”

“Good idea.” Stanley hummed as Stella toddled back over to the table, reaching up on the tips of her toes to grab the assorted, stubby crayons she’d used the day before. Ford nudged them closer to her, watching in amusement as she grabbed them in both hands and ran back to sit cross-legged between her father’s feet.

“ ’M gonna make it pretty.”

“Very nice.” Stanley hummed, watching his child with one eyebrow raised. “They’re nice already, but I bet you can make ‘em look even better.”

The three sat in silence. Stanley didn’t seem to mind, but Ford found it unbearable. He shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable at the thought of speaking with his brother. He needed to say something. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, but he knew something needed vocalizing.

He settled for talking to Stella.

“So… You like coloring?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s… that’s good.” For fuck’s sake, Ford. Get it together. “Do you like school?”

The child stared at him.

“She’s not old enough to be in school, Ford.”

“…Oh. Right. Of… of course.” Fuck. Why is this hard?

“Soo. What’s your favorite animal, then? Besides… Besides the leprecorn. Uniperson. Excuse me. Besides that.” He mumbled. “Maybe we can switch it out.”

He heard Stan snort.

“All the animals!”

“All of them? Even snakes?” Children didn’t like those, did they?

“Snakes can’t be animals. They’s snakes.”

“Of course. Apologies.” Ford drawled.

“Geez, Ford. Get it together.” Stanley chuckled, much to Ford’s surprise.

“What’s your favorite color?”

The child sat up for a moment, wrinkling her little features in thought. “I like green!”

“Green? That’s a nice color.”

“Now you ask.”

Ford was confused. “Pardon?”

“You gotta ask Daddy’s favorite color.”

“I know Stanley likes red.” Did he still like red? How embarrassing it would be if he didn’t.

Stella crossed her arms. “You gotta ask.”

“Stan, what's your favorite color?”

He removed his knuckles from in front of his mouth with a roll of his eyes that Ford almost missed. “Red.”

“Now you ask.”

Stan sighed. “What's your favorite letter?”

“Red—what? What? You're supposed to ask my favorite color.”

“Wild card. Switchin' it up.”

“My favorite letter is S.”

“S for Stanford? That's a copout.”

“How is that a copout? What's your favorite letter, then?” Ford leaned back, folding his arms.

“The letter S.”

“Oh, good grief, Stanley. What's your favorite food?”

“Uhh, Ma's roast beef. You?”

“I also enjoy Ma's roast.”

“Me too.”

Stan and Ford both looked down at Stella in faint amusement mixed with confusion.

“I’m glad you like it, too, sweetie.” He scooped her back into his arms to place a kiss on the top of her head.” There was a lull. “I can't remember the last time I had roast beef. Or the lil’ potato balls she’d put inside with the carrots. Those were nice.”

Ford bit his lip. “We could try to make it ourselves.”

“It's not that serious.“ Stan looked uncomfortable.

“Why not? You and I both—excuse me—all three of us like it, and neither of us have had it in ages.” He snorted. Another lull.

“It could be fun.”

“Ford.”

“Well, Thanksgiving is coming up, is it not? It’s not the most traditional meal, but…it’s still an option.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why would we even be here that long?” Stanley shifted Stella with a sigh. “Roast beef is not a Thanksgiving food. Why are you even talking about Thanksgiving?”

“Then we’ll have to do a roast beef alongside a turkey.”

“There’s no way in He—no way in heaven that could possibly sound like a good idea. No way. We won’t—”

“Variety, Stanley.”

“‘Variety,’ my foot. That’s too much food. Why are we even talking about Thanksgiving?”

“We have to eat something either way, and this just gives us a better range of leftovers to choose from. It’s sound reasoning.”

“For the love of—you know what? Fine. Why not?” Ford would have been lying if he said that reluctant concession on Stan’s part hadn’t given him hope. Asinine or not, Stanley agreed to stay and do something with him. It was an important step forward, in his opinion. “It’ll be an absolute cluster—uh, fustercluck, but fine.” Stan jiggled the child in his lap, though Ford couldn’t be sure if his leg wasn’t bouncing in agitation. Stella seemed pleased, for whatever reason, and opened her mouth to let out a happy little shriek.

“Fustercl—!”

Ford’s eyes widened. Stanley cut the child off with a swift kiss to the cheek, which quickly turned into a loud raspberry. The toddler squealed, one little leg stuck high in the air.

“Nothin’ slips past you, huh? Does it? Does it?” Stanley affected an angry tone—which was ruined by the grin that stretched his cheeks—and jiggled his daughter with each question. “You lil’ gremlin. What’m I gonna do with you? Huh?”

Stella dissolved into laughter and contorted herself backwards. A broad hand shot up to support her back, letting her flail back as she pleased while he tickled her tummy. Her rosy little foot found its way back to Stan’s face and he blew on it briefly before scooping her back upright.

“Ohh, you ‘n this foot’re really somethin’ today,” he sang tunelessly, “aaaand, I’m guessin’ you don’t want it since it stays in everyone’s face! I guess it means I’ll have! To! Eat it up, eat it up, eat! It! Up!”

He curled his lips over his teeth and doubled the child over backwards across his legs, grabbing the little foot to nip at her heel. “Omnomnom. Nomnomnom.” He paused briefly in his ditty to watch her giggle and squirm, his eyes filled with a level of warmth Stanford wasn’t sure he’d ever seen. Was he grinning? Truly grinning? Fatherhood had really done a number on him. Ford hadn’t realized his brother was even capable of handling anything with such overt care. It seemed that he would never cease to rattle his expectations.

He continued his song, slightly muffled though it was by the twelve small toes that wiggled against his nose and jaw. “’N since you don’t want either of ‘em, someone’s gonna hafta call ‘im! Gotta call the foot monster!” he paused to tickle her again. His little niece squealed. “’N then the foot monster came ‘n ate all the feet, ‘case he’s a really weird guy ‘n we should talk to ‘im about that maybe. But he came ‘n ate the feet, I guess…” He trailed off.

A smile broke across Ford’s own face and he couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled forth. Stanley jolted and looked around, pulling himself and his child perfectly upright. His eyes settled on Ford with what looked to Ford to be bewilderment. He fell silent.

His discomposure would unsettle them both, it seemed. Stanford couldn’t mask the startled look that crossed his face at his brother’s abrupt change in demeanor. His nostrils flared briefly as a puff of air hissed out. The singing had stopped, and there seemed to be no hope of Stanley starting back up. The man stared stiffly ahead for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he shifted Stella in his lap, pulling her into a proper, seated position. From the looks of it, she was content to play with Stanley’s hands folded across her tummy.

Well, fuck.

He’d only chuckled. He didn’t know it would ruin the moment so thoroughly. Ford held back a sigh of his own and burrowed down in his chair, settling for watching the two remain idly seated. How could he fix this? This wasn’t a machine that could be analyzed and diagnostics run. These were Stan’s emotions, a shuddering, amorphous beast that writhed and balked at stimuli that Ford could not gauge. He didn’t know if the man himself could do it, either. He bit back an agitated bark of laughter. ‘Who’s driving this thing,’ indeed.

His eyes lingered on the dingy cuff of Stanley’s jacket sleeve as his wrist moved, slowly and rhythmically patting his daughter’s pudgy little tummy. Six tiny digits fumbled with Stan’s wristwatch. Oh. She was still wearing the shirt he’d lent Stanley. He’d forgotten for a moment that she was running around in twice-borrowed clothing.

He cleared his throat, breaking the burgeoning silence that was taking over once again.

“If… If you want, we can go ahead and start a load for the washing machine.” Ford offered, wincing internally at the hopeful uptick his voice took on.

“No, thanks.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s…just a few things. S’not enough to worry about.”

“And what are you going to do in the meantime?”

“I can just do it later. No big deal.”

“Stan.” Ford shot him a look.

“Oh, for—What?”

“If you’re going to have to do it regardless, it follows that it would be easiest to do it here, when required—now, for instance, as opposed to…somewhere with a considerably less convenient layout.” The man scowled back at him.

“Don’t see why you’re puttin’ so much thought into this. Sheesh.”

“You make it sound unreasonable.”

“Because it is.”

Ford sniffed. “I—”

“Maybe later, okay?” Later? When the hell was later? Everything they wore was dirty now. The uncomfortable stillness grew heavier in the room, unbearably so as Stanley began to hunch over and curled in on himself, blocking Stella from view as he pulled her closer. The child seemed used to this apparent routine and hunkered down without so much as a peep. She had been babbling to herself moments before, but as soon as Stan doubled over, she quieted and moved to tuck herself away as though through muscle memory. From what little Stanford could still see of her face, she seemed completely unperturbed by it all. That worried him. He chewed on his lower lip. What was he supposed to do? He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue crumbled to chalk behind his teeth.

He’d have to wait it out, it seemed.

He waited a great deal longer than he would have hoped.

The silence remained thick; from what he could tell, Stella was still content to alternate between playing with her hands and the tassel of Stan’s braid, and otherwise made no sound or movement. What child could remain that still and quiet? Ford was a grown man and found himself growing agitated and restless. Though he was somewhat grateful for the knowledge that respite in silence was possible from her should he ever need it, but he wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be normal. Little old lady, indeed.

When Stanley finally did unfurl, it was a slow process and he refused to look anywhere but down. When he dared to look around, the eye Ford caught was defiant and wary all at once. He shifted Stella in his arms and she seemed to take it as some sort of cue and returned to her babbling, humming some little song she made while Stanley patted her chubby little legs. At least someone’s content with this situation. Ford had set this whole incident off, hadn’t he? He was a useless brother, constantly causing his tween anguish. He stared off with unfocused eyes, and was jerked back into cognizance when Stanley let out an undignified squawk. Stella was upside down with a foot pressed into his collarbone. Again. “Seriously, what is it with you ‘n this foot today? Hm? Please don’t be a kicker. Or a biter. Please don’t go back to biting.” He worked his jaw with a wince as he pleaded.

Ford needed to get him more arnica. The bruises would linger otherwise. Ford rested his mouth against the heel of his hand, fingers splayed across his cheek. Why couldn’t he talk to his brother without provoking an incident? Why was it all so difficult?

≈

For the life of him, Stanley couldn’t figure out why Ford couldn’t just leave well enough alone. What did it matter to him whether or not he did laundry? Get real. Ford always had to go above and beyond with everything. He always had. Stanley knew this. Regardless, his laundry wasn’t something to make a big deal out of. He’d already scrubbed Stella’s stuff in the sink and laid it out to dry. His own things would take longer, but that was fine. It was a non-issue.

He saw the looks Ford kept shooting his way. He didn’t need any more of that. Ford may have known his living situation was a mess, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try to hold on to the last of his pride while he still could. He could almost smell the pity coming. He couldn’t stomach it. He just wanted his privacy. This whole thing was starting to set him on edge. For years, he’d been alone and estranged from the people he cared about. To say they cared about him in return seemed like a bit of a stretch after roughly 20 years’ separation. People went out of their way to ignore his presence, though there’d been more shock and shuffling, hesitant eye contact thrown into the mix since Stella arrived onto the scene. Him opening up to people only ended with him bleeding and left to rot in a prison cell or with him stupidly hoping that things would change, just this once, only to have his chest torn open and salt poured in with a serves-you-right as a garnish. The first time Stanley met up with family after years tramping around on his own had ended in a five-year shitshow. They both knew this, at the very least. Affection for Stanley was inherently out-of-place and to be suspicious of. So what in the fresh hell was all of this? It made his skin crawl. This wouldn’t end well. It couldn’t. No way in Hell. Stanford had to have something planned for him, and it had to be something awful. Nobody went out of their way to be kind for kindness’ sake; they always wanted something in return. And Stanley, fool that he was, had been fool enough to pay that toll time and again.

This was his carrot. He’d just have to wait it out until the time came to get the stick.

With his luck, the stick would be a branch.

He sat up, setting his jaw, letting his eyes trail around. He spotted Ford’s uneasy glance his way, but chose to ignore it. Whatever it was, he’d ask him soon enough. And this time, he’d be prepared for it. He wouldn’t put his heart on his sleeve to get ripped off and burnt away again.

“Stanley.” Here we go. “Is everything…are you alright?”

“Just peachy, Ford.” The ropelike tendon in his neck twitched and rolled as he scowled ahead. Was that a fish tank across the room? Why was it stuck in the dark? Stan decided he didn’t care.

“No you aren’t.” the man mumbled under his breath.

A certifiable fuckin’ genius, Stanford was. What was Stan supposed to say to that? What the hell? “Askin’ stupid questions, then, are we? Just for fun?”

“I didn’t—Stanley, it’s not even like that. Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doin’ a thing, Ford. Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” What in the hell was the point of all this? They were both nice and quiet, and then he had to go and ask these awkward, loaded questions. Then he had the audacity to complain about it when he answered.

The other man sighed. “Don’t be like this. Please.”

“Like I said, I’m not doin’ anything. Please. Why don’t you tell me what it is you think I’m doin’, since it bothers you so much.”

“What is it with this sudden—ugh.” Ford groaned, lifting his glasses to stroke the bridge of his nose. “Why are you being so standoffish all of a sudden?” he huffed, scowling across the room at him. “Is this because I asked you if you wanted to do laundry?”

Stan could’ve punched him for that incredulous tone. So he thought he was doing him a favor? As condescending as he was? It was a wonder Stanford didn’t get hit wherever he went. Nope, that’s just me, probably. Stan snorted.

“I’m glad you find this funny.”

“With this nonsense? Somebody has to.” He watched Ford’s upper lip curl under and flatten against his teeth.

“Nonsense? For fuck’s sake, Stanley, all I did was ask you a simple question!” Stanley didn’t notice the small thud as a small cheek pressed against his chest.

“Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Really? Would you let it go if you were in my place? You act like I shouldn’t even care.”

“That’s because you shouldn’t.”

“You can’t possibly believe that. Stanley, you’re—”

“What? I’m what, Ford? Family? I’m your brother? Is that what you want to hear?” He let out a wheezing laugh. “You expect me to believe that matters to you?”

“Of. Course. It. Does.” He rumbled, his words precise and clipped through grit teeth.

“Ohh, it matters. Right.” Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. “It sure as hell didn’t matter to you up until now.” Stanley took a bit of perverse satisfaction in the other man’s flinch. Enough to miss the squeeze around his middle.

“That’s absolutely not true.”

“Ohh. It isn’t, huh? Figures, then. Stupid Stanley, missing the obvious again. Well, then. Fuck me for not noticing, am I right?” His hand began to pat his daughter’s back as she began to fuss, as if on autopilot. His glare never left Stanford’s face.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

Ford let out a bitter laugh and shook his head, his grin lined with frustration. “You are so full of shit, you know that?”

“To be honest, you keep your head so far up your own ass, I’m surprised you noticed.”

“Damnit, Stanley!” Stanford snarled. “You absolute—” he was cut off by the wail that emanated from Stanley’s lap. It started out low, more of an insistent whine, but quickly pitched up to an outright sob. Both men froze. Stella was crying.

“Ah, shit.” Stanley wheezed, tightening his arms around the child. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you. So sorry.” He began to rock her side to side, pausing as she pushed herself away. “Oh, sweetheart…” he sighed. His little girl was doing her best to glare up at him, though her efforts were marred by the little hand rubbing at her wet eyes as she sobbed. He began to bounce her, which only served to make her cries come out as hiccups. “Oh, sweetie...” He pulled her close once more and stood, attempting to cradle her head close as she pushed and wiggled and fussed.

“No!” She twisted and writhed, nearly toppling out of his arms as she pushed herself away. Oh, geez. This wasn’t an ordinary bout of fussing, infrequent though they were. She was legitimately upset.

“D’you want your paci?” he flinched, dodging an arm. “Okay, yeah. Paci.” He stole a quick kiss to her cheek, putting himself well within slapping range. She landed a weak shove to his jaw. There was no real force behind it, though it hurt all the same and on several levels. Stanley inched down into a crouch and set her on the floor, watching for a moment as she tossed herself back against the floor with a whump. “Oh, babygirl, don’t hurt yourself. Here,” he darted of towards the stairs in a full sprint. “Paci, paci, where the fuck is the pacifier?” He knew he still had it. Those things were expensive, and even though she was weaned, it still calmed her down on the odd occasions when she got herself really worked up. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Was it in the car? He hoped not. He stumbled into Ford’s guest room and headed straight for the haphazard pile of his and Stella’s belongings. He tossed his stuff aside and grabbed a small drawstring bag, tearing into it with a fervor. How in the hell had they managed to start a fight in front of a child? She was right there the whole time. Not in another room, she didn’t toddle over into the scene; she was in his lap the entire time. “Shit.” He could keep his cool. He knew he could. So why did he have to lose his goddamn mind when it came to Stanford? We just bring out the worst in each other.

To be fair, Stanley brought out the worst in most people.

He rifled through the bag, his shoulders falling slightly in relief as his fingers hit soft rubber. Got it. He dropped the bag onto the floor and promptly threw himself back down the stairs, nearly tripping, and headed immediately back into the room full of screaming.

“—sorry, sorry, I am so sorry—” Stanford looked up in alarm from his new position on the floor. He held an uneasy hand out towards Stella, who was having none of it. What the fuck is that supposed to do? The kid didn’t want a hand hovering over her. What was the point in that?

He crouched down beside the two of them—as far away from Stanford as was possible—and scooped the flailing child back into his lap. “Here. Sweetie—don’t—” he narrowly missed an accidental headbutt and held out the pacifier, frowning at a bit of lint stuck to it. He stuck it into his own mouth, ignoring the horrified look Ford sent him in the process, and readjusted his grip on the hysterical little girl. “Hnh.” He spoke around the rubber between his teeth before popping it out of his mouth, pressing it towards hers. “I can almost guarantee you Ma did the same to all of us, so don’t even.” He grumbled. It took a few moments, but she finally seemed to realize what she was being offered and sucked the purple piece of rubber into her mouth with an indignant murmur. She pushed away his hand, but Stan didn’t mind. This was definitely an improvement and with any luck, she’d start to calm herself in a short while. Or not. She slapped the arm that braced her back and he withdrew, making the gentlest noises he could at her. Eventually, she’d calm down. He knew Ford was staring at him, but he ignored it. Let him be uncomfortable. He hoped he was confused, too, just out of spite.

It was a while before Stella would allow him to pick her up. The pair watched the child squirm and settle in Stanley’s arms, her large brown eyes falling heavy-lidded as her tears slowed and her sobs turned into hiccups. Stanley’s chest ached with each one. He swayed gently on the floor, lulling her to sleep with his heartbeat. She startled herself upright with a particularly loud hic. She pushed herself away from Stanley’s chest to peer around the room, her eyes settling on Ford with a scowl. The little girl raised a hand to point an accusatory finger at the man.

“Sorry.” She insisted, her little glare darkening as the man squirmed. Ha! Atta girl! That was definitely his child right there.

“I… I am? I mean, I am, so..?” That’s right, baby girl. Make him squirm.

She contorted once again in his lap to face him, sticking a tiny little finger into his bicep. “Ow.”

“Sorry.” She repeated. Sorry? What kind of Benedict Arnold shit was this? He had a scowl of his own.

“Stella, honeypie—”

“No. Sorry.”

“I don’t…” Ford trailed off. Stanley rolled his eyes.

“She wants us to apologize to each other, genius.” It was Ford’s turn to frown.

“Darling, I—”

“Say. Sorry!” she snapped. Ford jumped.

“Alright, dang. Geez, we’ll do it, okay?” Stanley patted her leg. She folded her arms. It would’ve been comical if she hadn’t been so upset. “I… Ugh. Fine. I’m sorry. There, you happy, tiny tyrant?”

“I… I also apologize.” Ford squirmed under the scrutiny the child gave him.

“You have to say sorry.”

“I just apologized.”

“Use the approved words, dingus.” Ford shot him a sour look and seemed ready to open his mouth to say something stupid. He must’ve thought better at the last moment.

“I’m sorry as well, Stanley.”

“There. Better?”

“Now you have to hug.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes. Hug.”

“Nope.” Stanley drawled, popping the p.

“Yes.”

“Stella, honey, no.” he sighed, running a hand across his scalp. “That’s askin’ a little much.”

She spat out the pacifier. “You say sorry ‘n then you hug it better. Yes.”

“Sweetie, that’s for little kids.”

“Now you hug it better.”

“Yeesh. Tiny grandma. You’re a tiny grandma, you know that?” he patted her little back, hoping it would placate her. No such luck.

“Hug it better.”

“You really aren’t gonna let this go, are you?” He slid her out of his lap and plopped her on the floor beside him, popping the pacifier back into her mouth. “Let it never be said that you don’t know what you want.”

She sucked on the pacifier, the round rubber circle bobbing furiously for a moment as she stared up with still-damp doe eyes. And damp nose. He needed to wipe her soggy nose before she did the honors herself. “Hug?”

“Oh, for—fine. Fine.” With a groan, Stanley ambled up to his feet. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute.” Ford followed suit soon after and Stan avoided the man’s face. He didn’t need to see whatever stupid look he was sending him. His scowl pointed downwards towards the man’s collarbone as they stood facing one another. Alright, let’s get this over with. Stanley leaned in for a loose, quick one-armed shoulder hug, letting out an indignant squawk as Ford dragged him in closer. Ah, geez.

≈

Stanford, fool that he was, had been expecting an actual hug. He threw his arms around the man’s torso and pulled him in tight, noting with dismay how quickly he went limp in his grasp. He was dead weight, just balancing on his feet. Stanford might as well have been propping an oversized fish upright.

This wasn’t his brother. Stanley wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was nothing like the affectionate child he’d grown up alongside.

The Stanley he knew would have thrown around him and nearly toppled them both over, like he used to. He would’ve said something corny to lighten the mood, and laughed them both to the floor. Instead, he was just there. There, but not as he remembered. Nothing like he remembered. When it came to Ford, Stanley was like an elaborate substitute of what he had been; one that lacked his essence. What had he done to break his spirit so thoroughly? How much of it was Ford’s own fault?

With a sigh, Ford’s grip fell slack, his arms slipping down to his sides. The man had vehemently protested, argued even with a child over the prospect of hugging him. What had he expected?

Naturally, just to spite Ford, the man brought an arm up to slap him on the back a few times, just when he was about to step away. His look of surprise must have been interesting. “I’m glad I could be of entertainment to you.” He drawled.

“Pfh. Don’t think so highly of yourself. You always make weird faces.”

“I didn’t expect… I stopped expecting reciprocation.” He cleared his throat as he spoke. Stan rolled his eyes, turning to scoop up the child who so graciously lifted her arms to be carried.

“There, princess. Happy now?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Well, you make it kinda hard to do anything when you put a man in a chokehold, Ford.” He grumbled, refusing eye contact once again. The excuse was a pathetic one, but it made Stanford smile all the same.

He’d take what he could get.

≈

Stella was blowing raspberries at him. Stan sighed a bit; he guessed he deserved them. He hoisted her weight in his arms and leaned back so that he could see her face. She was busy looking around, her little head tilting to and fro as she explored from her new vantage point, blowing raspberries all the while. Oh. She was just making noises. That was fair. He’d make noises, too, if he was three.

He strained his neck upwards to plant kisses on her salty little cheeks, earning himself a well-welcomed giggle and a swipe of her nose across his shoulder. “Oh, how nice.” He hummed, wincing all the while. He’d seen that one coming. She rested her head on his shoulder—the clean one, he noted—with a hum, earning herself a chuckle in the process. She’d tired herself out with all that crying, most likely.

Not that he blamed her for it.

His hand came up to rub soft circles along her back. He wasn’t quite sure where he was walking; just back and forth between rooms and along the hallway as Stella began to nod off. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to forget his child was in his lap before getting into it with someone. As many run-ins as he’d had, that had never happened before. He must’ve been getting complacent. Or just particularly riled up. Neither would do.

He swayed side to side. “You asleep?” No answer. He’d just take that as a yes. Sweet lil’ girl. As uncomfortable as it had been, she’d only wanted him and Ford to patch it all up. One stupid hug wasn’t gonna fix all their problems, but she was just a baby. She couldn’t know that. And he’d do his best to make sure she wouldn’t have to.

He inched his way to the stairs and up, sighing at the state of the room. He’d torn it apart looking for that damn pacifier, and had left a wreck strewn everywhere. “Okay, kiddo. Down you go.” He tiptoed around the bag he’d dumped onto the floor and placed her at the head of the bed, tugging her grimy blanket around her. Maybe he should wash the thing. It was a soft little blanket someone had given her, stuffed into an old baby bag along with clothes her kid had outgrown. It was the nicest thing Stan had seen in a long while.

People weren’t nice to Stan.

It was a simple fact. A baby, though? People were nice to babies sometimes. He remembered a few times, times when she was really small and he had no other choice, he would sit somewhere, a park or in front of a store, and people would send them both the dirtiest looks they could muster. He heard the mumbling, he wasn’t that stupid. He knew they thought she was just a sympathy ploy. She was his child. He couldn’t help it. If he needed to panhandle, she had to be with him. There wasn’t another choice. Stanley didn’t really care how people saw him, he’d stopped worrying about that a long time ago. He knew how they felt about him. It wouldn’t change. He’d be damned if they looked at his child that way, though.

He grew fed up with those dirty looks soon enough, and began covering her with whatever he had. He’d zip her into his jacket, cover her head with a scarf, it didn’t matter. What mattered was making sure she wasn’t seen, and most importantly, that she wouldn’t have to see them and their ugly judgmental looks. It didn’t matter to him that she was too small to really remember any of this. He didn’t want her to see it.

It was easier to be the man ignored than the man whose child was sneered at.

He leaned forward, pressing a smooch to her little forehead. Lil’ sweetie. He turned and stared once again at the disaster spilled across the floor. Great. Now he had to clean up this mess. Stanley squatted down. Here we go. He shoved the drawstring bag’s contents back inside, then tucked it back into the baby bag. The little back was mostly full of her things from infancy; pacifiers and bottles and the sippy cup he still needed to finagle back together. He wouldn’t throw it away, she might need it again later on, much like the pacifier.

Stanley’s own belongings went back into a small heap on the chair. He kept his crud separate from Stella’s. There was no need for him to dirty up her things with his own. She had to have at least something of her own to herself. He knew he should get a bag of his own, but he’d lost the duffel bag he used to carry—the one that’d been packed and waiting for him when he was seventeen—and he’d never gotten around to getting another one. His money was better spent on other things.

Once finished straightening up, Stanley sat on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed. He propped one arm up on the edge and rested his chin against it, watching his toddler snooze. Her face had started to relax finally, and he could finally chuckle at those chubby cheeks and the pacifier bobbing along.

No, wait, he should actually take it from her while he still could. She wasn’t supposed to be using it anymore. The last thing he needed to hear was someone clowning him over it and reminding him of how bad a parent he was. He already knew. It didn’t need repeating. He inched over and crept a hand out, giving the handle a gentle tug.

“Nu.” Stella shook her head in her sleep, then rolled over. He leaned back.

“Alright, then.” She’d have to spit it out, eventually. She was still little; nobody said she had to grow up this fast.

She was content, he hoped, he’d just let her sleep.

≈

When Stella finally awoke, Stan had taken a nap of his own and woken back up. It was short—the nightmares had kicked in what felt like moments after he’d truly gotten somewhat comfortable—but he’d take what sleep he could get, when it came down to it.

“Hello, princess,” he cooed as he watched the child push herself into a sitting position, “sleep well? It sure looked like it.” She stared at him for a moment, then held her arms out, leaning towards him. He was more than happy to oblige her. “Hey.” He repeated, his grin evident in his voice. “How’re ya feelin’?” She chose to nestle down in his arms instead of responding. “Alright.” Stanley hummed. She’d babble again when she felt like it. But what to do in the meantime?

He heard a faint clatter. “Hey, I heard some noises downstairs. You wanna see what’s goin’ on?” he felt a nod. “Alright. We’ll go investigate. How ‘bout that? Maybe it’s your lil’ buddy.” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. He was supposed to be weaning her away from that thing. So much for that.

Father and child crept their way down the stairs, pausing at the rustling Stan heard in the kitchen, followed by a crash and a string of expletives. Stanley set Stella on her feet, his brows furrowed as he slipped into the kitchen. Ford was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring down at a slew of pans and bowls scattered across the floor. Stan took a look around the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he was aiming for.

He also wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

He watched Stanford shove the pots and pans back into the cabinet, only to have them tumble back out moments later.

“For fuck’s sake—”

“Uh.” Stanley interrupted, leaning against the doorjamb. “You look like you need some help. Or… Or a lot. I dunno.” He gave a shrug.

“I, no. No, everything is under control, I can assure you.”

“Alright cool.” Stanley spun around to leave, glancing down as he saw a little brown head traipse its way into the kitchen. His arm shot out and he leaned over, almost losing his balance as his hand pressed against the child’s tummy. “Uh, uh, uh. Where d’ya think you’re goin’?”

“Here.”

“Okay, fair enough,” he drawled, “but how about you don’t, huh? Let’s not and say we didn’t.” He patted the little tummy. Stella grinned up and stared up at him briefly before stepping to the side and continuing on her merry little way. “Or not. Okay.” He reluctantly followed the child into the kitchen, his nose wrinkling. “What’re you doing?”

“Making dinner?” Ford huffed as though it was obvious. The man forgot to buy groceries on a regular basis. Did he really expect Stan to believe this was a common occurrence for him? Get real.

“Okay, dinner. Fine. I’ll rephrase the question. What are you doing?”

“Stanley, that’s—” Stanford cut himself off with a huff. “It’s spaghetti.”

Spaghetti. Stanley eyed the countertops, spotting unopened packs of ground beef and spaghetti. Those were reasonable. The opened cans of tomato puree were also reasonable.

What he found unreasonable was the fact that the opened cans had been emptied into a pot and were boiling away, untouched by any other spaghetti component.

“Why?”

“Because people need food, Stanley.”

Stanley wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “No, I mean that. Why’d you put the tomato in the pot with nothing in it?”

Ford looked at him like there was something new sprouting out of his head. “It’s a tomato-based sauce.”

“That doesn’t… that doesn’t mean you actually put it in first.” He ran a hand down the side of his face. “Y’know what? Here.” He sidestepped Stella, placing a hand over the untouched onions. “Where’s your cutting board?”

“It…was burned a long time ago.”

“Oh my God. Okay. Fine. I’ll use a plate.” Stanford reached across Stanley into a cabinet overhead and pulled down a plate. Stan gave him a grunt of acknowledgment and cut the ends off while Ford watched. He sighed. “Crumble up the ground beef into a skillet, would ya?”

“Right. Of course.”

This was going to take a while.

≈

Stanley stared at the salvaged pot of pasta with a sigh. Halfway through, Stella had decided she would help, mostly by clinging to his leg and making it hard to move without knocking her over. He’d forcibly removed her from Ford’s leg at one point; the man was a disaster. He didn’t need Ford splattering piping hot substances across his child. He’d have to break his face—accident or not—and for that, his own leg was marginally better.

“Alright, gremlin. Time for you to actually sit in a chair.” He gave his leg a playful shake then lifted the child into his arms, earning himself a giggle before Ford startled him with a hand on his bicep.

“Wait.” His muscles tensed for a brief moment before he willed himself to relax. Ford needed to stop springing up on people. He was gonna run Stanley ragged that way, he swore it.

“Jesus, Ford, don’t make me drop ‘er.” He really would have to break his face then.

“Sorry.” Stanford leaned and hovered over Stanley’s shoulder—to Stan’s discomfort—to reach the child’s level, looking her in the eye. “Now, Miss Pines, I have an apology for you.” What? Stanley craned his neck to watch the man sigh. “I shouldn’t have yelled at your father, and I certainly shouldn’t have done so right in front of you. That wasn’t nice of me at all. Will you forgive me?”

Stanley froze, wrapping his arms tighter around the child. What was this? Was this happening? There was a catch. There had to be. Ford must’ve been enjoying taking the piss out of him.

This was the carrot, and Stanley needed to know when the stick was coming. He worked at his jaw, trying to loosen the tension quickly building.

Stanley’s child leaned back to peer at him, then blinked. So she was as confused as he was. Good.

Stanford seemed to be waiting for an actual answer. Stella just stuck her hand in her mouth.

“Finger outta your mouth, honey.” He should probably wash her hands.

Her eyes darted between Stanley and Stanford for a moment before she complied. “’Kay.” She offered the damp little hand, followed by the other, out to Ford, who, at a loss, put his hands out to take her.

“And so the princess allows herself to be held.” Stanley mumbled, stifling a snort at Ford’s lost expression. He was lost, too, if he was honest with himself. Ford had apologized to Stella, actually gotten down on her level and apologized. Actually apologized. Never would he have expected that from the man. He wouldn’t have expected that from anyone, for that matter. People didn’t like Stanley. He’d found the easiest way for others to show that was through showing disdain for his child by extension of him.

This stretch of silence was too uncomfortable to let continue. “Alright, princess, let’s set you down.” He mumbled, giving a slight nod of satisfaction as his words lit a fire under Ford. The man stalked to the table, slower than Stan himself thought necessary, and stood Stella in a chair with what seemed like unnecessary caution. Stella, for her part, seemed put-out to be standing in furniture and slid down onto her knees, leaning against the edge of the table. “That’s better.” Stanley cooed.

His brow furrowed again as he watched Stanford fumble to grab plates and cutlery all at the same time. “Hey, we only need two plates. Or bowls. A plate and a bowl. Or a bowl and whatever you want.”

Ford eyed him. “Stanley, there’s three of us.”

“I am aware, thanks.”

“Three people. Three sets of flatware.”

“Me ‘n Mini-me can share.”

“Nonsense, there’s plenty. You don’t have to—”

“Ford. Look at her.” They both turned. She was still perched on the edge of the chair, looking confused. “Sit back, sweetie. Don’t want you to fall.” Stan turned back towards the other man. “But yeah, look at her. She’s big as a fart,” Ford looked taken aback at that, “she eats like a lil’ baby bird. She doesn’t eat a full anything. I’ll have to finish it, or it’ll go to waste. Just let ‘er eat off my plate. It’s fine.”

Stanford pursed his lips. “…If you insist.”

“It’s less cleanup, too.”

“You may have a point.” The man’s face told his lie. Stanley ignored it in favor of collecting his child.

“Alright, missy. Time to wash your hands.” He carried her over to the sink and propped her up on the edge of the counter. “Not… you have tiny hands, you don’t need that much soap.”

“Bubbles are important, Daddy.”

“Oh. Bubbles are important.” He drawled. “My bad.” He heard Ford snickering off to the side. Water ran down Stella’s elbows and dripped on the both of them. “Nice.” It was fine. It’d dry soon enough.

While he micromanaged his daughter’s soap usage, Ford had taken it upon himself to fill their plates and set them at the table. He carried the slippery girl back to the table and sat down across from Stanford, settling her in his lap. He eased the bowl towards the center of the table before Stella could flip its contents across them both.

This was bound to be a painfully awkward evening.

≈

Children were messy.

Stanford wasn’t sure how something so small could make such a contained disaster and smile about it the entire time. Most baffling was that he had been watching the entire time, and in no moment could he pinpoint the exact moments in which the mess appeared. It was as though it just… materialized.

“Stella, sweetie?” Stanley hummed to the child, who turned her tomato-smeared face upwards. “You know you’re cute, right?”

“Yeah?”

“You are so cute, but you’re making such a big mess.”

“Okay?” Stanford couldn’t help the snort that escaped him and covered his mouth with his hand as he tried to contain himself. He could all but hear the ‘And? What’s your point?’ left unsaid as she reached for Stanley’s fork.

“Kiddo. I’m gonna give it to you, can you wait until I actually get it on the fork for you first?”

“But I wanna do it!”

Stanley’s shoulders dropped. “Here.” He offered the fork. She immediately dropped its contents into both of their laps. Perhaps spaghetti hadn’t been the best idea, Ford mused as Stan let his head loll back. “Oh my God.” He sighed. Stella picked the pasta up with her fingers and shoved it into her mouth, unbothered. “Stella, can I at least help you with it, sweetie?”

“No, I wanna do it.”

“Stella, you’re making a huge mess all over the place. You need help. You can either let me help you, or I can do it for you, but you cannot do it by yourself.” The little girl scowled, turning her stare towards Ford. ‘You hear this shit?’ Her unreasonable look of indignation was priceless.

He bit back another chuckle and settled for a raised brow. “It is quite the mess.”

“See? People don’t like it when you make a big mess out of all of their stuff.” Stella folded her arms. “So is that a yes?”

“…Okay.”

“Perfect.”

The remaining meal passed with less fanfare, and Ford watched Stanley as he coaxed his child into letting him feed her with minimal fuss. Ford hesitated for a moment before opening his mouth. “Loath though I am to beat a dead horse, my laundry offer still stands. I’ll even throw in mine.” He gestured to the orange-toned splatters across his own front, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I think I might have a smaller shirt that might suit her in the meantime.” He inclined his head towards Stella, still wearing the blood-stained shirt he’d leant Stanley the day before.

Stanley’s face soured and his jaw tightened, ropy muscles rolling underneath the mottled skin. “Yeah. Sure. Okay, fine.” He handed the child the fork. When she leaned back against him, apparently sated, Stanley grabbed a fistful of paper towels and wiped down her hands and the tabletop before standing. He placed her in the chair before grabbing the bowl, then Ford’s, and plunking them both into the sink. Stanford twisted in his chair as Stan began running the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax, I got it. It’ll just be a second. Where’re your containers?”

“The…The cabinet to your left, I believe. Stanley, you don’t have to—”

“I gotta get this mess up. It’ll take ten minutes, tops.”

“What?”

True to his word, Stanley was finished in roughly ten minutes. He’d even wiped the stove down, which Ford had to admit wouldn’t have occurred to him. How did he work so quickly? He watched him give the table another quick wipe and then grabbed Stella, holding her at arm’s length as he sped up the stairs. He could hear the child whine. “Yeah, yeah. It’s bathtime. You got no one to blame but yourself on this one, babypants.” Moments later, Ford heard the rush of water surging through the pipes.

He stared at the clean table.

What a remarkably fast exit. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Of course he wouldn’t want to stay, not after that. It was quite literally the same argument that had caused them so much trouble hours earlier. Plus, the child was absolutely filthy. He needed to find the shirt he’d promised.

With a sigh, Stanford pushed back his chair and stood, letting his feet carry him towards his room while the sounds of muffled splashes, song, and giggles trickled down. The sound of such honest normalcy was jarring. Stella’s existence was jarring, if he was honest with himself.

When Stan had been driven off at seventeen and the informercials had stopped airing late at night, it was easy to imagine that he was off somewhere in Atlantic City or Las Vegas, partying to his heart’s content. That image had been shattered once Ford had begun to worry with upkeep on the Stanleymobile in the years Stan had been lost. The wear and tear and obvious signs that Stanley had been living out of that car spoke of a life far different from what he’d originally assumed.

When Stan had driven off again a few years prior, Ford had hoped down to the pit of his stomach that Stanley would have been able to turn things around for himself. If he could survive the other side, apparently unscathed, then certainly he could prosper with ease with what experience he surely must have gained. One look at him on his doorstep three nights ago had proven that a lie, and the child upstairs had been the laughter and slap in the face to add insult to injury.

Stella was another reality check for Stanford, that yes, his brother was out there, actually interacting with people, and having to work his way through tight situations. Handling a small child in the best of situations was daunting as it was. Doing it with no means must have certainly been unbearable. How does one raise an infant from the backseat of a broken-down car? It wasn’t a question he could hope to earn the right to ask.

Ford found himself staring down at his dresser, numbed. His brother was living out of a car again. There was a baby living out of his brother’s car. What had Stanley done in his years without the Stanleymobile?

He had to fix it. There were a number of things Stanford had to make right, but this one was absolutely imperative. He pulled open a drawer and began rifling through the back, pulling out a shirt for Stanley. He would fix this. He didn’t know how, but he’d come up with a way. He didn’t want his niece to have to experience the same things Stanley had.

He didn’t want Stanley to have to experience the things Stanley had.

For all his eloquence, Stanford wasn’t as good with words as he’d hoped when it came to people. Things always seemed to end in a fight or ruffled feathers, at the very least. It was a wonder Fiddleford had put up with it all for as long as he had. He’d just have to show them both the emotions he couldn’t properly express. Their Ma, silver-tongued though she was, had always been the same way with them growing up. Her words never carried as much weight as her actions did. She had even gone out of her way to make them both a birthday cake each every year, even on years they had decided on the same flavor. He smiled at the thought.

He might not have been able to bake a cake, but he would do his damnedest to get his point across.

He just had to find this stupid shirt first.

≈

Stanford hustled his way upstairs, a shirt tossed over either shoulder. The bathtime noises had quieted, and from the cracked door he could see the light was off. He must’ve taken longer than he’d expected to collect the garments. He continued on to his guest room, pleased to hear the faint shuffling from inside the room. He sidled up to the doorway, one hand pressed against the frame. He watched a slight frown cross Stanley’s face as he squeezed a damp shirt, wiping the water across the lounge pants he’d changed into. So I made good timing. Good.

His brother turned slightly as he bunched the damp shirt up, ready to pull it over his head. Ford moved his hand to tap on the doorframe, but froze. His eye caught the outline of the sigil he’d burned into Stan’s shoulder and he winced at the dark bluish, purpled scar tissue. Fuck. Ford had never gotten the chance to see the aftermath of his handiwork; Stanley had been so closed-off and silent when he’d returned, and had seemingly done his best to keep as far away from Stanford as possible until he’d driven off into the night without so much as a by-your-leave.

The skin was shiny, not unusual for scar tissue, and seemed to dip inwards rather than keloid, forming dips and valleys where the hot metal had seared through his skin and into his actual flesh. The skin around it puckered more than stretched as it pulled taut with his movements. And to think he could still fight, with his shoulder like this. Maybe there was a reason he was taking falls and throwing fights.

He had done that to his brother. Just looking at it brought back the acrid smell of Stanley’s charred skin and the fat sizzling underneath it, mixing with the sharp bite of the molten polyester of his jacket. He had to be able to feel that. Was the smell lodged high in the back of Stanley's sinuses as well? He could almost see the melting fabric darken and dissolve and crawl away from the blinding heat, just to cling to Stan's unaffected skin to scald him further. That jacket had been too light for winter. The skin must have cracked and wept for Stanley, like Ford had wept for him on the other side. Fat lot of good that did. Had it bled? Or had the heat cauterized the wound immediately? Stanford had used that brand to engrave symbols into solid steel. There was no way the damage done could have healed without complications. It was so close to his spinal cord, to top it all off. It was a wonder his brother was still alive.

Stanford’s eyes dropped to the floor, but fell short. Another large scar marred his brother’s body. An angry, pink puckered gash ran diagonally from his back to the tip of his right hip. Ford’s mind was quick to offer the word nephrectomy, and he made a concerted effort to ignore it. No, this scar was roughly-hewn and there were a number of ways Stan could have gotten himself another scar. He could’ve tried some reckless stunt on a motorcycle, or been in a freak hiking accident, or a knife fight, or, or, or—

Stanley rotated his body slightly, moving the majority of the scar out of Ford’s line of vision. He must’ve noticed his presence. With a concerted effort, Stanford straightened his body and face as Stanley tugged the shirt down fully, turning to face him.

“I come bearing shirts.” He held the offending garments up as a lame offering. Stanley’s drawn, contemptuous face did not change. He let his arms drop.

“…Right. Thanks.” Stanley mumbled. Stanford stepped into the room in his best attempt at looking casual, giving a quick glance towards the bundled lump on the bed.

“Is she asleep?” his voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Yeah.” Stanley turned his head to stare at his little lump and remained silent for a moment, a faint smile forming. “Started fallin’ asleep halfway through her bath.”

Ford didn’t hold back his smile. “I… This one is smaller, of course, I’d imagine it fits better than an adult man’s shirt would. I received it by accident and just…never got rid of it.” He rambled away, though it did nothing for the tremble in his hands or the bitter taste of guilt corroding his tongue. He lifted the larger shirt. “Also, this one isn’t wet.” Damnit. Would it kill you to keep your mouth shut? Just once?

Stanley eyed the shirt, then Stanford. “Aaalright, then. Thanks.” He mumbled the word, almost as an afterthought as he stretched a reluctant hand towards the proffered shirts.

Once taken, Stanford took a step back, offering his brother a weak smile. It was painfully clear that Stanley wanted him out of the room, and for once, Stanford felt the same. “I’ll just… let you two sleep now.” He feigned nonchalance as he inched his way out of the threshold. Oh, Fuck. “Wait.” He doubled back to peer into the doorway, wincing slightly. “I’m about to… gather up my own belongings to throw in the washer, if you’d like to add yours in?”

“Okay, Ford. Sure. Thanks.” Stanley mumbled, no heat behind the edge to his words. He just sounded exhausted. And whose fault was that today? “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Stanford Pines dragged himself down the stairs—vindicated, he supposed—though feeling a great deal emptier than he had in quite some time for it.

It's been so long?? How did this happen?? Exactly a week ago I was ready to post this, eleven pages shorter, but my stupid self had to go and say "nah let's make it a little longer." This chapter is over TWICE the length of my average chapters, and to be fair I could've separated it into two chapters, but I didn't want to, so there's that? I really hope it was worth the wait. >.< This past month has been: one week and a half off of work, followed by a 4-day weekend, then ANOTHER 4-day weekend, this week was be a full week, and then we get ANOTHER long weekend on top of that. And another. You'd think that would be a good excuse for getting MORE updates than normal, but uh, every time I sat down to work it turned into "Hey, you wanna go to ___?" and I am a sucker for pretending to be an extrovert, so... Yeah. That's what happened.

[as-be-low]

Time Has Changed Me, Chapter 7

Steady the hand that lays the child to bed Barbitals and decay The crown and anchor You’ll curse at the sky Three words for which the boys have no names How many beasts in the night To take you away Baroness—Mtns. (The Crown and Anchor)

AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

Stanley stared up at the sky. There was nowhere else to look.

He was on his back, aching and sore, and he was stuck looking up at the god-awful sky. The brightness stung his eyes, but still he couldn’t move his head, couldn’t even close his eyes to block out the awful light.

He felt a sense of dread looking at the sky, as if his feet would leave the ground and he would begin falling, falling into that sickeningly bright blue once again. It made him sick to look at the sky. It was better to look down.

Observe the ground.

Admire it. Appreciate the thud of each footstep as his feet left and reconnected with the dirt, were they belonged. Where he belonged.

Like recognizes like.

The sky was the same horrible, swirling bright color as it was when he fell up. The same color as it was when the man he used to call his brother pushed him and he fell, fell in slow motion, fell up into the air that sucked him in and curled closed behind in a mockery of a smirk. Nothing had felt right about it. Nothing had been right about it.

He remembered the strange, nauseating feeling of Gravity just stopping, of the cumbersome heft of his limbs, heavy with some unknown dread as they dangled in midair. He remembered the uncoordinated, bulky weightlessness of his body as he scrabbled for the ground that was grew tauntingly distant. He remembered the numb panic dancing down his spine and across the seared, charred flesh of his shoulder and it burned, it was all too much, and he could smell it; the fear and his own smoky, burning skin and the round, heavy tang of the molten polyester of his jacket that clung to his shoulder blade sent black spots prickling along the edges of his unfocused vision while that blinding blue light sent electric sparks through the air and stars dancing across the black.

The ice-cold horror and the burning hot anger and confusion were back, and so was the sick, churning dread that numbed his mind and made every cell in his body want to scream out in agony. He was falling again, into the wrong direction.

It was all so blue.

Gravity’s tug was back, but he was too far gone. The sky had him and was determined to drag him into its horrible expanse, though the ground tried to take back what was rightfully hers. He was going to be sick. His chest tightened.

He was losing his mind. None of this could be happening.

He was falling. He had to be falling. Falling the right way.

He hated the color blue. Blue was the sky, unending no matter how high, how sickeningly high you went, pulling you away into its bright, blinding light that hurt your eyes. He liked red.

Red was a good color. Ma always dressed him in red, usually to tell him apart from his brother before they grew older and it became so obvious how unlike his sibling he was.

Red was safe.

It was the color of the blush that warmed Carla’s cheeks when she laughed at his dumb jokes when he was just some dumb kid. It was the color of the earth, the red dirt of the desert that welcomed him as his face rushed to meet the ground, his legs still tangled around the zip ties and contractor’s bag holding him in the trunk. It was the blood he spat on to concrete countless times over. Red was familiar. Red was known. Red was safe.

Blue was the sky, lofty and full of the impossible goals he’d never reach. As the sky stole him once more, he remembered something Ford had said back when they were kids, about the sky and sea being the same color for the same reason. He resolved to hate them both in equal measure.

The black spots along his peripheral vision stretched out and swirled, brushing along his hands and arms and every bit of exposed skin they could find. It itched. He tried to swat at it, but the shadows wrapped around his chest and neck and squeezed, working their heavy pressure down to his chest as they tickled and taunted and he wheezed. More fine, thin tendrils reached up and caressed his face, almost in a mockery of easy affection, and his skin crawled underneath each delicate little scrape.

The clouds. It was the clouds. It had to have been. They must’ve been like those big, fluffy spider web nests in those stupid flowery trees and he’d floated right into one.

He was gonna catch hell for it. He hated spiders.

He hated spiders and he hated clouds, and he hated how they were choking him, crawling along his face and jaw and tickling him with their countless, prickling little legs, crawling into his mouth while the thick black tendrils squeezed at his throat and bore down on his chest and strangled him. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Only spiders rushed in. He tried again.

Stanley jolted forward with a gasp, his eyes flipping open at the strangled noise that left his mouth. He swallowed thickly—once, twice, third time was the charm—as he tried to even out his breathing, his eyes darting around the room. Ford’s house. He was at Ford’s house. It was safe. Or at least relatively so.

He glanced around the room with a scowl. It was just a stupid dream. Of course he had bad dreams. This house was the stuff of his nightmares. It had featured in most of them for years. While he was gone everything had been hell, waking moments and dreams alike, and it was no surprise that the nightmares stayed constant once he’d gotten back. On the bright side, they had gradually lessened once he'd left and gotten himself hundreds of miles away from this nightmare-infested disaster zone. It was no surprise they’d pop back up once he got here. At least it didn’t feature this house—or Ford and Glass Shard Beach—for once. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he dreamed about this house again.

He looked down to take stock of himself, stopping short as something obstructed his view just under his nose. He squinted, willing his eyes into focus. Stella. The weight was Stella. She’d crawled onto his chest and used him as her own personal mattress in the night. He spat the child’s hair out of his mouth and sighed, sliding her down so that her head was on his chest instead of his face, immediately thankful as her elbow left his throat. Seriously? Why did she have to pick his face? He figured the whole thing might’ve been a great deal funnier if he wasn’t so banged up and his heart wasn’t trying to kick its way out of his chest still. He vaguely wondered if his jackhammering heartbeat against her ear would wake her up. I guess she wanted Daddy. He hoped she hadn’t had any bad dreams, at least. He’d fight anything and anyone, including his own damn self, if they gave her bad dreams.

He inched into a sitting position, propping himself up against the headboard as he peered down. His eye was still swollen, not as badly as it had been, but it still wouldn’t open properly. No biggie. He could still see. He figured that was what mattered most. He squinted down at the child still asleep in his lap. “All the better to see you with, my dear.” He mumbled. His baby opened one eye at the noise, then slowly let it fall closed. He bit back a chuckle. Back to sleep it was.

He spared a glance at his watch. 6:47. It was still a bit dark out, but he expected he’d see the sun rise soon enough. He’d let her sleep; she’d probably wake up again sometime soon and he’d have to find some way to keep her occupied and out of Stanford’s hair. He was sure he could find a park nearby. He wasn’t sure what day it was, but there was bound to be some sort of kid there around her age for her to play with. But then there’s Stanford. The man was likely to shit another couple of bricks if he got up and they were gone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with that. Or I could actually leave, and not come back.

No, that would be petty. He grimaced at the thought, which quickly turned into a grimace of discomfort. Damn. He didn’t want to deal with people him or Stella for his beat-up face, either. He would just have to let her play in Ford’s front yard. Maybe that weird leprechaun thing would still be out there. She could play with that, though he really didn’t want her getting too attached, or more attached than she already was. She seemed smitten with the dumb thing almost at first sight. He’d let her play with it today, if it was still there, but he’d have to wean her off of it soon. Or shoo it away in the night. They couldn’t take the freaky thing with them when they left. It would be too hard on them both if she had to cry the whole time they left. She’d probably wake up angry at him if he put her in the car and drove off while she was sleeping, if it meant she didn’t get to say goodbye to the damn thing. She really was a good kid, she never gave him much trouble. He just really didn’t want to see how disappointed she would be when he took her away from the first little bit of stability she’d ever experienced.

He’d have to burn that bridge when he got to it.

Stanley watched her sleep, choosing to ignore the line of drool soaking into his borrowed shirt—he’d have to make sure to give it back to Ford soon before he ruined it—in favor of the faint smile that graced her round little face. She was precious, spider web hair and all. He’d have to try and braid it or something. It had probably gotten long enough to try. The pigtails were undoubtedly cute, but her hair kept pulling itself out and sticking up in every direction, and that kinda defeated the purpose, he thought.

He absentmindedly smoothed her hair away from her face. She was going to be all right. He’d make damn sure none of this sci-fi, ghost hunting bullshit would ever hurt her. Unless this is some bullshit now. No, this was real. He hoped this was real.

He guessed this was real. Dreams and nightmares and whatever memories of that bizarro hellhole that tended to pop up were hard to discern sometimes, but he wasn’t sure he could dream up an entire baby.

Maybe he should hope she wasn’t real. He shouldn’t wish such a fucked-up life on her. She was just a little kid, real or not. He scooped her up tighter, more as a reassurance to himself than anything else. He sent another glance around the room, scrutinizing Stanford’s belongings. That plant in he corner was probably too ugly for Stanley to have imagined it, he decided. It was if someone had told Stanford he was supposed to have a plant (and someone probably had), so he went out and bought the biggest, ugliest one he could, just out of spite. He doubted Ford even watered it. Maybe once. Maybe it was fake, but in the real way that some plants were. He snorted at himself.

The child shifted in his arms and he blinked back down, meeting a pair of large, brown doe eyes focused intently on his face. “Sorry, pumpkin, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Your face is hurt.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He fought the urge to wince under the scrutiny. She shifted in his grip and moved to her knees, gibing him a small peck on an unbruised patch of his jaw. He should probably shave, before his unkempt stubble turned into a full-on beard. It was definitely not a look that suited—

“There. Now it’ll get better.”

A smile broke across Stanley’s face. “I feel loads better already. Thanks, sweetie.” It was a lie. He felt sick to his stomach. This child was three and she wasn’t fazed in the slightest by his banged-up-to-hell-and-back face. Ford’s earlier assumption that she’d be scared by his ugly mug should’ve been true, but like he’d said, Stella had seen plenty worse.

He subjected her to that.

A tiny hand gently patted his cheek and he turned his head with a fake growl, pulling his lips taut over his teeth as he pretended to bite six small fingers. His baby giggled and the sound was music to his ears.

“This little piggy had glasses. This little piggy had none.” It was a rhyme their mother had made, just for Stanford. He’d never expected to hear it again, much less recite it for a child of his own. “This little piggy had to go outside, ‘n this little piggy saw the sun. This little piggy got sent to bed, and the luckiest little piggy had fun.” He sighed again, slightly more content as Stella beamed up at him. “How’re you feeling, kiddo? Hungry?”

“No.” she piped.

“Oookay. Fair enough.” He couldn’t bring himself to have much of an appetite, either. She settled back against his chest and he was content to doze like that, until the little girl inevitably began to squirm.

“My foot tingles.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” He set her on the edge of the bed, reaching out to tickle her foot. Stella squealed and flailed sticking her little foot against his bruised cheek. “Ow.” He blew a raspberry against her sole and stood with a groan, tucking Stella under his arm. “Let’s go down and get your shoes on, little miss.” He carried her downstairs, easing his way down the creaking stairs and to the front door. He paused. Ford had forgotten to lock it after cornering him in the middle of the night. Of course he did. The man was hopeless.

“Looks like your lil’ buddy is still here.” Good. They could play and he could have some time to gather his head. He jerked his chin towards the far end of the porch where the multicolored thing seemed to be snoozing. Stella began to squirm, reaching desperately for the ground. “Easy, sweetie, that thing’s still sleepin’, you might not wanna—”

“HELLO!” she screeched, causing Stan to recoil from the noise while the leprecorn scrabbled to its feet. It flicked its tail, eyes darting back and forth before settling on Stella. Immediately it brightened, heading towards Stan’s feet in a clumsy trot.

“Nevermind. You two have at it.” The bagpipe music had started back up. He wasn’t gonna ask why. He set Stella down on her feet, straightening her shirt with a frown. The morning air was chillier than he’d anticipated.

“You ‘n your buddy stand right here while I go get your coat.” He repositioned the odd duo in the doorway. “Right here, okay?” he eased back inside, sending a quick glance backwards as he slipped up the stairs. “Coat. Coat. Tiny pink coat.” Where the fuck was it? It wasn’t like he’d spread their stuff out all over the room. He didn’t want to get too comfortable. “Fuck.” He checked his jacket pockets, though it’d been a little while since he could comfortably fit a tiny jacket in there. His pockets were empty, save for a beat-up lighter. It never hurt to check, though. Stanley tossed it over his arm all the same.

He let a hiss of air escape his nose. Maybe she’d left it in the car. He fumbled his way back down the stairs and paused. The door was closed. He hadn’t closed the door. He was fairly certain his child couldn’t reach the doorknob. A frown crossed the man’s battered face. Great. Ford must be up. Maybe the wind had pulled the door shut, he hoped despite himself.

He eased the door open and bit back a sigh as he was greeted by Stanford’s back. Stella had moved just beyond the porch steps with her weird little friend. Fine. Stanley closed the door behind himself and strode past Stanford, draping his jacket across his daughter’s shoulders as he made his way to the Stanleymobile. He peered into the backseat.

“There.” He spotted a tuft of faded, dingy pink poking out from under the passenger seat. She must’ve yanked it off and kicked it, for reasons he’d probably never understand.

He scooped up the little hand-me-down coat and squatted down in front of Stella, who looked put-out to have to stop playing with her critter for long enough to be helped into her coat. He patted her tummy, fighting the urge to laugh at her little pout. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

“Thought so. Alright, go on.” She didn’t have to be told twice before launching herself back at the freaky leprechaun, throwing herself across its back. Stanley winced. Sure, she was small, but so was it, and he wasn’t really convinced that it could support her weight. Whatever. Ford said it could talk. It would speak up if it had a problem with it.

Stanley stood and watched the duo play, making a point not to look over at Stanford. He’d initially hoped to let Stella play and use that time as a chance to think. If he sat on the porch, he’d have to talk to Stanford. They’d done enough talking to last Stanley a while. Despite himself, he found his gaze creeping over to the man. Stanford stared back with a pitiful look. Stanley wheezed, quickly dropping his eyes back down to Stella. She and the rainbow unicorn were slowly but surely making their way to the porch. They’d moved about two yards away from him. There was no way he could play it off and swoop her up without intentionally getting closer to Ford. He let his shoulders fall and trudged over to the porch—pausing to pat Stella on the head as he passed her—and sat down beside Stanford with a grunt. He sat hunched, his forearms draped over his knees as he stared forward. He could feel Stanford looking at him and resolved to say nothing.

They sat in uncomfortable silence. Stan would have been okay with keeping it that way. If only Ford could have felt the same. The other man took a breath in, as if to speak, and Stanley made sure to cut him off. “Stella, sweetie, be careful. Don’t hurt your lil’ buddy there.”

She threw her arms around its neck as though offended. “His name is Felix but he said I can call him Lucky ‘cause that’s shorter ‘n I’m gonna teach ‘im how to walk on leashes ‘n go for rides ‘n then I’m gonna go for rides!” The faint bagpipe music seemed to intensify as that bug-eyed monster grinned at him, swishing its tail. Did it ever blink?

“Yeeeah, that thing has to go.” He whispered to himself, a bit startled as Ford responded.

“Oh. That’s a relief. I thought you’d want to keep it.”

Stanley grunted, a scowl reappearing. He rested his temple against his fist, wincing slightly at the dull ache that followed. He could feel Ford shifting beside him.

“Stan…”

“What, Ford?” His voice sounded dull, even to himself. After a too-long beat of silence, he turned his eyes towards the other man. Stanford stared back at him with that dumb, conflicted look of his. “Go on. Spit it out. You’re gonna ask it anyway, whether I want you to or not.” He ignored the man’s cringe.

Stanford kept quiet for a moment longer. “Are you okay?”

Stanley stared at the knucklehead beside him. Seriously? He pursed his lips as his scowl deepened. Ford wilted.

“You’re right. I… I apologize.”

“Y’know—” Stan let out a frustrated huff and shifted his weight, his eyes widening as Stella came barreling into his lap. His eyes flitted down to the child. “Everything alright, pumpkin?” He tried to hold her at arms length, to look her over—pausing to glare at the leprehorse—but the toddler just made herself comfortable in his lap. “Alright, then.” He drawled, curling forward to peer at her face. “You feelin’ okay?” Oh. She was smiling. She was probably fine, then. He smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed a rosy cheek, earning himself a small giggle.

“Your hair tickles!”

He glanced down, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, it does?” He made a point of shaking his head, brushing his hair against her cheek. “I guess that’s just payback for all the times your hair tickled me, then.” He stopped, unable to help but chuckle at the child’s peals of laughter and rested his chin on the top of her head until she squirmed her way out of his grip seconds later in favor of reattaching herself to the rainbow eyesore in the yard. “Okay. Fair enough.”

“That was…remarkably sweet.”

“Yeah.” She was a good kid.

“Look, Stanley, I know you probably think our…discussion last night was…unproductive, but—“

“It’s too early for this, Ford.” Stan sighed. “Could you give it a rest? Please. Just for a minute, even.” He heard Ford’s similar huff of dismay.

“Later, then.” the man promised.

Stanley hated promises like that. Promises were nothing but politely worded threats. He bristled. “Much later.”

“Stanley, I know this is…less than desirable, but it’s important.“

“Says who?”

The man beside him forced a gust of air from his nose. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what? Protective of my privacy?” Stan gave a dry huff. “Why are you even out here?”

Stanford winced. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Yes, you are. Why are you outside watching my daughter? You were so pissed about it last night when you thought you had to, even though no one asked you, but here you are now, watching her, when no one even asked you to.”

“That was different, you were…” Stanford paused, shaking his head. “It’s different.”

“It’s exactly the same and you know it.”

“I thought you were gone, Stanley.” Stanford’s voice cracked. Stan wasn’t dumb enough not to notice that he tried to cover it with a cough.

Gone. Stanley could’ve broken his nose, right then and there.

“You thought I would leave her with you.”

“You can hardly blame me for a misinterpretation as such.”

He could, and he would.

“You figured I’m lowlife enough t’ leave in the middle of the night and abandon my child with a stranger.”

“Don’t say it like that. It’s not like that.”

Stanley buried his face in his hands, rubbing them back and forth for a moment before lifting his head. “How big of a deadbeat do you think I am, Ford?”

“I don’t—”

“How big of a deadbeat do you think I am?” His lips slowly curled over his teeth, his jaw set.

“I don’t, Stanley. I just think you’re a man, down on his luck, who—“

“Just ‘cause I told you some stuff—why, I still don’t know—doesn’t mean you get to…you don’t get t’ assume stuff about me.”

“Stanley, we’re… I’m talking about before that.”

He blew a lock of hair out of his face. “And?”

“And it’s not as though I knew what your plans were, meaning it was well within the realm of possibility that you might have left.” his voice dropped to a whisper. “Again.” Stanley was sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that.

“Without my child.”

“You said it yourself, Stanley. Your… living situation is less than ideal.”

“So that makes you the better choice. For my child.” Stan clenched and unclenched his fists, creating a slow and fuming tempo that trickled on like a lazy current.

“No, it doesn’t! That’s my point!” Stanford ran a hand back and forth through his fuzzy hair. “I don’t know the first thing about childcare.” Himself, either, if they were gonna be honest, Stan mused, “I just… I was awake. I was in the lab—er, living room, working on a paper, and—“

“Of course you were.”

“I was working on a paper, and I could hear you. The front door was open, so I could hear Stella and the leprecorn, and I decided to step out and check on her. I was… worried that she might make her way to the forest again.”

Him and that damn forest. She knew better than to go out that far. She was little, not stupid.

He sat upright. “She’s mine to worry about. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t just leave her for no reason.” He turned his baleful gaze towards Ford. “I’m still not sure why you called me here, but I definitely didn’t come here for you to watch her, so you don’t gotta worry on that front. I know how t’ take care of my own fuckin’ kid.”

“Stanley, that’s not what I meant at all.” he reached out for him, but Stanley stood before he could make contact.

Stan took in a deep breath. “Stella, sweetie, come back this way!” he called out. The child stared at him for a moment before she complied, her brown eyes locked with his as she made her way to the porch, dragging that thing along with her on unsteady legs. She had it in her arms, or as much of it as she could carry, so the weird little thing was half carried, half walking on its hind legs while the both of them grinned at the unfortunate situation. He couldn’t help but think about those times when she was still tiny, too small to talk but still insistent on trying to walk on her own beside him. She used to stare up at him the entire time, those big doe eyes scanning him like she’d find the answers to the universe. He snorted at the thought. He’d had to walk slowly back then. She took about five steps for each slow stride of his own, determined to keep up with him on those wobbly little legs. Things were slow-going on those days, but he didn’t mind. Six little digits would wrap around his pinky or his thumb and squeeze on like it was a lifeline. In a way, he guessed they were. That little deathgrip had prevented many a tumble.

He scooped her up once she got close. The baby automatically wrapped her arms around his neck and his face relaxed into a smile against the cheek that smushed up against his own.

His baby.

His.

He’d pleaded and begged and fought tooth and nail to make sure he’d be able to keep her. She was loved. She was wanted. He never wanted her to have to question that. He’d be damned if he let anyone imply otherwise, even if she didn’t hear it herself.

“You hungry yet?” she shook her head, but he ignored the small movement. “Let’s see about getting you some breakfast.” His heavy footfalls groaned against the wooden floors and he paused, noticing a steady staccato between his own steps.

“Hey, ey, ey. No. Not you.” He grumbled, lifting his foot to nudge the horsechaun out of the threshold. That his foot was against the creature’s face was irrelevant. “You stay outside.”

The bagpipe music hit a sour note. Stanley shuddered. Ford was soon on his feet and grabbed the thing underneath it forelegs and lifted it, mumbling something Stan couldn’t quite catch about “abominations” and “affronts to nature” and “I hate this thing so much.” Stanley didn’t bother to wait to hear if Ford was behind him before heading to the kitchen.

≈

Stanford bounded up his porch steps and into the house, slamming the door shut behind him before the leprecorn could notice that he’d left it at the edge of the tree line. To both his dismay and benefit, the creature never seemed particularly observant. He let his eyes fall closed with a huff. So the day was starting out with a wrench tossed into his plans. What else is new? He scowled briefly, his attention piqued at the pleasant noises coming from his kitchen. Noises that should have been considered normal. He inched his way towards the rustling and his brother’s voice, surprisingly agreeable as he chattered to his small child. He’d pulled the masticated cereal box from its hiding place in the refrigerator and placed it on the table in front of Stella along with a bowl he’d fished out of an upper cabinet. Stella had been sat at the table, leaning across the wood as she watched her father shuffle uncomfortably around the kitchen.

“Here, princess.” He hummed, pouring milk into the girl’s cereal. Her eyes brightened.

Ford felt a faint smile cross his face. Maybe the cereal had been a worthwhile investment. He hadn’t realized he’d placed himself against the doorway until Stanley caught his eye and sent him a withering stare. Well, shit. What had he done now? Stanford sighed and took a step further into the kitchen as Stan sat beside Stella, watching with faint amusement as Stella climbed out of her chair in favor of his lap. Stanley heaved a fake, overdramatic sigh and lifted the child into his lap, sliding her bowl of cereal closer.

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad.”

Ford watched as the child grabbed the spoon in front of her in an awkward grasp, dribbling milk as she lifted it to her mouth. Stan didn’t seem too concerned about it; Ford supposed he shouldn’t either. He stood fixed for a moment longer, then made his way over to the fridge and pulled out the bag of eggs. If Stella was going to eat, it only made sense for them to follow suit. He hoped this time he wouldn’t scorch anything beyond recognition.

“What’s that?” Stella piped up, jerking Stanford from his thoughts.

“What d’ya think it is?” Stanley hummed.

“Eggs.”

“Then it’s eggs, pumpkin.”

She huffed. “But what’s it gonna be?”

“Why don’t you ask that?”

“What’s the eggs gonna be?”

“Oh. Uhm.” Ford stalled. “I was…planning on making eggs.” He heard Stanley snort.

“Why?”

“Because it’s…time for breakfast?” It was a reasonable enough assumption, Ford thought.

“That’s boring.” His niece announced, then turned her attention back to her brightly-colored cereal while Stanley shoved a bruised knuckle between his teeth to stifle his laughter. Ford supposed his eggs would pale in comparison to such…dietary excitement. As she stirred the bowl, he noticed the milk had turned blue. That couldn’t be good. Maybe Lucky-O’s had been a bad idea. As he watched, Stella twisted her body around to face her father. He lifted a tired eyebrow.

“Yes?” Moses, did the man look tired. He has every right to be. The young girl raised her spoon towards his face, discolored milk and soggy marshmallows sloshing as her unsteady hand wavered. Stanley simply reached up and steadied the small arm, leaning the rest of the way to clear the spoon. “Thank you, sweetie. Now, you finish the rest.”

“’Kay.” She held out another spoonful to the drawn, haggard man. He was a far cry from the baby-faced, brash boy he’d been when they were teens. If Stanford hadn’t seen him twice before, in increasing states of dishevelment, he wasn’t sure he’d have known the man on sight. He wondered if their Ma would recognize her youngest son the way he was now.

Stanford had other things to worry about, namely getting Stanley’s caught eggs into a skillet. He bit back a snort. The concept was still bizarre. Leave it to Stanley to get free thing by making the largest, messiest scene imaginable while simultaneously making it seem casual. It was a skill he’d never understand.

This time, he’d make sure not to burn the eggs.

≈

The eggs were surprisingly unburt, as was the toast he’d made on a whim, though both were slightly oversalted, curiously enough. Stanley seemed a bit surprised when Ford slid a plate in front of him, he noted with dismay. He placed himself across from the man and his child, his eyebrows rising at the sticky mess steadily spreading across his table. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. Something didn’t feel right about continuing their earlier discussion with a child present. He settled his gaze down to his eggs, sparing the occasional glance up at his niece as she played with the remnants of her soggy cereal. He watched Stanley, uncomfortable and tentative, as he spun his fork through his plate. Ford wished he could say he knew it was due to his less-than-stellar cooking skills. Stan offered a forkful to Stella, who accepted it, then promptly returned to picking up marshmallows with her fingers. Was Stanley nervous about something? Stupid question. There was a laundry list of things potentially troubling the man. Gradually, the eggs disappeared, followed by the toast. Stanford was relieved.

“Geez, you’re sticky.” He heard Stanley mumble as he ducked and weaved to avoid the grimy little hand reaching for his face. Stanford stood and grabbed a paper towel, wordlessly handing it to his brother. His brother made no comment as he licked the towel, dabbing it at the child’s cheeks. Stella reared back with a wail and sent Ford’s heart rate skyrocketing in the process. She sounded hurt. The child weaved and bobbed, trying to avoid the paper towel.

“Stanley—”

“What?” He patted her other cheek with the towel, then took one small hand in his and began to wipe it down as well. Stella scowled all the while, and Ford had to admit the child’s look of outrage was comical.

“N-nothing. She just…seemed very upset.”

“She’s a baby. They do that when you wipe their faces.” He mumbled. “Isn’t that right, little miss?” He pulled the child closer and blew a raspberry against her cheek, earning himself a squeal of laughter for his troubles. “Mmm-hmm. Thought so. Ow!”

Stella had twined her little fingers through Stanley’s hair and tugged, much to his apparent dismay. “Fine. Whatever.” Stanford’s niece wiggled to her knees and rested her head on Stanley’s shoulder, her grip on his disheveled hair still firmly intact. “Awww. You’re still sticky, though.” His hand came up to rub the small little back. Ford caught a glimpse of a grin before Stella shoved a finger in her mouth. “Uh uh uh, nuh uh. My hair’s dirty, sweetie, don’t put that in your mouth.” She did it anyway, Ford noted. Stan closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back in the kitchen chair, his hand still rubbing slow circles along his daughter’s back. It made for a sickeningly sweet moment, and Ford was reluctant to disturb it.

So he watched.

Stanley must’ve been absolutely exhausted to fall asleep sitting up with a child hanging onto him. It didn’t seem like the most comfortable of positions, though Ford was aware he wasn’t one to speak.

Maybe he should have felt grateful that the man seemed to have no problems with falling asleep in front of him. Instead, he just focused on the fact that Stanley was exhausted enough to fall asleep like that.

The man jerked properly upright a few moments later, his eyes frantic as they swept the room. He looked a bit confused as he turned his head and his hair remained in place, halting the movement. “Oh, kiddo, seriously?” he sighed. “Don’t chew on my hair, that’s gross. I don’t want you gettin’ sick.” He scooted the chair back, easing himself into a standing position with Stella in his arms. “That can’t even taste good. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up, little miss.” He gave her back another small pat as he carted her off. “I’ll…come back for that.” He mumbled before disappearing.

Come back for what? Oh. Stella had left cereal syrup across the table. Fair enough. Ford could get it, though. More or less. He carried the last remnants of breakfast to the sink and let them fall in with a plunk. He’d wipe the table later. Probably. It wasn’t important. Stanford made his way back to his lab-turned-living room and sat down with a sigh. He did have projects he could have been finishing, but his mind was very much elsewhere. It was difficult to focus on research while mulling over the fact that his brother had been homeless for twenty-odd years. You knew he was homeless for at least part of his time away from home. This shouldn’t surprise you. Why didn’t he reach out to anyone?

Who did he even have to reach out to? The ones who sent him away? Who did Stanley have beyond him, Ma, and Pa? The two of them were damn near loners growing up. Stan likely didn’t have anyone else, not anyone who wasn’t in the same predicament as him, at least. Is that why he wouldn’t mention Stella’s mother? He wasn’t likely to know the mother anyway; he didn’t understand why Stanley seemed so loath to tell him anything about her. Was it that he was ashamed of her? He scowled slightly at the thought and pulled a stack of work closer. It wouldn’t do to ruminate on things he wouldn’t get answers to. Not without pulling teeth, at least.

Here’s chapter 7, quickly typed and posted. Sorry for any typos and mistakes, I’ll go back through and edit them soon. I just wanted to post before I left (I REALLY should be asleep right now my flight leaves in like three hours whoops) because if I don’t do it now, I won’t be able for a while and that’s not cool. This chapter is actually pretty long (and unfinished)and I ended up splitting it in two, so the second half should come out as chapter 8 hopefully within the next week.

[as-be-low]

Time Has Changed Me, Chapter 6

These clothes you gave me don't fit right The belt is loose and the noose is tight I'm drunk out looking for a fight I'm soft and heavy as the night Nine Pin—Kaia Kater

AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

His brother was an idiot and he’d punch him the moment he laid eyes on him.

Stanford sat in silence, his eyes unfocused as he faced the adjacent wall. He hadn’t moved from his initial perch at the foot of the bed. He was vaguely aware of a niggling little thought in the back of his mind, reminding him that if he didn’t move soon he’d be stiff enough to not be able to move, but he ignored it in favor of sitting, as though any sudden movements would bring the uneasy calm around him crumbling down in a wave of panic.

He couldn’t deal with a child. He couldn’t even babysit a child. He’d done so once, with Shermie’s son, and it had gone so spectacularly awry that Pa of all people had to step in and he was never asked again. His attention crept to the small lump, still dozing with a naïve little smile. She was so small. What did small children even need? Food and clothing were the most obvious answers, yet Ford knew there was more to it than that. Fiddleford had often commented on how expensive young Tate was, and he’d often heard snippets of conversations in which parents lamented the costs of childrearing. He couldn’t understand why anyone would choose that for themselves, yet the choice was made many times over each day. How was Stanley managing, then? It wasn’t difficult to infer the man’s poor financial prospects. He still wasn’t sure what to do about that. Nothing, most likely, if he doesn’t come back. He wouldn’t come back. He left and didn’t return when they were teens, and left again and didn’t return after…after the incident. But whose fault was that?

The third time wouldn’t be the charm. It wouldn’t do to get his hopes up again.

His brother was an idiot and he’d punch him the moment he laid eyes on him. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t take care of a child. He was reluctant to admit he did a poor job of caring for himself. He shifted and leaned over, tucking the blanket in around her where she’d kicked it away. If he did have to keep her, it wouldn’t be long before she’d grow frustrated with him, too. It was only reasonable, he supposed. Stan had grown to eschew him; it only followed that she would, too.

His heart pounded in his ears as he heard the faint rumble of an old engine drawing near. “Stanley.” He wheezed. His brother had lost his damn fool mind. Thank God, he was back! Was he back? That could be a distant truck, or some lost schmuck turning around. It wouldn’t do to get his hopes up.

He was going to kill Stanley. Absolutely murder him. Ford stood and bumbled his way down the stairs, trying to allay the shaking in his muscles and the tremble in his hands. Thank goodness he was back. He was an absolute dipshit, but he came back. Ford yanked the door open the moment he heard his brother’s heavy footfalls hit the porch. “Stanley, you absolute imbecile, what the hell were you—” he swallowed his words. “What happened to you?”

“Why the fuck are you awake, and hello to you, too.” Stanley slurred, leaning heavily against the siding.

“Oh, for—get inside!” Ford hissed. He reached out and grabbed Stanley’s arm, slinging it over his shoulder as he led him into the kitchen once again. “What happened to your face?” Stanford grit out.

Stanley sighed from the chair Ford dropped him into, shuffling with a wince. “Nothin’. S’fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? You’re kidding, right? You just expect me to accept that you’ve gone out at odd hours of the night, springing a child on me—”

“Hey! Stella is my child. Mine. No one’s askin’ you t’ take care of her!”

“Stan, you just up and disappeared without a word and left a child with me. In what way is that not ‘asking me to take care of her?’”

“She was asleep! You didn’t wake her up, did you? Did she wake up?”

“No, she’s still asleep, but that isn’t the point.”

“Oh, it isn’t, huh?” Stan curled his lower lip over his teeth, his broad jaw jutting forward. The split skin of his lip reopened in the process, Ford noted.

“No. The point is, that she’s a small child you left alone. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I’m doing the best I can, damnit!” Stanley finally snapped. His battered shoulders slumped. “Look. I didn’t come here to fight with you. Again.”

That little aside stung.

“Just tell me what it is you want, ‘n we’ll both get out of your hair ‘n you won’t have to worry so much.”

“Ford paused in his ire, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t follow.”

Stanley cocked his head just enough to be able to fix Stanford with a sharp eye. Ford fought back a grimace at that. Stanley’s nose was bloody—most likely broken, from the looks of it—and his eye was swollen half-shut and beginning to discolor. Stanford turned towards the freezer, pulling out a few ice cubes to place into a bag. The routine was painfully familiar and brought back both fond and uncomfortable memories of their youth, now mixed with the keen awareness of lapsed time.

“You wanted me up here for a reason. Just tell me what it is you want me to do, and I’ll have us both on our way.”

Stanford blanched, sucking in a breath and letting it whistle through his teeth. He backed away from the fridge until his thigh hit the counter and reached behind himself to grasp it in a white-knuckled grip. He felt winded. If Stanley hadn’t been seated well out of reach, he would’ve sworn up and down that the man had socked him in the chest. He thinks…Oh, fuck. Any words he might’ve had promptly died between his teeth and the startled, pained look that painted his face would have to suffice until he could collect himself.

But Stanley wouldn’t look at him. He kept his chin tucked down and his eyes firmly on the table. Anywhere but Stanford. He seemed put-out by Ford’s silence.

“That bad, huh? Do you not wanna tell me what it is ‘cause I ‘sprung a child on you?’” He spat Ford’s own words back at him. Stanford winced. “Geez. Well, whatever it is, I’ll try t’ do it. I’m not dumb enough to fight you on it twice.”

Stanford ached. “You thought… I…” Ford didn’t know where to begin. “I just wanted to see you.” His voice was surprisingly faint. It was enough to unnerve himself. Stanley directed his incredulous snort at the table.

“Right. Sure. The only person nuts enough to want to see me would be Ma, and that doesn’t count.”

Ford held his tongue. This wouldn’t go anywhere good.

“Stanley,” he began, almost hesitant to continue, “are you okay? I need to know that you’re all right. What—how did this even happen?” He flapped a hand in the direction of his brother’s face. His brother rolled his eyes. “Stanley, whatever it was, I just want to understand.”

Stan sighed again, deep in the back of his throat so that it came out more as an exasperated growl. He flinched back as the ice pack was placed roughly against his swollen eye.

“Sorry.”

“Eh.” He grunted. “It’s nothin’ serious—” Ford snorted. Stanley fixed him with another sharp gaze before continuing. “Don’t worry about it. Really. Just a bad punch.”

Ford gaped. “You got into a bar fight? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“What? Psh. Yeah, Ford, absolutely. Got into a bar fight. Had the time ‘a my life.” Stanley drawled. Ford stood over the battered man with rising frustration. “You shoulda seen the other guy. Looks like a puzzle now.” He continued.

Ford pushed away from his brother and slipped out of the room. “Don’t move.” He stalked off towards the bathroom and let out a shaky whimper of a breath before staring into the mirror. What in the hell? He knew he should be feeling relieved that Stanley had returned, but instead he only felt agitation and a keen sense of loss he couldn’t explain. He shook his head at his reflection and pried the mirror open to reveal the medicine cabinet and its contents. Aspirin. Arnica. Peroxide. “Damnit.” Jars and bottles clattered out of the small cabinet and landed in the sink. With a huff, he began to shove the bottles back in, pausing as his hand wrapped around a small, stoppered vial. He rolled it in his palm, studying the clear, almost iridescent liquid inside. He’d forgotten all about this. It’d been pushed back behind various items, never used since he decanted it. Ford held his lip between his teeth.

The truth teeth. He’d forgotten all about them. A while back he’d realized, after a series of mistakes, that the water the teeth soaked in gained their same properties, though diluted. Of course he wanted to use it. He wouldn’t, though. Even he could acknowledge the sheer underhandedness of such an action. As underhanded as slinking off unannounced and leaving a child unattended? She’d cried that very morning when she hadn’t seen him immediately upon waking. He shuddered to think of what would have happened if she’d woken to find him gone while Ford had still been away in the lab. His anger flared again. No, the two weren’t on the same level, but Stanley certainly owed him some non-dodged answers. It was wrong, he knew, but it was worth it. It didn’t remove the little lump of guilt already beginning to form in the pit of his stomach, though. Don’t get guilty. Get angry. Get vindicated.

“Oh, good, you’re still here.” He couldn’t resist the urge to snip as he slipped back into the kitchen. Stanley let out a grumble that sounded suspiciously akin to “fuck yourself,” though Ford chose to ignore it. He snatched a glass down from the cabinet and filled it with water, using his turned back as an opportunity to tip a splash of the clear liquid into the water. He pocketed the vial, then slammed the glass down in front of Stan and unscrewed the aspirin bottle, shaking out a few tablets onto the expanse of table between them. Stanley grunted out a noise Ford decided to take as gratitude. He reached up to nudge Stan’s hand away from his face, inspecting the damage.

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s not that serious.”

“Please, just…take it. It’s senseless not to.” Ford pressed. The stranger in his kitchen rolled his eyes and popped the tablets into his mouth, reaching for the glass of water. He downed roughly half of it, setting the glass back down with a grimace.

“You just split your lip back open.”

Stan shrugged. “It happens.”

“Not often, I’d hope.”

“Eh, less frequently than it used to. Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“How could that possibly not matter?” Ford snapped, leaning back to perch in the chair beside his obstinate brother. “…Sorry.” He sighed. “I just… don’t understand how you can be so blasé about things like this.”

“Yeah, well, what choice do I have?”

Ford blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not like I went to school, or even finished high school. C’mon Ford, I’ve been to prison multiple times. Who in their right mind would hire me? What else can I get paid to do but punch and be punched?” he tapped a finger to his temple. “Use that big brain ‘a yours.” A deprecating half-grin split his lip further. “Punchin’ and gettin’ punched is one of the only things I’m good at.”

“Stanley, that’s not true.” It couldn’t be. When we were young, he’d always been good at… at… Shit.

“Says you. I got a long string of ex-bosses who’d say otherwise.” Ford was stricken. “It doesn’t really matter, though. I hated doin’ a lot of that shit, anyway.”

Damnit. Ford turned his attention to the bruise cream on the table and uncapped it, squeezing a dollop onto his finger. “Here. Lean in.” Stan obliged, keeping his eyes focused somewhere above Stanford’s head. Silence reigned as Stanford focused his energy on patting the cream into the delicate skin, wincing apologetically as Stan jerked back. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath in. “So, you… You were prizefighting?” Ford struggled to keep his voice steady as he asked. Stanley shrugged.

“I jus’ call it boxin’.”

“Ah.” Ford bit his lip. “Whoever you fought must’ve outclassed you.” They’d done a number on his brother’s face.

“Nah.” No? “Took a fall.”

Ford reared back, his brows visiting his hairline. “You did what? You, Stanley Pines, lost a fight? On purpose?”

Stan shrugged. “Gotta pick ‘n choose your battles—isn’t that how the sayin’ goes?—‘n there was good money in it.”

“But fixed fights, Stan?”

“Like I said. Good money.” He shifted, fishing in his pocket for a lump he palmed flat onto the table. Ford scanned a small wad of cash. It looked to be roughly two hundred dollars. “Here. Gotta pay you back some kinda way.” Stan grunted, his eyes averted.

Unease welled in the bottom of Ford’s chest. “What’s this for?”

“I gotta pay you back.” Stanley repeated, annoyance heavy in his tone.

“For what? Stan, you don’t owe me.”

“I ain’t gonna be in nobody’s debt, okay? Not anymore.” Ford wasn’t sure the tail end of that had been meant for him to hear. The two fell into a brief, harsh silence.

“I’m telling you, Stan, you don’t owe me anything.”

“You ‘n I both know I owe you a lot of things, but I can’t provide.”

“Like what?” Stanford drawled.

“I ruined your future, ‘n I owe you the money you coulda made from me not breakin’ your project. I owe you—”

“You can’t be serious.” Fords eyes darted around the room as his heart raced. Shit, that was blunt. He didn’t remember the serum being that potent when he tested it on himself. Then again, he tested it on himself in complete isolation, with no one to attempt to lie to but himself. He hadn’t been prepared for that particular, worn-out conversation to come to the forefront again.

“I based a decade of my life on tryin’ to find a way to earn back the money I took away from you ‘n the rest of the family so that I could maybe come back home ‘n be worth somethin’, even if it was just a little bit of somethin’. I don’t know how to get any more serious than that.” Stanley took a breath, and continued. “I owe you a brother who’s—”

“Stop it.”

“I owe you a brother who’s not so dumb enough t’ think that dumb childhood ideas would be a good thing t’ base the rest of our lives on—”

“Stop it!”

“No, Ford, I won’t. You’ve been asking me all these stupid questions since the moment I got here, ‘n now that I wanna talk about it for some reason, you don’t get to make me shut up. You get to listen, so either pipe down or ask the kinda questions you want answered.” He took a breath. “I owe you all the time I made you waste on that stupid boat,” Ford began to cough. “and I owe you ‘bout five years of your life back, too, or prob’ly more, if we’re addin’ in other times I wasted.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Did he have a concussion? Was he hit in the head one too many times? Concussions shouldn’t be mixed with other substances. He’d have to—

“I’m sayin’ I don’t think you shoulda wasted your time bringin’ me back. I mean, what’s the point? I don’t do anything. Not really servin’ a purpose—”

“You stop right there.”

“I’m just sayin’. You’re smart, Ford. Always have been. You’re one of those guys who’s gonna change the world someday with that big brain of yours. I’m not like that. Can’t really do anything useful for anybody, ‘cept takin’ a punch here or there, ‘n any old schmuck can do that.

“Don’t say things like that, Stanley. Please.”

“It’s the truth, Ford. Me not sayin’ it ain’t gonna change any of that.”

He really believes this, Ford realized with dismay. The self-deprecating jokes he used to spin as a child hadn’t been jokes to Stanley. I used to laugh at those jokes. Ford swallowed his sandpaper tongue as Stanley continued. “You coulda been usin’ that time for somethin’ better.”

“Listen to me. You’re not stupid.”

“I am, ‘n I got the unfinished bad grades t’ prove it.”

“That doesn’t count. You just didn’t apply yourself. If you’d tried more—”

“I tried at first. What, you think I wanted to be bad at everything?” Stanley gave a little snort, oddly mirthful given the circumstances. “I wanted to make Ma ‘n Pa proud of me, like they were proud of you. Well, Ma, mostly. You know how happy she used to get seein’ your report cards ‘n stuff. I did try. Didn’t change much, so I stopped puttin’ in all the work. Why try hard ‘n make bad grades when you can stop tryin’ ‘n get the same results? Better to look like you don’t care ‘n get bad grades than to try hard, get bad grades anyway, ‘n then look extra dumb.”

Ford tasted bile. “A stupid person wouldn’t be able to charm a room like you can, Stanley. You’ve got a way with people.”

“A dog can do the same thing in three seconds by tryin’ to lick his own asshole. Dogs got a way with people, too, ‘n we’re about the same levels of dumb. It’s not exactly a talent. Anyway, it doesn’t even matter, ‘cause I tried to use it in my favor, but none of it helped me get enough to pay you back even a fraction of what I owe you.”

Ford slammed a fist on the table, causing the glass and bottles to rattle. “Damnit, Stanley, you don’t owe me a damn thing! I’m the one who owes you!” A lump settled in Stanford’s throat and he struggled to swallow. Stan eyed him with alarm. Ford hated it. His brother was the one who was roughed up; he shouldn’t be looking at him in concern. Stanley pushed the glass towards Ford as Ford tried to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He accepted the welcome distraction, cupping it to his lips. “How can you say that?” he croaked. “After… After everything I put you through, said to you… How can you possibly believe that you owe me anything?”

His brother held him with a sharp, impassive gaze. “I’m just sayin’, is all. Just…tell me what you want me to do. There’s gotta be somethin’ that’s eatin’ ya.”

“What if I said I wanted you to stay?” he whispered, watching Stanley’s Adam’s apple bob as he pointedly avoided looking at his person.

“For how long?” his voice was gruff.

“I…don’t know? For as long as you’d like.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

Ford winced. Damn, that smarts. “For as long as you need, then.”

Stan remained impassive. “You’ll get sick of me soon enough.”

Sick of him? Ford was sick now. “Oh, damnit, Stanley.” He wheezed under his disappointed sigh.

≈

Stanley didn’t get it. He was tired. He was sore. He was fed up with all these nosy, stupid-ass questions Ford had no business asking, but apparently that didn’t matter; he was blurting out the answers to shit about things Ford had no business knowing. Stan’s mistakes were his own, and he didn’t need any fair-haired boy looking down on him for them. What he did for money was nobody’s concern but his own. He’d done a lot worse than fighting in fixed matches. A hell of a lot worse. He couldn’t stand the pitying looks the man kept slinging his way. He didn’t need that shit.

His eyes traced the grain lines of the wooden table. Fuck everything. Here he was, spilling half his guts out, and for what reason? Just because Ford asked? He shouldn’t have been giving him the same sway he’d had over him as a child. He had fucked up and lost favor with the man a long time ago, and he wasn’t gonna get it back. He’d accepted that years ago.

Granted, he was well aware that the man was too damn persistent. He’d keep asking anyway, until he got an answer. It’s how he’d always been. That knowledge didn’t make any happier to share, though. Me and my big dumb mouth. His mouth was well-acquainted with his foot, just like it was no stranger to finding ways to get him into tight spots.

He was too tired for this. Stanley needed to sleep, and to let his filter build back up. But no, the man in front of him just kept on asking questions. It was all the same, probably. Ford would get his answers anyway, he might as well answer him now and get the pain over with up front. Just like pulling teeth.

“What?”

Had he said that out lout? Whoops. He gave Ford a small shrug, the faintest of acknowledgements, hoping Ford would take his disinterest at face value and not press. He knew it was unlikely. Stan had to get away before he blabbed anything else. “I’m gonna go check on my kid.” He slurred, moving to stand. Stanford’s appalled face gave him pause. “What?”

“You’re going to…go up there like that?”

Stanley scowled, though it probably reinforced whatever point Ford thought he had. “What, am I s’posed to be hiding from my kid until my face heals up?” Ford was ridiculous. “She’s seen worse.” He grimaced. Damnit. Why did he say that?

“Stanley… Have you gone prizefighting with a baby in tow?”

“Don’t sound so horrified. I only took her with me when she was too little to sleep through the night ‘n I didn’t have anywhere to leave her, ‘n that’s too little for her to remember.” He turned towards the stairs. Maybe he could get away before he could spill any more embarrassing information.

A broad hand reached out and took hold of his arm. He automatically tensed before willing himself to relax. He was safe here. Relatively so. There was no need to have to fight here, it was alright— He felt the hand retreat, and willed himself to look up at the offending hand’s owner. He tried to keep his scowl in check. “What?”

“Nothing! I mean…” the man trailed off, leaving Stanley with residual secondhand discomfort. “I didn’t finish fixing you up.” He mumbled.

Stanley stood, fighting the urge to lean away as he weighed his options. “Fine.” He huffed. Stella would cry if something was up and she needed anything.

The fool in front of him just had to keep talking. “You’d likely scare her, with the blood and bruises and whatnot.”

“Seriously?” It looked like Stanley wasn’t the only one with a case of why-can’t-you-just-shut-the-fuck-up that night. “I’m doing the best I can, Ford.” He mumbled. He couldn’t help but wince, couldn’t help but keep opening his big fat mouth, and—

“Stanley, I am so sorry—”

“It’s alright.” It might not have been. He wasn’t sure. He just did not want to hear it, whatever it was. He was too tired for this.

“It isn’t, really. It’s not alright.” The man let out a nervous laugh. Perfect. Here we go. “I mean, ultimately, isn’t this all my fault?”

“Oh, geez, Ford. Don’t start, please. I’m really not in the mood for any of this.”

“If you can make me listen to your uncomfortable opinions, you can also listen to mine.”

“Ford, don’t get punched.”

“Stan, look at your face. I think you’ve done enough punching for one night. Or several, actually.”

Stan snorted. “I can still pencil you in.”

“Ultimately, that’s fine, I suppose. There would be no need for this conversation at all if I hadn’t—”

“Oh, hell. Here we go.”

“If I hadn’t pushed you through in the first place, you wouldn’t have had to—”

“It’s not important anymore. Let it go.”

“Let it go? Stanley, I could have killed you. I ruined your life! I can see it in your face! You know it’s true!”

“I ruined my own life. You said it yourself.”

“I didn’t—” Ford looked surprised—confused, even—as he coughed and stumbled over his tongue. Stanley chuckled.

“I did. You coulda left me there ‘n gone on with your life. Really. S’not like I was doin’ anything. You shoulda just left me ‘n focused on all your work, or whatever you wanted to do. You coulda gotten big ‘n famous ‘n successful like you wanted, ‘n you wouldn’t’a had to worry about me showing up to fuck things up for you again. Criminal record like mine, nobody woulda gone lookin’ for me. Ain’t like I used my real name in a long time, either. Stan Pines has basically been dead for goin’ on twenty years.”

“Stanley…”

“I’m serious. I dunno what all you did in that time, but it’s worth repeatin’. That’s five years wasted.”

“Five? Stanley, you were—it took me two years, just shy of three, to reconstruct the portal in a non-detrimental manner.”

Stanley’s hackles rose. You sayin’ I can’t tell time? I know how long I was over there! I stole a watch a few months in that didn’t get all fucked up by dimensional time differences ‘n shit.”

Ford’s eyes seemed to dance between horror and intrigue. “You—there…I mean, really?”

Stan shrugged. He knew what question was lingering, lying in wait under Ford’s words and he ignored it. “Man needs a watch.”

“That’s… Fair, I suppose.” Stanford rocked back on his heels. “A time discrepancy. We have a three-year time discrepancy. Unbelievable.”

“Yeah, well. Ain’t nothin’ to do for it now.” Stan rumbled. “Ain’t important, neither. Time is made up.”

“On that, we can agree, it appears. Time is a construct.”

Stanley rolled his eyes again, letting his head fall back. If he was lucky, maybe his eyes would get stuck like that like Ma used to say, and he wouldn’t have to put in any effort to ever show how annoyed he was by this man ever again.

“Whatever. Anyways, at least you didn’t waste as much time as I thought.”

“Fixing my colossal mistake was not a waste of time, Stanley.”

“You said so yourself.”

“What? When? I never said—”

“Doesn’t matter now. Good night.” With that, Stanley turned his body away and made a break for the hallway. The faster Ford was out of his line of sight, the better, most likely.

“Stanley?”

Stanley closed his eyes, letting a groan seep from his nostrils. “What now?”

He heard Ford take in a deep breath. “How long have you been living out of your car, Stan?”

Oh, fuck.

The air around Stanley seemed to thicken and grow muggy. “…Why are you asking me this?” Stanley clamped his bruised lip between his teeth. He’d be damned if he let anything slip out. He flinched, trying to hide the movement with an odd fidget. Don’t turn around. Don’t look at him. Just don’t. How did he even know? He’d been careful. He’d tucked all his stuff away and out of sight. He had tried so hard to keep that just to himself, but apparently he couldn’t have anything, not even his secrets or the last remnants of his pride.

“Stanley, please.” The man behind him pressed. Stanley could hear his voice cracking, wavering, as if it affected him. As if he even cares. He bit down harder on his lip, drawing blood from the already mangled skin. His sore gums ached from the pressure he put on his fragile teeth. He shook his head. His lips parted with a small gasp of air, almost despite himself.

“Why does it matter?”

“You can’t expect me to believe you consider that a non-issue.” Really? Stan held his tongue hostage between his teeth, but the little bastard slipped out to betray him.

“Since I got kicked out.” He could practically hear the man behind him deflate, as if it were somehow his problem to deal with. Stanley couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Stanley—”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“It absolutely is!”

“Yeah? For who? Not you, damnit! Not. You!” He shook his head adamantly as he composed himself, his knuckles white as he gripped the banister. He wasn’t gonna yell. He wasn’t. He might wake his daughter, and she deserved a good night’s sleep without anything interrupting it. “It isn’t a big deal. I’m fine. We’re—we—we…” he coughed. He couldn’t force the words out of his mouth. It almost felt like he was simultaneously gagging and choking as he tried.

He heard Stanford huff and take a step forward. Stan took one of his own, spinning around to face him while remaining comfortably out of reach. “Oh, don’t start pretending to care now.” He snapped, eyes wet with indignation. “Would you have cared at all if I hadn’t gone through your little death machine?” He snorted, uninterested in watching the way the man crumpled under his gaze. “You sure as hell didn’t before.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, so if I never showed up, you wouldn’t have written me off as some sort of deadbeat dumbass? Or if I had taken that damn book like you wanted and just walked right back outta here, immediately after spending every last bit of money I had on the gas to get here instead of food, and gone somewhere ‘far, far away from you and never came back,’ you wouldn’t’a just went on, all happy with your perfect little plan? If I took that book to my grave, you know you wouldn’t’a even come to my funeral. So don’t—don’t fuckin’…try to pretend otherwise.” He tried to hide the hoarseness creeping into his voice with a string of dry coughs. With one last sour glance at Stanford, he turned again and placed a heavy hand on the stair railing. “That’s it. We’re done with this. No more of this stupid…heart-to-heart bullshit. Good night.”

Stan eased his way up the stairs, ignoring the ache in his body and chest with each step away from the source of his anger. Ford’d had one damn job. All he had to do was stay down in his evil scientist dungeon, or wherever it was he went, and stay there. He didn’t get it. The man had wanted absolutely nothing to do with him since he was seventeen, up until he needed an errand boy and Stanley had managed to fuck that up to hell and back, followed by years of more radio silence, and now, out of the blue, he had become so clingy. He was in his face almost nonstop. Damnit, he needed time to breathe. Alone. His three-year-old could give him space when he needed it, without being asked, and she spent all her time trapped in tight quarters with him. After twenty years of separation, there was no way he could handle the man's overwhelming, constant presence.

It’s because of that damn accident. He sighed. It wasn’t like he had been doing much of anything with his life at the time. Or now. Probably my fault, anyway. He’d accepted that a while back. Stanley had made a hell of a lot of mistakes; he knew he had no right to hold anything accidental against anyone. If anything, it might’ve made them even. Stan fucks up Ford’s life long-term, Ford fucks up Stan’s life for a shorter and pretty damn traumatic period of time, then they both cut their losses and call it even. There was no reason for Ford to try so hard to be so…buddy-buddy with him now. It just wasn’t in the cards for them. He’d accepted that, and Ford would have to do the same.

His child was still sound asleep, thankfully, even after he kicked off his shoes with a series of loud thunks. He plopped down on the edge of the bed with a pained sigh, then slowly scooted the child over and out of the center of the bed where she’d made her little nest. She let out a murmur of protest, quieting while Stan let out a soft chuckle. Kids. At least somebody’s getting a good night’s sleep tonight. He wasn’t likely to, of that he was certain, having been robbed of the post-fight exhaustion that would’ve been more than welcome, and replaced with adrenaline that still cycled its way through him. He hunkered down for the night anyway, settling on watching Stella snooze in the quiet, dim room.

“Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

Ford would figure out what he wanted soon enough, and when he did, they could both go back to minding their own business from a safe distance of at least three hundred miles away.

Me: OH YEAH I CAN'T WAIT TO WRITE OUT THEM ACTUALLY TALKING THINGS OUT FINALLY. Also me, fiddling with sunglasses: I can't read suddenly. I don't know.