Safety Alarm AU- Part 2
AU Original Post, Ford POV prequel
Welcome everyone to the second (technically third but who’s counting) installment of the Safety Alarm AU! Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you enjoy!
Peace and Love Y’all <3 <3 <3
Stan’s side aches.
It’s that telltale throb of a cracked or bruised rib, and his stomach feels a little bit like it’s squished out of place, and Stan’s absolutely certain, without having to bend over to look, that his entire front, sides and back are so bruised that he’s a different color entirely.
But he’s sure as hell not going to tell Ford that.
Ford is a worrier. Always has been, apparently always will be. As a kid if Stan fell off the Stan O War or tripped on the sidewalk, Ford would be helping him limp back home, spewing unhelpful running commentary about the dangers of infection or tetanus.
Besides, Stan can breathe, he can move around, and most importantly he can breathe. Breathing is the most important part. Very important, which is why he’s doing it now, completely, totally un laboured, breathing through the pain as Ford drones on about something.
Right. Explanations. Stan should be paying attention.
“We’re in Oregon,” Ford is saying, once Stan zones back in. He’s hoping he didn’t miss anything important. “The west coast. You know where that is right?”
Ah. Stan had almost forgotten his brother is an asshole.
“Yes.” He grits out, bristling. “What I don’t understand is how I got here.”
The last thing Stan remembers is the trunk. Or, more accurately, being beaten until unconsciousness on the ground in front of the trunk, and then his arms being yanked up and roughly tied together. His vision went black after his ankles were tied, and when someone pulled him up so hard that his arms damn near popped out of their sockets. Everything after that is a dark, hot blur, and then he woke up in his brother’s house.
And now Ford is, badly, dodging his questions. And Stan is too tired, too dehydrated, and too sore to actually strangle his brother, as much as he wants to.
“Ah, well,” Ford says. He’s doing that thing where his face is all exaggerated, eyes big and not making eye contact, and really, seven years and he still hasn’t learned how to tell a lie? This is painful to watch. “You came in your car.”
“Oh that clears things up, thanks, here I thought I teleported.”
Ford's face does a sort of spasm. It looks a little like someone just stuck his brother with a pin. He doesn't make eye contact.
“Ford.” Stan says very seriously. “How did I get to Oregon.”
Ford stares off into the space above Stan's shoulder for another moment, a long handful of seconds. He's deciding something, really thinking through every possible option, and it is taking way too long for Stan's tastes.
“Stanford.”
“I used an inter-warping matter transference pathway that I created through the fabric of space.” Ford says in a rush. “In essence, I teleported you.”
Ford finally makes eye contact again.
“With magic.”
Stan narrows his eyes.
“You teleported me?” He echoes carefully. “From New Mexico, to inside your house?”
“Technically I teleported you and your car.” Ford says, “and the drop point was in my driveway.”
Stan looks very, very carefully.
The thing with hallucinatory drugs is that it's sort of obvious to tell when someone is on them. Their eyes are usually dilated, and they're all sweaty and jittery, and most telling of all they can act only a little off, but occasionally say absolutely batshit insane things out of the blue.
Ford's pupils are about the normal size, and they aren't red or droopy or anything.
Ford looks perfectly normal.
Stan's been around addicts before, friends and enemies alike. Ford's house is still relatively clean, obviously there's food in the fridge and he's coherent enough for conversation, which means he's doing leagues better than Stan was during his dabbling years.
Still, Stan never expected Ford to be the one casually doing cocaine or whatever it is he's got squirreled away in this house of his.
Stan's been staring for a little too long. Ford is starting to look a little concerned.
The thing about getting people clean is that people will often deny they have a problem at all, and pointing it out or outright attacking them for it is sure to create an even bigger split, and more distrust. Stan has to play it cool.
“Where’s your bathroom?” He asks.
Ford looks genuinely bewildered. He blinks hard, like he was just in his own mind as much as Stan was in his.
“Why?”
“Because I'm thinking about becoming a plumber. Why do you think?” Stan snaps. “And you said I could take a shower, I could use one.”
For a second Stan thinks the obvious subject change isn't gonna work. He needs time to think, time to make a plan and sit down for crying out loud, time to decide how the hell he's going to navigate this entire situation with a brother he hasn't seen in seven years.
Fortunately, Ford takes the bait, hook, line, and sinker. He wrinkles his nose delicately.
“You do.” He mutters. Stan tries not to take offense.
He turns towards the kitchen door. “So it's–actually,” Ford stops, contemplative. “No, it'll move before you get there, follow me.”
Like any of that makes sense.
Trepid, Stan goes.
Ford leads him down a hallway, turns a corner and then down another hallway, then goes through the second door on the right. They walk for seemingly a long time. Ford looks annoyed already, even though Stan is keeping pace and not even leaning on any of the walls.
Finally they turn one last corner, and Ford makes a sound of relief.
“Here it is.” He says, and then, strangely, he knocks on the door before he opens it, like he expects someone to be in there.
As far as Stan has seen, there's no one else in the house, and Ford has made no inclination that there is.
“Towels are in there, I'll bring you clothes in a minute.” Ford continues, and as Stan passes through the door he clears his throat.
There's a moment where it looks like he's going to say something else, but he stops, and his mouth clicks closed.
“Call when you're done.” Ford says. “I don't want you getting lost.”
The door shuts before Stan can be offended.
Whatever. Ford doesn't want him to snoop around and mess with his things. Big surprise there.
Stan takes a shower in record time, and finds the softest, fluffiest towel the world has to offer hanging in the bathroom for him. Even the bathmat in here is luxurious, but it barely registers in Stan's mind.
His side aches.
There are bruises that arc up his side, long bars of a single color that decorate his ribs like strokes from a paintbrush.
Baseball bat. Maybe a crowbar, and certainly the imprint of someone's boot.
Stan sighs. Now is not the time.
He opens the bathroom door, and there are clothes waiting for him. He snatches them in without really looking. He can survive whatever it is, as long as he doesn't have to wear jeans for the time being.
Thankfully, what Ford's picked out is soft.
It's a dark grey t-shirt and some loose sweatpants. Both items fit, thankfully, and they are more comfortable than anything Stan's worn in a long time.
He peeks out of the bathroom carefully. He's half convinced Ford will just be waiting for him, directly outside like a psychopath, but he isn't. The house is quiet.
Don't want you getting lost, please.
As if Stan won't take this opportunity to snoop.
He goes down the hallway, the opposite direction he came.
Stan is barefoot, so his footsteps barely make any noise thankfully. He's gotten much better at sneaking around as an adult, but that's just because now he's very, very careful.
Stan turns the corner, deeper into the maze of Ford's house, and stops.
At the very end of the hallway, is a window.
Climbing into the window and into the house, is a creature.
It's got four little wiggling limbs, and some kind of red horn or spike sticking straight up from it's head. And it's climbing in through Ford's window.
Stan goes very still. It hasn't noticed him yet.
It's too busy getting its little feet down from the edge of the windowsill, and even from the other end of the hall Stan can hear the little grunting noises of effort its making. The creature is not very big, probably only a foot, maybe two feet tall, but it's in Ford's house.
It drops to the floor in front of the window, and suddenly there's another one. This time it's facing him, though both of the things haven't noticed him yet.
It's got a face. And a beard. And the red pointy thing on it's head that Stan thought was a spike or a horn is a hat, and the one standing by the window is upright, walking like a person and they're talking to each other and-
Oh my god. Stan thinks to himself. It's gnomes.
He watches in mute horror and fascination as the two, three, four gnomes crawl in through the window, calm as can be, and there's more following them. They're talking, or chattering to each other, and Stan can make out a rope of some kind they're using to pull even more up and how many are there?
There's a crowd of them now, all pulling on the ropes and whispering to each other and the pool of them gets bigger as more and more pour in from the window.
Stan takes a single step back.
Traitorously, the floorboard under his new heel placement creaks. Loudly.
All tiny heads snap around to him.
Nothing in the hall breathes.
Fuck.
Stan's hands travel up, a placating gesture as he leans back. “Look, I'm sorry,” he starts, but he doesn't get to finish.
The last gnome, still standing on the windowsill, points at him with a tiny hand.
“Intruder!!” It shouts, and its voice is squeaky and authoritative. “Get him!” and it lunges forward.
The small tide of gnomes advance like a wave.
For one singular moment, Stan is stuck still, transfixed, as a over a dozen tiny men with red caps and long beards approach him at speed.
Then he sees their teeth.
Stan turns on his heel, and runs.
Stan is pretty good at running. He's a big guy, but running is one of those things you learn as a kid and just get better and better at, and when you're someone who has to run for your life pretty regularly, you get better fast.
Stan's never had to run from gnomes before though.
He takes the first corner at too much speed, and crashes, shoulder first, into the opposite wall as he corrects himself and keeps going. Everything still hurts, but there's that nice level of sheer panic that covers up everything in a lovely coat of run run run don't get eaten by gnomes as he moves.
He had ten feet of a lead when he started. Now he has five. Then three, and soon Stan can feel tiny clawing fingers and teeth at the backs of his heels, nipping like an angry cattle dog.
And the noises.
Stan takes the next corner much faster, having learned his lesson and leaning into the turn before it starts. The gnomes behind him, thankfully, have not, so Stan is graced with the sound of most of the gnomes hitting the opposite wall as they miss the turn. Its a blessed thing.
There's the bathroom.
For one split second, Stan considers diving into it and shutting the door behind him, to get away from the horde of tiny men and gnashing teeth. Still, the gnomes are right behind him, and he won't have any time.
He gets an idea.
Stan reaches out just as he passes the door, grabs the door handle for a moment and opens it, outwards, so it blocks most of the hallway behind him.
An obstacle.
Predictably, the gnomes slam into the door right behind him. Stan can hear them impact, the Thud! Thud Thud Thud like a four car pile up of little terrifying bodies in the hallway as Stan sprints away.
He takes the last corner, and almost slams into an obstacle himself, this one the shape of his twin brother.
Ford. Its Ford.
“Stanley!” Ford says, startled and immediately annoyed. “What are you doing? What's-”
“No time!” Stan pants. He's out of breath, his lungs and ribs ache, but they need to go, they need to leave or get weapons or something. “There's-”
He doesn't get to finish his sentence.
The gnomes descend upon him.
The first one lands on Stan's shoulder, growling and hissing and clawing before it lands, and Stan screams. The second attaches to the back of his knee, and this time there's pain, it's biting him, and Stan stumbles, tries not to fall but there's more, an unstoppable tide and he crumbles under the weight of it.
The gnomes attack like a pack of hungry wolves. Distantly, Stan can hear Ford yell, and he hopes this sacrifice will be enough to spare his brother, or at least buy him some time so Ford can get away.
More gnomes pile on, even as Stan flails with everything he has left, kicking and punching and screaming too, but there's so many of them, and they're biting.
One particularly mean one-Stan thinks it might be the one who originally gave the order to attack- goes straight for Stan's face.
His nose may be a big target, but Stan actually likes his nose, dammit, and he prefers having it attached, thank you very much.
He blocks the flying gnome with his forearm, and the gnome bites down on that instead.
Stan howls with pain as the things teeth dig in, and it's worse than a dog bite, it's like little razors, and its growling and spitting and jerking around worse than any police dog.
“Enough!” Someone shouts, and suddenly there's a loud clang.
The gnomes all go still.
Because it's so close, Stan can actually see the gnome on his arm go cross-eyed, as it's jaw detaches and it falls over, stiff like a tree, and thumps down over Stan's side like a rock.
Ford is standing above them all, a frying pan held aloft like a sword in the hand of a knight, and eyes that are harder than steel.
“Get off of him!” He demands, and his voice echoes around the kitchen.
Stan is still lying on his back, like a fox being mauled by hunting dogs, and when he tries to shift, one of the gnomes pulling at his hair digs its claw further in, and he winces.
At the bottom of the pile, one of the gnomes, this one with a brown beard, unclamps its jaw from Stan's leg. Ow.
“We found an intruder!” The gnome shouts, and it points to Stan. “Sneaking around your house!”
Immediately, Stan lets out an offended sound.
“You were breaking in!” He shouts back. He wants to punch the creature, but one of his arms is throbbing too hard from the gnome bite to really move, and the other is being held down by three gnomes at once. Instead, Stan aims a kick at it, but the thing clings onto his leg like a cowboy at a rodeo.
“I didn't even do anything! You attacked me!”
“He's not an intruder,” Ford finally speaks up. About time, considering Stan even being here was not his decision.
“He's my brother. He's actually welcome in my home! You, however,” and Ford raises the frying pan again, “Are not! How did you get in?!”
The gnomes all look at each other. The one on Ford's leg squints its eyes at Stan, then at Ford, and back at Stan.
“He's your brother?” it says disbelievingly.
Stan and Ford both nod.
The gnome actually scoffs. “He looks nothing like you!”
Stan bares his teeth at the little fucker, and kicks his leg out again to dislodge him. This time his bare foot actually connects with its strange, pillow body, and the gnome flies backwards about three feet, and skids across the tiled floor, then stills. It makes a very small noise of pain.
The rest of the gnomes seem to take this as a declaration of war, and all start biting and attacking again. Stan screams hoarsely as one takes the kicked gnomes place and clamps down on his ankle.
“Stop it!” Ford yells, and he swings at the gnome going for Stan's face-what is it with the face?- and then at the one on Stan's chest. That gnome dodges, and the frying pan instead connects directly with Stan's sternum with a meaty thunk.
The wheeze that is punched out of Stan contains all of the air in his body, and probably some of his soul.
“Oh, sorry,” Ford mutters, apologetic. He looks up, and then groans. “Oh for the love of-”
One of the gnomes wises up in terms of who is successfully fighting back, and Stan is helpless, winded and pinned by little balls of biting terror, as one particularly feisty gnome launches itself at Ford's jugular.
Ford sees this one coming.
He raises a hand up, the one without the frying pan, and snaps in the air.
It's a loud, resounding snap, the kind that lingers in the space for a moment, and something very strange happens.
The gnome stops in midair.
Stan sees it. Hell, he's watching it. It doesn't slow, it doesn't get stuck on some high wire or bounce off something, it just stops in midair, frozen in space.
The rest of the gnomes stop also, watching.
Ford grins.
He raises one finger, straight up, and twirls it in a tiny circle. The gnome, suspended in air, spins very slowly, until it's no longer facing Ford. Stan can see its face now, its tiny mouth open to bite but its eyes are wide, utterly surprised.
Ford moves his hand, like a conductor for a grand opera, and the gnome follows it, going further. Ford is making this happen, like a spell, like magic.
The window of the kitchen opens without a hand to it. The latch simply pops up, and the glass swings open.
The gnome, still frozen in its attacking pose, gently drifts out the now open window, hovering in the air outside for a moment before Ford drops his hand, drops the spell, and the gnome drops too, out of view with a yelp.
The kitchen is silent.
“Well?” Ford says, and he sounds smug and a little proud of the shocked faces in his kitchen. “Go on! Get gone!”
The rest of the gnomes scatter.
Like cockroaches, they all skitter across the floor, many on all fours, off of Stan and away, up the wall like little nightmares, and then out the kitchen window, all in a moment.
Stan lays there, on the floor of his brother's kitchen, thoroughly bitten, and wonders if this is what shellshock feels like.
“Well!” Ford says, like an old lady coming in from outside when it's windy, and less like a man who just floated a mythical creature across his kitchen. “I'll admit, that was unexpected.”
“What was that?” Stan deadpan, unmoving from the floor. The tile feels nice on his back, and it's cool, and Stan's pretty sure he'd be dizzy if he got up.
Ford steps over until he can look down at Stan, his head upside down.
“A simple disarming spell. It lifts small objects, although I wasn't entirely sure it'd work on something alive.”
“No,” Stan says, and he's so tired and so, so bitten. “What was that? Ford, why are there tiny men in your house?”
“Ah yes, the gnomes.” Ford says. So they were gnomes. “Technically they are my neighbors, and they are fond of breaking and entering, particularly to mess with my things. Although,” Ford says consideringly.
“I'm not sure how they got in this time. The attic is blocked off.”
“The window.” Stan mutters helpfully. “In the hallway, I saw them coming in.”
Ford clicks his tongue. “I thought I warded that.”
“You did,” a voice speaks up from somewhere in the kitchen. Stan and Ford both turn, and the brown-bearded gnome from before has just started to pick itself up. Evidently, its fellow countrymen ditched it when everyone else fled.
“But your wards are weak, magic man.”
“Out!” Ford scolds, and he raises the frying pan again. “Don't make me tell you again Jeff, I'll call your mother!”
The gnome- Jeff, apparently-actually hisses at Ford, but it scampers away, stepping on Stan's fingers as it runs past. It hops into the windowsill and turns like it's going to say something dramatic, probably an, I'll be back for revenge! Type speech, but Ford waves his hand sharply and the window closes, booting the thing outside with a tumbling screech.
There is a beat of silence.
Magic. His brother is doing actual, honest to god, magic.
Or they're both suffering from some kind of twin based psychosis, but Stan's already been to a mental institution, and he really hopes it's the first one.
That or Ford did drug that turkey sandwich, and this is all one big hallucination.
“Did you drug me?” Stan asks from the floor.
“What?” Ford says and looks at him again. The question seems to register in his mind a second later. “No, I didn't drug you. Neither of us are on drugs.”
“That's exactly what someone on drugs would say.”
“Stanley-” Ford cuts himself off with a breath. He sounds exasperated.
To be fair, Stan is staring up at him spread eagle on his kitchen floor, but Ford should have thought of that before he started living somewhere with gnomes.
Also Stan's pretty sure that moving right now isn't in the cards for him. Not only is he already beat up from that gang that shoved him in a trunk, but he's been mauled by gnomes and then his brother hit him with a frying pan. Stan is very tired, and very sore.
Also, he's pretty sure he's bleeding in multiple places.
It takes him a second to notice the offered hand in his face.
“C'mon,” Ford says, and he wiggles his fingers like bait on a hook. One two three four five six. “Let's get those bites looked at. My research implies that gnomes are poisonous, not venomous, but we should still clean the bites out.”
“Ford.” Stan says as he reaches for the hand. He wouldn't normally take the assistance, but it's Ford, and he just remembered Ford saying something about him ‘being welcome’ in his house, and they just fought off a demon horde of gnomes. He'll take the help.
“Ford, you did magic.”
Ford grunts as he lifts him up.
“I did,” he says in a measured tone. He looks for something in Stan's eyes. Fear, maybe, or disgust, but Stan had seventeen years of not being freaked out by something ‘weird’ so he's prepared. When Ford doesn't find whatever he's looking for, he relaxes.
“I've been studying it. Magic. And learning some of it.”
“Cool.” Stan says genuinely. Then, because he's a man of simple needs, he says, “Can you teach me, too?”
The look that Ford sends him is undeniably, irrefutably fond.
“Maybe.” He says, and he leads Stan to sit down at the table.
.
.
.
