Chapter Text
“Aaaand… That should do it.”
Ford slipped the final lock into place, and slumped back into his seat. The dark of the basement blanketed over him, easing him into a sense of security. The air was cool, even inside, several stories under the ground. A clock on his desk ticked away the seconds, the only sound in the basement for several moments.
His eyes were heavy, stinging with fatigue and weighing his entire face down. He dragged a calloused hand over his face, feeling the scratch of stubble on his palm. His eyes closed for a dangerous second, and he pinched his cheek to stay awake.
The chair was uncomfortable under him, but he focused on the ache in his legs and hips for a few seconds before standing up. His hand securely gripped his newest device-- a machine that would be able to locate and, ideally, retrieve any object of his desire. He was hoping to find some sort of ward or block to keep Bill out of his mind. Anxiety itched under his skin at the thought of his ex-Muse. He’d been unable to locate a surgeon willing to install a metal plate into his skull, so he’d had to make do with his own inventions. Sure, he’d had to use some of Bill’s teachings to work out the math, including various themes from that damnable portal. He was hoping that it wouldn't come back to bite him.
Sucking in a deep breath, he looked down at the retriever. His mind was racing, and thus probably wouldn’t yield good results yet. His chest ached to test it out already, to see if it worked against all the odds. It truly was a far-fetched invention, like something out of the old sci-fi comics Stanley used to read.
The old memory sent a jolt of… something through his brain, his shoulders stiffening and hands tingling. He was too tired for this, but the memories kept coming unbidden. Memories of late nights reading under a flashlight, of giggling and theorizing about impossible gadgets, of brotherly camaraderie and imagining daring adventures.
For only a moment, Ford let himself feel the desire to have that back. For only a moment, he imagined the joy of youth again and found himself wanting the comfort of his brother back.
The metal casing of the retriever made a dull clunk against the wood of his desk as he set it down, less gentle than he should have been. There was a distant click, though he paid it no mind. All stimuli were dulled for him right now, as exhausted as he was.
The retriever would have to wait until his mind was clearer, and he could remain focused on what he wanted out of it. He can test it tomorrow. For now, despite desperately not wanting to, he needed to sleep. It’d been three days, and he was suffering greatly for it.
Ford’s feet dragged him towards the elevator, his hands moving with muscle memory to push buttons. With his back turned, he did not see the faint green light start to emanate from his desk. He did pause, however, when an uneven rhythm of clattering and clanking broke past the fog of his mind. He listened for a beat, trying to place the source of the sound, when there was a crack of electricity.
“Oh, sweet Moses,” he swore, spinning on his heel to watch as the retriever shot energy beams across the room. The streaks of energy were unstable, turning from green into a bright white-blue. In the back of his mind, Ford was reminded of the energy released from the portal.
One of the beams made a beeline to the ceiling, and then everything was over. The retriever was no longer sending off energy, and soon the only source of light was from his desk lamp and the open elevator door. The darkness settled back over the lab, and the retriever made a final soft clunk against the desk. Ford was still reeling from the sudden silence before he heard a shout and a dull thud above him.
Someone or something was in his cabin.
--
Seagulls were singing their ugly, abrasive songs high above their heads. Stanford shielded his eyes against the hot summer sun above him, watching as Stanley hurled miscellaneous stones and seashells at the birds. The birds were used to Stanley’s antics by now, and could easily avoid the projectiles.
“Shermie said you shouldn’t do that,” Stanford reminded him. He dropped his hand back down, lowering his face away from the sun.
“Yeah, but I don’t hit ‘em anyway,” was Stanley’s response. He shrugged anyway, dropping the golfball-sized rock into the sand at his feet.
The two boys continued on their stroll through the beach. The sand was too hot for them to go barefoot, sucking up the heat from the sun all day. The air was hot and humid enough for Stanley to have ditched his tank top about five minutes earlier, and Stanford could already see the red of a sunburn on his shoulders. He could even feel his own nose and ears start to turn red under the heat.
Today was going to be a good day.
The beach stretched out in front of them, and they could see the Stan-o-War about a quarter mile ahead of them. As they approached, Stanley turned and pushed his fist against Stanford’s shoulder.
“Betcha I’ll beat ya there!” he laughed, already starting to sprint towards the boat.
“Hey!” Stanford called, feet picking up as he started to follow. “No fair!”
The crashing waves intermingled with the sound of their laughter and the wind in their ears. Stanley raced several paces ahead of him, constantly looking back with witty remarks about Stanford’s speed (or lack of it). He almost tripped, once, on a long-forgotten piece of driftwood. He stumbled in the sand, allowing Stanford to catch up to him.
Now neck and neck, the two boys neared their beloved boat. It was a dingy, waterlogged thing with rotting wood and graffiti all over it. But it was loved, and carried the potential to be something great in their eyes. The paint labeling it as the Stan-o-War was stark against the wood grain, proudly declaring its identity to the world.
Stanley’s hand slapped the hull of it first, and he loudly deemed himself the winner of their impromptu race. Stanford nearly crashed into the boat at speed, bowing over onto himself to catch his breath. His brother panted next to him, though he was already climbing to the top of the boat to claim his title.
“We may be the kings of New Jersey together,” he proclaimed, “but I’m the king of all foot races!”
It was true that Stanford hardly ever won their races, but he puffed out his cheeks in denial anyway.
“Only because you’re the one who starts them! You always get a heads up!” he complained.
Setting a foot onto the side of the boat, Stanford went to haul himself to where Stanley stood. There was a sudden sound, however, and he paused midway. It sounded like their television had last year when a power surge caused it to zap out.
Stanford looked up, past Stanley, to a spot in the middle of the sky. Stanley was looking up at it too, taking a step back away from the swirling cloud. He couldn’t tell if it was close and smaller, or far away and much bigger. It hardly mattered, though, as it was soon surrounded with bolts of electricity. Stanford yelped at the first crack of energy, dropping away from the boat and onto the sand.
The whatever-it-was lit up, almost becoming as bright as the sun against the blue sky. It formed into a circle of swirling energy, with streaks of lightning energy snapping off it every second. A bolt landed dangerously close to Stanley.
“What the heck is going on?” Stanley cried, jumping around on the boat to avoid any of the energy bolts.
For a second, he turned to look at Stanford. His brother was the smartest person he knew-- surely he’d have an idea of what was going on. It was only for a moment. Their eyes met, scared and confused about the sudden phenomena, before a new energy streak hit Stanley square in the back.
Stanford threw himself up at the boat, fully expecting Stanley to scream in pain. They’d heard stories of people getting struck by lightning, and none of them were pleasant. The pain didn’t come. The energy instead acted as a lasso, winding around Stanley’s small chest.
“Sixer?!” Stanley was definitely panicking, watching the white-blue curl around him with a weird, tingly heat.
His feet felt two things at the same time. The first one sent a thrill of fear up his spine-- he was being lifted. The soles of his shoes left the wood of the boat, scrabbling to maintain his balance. The second instilled a sense of hope-- Stanford’s hands latched around his ankle, holding onto him tightly.
Stanley had hoped the weight of his brother would touch his feet back down to something solid, but no dice. Instead, both boys were being lifted into the air, towards the swirling portal in the sky.
The grappled boy quickly tried to pry the ropes of energy off of him to no avail. The energy was tangible somehow, slippery and vibrating underneath his hands. It was hardened to a vice grip around his chest and refused to budge against his insistent pulling. The inevitability of their situation settled like frost over him.
Panicked eyes found his brother’s. It was all happening too fast to call out much of anything, but he was able to get out one request.
“Stanford, don’t let go!”
--
Stanley feels the tingly, hot-but-not-hurting lasso around his chest release, and finds himself falling. He shouts, swinging his arms around to catch onto something as he falls backward. A sudden pain pierces his awareness, pulsing angrily at the back of his head, as his back hits a solid floor and forcibly expels the air from his lungs.
Whimpering and coughing, Stanley rolls onto his side and curls in on himself. He looks down to his feet, and finds nothing but his beat-up old tennis shoes and empty space. He tries to call out his brother’s name, but his voice is nothing but a breathless croak.
Stanley sits up, back aching and head throbbing miserably as he does. He has to squint hard to relieve any of the pain. He feels like throwing up as his stomach twists in anxious knots. The pain subsides enough for him to open his eyes again, looking around the dark room he’s found himself in.
It’s inside, and the windows tell him it’s somehow night now. The walls are dark, and he thinks they might be made out of wood. The area is littered with boxes, cases, and books of all sorts. He doesn’t recognize any of it. He turns his head a bit to see what he had hit when he fell, and nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s across the room in less than a second, chest heaving with the adrenaline rush.
It’s a T-rex skull. A T-rex skull. He knows it’s what he hit, because a bit of blood is smeared across the brow bone of it.
He hears a melodic ding in the next room before frantic footsteps. A large figure is suddenly standing in the doorway, briefly silhouetted against the light from the hallway before he flips a switch. The room is suddenly swathed in fluorescent light, not nearly as bright as the beach had been mere seconds ago. Stanley blinks his eyes a few times anyway, the man in front of him slowly coming into view.
The two stared at each other, neither daring to say a word.
Ford’s blood was loud in his ears. If he had stairs instead of an elevator, the adrenaline would have made him run every flight. Even without the physical exertion, he still found himself breathing heavily as he stared down at the memory in front of him.
His immediate reaction was one of paranoia. He approached the boy and grabbed his chin, far too roughly to be excused, and shined a light in his eyes. The pupils dilated to pinpricks with no sign of Cipher. He was not as relieved as he usually would be.
Stanley, or a younger ghost of him, was in his living room. Or, rather not a ghost-- Ford hadn’t ever met a ghost he could touch like that before, or who breathed as raggedly as the child in front of him. Ghostly apparitions usually looked like death, too, with yellowed skin, sunken faces, and bloodless lips. Stanley was the definition of lively-- red cheeks, sunburnt shoulders, gasping breaths, and wild eyes…
…and a swinging fist.
His small fist connected solidly with Ford’s jaw. Ford spared a brief thought, old enough to be in boxing lessons already, I see. His jaw blossomed with the pain of it, though it packed about half the power as what Fiddleford had used on him several weeks ago.
“W-wait,” he tried, raising his hands in front of him. He wasn’t sure if it was to placate the enraged boy or to defend himself. Regardless of the intent, the flurry of fists kept coming.
“Where is he?!” Stanley demanded, raining down punch after punch on whatever he could reach of Ford.
Ford attempted to back up, spluttering out words that Stanley didn’t hear, and ended up flat on his back. His heart skipped as it recognized the inherent danger in the change of position. His legs kicked out on instinct, attempting to dislodge Stanley as he climbed on top of him.
“What did you do with my brother?” the child continued to shout. Ford felt several bruises sinking into the meat of his forearms. This was not how he wanted his night to go.
“Stanley, wait!”
Startled enough to pause for a moment, Stanley blinked down at the stranger beneath him. His first reaction was anger-- this stranger did know him after all, which means he must have done something to Stanford! He raised his fists to strike again, but stopped.
The sounds of their ragged breathing filled the living room. Ford wasn’t stupid enough to lower his arms from their defensive position yet. He couldn’t bring himself to move much at all, waiting for Stanley to move first.
The boy moved eventually, reaching out towards Ford. Not to hit, but to grab. Ford felt one of his hands get grasped between two smaller, warm hands. There was a tug, almost as if Stanley was trying to remove a glove or prosthetic. Then there was gentle exploration, each of Ford’s fingers being inspected carefully.
Ford exhaled slowly, lowering his free hand to lay on his chest as he caught his breath. He watched as Stanley investigated, unable to read the various emotions crossing his face. His mouth was slack, his breathing shallow as his brain focused on the puzzle in front of him. His nose twitched as it often did when he was deep in thought. His brows were furrowed, shadowing the bright eyes underneath.
Those bright eyes, eyes Ford thought he’d never see again, pinned him to the floor. Ford could see them swimming with a thousand questions. More importantly, however, he saw the recognition in them. He opened his mouth to comment, interrupted by Stanley suddenly jerking the bottom of his sweater up. The cold bite of the air caused his muscles to contract.
“Hey-- What are you--”
He felt a hot hand land just under his ribcage and knew what Stanley was after. There, just under the swell of his ribs, was a dark birthmark. It had traveled a bit as he grew into an adult, but it would remain the same shape. Stanley had often likened it to the shape of Florida.
His sweater was dropped back down, and Stanley found his gaze again. The fear and apprehension melted away from his expression, though traces of confusion remained. The tension in the boy’s shoulders relaxed into something softer, and Ford could see a small shiver begin.
Stanley opened his mouth with a formless sound, aborting the attempt to speak almost immediately. He swallowed, hard, and tried again.
“Sixer?”
--
He’d had a lot of bad months, but this was gearing up to be one of the worst. Stan didn’t know what he was going to do or where he was going to go-- not that he often did, but it was different now. He’d seriously pissed off Rico and as a result, he hasn’t had a moment to catch his breath without fear of one of his goons showing up to steal his last one.
Of course, the fear was a little more distant now than it was earlier that day. Depressants will do that, he thought wearily as he tilted the liquor bottle back. The liquid burned going down, warming him from the chest out against the biting winter air.
The breeze cut through his coat, attempting to cool down his booze-warmed skin, but he couldn’t find it in him to care much. Stan closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the front bumper of his car. The metal was already a bit warmed, having soaked up his body heat from resting against it. He forced himself to focus on that and his other surroundings.
The wind rustled the long grass off to his right. An owl cooed somewhere in the far distance, perched on one of the fence posts along the barren interstate. If he strained, he could probably hear wild dogs or coyotes off in the plains, stalking after the cattle he knew were nearby.
The hard ground caused his ass to ache. His jeans weren’t doing a good job of insulating his poor body against the cold ground, but it was doing great at sucking up any spare moisture the dirt had. He felt a rock poking uncomfortably into his calf. He didn’t bother adjusting his position.
He thought he could see the light reflecting off the moon behind his closed eyelids. That would be the only explanation for the light he saw. His fuzzy brain suddenly supplied a new answer-- a lightning storm. He could hear the crackle of the lightning, after all. Wait… no, that didn’t make sense.
His brow furrowed over his closed eyes as he sluggishly tried to unravel this new mystery. Was he dreaming? Probably, he’s always been a sleepy drunk. Maybe he was dreaming of a thunderstorm rolling in, coming away to drown away his worries. That would be nice.
His heart rate spiked at a sudden shout and a thick thud from in front of him. His eyes shot open, and he found a small body in front of him.
Oh, sweet Moses. I didn’t do that, did I? There’s no way…
Stan’s vision swam as he leaned forward, toward the groaning heap of a boy. He found mild relief in the signs of life. The boy pulled himself to his knees and sat up, rubbing his chin where he must have hit it. It was red and already starting to bruise.
The two looked at each other, one set of eyes confused and afraid, the other set confused and pained. Stan didn’t believe in ghosts, but he didn’t have any other explanation for the sight in front of him. He must have died from alcohol poisoning, he thought, and gone to his own personal hell.
His brother’s small voice rang dully in his ear.
“Wh-where am I?”
Stan’s eyes unfocused, and he welcomed not being able to see Stanford clearly anymore.
“Hell,” he found himself answering.
There was no answer, and Stan hoped the ghost, or hallucination, or whatever, had disappeared. He still saw the fuzzy outline of him in his periphery.
“Is that a town name, or something?” His response was snippy, carrying an attitude that Stanford only had when he knew someone was giving him phony answers. Stan’s lips quirked up in the barest of smiles.
“No,” he said. Despite how tight his chest was, his voice was even, albeit slurred. “We’re not in a town.”
There was movement in front of him. Stanford was probably looking around, adding to the realism of this whole thing.
“Okay… Well, where is the nearest town?”
Stan pointed down the interstate stretching in front of them. He didn’t know which direction it was, but it hardly mattered.
“‘Bout twenty miles that way.”
He heard a small noise-- a whimper, maybe. It startled him enough to look back up at Stanford. He was wearing an expression Stan hadn’t ever seen on him. Closed, tight, and frightened. His shoulders were hunched up to his ears, and Stan could practically hear his thoughts going a million miles an hour. His heart ached.
“Calm down,” he found himself saying. “It’s alright… it’s okay.”
He didn’t move, afraid to reach out and touch the vision of his brother. Or, if he was being honest, he was more afraid to find out it truly was just a vision, something his brain cooked up to torture him.
“‘S gonna be okay,” he continued absentmindedly. His eyes trailed away from the boy again. “You’re just… not real, anyway. You’re gonna be okay, Sixer.”
He didn’t see how the boy’s eyes snapped to him. How his body went taut, freezing in place where he knelt.
“...What did you call me?” came his soft voice.
Stan hummed, more to stimulate his vocal chords than anything. He took another drink from his bottle. The space between his eyes hurt. His stomach twisted in hunger and nausea.
Silence drawled on for a long time before he muttered, “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Why?” The voice sounded as scared as he was.
“You’re…” he started. He didn’t know what this was, not exactly. He didn’t want to know. “...not real. Can’t be.”
The boy didn’t respond right away. Stan thought he might have solved the mystery, that the mirage would fade into the dark night and leave him be. His skin burned underneath his jacket.
“Okay, well… Talk to me like I’m real, anyway.”
Stan had hoped that the alcohol coursing through his blood would dampen the flood of painful memories and emotions. Unfortunately for him, it seemed to prevent him from blocking everything out. Flashes of the worst night of his life crossed his mind’s eye, and his chest seized with grief and shame. He could hear the echoes of his father’s voice.
“I--” he choked on his words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His voice was quiet, strained, and gravely. He leaned forward, stomach and head lurching with the movement, burying his burning face in his hands. He heaved, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the nausea or shame.
The boy in front of him did not move or speak for a long time. Stan braced himself for the typical biting, resentful remarks that usually come with dreams like this. The dream-Stanford was generally older, keeping true to the last time Stan saw him, but he knew that hearing the same script from such a young version of him would hurt twice as much.
The usual words did not come.
“What are you sorry for?” There was hesitance in his tone, and Stan wasn’t sure what to make of it. Perhaps he just wanted to hear Stan list his sins.
“Everything,” he confessed. If this vision was going to demand it of him, he would cut his heart open and spill it all. It’d been churning and toiling inside of him for so long. He was so, so tired. “I’m sorry for everything. I never meant for it to happen, I’m sorry.”
More words spilled from his lips, desperate and grief-stricken. He felt no lighter for the confessions.
“I fucked up, Stanford. I know that I did-- I want to take it back.” He gasped in a shock of cold air. He swallowed down a sob. “I want to take it all back. I’m so sorry.”
Stan’s eyes stung when he opened them again, searching for something to ground him again. He refused to let any tears fall, he could already hear his father berating him for crying. He moved his hands to his hair, gripping tightly and struggling to control his breathing. Various versions of this dream happened to him all the time, you’d think he’d have better composure during them. The wound, as always, remained raw.
Stanford remained standing in front of him. Stan thought he’d heard him ask “Who--”, but when no question followed, he figured he’d misheard him. As much as one can mishear a hallucination, at least. Stan glanced a look up at him again, expecting to see a grimace on his young face.
Stanford looked lost, confused, and cold. His eyes were wide under his scrunched brow, his hands gripping his arms in a feeble attempt to keep warm. Stanley could see his body shivering in the cold, and finally realized what he was wearing. Certainly nothing warm enough for the current weather, nothing but threadbare pants and a handed-down t-shirt.
He couldn’t make amends to the real Stanford, Stan knew that. His instincts still pushed him into motion, pulling his tattered jacket off.
“You-- you look freezing,” he muttered. He’d probably freeze out here, taking off his jacket for a false vision. He shuffled forward anyway, moving to place his jacket around the boy’s shoulders.
He wasn’t expecting his jacket to land on something solid. He paused for a moment, hands on the collar of the jacket as it hung off of the boy. Stanford’s eyes moved from his face to his arm, zeroing in on the birthmark at the crook of his elbow.
“...Stanley?”