HEY HO, BACK TO TORTURE YER SOULS! Here we go: (Blood warning, and minor character death.)

Ford groaned, pushing himself off his bed for the third time that week. It seemed when Fiddleford finally managed to get Ford on a proper sleep schedule, something had to come up and ruin it. One night it had been strange noises echoing from the kitchen, the next a late-night adventure with some nocturnal species in the area, and tonight it was the phone. He had hoped that whoever it was would give up after the first few rings, but it appeared that they were going to ride out the entire thing until someone answered.

That's why Ford was now stomping irritably to the telephone down the hallway, rubbing his sleep-heavy eyes with one hand as he answered the phone with the other.

"Gre-Greetings." Ford yawned loudly, unable to tone it down while his mind was running on auto-pilot, still half-asleep. "This is Stan-Stanford Pines. Who the frell are you and can I go back to sleep now?"

Ford blinked as he heard a soft laugh on the other end of the line, his mind slowly catching up with what was happening. He nearly jumped when someone actually responded. He had been getting a few prank calls lately and assumed it was just another group of insolent teenagers looking for a laugh.

"Uh, hey Ford. Look, I gotta say this fast and then I gotta go, ya hear me? I just wanted ta say I'm sorry and that I-I love ya nerd."

Ford gaped at into the receiver, his mind suddenly shocked awake. "What?" He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes wide, "Stanley!? Is that you?!" Ford asked, barely keeping himself from shouting. Ford began to pace and he abruptly stopped when he heard muffled shouting on the other end. Stanley mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like a string of profanities and Ford repeated himself.

"Stanley? Is that you? What's going on? Dangit Stanley, say somethi-"

"Sorry, bro, I gotta bounce, but that was, I just wanted ta say I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry and I hope-never mind. Bye." The phone went dead and Ford stared at it in bewilderment.

You call out of the blue after eight years and then just hang up!? What the frell, Stanley?! What was all that shouting about? Why were you calling? Nonono, is he alright? Stanley, why-

Oh gosh Stanley, why?

Ford put the phone down slowly, walking back to his bedroom in a daze. He slipped back into bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, but unable to properly comprehend what had just occurred. He eventually fell into a doze, still asking himself.

Why?

In the morning, it all seemed like a drunken dream, and Ford was able to push it to the back of his mind like he did everything else. He told himself over and over that it hadn't really happened and ignored the strange looks Fiddleford gave him whenever he did something out of character, still a little punch-drunk and unsatisfied. At the end of the day, Fiddleford couldn't stop himself. Ford wasn't focusing like he usually was, and it had him worried. Fiddleford confronted him about it during lunch:

"Stanferd, ya been acting weird taday, didja sleep alright? What's goin' on?" Fiddleford asked as he handed Ford his dinner plate from top cabinet. Ford started and looked at him with wide eyes,

"Hmm? Sorry, I was thinking."

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, "Well ye've been 'thinkin' all day, I reckon. Why don't ya share yer thoughts with the class, hm?" Fiddleford smiled cheekily and Ford gave him a weak laugh.

"Ha, very funny. No, it's just...it's nothing." Ford poked at his food with his fork, brow furrowing as he began to return to the recess of his mind. Fiddleford snapped his fingers in front of his nose to get him to focus. He had to try and hold back his laughter as Ford looked up again, blinking owlishly at him.

"Nothin' ain't ever really nothin' Stanferd. C'mon, ya can tell me anythin'. I promise I won't judge none."

Ford frowned, pointing his fork at Fiddleford accusingly, "Was that a double negative? I honestly can't trust a word you say." He laughed a bit and smirked, reveling in his small victory. Fiddleford scoffed,

"Now, tha's not fair and ya know it. An' don't think ya can distract me neither. What's goin' on Stanferd, ya got me worryin' like a mother after her new-born child," Fiddleford remarked. It was funny because he was being completely sincere. Ford cocked a brow,

"Um, I'm going to ignore that last bit, because it makes me feel weird, and now that you've successfully weirded me out I suppose I owe you an explanation." Ford huffed and ran a tired hand over his face.

"I," he began, "I had a peculiar dream last night...or, I keep telling myself it was a dream..." Ford trailed off and Fiddleford had to snap again to get back his attention. Ford came back into reality and smiled in apology.

"Yes, well, I just found it disconcerting. You see, in the dream-if, it was a dream- my twin brother called me. He-he told me that he loved me and that he was sorry and then he just, hung up. I'm in shock, that's all. I haven't heard from Stanley in over eight years!" Ford stood up, the chair sliding backward.

"I don't get a peep from him and then he just calls out of the blue! Can you believe it?! And then, I swear I heard shouting on the other end, and Fiddleford! I am freaking out. What if he's hurt?! Why did he call?! It can't have been just to apologize..." Ford leaned against the side of the counter and forced the palms of his hands into his eyes, forcing his glasses up his faces,

"Fiddleford, it sounded like a goodbye." Ford confronted the thought that had been trying to force it's way to the front of his mind for the last few hours.

"It sounded...Fiddleford. I just...I was so angry at him, but now I keep thinking of how tired he sounded, Fiddleford, I've never heard Stanley like that before. It-it scared me." Ford swallowed and turned his eyes back to Fiddleford who was staring at him with a sharp, accusatory gaze. Ford's brow furrowed.

"What?"

"Ya never told me ya had a twin Stanferd."

Oops.

...

Stanley sighed as he hung up the receiver. He had finally done it. He had talked to and told his brother he was sorry. His hands shook and he looked up at the hard gaze of his captor, who sneered at him.

"Are ya done yet, ya little weasel? Last word's an all?" The man chuckled darkly, his voice rough and raspy. Stan nodded.

"Good." The man brought his gun level to Stan's head. "See ya never, Alcatraz." Stan stared right into the barrel, facing death head-on.

Click.

The man cursed when the dud pistol didn't fire and he threw it aside, letting it clatter to the ground. Stan released a tense, relieved sigh. The man gave him a withering glare and left, probably to find some other gun to shoot him with. Most men would just stab him with one of the many implements that were available, scattered around the room. But Rico wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. He wanted to make sure Stan was dead. Stan had a great track record when it came to getting out of deadly situations, like a knife in the chest. Rico wasn't one to do something again once it failed the first time.

Stan took that moment to struggle with his bonds again. Both his thumbs were already broken, but the zip ties wouldn't budge. His hands were losing circulation and he wasn't sure how much longer they could stay that way until there was permanent damage. The chair beneath him creaked as he squirmed, and with a spur of the moment idea, he started writhing even harder. He had given up trying to break the bonds.

Now he was trying to break the chair.

The old wooden legs gave way first and he gave himself a mental high-six in victory as his legs, previously tied to the legs of the chair, were...admittedly still tied to the wooden poles, but now he could move! He stood up and looked around the large torture chamber, wincing as he saw his blood on many of the tools. He knew that later he would probably be incapable of moving, but right now he was working on adrenaline.

Survive first, survive later. Stan thought as he looked for something to free his hands with. There were plenty of sharp objects...there! A saw, that would work. Unfortunately, that's when Rico decided to return, holding a much shinier looking gun. Stan ducked as bullets flew above his head, hitting the wall behind with a clang!

"Where'd ya go, ya little weasel?!" Rico growled, pushing his way through the tables of tools. Stan stayed low, cold eyes turned on his tormentor. He ran the bonds over the saw he had snuck away as he had fallen to the ground and silently celebrated when the bonds came loose. Rico was still calling out for him, walking around slowly, eyes searching over every aisle. Stan grabbed the first thing he saw and held it in his hands as well as he could as the blood returned to them.

It looked like a giant fork, the prongs long and sharp. He held it in his right hand, his left clenched to strike out in a moments notice. Stan tensed as Rico's foot came into view, and he had to hold back until Rico was in front of him, looking forward to someone that was behind him. Stan lashed out in total silence. Rico didn't see it coming as Stan kicked his legs out from beneath him and let Rico fall onto the prongs of the fork thing, piercing his back right on the spine. Rico's face, red and bulging let out a final screeched cursing Stan's name before going slack.

Stan gaped at the limp body in shock, panting from the exertion.

I did it.

I'm alive! I did it! Stan allowed himself a very brief celebration before returning to the task at hand. He was still bleeding from all over and needed medical attention, and something to eat, he was starved. Literally. Stan didn't even think about the phone call as he limped out of the abandoned warehouse, mentally cheering his victory.

I love the phone call au, and this is my take. I don't own this au, just the plot. Hope you like! I've had this in my doc manager for awhile and wanted to get it out there. Hope it doesn't disappoint! ( I'M BACK FROM ARIZONA! IT WAS SO COOL! No seriously, I saw a CACTUS. HECK YEAH!)