Dimension 192
Gotham, NJ
April 19, 1996

He was being followed. Even if he hadn't spent the last five years living in the crime capital of the United States, he still would have been able to tell that he was being tailed. Honestly, it was almost like the man wasn't trying. He kept enough distance and Ford hasn't been able to get an unimpeded view of the other man, but he was horrible at hiding his presence all the same. For starters, his clothes were of lesser quality than those of everyone else in this part of the city and it made him stick out like a sore thumb. (Or an extra finger, for that matter.)

Ford holds back an annoyed sigh. So, what was it to be this time? Was he about to be 'ambushed' by a would-be mugger, kidnapper, or columnist for some rag of a newspaper?

The man shifts the bag of his purchases into a more secure hold in his left arm and takes comfort in the weight of his concealed handgun. And there's always the experimental stun grenades stashed in his coat pocket that Fiddleford had passed him earlier. (Their first field test was technically supposed to be much later in the day; but he might feel better making sure they worked as intended, himself, rather than leaving the risk to Carla in what would likely be a far more dangerous situation.)

Ford ducks into a few likely seeming alleys on his way back to his car but the tactic fails to either lose his tail or draw about the inevitable confrontation. It isn't until he's in the middle of the parking garage, storing the bag of hardware in his car's trunk, that the other man chooses to finally 'reveal' himself.

"Hey, Sixer," the man calls from behind him and Ford freezes.

He knows that voice. Even with the distorting echo that is characteristic of closed-in, concrete structures and the intervening years, it would be impossible for Stanford not to recognize his own twin's voice.

Ford looks back over his shoulder and stares dumbfounded at the other man. He's fairly certain that his jaw is gaping. He nearly catches his own fingers as he closes the trunk and leans against the car for support. "Stanley?"

"Heh, yeah, uh..." Stan rubs the back of his neck nervously, "Long time, no see?"

"It's only been six years," Ford says. If he were less shocked, he would have delivered the words in a desert-dry, sarcastic tone. As it is, they only ring hollow and dead as they bounce off the hard concrete surrounding them.

Stanley winces. He opens his mouth to say... something, but nothing comes out before his brother decides against it.

"What are you doing here?" Ford can't help asking.

"I, um, I know you wanted space, from me," Stan says, awkward and fumbling, "and I figured Gotham is probably big enough for both of us if that's still true, but it -" He scowls at the ground and hunches his shoulders as he crosses his arms. "Like I said: it's been a long time. I miss my twin."

Ford bites the inside of his cheek as he considers how to respond to the confession. "That's it? That's the whole reason you're here?" he asks.

Stanley turns the scowl on him. "Look, Gotham seemed as good a place to start over as any." And Ford will admit, if only to himself, that he's curious about that though Stan doesn't elaborate on why he needs to 'start over,' as he puts it. "I'm not leaving the city even if you still don't want anything to do with me, but I'm not here ride your coattails or do something that's gonna screw you over again. I learned my lesson the hard way. I just want to reconnect. That's all."

Stan's glare would seem defiant to a stranger and Ford is sure it's meant to appear that way, but he knows his twin. Stan is afraid. That's the same look he used to stare down bullies with when they'd been growing up. It's disorienting and a bit nauseating to realize it's being directed at him, now.

Ford sighs and readjusts his glasses absently. "Have you eaten? It's about time for lunch."

"No," Stan answers, cautious hope creeping onto his face, "You really mean it?"

Technically speaking, he hasn't offered anything yet, but... Yes, he means it. He's not sure that trying to reconnect with Stan will end well but he's willing to try. It occurs to him that he's missed his twin, too, and more than he wants to acknowledge.

"Get in the car, Stan," Ford says as he unlocks the vehicle, "I know a place not too far from here."

The restaurant he takes Stan to isn't quite as high-class as the establishments he's gotten used to since moving to Gotham but that's for the better. This way, the only stares should be the normal ones (related to twins and polydactyls) and not the more troublesome kind (out-of-place, easy targets). Plus, if an argument breaks out between them, and there is a greater than zero percent chance of just that happening, he won't have to avoid any of his prefered dining options.

"So, how have you been?" Stan asks, his tone awkward and almost hesitant.

"Ma hasn't relayed everything already?" Ford counters only to immediately regret it, "Fine. Good. I've been good." He pauses a moment and then, manner every bit as awkward as his brother, Ford simply asks, "And you?"

"I, uh, better now," Stan says, staring at the drink in his hand.

"Better than... ?" Ford trails off meaningfully.

His twin scowls and snipes back, "Ma hasn't relayed everything?"

Ford winces. He'd deserved that one. "She probably tried to," he admits, "I haven't been very good at listening."

Stan sighs. "Yeah, okay, I get that. We left things pretty crummy between us." The man scratches the back of his neck. "I don't think I ever said it, but you know I'm sorry for bustin' your project, right? I didn't mean to ruin your big chance at that fancy school."

Ford's hands tighten around his own glass. "You really think that's what bothered me the most?" he demands. The man takes a gulp of his drink - water, he still needs to drive home, but he suddenly wishes it was something else entirely - and then very deliberately lowers it back to the table at a velocity that won't cause it to shatter upon impact. "I got over that. It didn't happen quickly, but I forgave you for being selfish, and scared, and stupid. And don't try to tell me that wasn't exactly what you were when you sabotaged my shot at getting into WCT. You were a teenager who was upset and did something dumb as a result. I'm still not happy about it - I never will be. - but I'm over it.

"What I have a hard time getting over was that you ran away. And then you came back. And then you did it again. And again. And again." Ford notices the waitress hesitate on her way to their table before turning around to service a different set of diners. Smart woman. "I got tired of not knowing if you were still going to be there in the morning. I got tired of never knowing when you would be coming back, or if you were going to come back at all. I got tired of not knowing where you were, if you had everything you needed, if you were still in one piece. Or if you were dead in some back alley and I'd just never know what happened to you.

"That's what I have a hard time forgiving."

"O-oh," Stanley breathes when it's clear that Ford has no intention of saying anything more. The man bites his lip before waving a waitress over. "We'll both have the -" he glances quickly at the menu, "- tuna melt. Tuna melts, good for you, Fordy?"

Stanford nods without looking up, fingers tracing aimless patterns along the sides of his glass and disturbing the condensation gathered there.

"Two tuna melts," the waitress confirms, "And for the sides?"

"Just bring us whatever, doll face," Stan says. He waits until the woman leaves before he continues. "Shit, Ford, I didn't know," he mutters, "I thought you didn't want me around."

Stanford gives a bitter laugh. "By the end, I didn't." He tries to suppress the instant guilt when he catches Stanley's flinch in his periphery view. He stares resolutely out the window. He doesn't want to have to see Stan's face as he says, "It was easier to have you gone and pretend I didn't care if you ever came back than it was to have you home and spend every second waiting for you to decide to leave again."

"It -" Stan clears his throat, "It wasn't exactly easy to be home, after, ya know? You were angry with me. Pops was always watching me like a hawk, just waiting for me to screw up again. And Ma was so stressed out trying to keep us all from starting another screaming match. None of that was good for the younger twins, either. I figured if I could just stay gone instead of giving in to the temptation to go home with my tail between my legs, it would be better for everyone. I'm still surprised that Pops always let me back through the door."

Ford frowns and glances at his twin. "Of course he did. He worried whenever you left. We all did."

Stanley snorts. "Yeah, right. Pull the other one."

"I've never understood why you're so bad at reading him," he says, studying the other man, "not when you're both so similar."

The other man stiffens. "Can we shelve this for later?" he asks, "Or maybe never?"

Pushing will only result in that fight Ford is hoping to avoid and whatever issues Stan and their father have with each other is between them. "Fine," Ford decides after a moment of stretching silence, "Will you at least say goodbye before you take off again?"

"I'll call before you have a chance to start worrying too much," Stanley hedges, "Like I do for Ma."

That's not a 'yes' but it's better than he's had in the past. Ford sighs, "Better than nothing."

The waitress returns with their food and a refill for their drinks.

"Thank you," Ford murmurs as a plate is placed in front of him. Stan doesn't offer any similar sentiments and in fact seems rather impatient for the woman to leave again. He tries not to let Stanley's ingrateful behavior annoy him too greatly. He fails.

"How about we talk about something less depressing?" Stan says before stuffing a handful of fries in his mouth and hastily swallowing them, "Hey, you ever seen the Bat of Gotham?"

"A few times, yes," Ford answers. Nearly every night for the past three years, actually.

"Really?" Stan asks, "You're serious? I figure the Bat was an urban legend! Wait, this isn't like the time you swear you saw the Jersey Devil, is it?"

"I'm telling you, I saw it!" Stanford insists. (And if Stanley had been paying attention that long ago day instead of goofing off, he would have seen the state's most famous cryptid, too.) "But no, I've seen the Bat in much better visibility conditions and I assure you, the Bat is real. And there are plenty more Gothamites that can attest to that fact, especially in the poorer neighborhoods. I even have it on good authority that the GCPD has a folder on her vigilante activities this thick." Ford holds his thumb and index finger wide to approximate the size of the folder in question.

Stan raises his eyebrows and lowers his sandwich. "'Her?' The Bat is a woman?" the other man asks before a grin spreads across his face, "How good a look did you get, Sixer? Is she hot?"

Ford levels an unimpressed look at his twin. "Yes, and way out of your league," he deadpans, "fangs or no." The first part is true. The second part is borrowed from those ridiculous vampire rumors that seem as undying as their subject material.

"Alright, alright. Yeesh," Stanley grumbles, "You coulda just said you didn't get that good a look."

Ford rolls his eyes and eats his sandwich.

Stan manages to go a full minute-and-a-half of nothing but quiet munching before trying another conversation starter. "Hey," he says between bites, "Ma mentioned you work for McCorkle, now. Said ya work directly for her, even!"

"That's... accurate," Ford allows warily, "Why are we talking about my job, though?"

"Well, I just," the other man fumbles with his words, "It's impressive is all. McCorkle only hires the best that high up and the pay must be good. I'm, I'm glad you're doing well. That I didn't, didn't 'ruin your entire future' or anything."

Ford frown grows progressively as Stan rambles, first in confusion and then in irritation. "It's hardly the sort of job I'd have gotten if I'd gone to WCT," he points out, "and my securing a job after you broke my project hardly excuses your actions."

"C'mon, Ford! I'm trying here!" Stan snaps, "You can't tell me that working for McCorkle isn't a good job!"

"I never said it wasn't. But that doesn't change -" Ford shakes his head and forces himself to reevaluate what he's saying, "Look, I told you I'm more or less over it. You're the one who brought it up again. Let it be."

Stanley scowls and looks away. "Yeah," he agrees with poor grace, "Okay."

They finish the rest of their meal in silence.

"I've got the bill covered," Stanford reminds his brother when the other begins to reluctantly reach for the slip of paper in the center of the table.

Stan's face tightens and he glares at Ford. "I can pay my own part of it," he insists, "I don't want to be a -"

Ford snatches up the bill during Stan's distraction. "I'm the one who invited you to lunch and picked the restaurant," he dismisses, "It's mine to pay."

"Next time," Stan insists as he catches Ford's arm, "I get the bill next time."

Ford nods slowly. He's rarely seen his twin look so serious about something. "Alright, lunch is on you next time."

Stan relaxes and then offers a small smile, "Next time." He releases his arm. "Uh, when would be a good time for that, anyway?"

He shrugs, "I have weekends off, usually. I'll give you my number before I drop you off and we can arrange something later." Ford stands and gestures with the bill in hand, "I'm going to pay this at the counter." Stan doesn't make any objections and Ford is soon standing in front of a cash register and across from the waitress that has been serving him and his brother.

"I hope you enjoyed your meal," she says as she runs the card he'd handed her.

"Yes, I'm sorry about my brother's behavior," he says.

"It's no problem, sir," she replies, flashing him a smile, "We're here to serve."

"Hm," he hums a mild acknowledgement as he accepts his credit card back and offers her a business card in return, "If you're interested in picking up some extra work, I'm always looking for competent waitstaff. It isn't regular, and it's often short notice, but it pays well."

"McCorkle..." she murmurs as she looks over the card, "I wondered if you might be him." She glances pointedly at his hands but doesn't say anything more. It isn't as if anything more needs to be said, after all.

"Yes, I'm 'him,'" he states, unsure if he should be more amused or annoyed by the notoriety he's unintentionally gained inside of Gotham. Either way, he's long since given up on hiding his hands after he's sure the other person already knows who he is. "Give me a call once you decide."

"You got it! Thanks!"

Stanley is waiting for him just outside the door with a lit cigarette and a wide grin. Ford's nose wrinkles at the smell.

"Did you seriously just give that girl your card?" Stan teases, "That is so much smoother than you used to be in high school! I'm so proud of you, Sixer! I think I might actually be tearing up a little." He throws an arm around Ford and jostles his shoulder.

Ford waves a hand in front of his own face. "Are you sure the tears aren't from the smoke?" he questions, "I don't suppose you have any plans to quit?"

"Nah, but enough about my bad habits!" Stan insists, though he does flick the fag away in the direction of a sewer grate, "When did you become such a ladies man?"

"'Ladies ma-'" Ford blinks, "Is that what you think that was?"

"Well, yeah," Stan says in clear puzzlement, "What else would it have been?"

"Work, Stan. I was offering her a job, not a date." He peels away from his twin to unlock his car.

"Wait, her?" Stanley asks as he climbs into the passenger seat, "Why?"

"Because she did her job well," he answers, "With all the people constantly moving in and out of Gotham for one reason or another, it's surprisingly difficult to keep enough waitstaff on call for last minute galas or..." Stanley is staring at him oddly. "What?"

"What does any of that have to do with you?" Stan asks, completely bewildered.

Ford hesitates. "Stan," he starts, "what did Ma tell you I do for a living?"

"Said you work directly for McCorkle," he answers promptly, "That means you head up one of their tech departments or something, right?"

"That's all she said?" Ford shakes his head in disbelief and starts the car, "I don't work for McCorkle Enterprises and I certainly don't lead any of the company's R and D departments." He's visited a few times, made a suggestion or two for which he'd been well compensated, and he may or may not be responsible for getting Fiddleford's foot in the door for employment inside said department. But he's never actually held a job there.

"But -"

"I work for Carla, personally, at McCorkle Manor," he says, "I'm the butler, Stan."

Stanley stares at him slack-jawed for a moment, and then, "Oh my god, Ford! I'm sorry! I really did ruin your -"

Ford snorts in amusement. He can't help it. "Don't be sorry," he cuts in, "It's a surprisingly cushy job that I am being grossly overpaid to do and the benefits of which are absolutely ridiculous, besides. There's even a clause in my contract specifically about covering the costs for up to five courses at GCU per semester. I'm currently working on my third doctorate, in chemistry this time."

"Let me get this straight," Stan says slowly, "You found a job, one you apparently like, and you're still going to school."

"Yes."

"Ford, Buddy, I am never going to understand why you would want to do that."

"Because I enjoy learning?" Stanford offers, "Honestly, I think I'd be happy to remain a part of academia, in some form or other, for the rest of my life. I might even try taking on a teaching position at some point."

He smiles at the thought of one day becoming a Gotham City University professor. It's a pleasing idea, but one for later. Right now he's more than content to remain in his current job and continue attending GCU as a student. That's just as well, really. Even the self-sorted collection of intellectually-minded individuals typically found on college campuses have trouble taking professors seriously in the classroom if they appear to be too young, and he's only twenty-three - nearly twenty-four - after all. There will be plenty of time for this particular dream in the future.

"Pretty sure most people go to college so they can get a good job," Stanley huffs in exasperation, "Not get a good job so they can go to college."

Ford shrugs and says, "I'm not most people."

This is the ONLY CHAPTER of the TEASER!

If you want to read more, you can find the rest of the story on Archive of Our Own:archiveofourown dot org slash works slash 14890349

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