A/N: A drabble of sorts. Takes place in Weirdmageddon.
Waiting
Stanford held the blood in his mouth. It was thick, pungent, tasting of copper and bile. He resisted the urge to spit, to gag, to choke on his own tongue. He waited. Time had no meaning. Time was dead and Ford could not have told Bill himself how much time had passed. He wandered if Bill even knew. His mind drifted in and out of hysteria, the skin of his wrists bubbling, the skin of his neck pulled tight.
He wondered if it was black. He waited. He waited.
He waited.
A second ticked by, clicked into place by the meaningless hands of time and Ford felt a piece of his mind click with it, tear off from his thoughts and crumble onto the flood beneath him, ground into nothing, gathering with the other remnants of his fallen psyche.
He fought the urge to laugh, let the insanity of theirty wasted years wash over him, let it curl into a ball on his chest and weight him down. The manacles cut into his wrists. Ford thought of Stanley.
He thought of the children.
He hardened his resolved. His skin prickled, ached, tore at the seams. He thought about his family. He waited.
When Bill returned, confidence all but dripping from him, Ford spat blood right into his eye.
And when the volts of electricity tore through his body, Ford screamed.
And screamed.