A/N: My first Gravity Falls fic, and I have Stangst on my mind. Jesus, Corrie. Tags and warnings include violence and gore in the form of nightmares. This will be multichaptered, and of course, I'm going to live up to my "long chapters" name. Well, enjoy...I promise, it'll get more fluffy.

The scent was unlike anything that had graced his nostrils - sweet, sticky, poisonous, with a sickening edge of musky fear. Fear that coursed through veins like ice, that dripped with deadly intent. The air was silent, like the calm before the storm - nothing moved, and he could barely force his lungs to expand to puff out the short burst of breath he was holding. His hands trembled as he buttoned the cuffs at his raw, angry wrist that oozed with platelets and anti inflammatories, his immune reaction to the too-tight bangles that had cuffed his hands at a dangerous angle behind his back, for how long, he didn't know. His eyes burned with focus, focus!, he told himself as he shook all the swirling doubts from his head.

What if he notices? What if the kids notice? What if they weren't in time? What if the all-seeing eye pried behind their easy costume switch? What if the demon revoked his deal? What if the world was already dismantled, and the barrier was a coy ploy from an ill-conceived insane mind? What if, what if, what if...

The light changed, a looming shadow entering the towering castle, holding two struggling children. The eye glowed red with wicked intent. "Times up, Stanford! And I'm not a fan of playing your game, so how about I kill one of the kids for the heck of it?"

If Bill could grin, he knew he would be seeing yellowed, predatory teeth as the sweet girl was plucked into thin air, suspended by her own chains. He couldn't speak, couldn't cry out as she screamed and pleaded, begged for her life as the demon cocked a clawed finger like a gun and shot blue fire through her chest.

Blood. Blood, and tears, and fluids unlike anything else. And bone. Glistening, white bone chiseled outward like a gnawing mouth that caged an exposed and damaged heart that struggled to continue beating. Small lungs expanded once, twice, shimmering in visceral glory, small bags of air that just couldn't keep up. It was only when that heart fluttered still and tearstained brown eyes failed to implore that he found his voice.

And screamed.

...

He woke with a start, jacknifing upward, a scream bubbling from his chapped and bitten lips, catching in his raw throat as his eyes flew wildly around the room. He was soaked, a sheen of sweat drenching him in what he could only imagine to be a fitful sleep. Calm down, he told himself rationally, willing his erratic breathing to slow as his head swam from hyperventilation. He closed his eyes as he counted to ten, matching his breathing with each second, in and out until the rush of blood had died in his head and his hands started to still, but he couldn't ease the shaking inside, the sick feeling that roiled his empty stomach and sent bile burning to the back of his throat. He couldn't ease his racing heartbeat, or the tension coiling his muscles, ready to strike-and at what?

"Bill's gone," the mumbled breathlessly to himself, letting his head fall into his hands as he wiped away sweat. "It's just a dream."

But, dream as it may be, Ford pushed himself into a stand and quietly made his way up to the attic, rolling his heels to be silent like survival in many leery dimensions had taught him. He popped open the door and could make out the outlines of the two figures tucked into bed; Dipper with a mystery book tucked under his arm, mouth wide open and snoring, and Mabel turned completely around in bed with her feet propped up on the headboard and long curls flowing off the edge like a mahogany waterfall, pet pig snuggled up on her pillow. He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as he slumped into the doorframe, relief easing his tight muscles.

Of course they were okay, of course it was just another bad night terror, the illusions cast by a wounded and tortured mind. He, himself, had tucked the twins into bed, giving the boy so much like himself when he was younger a low-glow nightlight that made for excellent late-night reading that wouldn't keep his sister awake, and read a peculiar princess story to the girl with braces that had fallen asleep with her face pressed to his thigh.

He stayed long enough to watch the steady rise and fall of the twins' chest as they breathed before turning and clamoring back down the stairs. It had only been a few days since the near end-of-the-world, a few fretful days of restorations and cleaning by the townsfolk. And he knew the nightmares were just a part of him, had been, for decades. But how closely they resembled the reality they had all lived through threw him off, distorted what was real and what wasn't. It was confusing, and frustrating, and he didn't know what could be believed.

He found himself in the kitchen, pouring a stiff whiskey over ice, and relished in the painful burn of the alcohol sliding across raw, hoarse vocal cords. The pain meant that this was real, that he had survived, that everything he went through was worth it if those kids were safe. That he believed in, because he had no idea what fear truly was until those twins were in danger. He had been through Hell and back, it seemed, those thirty years dimension jumping through the portal. He had encountered beings that wanted him dead, wanted him captured, wanted him for worse, but he had never been afraid. Stanley had always said he was reckless in his decisions, and maybe that was true. He never feared for himself, he found ways to survive and overcome, and if he ended up with a scar or two, well, it could've been worse. Loneliness was something he was just accustomed to.

It all changed, seeing those frightened faced in the destroyed basement that fateful day. It changed as he learned the quirks and personalities of his great niece and nephew. Dipper, the curious boy that learned bravery and stood his ground for his sister, thru and thru. Whom may had been a little anxious, a little sweaty, and pined for an older woman with all his heart. Mabel, the fascinating girl that flourished in arts and crafts and could light a stormy night with a colorful smile. But, she too, held a depth beneath the silly exterior that Ford had learned of the first night he caught her sneaking around at three in the morning, pacing, fretting with tears in her bubbly eyes that maybe she wasn't enough to keep Dipper around any longer, not with his "stupid crush on Great Uncle Ford". Watching those twins reminded him of his own twin.

"You shouldn't make a habit of that stuff," a gruff voice chastised, startling Ford. He whipped around, hand going to the holster at his hip, before recognizing the unshaven face that mirrored his own and the hands placed upward, palms out, a wry smile on his face as he cocked a brow at the defensive position Ford found himself in. "Sheesh, Sixer. I know my ugly mug is scary, but damn."

Ford shrugged, looking sheepish as his hand fell away from under his coat. "I guess that would make me scary as well, it would seem." He raised his glass, watching Stan's brows furrow in irritation as he took another gulp of the golden liquid, daring his twin to say something.

Instead, Stan pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and slumped into it, pulling the whiskey to him and straight-shooting from the bottle. He gasped and cough, the burn incredible. "Jesus, Ford, how old is this shit?"

"It's been in my office since the late seventies, so," he shrugged coyly, fighting the twitching of his lips as Stan's eyes watered from the burn.

"It's awful," Stan choked out, pushing the bottle away as he got up and gulped a glass of water. He threw the younger-appearing man a glare. "Y'could've warned me, you shit."

Ford swallowed his retort grimly as he turned back to the bottle and took a swig directly, much the way Stanley had. But the burn only reminded him that this was now, this was here, and it was over. Because he had wanted to tell Stan that he should have known how old it was, considering he'd been living in this house twice as long as Ford had, but everything wasn't normal yet, everything hadn't been piece together. Stan still had lapses in memory, as much as the con-artist tried to appear normal for the kids' sake. The first night Ford had caught him blankly walking around the gift shop, callused fingers gingerly brushing the bizarre displays, looking like a broken man, Ford had fought the guilt that burned at the back of his eyes.

The kids were easier to remember, it seemed, due to how recently they had entered the man's life. Soos and Wendy, too, came quickly with only small bouts of confusion on the day-to-day. Sometimes Stan struggled, sometimes it seemed like he lost everything he remembered for moments, before it all came back. Ford wasn't sure whom it was harder for, the man trying desperately to remember who he was, or them, struggling to remind him. And, unfortunately, they had a long history, despite the 30 year absence, and not everything came back. Sometimes Stan would round a corner when Ford was cooking breakfast and slug him unmercifully in the shoulder "for that one time in high school when you chewed the shit out of my favorite pen" or "that time you told Ma I loved creamed corn, you bastard", but he seemed puzzled about what could have driven them so far apart.

"Why're you even awake, Stanley?" Ford asked as the memories in his head faded around the edges as the alcohol pooled through his veins and numbed the stabbing pain deep within.

"Heard you scream...nightmares again?" he asked coolly, concern flitting across his face as he leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, lips pursed as Ford took another long sip from the fermented whiskey.

"Always," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "They never bothered me before. Bill could torture me to his pleasantest delight, and I'd wake up, caught off guard with pain a distant memory, but it didn't affect me. The only time my dreams did was when-" He stopped short, and shook his head, not willing to admit that the dreams his brother were hurt haunted him time and time again. "It doesn't matter. Now it's the kids. Kids, Stanley. How do you recover from that? Watching two innocent kids get tortured and killed? It's jarring. It's insane. And it won't stop."

"Makes you feel useless, huh? Weak, like there's nothing you can do to stop it, prevent it. Yeah, I've had my share of those dreams, too," Stanley offered nonchalantly, eyes turned down to the cracked floorboards "But they're just dreams. I wake up, and the feeling sits in the pit of my stomach, but it's gone. It's gone, and you're-" The man stopped short and gave a half-hearted laugh to cover up the honest despair in those matching caramel eyes, until he looked up and fought the urge to laugh as Ford wavered in place, hands very still as they held onto the back of a chair, as if the ground was rocking. "Drunk, hot Belgian waffles, Sixer, you're drunk."

"Scientist don't get inebriated except on research and data, Knucklehead," he slurred, cursing himself for underestimating just how potent his 40 year old whiskey was.

Stan snorted at the pathetic look Ford gave him, as if he was trying to be intimidating, standing there and swaying in place. With a chuckle he walked over, pulling his brother's arm around his shoulders, supporting the taller, lither man's weight against his side, despite the sputtered protest in a glutteral language that Stan didn't know. They started the walk toward Ford's room when-"Ow! Fuck, you pinched me you asshole."

"I'm capable of walking myself, you heathen," Ford mumbled defensively, pushing his brother, whom held fast despite the reddening of his cheeks in frustration. "Damnit, Stanley, you've done enough for me for a lifetime. You don't have to do this, too."

"Yeah, you're right," Stan said, rolling his eyes as he let go for the briefest moment, just enough for Ford to flounder his arms and windmill his way nearly into the wall, before grabbing hold once more. "But what kind of brother would I be then?"

"You just want to lord this over me in the morning," Ford growled as he let himself he led into his room and deposited onto the couch he used for the few hours he let himself get any rest. Stan tried to remove his heavy-duty boots, only to be kicked back onto his rump roughly as his brother shook his head wildly. "No, I need to stay prepared, in case I have to protect you."

"I'm really regretting not letting you crawl in here," Stanley mumbled under his breath as he pushed his whoozy brother back into the worn cushions and threw a tattered blanket that smelled of mothballs over him. He walked to the door and looked back as Ford's eyes fluttered shut and his breathing evened out-and it hit him. Not protect the kids, not protect this family, protect you.

"Goodnight, Sixer...and thanks," he managed, a small smile lighting the dark.

...

It had only been two days before the nightmares took form again.

This time, Ford found himself in his familiar dreamscape, wheat fields swaying lightly in a warm, blustery summer breeze as tall, dark clouds rose from the horizon, swirling upward like an intimidating ice cream cone of the elements. The broken, dismantled portal shimmered with an ethereal glow from within, rather than the dead, gutted metal it typically resembled. He ignored the curiosity bubbling up within about the portal as his legs carried him to the creaking swingset of his childhood, and his six-fingered hands curled fast around the metal chains that jangled in the wind as he found himself swaying in time to the stalks of grain.

"Strange," he mumbled to no one as his legs kicked, coat fluttering behind him as he swung, higher and higher, looking out over the broken landscape. And then he saw it, a slight glean against the darkening skyline. He blinked, and it drew closer at a remarkable speed; blink, and there was an expanse of chain-link fencing, glittering in the greyscale world with a silhouette standing near. Blink, and his heart still, jumped to his throat as ice slid through his bloodstream and he screamed.

"Stanley!"

And there his twin was, bound by blue dimly glowing chains, his trademark silken bowtie strapped across his mouth as a gag, suit jacket lost, hair a wild mess, brown eyes pleading. Ford tried to escape the swingset, but his hands wouldn't comply, stiff and frozen, leaving him swaying through the air despite his best efforts.

"Damnit! Stanley, Stanley, I'll save you, don't worry, I'll save you!"

A familiar, maniacal laugh cut through the landscape, echoing in the impossible emptiness, bouncing through his skull from all directions. "Well, well, well, well well! Ford thinks he can save you," a grating voice said as blue flames erupted from nothingness and Bill stared at the scientist wickedly, floating closer to the terrified looking Stan. His black claws reached out, passing under Stan's chin, close enough for a thin red line to appear on the man's neck and run bloody.

"Don't you touch him! You have no dominion here, you have no dominion anywhere, we defeated you!"

Bill's image shrugged. "You can defeat me again and again and again, Stanford Pines, but I'll forever haunt your memories. And those, you can't get rid of as easily."

"This is just a dream," Ford said, shutting his eyes against the image, shaking his head. "It's just a dream! You can't hurt me!"

"You so sure about that?" the voice asked with promise. Ford stilled at the chilling question and opened his eyes to the demon casually dragging claws down Stan's chest, eliciting a gagged scream that tore at Ford.

"Stop it, stop it...please!" Ford begged, bowing his head, tears sprouting in his eyes at the pleading look his brother sent him.

"You know, I never could figure out why you cared so much about a man that ruined your future!" Bill said in a sing-song croon, waving his hands through the air, images shimmering iridescent like a film reel. Ford watched as Stan decked him in the face just before the portal opened up, watched the terrified look of his brother scrambling to find a way, any way, to stop him from being swallowed up. Watched as he landed in an unfamiliar land, only to be attacked by beasts and nearly slaughtered. Watched, as he was shot by a plasma gun running as a fugitive through time-space. Watched as he pulled out a tear-stained, wrinkled photo of two young boys and hang his head as he hid dismally from acid rain that ate at the surrounding landscape. Watched as a young Stanley huffed as thunder tore from the sky and Ford climbed up into his brother's bunk, shaking. Watched as Stan laid out a few bullies just for making ugly comments about his extra fingers. Watched as his brother turned away, defeated, when he told him to leave at the end of summer.

"But that's okay, you do, which makes this my kind of fun!" Bill's voice said, snapping Ford's head upward as he watched in horror as the demon dove a hand through his brother's sternum, up, twisting and tugging. Ford swooned as bile marched up his throat at the abject horror written on Stanley's face, the pain that wretched his body into a tight coil, shaking, sweat beading on his face at the invasion of his body. Ford's body ached to help, but he couldn't get his damn hands to move, couldn't get his damn body to do anything other than watch as Bill wrung around in Stanley's chest cavity.

"You know what, IQ? I think this belongs to you," Bill said with a cackle as he ripped his hand out of Stan and threw something. Instinctively Ford reached out to grab it, finding his hands could move at last, and looked down with is head swimming at the piece of beating muscle in his hands, expelling the last bit of blood from the ventricles. Shaking, he looked up to see the image of Stan, head hung low, chest gaping open, blood pouring down his front, limply bound to the fencing, Bill perched in the arm with gallous blood dripping from his hands. Trembling, he dropped the fleshy heart, and did the only thing he could.

...

Ford woke with his hands over his mouth, barely reaching the small trash can by his littered desk before falling to his knees weakly and losing his stomach in sick heaves. Even as bitter bile swelled in his throat and his stomach cramped with nothing left to give, he heaved. Sweat poured down his face, dripping onto his lenses as he shook, the images pounding at his fragile mind. He could still feel the sick warm muscle tremble in his hand, smell the pungent acid of perforated intestines.

"Shit," he managed as his stomach muscles contracted, sending a mouthful of bile into the trashcan, sputtering around the sour taste hanging on his tongue. "Shit, shit, shit."

His thoughts spun to his brother and he tried to stand, but his legs buckled under him as he shook, muscles warring and exhausted from the too-real nightmare. He cursed, lashing out and throwing a fist into the floor, jarring numbness marching to his elbow at the crack. He was terrified for his brother, but couldn't even find the strength to get up. Tears boiled in his eyes as he forced his quaking legs under him. Stanley was okay, Stanley had to be okay, it was just a dream, it was always just a dream, he told himself.

"Get a hold of yourself," he told himself, but his voice was too breathy, betraying how frightened he really was. Stanley would be in bed, just like he always was, just like the kids were when he had nightmares involving them. There was no reason to feel so...panicked, but he couldn't deny the choking feeling of his heart hammering in his throat at each shaky step he took towards Stan's bedroom.

What if Stan wasn't there, what if that awful dream was some form of reality, as his brother was dead? What if Ford was trapped in his own mind-bubble like Mabel had been? What if Stan was sucked into nothingness with the mind-erase gun and couldn't even function enough to breathe? What if Ford was alone, again, alone like he had been for years? What if, what if, what if...

He opened the door with a growing sense of panic as his eyes darted around the small room, straight out of the eighties, wood paneling, terrible wallpaper, and Stan. Relief washed through him and he choked back a sob as he gazed at his sleeping brother, mouth hanging open, arm thrown over the side of the bed, a puddle of dried spit pooled on his flat pillow. There was no denying that Stan was alive and well, as his jack-hammer snoring flitted through Ford's ears.

"Thank goodness," Ford choked in relief. He hadn't had a dream like that in ages, and it scared him to think of losing his brother, after finally having him back. So much so, he forwent the irritation he knew Stanley would have by being awoken, and walked over, timidly sitting on the edge of the bed as he shook Stan's shoulder.

"Stanley, wake up."

The man woke with a start, bleeting eyes staring around the darkness before landing on his brother. What Ford hadn't accounted for, was the fist that drew back and cracked him right in the jaw, sending the startled scientist over the edge and sprawling on the floor.

"What the Hell, Stanley?" he growled, pain drumming up his jaw and ringing in his ear.

"Who are you?!" Stan demanded, grabbing the baseball bat leaning against the wall and brandishing it, eyes darting around for an escape. "What do you want from me? I told Rico I'd pay him!"

Ford stilled at the words, ears ringing in the thick silence as one hand held his aching face, and the other turned outward nonthreateningly. "Stanley, it's just me, it's your brother, Stanford," he started careful, forcing his voice to be even, like talking a madman down from jumping off a cliff. "Rico can't get to you anymore, Stan, it's been years. I'm not going to hurt you."

Confusion danced in his eyes as the bat dropped just a hair. "How do I know that? How can I trust you?"

Trust no one, trust no one, trust no one...his own words mocked him now as he reached slowly into his coat and pulled out a fresh photo that he kept nestled next to the old one and brandished it for Stan to see. If was a Polaroid that Mabel had shot of them sitting on the porch drinking Pitt cola as the sun set in comfortable silence, Stan staring at the kids, Ford reading from a novel Dipper had given him sheepishly.

"Does this look like the image of someone that wants to hurt you?" he asked as Stan took the picture, dropping the bat carefully back to its rightful place. He sat back, shoulders slumped inward, brows furrowed as he tried to remember. Ford rose slowly, ignoring the dull ache blossoming in his jaw and sat next to his brother, a tentative hand placed on his shoulder, rough with the burn mark he'd been part of.

"I...I don't know," Stan said honestly, looking hurt that he couldn't recall.

"That's okay. We can go over it a thousand times until you remember," Ford offered, giving his brother a reassuring squeeze as he launched into the pertinent facts of them and watched a slow dawning appear in Stan's eyes the more Ford lamented. He even tried to embellish the stories, but soon Stan was shaking his head and correcting him as he remembered.

"Ohhh no, Sixer, you liar, you did not have a hot prom date that year, if I distinctly remember, you got doused in punch!" Stan snorted, slugging Ford playfully in the shoulder.

"I suppose you're right," Ford said, eyeing Stan as he fought back a yawn. "It's been a rough few hours, get to sleep, I'll be up with the kids to make them their birthday breakfast." As he went to get up, he found Stan's hand on his wrist, holding him back.

"Why are you so patient with me?" Stan finally asked, a deceiving warble to his voice.

"What kind of brother would I be if I wasn't?" he answered, throwing Stan's own logic back at him. Stan huffed at the answer, but still didn't let his hand drop. "Something else bothering you?"

"You had another nightmare," Stan answered matter-of-factly. "And I didn't even remember you when you came to make sure I was alive."

"It's not your fault, Stanley," Ford assured as he heard the guilt lace through his brother's words. "You can't blame yourself."

His eyes dropped as he finally let go, fingers twining with themselves nervously. "I know, but it hurts you when I don't remember. Even when I have no idea who you are, I can see it on your face, in your eyes. And I don't like that I hurt you, Ford. Because you would never hurt me, and here I am, fucking it up and hurting you."

Damn, he thought to himself he figured he was better at keeping his emotions in check, but then again, Stanley could always read him like a warped book. He dropped back to the bed and took Stan's hand gingerly, placing it on the thick wool of his sweater, over his heart. "Feel that, Stanley? As long as that's thumping, I'm going to be here for you, whether you remember me or not. Because I promise you this, it'd hurt more if you weren't here at all, rather than small episodes of forgetfulness. Got that, Knucklehead?"

Stan feigned disgust as he used the same hand to push Ford away and roll his eyes. Embarrassed by the display, he clamored under the sheets and turned his back to Ford. "Yeah, yeah, enough with the mushy stuff, I'm tired and have a lot to do for the party tomorrow, y'know?"

Ford took the dismissal with a smile as he turned on his heel and headed to the door. As he hit the lightswitch off he turned one last time and breathed a, "Goodnight, Stanley."

...

Two weeks had passed, and it seemed like just yesterday they had bid farewell to the younger set of twins as they headed back to California for school. Maybe because his mushy brother had set up online chats almost every other day and gushed on and on about the kids in their absence. It was endearing, even as he skulked around the Mystery Shack, clasping to the scrapbook Mabel had left him with.

But those days were coming to a close, as the brothers hopped on a plane back to New Jersey for their sailing adventures. Stan had been surprised to find out that Ford had kept up their childhood dream, by purchasing a clunker of a fishing boat back with his college money that had been sitting in a warf waiting for the day it got to set sail. Sure, it needed some updates and furnishing, but it had the bare bones of a great vessel. During the nights they camped at a motel near the shore, and during the day they worked. Stan found purpose wandering the familiar town that seemed plucked straight from their childhood, stocking up on dried and canned goods for the day they set out on voyage, venturing in and out of little antique stores on the strip for heavy duty cast iron pots and kettles, spending hours hunting for the proper fisherman's gear they would need.

Likewise, Ford worked on the innards of the ship, making modifications to the navigation system, updating to a high frequency, long-distance satellite that allowed very long-range wifi connections, thanks to Fiddleford. The sonar system was also a piece of work that he fiddled with into long hours of the night, to sense both the regular and hte magical creatures they may run into on the Artic. He also fitted the vessel with a low-voltage electrical ward to deter larger creatures, and those of magical origin that may not appreciate the ship in their domain, that could be flicked on and off with ease and didn't seem to phase smaller, harmless creatures.

It was one AM when he ratcheted in the last bolt of the night and gave an exhausted sigh as wiped grease on the thighs of his pants. He was surprised it was as late as it was; usually it was around nine-thirty that Stanley would stalk the few blocks to their hanger, mumbling at how terrible Ford's eyes were going to get working in the dim light before they even launched. If the scientist still hadn't budged by eleven, Stanley was there, doing work on the inside, knowing full-well that Ford would give up if he was around and breathing down his neck.

Ford climbed up onto the deck. He hadn't heard Stan banging around like he usually did in the cabin. Shrugging he opened the door and walked the few steps down inside, looking around. No, his brother wasn't here, and his concern was beginning to mount. What if Stanley had an amnesic event and had forgotten where he was, who he was? The hair on the back of his neck bristled at the idea, and he bolted off the ship, stopping long enough to lock both the cabin door, and the hanger, before taking off down the street. The old antique lamps glowed orange in the brisk night air, sea fog hanging loosely to the ground, tendrils lapping at his ankles as he quickened his stride to a loping jog.

The neon sign blazed ominously in the fog as Ford rounded a corner and found the door to the room they were sharing. All he could hope was that his brother was still there. He had at first resisted the idea of Stan running errands on his own, and staying behind at the motel by himself while Ford worked, but he knew his brother needed a sense of normalcy, a sense of responsibility in their current plans. He didn't need a parent, he needed an understanding brother, as much as it grated on Ford's nerves sometimes.

He popped the card into the door lock and turned the knob, breathing a sigh of relief at seeing Stanley sitting up in the bed he'd claimed as his own, room glowing blue with the television light. But as the door clicked shut, Ford tensed; something didn't feel right. Maybe it was the blue illumination that prickled his senses, so like Bill's magic, maybe it was the stoic look on his brother's face.

"You're up late, to have not come to fetch me at the warf," Ford said carefully as he tucked the keycard into the inner pocket of his coat and slipped it off to hang over a chair at the small breakfast nook. Still, Stan hadn't budged. "Is everything okay?"

"I don't know," Stan growled, looking at him accusingly. "You tell me, Stanford. Should it be? Should 'everything be okay' after you tried to erase me?"

Ford took a step back against the hate laced in those quiet words, eyes widening just a tad. "You knew, you knew it was the only way to defeat Bill! He was going to hurt the kids!"

"Was it?" Stan retorted, sliding off the bed and turning to face him. "How would I knew if it was the only way? I'm not smart like you, Stanford. Maybe you just said that to get rid of me. Maybe you just said that, hoping I'd be gone forever, hoping you'd never have to worry about someone as suffocating as me in your life, holding you back."

Ford shook his head as dread filled him, words tangling on his tongue at the bitter disgust that Stan stared at him with. "Wh-what, where would you get that idea, Stanley?"

"You staring down the barrel of the memory gun," Stan snarled, taking a step toward him, finger jamming into his chest like a cattle prod. "I bet you don't even regret the shit you put me through with this."

Ford jumped back as if he were hit physically, eyes burning. "You have no idea how much I regret it," he said brokenly, hands palm outward, pleading. "I lost my brother that day. My sweet, caring, stupid brother, whom sacrificed himself for everyone else. You, Stanley, I lost you."

"Shuttup, will ya?" Stan snarled, shoving Ford backwards. He stumbled over the edge of his coat, losing his balance, striking his head against the wall with a dizzying crack that left his vision blurred. "I lost my life, thanks to you. I lost everything, thanks to you! And I'm done with it, I'm done with you!" he yelled, slamming the door open and shut, finality ringing in the air.

Ford dropped his head in his hands, heart hammering in his throat, feeling like a pickaxe had been driven straight through his chest. And he sobbed.

His worst nightmare had come true.