Chapter 2: In which Stanford attempts to forget, and is served a painful reminder.
A/N:I know this chapter is pretty short, but people seemed to like the fic, so I'm just giving them what they want! That, and I'm trying to stave off the curse of over-analyzing my own work, hating it, and trashing it. XD I finished final exams today, so expect more soon!
Ford fled downstairs and threw himself into his work. He decided to continue his deconstruction of the portal. Even though it was inoperable without more fuel, it was still too dangerous to leave standing. It was strenuous work, and, without the journals, slow going as well. He didn't want to risk making a mistake, and dismantling an interdimensional portal wasn't as simple as yanking out all the wires. It didn't help that the portal wasn't quite as he remembered it; Stanley had made a number of… adjustments, mostly for convenience's sake, and though most of them were dangerously unstable, Ford couldn't help but admire Stan's inventiveness.
Tonight, however, Ford worked furiously, perhaps more quickly than he should have. He started by unbolting some of the outside plates and dragging each piece to the back of the room, making sure to keep all the engraved ones together so that he could wash them with acid later. Inside were pipes and wires and more steel plates with awful inscriptions. Before he cut a single strand of wire or broke a line of pipe Ford had to know exactly where it went, from beginning to end. Sometimes he would realize he needed to work on the exact opposite side of the portal, and then it was back to the wrench and screwdriver. Other times he would need to squeeze into seemingly impossible spaces, but he always managed to fit, though often with a great deal of pain. He didn't mind. He'd built up quite the pain tolerance in the other dimensions, and besides that, it provided him a nice distraction from his own thoughts.
It was his shoulder that finally forced him to stop. While hauling a particularly large piece of the outer frame, the pain suddenly flared up. Ford dropped the steel plate in shock, and almost didn't jump back in time to avoid crushing his feet. He bit his tongue so hard it bled, but didn't scream. He had long since taught himself never to scream. He gripped his shoulder tightly, clenching the scratchy fabric of his turtleneck so hard his knuckles were white. But the pain wasn't subsiding. When it acted up, sometimes it was like that. A pain that was simultaneously burning and throbbing which lingered for hours. Ford lowered himself to a sitting position on the floor, taking deep, shaky breaths. He pulled his shirt over his head, dimly noticing that it was drenched with sweat. Hesitantly, he looked at his shoulder.
It was one of the first major injuries Ford had sustained in the multiverse, and still his biggest scar. The dimension in which he found himself was in the middle of a brutal war, and as he explored the ruins of an exploded building, his shoulder had gotten wet. He thought it had been water at first - odorless, colorless, roughly the same viscosity - but it had actually been the flammable secretions of an undetonated bomb. Extremely flammable. That and an errant spark from some exposed wires was all it took. He was on fire for seconds but it felt like years, and even after all this time he couldn't quite get used to the smell of roasted meat.
Ford still wasn't sure how he had survived with such a large third-degree burn. It didn't hurt at first, but when the skin and muscle began to grow back it was excruciatingly painful. It had come back darker, leathery, mostly scar tissue. For months, he'd had to make do with one functional arm, and it was years before he had something resembling a complete range of motion again, though there were still angles he was sure he couldn't reach. Over time he had learned to ignore to near-constant itching, but now he couldn't help but scratch it. It was enough to distract him from the pain for a time, at least.
Of course, the pain didn't go away that easily. Ford had a feeling he would be dealing with it all night. He stood up with a grunt and pulled his shirt back on. This was as good a reason as any to stop working. As he shuffled towards the elevator, he glanced at the clock. 3:26 A.M. Stanley was probably asleep by now, so at least he wouldn't have to deal with that. He would shower, see what Stan had in the way of pain medicine, and go to sleep - or try to, anyway. Tonight might be better. Physical exhaustion usually helped keep the nightmares at bay. The elevator rumbled loudly as it ascended. Ford desperately hoped it wouldn't wake Stan.