A/N: Gravity Falls continues to belong to Alex Hirsch and the Disney crew; this is just for fun! "You have a sick sense of fun, Corrie". Why, yes, I do.

Tags for this chapter include: self-harm, depression, anxiety, alcoholic tendencies, and Stangst. But there's brotherly cuddles, I promise!


A storm was brewing.

The early morning air was heavy with it. Electricity seemed to dance along the quaint seaside town, tickling the nose, raising tiny hairs over the body. The low-hanging fog that drifted in off the surf cackled with it, singing in tune to the elements. Far-out at sea, roiling clouds built high into the nighttime sky, blotting out the constellations and moon glow, as if eating them alive. The brisk breeze that cut to the bone was chilled, wet, and salty on the back of the tongue, a numbing promise of the rain to come that built at the horizon menacingly, a citadel in the sky.

But the storm on the horizon wasn't the only one building.

Stan stomped down the street, hands curling and unfurling, teeth borne to the night, daring anyone to doubt what he had just done. He saw shadows around the corners, just out of reach; saw figures with sharp teeth and glowing eyes just beyond the thick fog; heard maniacal laughter tittering at him, jeering. But when he looked again, nothing was there - nothing, ever, was there. After midnight, the only folks prowling were the dredges of the boiling pot, the homeless, the prostitutes, the rampant drunks that staggered the night to forget.

Which didn't entirely sound like a bad idea to him. His feet found the way to the glowing yellow sign of the ratty dive bar on the seaside stretch that hadn't changed since his childhood except a new coat of salted paint, and carried him to a sticky stool with cracking vinyl. He burned through a shot of tequila or two, or three, or maybe more, he wasn't sure as he shook a cigarette from a crumbled pack deep in his pockets and lit up, surveying the quiet little establishment.

His eyes landed on the battered pool table in the corner, green carpeting tattered at the edges and stained from various fluids, wood working chipped and banged up from years of use. It was familiar, Stan realized as he saw himself with a shit-eating grin taking bets and pocketing money on his brother's game, a game that Ford had meticulously calculated every shot and in no way ever lost, no matter if it were the local teens or the hot-shot adults he played against. It was an easy wad of cash for the two teenaged twins to make as the opponent racked the balls and Ford dusted his cue, lowered it to the table, and made the shot with a crack!

The same crack of his brother's skull slamming back into the wall of their motel room. Shaking his head, Stan glowered into the tumbler of liquid in front of him, grasping it so hard he was afraid the cheap glass would shatter under his steady hands. Ford deserved it, he thought darkly, Ford deserved all the pain in the world for what he had done.

But what, exactly, had he done? He tried to erase you! his mind answered back as the alcohol blurred the memories. He had thought it was mutual, had thought he was confident in his decision to end Bill's reign over the town, but somewhere in his mind a voice was cursing that idea as false, telling him he was a fool.

There they were, in the glowing blue cage of despair, waiting anxiously for the return of the younger twins. Discussing how to defeat the dream demon, if there even were a way. He watched the suggestion take place from Ford, that they always did play the part of each other well, that the only way to insure the twins' safety was to erase Bill from Stan's mind. The accusation that the young ones would die if Stan didn't agree. The resignation on Ford's face as he held the memory gun steady and typed in his brother's name, the excited, elated gleam to his eyes as he pulled the trigger, the smile that broke on his shaven face at the blue light slammed into Stan and began burning away his memories.

Ford was glad to have gotten rid of him at last, and according to Mabel's recounts of the tale, hadn't thought to try to retrieve his memories in any way after the incident. He had wanted Stan gone at the end of summer, and would have gotten his wish, if it weren't for Mabel's scrapbook that he occasionally caught Ford flipping through bitterly. He knew indirectly through Dipper that Ford thought he was suffocating. Knew that Ford hated him; and how couldn't he, after Stan had been the reason he was sucked up through the portal and put through God-knows-what for so many years? He'd seen quick glimpses of the angry scars and pocket marks that laced up Ford's tanned arms, could only assume what else was hidden under his thick, cozy sweaters. Each scar on his brother's skin was like a nail that cut through his heart, hammered in deep.

Ford hated him; and how couldn't he, after Stan had ruined his dreams to attend the nation's leading nerd school and put his genius to the test doing what he loved? But he hadn't gone to that school, and Ford was still a successful researcher with hundreds of published articles, a textbook he had written, and many paradoxical theories that were still being analyzed and questioned in today's science classes. Despite losing his dream, Ford had still found a way to meander through and conquer, like he always did.

Even the portal, Ford seemed to conquer. He may have returned brazen, with a hard, cynical edge and a paranoia that ran deeper than survivals instinct, but Ford was whole, and here, and alive. Yet, Ford didn't seem grateful to be returned to their dimension, didn't seem to understand the Hell Stan put himself through trying to get his brother back. He wasn't smart, wasn't even that bright, but he had scoured through the texts littering Ford's cabin in the wood to learn the complicities of his brother's handiwork, taught himself advanced mathematics and physics in order to get the portal restarted and his brother home, safe. And how had he thanked Stan? A knuckle sandwich and locking himself away, safely tucked in his lab to be forgotten and ignored.

"Fuck him," Stan mumbled bitterly as he tossed back another shot, the burn dull against the numbness that coursed through him. What was worse, now Ford was "trying" to be a better brother, inviting him to go on his Arctic adventure. Or maybe, he just couldn't handle the ship and choppy waters alone, maybe he just needed an extra set on hands on deck, as if two extra fingers weren't enough help. Maybe he needed a sacrifice for whatever strange monsters the two were sure to find; maybe, Ford was guilty and felt like he just needed to babysit Stan since his memory still wasn't on par to where it had been before Weirdmageddon.

"Well, I'll take care of that," Stan growled as he slammed a twenty down on the gouged bar, catching the bartenders eye and giving a solitary nod of acknowledgement that he was leaving as he stumbled out the door.

"Shit, it's cold," he said, pulling his coat tighter around him as the wind whipped, whispering sweet nothings by his ear.

He hates you. He wanted you gone. You're disposable. You're useless. You're a good-for-nothing crook that stole thirty precious years from him. You would have been better forgotten. Erased.

Brows furrowing, he shook his head at the voices taunting him, fist curling deep in his jacket pockets, face steeled against the harsh realization that smacked him, like the bitter seamist that kissed his jaw. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

And all you wanted was your brother back. Your genius of a brother, that always started at loud noises, that hated thunder, that terrored against Mom's disappointed face. That could solve a rubics cube in seconds, that painted a mural for the elementary school library after being remodeled, that taught you how to appropriately win at gambling with calculations and probability. The brother that talked you down from the pier after having your teenage heart shattered, the brother that tearfully bartered with you not to jump into the crashing surf. The brother that had been the first to recognize you may need outside help. But your brother, Ford, nah...he didn't want you.

Stan found that his feet had carried him to the hanger where the ship was, and his fingers typed in the familiar code almost like magic. He slipped through the door, an overhead light popping on at his presence, flooding the boat with faded light that made it appear washed out and forgotten.

Just like him.

He had to admit, the ship was top-notch, despite its rough beginnings; Ford had done a wonderful job with the restorations and updates, to the point a newcomer may have thought the boat was brand new, if not for the slightly scifi attachments that glittered here or there. The bright decal that Ford had meticulously painted onto the port and starboard sides beckoned to him, mockingly; Stan'O'War II.

His body seemed to know what he was going to do before the actions registered in his foggy head as his strong hands wrapped around the handle of a well-oiled axe and swung, slicing through the air, slamming into their shared name, wood splinting under the weapon. He pulled it back, anger fueling his shaking muscles as he whacked, again and again and again, into the side of the boat, feeling nothingness as his hands split and cracked from the immense effort, swelling with tiny fluid-filled blisters.

"I hate you!" Crack. "I wish I neva would'a brought you back!" Whomp. "I hope this hurts as much as you hurt me!" Whack. "I hate you!"

Breathing hard, every muscle in his body screaming in tension, he dropped to his knees, letting the axe fall to the ground unyielding as he stared at the gaping hole in the helm and felt nothing but relief.

Until red and blue lights strobed into the open door and a voice yelled. "Hands on your head! You're under arrest!"

...

The electric buzzing of the television was the only sound in the quiet motel room as Ford held his head in his hands and tried to calm the panicked, short breaths his lungs were fighting for, aching for. His head throbbed and his vision still was deceptively blurred at the edges, but that could have been in part to his hear tin his throat, choking him.

When panic takes hold, and all goes south, breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth, his mind chided him, forcing his breathing to slow to an acceptable rate as he repeated the rhyme over the deafening pounding of his heart in his ears. It was the one thing he'd taken out of the therapy sessions he went to, against anyone's knowledge, when Stanley had tried to end his life the first time.

It took several minutes for his mind to take control of his body and force his breathing into a normal rate and rhythm, force the fear that had crawled up his throat back down, force his hammering heart to slow just enough to think.

Ford was at a loss as to what had come over Stanley. It was a sudden, devastating change over how they had been the last few weeks, eagerly working on the ship, shopping for appropriate tools and instruments to accompany them on their maiden voyage, getting to know each other and the town after all these years. So what had caused it?

Stan knew that Ford was immensely regretful of the decision to erase his memories with Bill. He had to know. When Stan had made the suggestion, with his cocky grin hiding the utter fright of the idea, Ford had adamantly protested. Stan had a life in this world - a business, friends, family that adored and depended on the crotchey old geezer - and Ford simply didn't, despite the fact it was all done under his own name. Stan had made something successful out of himself, and for once in his life seemed happy, and there was no way that Ford would willingly take that away from him. Until Stan had begged to do it for the kids. And even when they had gone through with the crazy plan, Ford couldn't look while he aimed the shaking gun at his brother, couldn't watch the slack-jawed expression of a man losing everything he had ever worked for.

It haunted him even now, even though - through some miracle of Mabel - Stan had retrieved a great deal of his memories back. Because he knew it was his fault, everything had been his fault. If he had simply just listened to the engraved warnings of the native town folk, if he hadn't been duped by what he thought was his greatest ally, if he'd heeded the fear in Fiddleford's eyes, then none of it would have happened. He could never blame Stan for his time spent behind the portal; he had been the master genius behind it, and due to his own shortcomings he'd found himself trapped. He'd wished a thousand times that he had given Stan what he wanted, that fated day in the basement, and simply sailed away from the horrors and mystery that Gravity Falls plagued his fragile existence with.

But he hadn't, and he was trying to make up for his selfishness of the past, make up for the missing time between them. It seemed Stanley had other ideas, however, and why? Ford just couldn't nail down why Stan had lashed out all of a sudden, changing his mind about everything.

Heaving a sigh, Ford pushed himself into a stand, ignoring the swimming feeling as his head oriented to the sudden shift in equilibrium. He was sure if it weren't for the plate in his skull he'd have a pretty wicked concussion with the amount of force his head had bounced into the wall with; and, groaning, he saw a crimson stain on the flowery wallpaper where his noggin had hit.

"Damnit," he grumbled to himself as he checked the damage in the bathroom mirror, and saw the dried blood in his hair, and a small gash leaking congealed blood at his scalp. He went about the task of irrigating and cleaning the wound thoughtlessly, pulled a small tube of adhesive from a well-organized aid kit, and began the mindless task of looping strands of hair together and dotting the twist with glue, closing off the small laceration with apposition.

As his hands worked at their task, his mind wandered to Stanley and the pure enraptured hatred his brother had thrown at him before. There was only one time in their history before he'd received the same kind of unadulterated rage from his brother, the fight before everything had transpired thirty years ago. It gave him pause to think that both fights had ties to Bill, sent a shudder of dread through him at just what that could imply.

He hummed dismissively as he eyed his handiwork, before wetting a handtowel and trudging into the bedroom to clean the wall, suspicious of the idea of leaving his blood DNA laying around. That was just silly, Bill was gone, they had assured that...right?

As he finished his task, his eyes caught on the shimmering, glitter book tucked into Stan's bag at the foot of his bed. Without a thought Ford grabbed it up and sat at the edge of the bed, a sad smile cracking on his lips as his large, six-fingered hand passed over the glitter-glue and plastic jewels covering the scrapbook his great-niece had sent with Stan "just in case your head gets fuzzy and things are hard to remember!".

He flipped through the pages, a bitter smile taking hold as he scanned through the memories that his brother had shared with the kids over the summer, watched as Stan loosened up through the snapshots. Pictures of the kids in hand-stitched hats fishing, pictures of the twins smiling brightly at the camera in costume with trick'or'treat bags tucked under their arms, a distorted picture of a pterodactyl chasing a Stan that carried the twins on his shoulders, a pig strapped to his belly. It made him glad that Stan had experienced all those great things, but pulled on his heart that he hadn't had the time with the kids and his family like his brother did. There were only a few candid snaps that included him into the dynamic; Mabel, having painted his hand like a turkey, Stan, swinging them up into the trees with the grappling hook he borrowed from their great-niece, lounging around the porch while water balloons were hurtled at them from the children. But there were plenty of empty pages that Mabel had left "for all your ship adventures!"

If they ever got to have them, he thought sourly, a pang filling his chest as he glanced to the clock: 0240.

As he was closing the book, a loose piece of paper floated out and caught his eye. Curious, Ford unfolded it, heart stopping as he read his name at the top in familiar blocky letters, mind whirling to another time in the distant past he'd found a note addressed solely to him, a time he prayed he wasn't too late, a time that had terrified him.

Stanford,

Mabel suggested rather enthusiastically that I write you whenever I have "feelings" about you, that wake me up with night terrors or whatever and piss me off or confuse me, or when my memory isn't playing right and I don't know what to believe. Because I really suck at talking, ya know. And it's been happening a lot lately, bro. I don't know about you anymore. I wanted to believe you really wanted to go on this fishing trip, but I just don't know. You're a freaking smartypants genius, why would you want to spend time with a loser like me?

I wanted my brother back...and now that I have him, it scares me. You scare me. Sometimes I see all humanity leave you for a few seconds and there's murder in your eyes. Sometimes I wonder if you're going to go off in your sleep and kill me. Sometimes I get this sinking feeling that you're gonna leave again, and that kills me. That you'll get bored having a forgetful lug like me around. That all I'll do is hold you back.

"Oh, Stanley," Ford mumbled, feeling like he was kicked in the stomach as he read, flipping the page over and following along to the string of jumbled thoughts.

I'm useless, Ford. The only useful thing I ever did for anyone was let myself be erased, let myself be forgotten. I'm better off that way. A nobody. Nobody to disappoint, nobody to need, nobody to bother. Especially for you. You have so much potential, so much to offer our crappy world with your brains, you shouldn't be wasting it on scum like me. But you are, and that kills me, because why the Hell do I deserve that? You're better than that, you're better than me.

"Damnit, Stanley," he said between grit teeth, angry tears springing to his eyes as he read what his brother had been bottling up and keeping inside. "If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be, you idiot," he hissed to no one.

I guess this is getting a little weird, huh? But that's okay, this is just for me, for my peace of mind, and you'll never see it, I know how notes from me make you panic, you moron, like I'd really kill myself. But sometimes, how much I wish I could just cry and tell you how much I missed you, but words don't seem to do the feelings justice, ya know. I never stopped caring, ya know, genius.

"Nor did I," Ford replied to the half-empty page, as if Stan had given up on fumbling with coherent thoughts. He rubbed his eyes and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, unsure of what to think, when the phone rang.

...

The wind was biting and picking up, attempting to gnaw at any exposed skin as Ford paced down the cracked street, sea fog lapping at his trail like a puppy. He pulled his coat close around his neck and threw his hood up, the brisk chill stinging his most recent wound. His hands dug deep into the trenchcoat's pockets, furling and unfuring. But not in anger, he didn't think; Hell, he wasn't sure what he felt in response to the phone call he'd received, but Ford knew he couldn't be angry.

He stepped gingerly through the police station's door, an alarm buzzing quietly at his presence. Much the same way Stan had been caught at the hanger; despite the ruckus he had apparently been making, he'd forgotten to reset the code and tripped the silent alarm that automatically dispatched the authorities. Throwing his hood off and smoothing his coat back into place from the beating wind, Ford sighed. He'd received little information over the telephone, other than his brother was caught smashing the boat to pieces in a drunken rage. He fought a headache thinking about what kind of damage his brother could have caused, but forced himself to set a neutral expression, knowing that he'd have to put aside any irritation at that fact. His brother needed him, not to judge, or argue, or scold, but to be there to understand why.

Heavy boots on concrete brought Ford's eyes upward, and he stilled seeing the familiar, chubby face of Crampelter, hair in the typical high-and-tight style of the uniform, but nothing else seemed to fit the classic look of an officer. His utility belt seemed to be a resting table for his large abdomen, stretched shirt pulled tight over a bullet-proof vest, buttons threatening to undo at any moment.

"Well if it isn't old Stanford Pines, what've you been up to?" the officer said, leaning against the counter behind the glass, a fake smile plastered to his weathered face.

"This and that," he replied nonchalantly, pulling a pen from his pocket. "What kind of paperwork do I need to fill out for Stanley's release?"

"Everyone is always bragging about you, y'know, 'the one that got away and did something amaaazing with himself'," Crampelter said, rolling his eyes. "A real local celebrity. I'm still not sure how relevant your research is."

"As I'm sure you wouldn't, it is quite detailed and scholarly," he replied without a thought, staring the shorter man down. "Now, what do I need to do to bring Stanley home?"

Crampelter ignored the question. "Not like that trouble maker brother of yours. Running around, smashing things in a drunken stupor. Say, what did your loser brother ever accomplish?"

"More than you," Ford hissed dangerously, the threat thick in his steady voice. "Everything, actually. He certainly is my hero. And I will tell you this only once, if you ever so much as consider insulting Stanley in front of me, I'll make you disappear to never be so much as mentioned again. Science can do that, you know."

Crampelter balked for a moment as he caught the deadly look accompanying the cheerful words, before his face turned sour and he slammed a finger into the glass between them. "Are you threatening a cop?"

Ford raised a brow, and leaned against his elbows on the counter, eyes taking the shorter man up and down. "Oh, is that what you are? Could have fooled me. And no, I'm threatening a childhood bully that continues to have a chip on his shoulder about the Pines twins." Ford watched the man's face turn scarlet in anger, and felt satisfied. "Now, I won't ask again. What do I need to sign for Stanley?"

The officer leaned back, arms barely crossing across his chest as a smug look twitched his lips upward. "Stanley is booked on charges of destruction of private property and public intoxication, so he'll actually need to be bailed out, and unfortunately the bail office doesn't open until seven."

Ford laughed in his face, much to Crampelter's dismay. "Excuse me? That 'private property' is mine," he said, slamming down the documentation of ownership, as well as the deed for the hanger the boat was housed in. "And I'm not pressing charges. As far as public intoxication? How is it 'public' if Stanley was on my private property?"

"Well, well-"

"Shut up and give me the papers to sign. You have nothing to hold him, and we'll be leaving one way or another."

Before Crampelter could argue anymore, a younger female officer pushed him out of the way and gave him one look that promised this wasn't going to be his night, and Ford smiled brightly at her apologies as she introduced herself as Captain Lily Downe and handed over a clipboard with highlighted spaces for signatures and initials.

"You know, I feel pretty bad about the damage that boat of yours took, she sure is a beauty," the woman said, shooing Crampelter back to grunt work.

Ford's eye twitched at the thought, chest heavy, as he scribbled through the first page of documents. "I have yet to see it."

She gave a nod with a halfhearted smile as she watched him. "I kind of figured with how quickly you came. But I'd do the same thing for my brother. And I think everyone in town knows the stories of the elusive Pines boys."

He cracked a smile at that as he handed the clipboard back and tucked his pen back into his pocket, surprised how their reputation had preceded them through the years. And yet...her dirty blonde hair that curled at the end, upturned button nose, wide green eyes. Ah, yes. "You're Thistle and Carla's daughter, aren't you?"

"On the money," she said with a smile, flipping through the papers to make sure it was filled out correctly, adding her signature when acceptable. Finished, she buzzed open the door, and Ford pushed it open, looking at her expectedly. "Come on, he's back here."

He followed Captain Downe to the holding cells in the back, signing in at a desk with a young officer that nodded for them to continue forward. Ford's heart ached seeing Stan sitting in the concrete cell, bars obscuring his face, hands clasped between his knees, head down. He could only imagine the memories a place like this brought up in his brother's mind. He'd only briefly heard the tales of his many arrests, but knew it couldn't be doing him any good in there. Not with a passed-out hooker two doors away, covered in her own puke, or the clearly homeless man in the cell over, sleeping soundly as if it weren't his first rodeo.

He walked toward the iron bars, boots heavy on the concrete, hand reaching out as the officer buzzed the door unlocked, and he swung it open shakingly. "Stanley, let's go."

Stan tensed at his voice, shoulders drawing inward, hands ringing together tightly. "Why should I?" was the whispered reply that seemed to echo in small area.

Because it kills me to see you like this, he thought to himself. Because it was making him itch being there, sweat dripping between his shoulders as he breathed a little too shallowly thinking about being stuck behind these bars. "Because it's time to go. Stanley, please," he breathed.

Stan glanced at him at that, expression unreadable, before turning his eyes back to the ground and shaking his head. "No."

Anxiety boiled under Ford's skin as his hand slipped on the iron bars and he felt helpless and humiliated as the young officer and Captain Downe watched them carefully. Helpless, because Stan simply wasn't budging; humiliated, because he knew what he had to do to prove to Stan he wasn't upset, and it made him want to run than do it. Images flashed in his head of blue bars that seemed to pulsate inward at each passing breath, enclosing tighter, of otherwordly metal chains and shackles circling his extremities and neck. Pressing his eyes close tightly he took a breath and stepped into the cell, knowing full well that the heavy door would bang closed and lock them both in together.

Stan's eyes darted upward at the bang, widened when he saw his brother behind the bars with him and the quiet panic he was trying to hide. "Ford?"

Ford stiffly walked to his brother and looked down at those wide eyes, forcing himself not to gulp air like he wanted, forcing his hands to still at his sides rather than claw up and down his wrist where recent scars hummed in memory. Stan turned away, fingers clamped tightly together - so tight, in fact, Ford noticed small circles of broken skin glaring angrily at him. Fighting the urge to run, Ford knelt down, trench coat fluttering behind him like silk rather than the thick material it was made of. He grabbed his brother's hands and pried them easily apart.

"Stanley, I'm not mad at you. I'm confused, for sure. And afraid that I did something wrong to set you off. If I did, I'm sorry. I don't want to fight. We can figure this all out in the morning. If you still want to be angry, I'll let you. If you still want to hate me, that's okay too. But just don't be done with me, 'Lee..."

Stan stilled at the childhood nickname he hadn't heard in years, that Ford often reserved for the moments he needed to feel special, the worst moments in his life that he had to be pulled back from the edge of breaking down, the nickname no one except his brother had ever called him. Without a thought, he threw his arms around Ford's neck and held tight, holding on for dear life as if he were going to be swept away. And when Ford's six-fingered hands encircled his shoulders, all the bad images faded, all the bad voices silenced, and he knew, at least now, at least here, he'd be okay.

...

The wind warred against them on the silent walk home, the smell of promised rain suffocating in the salty sea air as they hurried. Stan let himself be lead the short distance by his brother, grateful for the warmth that Ford's hand provided around his own. As long as he concentrated on that contact, on that rough warmth clasping his hand, he knew he was grounded and everything would be okay.

The rain started slow as they rounded the block and hustled the remaining steps to the hotel, and began pounding unrelentlessly as they crossed the threshold, slamming the door in the face of the storm. Stan shuddered as he lost that precious contact with his twin as Ford shook his coat off and rustled the raindrops from his thick hair, stilled as he saw the patch work done to the small gash on the back of his head.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, broken, hands shaking as the terrible image played before his eyes, pushing his brother, pushing Ford with such bitter hatred he had cracked the poor man's head open.

Those six-fingers landed on his shoulders, shaking him out of it, literally. "Don't do this to yourself, Stanley. It's fine, it's just a superficial cut, scalp wounds just bleed a bit more than average. It's nothing to worry over."

Stan wasn't convinced, but he nodded anyone, taking a deep breath and stilling the bubbling emotions within. Satisfied, Ford tugged at his hoodie, and Stan let him take it off and hang over a breakfast chair.

"Come on, let's get you showered, and maybe it'll help sober you up a bit," Ford said, dragging him toward the bathroom. Indignantly, Stan pulled his wrist away and glared.

"I'm not a kid, Ford, I can manage a shower on my own."

He didn't give time for his twin to argue as he stomped into the bathroom and shut the door, throwing a look at the lock he knew Ford had disabled the first night they made this room their home with a sad smile as he cranked the faucets on and listened to the rattling pipes spew water. He hated that he made his brother worry so much over his well being by not even doing anything, but he couldn't deny the looks he'd caught from Ford quietly watching, waiting, as if Stan was going to break at any moment.

And maybe he was, he thought to himself as he stripped off his clothes and stepped under the boiling stream of water that turned his skin pink from the heat. Maybe he was closer to the edge of bittersweet destruction than he had originally thought.

Despite the numbness that flowed through him from the alcohol, it hurt that he had injured his brother, because he knew that small flesh wound was nothing like the emotional wound he'd caused. Had seen it in Ford's shocked eyes when he'd accused him of wanting to erase Stan, had heard it in his strained, pleading voice before he had stomped out of their room. It was an image he couldn't get out of his head, Ford sprawled on the floor, hands stretched out, begging.

"Damnit, Stan, you fucking fool," he growled to himself as he lowered himself in the tub and sat under the stream of water that mixed with tears down his face, steam encircling him. "Why do you have to be so stupid?"

His mind warred. He was convinced that Ford hated him, saw the image clear of his genuine pleasantry at pulling the trigger of the memory gun, but it blurred and faded, showing an equally-stricken Ford trembling as he held the gun and averted his eyes as he pulled the trigger. He thought Ford had without a doubt wanted him gone forever, but the idea melded and changed at the torn voice of his brother calling him 'Lee. Had thought for sure that Ford blamed him for everything, only to be assured that he wasn't mad at anything.

Stan didn't know what to believe, didn't know who to trust, didn't know if his the whispered voices in his brain were right about Ford, or if what appeared to be happening in reality was. Then again, was this reality at all? Was he living now, or was his brain trying to tell him that was real life? He didn't know, didn't know how to find out, when the gleam of his razor caught his eye.

The idea popped into his head, and his body responded before he had time to register the blade slicing cleanly through the soft tissue on the inside of his arm. Blood ran stark against the pristine whiteness of the bathroom, dripping in rivulets to be washed away forever down the drain, and Stan let out a strangled sob. If he bled, then this was real, this was right, and Ford didn't hate him afterall.

...

Ford paced the small room, eyes darting to the bathroom every few seconds, hands clasped behind his back to keep from invading his brother's privacy. He hadn't known Stan was in quiet such a fragile place until tonight, until he had read the note, until he clung to him in desperation on the jail cell floor, until he nearly whimpered when Ford had let his hand go inside the room. He hated the idea of leaving Stan alone, but knew he had to give him his space to think, to come to terms with whatever the Hell was happening, and trust him.

Until he heard the smell muffled sob hat sent ice through his veins and had him throwing the bathroom door open.

It took a moment to register the scene, his brother sitting under the faucet, cradling a bleeding arm with something akin to joy on his face, a bloodied razor having clattered to the tile floor. It felt wrong and sent a wave of bile washing up his throat from his stomach as the grinning wound stared at him, pouring out blood in sick rivers.

"Jesus Christ, Stanley, what did you do?" he hissed, voice foreign to his own ears as he slammed the water off and knelt by the tub, choking down the sick feeling that made his hands tremble as he inspected the relatively clean laceration and wrapped a towel to the wrist to staunch the flow. He knew it probably just looked worse than it was because of the thinned quality of Stanley's blood due to the alcohol, but that was a small comfort to the reality of the situation.

"I had to make sure this was real," Stan said in a gravelly tone, caramel eyes staring intently at the bloodied towel that hid the wound.

"You didn't have to try to kill yourself to do that," Ford spat, not able to hide the anger that swelled, the anger at himself for leaving Stan to his own devices. Shit, what if Stan had nicked the artery, or cut deeper, or...

"I know I'm fucked up right now, but don't be mad, Sixer," Stan said, pulling Ford from the thoughts that swirled.

"I'm not mad," he said as he pulled his first-aid kit from under the counter and popped it open. "I'm scared, 'Lee. What if I wasn't here? What if you'd done more damage than you did? I don't know what's going through your head, and that scares me."

There, he'd admitted it. His greatest life's mystery may as well have been his brother, and, it appeared, he was doing a terrible job at solving it. He filled a syringe with colourless liquid and set it to the side as he took a breath, steeling himself, and unwrapped Stan's arm. He went about the mindless task of cleaning out the wound, dropping a few drops of liquid into the deeper portions to clot the vessels, not meeting his brother's eyes as Stan flinched away every time he dug peroxide covered gauze through the laceration.

"I didn't know you went to med school," Stan commented, hissing his breath through his teeth as Ford went about injecting lidocaine around the site, wincing at each little needle bite.

Ford shrugged as he tugged on gloves and went to work placing the sutures. "I never finished my fellowship. Medicine can be dismal, and I got bored. You see a hundred of the same cases in a week, thousands before anything remotely interesting or rare walks through your door. People's mysteries just weren't it for me."

But the skills remained in use during his time in the portal when survival was almost unheard of. He pulled the last suture tight and slathered the 3-inch laceration with antibiotic ointment before placing an absorbent pad and gauze wrap over it. Without word he cleaned up his supplied, placed the kit away, popped the needles he'd used into a water bottle to properly dispose of later, and offered Stan a hand.

"Might've been for the better, your bedside manner sure is lacking," Stan joked as he let his brother pull him up and hand him a towel. "You never were real happy around people."

Ford fought the urge to yell at him; here he was with a sizeable self-inflicted wound on his wrist, and he had the gall to joke? But that was Stan, afterall; a true conman in spirit, trying to trick him into feeling like this little incident could be breezed over. He almost appreciated the effort, if he weren't screaming in terror on the inside.

But he knew there was nothing he could do now about it, and slumped onto his bed at that realization. The rain outside pounded at the earth, thunder cracking overhead, grumbling through the atmosphere as Ford drew himself up to sit against the headboard and stare blankly at the pitter-patter of raindrops on the windows. He heard the squeak of the other bed as Stan crawled under the sheets, turning his back to Ford without a word.

Maybe that was for the best. All Ford wanted to do was yell, curse, shake his brother into reality, hug him, tell him it'd be okay and nothing and no one could hurt him, but then, how could he save Stan from himself? It seemed like an impossible task, because he didn't even know what was wrong, what was behind everything.

Another monsterous clash of thunder that rattled the windows and made the ground shake. It made a shudder run through Ford at the memories of the swelling tides, the foaming surf that twisted and mawed upwards, of the chilled rain that fell in sheets as he ran, and ran, and ran, seeing his brother standing precariously close to the edge of the pier...

Stan twisted and turned in his bed, before - grumbling in irritation - threw the blankets off of himself and padded the few feet between them, pillow grasped in his grip as his eyes implored. But it wasn't the grouchy old man he saw, but a young Stan in rocket-ship pajamas and a trembling lip poked outwards, fresh tears sparkling in those bright eyes, afraid as their apartment rattled along with the ocean's vengeance.

Like he did every other time his brother had stood at his bed, afraid, Ford pulled back the covers and let them fall as Stan crawled under and leaned his head into Ford's hip, threw his injured arm across his waist, and breathed in relief.

"It's not your fault, ya know," Stan finally said, face hidden. "I can see it in your body language that that's what you think. And I don't want you to worry, and I don' want you to be afraid."

Ford rested his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes, fingers seeking out Stan's hand under the blankets and squeezing. "What kind of older brother would I be if I didn't worry, Stanley?"

"The kind that's afraid of thunder and needed comforting," Stan mumbled, voice sleepy.

Ford's lips twitched at that. "Ah, still using that old excuse to use me as a pillow, huh?"

"Mmhmm," he hummed between a yawn. It had been minutes, and Ford had thought him asleep when he heard the whisper, "Ford?"

"Yes, Stanley?" he asked, eyes still closed, the warmth of his brother nestled against his side almost enough to suck him into slumber.

"Can you promise you won't leave me again?"

"I'll be right here in the morning, Knucklehead."

Ford wasn't sure the last time he'd taken comfort in the rain, letting the rhythmic pitter-patter lull him into slumber, wasn't sure the last time the bright flashes of lightning and rattling thunder were like a mother's caress. But with the weight of Stan pressed close, and their fingers locked, Ford felt like he were twelve again, and slept soundlessly for the first time in ages.