Now for the actual story! Enjoy my shameless messing with Stanford's head!


Chapter 1 – Sleepless (Among Other Things)

A week. Stanford hadn't left the lab in a week; except to make himself a cup of coffee ridiculously early in the mornings. No one had been able to talk to him in all that time or even seen him for that matter, and in the small glimpses of him that Stanley got from the night's security footage, he didn't seem to be in the best state of mind. He kept visibly glancing about, as if he thought someone was watching him.

This has been going on for too long, Stanley thought grimly as he switched off the monitor that played the tapes yet again. As much of a jerk he may be, I'm still worried about him. If he's not out by evening, I'll go down and talk some sense into him. Knock it into him, if I have to.


Evening came, and the six-fingered Pines twin hadn't shown his face.

That's it, Stanley silently fumed as he strode towards the vending machine and impatiently punched in the code that opened it up. Enough is enough. Damn egghead needs to get his head out of whatever dusty book he has it shoved in, and start looking after himself!

The ride down the elevator took seemingly forever, but a glance at his watch when he finally reached the bottom told Stanley that; in reality; it had only been a minute and a half. As soon as the door slid open, he strode out and into the room where the lopsided frame of the portal resided; dormant and foreboding.

"Stanford!" he called out. "Everything okay?"

When he didn't receive a reply, even more worry began to creep in. Had something happened? Was his brother alright? Looking around, Stanley walked over to the work desk in the corner and switched on the light to reveal the form of Stanford Pines slumped over the cluttered surface. He was muttering something; having seemingly not noticed his brother's presence. Scattered around the desk were several empty glass bottles, and empty mugs that must have once contained coffee before they'd been drained of their contents. It was easy to guess what was in the bottles.

"You've been drinking?!" Stanley demanded in shock. "Stanford, what the heck?!"

Stanford let out a startled grunt; quickly raising his head to look up at Stanley with weary, bloodshot brown eyes that bore deep, dark circles beneath them. A stale reek of alcohol and sweat pervaded the air around him, his face was deathly pale and sunken, and he was in desperate need of a shave if the thick coating of stubble on his chin was any indicator. His hair was unkempt and greasier than a portion of Lazy Susan's French fries (which was an achievement in itself); sticking out every which way; and his clothes were filthy. Stanley could only sum this up as; he looked like shit.

"Wha' was tha', Stanley?" he asked irritably, his words somewhat slurred; confirming the suspicion that he was drunk; meaning he'd been drinking recently. "Look, I'm working, so geddit over with."

Thoroughly pissed off; and if only a little worried; Stanley picked up one of the bottles of beer (one that still had some alcohol in it) and held it in front of his brother's face. "What the heck is this?" he interrogated.

"Beer?" Stanford replied sarcastically. "Why'd'you care?"

"Stanford, just how much have you had today?"

Stanford lazily shrugged, looking tipsier by the second, even though he hadn't had anything more to drink since Stan had entered the room. "One bottle, maybe two," he slurred. "And a half," he added after a moment.

Stanley groaned in exasperation and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Stanford, you are drunk as all hell," he muttered.

"Really? Huh. Never been drunk before. At leas' no' before you brought me back."

Sighing in exasperation, Stanley shook his head. Of course. Thirty years ago, Stanford wouldn't have dared to even look at alcohol, and he doubted that in the other dimension, he'd have any access to it, so of course he'd wind up getting very intoxicated, very quickly.

"Tell me you've been getting enough sleep, at least," he begged.

Something flashed through Stanford's eyes, but it was gone before Stan could discern what emotion it was exactly. "N-no," he murmured quietly. "I've just been workin'."

"You mean you haven't gotten any sleep at all?!"

Stanford's jaw clenched, and he averted his drunken gaze from Stan's eyes. "I need to finish working," he said blankly.

"On what, Stanford?" Stan challenged angrily. "Making sure nothing has gotten through that portal? You've been doing that for two weeks, and you mean to tell me that you haven't slept for that entire time? That's not healthy!"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You've been living on nothing but coffee, you look like you're about to pass out, and it's driven you to drink! You are nowhere near fine!"

Stanford opened his mouth to argue, but before he could say anything, Stanley had grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet; forcing a yell of outrage from him.

"What're you-?!"

"You are taking a break, Poindexter," Stanley snarled, dragging his brother out of the lab and into the elevator. "Whether you like it or not, you will get some sleep and a decent meal into you."

Before Stanford could protest, he'd been shoved into the elevator wall and held there whilst it slowly shuddered to life and took him up to ground level. In stubborn desperation, he tried to struggle against his brother's hold, but the exhaustion of two sleepless weeks and fatigue of so many meals missed began to take hold of his scrawny frame; making his attempts futile.

"You're not going back down there, you idiot," Stanley growled. "And that's final."

His twin let out a wordless snarl of indignation before giving up. "I hate you," he grumbled quietly; his words clearly tainted with alcohol.

Stanley didn't respond; instead keeping a firm hold on Stanford until the elevator stopped moving. Kicking open the door, he gripped his brother by the shoulder as he marched him upstairs.

"I thought the kitchen was-," Stanford began, only to be cut off by Stanley.

"You're showering, first," Stan grunted. "You stink of alcohol, and I swear; your hair is greasier than Lazy Susan's French fries."

Much to his relief, Stanford didn't argue, and when he was in the bathroom, he started removing his clothes one by one. Thankfully, the alcohol didn't seem to be inhibiting his motor systems, so Stanley didn't have to worry about him falling over and hitting his head. Well, he'd worry less, at least.

"I'll get you some clean clothes," Stanley grunted as he closed the bathroom door. "Try not to get a concussion."

Stanford rolled his eyes in annoyance as he slid off his shirt. Stanley was right; he was filthy, and now that that fact was brought into light, he felt disgusting. And not just the dirty kind of disgusting either. A bubbling feeling of loathing rose up in him, and he felt repulsed by his sheer incompetence. Had he really become that dependent on others in the thirty years he'd been gone? True, there'd been times when he'd gotten a little too engrossed in his research to the point where one of his comrades had to literally drag him away from it, but he didn't think it had gotten that bad.

He groaned in exasperation as his alcohol-induced headache spiked. He couldn't think about this now; he was better off just showering and getting this over with so that he could get back to work without Stanley bothering him.


Stanford was in the shower for almost an hour, and when he was finally out, he actually felt a lot better. He was still somewhat inebriated, but at least he was more alert than before. After donning the pyjamas and dressing gown, he considered shaving himself, but chose not to, on the conclusion that he did not want to accidentally slice his face open, and wearily trudged downstairs. By now, it was evident that feeling refreshed was very different from being physically rested. His body still screamed at him to rest, and his stomach's complaints for food had reached a point where they were painful and almost made him double over.

"Well, at least the smell's gone," Stanley joked as Stanford walked in. "Go on; dig in," he said; gesturing to a bowl full of steaming hot gumbo. Its tantalising aroma quickly found its way to Stanford, and he immediately started drooling. "Well, that's enough to tell me what you think of my cooking. I just wish you'd feel the same about me."

Opening his mouth, Stanford was about to respond with a barbed witticism, but instead, a harsh groan escaped him as the cramps of his stomach suddenly increased tenfold. This time, he really did double over in pain. Maybe he should have eaten more often.

"Stanford?" Stan ventured worriedly as he saw his brother fall to the floor. "Everything okay, Poindexter?" Anxious, he walked over and knelt beside him.

"I'm fine," Stanford growled, pushing Stanley away weakly. "Just… just stomach cramps."

Stanley frowned. "That's what happens when you don't eat for a week," he reprimanded.

"You sound like Dad."

"Shut up and eat already."

Grimacing, Stanford shakily rose to his feet and stumbled over to the table where he picked up his spoon and helped himself to a mouthful of gumbo. The moment he'd swallowed it, the full force of his hunger hit him, and he discarded the spoon, diving into his food like an animal. Alarmed by the sudden voracity of his brother's appetite, Stan stepped forward and tried to stop him from making himself sick; only to receive a low, bestial growl, telling him to back off.

"Jesus Christ, what's gotten into you?" Stanley implored, scowling in irritation when Stanford just growled at him again. There was a feral defensiveness in the man's eyes that reminded him of a cougar he'd found that was hoarding its kill. "I'm just trying to make sure you don't get sick."

Stanford regarded him warily; the wild animosity still simmering in his eyes, which were more bloodshot than before. A sound that seemed to be a mix between a grunt and a snarl left him, and he returned to eating in the same fashion as before, but thankfully at a slower pace. When he was done, he pushed the bowl away and accepted the tissue that Stanley held out for him to wipe his face with it.

"What was that all about?" Stanley asked firmly as he handed his brother a glass of water that he immediately chugged down. "Because no one's reacted to my gumbo like that before."

"Bad habit, I guess," Stanford mumbled quietly; refusing to meet eyes with Stanford's. "Quite a lot of a time, I had to contend with other predators for a decent meal; even when I was with the others."

"Others?"

"Some people I got to know back at the other dimension. Most of them acted like animals as well."

Stanley wanted to ask more, but the look in his brother's eyes told him that he didn't want to delve any further into the matter, so he decided not to pry.

"Well, look," he began, "you should get some sleep. Unfortunately, your room became Soo's break room, so… you're going to have to take my bed whilst I crash on the couch."

The darker-haired twin opened his mouth to argue, but after several seconds of what Stanley presumed as an impression of a lazy goldfish, he closed it and nodded in reluctant consent. "Alright."

"Good. Now get to bed; I'm gonna shower. You'd better be asleep when I get in there."

That same indiscernible emotion flickered through Stanford's eyes, and again, it was gone before Stan could make anything of it. Standing up, Ford slowly trudged out of the room.


When Stanley walked into his bedroom, he silently cursed when he saw that Stanford was still awake. His twin was sat with his back on the headboard and his knees brought up to his chest; chin resting atop them. His glasses were still perched on his nose – albeit at a slightly crooked angle – but his eyes were unfocused, as if he weren't all there.

"I thought I told you to get some sleep," Stan growled, catching Stanford off guard.

"I can't sleep," Ford murmured.

"Why not?"

Again, the mystery emotion flared up in Stanford's eyes, and Stan realised that he was seeing fear. "You have no idea how difficult it was to get even an hour of decent sleep in that place," he said gravely. "Everyone was paranoid that somehow we'd die in our sleep, and some of us got put through horrors that left us terrified of falling asleep, and if we weren't on the lookout for something that was on our tail then it was the nightmares that kept us up."

Stanley gave his brother a scrutinising gaze, trying to see if he was merely exaggerating as a means to be stubborn, but the dread he saw was genuine. He was legitimately frightened to go to sleep, even if his face didn't betray his true emotions. Sighing, he walked over to the bed.

"Move over, Poindexter," he grunted, surprising Stanford. "You're on my side of the bed."

Somewhat dumbstruck to the point where he didn't know what to say, Stanford hastily moved over; allowing Stanley to lie down on the bed. However, he didn't lie down himself.

"What're you doing, Stanley?" he questioned when he got over the initial shock.

"Sleeping, what else? If you're anything like you were forty years ago, you'll start tossing about if you have a nightmare. Chances are you'll kick me, and I'll be right here to calm you down."

Stanford seemed reluctant to share a bed with his brother, and perhaps a little repulsed by the idea, but he didn't argue or voice his displeasure. He was too drained of fight to do anything of the sort, so he resignedly lay on his side with his back to Stanley.

"Goodnight, Stanley," he murmured, pulling the blanket over himself.

"G'night, Ford," Stan returned as he followed suit. Taking off his glasses, he switched off the light and let weariness take over.

Stanford, however, wasn't finding it so easy to let the depths of sleep lure him in. The looming dread of nightmares was still enduring his constant reassurances that there was no reason for him to be so worried. Curling in on himself tightly, he shifted backwards ever so slightly, until he could feel Stanley's back against his. The warmth of another body was an immediate comfort to him, and he felt somewhat reassured that he wasn't sleeping alone. As much as he tried to act tougher than he really was, he was still vulnerable and emotionally unstable, despite what everyone thought.

When Stan's faint snoring gradually filled the air, the pull of sleep became even more irresistible. He felt his eyelids drooping, and even though the paranoid voice in his head desperately tried to get him to stay awake, it was no use. Succumbing to exhaustion, he felt himself slip into impenetrable darkness.