You are so right. Don't walk into bathrooms without knocking, guys. My brother's do this to me all the time- they NEVER knock which might mean I'm venting using this as a plot point, but whatever. Let's go: Tw: Stan is skinny and scarred.

Reference: Type in 'Murphy Stan pines' into your google bar and click images. Some skinny stan sketches should be the first thing there. They are the only one's I've found...(from the Murphy's law au)

Stan stiffened, hands still clenching to his shirt, the borrowed {were they borrowed? Ford said something about them being 'his' which didn't make much sense...} pants hanging off his waist at an angle off his frail frame. He glanced into the mirror to see someone standing in the doorway- shocked into stillness. He closed his eyes before he could recognize who it was.

It didn't really matter- he knew who it was. The only person in the house that would stand and stare rather than shut the door- already used to seeing him so...vulnerable. Although- maybe not quite like this.

And it wasn't the cowboy.

He clenched his eyes down tighter as light footsteps drew closer. They were slow, deliberate. So much so that Stan didn't have to look to know when Ford was right behind him. He was ready for it when a hand traced over his right shoulder.

There were scars on his back- more words and symbols torn into his skin- the ones he refused to think about. He blinked his eyes open when he felt Ford's warm breath against his back.

"Ford?" Stan still didn't move.

"Stanley...are any of these fresh?" Ford's question was the logical one. Stan grimaced- Ford was trying to keep his cool. He never really did the whole 'emotional' thing very well.

Well, it wasn't his right to make it harder on his brother who was already being so nice to him. He didn't mean for this to happen- was the lock faulty on the door? He could have sworn he'd locked it. He sighed.

"No. Well, I guess it depends on your definition of fresh."

Had he been looking {he couldn't bear to look Ford in the eyes at this point, even if it was just Ford's reflection} he would have seen how Ford flinched at what his words suggested. These weren't old news. They were...normal for him.

"Um...do they require tending?" Ford's hand had stopped tracing the lines skillfully carved into his flesh and was resting on his shoulder- where the bone was sticking through his skin. He could pass as emaciated at this point. The only thing that kept him from being nothing but bone was a thin, yet tough layer of muscle he managed to keep despite severe starvation and cold nights spent shivering in the darkness.

His face burned- the fact of it all catching up with him. He was so...small. He didn't even realize how bad it had gotten. He recalled Ford teasing him for being the fat twin- he remembered gloating that at least he had some meat on his bones, that Ford needed to eat more, to take care of himself.

Somehow those roles had switched and he had no idea when it had happened and it set his mind spinning. He began chuckling- the sound hoarse and dry- he still hadn't eaten or drunken much of anything- having fallen asleep at the table last night. Ford's hand tightened it's grip as his laughing set him bowling over, his hand keeping Stan upright. The laughter soon fell into harsh, dry coughs and he nearly fell to his knees. His eyes watered and his ears rang.

"Stanley!"

The coughing died down after a moment and Stan was forced to look up into Ford's face, which was drawn in concern that made Stan's stomach twist guiltily- he didn't notice the few tears that had escaped him, falling from his cheek to the ground.

Seems Ford was keeping it together better than he was after all.

Ford lifted his chin so Stan was looking at him. Using his thumb, he wiped away the tears and Stan realized he'd been crying. The thought made the hopeless feeling rise and swell inside and he stifled a sob.

"F-Ford. I ca-can't-"

Suddenly Stan was enveloped in warmth, his head buried into his brother's shoulder. He had to force himself not to react- not to lash out. This wasn't dangerous.

It didn't feel dangerous. And now somehow Stan was getting hugged for the second time in ten years and he couldn't hold back anymore- ten years worth of emotions spilling out of him. Ten years of loneliness- crushed hope- physical and mental wounds that would never leave. It all broke free like water from a dam.

The entire time, Ford held him close, swaying them both as they stood and when Stan couldn't stand any more he walked them both to the edge of the tub and sat there.

No more tears fell from his eyes- he didn't have enough water in his system for that. The only thing giving away his pain was the deep, conflicted, and confused sobs. How had this happened? How had he gotten so far from...civilized society to end up like this?

Maybe he wasn't capable of living after all. He was too broken- too busted up to progress from his fallen state.

The entire time he tried to sort through his thoughts, Ford didn't let go. The longer he was there the more aware Stan became and realized Ford was saying something, whispering comforts. His breath evened out further as he focused less on his pain and more and more on Ford's familiar voice. It was steady and smooth- unlike his own.

Even his voice was broken. He gritted his teeth as he tried to ignore his thoughts and tune into his brother's mantra.

"Shh...I'm not leaving you. Not again, not ever. It's going to be alright, shh. It's going to be okay, I swear, I'm not leaving, I promise. I-" He stopped when Stan started moving away. Leaning away from the embrace.

"Stanley?"

Stan glanced towards the floor and back up into his brother's eyes. Ford's eyes that shone with sincerity that made Stan's throat choke up again.

He'd really meant it. Stan swallowed, "Ya really mean those things, don't ya?"

Ford sat up straighter, "Of course I do! You- don't you believe me? I'm not letting you leave my side ever again!" Ford smirked and moved to punch his arm but stopped himself. What? Did he think he was too weak for even their playful banter? Stan instead pushed on Ford's shoulder, trying to lighten the mood- which elicited a smile from Ford. He rubbed his arm playfully.

"Ow," Ford snickered when Stan rolled his eyes.

"I know I didn't really hurt ya."

"Maybe you just don't know your own strength."

"Maybe ya-" Stan was cut off when they both looked up at the doorway.

Ford had left the door wide open. Stan's eyes widened- he still didn't have his shirt on and Fiddleford was right there. Ford was trying to mouth something to his colleague but Fiddleford ignored him, staring right at Stan with a blank look.

Time had seemed to go still- their very breaths slowing down. Moments passed, the air itself was filled with an intensity one couldn't really describe, thick and heavy with tension.

Fiddleford blinked. He shook his head- freeing himself from his trance. Before either of the twins could do anything Fiddleford scowled at them.

"Is this wha' ya been doin' instead ah eatin'? I know ya didn' eat las' night. Now you hurry up an' git down there ba'fore I make ya." Fiddleford, just as he was about to leave, turned back and gave them both a small smile before disappearing down the hallway. Soup for breakfast didn't really sound all that bad.

Stan was left stunned as he watched Ford's friends retreating back. The only who looked somewhat unperturbed was Ford who seemed to be used to his friend at this point. He moved his gaze from the doorway where Fiddleford had left from and glanced at his brother. He chuckled.

"I understand. He has...well. Really good priorities to be honest. He won't- I mean. He won't ask before you say he can..." Ford's eyes softened in sadness as his eyes flickered to the hand Stan had over his the scar on his shoulder.

If Ford knew anything about scars, he could swear that it was from a bullet.

Stan took a shuddering breath and sighed. His eyes downcast. After a second or so he looked up and grinned sheepishly.

"Uhh...yeah. Look, thanks for...everything, but can I take a shower now? I don't think sittin' here is gonna make me reek less."

Ford's eyes widened and he laughed. "Stan, I'm so sorry." Ford got up and made for the door, but turned back. "Just come downstairs when you're finished- I'm sure Fiddleford will already have some food for you. Then we can talk."

Stan's smile seemed to freeze on his face at the words 'talk' but he nodded and Ford left. Stan sighed. The worst thing about going uphill is that you can go downhill all over again.

He really didn't want that to go back downhill- he wasn't sure he could survive. Not again.

A determined glint found it's way to his eye and Stan made a promise to himself. No more going downhill. He would make himself useful. Get a real job- Stan refused to be a burden.

Not again.

Hehe.

Stan *eating a sandwich*: wha' I miss?

Ford *quickly hides story*: Nothing! Nothing at all- just some scientific research papers I was posting on this internet thing the kids showed me.

Stan *eyes narrowing*: Yeah, sure Poindexter.