"I fold."
"Steve Pinnington" grinned and stuffed the cash in his pockets as the other poker players grumbled, leaving the table.
He was doing pretty well tonight, he had to admit, but still he cast a wary glance at the other patrons. He knew his winning streak was drawing some attention, and while earning another fifty grand sure sounded nice, he wasn't about to get too big for his britches. No, it would be much safer to call it quits while he was ahead, and before anyone noticed the cards tucked up his sleeves.
"Are you Pinnington?" A gruff voice asked from behind, sounding none too friendly.
He turned and found himself face to face with a man at least a head taller than him, with three equally hulking men behind him.
"Yeah, what's it to you?" 'Steve' asked, his hand slipping into his pocket and gripping cold brass. He knew enough to recognize when things might get ugly.
The man raised an eyebrow. "I think ya have something that belongs to my son. About ten grand somethings."
A young man with a sour expression stepped from behind the other man and Stan's heart dropped as he recognized one of the men he had conned a few games earlier.
"Ah, Mr. Ross, wasn't it?" He said, smiling lopsidedly, silently hoping he could buy enough time to get the heck out of here. "Why the fuss? I won, fair and square."
It seemed lady luck was not his companion tonight.
The senior Mr. Ross grabbed him by the collar, lifing him high enough that his toes brushed the floor. "We can settle this, easy or hard." He growled. "Give back the money or we'll take it from your cold, dead, corpse."
Stan gasped, his breathing hitching slightly, but he maintained his smile, internally cursing. Ten grand was a lot to lose, but he considered the alternative much more costly. "Easy, there. No need to get violent. We can be reasonable about this. It's clear ya wanna talk."
This seemed to calm Mr. Ross slightly, and he loosened his grip, allowing Stan to support his own weight again, but he kept a firm hand on the collar of his jacket. "I'll ask one more time, Pinington. Hand. It. Over."
Stan nodded, slowly reaching into his inner jacket pocket. He withdrew the bundle of dollar bills slowly, handing it to Mr. Ross.
But, as he grimly thought later, his luck chose that moment to betray him for the second time as a card slipped from his sleeve, landing face up on the floor.
The patrons of the gambling hall within earshot all paused, eyes trained on the card and the source.
Stan felt his heart stop. He didn't wait to quickly shed his jacket in a practiced maneuver and run before anyone could register what had happened.
"Stop him!" Ross shouted, his men running after Stan.
Stan looked around wildly for an escape, his eyes resting on the exit on the far end of the room. He altered his direction in accordance, shoving past other people and even sliding over the top of the pool table.
"Don't let him escape!"
"Block the exit!"
Suddenly, a very large man stepped between him and his target, a club in his hands and a grin on his face. Stan didn't hesitate, pulling his brass knuckles from his pocket. A fist and a shout later, the man stumbled back, surprised.
Stan pushed bast, ignoring the pain in his hand and slamming the door open. His shoes clacked on the ground and echoed in the alleyway around him. He paused at the end only for a moment before running down the street.
"Get him!" He heard behind him.
There was a loud shot behind him, and a trash can next to him rattled. Stan's heart leaped into his throat.
Ross and his men rounded the corner, brandishing various small firearms.
Stan ducked into another alley as more shots rang out, only to discover it was a dead end.
"(Censored)." He breathed, before turning around at the sound of footsteps stopping.
Ross advanced, seething anger practically billowing from him.
Stan backed against the wall, swallowing. "W-we can talk about this, can't we? Ya seem like a reasonable guy, hey Ross? It's just a joke is all. I... I was gonna give it all back afterwards, I swear-..."
He was cut off as Ross gripped his shirt and threw him to the ground, sending pain up his wrist as he landed on it.
Stan winced, but the pain was forgotten when he looked up. The barrel of a pistol was trained directly at him.
"You picked the wrong family to con, Pinnington." The man looked at him, his face hard and emotionless.
"W-we can talk about this, Ross." Stan tries to say, lifing his hands in a gesture of peace.
"Nobody cons a Ross." Ross said, before squeezing the trigger.
Stanley screamed.
Stanford paced back and forth in the laboratory, his journal in his hand and a pen in the other, as he traced the lines of the portal design, carefully.
"Now, if we can figure a way..." He muttered to himself before smiling and writing something down. "There! In the morning, I'll have Fiddleford look these equations over and we can start-Agh!"
He dropped his pen, suddenly, his hand errupting into pain. The pen clattered on the floor, and then the room decended into silence as Stanford cradled his fingers, frowning.
Why now? Why couldn't he wait until some more convenient time to be getting injured again?
This was far from the first time this had happened, and while Stanford wasn't about to complain to anyone (that would be admitting weakness. He wasn't weak.) he still found it extremely frustrating to have his work interrupted.
Glancing at the clock, he saw it was well past midnight and he frowned for a different reason. He hadn't realized how late, or rather how early it had gotten. While he knew Bill encouraged him to push himself, he knew Fiddleford would worry if he had bags under his eyes in the morning, and may very well refuse to work until Stanford rested. It would probably be in his best interests to get an hour or two of sleep before morning.
Stanford sighed and moved in the direction of the elevator. He flexed his hand as the small pain faded, but a new one blossomed in his wrists. He ignored it.
It was infuriating to have to rest, he thought as he pressed the button bringing the elevator up. His muse was incredibly helpful with the work, but in spite of their best efforts, the project was falling behind. If only he had the same lack of the need to rest that Bill had. Then he could devote all his time to the study of the strange and the construction of the portal. Though, he thought as the elevator door opened at the top floor, he supposed sleep did do some good that no amount of coffee could replicate, so perhaps-...
Pain tore through his stomach. He was on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. His own screams deafened him, as he writhed, white hot spikes digging into his body. His vision blurred and his eyes screwed shut as he clutched at his stomach, as if trying to remove whatever caused this agony, but nothing was there. His senses were overwhelmed.
He had no idea how long this lasted. It could have been minutes or years, but finally, the pain began to lessen slightly. He became vaguely aware of a worried voice that was not his own, shouting his name.
Between gasps, he managed to open his eyes to see a terrified southern man crouching over him, pure fear on his face. Fiddleford was still dressed in his flannel night wear and his hair was messy as though he had just climbed from bed.
"Stanferd, can ya hear me?" He asked, his voice panicked. "W-what's wrong? What's goin' on? Come on, give me a sign, Stanferd!"
Stanford tried in vain to reassure his friend, but all he could do was gasp in short breaths and whimper, his whole body shaking from the pain. "Fidds..." He managed to get out between shuttering breaths.
"Oh, thank the heavens!" Fiddleford's face turned to relief, though worry was still the majority of emotion there. "Don't worry, Stanferd, I called an ambulance. They'll be here any minute."
Stanford wanted to tell his friend he wasn't the one who needed the medical attention, but his mouth refused to function.
He very suddenly realized the implications of the situation. Stanley was hurt, badly. Something terrible had happened.
Another stab of pain lanced through his leg and he couldn't hold back a scream. Fiddleford's worried shouts were drown out in the sound of his own voice. He couldn't handle it. Stanley was dying. He had to be because Stanford was dying. He was certain he was because nothing could hurt this bad and not be death. He was dying.
And then he fell into darkness.
"...no signs of physical injury whatsoever, but his brain is activating the pain receptors regardless."
When Stanford came around, he was distinctly aware of the throbbing in his stomach and leg.
"What d'ya mean 'no signs of physical injury'? The man was screamin' and writhin' on the floor when I found him!" Fiddleford's voice was gruff as though he hadn't rested, and frustration dripped from his words. Stanford tried to open his eyes but his eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we have no explanation, aside from the chance of a brain chemical imbalance. It's an extremely unique case."
"Is... Is he gonna be alright?"
Stanford would have been touched by the concern in his friend's voice if he hadn't been concentrating on opening his eyes.
"...yes, as far as we can tell. Doctor Smith has prescribed specialized pain medication in the event this happens again, but we'll know more when the patient wakes."
His eyes opened slightly, causing him to gasp at the bright light.
Suddenly, Fiddleford was in his face, wild sleep deprived eyes looking at him in concern.
"Fidds... What... What happened?" He croaked out.
"Thank Goodness... Stanferd, I heard ya screaming last night, after midnight. I found ya at the bottom of the stairs, gaspin' and shakin'. I couldn't get a thing out of ya for a good ten minutes. An' then ya started screamin' again and passed out cold."
Stanford searched his memory. It confirmed his friends words. "Oh..." He frowned. "I see."
"Mr. Pines, If you don't mind, I have some questions for you." The nurse said, holding a clipboard and a pen.
"Of course."
Stanford began to sit up but Fiddleford stepped forward worriedly.
"I'm alright, Fiddleford." He assured his friend. "This... has happened before, though never this bad."
Before Fiddleford could protest, Stanford lifted a hand. "I'll explain it all later. But now let's get these questions out of the way."
"Ya have a twin brother?" Fiddleford asked, sceptically, as he helped Stanford up the steps into the house again. "An' ya never mentioned him before?"
Stanford frowned. "I really don't want to talk about my family right now." He responded, wincing when he was jostled slightly. "The point is, I wasn't injured at all and I'll be just fine."
Fiddleford helped him into his bedroom, quickly shoving the books and papers off the bed and helping Stanford sit down. He sat on the chair across from him, his face still skeptical and thoughtful. "And... Ya aren't worried for him, at all?"
Stanford frowned. In the moment, he had felt a wide variety of feelings, including concern, but now, he concluded, it was the panic and fear talking. Why would be be concerned? Whatever his traitorous brother endured, he likely deserved it anyway. It was his own fault. "No. He's free to live his own life. That's no concern if mine."
Fiddleford watched him, his knee bouncing anxiously.
Stanford sighed. "I promise, I'll explain later. I just don't feel up to it right now. I'm tired."
Fiddleford's face turned concerned. "D'ya need anything?"
"Something to help me sleep would be nice." Stanford said, smiling slightly.
Fiddleford nodded, understanding. He quickly headed to the kitchen.
Stanford's smile fell, and he fished in his coat pocket for the small pill bottle the doctor had given him. He twisted it open and quickly swallowed one before stuffing it back out of sight
Fiddleford returned a moment later, two steaming cups in his hands. He handed one to Stanford and sipped his own.
Stanford hummed a thank you before sipping the sweet milk mixture. He had tried learning the recipe back in college, but he never had been able to make it like his friend could.
"Stanferd... Ya know you can talk to me, don't ya?" Fiddleford said, after a moment.
Stanford looked up, confused. "Of course, Fiddleford. Why do you ask?"
"Well," Fiddleford paused, searching for the words. "Aside from my Madeline and little Tate, you're the closest friend I got. I'd hate for something ta... I mean, If anything's bothering ya or hurting ya... You're like a brother ta me, Stanferd, and I'd hate ta see you hurtin'."
Stanford blinked. "I... Thank you Fiddleford. I... Feelings mutual." He said, awkwardly.
"An' I hope in the future ya feel comfortable talkin' ta me."
Stanford nodded, suddenly feeling a sense of guilt as a certain triangle muse came to mind. "Of course, Fiddleford. I... I hope you feel the same way about me."
Fiddleford nodded, smiling and standing, resting a hand on Stanford's shoulder before taking the empty cups and moving toward the door. "Try ta sleep."
Stanford nodded and sighed as his friend disappeared, looking down at his hands. The phantom pains in his stomach and leg were fading. He put his hand in his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the bottle. Maybe now with an effective way to block the pain he could actually get some work done.
He carefully laid down on the bed, closing his eyes.
Now Stanley wouldn't have any power over him, he thought as he drifted off. Maybe he could finally move on.
No one saw the bandaged figure drop from the hospital room window and limp across the street, heading in the direction of an old maroon El Diablo parked nearby, and no one saw him lean on it in pain before unlocking the door and driving away into the night.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and will yet review.
I hope everyone reading has enjoyed the story this far. There should be more soon, as I have most of the rest planned out from now.
And I'm sure everyone knows by now, but this is not a pairing between Ford and Fiddleford. They're just friends.
Please, tell me what you think!