Stan's mindscape was in turmoil.

It seemed like every negative emotion there was-Paranoia, Betrayal, Rage, Loss, Greed-had joined together, and they all were trying to break into Hope's room so they could destroy it. Stubbornness was the only one keeping them back (he had no idea where Joy had gone; he only really came out around the kids nowadays, and none of the others that usually took their side were much help in situations like this), and Confusion was running in circles around everyone, whispering in their ears and then taking off again before they could figure out what exactly he'd said.

And throughout it all, Despair lurked in the background, egging the attackers on with a kind of bleak, unhappy satisfaction.

He doesn't love us

We don't matter to him

We don't matter, period

We should just give up already

There's no point anymore

We're just trash that should have been thrown out years ago

The only spot of color left in the increasingly-darkening house was the weak, flickering yellow surrounding the door to Hope's room, and the orange glow of Stubbornness's eyes.

Stubbornness knew he could keep them back-he had to keep them back-until everyone calmed down and the kid could regain some kind of control. It was his job; he'd been doing it for forty-plus years, he saw no reason to stop now.

…It would just be a lot easier if he wasn't so tired, and if things in here weren't such a mess, and if he could figure out how to get some of Hope's strength back so he wouldn't have to keep doing this on his own-

Stan woke up.

Everything was a jumble in his fevered brain, and the only thing he remembered clearly was…the portal.

He needed to get back to work on the portal.

Without a second thought Stan heaved himself up into a sitting position-and for a moment despite his best efforts he was unable to move, as the room spun around him and his limbs felt like jelly-maybe his shoulder had gotten infected again, it sure felt like it had last time. But he clenched his jaw, and used the side of the bed to push himself up, shoving his feet into slippers and pulling his glasses on resolutely.

Nothing mattered but the portal.

It was harder than usual to get downstairs; everything kept spinning around him, and his legs weren't working like they were supposed to-dang knees kept trying to bend the wrong way. No matter, when he got downstairs he could sit in his chair and not have to worry about using them-ow, who put that wall there?!

Here were the stairs, nearly forgot which direction those were in...okay, steady, one at a time, just gotta-

Stan barely stopped himself from falling over them by grabbing the rail, and continued descending a little more slowly until he finally touched the ground.

Just three-two?-more flights of stairs...and hey, one of 'em's an elevator, that's not so bad, right? Just gotta go in here-

"Mommy, what's that?!"

"AAAAUUUGGGHHH!"

"AIEEEE!"

"ZOMBIE!"

...Did someone say…'crombie'? No, no, remember tha's not a word...wait, what're-what're all these people doin' here? Wha's goin' on?

Stan stumbled around, blinking in bewilderment and holding up his hands to shield himself against the cluster of strangers who had all started running and screaming; for some reason that just made them pull back from him even faster. A little frightened part of his brain wondered if the jig was up and they were Feds (hadn't that already happened, though?)...except he didn't think Feds would be screaming this much, would they?

He looked around blearily, until his eyes landed on the vending machine; thank Moses, nobody was getting too close to it, that meant it was safe, and Ford was safe-or at least that his secret was safe, he would be once Stan got back to work and got the dumb thing working again.

Eagerly he stumbled towards it-and suddenly a big gopher stepped into his path and said, "Whoa, hold up, Mr. Pines!"

What the-?!

"Geddoutta my way!" Stan tried to shove the gopher aside, and made a frustrated noise when it seemed to have no effect; instead the gopher grabbed his arm and tried to push him back instead, saying, "You gotta get back to bed, dude, you're not doin' so good-"

"NO! 'S not done, I gotta finish! Leggo!" Why weren't his limbs moving like he wanted them to?! He tried to push back, squirm away, punch, anything, but he felt as weak as a newborn kitten. He needed to fight, he needed to get past this thing and-

"I'll take it from here, Soos."

The sound of that voice froze Stan in his tracks, as did the feel of a hand on his shoulder, pulling him around to see a familiar face. A face that had him jerking away in a mixture of horror and rage at the stony, chiseled expression staring at him, probably ready to call him a loser or weak or an embarrassment again-

"Get away from me, ya sick cold b_stard!" he snarled, shoving at his chest.

To his surprise, it actually worked: Pa backed up. And maybe he was imagining it, but his expression looked kinda...taken aback. Huh, whaddya know, looked like something could break through his stone exterior after all. He shoulda done that years ago, maybe he wouldn't have been kicked out-

"You-you can't be here-you're dead! I'm glad you're dead!" It felt good to admit it; better than it should've, even Stan knew that, but he didn't care, he wanted this ghost or whatever to know just what he thought of him-

Oh holy Moses, Pa actually looked like that stung him a little. His jaw had dropped, and his eyes (had Stan ever seen his eyes before?) were all...funny-looking, with his eyebrows goin' up instead of down like they always did when he was lookin' at Stan. Whenever he'd screwed up something new.

"Stanley...please…"

He lifted a hand that actually seemed to be a little shaky-and this time Stan got a good look at it.

At the fingers.

His thoughts screeched to a halt.

"...Ford?"

As quickly as it had come, the mixture of fury and fear had dissipated, replaced by a swell of astonishment-and rapidly growing joy.

Stan's hands unclenched from their fists, and reached up to cup Ford's face and shoulder as he peered intensely into his eyes. Stan's own bright, feverish eyes were rapidly filling up and pooling over.

"But-how? I-I thought you were-"

"You brought me back." Ford took advantage of his new complacency to begin steering him out of the room; Stan was completely complacent to his guidance, which for some reason caused his stomach to twist even more painfully. "Remember? You fixed the portal, you brought me back. It took you thirty years, but you did it."

And put my plan of thirty years in jeopardy by creating-

Ford forced himself to squelch the thought and focus on Stan as he got him to the stairs and began the tricky process of getting him back up them; really, it was a miracle he hadn't broken his neck coming downstairs in his condition.

To his relief, Wendy appeared at Stan's other side and slung his other arm over her shoulder; he barely seemed to notice her presence. Ford gave her a small nod of thanks, which she reciprocated with a half-smile and a tiny shrug.

Once they were upstairs Ford took Stan the rest of the way under his own steam, and soon enough he was laying him back in bed and giving him the glass of water, along with some ibuprofen tablets.

Stan took them without fighting him (if he hadn't been so concerned about his high temperature and deliriousness, Ford might have enjoyed how complacent he had become), and without taking his eyes off him once. Then, as the covers were tucked back around him, he murmured, "Thought you were gone forever."

He sounded-and felt, Ford could sense it-absolutely devastated at the idea; in a perverse way it helped reassure Ford that Stan hadn't been addressing him...earlier.

"...I know." Ford put a hand to his forehead, frowning at the fever, which seemed even higher now; he would definitely have to put all else on hold until it was taken care of. "I thought I was too." He smoothed Stan's bangs back. "But you were too stubborn to accept that. You kept going long after I had given up, and you did it." He hesitated, swallowing a large mouthful of pride. "...And I'm an old fool who doesn't deserve the amazing, steadfast brother that you are."

Confusion flickered against his psyche, before Stan gave a little shake of his head.

"'m not amazing. 'm a worthless screw-up who can't do anything right."

The worst part of his statement wasn't the trickle of sadness that accompanied it. It wasn't even the deep undercurrent of despair.

No, it was the resignation that made Ford's chest feel tight and sick.

"You...you would break the children's hearts if they heard you talking like that," he said softly, around the fresh lump in his throat. It was certainly breaking his. "You're not a screw-up, Stanley. You just...have made some dumb mistakes, and-and paid for them far more than you should have."

He blinked in second-hand surprise as Stan stared at him, mouth agape.

"But you said-"

"I was wrong."

There was a possibility that in his delirious state, Stan wouldn't remember any of this. But Ford found himself sitting down and putting a hand under Stan's chin to keep him looking at him, and then finally taking the opportunity to follow Wendy's advice.

"I was-I was an arrogant little b_tch-" Stan looked like if he'd been taking a drink at that moment, it would have led to a particularly spectacular spit-take- "who didn't know how to let go of a grudge...and I was very, very wrong." He cupped Stan's face in both hands, hoping that if he didn't remember anything else, maybe he could remember this. "You are not worthless. Do you understand me? You were never worthless." Stan gave a little gasp, and his breath hitched; Ford pressed on determinedly, now that he had a better grasp of what he wanted to say. "I know I haven't given you a lot of reasons to believe that, and I'm not sure how to fix all the damage I've done to our relationship-" technically that they'd both done, but as his inner Wendy reminded him, this was his apology, not Stan's- "but...I would like to try. If you will be willing to let me."

Stan's response, after a moment, was to more or less flop forward into Ford's chest.

At first Ford thought he'd fainted, and his stomach twisted with worry-until one of Stan's arms squirmed free of the blanket, burying his fingers in the lab coat, and his shoulders began trembling, and a torrent of emotion threatened to overwhelm them both. Almost instinctively he responded in kind.

For the second time in less than an hour, Ford was cradling a member of his family. He hadn't realized how much he wanted to hold this particular one, though, until he was finally doing it. He didn't even care that Stan was probably getting tears and sweat and mucus all over his sweater, or exposing him to his germs. He just rubbed circles in his back, and leaned his chin into his hair, trying to keep him from falling completely apart like he was in such danger of doing.

To reiterate from one of my other works: making the Stan boys cry until they pass out is one of the staples of GF fanfiction. Argue with me about this if you dare.