I realized that it had been a while since I had written any truly gut-wrenching angst, and figured it was time to rectify that. But unlike my usual, I decided that I needed to torture Ford for a while. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
...I know, I'm a witch.
It was a beautiful, even glorious, summer day.
The sun was shining, the sky was blue, birds were singing, and the forest was lush and green.
And Stanford Pines's world had just crumpled into dust-his real world, not the one he'd accepted as his world for so long.
For so long he'd been sustained by a cocktail of self-righteous anger, stubborn determination, and coffee (whenever he could get his hands on it). It had burned inside of him like fire, helping him through college and the multiverse and Bill's torture-and in the end, it had not been what was needed to save the world.
Having that realization practically shoved down his throat was a flood of cold grief that extinguished all of it, and all that was left was...emptiness.
Ford noticed that Stan was looking around as he walked, with a wide-eyed, innocent wonder that it tore him apart to see.
You did that to him. It's your fault. And now your brother's gone.
Funny; he'd thought he'd be all empty of feeling by now, but just that thought was enough to show him that he still had some tears to shed. He forced himself to swallow them back, because the children needed someone to keep it together, and he might be the worst possible person for the job but they still were looking to him for guidance, so he didn't think he had much of a choice.
Stan didn't even recognize his own house; he just smiled that stupid innocent smile and called it a "real nice place."
"But when the summer's over, you give me my house back, you give me my name back, and this Mystery Shack junk is over forever. You got it?"
The memory of those words was like another knife in the chest; Ford could practically hear Bill cackling in his ear, asking, "Why the long face, IQ? You're getting exactly what you asked for!"
He didn't even try to rationalize that this wasn't what he'd wanted; he didn't deserve to defend himself.
Instead, as Ford watched Stan and heard the innocence of his questions, he wondered how he was supposed to live with this guilt for the rest of his life.
...But then again, maybe he didn't have to.
True, the memory gun wouldn't work, thanks to that plate in his head. But there were other ways of erasing your mind; special potions that could be brewed, recipes that he'd learned about from talking to some of the woodland creatures. Using the right combination of enchanted ingredients, he could strip his mind as bare as he'd made Stan's. And it was for far more than just the selfish ("You only care about yourself!") reason of not wanting to bear this guilt forever; maybe-maybe he and Stanley could start over like that. They could both have clean slates, and without all the old hurts getting in the way they could grow back together again.
Of course, a voice in the back of Ford's head tried using multiple reasons to point out what an irresponsible idea this was. If he did this, the children would have two amnesiac great-uncles to look after instead of just one; erasing memories was a dangerous process to undergo; this was just running away from his mistakes instead of trying to fix them. But had Ford been able to feel anything beyond the despondency settling around him like a cloak, he would have been perturbed to realize that he just. Didn't. Care.
The only thing that snapped him out of it was hearing Stan remember the pig, and then Soos, and continue to have more memories returned to life.
It was enough to stir the ashes of Ford's demolished psyche, and produce a fresh flame, gentler than the inferno he'd sustained himself with for all these years-more of a glow, really.
The numerous mistakes that he'd made were still his fault...but even if it wasn't a perfectly clean slate, maybe he and Stan could still have another chance.
Not perfectly happy with this ending, but this is mostly just a small writing exercise anyway, so oh well.