"Do you wanna talk?"

It was past midnight. The kids had gone to bed, but Ford had remained awake, so Stan stayed nearby just in case he thought about harming himself again. He hadn't gotten up from his chair since he'd broken down in the kitchen, and every few minutes he would find a new object in the room and stare at it blankly, eyes drained of all light…empty. Lifeless. Cold.

It had been 9 hours of Ford just sitting there, staring, unable to process the affection he was shown earlier. Worst of all, he was refusing to eat and drink. Stan wasn't exactly sure what to do. Should he be calling the police? A suicide hotline? A relative? His actions toward his brother didn't seem to be helping much, or perhaps at all, and he considered trying a different approach as his options were beginning to run low.

"You can talk to me, Stanford. It's okay," Stan said softly, sitting across from Ford. He frowned as his brother's eyes drifted slowly down to the floor. "Can you look at me?"

The room was quiet, the only noise being the wind swiftly brushing against the window. It still wasn't enough to explain the odd chill in the air. Stan began to wonder if Ford could feel it through his thick clothing, but the thought didn't stay for long, quickly replaced by a concern that Ford was too warm. He just needed to know why his twin was so incredibly still.

"You've been like this for hours…at least eat something. Please…you need some kind of proper nourishment. You know this isn't good for you."

"Why are you so concerned about me all of a sudden?" he croaked, locking his eyes with Stan's. "Why do I matter now of all times…when it's too late…"

Stan paused, stunned for a moment that Ford had talked, but quickly responded. "Too late for what?"

"Too late…for everything." His eyes looked dead. "There is so much that happened…so much I've witnessed…so much I've caused…someone should have stopped me. Someone should have killed me if that's what it would have taken. Somebody out there should have done anything in their power to keep me from doing what I did. I was foolish for so long, I made so many mistakes, and I needed to be stopped."

"What are you talking about? You're the smartest guy I know!"

"I'm fucking stupid, Stanley."

"Poindexter, the kids-"

"I don't care what the damn kids hear. What I do care about is their safety, as well as yours." A brief flicker of emotion crossed his face for a moment, but quickly faded. "That is why I wish to die. I've endangered enough people in my lifetime. I know now to prevent the worst before it happens."

"But-"

"You should be heading to bed, Stanley. It's late."

"No. You're the one who should be resting. Look at yourself, Ford. You haven't slept in days."

"I don't care."

"But I do."

"I'm not worth the concern."
"You are. You're my brother."

"Please, Stanley."

"Alright." Stan turned to leave and grabbed Ford's arm with a steel grip. "But you're coming with me. Come on. It's for your own good."

Ford did not object, but silently let his brother take him into…this wasn't his room. It was Stanley's. Stan made him sit on the bed, then took a seat beside him.

"It's all gonna be okay, Stanford. Now go to sleep."

Ford unwillingly laid down on the bed, then, although he fought hard against it, finally succumbed to the drowsiness that plagued him. Stan squeezed next to him on the bed and fell asleep with his arm around Ford, pinning him down so he couldn't get up and try to harm himself. That night, they both dreamt about New Jersey when they were close. When they got along. When they were happy.