#apologies if i missed tagging anyone i am very tired but it encompasses those of you that he brought closer to me

[septembersghost]

relief begins to creep in as my queue dissipates and i get closer to never having to be here again, but i want to say something directly to my elvis girls 💙

specifically: @joons, @thebohemianbelle, @lookingforrainbows, @ab4eva, @from-memphis-with-love, @queenncreole, @arianatheangel-girl, @headfullofpresley

i keep thinking about him writing: “If I wasn’t tough, I wouldn’t be here. If I wasn’t gentle, I wouldn’t deserve to be here.”

you are the kindest and most loving community of people, fans of anything or anyone, that i have ever interacted with, and to my mind (and heart), that speaks so directly to him. i’ve unexpectedly written so much about him now on this blog i am fleeing, and honestly it may be what i will most regret leaving behind. my spaces here are always a mishmash of fandoms, for better or worse, and with that has come joy, but also a certain amount of sadness and turmoil for various reasons. we certainly have that too, but it typically comes from the outside, whereas the core of what we have together is built on shared love and humanity. what strikes me about this is how closely it aligns to him and the things he believed and tried to enact throughout his life. if there’s a way to keep someone’s presence and spirit alive, surely it’s not only in remembering them, but in holding close to what made them vibrant and happy and faithful and beloved while they were here. walking that path a little to offer empathy and comfort, like we’ve all heard him say (paraphrasing slightly) - help each other along the way, no matter where we start.

i was lucky enough to be friends with a couple of you before he gleamed into my life more fully, while others of you he brought to me, and i've been part of this community for less time than i have many other spaces here, yet as it's played out, you're the ones who've reached out to me, you're the ones who've shown compassion, you're the ones who've treated me like a person and made me feel safe. it seems like topsy-turvy land in that the things i initially came to this blog for i cannot abide interacting with at large anymore, that things i cherished have turned to ash, but in that space of loss is something else. a voice and strength and spirit.

he gives so much light to this world, and you reflect it. he, and therefore you, have been my greatest blessings this year.

he would be so proud of all of you and would love you tremendously. as i do.

[badonkodank]

Better Kept Secret

ao3

Chapter Four: Jumbled Minds Are All but Compliant

The silence encompassing their trek back to the motel was accompanied by the soft chatter of Stanley’s teeth and the squelching of their wet shoes on pavement.

It was excruciating for Ford.

Every time Stan looked back at him he tensed, waiting for the man to say something that never came, though he could practically see the half-formed words on his tongue. It did nothing to help with the anxiety pulsing in his veins, and before they got to their room he’d had to endure concerned looks from the lady at the front desk, who’d asked if they wanted her to call the hospital and Ford had had to tell, “Yes, but not for us. There are men at the docks who we found with some serious injuries.”

He didn’t wait for a reply from her before he walked away. The last thing they needed in that moment were people they didn’t know touching them… or maybe that was just him.

When they stepped into their room that silence became less of an unsettling tag along, and more a crushing force that had Ford fighting the urge to run or hide in the bathroom. He reminded himself that he couldn’t since there was nobody else there to take care of Stanley.

The temptation was still there, though, and he had to ignore the small space he stood less than a foot from when wetting a washcloth. Stan sat on the edge of the nearest bed and Ford focused on the task at hand, needing to do something other than think about his brother. Some things were harder to fight against than others, and in this case, the instinctive need to escape coursing through him was one of them.

It wasn’t like Stan had never seen him run off to hide before. He’d probably understand… He knew how the small, dark hiding places felt safer, because nothing could get Ford in there.

While nothing was coming for him this time, and he knew that, Ford also knew he would feel the slightest bit better if he could just go in there, turn the light off and breathe. Maybe it had to do with how cold he was despite having turned the heat in the room to its highest, but breathing was becoming increasingly difficult as the minutes passed.

Ford shook his head, using the motion to rid the thoughts and regretting the action when he felt a sharp sting, a too late reminder of the bullet graze he’d received during the fight. He’d have to deal with that sooner rather than later.

Stanley first.

“Right,” Ford snapped under his breath, the reminder that he wasn’t the most important one making him pick up the pace in getting what he needed to bandage Stan up. It rankled the man to realize how, even now, the first response he had to injuries was to help himself before others.

He had been getting better, having actually remembered to ask the twins after Weirdmageddon if they’d been hurt before dealing with his own injuries, but it was still a problem- even if everyone insisted that it was all right for him to react that way, given the length of time he’d spent alone.

Ford knew he shouldn’t berate himself for the habits he’d picked up in the portal but that didn’t stop him from doing so; maybe it had been survival of the fittest a lot of the times out there, and he had to look out for himself before anyone else, but that wasn’t the case now- and dammit you need to stop. Focus on him.

Twisting the hot water off, more forcefully than necessary, and wringing the towel as he grabbed the first aid kit, Ford knelt in front of Stan. He watched for any signs of distress in his twin that might have been caused by his close proximity, and when he was met with nothing but the frown of a brother who’s gaze flitted from his shoulder to the side of his head, he got to work.

Ignoring the staring and ache in his own tired, injured limbs, he pushed his coat off Stan’s shoulders, moving on to peeling the material of the next layer of clothing away from the wound.

Stan shifted then, denying access to the cut and Ford stiffened in response, a million and one reasons as to why he might have done that already running through his brain, none of them favorable.

“Ford, you look worse than me. Do you first.”

His brother’s voice was hoarse and he sounded exhausted, but Ford would have to have been deaf to miss the concern lacing his words, as well as blind to miss the way he kept staring at his injuries, one of which Ford could feel was still bleeding, albeit at a sluggish pace. He rolled his eyes and ignored the guilty feeling blooming in his chest over why exactly he had those injuries in the first place, because of course Stanley would focus on his pain before his own, he always had.

It was a touch frustrating for him, too. Why couldn’t his twin put himself before others? Why couldn’t he be the idiot Ford had called him so many times before? It would’ve made sense for Stan to be selfish, considering he’d been dealt such a shitty hand in life and had had to learn to fend for himself from such a young age -something Ford occasionally wondered if he resented him for even when he insisted it was fine.

But no. Here he was, still worried about someone else. It made no sense, and yet all the sense in the world, because… that was Stanley. The one who’d wasted (though he would say “spent”, because “Saving you wasn’t a waste.”) 30 years of his life just to bring him back; the one who’d been willing (if also rightfully pissed and hurt) to give the Shack back after having called it a home for those aforementioned 30 years; the one who sacrificed his very being to save the world- and incidentally, Ford’s life.

Stanley would rarely put his own needs before him, and while Ford would usually let him because there was no use fighting him on it (especially in the past), he would be damned if just this once he didn’t get the care he needed first.

Ford sighed aloud then before grabbing his brother’s shirt and pulling him forward so he could go back to his inspection, ignoring Stan’s half-hearted protests and countering them easily.

“No. I look worse than I actually am. Now shut up and let me do this.”

The tone of finality to the words had Stan quieting immediately, which was honestly not something Ford had been expecting, but was relieved by nonetheless. He’d been waiting for his twin to say something, even if it was just a snarky “yes mom” comment thrown to frustrate him. He said nothing, though, and Ford bit his tongue to keep from questioning the reasoning behind that.

He’s probably just tired. Yes, he was tired earlier so that makes sense. And that had been before having the ever-loving hell beat out of him. Plus he almost drowned- actually it takes 7 to 8 minutes to drown so he probably still had 4 minutes left which isn’t “almost”- shut up, you know what you mean.

Yes, Stanley just needed to be patched up, warmed, and allowed to rest. He’d be fine and back to his endearingly annoying chatty self once he’d gotten those three important things. Stop trying to read too far into things.

His brother stayed quiet for the duration of the ministrations too, only hissing or grunting in pain whenever Ford had to apply rubbing alcohol to the open wounds, something for which he had found himself apologizing for every time it happened. Even when he’d finished putting Steri-Strips along Stan’s arm and temple and wrapped them -along with his bruised knuckles- to protect from bacteria; even after he’d gotten ice on his brother’s eye and cleaned the blood from his face, something he was surprised Stan let him do because it brought them even closer, Ford felt awful.

Because, if he had just kept silent on the issue at the bar Stan never would have gone outside and he never would have been attacked- never would have been hurt. It tore Ford apart, especially when he knew there was more to the damage than what he could see. There were more bruises underneath the slowly drying shirt his brother was insisting he could change out of by himself, but more than that, there were bruises on his psyche. He had no doubts about that.

Stan had thought it was over, that he’d remembered everything -hell, Ford thought he’d remembered everything- and he’d certainly told the kids and local reporter at home as much, so to find out that that wasn’t the case, and then to be hurt during an episode…

The worst part was it all could’ve been avoided. No, scratch that, the worst part was that he wasn’t sure how to help his brother now. Being physically affectionate to comfort was where he excelled; in the emotions and feeling aspect of life, Ford knew he was woefully lacking any proper skills, even when regarding his twin, the one person he knew almost as well as himself (better than a long time ago). Having no idea what to say or do had never been a feeling the man particularly enjoyed, which was why Ford stood when Stan disappeared into the bathroom to shower and get into dry clothes and began pacing, attempting to assemble a plan of action... If for no other reason than to settle his nerves that still crackled with the static of anxiety.

He only got a few steps before Stan was peaking out into the room again, eyes narrowed in a disapproving way that made Ford pause. “Wh-”

“You’d better be… not bloody when I get out.”

The door closed once more and Ford blinked. That… hadn’t been what he’d expected. Granted he hadn’t been aware he’d expected anything to begin with, but regardless.

With attention drawn to his appearance, though, he looked down at his hands, noticing how they were now covered in Stan’s blood along with his and the others’. He winced when he acknowledged that to his brother, who could see the rest of the damage, he probably looked appalling.

Not only that, but he was also still wet, something the warmth of the room had helped him to forget. Before Ford worried about his clothes, though, he knew the bullet graze in his scalp had to be dealt with; it was probably what upset his brother the most.

Stepping over to the mirror with the supplies he needed, Ford got to work, letting his body take over the practiced procedures while his mind wandered so he didn’t have to stare at the mess that was his appearance.

Not that his mind was taking him anywhere he particularly wanted to go either, bringing up the conversation he’d had with Stanley earlier that week, the one that had sparked the argument that had put Ford on the defensive for several days afterwards.

Stan had asked about what sorts of things Ford had done in the Portal because he’d wanted to know about that part of his life. He had denied him access to that information... To protect him, obviously. That was why he’d kept it from him.

Or… had it been to protect himself?

The thought burned but Ford had to admit it held weight to it; he’d hated who he had been beyond their dimension. What he’d had to become to survive wasn’t pretty by any means, and he didn't want to be like that anymore. He didn’t want to have to remember. He’d thought he’d never have to if he could only keep it from Stan.

Yet he had become that person again, and it was terrifying how quickly the switch had been flipped too. How a few well placed threats and acts of violence against someone he cared for had dragged that angry wild animal out, and thrown it violently back into his body.

And Ford had thought, truly believed, he’d had it under control- that after almost half a year back in his home dimension he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. He’d kept that part hidden when Bill had been torturing him, for God’s sake. He’d been confident that it would never see the light of day and nobody would know it existed, but now… now someone did know. The one person who had known something was amiss but still hadn’t been able to piece together what it was.

Well, he no longer had to guess.

That thought alone made Ford’s breath hitch in his chest. Not only did Stan know now, but he was being quiet about the whole ordeal. That only served to put him more on edge even as part of him screamed that of course he would be subdued; he’d just watched his brother almost kill someone and, at the very least, severely injure several others, and what would be weird is if he’d chatted as if nothing was wrong.

And things were wrong. So very, very wrong, for so many different reasons that Ford didn’t know which one he was supposed to start with. Should it be the part where he’d ignored his instincts all day and allowed anything to happen to his brother at all? Should it be the part where he’d let his fear get the better of him to the point he’d lashed out? Should it be the part where... where he’d taken some kind of solace in it? Missed it even?

Yes, there had been something calming about the way things had progressed, how the cries of pain quickly faded to nothing when he’d landed a perfect blow and driven them from the conscious plane of existence. There had been something satisfying about the crunching of bone, and the feeling of knowing lives were at his mercy, that if he chose to twist something the wrong or right way their miserable souls would cease to exist. There was nothing like it.

Perhaps that was what disturbed him more than anything: That while he never wanted to be like that again and he’d hated the circumstances that had forced him to do it, had hated what he’d done… he hadn’t necessarily hated how it felt.

Shame seared across Ford’s face, stiflingly hot, and he pulled the bandage he’d been working around the gash in his shoulder tighter than necessary, letting the pain pull him away from the thoughts that were only serving to dig up feelings of self-disgust, letting it ground him. Ford cursed the way his fingers shook when he secured the material and grabbed the edge of the counter to make an effort to still the tremors that he could now feel running through his entire body.

No. He grit his teeth and shoved away from the linoleum surface that was doing nothing to help his efforts. He needed something else in order to stop it, something familiar but stronger than the small bites of pain he could achieve by pulling his hair and prodding at his injuries. He needed a distraction.

Now. Find it now. Stanley can’t see you like this. You need to calm down. Now.

He was at a loss as to what he was supposed to do until he spotted the duffle bag atop the desk by the closet, remembering how Stanley had asked that he be “not bloody” when he got out. He jumped to grab clean clothes; it seemed the easiest way to force himself into a mind numbing lull where he wasn’t thinking about anything aside from the task at hand, not even the reasons he was doing it.

Along with that, he didn’t exactly want to undress in front of his brother- once had been more than enough, and he was grateful Stan had been decent enough to not ask about what he’d seen, or even mention it.

Ford rubbed at the burn scars on his wrists at the thought and sighed quietly before proceeding to pull his favorite maroon sweater over his head, effectively hiding the damage Bill had done. Damage that you deserved.

Much like he deserved the silence from his brother that was driving him up a wall...

Enough. Nobody thinks that except you.

Well, that had been true yesterday, but now he wasn’t so sure. Now that Stan knew what kind of person he was- had been ( yes… had been… ), would he view him differently?

Would knowing what he was capable of doing render his brother incapable of trusting him?

Would he now understand why he said he deserved the abuse inflicted upon his person?

Would he tell him he now agreed, that he deserved blame for his mistakes?

Would he stare at Ford with the same horror and contempt other people did and tell him he should never have saved him?

Would he want to leave?

Would he never want to see his face again?

Ford paled at the possibility of such a thing happening, biting his lip when it began quivering as he fumbled with the button of his jeans for longer than he should have.

If Stanley left him alone, he didn’t think he’d be able to function. He’d gone so long without companionship, and now that he had it once more the thought of going back to having no one was unbearable.

After all those years of sleepless nights, of running, hiding, fighting, killing, and so much more, Ford finally had someone, and if he disappeared… it hurt to consider- or maybe it was just the pressure building in his chest causing the pain.

The blurring of his vision was as abrupt as it was unwelcome and Ford blinked rapidly in a vain attempt to rid the tears, bringing a hand over his mouth in the same moment to muffle the sharp inhales escaping his tight throat. He couldn’t be without Stanley anymore; sometime after Weirdmageddon his brother had once again become his anchor and he wasn’t ready or willing to let go. After enduring the pain of thinking he’d lost his twin forever, the possibility of going through it again and this time knowing it was permanent… he couldn’t do it.

Ford didn’t want to be alone anymore. He couldn’t be.

Being alone meant danger. It meant silence that stretched for hours at a time. It meant days going by where he said not a single word. It meant he was unwanted, unloved, undeserving of companionship, and it meant he’d have to experience that crushing, unbearable loneliness again. And he couldn’t do it. He just… he couldn’t.

Please, don’t make me…

If anyone had asked him about the silence beyond the door before everything with Cipher had gone down, Stan would have told them it was just how Ford was, to not be bothered by it, but now? Now the silence outside the bathroom was concerning; he had made it habit to talk with him when Stan couldn’t see him in order to let him know he was still around.

It was something Stan had often freaked out about for awhile after he’d begun regaining his memories: That he’d wake up or turn around to find out it had all been a crazy dream and his brother was actually still stuck inside the Portal.

While he could understand why Ford wasn’t up for talking then, it was strange that his twin wasn’t even bothering to send him an occasional “are you alright in there?” type inquiry. It made him worry about what was going through the big brain of Ford’s, and he dressed as quickly as he was able, wanting to check on him as soon as possible.

Something had been off about his brother since the docks, and while Stan would bet a million dollars it had to do with what Ford had done to… well, everyone, he wasn’t sure why.

Everything Ford had done to the men before Paolo was a blur to him. Stan had been seeing and hearing and feeling two different realities and for the life of him, he still couldn’t figure out which had been which, even when he’d caught Ford in the middle of it. If anything that had made everything more confusing.

Once the ground had fallen from underneath him to be replaced by freezing cold water, though, the memory had halted, or ended (he didn’t care which it was), and… well, he didn’t want to think about how the sensation had been similar to being trapped in the trunk of a car...

He shuddered when he remembered how dark things had suddenly gone in the water, how he hadn’t been able to breathe, and quickly directed his thoughts to, while unpleasant, still decidedly safer areas. Like how he’d been so out of touch with reality that he hadn’t realized he’d lost consciousness until he’d been opening his eyes to find his brother helping him sit up.

But then Ford had turned away and the relief Stan felt at knowing they were alive faded before it could completely form. The look in his brother’s eyes when they’d locked onto Paolo… he’d never seen him look at anyone like that… like many looked at him, like they were the scum of the earth and needed to be gotten rid of.

Ford’s anger had always been cold. Even when he was shouting and punching, there was never fire behind what the man did, but ice, unyielding, frigid and calculating. However, it was never hot. Never like Stan’s.

Yet there had been some sort of change in Ford when he’d gone after Paolo, and suddenly it had been fire in his brother’s eyes; flames of pure, unadulterated fury that made Stan want to flinch back as if the anger had been directed at him.

And then the beating had started and Stan hadn’t been able to take his eyes away as he’d watched Ford break what had to have been nearly every bone in the mob leader’s face. It had been horrifying, of course, but violence was something Stan had gotten used to over the years, so what his brother had done certainly was not the goriest display he’d laid eyes on.

Still, Stan knew if anyone were to ask, he would rank it the worst by far, for the sole reason that he was the cause of it.

People had used him as a punching bag on numerous occasions before and taken pleasure from it, but if someone had told him one day he would watch his big brother -his sweet, dorky, nerdlord Ford- protect him by hurting someone, and that he’d have that same glint of satisfaction in his eyes, he would’ve laughed in their face.

Yet that was exactly what he’d witnessed, and Stan could still hear the snarl that had come from Ford’s mouth before he’d grinned in a way that was reminiscent of the time Cipher had possessed Dipper, his hands moving down to strangle the man.

Stan’s throat was still sore from screaming at his twin to stop.

Even as the man’s pulse pounded at the memory, he couldn’t help but feel impressed with the speed and efficiency in which his brother had done everything. Every move had seemed well practiced, instinctual, and while that fact was unsettling, it also also interested him; that was a side of Ford he’d never seen- hell, he hadn’t even known it had existed, and it had been terrifying, but not for the reasons most people would’ve thought.

It was terrifying because up until that point Stan had thought the only combat skills his twin knew involved usage of guns, and he’d assumed that was because Ford didn’t like hand-to-hand and wasn’t all that strong.

Sure, his brother had been able to subdue him when they’d first fought (if that could’ve been called a fight) after he’d come out of the Portal, but Stan had always attributed that to his being tired out after escaping government custody, running all over town, and getting thrown around by the gravitational anomalies beforehand. He’d never considered Ford actually could have been that strong, especially when the last time they’d truly gone at it the man had been light as a feather and about as powerful.

It had been terrifying because Stan knew his brother had done that, become that, to protect him. It was the knowledge that Ford wouldn’t hesitate to severely harm another human being if it meant keeping them away from him. It was the fact that he hadn’t realized how protective of him Ford was; how much he was willing to do for him. It was insane.

What Ford had done had been absolutely insane, and stupid, and dangerous… and there was something so terribly comforting about that.

The only problem was that Ford had been acting off ever since he’d come out of his fight mode and calmed down. He was jumpy and on edge, and Stan could only assume that had to do with what had happened… and yet… he had appeared perfectly in control of the situation- so much so that Stan wasn’t sure Ford had been completely himself. He had still been there, sure, it wasn’t like something else had taken over his body, but there had been a change. Maybe that was why he was having trouble calming down. After all, Ford wasn’t usually so violent towards people.

Stan knew it was his job to make sure that didn’t get to Ford, though.

The man took care when opening the door, being as quiet as possible to keep from spooking his brother, but got it no more than halfway before abandoning that plan altogether and practically ripped the thing off it’s hinges when he saw Ford.

His twin had himself backed into the space between the closet and desk, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he held one hand over his heart and kept the other glued to the wall behind him, eyes blown wide with panic. Despite how warm the room was he shook like a leaf, and Stan felt his stomach twist painfully when he took it in.

The sight may have been familiar, but it was by no means common, and it worried Stan to no end, not knowing what brought it on or how long it would take him to recover. In some cases it took only a few minutes, but there had been a time or two when it had taken hours to get Ford to completely calm himself.

The only factor that remained constant when it happened was that he wanted Stan simultaneously right beside him and far away. Stan could only ever hold out hope for was a speedy recovery. That always had him wondering if Ford had similar thoughts when waiting for him to come back after a memory lapse.

“Ford?”

His brother made no move to show he’d heard him and Stan winced at the lack of reaction. He couldn’t decide if that was a relief or not, because while he usually preferred “deaf Ford” to “violently skittish Ford”, it was still unsettling.

Stan got closer, keeping his movements slow and subtle so when Ford did see him, even if he didn’t register his being there, he wouldn’t be startled.

“Ford? What’s wrong, buddy?”

Ford shook his head roughly in response and Stan bit his lip, unsure what to do with that; if Ford wasn’t being skittish and could hear him, it didn’t bode well at all. Mute Ford was always difficult to help.

That didn’t stop Stan from getting close enough to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder while the other latched onto the six fingers over Ford’s rapidly beating heart. His brother reacted by jerking back in surprise at the contact, smacking his head against the wall as a result. Stan grimaced, all too aware how much that had to have hurt, given the cut in his head, and he gave his twin’s hand a small squeeze, the comforting gesture making Ford slowly look up.

“Easy,” Stan said when his brother opened his mouth to say something and a squeak came out.

His breath still came in short wheezing gasps and Stan tightened his grip on Ford’s shoulder to help ground him as he started talking, sure to keep his voice low, a lull to coax his twin’s breathing into slowing down and evening out.

“Hey, hey, easy, Ford. You’re okay. Just breathe, I’m right here.”

The words had the desired effect, Ford nodding and closing his eyes before he forced himself to take several measured breathes. Stan felt relief flood his system when his brother’s chest rose and fell to match his own decidedly slower breathing pattern and he was no longer afraid his twin would pass out.

The solace was short lived, though, when he noticed the tremors still persisted, and he could see tears that seemed to be staying put in Ford’s eyes through sheer willpower alone. He cursed himself for not seeing those sooner.

It wasn’t abnormal for Ford to have moments when he needed someone to bring him down, but it had been a long time since he’d been so distraught he would cry, and the knowledge made Stan swallow the lump forming in his throat.

“Hey, shhh,” Stan pulled Ford forward gently. He could think of nothing else to do, and when his brother didn’t resist and even dropped his forehead onto his shoulder, Stan felt a small weight lift from his chest as his heart cheered him on... Even if he was pretty sure Ford only did it in order to wipe the water from his eyes and still retain what he had of his “dignity”. Stan hated that word. Who the hell got to decide what was dignified and what wasn’t?

Of course, under any other circumstances Stan might have joked that the nerd had no dignity to begin with. This time he didn’t to say anything. Ford’s reactions thus far didn’t seem like a step backwards, and that was all he could’ve really hoped for at the moment. He didn’t want to ruin it.

Stan wrapped his arms tighter around his brother, rubbing slow circles in the older man’s back to try and stop the shaking in the way he knew worked from their youth. He felt Ford tense under his hands and he resisted the urge to shake his head and force his brother to relax again.

“I’m right here, buddy, shhh.”

It didn’t feel like much time had passed before Ford finally stopped trembling, but Stan wouldn’t have been surprised if it had actually been quite awhile.

When Ford pulled out of the embrace looking somehow worse than before, however, he wished it could have been longer. The way his brother stood, hunched slightly, made Stan want to rush him to the hospital; it was so uncharacteristic. And the tears he’d refused to shed only served to make his eyes red and the bags under them look twice as large.

What made matters worse for him, though, was the fact that Ford was staring at the floor, then the ceiling, the window, everywhere except his face. It did nothing but make him look like the younger version of himself, the one who was ashamed of his birth defect and intelligence. It made Stan want nothing more than to shake his twin out of it.

He was all too aware of the embarrassment one suffered after having an attack in front of someone, but that didn’t make him any less concerned. Ford had had them in front of him before and although the first time had been similar to now, the others had been okay, because he understood, so the fact that his brother was reacting as if this was new made him pause.

It wasn’t until Ford started backing away towards the door, grabbing his boots off the floor as he went, that Stan said anything.

And the words that came out had him wanting to kick himself as he knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer, if he got an answer at all.

“Ford… what’s wrong?”

“N-Nonspecific excuse?”

Stan blinked in surprise at how strained Ford’s words had come out, how small and almost afraid the question had been delivered, and he found himself suddenly at a loss.

He hadn’t expected his brother would say anything, and now that he had, Stan found words would not work for his mouth.

On one hand he wanted to say no, that Ford needed to stay and talk to him, because he was in no state to be running off and some sort of explanation was probably in order… but on the other hand, he didn’t want to take that choice away from him. He knew if he told Ford he had to stay and talk, that he would, but he wouldn’t be doing it of his own volition, and Stan didn’t want that.

He knew what it was like to feel as though you had to speak or people would be upset with you, and he wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone, especially his brother. He didn’t want Ford to feel trapped, not when he was so clearly in distress, and not when Stan had no idea what he was supposed to do.

Stan didn’t realize he’d been nodding until he heard the small click of the door that signaled Ford’s departure.

He sighed, the small noise bouncing around the empty room as he dropped gracelessly on one of the beds, attempting to go over what it could’ve been that had shaken his brother so badly. That process was proving difficult when every time he closed his eyes for longer than a second he saw Ford, scared and trembling while refusing to meet his eyes- refusing to talk outside of the request to run. Stan didn’t want to acknowledge the one explanation for the behavior that came to mind.

Who wanted to acknowledge that they knew their sibling was beating themselves up over something they deemed horrible, and that they were likely playing said horrible thing over and over in their heads- and oh! You don’t know what to do?

And that was what Ford was doing, Stan was sure of it. There was no other explanation; the devastated, gut wrenchingly guilty way his brother had looked up from Paolo’s mangled face had been enough for Stan to know. If there was one thing Ford always did, it was berate himself for his actions of the past and torture himself coming up with scenarios in which he could have handled things better.

What was getting to Stan, though, was that his brother had looked guilty, but only once he’d heard him yelling and seen him watching.

It made Stan wonder if Ford didn’t so much regret what he’d done, but that he’d let him see it.

Stan also wondered, with no small pang of his own brand of guilt, if Ford believed he had logical reason to think he’d done something wrong because of things he had or hadn’t said. After all, Stan realized with a sinking feeling, you did yell at him (even if it was to get him to stop doing something he’d later regret ).

True... and then he hadn’t talked to him, and even if that was because he’d been shocked and hadn’t known what to say, it wasn’t a good excuse, because Ford had taken it the wrong way. How could he have not have? Ford loved silence only when it was companionable or when he was working, and any other time he needed people talking to him, reassuring him that they were around and interested in what had to say, and he needed words even more when he was feeling terrible.

And Stan hadn’t said a anything. Of course he was feeling awful and wanted to put distance between them. He thought Stan wasn’t happy with him.

Actually, if Stan knew his brother it all, he’d say Ford was probably afraid he’d scared him. That was something he’d likely already been worried about, how Stan’d react once the dust had settled. That could’ve been a contributing factor to his anxiety attack, and that had only fueled his need to run; he’d been in a vulnerable state then, which on normal days was enough to send his brother hiding, so of course it made sense that he’d wanted to get away this time as well.

The problem with that, though, was that Stan had let him go with minimal hesitation, and in Ford’s mind that would only further his belief that Stan wasn’t taking any of it well, even when he’d just meant to be understanding. Maybe leaving him alone wasn’t a good idea after all.

No, now that he thought about it Stan realized it was actually a terrible idea. When Ford was left alone with his negative thoughts nothing good ever happened. His brother would dwell on everything he’d perceived he’d done wrong and his head would be a jumbled mess of a million problems he couldn’t logically reason out.

Not a good idea at all.

“Idiot,” Stan muttered, punctuating the word with a face-palm before he went to pull a key card from the pocket of Ford’s discarded wet jeans before then grabbing Ford’s coat, which was still on the other mattress; even with some blood on it his brother would want it, seeing as nights by the ocean were particularly cold and for some reason wearing it always seemed to comfort him.

And call it a twin thing, but right now, Stan knew Ford needed that more than anything.