Chapter Text
???? - Andy Alcatraz
If Andrew Alcatraz took a second to think, he would have realized that he knew nothing. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know what year it was, he didn’t know how he’d gotten here, or where he came from. He wasn’t thinking those things though. In his defense, he was in a high stress situation, and people don’t think about those things in high stress situations.
He couldn’t remember arriving in this room. Maybe he’d been there forever. Maybe he was never going to leave. It was dark, but not pitch black. A bare lightbulb swung somewhere above his head casting long shadows along the concrete walls. He’s sitting in a metal chair. It’s the only piece of furniture in the room. His ankles are tied to the legs of the chair, while his hands are tied behind his back. He tried to shift his wrists, testing for any weakness in the knots, and winces as the rope cuts into his already chafed skin. The blood slowly oozes down over his bruised knuckles and onto the floor. He can hear the soft drips echo in the dead silence of the room. Why were his knuckles bruised again? Eh. It didn’t really matter. They were always black and blue these days. Andy suppresses shivers that threaten to wrack his frame. The room is freezing and he is not dressed for it, wearing only a thin white T-Shirt and jeans. Well, the shirt had started out white. Now trails and dots of red formed quite an interesting pattern along the front.
His nose was bleeding in steady drips down his face, but he could do nothing to try and stop it. Not with his hands bound as they were. He can feel a vicious bruise blossoming on his cheek right along his temple, but he’s hardly paying mind to that right now. Right now he’s focused only on holding eye contact with the man before him.
Rico’s knuckles are dripping in Andy's blood. You would think the man should be a mess after something like this, but he was careful to roll up his sleeves so his clothes were still immaculate. No sign of brutality shows on his pure white dress shirt, or the pants of his suit. In fact, if not for the blood on his hands, he might have been a normal guy just coming off a long day at work. Rico doesn’t shy away from his gaze, of course he wouldn’t. If he notices the pleading look in Andy’s eyes then it had no effect on him. There’s no joy on Rico’s face. There’s pretty much no discernible emotion at all. Would it be better if he found sadistic enjoyment in beating the shit out of the man he once called friend rather than treating it as a business transaction? Andy can’t decide.
Again he wonders how long had he been here, in this room taking hit after hit? What was he even being punished for? Did it…did it even matter? It wasn’t like that information would help get him out of here. Still though, it felt strange that he didn’t know that. He should have known that, right?
“Rico- ” he didn't know what he was planning to say. He’s cut off anyway by Rico slamming another hit into his face. His nose gives a sickening crunch. Andy’s head snaps back under the force of the blow and he sees stars dancing above his head. His vision blurs for a second. His mouth fills with the taste of iron. A light spray of cold water (where did that come from?) hits his face as he straightens his head to see Rico no longer even facing him. The man has turned away, shaking the blood from his knuckles like a person might shake off water after washing their hands.
“You were saying something, Alcatraz?” He doesn’t bother to turn around to ask the question. Why would he? It’s not like Andy matters to him. Ever mattered to him. This is all just business, and Andy’s fresh out of anything that could make him valuable. He’s got nothing more to offer Rico, so he’ll be thrown by the wayside. He’s seen it happen often enough to others. For some reason, he thought he was immune. What an idiot he was for that.
An idiot. A worthless knucklehead. A screw up who was never gonna amount to anything. Who was doomed to get left behind…again? Was it again?
That thought is gone almost as soon as it arrives. Focus on the task at hand, Andrew. He takes a deep breath, wincing as that jostles his broken ribs (guess he has some broken ribs too. He can’t remember getting them…) before he speaks.
“Rico…Rico I know I messed up,” (he does know that, he just can’t recall how) “and I know you don’t do second chances, but…but please. You know…you know I’d never turn on you on purpose. I…just give me a chance to fix this. Let me fix this, please.” It’s useless to ask. Andy knows that. But…Rico was his friend. They had been friends, hadn’t they? Surely he wouldn’t…just kill him over this, right? Even though Andrew had seen him do that so many times. Rico would smile, and flatter, and suck people in until they couldn’t escape. Then he would use them for all they were worth until they had nothing left to give and toss them aside. How could Andy have been so foolish to imagine this was anything other than that. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his head drop. He already knows the answer Rico is going to give. He regrets saying anything at all.
He hears Rico’s heavy steps approaching. For a moment it reminds him of someone else. Sunglasses indoors, a mustache, a pre packed duffle bag. A shattered vase, an angry shout. A different bloodied fist. A gruff voice telling him he wasn’t impressed. He would never be impressed. Who did that voice belong to?
The question vanishes as Rico’s hand, still slick with blood, grabs Andy’s chin, and forces his face up. His eyes hold cruel amusement now. Is that worse than detachment? The other guy who Andy can’t remember was detached. It was like he couldn’t have cared less either way if Andy lived or died. Andy wishes he could put a face to this figure, but one just will not come. Maybe that’s for the best given the nature of the tiny amount he remembers.
“You want me to give you another chance? You think you deserve it, 8-ball?” Andy flinches at the nickname. Rico keeps talking, “You think you can just say ‘please’ and get yourself back in my good graces? And here I thought you had something interesting to offer. Here I thought you had another trick up your sleeve.” He shoves Andy’s face away almost hard enough to send his chair to the floor leaving him stuck on his back like a turtle. Fortunately, it just rocks for a moment before landing upright. Rico is already walking away again. “You don’t deserve shit, Alcatraz. And I’m sure as hell not gonna give you anything just because you asked nicely. I would’ve thought you knew better by now. ‘Please’ gets you nowhere.”
Rico half glances back over his shoulder. He looks like he’s gonna say more when a new voice echoes into Andy’s hearing. He snaps to attention at the sound.
“ Stan?” It sounds as though it’s coming from underwater. Or…maybe Andy is underwater and the voice is coming from above? It’s hard to say.
The floor lurches underneath him. Andy throws out his hands to steady himself (Odd. Weren’t they tied a second ago?). He stumbles to his feet as the ground sways. Another cool spray of water hits his face, making him flinch a bit. Rico turns fully and levels a cool glance at him. He doesn’t seem the least bit surprised or concerned to see that Andy has somehow managed to break free of the bonds. Why would he be concerned? Andy is no threat to him. Rico takes a step forward. There’s a knife in his hand now. Where did that come from?
Rico’s voice is…different when he speaks next. As though it was overlaid with something else, “What’s going on Stan? Are you alright?” That must be mockery. The look in Rico’s eye is clearly mocking even if the words sound…almost sincerely concerned. (Did Rico just call him…Stan? Who’s Stan?)
“Stay back, Rico. I…Stay back.” Andy tries to put some distance between himself and that knife in a panic only to find his back meeting something hard. Another splash of cold water hits his back as he grabs at the bar behind him. There was nowhere to go. He was trapped. He didn’t like being trapped (a car. A dark trunk. His hands were tied. He was gonna die. He was gonna suffocate. There was no way out. His gums were bleeding…)
“Stan, the rail!” Uncharacteristic alarm colors Rico’s voice. He lunges for Andy, knife drawn. He’s gonna kill him, surely. All that work to make it back to his family (did he even have a family?) and he would die here, at the hands of Rico. His instincts kick in. Before he can even think he fist is coming up and slamming hard into Rico’s face. There’s a crunch of breaking glass (breaking glass?) as Rico stumbles back, chestnut brown eyes wide with panic, and fear, and confusion. (Didn’t Rico have dark brown eyes? Bordering on black?). The man reaches a shaking hand to touch his own face, and seems horrified to see his hand come away bloody. Broken glass stained with blood falls to the ground with a pleasant tinkling sound. Rico has got vicious gashes all around his face from where the edges of the broken lenses cut. (Rico…Rico doesn’t wear glasses, right?) Andy glances down at his hand to find his knuckles embedded with shards of glass as well. It will hurt later, but right now there’s only adrenaline. He settles back into his boxing stance, ready to defend from another attack. He knows he can’t beat Rico. He knows that. Rico has a knife (or he did. It seems to have since vanished) and Rico never goes anywhere without extra muscle (although they should have intervened by now…) Andy can’t win, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t go down without a fight. He braces for Rico’s next move.
But Rico doesn’t make another attack. In fact, he seems more scared than Andy does, but that’s not right. Rico is never afraid. He never had a reason to be because he was never in the line of fire. Some new recruit was always standing in front of him. Rico was always the powerful one in every interaction he was apart of. The face that he’s making right now… it just doesn’t fit. In fact, the more Andy focuses, the more he realizes the man on the ground before him doesn’t look like Rico at all. Who does it look like then? It seems oddly familiar…
Snap out of it Andy! What difference does it make? That is Rico. Andy knows that. Whatever trick this is to make him look different is just that: a trick. Why is Andy just standing there when he should be taking advantage of Rico’s injuries and running? As soon as the thought occurs he notices a door close by. Had that been there the whole time? He makes a break for it, stumbling on the still unsteady ground as he does. He hears Rico call something after him in a weak voice, but he doesn’t stick around to hear what it is. He can sense people following him now. Hear their footsteps and their shouts. They’ll kill him if they catch up. He knows they’ll kill him.
He barely makes it through the door before they catch him. Two big shadowy figures are holding his arms back (how did that happen? He doesn’t actually recall them grabbing him.) and Rico is before him again. Whatever strange non Rico traits were there before were gone now. His eyes are back to stony cold dark brown, and his face is smooth and unscarred. When he speaks his voice is completely his own.
“You thought you could run, Alcatraz? I never took you for a coward.”
“Rico, please-” He’s is cut off by a vicious backhand. Rico wears a lot of rings. Andy gasps as he feels his lip split.
“What did I tell you about please? If you're not gonna offer me something of worth in exchange for your life, then shut your damn mouth.” A cruel smile lights on Rico’s face. It doesn’t look like it belongs there.
“And we all know you have nothing of worth, don’t we? Not even yourself. You're worthless. The worthless brother, the worthless son. The screw up.”
Those words aren’t Rico’s. Who do they belong to? Why do they hit Andy like a sack of bricks to the stomach? Did he even have a sibling? He couldn’t remember one…
Rico keeps talking. “There will be no one to mourn you, you know. No one will care that you died. You're basically dead already. Why not make it official, huh?”
…Still not quite Rico, but also not the same person as before. (Why does he have to drag all these others into this?). Rico nods to the shadowy figures holding Andy, and they haul him to his feet. Finally, he speaks his own words. “But you said you wanted another chance? How’s this for a chance? If you manage not to suffocate to death in the trunk of this car, then you get two months to pay me back every cent you owe, and then maybe you get to keep your worthless life after that.”
Andy’s eyes go wide with fear at that. He’s never been a fan of enclosed spaces, but this… “No, no I’ll do anything. Ple- I’ll do whatever you want!”
Rico chuckles. “Look at that! He can be taught. You should be thanking me. This isn’t something I offer to everybody. Personally, I’m hoping you just die and get out of my hair, but then you’d never have a chance to pay me back.” He gives a little shrug, “Besides, some of the guys think it might be entertaining. You owe them some money too.”
And then they let him go. Right in front of the trunk. Had that car been there the whole time? Andy starts to shake now that reality is setting in. (back into the darkness and the panic and the fear. Is your life really worth it?) The faceless shadow goons step back, each leveling a gun at him. Rico tilts his head.
“Are you gonna get in? Or are we ending this here and now?” He sounds like it doesn’t matter to him either way.
Why are you fighting so hard? What are you fighting for anyway? A family who doesn’t want you? A future that doesn’t exist? Wouldn’t it be easier to stop? To rest?
It would be easy, wouldn’t it? It might even feel good. But this wasn’t his decision to make. It had already been decided, (Wait, what? Had it?) He does his best to swallow his fear and climbs into the trunk. It’s a bit difficult with his hands tied together (are they tied again?) but he manages. He’s already hyperventilating even before they close the door.
I change my mind. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth going back to the dark. Don’t send me back to the dark.
Rico’s gaze is flat as he stares down at Andy’s panicked face. It’s as if he sees those thoughts behind Andy’s eyes, and is utterly bored by them. Unimpressed by them.
“We’ll be back in a few days. You probably have a few hours before you run out of air. Don’t bother screaming. This deep in the woods no one will hear. You’ll only waste your breath.” The goons laugh as he slams the trunk closed.
Voices Andy doesn’t recognize begin to whisper in the dark. He can feel his breathing getting faster and faster. That’s bad. He needs to conserve oxygen. But the voices…they swirl and dance in his head, cutting deep into old wounds that he didn’t even remember receiving.
Extra Stan: $3 or better offer
Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?
At this rate, he’ll be lucky to graduate high school.
I’m not impressed
I’m asking you to do the first worthwhile thing in your life.
No one will mourn you, you know.
Worthless. Stupid. Idiot. Screw up. Why can’t you be more like your brother? Why can’t you do anything right? Why were you even born?
Tears are leaking down Andy’s (Andy’s?) face in the darkness. But that’s not right because he doesn’t cry. Men don’t cry. One of the voices is shouting that in the back of his head. It’s difficult to discern which one it is. He lets out a choked sob. He knows how this next part goes. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. He’ll keep fighting for his worthless life. Maybe he will even temporarily win it. But then he’ll gamble it away again and wind up somewhere worse. There’s always somewhere worse waiting for him.
Andy is still crying as he shifts to get his head close to the latch. Why does he even bother to keep going?
I suppose it’s all he knows how to do.
————
2013- Andy Alca- Stan Pines
It takes longer than usual for Stan Pines to claw his way back to the surface. To chew his way out of the trunk, so to speak. Normally, there is someone by his side for this part. Someone to help him through it. Someone who opens the trunk for him. Someone to coax him back to reality. To save him, because no one had been there to do it the first time around. Not this time though. This time there is no one.
When Stan Pines comes back, he is alone. Alone with his thoughts.
————
2013 - Ford Pines
Ford Pines feels accomplished. He’d finally done it. He’d worn Stan down enough that he was gonna get some answers. Sure, the old man still seemed reluctant, but he hadn’t outright refused. That was progress. Progress that Ford fully intended to capitalize on very soon. But it was clear that Stan would go no further at the moment, so Ford had wandered below deck, and stopped pestering his brother.
It had felt weird at first, to set himself up in Old Fords space. Honestly, it still felt weird. It felt like he was intruding in someone else’s life, which in a way he was, but where else was he gonna sleep? He tried to settle, and read one of the books about sea cryptids on the floor, but all the annotations did was remind him that he didn’t belong. That he wasn’t meant to be here.
He sighs, and snaps the book shut. Ford had never felt the need for a TV in his house in Gravity Falls, but right now, he sort of sees the appeal. Something absolutely mindless to get yourself away from where you are? That doesn’t sound too bad. Usually books could do that for him, (minus the mindless bit) but these books aren’t his. I mean, they are, but they’re not. They belong to this weird future version of him. A version who he still can’t really figure out. If only that journal were here…
Ford is just about to go on a silent sulky internal monologue when he hears a loud crash from on deck, and his head snaps up. What was that? Another cryptid, perhaps? Stan had said that that’s what he and Old Ford were searching for, so the chances were high. Ford is almost giddy at the idea of seeing a new anomaly. Some things never change. He gets to his feet, and makes his way to the controls.
“Stan?” He calls. Ford expects Stan to be at the bridge, running the boat, but to his surprise, the room is empty. How strange.
He must be on the deck then. Yeah. He had come to the deck to take a break, and just cause Ford had left, that didn’t mean Stan had to.
“Stan?” Ford calls again as he walks up the stairs. He must be up here somewhere.
Ford almost doesn’t see him as he scans the deck. He was looking for Stan to be leaning on the rail, looking at the sky, or having a smoke. Not huddled down in a ball on the floor curled up as small as he could get. One look at his brother and it’s clear to see something is very wrong. Sweat coats his face. His eyes are closed, and he’s tensing as if he’s waiting for a blow. Twitching and jerking like a puppet with a poorly trained master at its strings. He’s also muttering quietly. Too quietly for Ford to make out the words. What’s happening? Was this the work of some cryptid? Fiddleford had reacted somewhat similarly to the Gremgoblin, which shows those who look into its eyes their worst fear. Maybe there was some sort of sea equivalent to that beast. Ford approaches carefully. Fiddleford had been quite reactive after the Gremgoblin encounter. If this was anything like that, Ford would do well to approach the situation with caution. But as Ford moves closer, Stan doesn’t react to him at all. Ford is about five feet away when he finally decided to speak
“Stan?” He asks again, quieter this time. Trying not to spook the man too much.
The volume apparently didn’t really matter though. Stan’s eyes snap open as though Ford had screamed in his face. He jerks to his feet, stumbling as he does as though he’s somehow lost his sea legs. He throws out his hands to steady himself. There’s a wild fear in his eyes, but also a glassiness. Even when he stares directly into Ford's eyes, Ford gets the sense that he sees something else.
This doesn’t seem too much like the Gremgoblin anymore. Fiddleford had been scared, but he had…been present. Stan didn’t seem like he was present at the moment. Fords brow furrows as he takes a small step forward. “What’s going on Stan? Are you alright?” Something feels so wrong about this. That fear in his eyes…Stan never showed fear. Even when he felt it, he’d always hid it well. Ford had only seen this sort of naked panic around… around their father. He takes another step forward, meaning to offer…what, comfort? He is really out of his depth here, isn’t he?
Stan holds up his hands in front of him as he steps away from Ford, the fear only getting wilder and wilder “Stay back, Rico. I…Stay back.” Ford stops moving. Who’s Rico? Why is Stan calling him that? What is happening right now? He wants answers, but something in Stan’s tone makes him think approaching is not wise. Something in his eyes too. The aggression of an animal that’s been backed into a corner. Stan doesn’t seem to notice that Ford has stopped moving. He takes another step back. Then another. Ford can only watch as Stan’s back hits the rail. Stan’s eyes widen even further as he realizes there’s nowhere else to go. A large wave hits the boat, sending a jet of water up along Stan’s back. Normally, people flinch away from something like that, yet still Stan continues to lean farther over the side of the rail. He’ll fall if he leans anymore, and in this state Ford doesn’t like his chances of getting Stan back on the boat.
“Stan, the rail!” Ford lunges, going to grab Stan’s life jacket and drag him where it’s safe. He doesn’t get that far before the other man’s fist plants itself directly into Ford's face with the force and precision of a trained boxer.
He clearly wasn’t pulling his punches. Ford can feel his glasses shatter at the impact, shards of glass embedding themselves deep into his skin. He cries out, and stumbles back, grabbing for his face. His hand comes away stained with red. He looks at Stan, shocked and scared, and confused. Stan had just…hit him. In the face, hard. With the intent of doing maximum damage. And by the look in his eye, he’s ready to do it again. But there’s not malice there, like Ford half expects to see. Only fear, and that same backed into a corner look. For a moment Stan just stands there, obviously waiting for Ford to strike back. But a moment later, confusion enters his gaze. He lowers his hands a fraction of an inch, and for a moment it almost seems like he recognizes Ford again. His eyes clear a bit, and his gaze settles…
But the moment passes. Stan’s head snaps up, as though something is calling him, before he begins to run, stumbling towards the door that leads below deck. Some blood drips from his knuckles as he moves, leaving a steady trail along the deck of the boat.
“Stan, wait…” Ford tries to call, but it’s weak. He’s not sure if he wants a response or not. Stan is obviously in no state to be reasoned with, and Ford doesn't know if he could handle it if Stan started treating him as a threat again. Actually, he does know. He couldn’t handle it. He lets Stan leave. At least he’s going deeper inside the boat instead of staying on the deck where he could fall. Would Ford going after him even help, or only do more damage? Before Ford had approached, Stan obviously hadn’t been doing well, but at least he wasn’t in physical danger. It was only once Ford had tried to intervene that Stan had almost gone over the side and started swinging. Maybe the best thing Ford could do was let him be below deck for a while. Maybe he’d be safer there, and Ford could work out a plan to fix this.
He closes his eyes… and flinches hard, hissing through his teeth. The adrenaline of the moment had almost made him forget the broken glass actively cutting into his face. So, he’d take care of that, then make a plan. Stan had pointed out to him a first aid kit on deck when he’d first arrived, and Ford had gotten pretty good at dealing with some minor injuries on his own during his time in Gravity falls. He goes to get the kit, and sits criss crossed against the wall as he prepares to work. The face might be…difficult, but he could take care of it. So handle that, and then find a way to help Stan. Good. Great. Something to focus on.
Something to focus on other than the fact that he had no idea what was wrong, or how to fix it. Other than the fact that he didn’t even know if this could be fixed. Didn’t know if Stan was ok below deck, and didn’t know if it would be better or worse to go and check-
Yeah, he definitely was not focusing on any of those things.
He was focusing on how lucky he was that he hadn’t been blinded. It could have happened. The glass could have gone into his eyes. It had been close. Right on the side of his nose near his tear duct was a sizable shard. A centimeter to the left…he was incredibly lucky that the worst he was walking away with was a bit of scarring. And many of the cuts were shallow enough that it wouldn’t even be that. Yay.
That was all Ford was thinking about as he painstakingly pulled every bit of glass out of his face, flinching at each little plink as they landed in the metal dish in front of him. None of the wounds were deep enough to need stitches, which was good because Ford did not trust his hands to be steady enough for that. Honestly, he really shouldn’t be doing this himself because he could barely see himself in the small mirror that had been in the first aid kit. His glasses were far beyond salvation, and definitely beyond use. Everything was quite blurry as a result. Not a great idea to be jabbing a pair of tweezers near his eyes, but he couldn’t do nothing. He must have been sitting there for hours, struggling with the glass, and cleaning out the wounds, and taping the slightly larger cuts. If he was being honest, he was grateful for the distraction. Once the wounds were closed, he wasn’t sure what he was gonna do about Stan.
Turns out, he didn’t need to worry too much about that. Just as he was finishing taping the final cut, the door creaked opened, and there he was.
He was refusing to meet Ford's eyes, but Ford could tell his eyes were bloodshot, and there were heavy bags under them as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. At some point he’d gone and gotten the pink, glittery scrapbook, and was now holding it close to his chest like a child clutching at the toy they slept with every night. Even from a distance Ford could see the blood on his knuckles, and the almost pretty sparkle of the glass still embedded there.
He looks so…small. That’s not how Stan is supposed to look. Stan is big. Not just physically, but his personality fills a room. It’s always been that way. He doesn’t hunch in on himself like he’s doing now. Like he’s trying to hide himself away from the world. Stan never shied away from the world. No matter what, he believed in facing things head on. But now? He looks like a kicked puppy with his head hung low. Clutching that scrapbook like it’s a lifeline.
Stan takes a hesitant step forward, finally letting his eyes fall on Ford. Ford can see him flinch back as he takes in the damage.
“Ford…you…are you ok?” His voice is hoarse and gravelly. Even more so than normal. It’s as if he’d been screaming for hours even though Ford is certain he hasn’t been because he would have heard.
Ford furrows his brow. Stan seems…lucid now. He recognized Ford, and called him the correct name.
“You…recognize me? Are you back?” Could it really just be over? But Stan had been so gone…
“Yeah. I’m back. But Ford, that looks really bad-”
“I’m fine. I patched it up. Should be nothing too permanent.”
“Ford, it’s probably gonna scar.”
“Maybe, but at least nothing went in my eyes. It could have been worse.”
Stan pales at that and looks away again . Apparently that thought hadn’t occurred to him. Ford feels bad for bringing it up as guilt seems to wrack Stan’s entire frame. Stan moves to speak again, but Ford beats him to it.
“Stan, what happened? One minute you were fine, and then you didn’t recognize me. You were huddled in a ball at the end of the boat shaking. Do you…remember that?”
“Parts of it. I’m sorry Ford, this is all my fault. I should have told you. Warned you. I thought we’d be ok though. I just had an episode before this all started, and usually they’re more spaced out-”
“Wait. Wait” Whatever he’d been expecting Stan to say, that wasn’t it, “That’s happened before? You know what that was? What was it?”
Stan hesitates at the question. For a moment, Ford thinks this will be one of those things that Stan won’t talk about, but then he takes a shaky breath, and begins to speak.
“A few months ago, I was in…an accident. It made me lose my memory. All of it. I couldn’t even remember my own name. No one thought I was gonna recover.” He frowns, “I wasn’t supposed to recover.”
Something about the way he says that last part rubs Ford the wrong way. He wants to say something, but nothing comes to mind. How is he even supposed to respond to something like that? What sort of accident could it have been that caused Stan’s memory to be completely erased? He wants to ask, but decides to let Stanley keep talking.
“But I did recover… mostly. We thought I had recovered. The episodes didn’t start until we were on the ocean. We didn’t…Ford didn’t know what caused them. However hard he tried, he just couldn’t crack it. But…”
Stan paused, and held out the scrapbook to Ford. There’s glitter on his chest from where he hugged it close.
“We had this. Pictures and memories. That’s what got me back the first time. Ford found they worked just as well later. We’ve been able to live with the episodes mostly because he got good at recognizing the signs, and bringing me back before things got bad.”
Ford reaches out and takes the book, running a hand slowly along the cover. All the answers that he wanted were in here. Why do they suddenly not seem to matter so much anymore?
“Okay…but what are they? The episodes? What…happens during them?”
Stan immediately looks away. He’s exhibiting every single tell he has when he’s about to lie, “oh…I can’t remember them too clearly. I think some memories just get lost, and then I freak out because I don’t know where I am, or recognize the people around me-”
“Who’s Rico?”
Stan snaps back to attention, eyes wide with shock, and that same fear from before, “What? Uh…how…where’d you hear that name?”
“From you. You called me Rico. You seemed scared of him. Of me. Who is he?”
“I…said that outloud? That’s never happened before. Ford would have caught something like that. I think usually speech is incoherent in the middle of an episode so that’s very-”
“Who is he, Stan?” Ford won’t let him get out of this one.
Stan freezes, then sighs, his eyes seem haunted as he speaks “No one you need to worry about Sixer. It’s in the past. Let’s keep it in the past.”
The words carry the cadence of something oft repeated. Had Old Ford asked the same questions and been dismissed the same way? Ford huffs “But I’m from the past. Don’t you think this is something I should know about?”
Stan blinks, “well…it’s in my past. Not yours. It doesn’t matter, Ford. Rico isn’t someone you’ll ever deal with.”
“Stan, don’t-”
“I said it doesn’t matter.” Stan snaps a bit. He seems to immediately regret it as the brief bit of anger fades from his tone leaving only exhaustion in its wake. “You wanted to know about the things that do matter. I’ve thought about it, and you’re right. You can change things. You can fix things. When you go back…you can set it all right. Everything you want to know…it’s all in there.” He gestures to the book Ford is holding. “Photos, drawings, stories. It explains it all better than I ever could. You hang onto it, yeah? Read it. Get your answers. Keep it just in case…and then everything will be better. You’ll make everything better.” Stan pauses. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a pair of glasses.
“Ford’s extra pair.” He explained, looking away, but not before Ford catches the guilt lingering in his eyes.
“Oh good. Thanks.” Ford takes them, puts them on, and blinks away the blur. That’s a relief. He didn’t like not being able to see clearly. He sets the book on the ground beside him, and turns back to Stan “Now let me see your hand.”
Stan frowns, “What?”
“Your hand. It’s still bloody, and there’s shards of broken glass in it.”
“It’s…I’ll take care of it Ford, you worry about yourself. You were much worse off than me.”
“I’m already treated. If that wound of yours has been sitting for so long, then it is urgent that it gets cleaned. Sit.”
“But…”
How could he possibly object to this? Ford gives a little sigh, “Stan, just let me-”
“Why aren’t you angrier?” Stan blurts out.
Ford pauses, “What?”
Stan is looking away again, his face slightly red. He seems to regret his outburst, but his expression hardens as he takes a breath and keeps going, “You got hurt. Because of me. Because I kept something important from you. You should be furious with me. You should hate me for allowing this to happen. Why don’t you?”
Ford blinks. Does Stan…really think Ford should hate him? “it…wasn’t your fault Stan. You weren’t yourself. I could see that.”
“Even…even if we said that, this happened because I didn’t tell you about the episodes. I put you in danger, for what? To avoid an awkward conversation? You could have been blinded Ford. Hell, maybe I could have even killed you-”
“But you didn’t.” Ford says calmly. Why is he so calm, actually? Stan is making some good points. Ford has been begging Stan for information ever since he got here, and now Stan’s childish refusal to answer any questions has had real consequences. If anything, Ford should have been milking this as much as he could to get more information out of Stan. But…Stan had already given him the scrapbook, and with it all the answers. Hes already apologized. And he was clearly beating himself up about this to the point where if Ford joined in it would be redundant. And something in Stan’s eye’s…he just looked so vulnerable. So ready to accept whatever punishment Ford thought he deserved. Stan wasn’t supposed to look like that. He was a fighter. He was always raging against the world and what it thought of him and Ford. But with that look in his eye he just seemed…defeated. Ford decided that he hated that look. He wanted it to go away. He wanted Stan to fill a room with his personality again, and make stupid jokes, and pester Ford until the younger man was ready to burst with frustration. When had he started to want those things? When had he noticed that after ten years apart he had missed Stan so much? Probably about the same moment the man was ripped away again, replaced by this haunted shell.
No. Stan’s not gone. He’s just…feeling low. It’ll pass. He’ll come back. If there’s one thing time has proven, Stan always bounces back. Or he did in high school. How much has changed since then…? Ford brushes the thought aside and holds out an expectant hand to Stan.
“Sit.” Ford repeats. “Please.”
Stan tries to hide his wince at that word, but Ford catches it. An odd reaction to such an innocent word. For a moment, it seems like Stan’s going to refuse again, or argue, or just leave. But after a moment he huffs, and slowly lowers himself to the floor, and wordlessly passes his injured hand to Ford.
Little victories, Ford thinks as he slowly tweezes out the glass. Stan’s still not looking at him, and is still not talking like he normally would, but at least he’s letting Ford do something.
Maybe the idea of being stuck with Stan isn’t so bad after all. Maybe Ford feels guilty for even thinking that in the first place. Maybe…maybe forgiving Stan isn’t such an impossible idea. It was a long time ago…
That’s a problem for later, Ford decides. For now he can just…leave well enough alone. The silence between him and Stan is oddly comfortable, in spite of its weight. Neither of them want to test the bounds of this strange new peace, but maybe that’s ok for the time being.
Maybe they can just deal with the present for now, and let the past come up naturally. However much the questions burn on Fords tongue…
Yeah…Everything is fine.
