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as-be-low · 7 years

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THCM, Chapter 8

His Thorns Are on the Road

Free from it all Breathe in the darkest fall We laugh and cry through a brother’s eyes for now

The Hunter–Mastodon

Stanford learns nothing, though he discovers many things he didn't expect all the same.

Shortly after Ford had absorbed himself in his work, small footsteps flapped their way down the stairs. He looked up and spotted a blur of brown and black headed for the door before he heard it skid to a stop with a soft whump against the sturdy wood. “…Stella, are you trying to go outside?” He inched his chair back, palms flat against the table.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Did… Did Stanley say it was okay for you to go outside?”

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Just as he moved to stand, the soft little footsteps padded into the room. He’d have to invest in a rug soon, he mused. The little girl sent a cursory glance around the room, her eyes brightening as they fell on Ford and his workstation. He hadn’t expected that. She squinted at him, long and hard.

“Books?”

He hadn’t expected that, either. He stared down at her, doing nothing to hide his confusion as she toddled over. Her hair had been washed and pulled back into loosely-braided pigtails and Stan’s—no, this was his, actually—shirt billowed around her like a tent. Stanley had rolled the sleeves up so that they bunched up around her little elbows. She made herself at home and grabbed hold of his pant leg for leverage as she climbed into his lap. He remained still, unsure of whether he should help her or remove her from his person. “Well, hello?”

“Hi.”

“Is there…something I can help you with, dear?” From this vantage point, Ford could see the small little spirals of hair at the nape of her neck that had escaped and decided to make a name for themselves.

He could also see the little flecks of Stanley’s blood that had dried along the neckline.

Her little hands trailed over his stacks of papers and he leaned forward with her, pushing them out of her reach. She stretched further and claimed a dense, spiral-bound article for herself.

“Books.”

“I’m afraid you won’t want that one.” He eased it from her grasp and set it aside, raising an eyebrow at her little harrumph. “Was it picture books you wanted? I’m afraid I don’t have anything suitable for one as young as you, my dear…” he scanned the table with a slight frown of his own. “Well,” he unearthed a thick red book and pulled it close, staring at the gold-leaf cutout of his own hand. He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t, but the child wanted books. He wasn’t going to dissuade a child from literary endeavors. This journal he knew was at least slightly more child-appropriate. In some parts. Somewhat. It would be fine. He’d ripped out the more dangerous pages and anything pertaining to Bill after he’d reconfigured the portal and shut everything back down. There were many pages of mistakes he’d since burned, much like the bridges that led him to where he currently was. “Where’s your father?” he asked, affecting a casual tone. The man had been irritated at him when he’d sat with the child he’d brought into his house earlier. He didn’t need him getting pissy at him again.

“Takin’ a sour.”

“Taking a… Oh, a shower.” Fine. That was fine. He’d just…watch the child for…however long that took. Oh, sweet Moses, hurry up and come get her.

It was fine. This would be fine. He’d just show her the sketches. That should be enough to placate a child. That’s all children’s books were, anyway. A small hand patted his, then tried to push it out of the way. He let out a nervous chuckle and removed his hand. His niece turned and squinted up at him, then pushed the journal away and off of the edge of the table. “That bad, huh?” He stood, setting her on her feet as he went to retrieve it. “Well there might be something you might find interesting in it. They do say not to judge a book by its cover.” He chuckled at his own little joke. Stella’s face remained scrunched and she blew him a raspberry for good measure.

“…Right.” He reclaimed his seat and settled the toddler back in his lap. He supposed this was to be his afternoon now. Ford flipped the book open before she had a chance to push it away again, and began idly turning pages. He distinctly remembered cataloguing several of the more benign creatures he’d encountered in this particular journal. The small child slapped a hand against the pages as he flipped, stilling his hand.

“Birdperson!” she beamed up at him. He stared in return.

“Ah, no, that’s the Mothman, not a… Not a bird person.” He tapped a finger to the heading he’d written. “See here? It says—”

“Mothman.”

He paused. Was she reading or imitating him? Surely she was too small for her literacy skills to have developed quite yet. “That’s…That’s right. The Mothman.”

“Why not a bird?”

How was he supposed to answer that? “Well, he didn’t ask to be a moth over a bird, I don’t suppose...”

“You should write about birdperson.”

“Lets move on.” Ford gently nudged the little hand aside and turned the page. The offending little appendage reappeared along the edge of the book and Stanford stared at it before slowly dwarfing it with his own, letting his calloused thumb move run back and forth across her pudgy knuckles. Baby soft holds merit as a description, it appears. The child lifted her head to send him a puzzled look. “Right.” He lifted his hand and rifled through the journal, stopping on his leprecorn entry. Stella let out a little gasp.

“Lucky!”

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s your…little friend.”

“Lucky.” She corrected.

“Apologies.” He couldn’t help the chuckle that rumbled in his chest, nor the look of surprise as his niece leaned back against the source of the faint vibration.

“You purr like a kitty.”

What on earth? “If… If you say so.” He cleared his throat. “But yes. This is the…the leprecorn. Can… Can you say that?”

“Lep’core.”

“Good enough, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

“Now—”

“That’s Lucky.” She slapped a hand against the sketch.

“Yes, I’m aware. The leprecorn is one of the…least interesting finds I’ve stumbled across.” He pulled the journal closer. “Stella, do you know what this says?”

She squinted at the page for a moment, then frowned back up at him. “I don’t wanna read that.”

Ford snorted. “Fair enough.” Maybe cursive was pushing it. It was probably best she didn’t read it. He truly had nothing positive to say about the beast she so loved.

“More pictures.”

“More?”

“More pictures, please?”

“I suppose you did ask nicely.” He thumbed through the journal. The entry on unicorns was in here. The only issue was that unicorns were assholes and he didn’t care to validate their existence. The gremloblin was decidedly out of the question. He worried his lip between his teeth briefly, and pulled a small stack of clean paper closer. “Alright. What pictures would you like?” He watched the child begin to flip the pages, tiny handfuls at a time, with the easy recklessness that came with childhood. “No, no, none of that.” He tutted, gently prying the book from her grasp. She blew him another raspberry. Cute. “How about we draw you a horse? Like earlier.”

“’Kay!”

“Alright. Good.”

Stella settled back against his chest and he began to sketch the rough outline of a horse. He let a faint smile cross his face as his focus drifted away. His hand moved on its own, each pen stroke closely watched by the small child keeping her nose pressed against the page. It did make drawing a hair more difficult, he had to admit.

A pudgy little finger prodded his hand.

“Yes?”

“Draw it a unicorn?”

He hesitated. Unicorns were infuriating, but that wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know that. He didn’t have to tell her they were real. “We can certainly make it a unicorn.”

“Yay!”

With the unicorn finished—though not without adding himself astride the beast for reasons he’d never understand—Ford found himself scribbling down Stella herself, holding onto her unfortunate beast of a friend.

“His name is Lucky! He’s a good uniperson. Yes he is. Yes.” She cooed, patting the page as he worked on it.

Odd, but all right, then. Stanford shuddered as he hatched out the finer details of the creature’s features. Whatever the child saw in the bizarre monstrosity, he would never see himself. At least she seemed quite pleased with it all, if her increasingly animated, babbling comments were anything to go by. It gave Stanford pause to see that anyone, a small child, no less, would seem to enjoy his company. She didn’t know any better. Not yet.

She’ll learn soon enough.

The floor began to creak and groan as heavy footsteps drew closer. His brother hunched in the doorway, a slight scowl in place. He seemed to wear that frown often; Ford wasn’t sure if it was for his benefit or if it had come to replace that easygoing smirk Stan had once perfected as his resting expression.

He said nothing as he entered the room, just sat in the chair furthest from Stanford and…zoned out. Stanford watched him for a brief moment. His hair was thrown behind him in a wet, loose braid, much like the plaits he’d given Stella. His ratty red jacket was zipped up in lieu of the shirt he’d put on Stella and what looked to be the jeans he’d arrived in. Surely he’d prefer wearing something else. He opened his mouth to proffer the suggestion, but caught the tired, frustrated look Stanley shot him from the corner of his eye and promptly let his mouth snap closed. Never mind, then. He’d just…go back to sketching things with Stella. She seemed happy, at least. The toddler was currently tugging at a fresh sheet of paper. He reached out and straightened it in front of her. “Are you planning on drawing?” he hoped his tone was nonchalant.

“No, you draw it.” Well, alright then.

“Sweetie, can you say ‘please?’ You gotta ask things nicely.” Stanley interjected.

Stella squirmed in Ford’s grip and twisted to face him, staring him down. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a death stare or puppy dog eyes, if he was honest with himself. He found both compelling; she had that going in her favor. “Please?”

“Absolutely.” He mumbled, huddling forward slightly. “What am I drawing?”

“Everybody!” she cheered, slapping her little hands against the table.

Shit. “Everyone? That sounds like quite the…quite the tall order.” Ford let out a nervous chuckle.

“Me ‘n Daddy ‘n you. ‘N Lucky.” He heard Stanley’s hardly-contained snort at her afterthought and looked up in time to catch him rolling his eyes. Nice.

“Sweetie, how many things have you made ‘im draw already?” she shrugged. “What if he doesn’t want to draw anymore? Don’t make ‘im tired. That’s not nice.”

“He isn’t tired.” Stella sounded affronted.

“You sure? Did you ask?”

Ford chewed his lip. “I don’t mind, really.” Stan eyed him and Ford shifted under the scrutiny.

“You don’t hafta do it just ‘cause she asked.”

“I don’t mind, Stanley. Truly, I don’t.”

Stan seemed uncomfortable with that. “Yeah, well…” His brother crossed his arms, turning his gaze away.

Ford patted the tabletop gently. “Now. Who shall I start with first?”

“Daddy.”

So matter-of-fact. He should’ve seen that one coming. “Alright then. We’ll start with… We’ll start with Daddy.” The word still felt strange tumbling from his mouth. He worked a rough outline of the man, sparing surreptitious glances upwards to scrutinize his subject. It was disheartening, needing a reference to draw your twin brother.

The three sat in silence, save for the soft scratches of Stanford’s pen. “I assume I’m drawing you next?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then.” He shifted his hand, when Stella slapped her palm over it.

“Draw me there.”

“…In his arms? I’ve already drawn them by his side. I don’t think that will turn out properly, I’m afraid.

She wrinkled her nose at that. “Okay. Draw me there?” One pudgy little finger shifted down to the space near Stanley’s feet, where he’d originally planned to place her.

“Alright.” He drawled, nudging the damp little hand away, slightly disconcerted by its warmth and sogginess. Children were strange. He slowly sketched the little girl, though he found himself needing to contort on more than one occasion to study her little face; she was too preoccupied with watching his hands move to look up as he tried to coax her to look at him. It became a challenge to work around the child as she stuck her head and various limbs in his line of vision. “That’s a very nice foot, but could you move it?” he chuckled, patting the pudgy little leg. She responded with a giggle and a small kick to the arm. He pretended to be hurt. It was minutely painful, he reasoned. He hadn’t expected her to sit up from her contorted, reclined position to kiss his forearm better.

“Now it won’t hurt.” He was a bit choked as he nodded, swallowing to work at the frog forming in his throat.

“Y-yes. Thank you, darling.” He mumbled. “That feels much better.” It did. It truly did.

“I know.” The toddler hummed. How cheeky. Just like another child he remembered. Ford closed his eyes and hunched forward, ignoring the look Stan was surely sending him in favor of pressing his nose into the child’s clean hair as he fought back the sting in his eyes. Her hair was still wet, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

Ford finished the rest of the sketch with minimal fanfare, quickly slapping his own likeness onto the page and attempting to do the same with the leprecorn, though his niece quickly called him out on the attempt. “Oh, of course. You have my apologies.” He’d mumbled at his gaffe while grudgingly adding more detail to the well-loved monstrosity.

Once the sketch met the child’s arbitrary and unknown specifications she slid out of Ford’s lap—much to his alarm as he tried to stop her from falling—and took the liberty of taking the paper down with her as she made her way to her father.

“Whatcha got there, pumpkin?”

“A picture.”

“A picture, huh? Let’s see it, then.”

She held the sheet high in the air as she tried to hike her leg up high enough to reach Stanley’s crossed knee. “Oop!” she stumbled and Stan jerked forward, lifting her to properly settle her in.

“You’d climb mountains if only you could get that lil’ leg high enough, wouldn’t ya?”

“Yeah.”

Stanley laughed. “That’s my girl.”

Drawing sufficiently made-over, Stella slid out of Stan’s lap, choosing to settle at his feet for reasons that, once again, eluded Stanford.

“You wanna color it, sweetie?”

“Yeah!”

“Good idea.” Stanley hummed as Stella toddled back over to the table, reaching up on the tips of her toes to grab the assorted, stubby crayons she’d used the day before. Ford nudged them closer to her, watching in amusement as she grabbed them in both hands and ran back to sit cross-legged between her father’s feet.

“ ’M gonna make it pretty.”

“Very nice.” Stanley hummed, watching his child with one eyebrow raised. “They’re nice already, but I bet you can make ‘em look even better.”

The three sat in silence. Stanley didn’t seem to mind, but Ford found it unbearable. He shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable at the thought of speaking with his brother. He needed to say something. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, but he knew something needed vocalizing.

He settled for talking to Stella.

“So… You like coloring?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s… that’s good.” For fuck’s sake, Ford. Get it together. “Do you like school?”

The child stared at him.

“She’s not old enough to be in school, Ford.”

“…Oh. Right. Of… of course.” Fuck. Why is this hard?

“Soo. What’s your favorite animal, then? Besides… Besides the leprecorn. Uniperson. Excuse me. Besides that.” He mumbled. “Maybe we can switch it out.”

He heard Stan snort.

“All the animals!”

“All of them? Even snakes?” Children didn’t like those, did they?

“Snakes can’t be animals. They’s snakes.”

“Of course. Apologies.” Ford drawled.

“Geez, Ford. Get it together.” Stanley chuckled, much to Ford’s surprise.

“What’s your favorite color?”

The child sat up for a moment, wrinkling her little features in thought. “I like green!”

“Green? That’s a nice color.”

“Now you ask.”

Ford was confused. “Pardon?”

“You gotta ask Daddy’s favorite color.”

“I know Stanley likes red.” Did he still like red? How embarrassing it would be if he didn’t.

Stella crossed her arms. “You gotta ask.”

“Stan, what's your favorite color?”

He removed his knuckles from in front of his mouth with a roll of his eyes that Ford almost missed. “Red.”

“Now you ask.”

Stan sighed. “What's your favorite letter?”

“Red—what? What? You're supposed to ask my favorite color.”

“Wild card. Switchin' it up.”

“My favorite letter is S.”

“S for Stanford? That's a copout.”

“How is that a copout? What's your favorite letter, then?” Ford leaned back, folding his arms.

“The letter S.”

“Oh, good grief, Stanley. What's your favorite food?”

“Uhh, Ma's roast beef. You?”

“I also enjoy Ma's roast.”

“Me too.”

Stan and Ford both looked down at Stella in faint amusement mixed with confusion.

“I’m glad you like it, too, sweetie.” He scooped her back into his arms to place a kiss on the top of her head.” There was a lull. “I can't remember the last time I had roast beef. Or the lil’ potato balls she’d put inside with the carrots. Those were nice.”

Ford bit his lip. “We could try to make it ourselves.”

“It's not that serious.“ Stan looked uncomfortable.

“Why not? You and I both—excuse me—all three of us like it, and neither of us have had it in ages.” He snorted. Another lull.

“It could be fun.”

“Ford.”

“Well, Thanksgiving is coming up, is it not? It’s not the most traditional meal, but…it’s still an option.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why would we even be here that long?” Stanley shifted Stella with a sigh. “Roast beef is not a Thanksgiving food. Why are you even talking about Thanksgiving?”

“Then we’ll have to do a roast beef alongside a turkey.”

“There’s no way in He—no way in heaven that could possibly sound like a good idea. No way. We won’t—”

“Variety, Stanley.”

“‘Variety,’ my foot. That’s too much food. Why are we even talking about Thanksgiving?”

“We have to eat something either way, and this just gives us a better range of leftovers to choose from. It’s sound reasoning.”

“For the love of—you know what? Fine. Why not?” Ford would have been lying if he said that reluctant concession on Stan’s part hadn’t given him hope. Asinine or not, Stanley agreed to stay and do something with him. It was an important step forward, in his opinion. “It’ll be an absolute cluster—uh, fustercluck, but fine.” Stan jiggled the child in his lap, though Ford couldn’t be sure if his leg wasn’t bouncing in agitation. Stella seemed pleased, for whatever reason, and opened her mouth to let out a happy little shriek.

“Fustercl—!”

Ford’s eyes widened. Stanley cut the child off with a swift kiss to the cheek, which quickly turned into a loud raspberry. The toddler squealed, one little leg stuck high in the air.

“Nothin’ slips past you, huh? Does it? Does it?” Stanley affected an angry tone—which was ruined by the grin that stretched his cheeks—and jiggled his daughter with each question. “You lil’ gremlin. What’m I gonna do with you? Huh?”

Stella dissolved into laughter and contorted herself backwards. A broad hand shot up to support her back, letting her flail back as she pleased while he tickled her tummy. Her rosy little foot found its way back to Stan’s face and he blew on it briefly before scooping her back upright.

“Ohh, you ‘n this foot’re really somethin’ today,” he sang tunelessly, “aaaand, I’m guessin’ you don’t want it since it stays in everyone’s face! I guess it means I’ll have! To! Eat it up, eat it up, eat! It! Up!”

He curled his lips over his teeth and doubled the child over backwards across his legs, grabbing the little foot to nip at her heel. “Omnomnom. Nomnomnom.” He paused briefly in his ditty to watch her giggle and squirm, his eyes filled with a level of warmth Stanford wasn’t sure he’d ever seen. Was he grinning? Truly grinning? Fatherhood had really done a number on him. Ford hadn’t realized his brother was even capable of handling anything with such overt care. It seemed that he would never cease to rattle his expectations.

He continued his song, slightly muffled though it was by the twelve small toes that wiggled against his nose and jaw. “’N since you don’t want either of ‘em, someone’s gonna hafta call ‘im! Gotta call the foot monster!” he paused to tickle her again. His little niece squealed. “’N then the foot monster came ‘n ate all the feet, ‘case he’s a really weird guy ‘n we should talk to ‘im about that maybe. But he came ‘n ate the feet, I guess…” He trailed off.

A smile broke across Ford’s own face and he couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled forth. Stanley jolted and looked around, pulling himself and his child perfectly upright. His eyes settled on Ford with what looked to Ford to be bewilderment. He fell silent.

His discomposure would unsettle them both, it seemed. Stanford couldn’t mask the startled look that crossed his face at his brother’s abrupt change in demeanor. His nostrils flared briefly as a puff of air hissed out. The singing had stopped, and there seemed to be no hope of Stanley starting back up. The man stared stiffly ahead for a moment, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he shifted Stella in his lap, pulling her into a proper, seated position. From the looks of it, she was content to play with Stanley’s hands folded across her tummy.

Well, fuck.

He’d only chuckled. He didn’t know it would ruin the moment so thoroughly. Ford held back a sigh of his own and burrowed down in his chair, settling for watching the two remain idly seated. How could he fix this? This wasn’t a machine that could be analyzed and diagnostics run. These were Stan’s emotions, a shuddering, amorphous beast that writhed and balked at stimuli that Ford could not gauge. He didn’t know if the man himself could do it, either. He bit back an agitated bark of laughter. ‘Who’s driving this thing,’ indeed.

His eyes lingered on the dingy cuff of Stanley’s jacket sleeve as his wrist moved, slowly and rhythmically patting his daughter’s pudgy little tummy. Six tiny digits fumbled with Stan’s wristwatch. Oh. She was still wearing the shirt he’d lent Stanley. He’d forgotten for a moment that she was running around in twice-borrowed clothing.

He cleared his throat, breaking the burgeoning silence that was taking over once again.

“If… If you want, we can go ahead and start a load for the washing machine.” Ford offered, wincing internally at the hopeful uptick his voice took on.

“No, thanks.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s…just a few things. S’not enough to worry about.”

“And what are you going to do in the meantime?”

“I can just do it later. No big deal.”

“Stan.” Ford shot him a look.

“Oh, for—What?”

“If you’re going to have to do it regardless, it follows that it would be easiest to do it here, when required—now, for instance, as opposed to…somewhere with a considerably less convenient layout.” The man scowled back at him.

“Don’t see why you’re puttin’ so much thought into this. Sheesh.”

“You make it sound unreasonable.”

“Because it is.”

Ford sniffed. “I—”

“Maybe later, okay?” Later? When the hell was later? Everything they wore was dirty now. The uncomfortable stillness grew heavier in the room, unbearably so as Stanley began to hunch over and curled in on himself, blocking Stella from view as he pulled her closer. The child seemed used to this apparent routine and hunkered down without so much as a peep. She had been babbling to herself moments before, but as soon as Stan doubled over, she quieted and moved to tuck herself away as though through muscle memory. From what little Stanford could still see of her face, she seemed completely unperturbed by it all. That worried him. He chewed on his lower lip. What was he supposed to do? He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue crumbled to chalk behind his teeth.

He’d have to wait it out, it seemed.

He waited a great deal longer than he would have hoped.

The silence remained thick; from what he could tell, Stella was still content to alternate between playing with her hands and the tassel of Stan’s braid, and otherwise made no sound or movement. What child could remain that still and quiet? Ford was a grown man and found himself growing agitated and restless. Though he was somewhat grateful for the knowledge that respite in silence was possible from her should he ever need it, but he wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be normal. Little old lady, indeed.

When Stanley finally did unfurl, it was a slow process and he refused to look anywhere but down. When he dared to look around, the eye Ford caught was defiant and wary all at once. He shifted Stella in his arms and she seemed to take it as some sort of cue and returned to her babbling, humming some little song she made while Stanley patted her chubby little legs. At least someone’s content with this situation. Ford had set this whole incident off, hadn’t he? He was a useless brother, constantly causing his tween anguish. He stared off with unfocused eyes, and was jerked back into cognizance when Stanley let out an undignified squawk. Stella was upside down with a foot pressed into his collarbone. Again. “Seriously, what is it with you ‘n this foot today? Hm? Please don’t be a kicker. Or a biter. Please don’t go back to biting.” He worked his jaw with a wince as he pleaded.

Ford needed to get him more arnica. The bruises would linger otherwise. Ford rested his mouth against the heel of his hand, fingers splayed across his cheek. Why couldn’t he talk to his brother without provoking an incident? Why was it all so difficult?

≈

For the life of him, Stanley couldn’t figure out why Ford couldn’t just leave well enough alone. What did it matter to him whether or not he did laundry? Get real. Ford always had to go above and beyond with everything. He always had. Stanley knew this. Regardless, his laundry wasn’t something to make a big deal out of. He’d already scrubbed Stella’s stuff in the sink and laid it out to dry. His own things would take longer, but that was fine. It was a non-issue.

He saw the looks Ford kept shooting his way. He didn’t need any more of that. Ford may have known his living situation was a mess, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try to hold on to the last of his pride while he still could. He could almost smell the pity coming. He couldn’t stomach it. He just wanted his privacy. This whole thing was starting to set him on edge. For years, he’d been alone and estranged from the people he cared about. To say they cared about him in return seemed like a bit of a stretch after roughly 20 years’ separation. People went out of their way to ignore his presence, though there’d been more shock and shuffling, hesitant eye contact thrown into the mix since Stella arrived onto the scene. Him opening up to people only ended with him bleeding and left to rot in a prison cell or with him stupidly hoping that things would change, just this once, only to have his chest torn open and salt poured in with a serves-you-right as a garnish. The first time Stanley met up with family after years tramping around on his own had ended in a five-year shitshow. They both knew this, at the very least. Affection for Stanley was inherently out-of-place and to be suspicious of. So what in the fresh hell was all of this? It made his skin crawl. This wouldn’t end well. It couldn’t. No way in Hell. Stanford had to have something planned for him, and it had to be something awful. Nobody went out of their way to be kind for kindness’ sake; they always wanted something in return. And Stanley, fool that he was, had been fool enough to pay that toll time and again.

This was his carrot. He’d just have to wait it out until the time came to get the stick.

With his luck, the stick would be a branch.

He sat up, setting his jaw, letting his eyes trail around. He spotted Ford’s uneasy glance his way, but chose to ignore it. Whatever it was, he’d ask him soon enough. And this time, he’d be prepared for it. He wouldn’t put his heart on his sleeve to get ripped off and burnt away again.

“Stanley.” Here we go. “Is everything…are you alright?”

“Just peachy, Ford.” The ropelike tendon in his neck twitched and rolled as he scowled ahead. Was that a fish tank across the room? Why was it stuck in the dark? Stan decided he didn’t care.

“No you aren’t.” the man mumbled under his breath.

A certifiable fuckin’ genius, Stanford was. What was Stan supposed to say to that? What the hell? “Askin’ stupid questions, then, are we? Just for fun?”

“I didn’t—Stanley, it’s not even like that. Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doin’ a thing, Ford. Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” What in the hell was the point of all this? They were both nice and quiet, and then he had to go and ask these awkward, loaded questions. Then he had the audacity to complain about it when he answered.

The other man sighed. “Don’t be like this. Please.”

“Like I said, I’m not doin’ anything. Please. Why don’t you tell me what it is you think I’m doin’, since it bothers you so much.”

“What is it with this sudden—ugh.” Ford groaned, lifting his glasses to stroke the bridge of his nose. “Why are you being so standoffish all of a sudden?” he huffed, scowling across the room at him. “Is this because I asked you if you wanted to do laundry?”

Stan could’ve punched him for that incredulous tone. So he thought he was doing him a favor? As condescending as he was? It was a wonder Stanford didn’t get hit wherever he went. Nope, that’s just me, probably. Stan snorted.

“I’m glad you find this funny.”

“With this nonsense? Somebody has to.” He watched Ford’s upper lip curl under and flatten against his teeth.

“Nonsense? For fuck’s sake, Stanley, all I did was ask you a simple question!” Stanley didn’t notice the small thud as a small cheek pressed against his chest.

“Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Really? Would you let it go if you were in my place? You act like I shouldn’t even care.”

“That’s because you shouldn’t.”

“You can’t possibly believe that. Stanley, you’re—”

“What? I’m what, Ford? Family? I’m your brother? Is that what you want to hear?” He let out a wheezing laugh. “You expect me to believe that matters to you?”

“Of. Course. It. Does.” He rumbled, his words precise and clipped through grit teeth.

“Ohh, it matters. Right.” Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. “It sure as hell didn’t matter to you up until now.” Stanley took a bit of perverse satisfaction in the other man’s flinch. Enough to miss the squeeze around his middle.

“That’s absolutely not true.”

“Ohh. It isn’t, huh? Figures, then. Stupid Stanley, missing the obvious again. Well, then. Fuck me for not noticing, am I right?” His hand began to pat his daughter’s back as she began to fuss, as if on autopilot. His glare never left Stanford’s face.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

Ford let out a bitter laugh and shook his head, his grin lined with frustration. “You are so full of shit, you know that?”

“To be honest, you keep your head so far up your own ass, I’m surprised you noticed.”

“Damnit, Stanley!” Stanford snarled. “You absolute—” he was cut off by the wail that emanated from Stanley’s lap. It started out low, more of an insistent whine, but quickly pitched up to an outright sob. Both men froze. Stella was crying.

“Ah, shit.” Stanley wheezed, tightening his arms around the child. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to scare you. So sorry.” He began to rock her side to side, pausing as she pushed herself away. “Oh, sweetheart…” he sighed. His little girl was doing her best to glare up at him, though her efforts were marred by the little hand rubbing at her wet eyes as she sobbed. He began to bounce her, which only served to make her cries come out as hiccups. “Oh, sweetie...” He pulled her close once more and stood, attempting to cradle her head close as she pushed and wiggled and fussed.

“No!” She twisted and writhed, nearly toppling out of his arms as she pushed herself away. Oh, geez. This wasn’t an ordinary bout of fussing, infrequent though they were. She was legitimately upset.

“D’you want your paci?” he flinched, dodging an arm. “Okay, yeah. Paci.” He stole a quick kiss to her cheek, putting himself well within slapping range. She landed a weak shove to his jaw. There was no real force behind it, though it hurt all the same and on several levels. Stanley inched down into a crouch and set her on the floor, watching for a moment as she tossed herself back against the floor with a whump. “Oh, babygirl, don’t hurt yourself. Here,” he darted of towards the stairs in a full sprint. “Paci, paci, where the fuck is the pacifier?” He knew he still had it. Those things were expensive, and even though she was weaned, it still calmed her down on the odd occasions when she got herself really worked up. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Was it in the car? He hoped not. He stumbled into Ford’s guest room and headed straight for the haphazard pile of his and Stella’s belongings. He tossed his stuff aside and grabbed a small drawstring bag, tearing into it with a fervor. How in the hell had they managed to start a fight in front of a child? She was right there the whole time. Not in another room, she didn’t toddle over into the scene; she was in his lap the entire time. “Shit.” He could keep his cool. He knew he could. So why did he have to lose his goddamn mind when it came to Stanford? We just bring out the worst in each other.

To be fair, Stanley brought out the worst in most people.

He rifled through the bag, his shoulders falling slightly in relief as his fingers hit soft rubber. Got it. He dropped the bag onto the floor and promptly threw himself back down the stairs, nearly tripping, and headed immediately back into the room full of screaming.

“—sorry, sorry, I am so sorry—” Stanford looked up in alarm from his new position on the floor. He held an uneasy hand out towards Stella, who was having none of it. What the fuck is that supposed to do? The kid didn’t want a hand hovering over her. What was the point in that?

He crouched down beside the two of them—as far away from Stanford as was possible—and scooped the flailing child back into his lap. “Here. Sweetie—don’t—” he narrowly missed an accidental headbutt and held out the pacifier, frowning at a bit of lint stuck to it. He stuck it into his own mouth, ignoring the horrified look Ford sent him in the process, and readjusted his grip on the hysterical little girl. “Hnh.” He spoke around the rubber between his teeth before popping it out of his mouth, pressing it towards hers. “I can almost guarantee you Ma did the same to all of us, so don’t even.” He grumbled. It took a few moments, but she finally seemed to realize what she was being offered and sucked the purple piece of rubber into her mouth with an indignant murmur. She pushed away his hand, but Stan didn’t mind. This was definitely an improvement and with any luck, she’d start to calm herself in a short while. Or not. She slapped the arm that braced her back and he withdrew, making the gentlest noises he could at her. Eventually, she’d calm down. He knew Ford was staring at him, but he ignored it. Let him be uncomfortable. He hoped he was confused, too, just out of spite.

It was a while before Stella would allow him to pick her up. The pair watched the child squirm and settle in Stanley’s arms, her large brown eyes falling heavy-lidded as her tears slowed and her sobs turned into hiccups. Stanley’s chest ached with each one. He swayed gently on the floor, lulling her to sleep with his heartbeat. She startled herself upright with a particularly loud hic. She pushed herself away from Stanley’s chest to peer around the room, her eyes settling on Ford with a scowl. The little girl raised a hand to point an accusatory finger at the man.

“Sorry.” She insisted, her little glare darkening as the man squirmed. Ha! Atta girl! That was definitely his child right there.

“I… I am? I mean, I am, so..?” That’s right, baby girl. Make him squirm.

She contorted once again in his lap to face him, sticking a tiny little finger into his bicep. “Ow.”

“Sorry.” She repeated. Sorry? What kind of Benedict Arnold shit was this? He had a scowl of his own.

“Stella, honeypie—”

“No. Sorry.”

“I don’t…” Ford trailed off. Stanley rolled his eyes.

“She wants us to apologize to each other, genius.” It was Ford’s turn to frown.

“Darling, I—”

“Say. Sorry!” she snapped. Ford jumped.

“Alright, dang. Geez, we’ll do it, okay?” Stanley patted her leg. She folded her arms. It would’ve been comical if she hadn’t been so upset. “I… Ugh. Fine. I’m sorry. There, you happy, tiny tyrant?”

“I… I also apologize.” Ford squirmed under the scrutiny the child gave him.

“You have to say sorry.”

“I just apologized.”

“Use the approved words, dingus.” Ford shot him a sour look and seemed ready to open his mouth to say something stupid. He must’ve thought better at the last moment.

“I’m sorry as well, Stanley.”

“There. Better?”

“Now you have to hug.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes. Hug.”

“Nope.” Stanley drawled, popping the p.

“Yes.”

“Stella, honey, no.” he sighed, running a hand across his scalp. “That’s askin’ a little much.”

She spat out the pacifier. “You say sorry ‘n then you hug it better. Yes.”

“Sweetie, that’s for little kids.”

“Now you hug it better.”

“Yeesh. Tiny grandma. You’re a tiny grandma, you know that?” he patted her little back, hoping it would placate her. No such luck.

“Hug it better.”

“You really aren’t gonna let this go, are you?” He slid her out of his lap and plopped her on the floor beside him, popping the pacifier back into her mouth. “Let it never be said that you don’t know what you want.”

She sucked on the pacifier, the round rubber circle bobbing furiously for a moment as she stared up with still-damp doe eyes. And damp nose. He needed to wipe her soggy nose before she did the honors herself. “Hug?”

“Oh, for—fine. Fine.” With a groan, Stanley ambled up to his feet. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute.” Ford followed suit soon after and Stan avoided the man’s face. He didn’t need to see whatever stupid look he was sending him. His scowl pointed downwards towards the man’s collarbone as they stood facing one another. Alright, let’s get this over with. Stanley leaned in for a loose, quick one-armed shoulder hug, letting out an indignant squawk as Ford dragged him in closer. Ah, geez.

≈

Stanford, fool that he was, had been expecting an actual hug. He threw his arms around the man’s torso and pulled him in tight, noting with dismay how quickly he went limp in his grasp. He was dead weight, just balancing on his feet. Stanford might as well have been propping an oversized fish upright.

This wasn’t his brother. Stanley wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was nothing like the affectionate child he’d grown up alongside.

The Stanley he knew would have thrown around him and nearly toppled them both over, like he used to. He would’ve said something corny to lighten the mood, and laughed them both to the floor. Instead, he was just there. There, but not as he remembered. Nothing like he remembered. When it came to Ford, Stanley was like an elaborate substitute of what he had been; one that lacked his essence. What had he done to break his spirit so thoroughly? How much of it was Ford’s own fault?

With a sigh, Ford’s grip fell slack, his arms slipping down to his sides. The man had vehemently protested, argued even with a child over the prospect of hugging him. What had he expected?

Naturally, just to spite Ford, the man brought an arm up to slap him on the back a few times, just when he was about to step away. His look of surprise must have been interesting. “I’m glad I could be of entertainment to you.” He drawled.

“Pfh. Don’t think so highly of yourself. You always make weird faces.”

“I didn’t expect… I stopped expecting reciprocation.” He cleared his throat as he spoke. Stan rolled his eyes, turning to scoop up the child who so graciously lifted her arms to be carried.

“There, princess. Happy now?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Well, you make it kinda hard to do anything when you put a man in a chokehold, Ford.” He grumbled, refusing eye contact once again. The excuse was a pathetic one, but it made Stanford smile all the same.

He’d take what he could get.

≈

Stella was blowing raspberries at him. Stan sighed a bit; he guessed he deserved them. He hoisted her weight in his arms and leaned back so that he could see her face. She was busy looking around, her little head tilting to and fro as she explored from her new vantage point, blowing raspberries all the while. Oh. She was just making noises. That was fair. He’d make noises, too, if he was three.

He strained his neck upwards to plant kisses on her salty little cheeks, earning himself a well-welcomed giggle and a swipe of her nose across his shoulder. “Oh, how nice.” He hummed, wincing all the while. He’d seen that one coming. She rested her head on his shoulder—the clean one, he noted—with a hum, earning herself a chuckle in the process. She’d tired herself out with all that crying, most likely.

Not that he blamed her for it.

His hand came up to rub soft circles along her back. He wasn’t quite sure where he was walking; just back and forth between rooms and along the hallway as Stella began to nod off. He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to forget his child was in his lap before getting into it with someone. As many run-ins as he’d had, that had never happened before. He must’ve been getting complacent. Or just particularly riled up. Neither would do.

He swayed side to side. “You asleep?” No answer. He’d just take that as a yes. Sweet lil’ girl. As uncomfortable as it had been, she’d only wanted him and Ford to patch it all up. One stupid hug wasn’t gonna fix all their problems, but she was just a baby. She couldn’t know that. And he’d do his best to make sure she wouldn’t have to.

He inched his way to the stairs and up, sighing at the state of the room. He’d torn it apart looking for that damn pacifier, and had left a wreck strewn everywhere. “Okay, kiddo. Down you go.” He tiptoed around the bag he’d dumped onto the floor and placed her at the head of the bed, tugging her grimy blanket around her. Maybe he should wash the thing. It was a soft little blanket someone had given her, stuffed into an old baby bag along with clothes her kid had outgrown. It was the nicest thing Stan had seen in a long while.

People weren’t nice to Stan.

It was a simple fact. A baby, though? People were nice to babies sometimes. He remembered a few times, times when she was really small and he had no other choice, he would sit somewhere, a park or in front of a store, and people would send them both the dirtiest looks they could muster. He heard the mumbling, he wasn’t that stupid. He knew they thought she was just a sympathy ploy. She was his child. He couldn’t help it. If he needed to panhandle, she had to be with him. There wasn’t another choice. Stanley didn’t really care how people saw him, he’d stopped worrying about that a long time ago. He knew how they felt about him. It wouldn’t change. He’d be damned if they looked at his child that way, though.

He grew fed up with those dirty looks soon enough, and began covering her with whatever he had. He’d zip her into his jacket, cover her head with a scarf, it didn’t matter. What mattered was making sure she wasn’t seen, and most importantly, that she wouldn’t have to see them and their ugly judgmental looks. It didn’t matter to him that she was too small to really remember any of this. He didn’t want her to see it.

It was easier to be the man ignored than the man whose child was sneered at.

He leaned forward, pressing a smooch to her little forehead. Lil’ sweetie. He turned and stared once again at the disaster spilled across the floor. Great. Now he had to clean up this mess. Stanley squatted down. Here we go. He shoved the drawstring bag’s contents back inside, then tucked it back into the baby bag. The little back was mostly full of her things from infancy; pacifiers and bottles and the sippy cup he still needed to finagle back together. He wouldn’t throw it away, she might need it again later on, much like the pacifier.

Stanley’s own belongings went back into a small heap on the chair. He kept his crud separate from Stella’s. There was no need for him to dirty up her things with his own. She had to have at least something of her own to herself. He knew he should get a bag of his own, but he’d lost the duffel bag he used to carry—the one that’d been packed and waiting for him when he was seventeen—and he’d never gotten around to getting another one. His money was better spent on other things.

Once finished straightening up, Stanley sat on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed. He propped one arm up on the edge and rested his chin against it, watching his toddler snooze. Her face had started to relax finally, and he could finally chuckle at those chubby cheeks and the pacifier bobbing along.

No, wait, he should actually take it from her while he still could. She wasn’t supposed to be using it anymore. The last thing he needed to hear was someone clowning him over it and reminding him of how bad a parent he was. He already knew. It didn’t need repeating. He inched over and crept a hand out, giving the handle a gentle tug.

“Nu.” Stella shook her head in her sleep, then rolled over. He leaned back.

“Alright, then.” She’d have to spit it out, eventually. She was still little; nobody said she had to grow up this fast.

She was content, he hoped, he’d just let her sleep.

≈

When Stella finally awoke, Stan had taken a nap of his own and woken back up. It was short—the nightmares had kicked in what felt like moments after he’d truly gotten somewhat comfortable—but he’d take what sleep he could get, when it came down to it.

“Hello, princess,” he cooed as he watched the child push herself into a sitting position, “sleep well? It sure looked like it.” She stared at him for a moment, then held her arms out, leaning towards him. He was more than happy to oblige her. “Hey.” He repeated, his grin evident in his voice. “How’re ya feelin’?” She chose to nestle down in his arms instead of responding. “Alright.” Stanley hummed. She’d babble again when she felt like it. But what to do in the meantime?

He heard a faint clatter. “Hey, I heard some noises downstairs. You wanna see what’s goin’ on?” he felt a nod. “Alright. We’ll go investigate. How ‘bout that? Maybe it’s your lil’ buddy.” He winced as soon as the words left his mouth. He was supposed to be weaning her away from that thing. So much for that.

Father and child crept their way down the stairs, pausing at the rustling Stan heard in the kitchen, followed by a crash and a string of expletives. Stanley set Stella on her feet, his brows furrowed as he slipped into the kitchen. Ford was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring down at a slew of pans and bowls scattered across the floor. Stan took a look around the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he was aiming for.

He also wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

He watched Stanford shove the pots and pans back into the cabinet, only to have them tumble back out moments later.

“For fuck’s sake—”

“Uh.” Stanley interrupted, leaning against the doorjamb. “You look like you need some help. Or… Or a lot. I dunno.” He gave a shrug.

“I, no. No, everything is under control, I can assure you.”

“Alright cool.” Stanley spun around to leave, glancing down as he saw a little brown head traipse its way into the kitchen. His arm shot out and he leaned over, almost losing his balance as his hand pressed against the child’s tummy. “Uh, uh, uh. Where d’ya think you’re goin’?”

“Here.”

“Okay, fair enough,” he drawled, “but how about you don’t, huh? Let’s not and say we didn’t.” He patted the little tummy. Stella grinned up and stared up at him briefly before stepping to the side and continuing on her merry little way. “Or not. Okay.” He reluctantly followed the child into the kitchen, his nose wrinkling. “What’re you doing?”

“Making dinner?” Ford huffed as though it was obvious. The man forgot to buy groceries on a regular basis. Did he really expect Stan to believe this was a common occurrence for him? Get real.

“Okay, dinner. Fine. I’ll rephrase the question. What are you doing?”

“Stanley, that’s—” Stanford cut himself off with a huff. “It’s spaghetti.”

Spaghetti. Stanley eyed the countertops, spotting unopened packs of ground beef and spaghetti. Those were reasonable. The opened cans of tomato puree were also reasonable.

What he found unreasonable was the fact that the opened cans had been emptied into a pot and were boiling away, untouched by any other spaghetti component.

“Why?”

“Because people need food, Stanley.”

Stanley wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “No, I mean that. Why’d you put the tomato in the pot with nothing in it?”

Ford looked at him like there was something new sprouting out of his head. “It’s a tomato-based sauce.”

“That doesn’t… that doesn’t mean you actually put it in first.” He ran a hand down the side of his face. “Y’know what? Here.” He sidestepped Stella, placing a hand over the untouched onions. “Where’s your cutting board?”

“It…was burned a long time ago.”

“Oh my God. Okay. Fine. I’ll use a plate.” Stanford reached across Stanley into a cabinet overhead and pulled down a plate. Stan gave him a grunt of acknowledgment and cut the ends off while Ford watched. He sighed. “Crumble up the ground beef into a skillet, would ya?”

“Right. Of course.”

This was going to take a while.

≈

Stanley stared at the salvaged pot of pasta with a sigh. Halfway through, Stella had decided she would help, mostly by clinging to his leg and making it hard to move without knocking her over. He’d forcibly removed her from Ford’s leg at one point; the man was a disaster. He didn’t need Ford splattering piping hot substances across his child. He’d have to break his face—accident or not—and for that, his own leg was marginally better.

“Alright, gremlin. Time for you to actually sit in a chair.” He gave his leg a playful shake then lifted the child into his arms, earning himself a giggle before Ford startled him with a hand on his bicep.

“Wait.” His muscles tensed for a brief moment before he willed himself to relax. Ford needed to stop springing up on people. He was gonna run Stanley ragged that way, he swore it.

“Jesus, Ford, don’t make me drop ‘er.” He really would have to break his face then.

“Sorry.” Stanford leaned and hovered over Stanley’s shoulder—to Stan’s discomfort—to reach the child’s level, looking her in the eye. “Now, Miss Pines, I have an apology for you.” What? Stanley craned his neck to watch the man sigh. “I shouldn’t have yelled at your father, and I certainly shouldn’t have done so right in front of you. That wasn’t nice of me at all. Will you forgive me?”

Stanley froze, wrapping his arms tighter around the child. What was this? Was this happening? There was a catch. There had to be. Ford must’ve been enjoying taking the piss out of him.

This was the carrot, and Stanley needed to know when the stick was coming. He worked at his jaw, trying to loosen the tension quickly building.

Stanley’s child leaned back to peer at him, then blinked. So she was as confused as he was. Good.

Stanford seemed to be waiting for an actual answer. Stella just stuck her hand in her mouth.

“Finger outta your mouth, honey.” He should probably wash her hands.

Her eyes darted between Stanley and Stanford for a moment before she complied. “’Kay.” She offered the damp little hand, followed by the other, out to Ford, who, at a loss, put his hands out to take her.

“And so the princess allows herself to be held.” Stanley mumbled, stifling a snort at Ford’s lost expression. He was lost, too, if he was honest with himself. Ford had apologized to Stella, actually gotten down on her level and apologized. Actually apologized. Never would he have expected that from the man. He wouldn’t have expected that from anyone, for that matter. People didn’t like Stanley. He’d found the easiest way for others to show that was through showing disdain for his child by extension of him.

This stretch of silence was too uncomfortable to let continue. “Alright, princess, let’s set you down.” He mumbled, giving a slight nod of satisfaction as his words lit a fire under Ford. The man stalked to the table, slower than Stan himself thought necessary, and stood Stella in a chair with what seemed like unnecessary caution. Stella, for her part, seemed put-out to be standing in furniture and slid down onto her knees, leaning against the edge of the table. “That’s better.” Stanley cooed.

His brow furrowed again as he watched Stanford fumble to grab plates and cutlery all at the same time. “Hey, we only need two plates. Or bowls. A plate and a bowl. Or a bowl and whatever you want.”

Ford eyed him. “Stanley, there’s three of us.”

“I am aware, thanks.”

“Three people. Three sets of flatware.”

“Me ‘n Mini-me can share.”

“Nonsense, there’s plenty. You don’t have to—”

“Ford. Look at her.” They both turned. She was still perched on the edge of the chair, looking confused. “Sit back, sweetie. Don’t want you to fall.” Stan turned back towards the other man. “But yeah, look at her. She’s big as a fart,” Ford looked taken aback at that, “she eats like a lil’ baby bird. She doesn’t eat a full anything. I’ll have to finish it, or it’ll go to waste. Just let ‘er eat off my plate. It’s fine.”

Stanford pursed his lips. “…If you insist.”

“It’s less cleanup, too.”

“You may have a point.” The man’s face told his lie. Stanley ignored it in favor of collecting his child.

“Alright, missy. Time to wash your hands.” He carried her over to the sink and propped her up on the edge of the counter. “Not… you have tiny hands, you don’t need that much soap.”

“Bubbles are important, Daddy.”

“Oh. Bubbles are important.” He drawled. “My bad.” He heard Ford snickering off to the side. Water ran down Stella’s elbows and dripped on the both of them. “Nice.” It was fine. It’d dry soon enough.

While he micromanaged his daughter’s soap usage, Ford had taken it upon himself to fill their plates and set them at the table. He carried the slippery girl back to the table and sat down across from Stanford, settling her in his lap. He eased the bowl towards the center of the table before Stella could flip its contents across them both.

This was bound to be a painfully awkward evening.

≈

Children were messy.

Stanford wasn’t sure how something so small could make such a contained disaster and smile about it the entire time. Most baffling was that he had been watching the entire time, and in no moment could he pinpoint the exact moments in which the mess appeared. It was as though it just… materialized.

“Stella, sweetie?” Stanley hummed to the child, who turned her tomato-smeared face upwards. “You know you’re cute, right?”

“Yeah?”

“You are so cute, but you’re making such a big mess.”

“Okay?” Stanford couldn’t help the snort that escaped him and covered his mouth with his hand as he tried to contain himself. He could all but hear the ‘And? What’s your point?’ left unsaid as she reached for Stanley’s fork.

“Kiddo. I’m gonna give it to you, can you wait until I actually get it on the fork for you first?”

“But I wanna do it!”

Stanley’s shoulders dropped. “Here.” He offered the fork. She immediately dropped its contents into both of their laps. Perhaps spaghetti hadn’t been the best idea, Ford mused as Stan let his head loll back. “Oh my God.” He sighed. Stella picked the pasta up with her fingers and shoved it into her mouth, unbothered. “Stella, can I at least help you with it, sweetie?”

“No, I wanna do it.”

“Stella, you’re making a huge mess all over the place. You need help. You can either let me help you, or I can do it for you, but you cannot do it by yourself.” The little girl scowled, turning her stare towards Ford. ‘You hear this shit?’ Her unreasonable look of indignation was priceless.

He bit back another chuckle and settled for a raised brow. “It is quite the mess.”

“See? People don’t like it when you make a big mess out of all of their stuff.” Stella folded her arms. “So is that a yes?”

“…Okay.”

“Perfect.”

The remaining meal passed with less fanfare, and Ford watched Stanley as he coaxed his child into letting him feed her with minimal fuss. Ford hesitated for a moment before opening his mouth. “Loath though I am to beat a dead horse, my laundry offer still stands. I’ll even throw in mine.” He gestured to the orange-toned splatters across his own front, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I think I might have a smaller shirt that might suit her in the meantime.” He inclined his head towards Stella, still wearing the blood-stained shirt he’d leant Stanley the day before.

Stanley’s face soured and his jaw tightened, ropy muscles rolling underneath the mottled skin. “Yeah. Sure. Okay, fine.” He handed the child the fork. When she leaned back against him, apparently sated, Stanley grabbed a fistful of paper towels and wiped down her hands and the tabletop before standing. He placed her in the chair before grabbing the bowl, then Ford’s, and plunking them both into the sink. Stanford twisted in his chair as Stan began running the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax, I got it. It’ll just be a second. Where’re your containers?”

“The…The cabinet to your left, I believe. Stanley, you don’t have to—”

“I gotta get this mess up. It’ll take ten minutes, tops.”

“What?”

True to his word, Stanley was finished in roughly ten minutes. He’d even wiped the stove down, which Ford had to admit wouldn’t have occurred to him. How did he work so quickly? He watched him give the table another quick wipe and then grabbed Stella, holding her at arm’s length as he sped up the stairs. He could hear the child whine. “Yeah, yeah. It’s bathtime. You got no one to blame but yourself on this one, babypants.” Moments later, Ford heard the rush of water surging through the pipes.

He stared at the clean table.

What a remarkably fast exit. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Of course he wouldn’t want to stay, not after that. It was quite literally the same argument that had caused them so much trouble hours earlier. Plus, the child was absolutely filthy. He needed to find the shirt he’d promised.

With a sigh, Stanford pushed back his chair and stood, letting his feet carry him towards his room while the sounds of muffled splashes, song, and giggles trickled down. The sound of such honest normalcy was jarring. Stella’s existence was jarring, if he was honest with himself.

When Stan had been driven off at seventeen and the informercials had stopped airing late at night, it was easy to imagine that he was off somewhere in Atlantic City or Las Vegas, partying to his heart’s content. That image had been shattered once Ford had begun to worry with upkeep on the Stanleymobile in the years Stan had been lost. The wear and tear and obvious signs that Stanley had been living out of that car spoke of a life far different from what he’d originally assumed.

When Stan had driven off again a few years prior, Ford had hoped down to the pit of his stomach that Stanley would have been able to turn things around for himself. If he could survive the other side, apparently unscathed, then certainly he could prosper with ease with what experience he surely must have gained. One look at him on his doorstep three nights ago had proven that a lie, and the child upstairs had been the laughter and slap in the face to add insult to injury.

Stella was another reality check for Stanford, that yes, his brother was out there, actually interacting with people, and having to work his way through tight situations. Handling a small child in the best of situations was daunting as it was. Doing it with no means must have certainly been unbearable. How does one raise an infant from the backseat of a broken-down car? It wasn’t a question he could hope to earn the right to ask.

Ford found himself staring down at his dresser, numbed. His brother was living out of a car again. There was a baby living out of his brother’s car. What had Stanley done in his years without the Stanleymobile?

He had to fix it. There were a number of things Stanford had to make right, but this one was absolutely imperative. He pulled open a drawer and began rifling through the back, pulling out a shirt for Stanley. He would fix this. He didn’t know how, but he’d come up with a way. He didn’t want his niece to have to experience the same things Stanley had.

He didn’t want Stanley to have to experience the things Stanley had.

For all his eloquence, Stanford wasn’t as good with words as he’d hoped when it came to people. Things always seemed to end in a fight or ruffled feathers, at the very least. It was a wonder Fiddleford had put up with it all for as long as he had. He’d just have to show them both the emotions he couldn’t properly express. Their Ma, silver-tongued though she was, had always been the same way with them growing up. Her words never carried as much weight as her actions did. She had even gone out of her way to make them both a birthday cake each every year, even on years they had decided on the same flavor. He smiled at the thought.

He might not have been able to bake a cake, but he would do his damnedest to get his point across.

He just had to find this stupid shirt first.

≈

Stanford hustled his way upstairs, a shirt tossed over either shoulder. The bathtime noises had quieted, and from the cracked door he could see the light was off. He must’ve taken longer than he’d expected to collect the garments. He continued on to his guest room, pleased to hear the faint shuffling from inside the room. He sidled up to the doorway, one hand pressed against the frame. He watched a slight frown cross Stanley’s face as he squeezed a damp shirt, wiping the water across the lounge pants he’d changed into. So I made good timing. Good.

His brother turned slightly as he bunched the damp shirt up, ready to pull it over his head. Ford moved his hand to tap on the doorframe, but froze. His eye caught the outline of the sigil he’d burned into Stan’s shoulder and he winced at the dark bluish, purpled scar tissue. Fuck. Ford had never gotten the chance to see the aftermath of his handiwork; Stanley had been so closed-off and silent when he’d returned, and had seemingly done his best to keep as far away from Stanford as possible until he’d driven off into the night without so much as a by-your-leave.

The skin was shiny, not unusual for scar tissue, and seemed to dip inwards rather than keloid, forming dips and valleys where the hot metal had seared through his skin and into his actual flesh. The skin around it puckered more than stretched as it pulled taut with his movements. And to think he could still fight, with his shoulder like this. Maybe there was a reason he was taking falls and throwing fights.

He had done that to his brother. Just looking at it brought back the acrid smell of Stanley’s charred skin and the fat sizzling underneath it, mixing with the sharp bite of the molten polyester of his jacket. He had to be able to feel that. Was the smell lodged high in the back of Stanley's sinuses as well? He could almost see the melting fabric darken and dissolve and crawl away from the blinding heat, just to cling to Stan's unaffected skin to scald him further. That jacket had been too light for winter. The skin must have cracked and wept for Stanley, like Ford had wept for him on the other side. Fat lot of good that did. Had it bled? Or had the heat cauterized the wound immediately? Stanford had used that brand to engrave symbols into solid steel. There was no way the damage done could have healed without complications. It was so close to his spinal cord, to top it all off. It was a wonder his brother was still alive.

Stanford’s eyes dropped to the floor, but fell short. Another large scar marred his brother’s body. An angry, pink puckered gash ran diagonally from his back to the tip of his right hip. Ford’s mind was quick to offer the word nephrectomy, and he made a concerted effort to ignore it. No, this scar was roughly-hewn and there were a number of ways Stan could have gotten himself another scar. He could’ve tried some reckless stunt on a motorcycle, or been in a freak hiking accident, or a knife fight, or, or, or—

Stanley rotated his body slightly, moving the majority of the scar out of Ford’s line of vision. He must’ve noticed his presence. With a concerted effort, Stanford straightened his body and face as Stanley tugged the shirt down fully, turning to face him.

“I come bearing shirts.” He held the offending garments up as a lame offering. Stanley’s drawn, contemptuous face did not change. He let his arms drop.

“…Right. Thanks.” Stanley mumbled. Stanford stepped into the room in his best attempt at looking casual, giving a quick glance towards the bundled lump on the bed.

“Is she asleep?” his voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Yeah.” Stanley turned his head to stare at his little lump and remained silent for a moment, a faint smile forming. “Started fallin’ asleep halfway through her bath.”

Ford didn’t hold back his smile. “I… This one is smaller, of course, I’d imagine it fits better than an adult man’s shirt would. I received it by accident and just…never got rid of it.” He rambled away, though it did nothing for the tremble in his hands or the bitter taste of guilt corroding his tongue. He lifted the larger shirt. “Also, this one isn’t wet.” Damnit. Would it kill you to keep your mouth shut? Just once?

Stanley eyed the shirt, then Stanford. “Aaalright, then. Thanks.” He mumbled the word, almost as an afterthought as he stretched a reluctant hand towards the proffered shirts.

Once taken, Stanford took a step back, offering his brother a weak smile. It was painfully clear that Stanley wanted him out of the room, and for once, Stanford felt the same. “I’ll just… let you two sleep now.” He feigned nonchalance as he inched his way out of the threshold. Oh, Fuck. “Wait.” He doubled back to peer into the doorway, wincing slightly. “I’m about to… gather up my own belongings to throw in the washer, if you’d like to add yours in?”

“Okay, Ford. Sure. Thanks.” Stanley mumbled, no heat behind the edge to his words. He just sounded exhausted. And whose fault was that today? “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Stanford Pines dragged himself down the stairs—vindicated, he supposed—though feeling a great deal emptier than he had in quite some time for it.

It's been so long?? How did this happen?? Exactly a week ago I was ready to post this, eleven pages shorter, but my stupid self had to go and say "nah let's make it a little longer." This chapter is over TWICE the length of my average chapters, and to be fair I could've separated it into two chapters, but I didn't want to, so there's that? I really hope it was worth the wait. >.< This past month has been: one week and a half off of work, followed by a 4-day weekend, then ANOTHER 4-day weekend, this week was be a full week, and then we get ANOTHER long weekend on top of that. And another. You'd think that would be a good excuse for getting MORE updates than normal, but uh, every time I sat down to work it turned into "Hey, you wanna go to ___?" and I am a sucker for pretending to be an extrovert, so... Yeah. That's what happened.

#Gravity Falls #Fanfiction #Stanford Pines #Stanley Pines #stangst #single dad stanley pines #THCM

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