Alright fifth times the charm! Thank you @caninescreations for this prompt!
Stan stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. It was a good ceiling, with straight(ish) brown boards and no leaks. It had served him well over the last thirty years, even if he had spent most of that time conked out in the basement and not snug in his bed.
A part of him would miss it.
A larger part was annoyed he was still staring at it.
Now that Ford was back Stan didn't have to stay up until the small hours of the morning slaving away at the machine downstair. He could, in theory, go to bed at a reasonable hour and wake up the next day refressed and with more energy than his old body knew what to do with.
In practice, every night for the last week he'd gone to bed and stared at the ceiling until he passed out sometime between midnight and two A.M.. His mind and body were too used to late nights and desks, and neither had gotten the memo that they could put it all behind them.
With a groan, Stan looked over at the clock next to the bed.
A bright cheery eleven stared back at him.
Sighing, Stan gave up. Laying here just made him feel twitchy and restless, and if he was going to be awake he might as well do something with his time. He rolled out of bed and slipped his feet into his slippers, grabbing his bathrobe as he shuffled out the door.
The house wasn't quiet as he made his way to the kitchen. Every board seemed to groan from the wind outside, small animals and other, stranger things scuttled about in the woods nearby, hooting and making a general nuisance of themselves, and upstairs the kids were still banging around in the way they thought was quiet.
A responsible adult would have gone up to the attic and yelled at them to go to bed.
Stan went to the kitchen and started washing dishes. Kids made a lot of them, Soos made more, and Stan had his own contributions he blamed on everyone else. It was a chore he usually left to the kids or Soos, but lacking a trasuniveral gateway to repair and keep his hands busy, it'd have to do.
The sounds of night settled as he washed. After a while the kids shuffled off to bed, the house settled, and he was left alone with the sound of running water and the clink of dishes. Eventually that too ended, and Stan had a stack of drying plates and the unsatiated need to do...
Stan sighed, dried his hands off, and turned around.
Then he jumped back and grabbed his chest. His tongue jumped to the roof of his mouth, and he bit back a scream at the looming shadow directly behind him.
"Stanley," Ford said, not at all phased about scaring him nearly half to death, "what are you doing up so late."
Mind your own damn business Stan didn't snap, swallowing the words to instead ask, "What are you doing up so late?"
Stan added a glare, just to mix things up.
"You shouldn't stay up too late," Ford said, and Stan crowed a silent victory cheer at this admission of defeat, "its bad for your health."
"I'm a grown man, I'll stay up as late as I want." Stan pushed past him headed towards the living room, his late night restlessness gone with the appearance of his brother, "now go be a looming creep somewhere else."
"I am not being a 'looming creep'," Ford replied angrily, coming to a stop at the edge of the living room while Stan made himself comfortable in his chair, "I was simply-"
"Watching me do the dishes for who knows long without making a peep." Stan interrupted, turning the TV on just loud enough to hear, "now unless you have something you need to say to me, scram. My shows about to start."
He kept his eyes resolutely on the opening to 'Wednesday Evening Dead', daring Ford to call him out on the blatant dismal, or to snap about Stan's habits.
Nothing came, and when he glanced at the doorway, Ford was gone.
The next night was much the same, with Stan taking a stab at late night inventory. There were only a few weeks of summer left, and he was torn between putting everything in storage on the shelves so he'd have less stuff to move out, and putting in another order for merchandise and leave Ford to handle it after he 'moved out'
Either way, he'd have to take stock of what was left. He was barely at it for an hour before he turned to find Ford looming at his elbow, eyes intense in a way they always were nowadays and being as creepy and invested in Stans health for some reason as ever. This time he didn't stop trailing after Stan, badgering him to go to sleep, until Stan had finally given up on his self appointed task from pure annoyance.
The next night Stan was in the middle of making up a list of things to pack when Ford pounced, and the night after that Ford was already waiting at his bedroom door, arms crossed and adamant Stan needed to be tucked in asleep by nine every night.
Stan wasn't about to let Ford of all people tell him what to do, but he also wasn't about to start an argument in his bedroom doorway while the kids were getting ready for bed. He did tell Ford that the earliest he was ever going to be in bed was ten, and any further pushback on this would lead to Stan looming over him in the dead of night.
Annoyingly, this seemed to satisfy Ford, who made no appeared the night after when Stan decided to keep to his bedroom and pack instead of being ambushed by his brother again.
The night after that was the full moon though, so even if Ford made several pointed and not at all subtle comments about everyone turning in early, Stan ignored him. Ford wasn't the one who lived here for thirty years after all, and even if karaoke night had obliterated a good number of zombie skulls, there was no telling if more would pop up from some other mass grave in the woods.
He did make a show of telling the kids to get to bed at a (somewhat) reasonable hour (with a low comment about not having to sleep, but they did have to stay in the room) and getting himself into his own room shortly after. The obvious rouse was enough for Ford though. His twin had always been a sucker, and thirty years hadn't changed that. The moment Stan made towards his room Fords shoulders slumped in obvious relief, and Stan rolled his eyes at whatever nonsense Ford muttered after him.
Ten minutes later Stan crept right back out, wooden bat in his hands and dead set on patrolling the house until dawn. Ford would be an obstacle, but Stan wasn't scared of him. If it came down to it Stan... might not be able to out brawl his brother, but he could out talk him.
Ford would probably buy the bathroom excuse at least three times before he realized Stan was playing him, and by then it'd (hopefully) be morning.
Stan's quiet circuit of the lower floors was interrupted by a soft, quiet sound, coming from inside. It wasn't the kids, who only ever had loud, excited, or conspiratory as volume settings, and it wasn't a zombie, which had a very distinct groan when they shambled about.
This wasn't either of those. It was more of a muffled grunt, or a low keen, like a dog that had been kicked but still kept crawling back.
Stan followed the noise to Fords door with growing tension. He could make out more sounds as he got closer; books thumping against the floor, unsteady footsteps shambling about.
A low whine. Air sucked in through teeth.
No sounds of anyone else, so either someone had broken in and decided to shamble around Fords room, or Ford was shambling around his own room.
Images of what could be happening flashed through his mind. Could be a nightmare, Ford waking up in a panic and trying to make sense of the world around hin. Could be Stan missed the break in and Ford was bleeding out on the floor, only a door and his own pride separating him from help.
The former was more likely, but even the slim chance of the second had Stan's blood going cold and his hand around the handle.
"Ford?" He called out softly, wincing at the tremor in his voice, "you ok in there?"
All at once the sounds stopped.
"Yes, I'm fine!" Ford called back, breathless and full of false cheer, "just ah- headache. No need to be alarmed!"
"I'm coming in!" Stan whispered shouted, trying not to let his very minor panic bleed into his voice or alert the children upstairs.
Stan had already picked the lock and was opening the door. He heard Ford curse and scramble somewhere inside, and when he finally laid his eyes on his brother it was to see him slamming into the wall next to the open bathroom door at full force.
Stan watched him crumple with a raised brow. There wasnt any blood that he could see in the low light, and while Ford was unsteady he wasnt holding himself in any way that betrayed injury as he staggard to his feet. Stan took a hesitant step forward, hands raised as Ford blinked hard and held a hand to his head.
"You OK there bud?" Stan asked, trying to keep his movements slow as he took another step forward, "you uh, you need some water?"
"Don't patronize me Stanley," Ford growled (growled!) turning away to face the wall, "now as you can see, I'm fine. You may leave."
Ford was not so subtly inching towards the bathroom. He stopped when Stan took a step closer and put his hand on the door, still concerned but also annoyed by his brothers antics.
"No I don't think I will. Seriously Ford, what's going on."
"Nothings going on." Ford turned as Stan got closer, keeping his face out of Stan's line of sight.
"You ran into a wall Stanford."
"Into running into a wall?"
"Yes! It's a common response to unwelcome company barging in on you. Now leave!"
Stan grit his teeth. Even if Ford hadn't ran full force into the wall trying to lunge into the bathroom, it was clear something wasn't right. Ford was hunching his shoulders, and his voice was still growly and strained. Small tremors shook his arms, and his gait was still unsteady as he kept facing away from Stan.
And maybe Stan was still angry at his brother, and hurt, but not so much he'd let whatever was happening slide. Best case scenario Ford was just embarrassed, but worst case he'd come back tomorrow morning to find a stiff corpse.
He wasn't leaving until he was sure Ford wasnt hiding something life threatening.
Stan braced himself for another shout, or a swinging fist, but nothing happened. Instead of snapping back Ford groaned, hunching further in on himself and staggering back towards the couch.
"Stanford?" Stan rushed to his brothers side, stopping only when Ford flung a hand up between them.
A very large, very fuzzy hand.
"Get. Get out of here." Ford panted, and with a jolt Stan realized the edges of Fords face were starting to fuzz with rapidly growing fur, "before- before you-"
The rest of Fords words were lost in a low whine. He collapsed again against the couch, panting heavily, as more and more fur burst out of every inch of skin Stan could see and probably where he couldn't. Stan watched horrified as his brother writhed, body twisting and shaking and-
Fords body collapsed further as his arms and legs became too short to hold onto the couch. It kept going, until Stan was staring slack-jawed at Fords still normal sized clothes.
His still, motionless clothes.
"Stanford?" Stan called out, the sound almost making him flinch as it cut through the sudden silence, "Stanford are you-"
OK? Still there? Stan didn't know how to finish the sentence.
Couldn't bear to finish the thought.
Thankfully he didn't have to. Just as he was about to do something emotionally embarrassing the pile shifted. A soft sigh filled the room, followed by quieter grunts of effort as something small wiggled its way through the pile.
It came to a stop at Fords collar, and a moment later a small fuzzy head popped up. Two giant brown eyes squinted out from behind too large frames, as familiar as Stan's own in a face as foreign as a today's children's TV shows.
"Ahem." The little green puppet said in his brothers voice, "now I know-"
That's all Stan heard. The moment he had breath in his lungs Stan bent over and started laughing uncontrollably. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, and by the time he sucked in enough air to look up they were streaming down his cheeks.
Another look at Fords scrunched up puppet face was enough to send him to his knees. Stan slapped the ground as his laughter died down. Not because he was done, but because he was laughing so hard he couldn't get enough air to make noise.
The sound of Fords little puppet feet approaching took him out. He gasped for breath, then exploded into renewed laughter at Fords tiny puppet form, dwarfed by his red sweater standing in front of him. The collar was three times too big, and was falling off his shoulders comically, revealing a fuzzy green puppet chest.
"I knew you would react this way." Ford groused, and seeing the puppet mouth move to Fords voice did not help Stan's darkening vision or aching ribs, "this is why I told you to leave. If you would just listen for once-"
"HAH!" Stan barked out, instead of 'puppet!' Or 'green!' Like he meant to mock "HAHAHAHAHAHA-"
Stan's laughter went silent, and he pressed his forehead into his bent arm as he finally collapsed fully onto the floor. Ford kept speaking, but between Stan's laughter and the ringing in his ears he couldn't make out the words. Every time he looked up and saw Fords green puppet body he lost it, and Fords disgruntled puppet face did nothing to help.
The giddiness didn't leave for the rest of the night, and he only (mostly) stopped laughing when Ford stomped out of sight. Only to laugh again when his brother reappeared in a tiny puppet outfit that matched his normal clothes down to the patches on the elbows.
I cant breathe. I cant. Im. Oh my god. Im I. I cannot. Breathe. This is amazing. I.
HE T U RNE D INTO A PUPPET. GOD. ITS BRILLIANT AND IM CACKLING
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