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this is basically the full idea of this post. it's a fic I've been thinking about and then working on for... a year now? maybe two? but i finally wanted to push it out if only for permanence
i had intended to post the first two chapters together, but i got excited about the first one and I'm an impatient little whore so I posted that, then took at least a month to get the second one out. but it's here now, and I've already started the third chapter, plus the skeleton is Way Too Fucking Big by now.
as always, if you intend to read it, please check the tags first :]
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i still can believe silver got abandoned because he was not powerful enough. Like. look at him interacting with sleepy???? he's so sweet??
i found him outside like this with sleepy. Sleepy has had problems after getting abandoned by their past trainer because it didnt want to evolve, especially with making friends, But silver seems to think that this little goop is his best friend. Its honestly so cute, i cant believe it.
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I think it is so beautiful and wonderful and joyful and magical that we live in a world where we’ve all collectively agreed that a select group of puppets are Real People and everyone’s in on it and everyone always plays along. so now they’re just widely accepted to be real alive people. yeah that’s elmo. that’s a real guy his name is elmo and he’s red and he’s a baby and he’s real.
sometimes people think I am on Mad At Them Island, when in fact I am far more often paddling around in the waters of Slightly Annoyed With Their Recent Behavior Bay, or perhaps on the beautiful Peninsula of Get Well Soon But I Will Not Be Engaging With All Of That
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there's this guy who works at the convenience store next to my job and every time i come in he tries to upsell me. i'll get a gatorade and he'll say "that's it...? isn't it snacktime?" i'll get a snack and he'll say "just that? don't you want more?"
one time i got a huge pile of stuff and he STILL said it and i said "dude, you would not be satisfied with all the riches of heaven!!" and he said "i don't even get a commission. i just love doing this."
and then i couldnt come in for a while and then i came in again today for just a charger. and i said "that's it today" with a smile. and he looked at me with a gleam in his eye and said "no it isn't. you'll be back later. you'll have to get thirsty eventually, won't you?" with this conniving smile that made me realize i WAS thirsty. i'm out of my depth here. help
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see personally I made the mistake of putting the app i use for writing right beneath tumblr. sometimes i genuinely mean to go try to write and end up here instead by accident
unfortunately you must be the change in the world you want to see anyway chapter 1 is almost done and this excerpt seemed Tumblr's vibe
"And you're certain that there aren't any flights sooner?" he near begged. Surely, there was another way. The quickest path couldn't possibly have a three hour wait?
"Very, sir."
A long sigh punched its way from his lungs. It could.
It was the only way. He just needed to be there fast.
"...Okay. Okay–" Stanford fumbled for his wallet, thumbing out two twenties and a ten to hand over. The receptionist smiled professionally as they took the payment, too bright for his dreary mood.
"Gate eight. Boarding is at seven. Have a nice flight."
Vaguely sure that he gave some kind of thanks, Ford snatched the ticket from the other's hand and stumbled down the halls, uncertain at first what he was really looking for until he found himself before a payphone.
He just needed to check. Just to make sure.
Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a few loose coins and the scrap paper to check the phone number written on it. With a quick push, the man shoved the change in and dialed the number. One ring. Two. The receiver wire wrapped around his pointer finger thrice over.
Then, finally:
This is Henry County Hospital, how can I help you?
"Hi, yes, hello–" Stanford blurted, the words tumbling out of him, "This is Stanford Pines, calling about ICU patient Stanley Pines. I-Is he still, ah–" Is he still alive? He didn't want to say it. It was entirely possible the answer could be no. "–Alright?"
He is, Mr. Pines. His status hasn't changed; still resting.
Oh.
Relief washed over him. He hadn't needed to check. It hadn't been all that long since he left, after all.
"...Right. Of course. And you'll let me know when he wakes up?"
If we can, we will.
"...Of course. Thank you."
Clk.
Stanford hung the receiver back in the cradle, staring distantly at the phone for several seconds. Three hours. His eyes flickered over to a clock on the wall. Actually, closer to two and a half.
It was the fastest route. The only way without wasting excess precious time to toll gates and traffic and red lights. A lesser suffering.
He floated down to gate eight, and waited.
Maybe twenty minutes later, Ford found himself at the phone again. They gave him their number for a reason, he told himself. This was reasonable. He was being reasonable.
One ring. Two.
This is Henry County Hospital, how can I help you?
"Hello, Stanford Pines, calling to check on ICU patient Stanley Pines?"
Quiet for a moment, filled only with the faint sound of clacking on the other side of the phone.
Still no change, she assured him pleasantly.
Right.
"Of... Of course. Thank you."
Clk.
Stanford returned to his seat.
It only took fifteen minutes before he was on his feet again, taking a walk to stretch his legs and coming around, inevitably, to the phone again. Nothing had changed, he was mildly sure of it. To call once more already would be ridiculous. They likely hadn't even rounded to Stanley's room again. He needed to control himself.
He needed time to move faster.
Stanford, with great effort, forced himself away, instead hesitantly wandering off to the information booth. Empty, at this hour. Rightfully so.
Maybe he should try to sleep instead. He couldn't imagine he would be doing much of that once he arrived in Ohio.
Stanford returned to his seat, and, imaginably, didn't do a lot of resting. Staring at the ceiling and counting the tiles, his mind tortured him with images of what could've brought Stanley, strong and undefeatable Stanley, to his knees the way the nurse had depicted it.
His brother had always had a habit for getting into trouble of all shapes and sizes. Trouble with their parents, the school, even the police on the rare occasion Ford didn't talk him out of a particularly hardheaded idea.
Never the kind that took kidneys. Not the kind that left him fading in and out at a hospital.
What had he done?
It had been years since they last spoke. They hadn't even seen each other since the Incident.
For the first two or three days, Stanford had been betrayed, to say the least. Livid, he had spent a good amount of time... Brooding, as his good friend Fiddleford would put it, tinkering away at the Perpetual Motion Machine while cursing Stanley's name. And when school set back into motion, he looked for his brother, intending to chew him out once and for all.
He had not found Stanley. It had only fueled his anger at the time (of course Stan would flee as soon as Ford finally snapped and he actually had to face the consequences for his actions), but in the end, his twin hadn't come back home, and both the betrayal and the vague unease were pushed to the back burner in favor of trying to make up for academic chances lost.
Now, he wondered if, maybe, Stanley's disappearance had been a sign of something more sinister, not typical teenage melodrama.
The thought made his spine crawl. What had happened while his back was turned? He had taken his eyes off of Stanley in rage and the world had spat him back up maybe six years later, asking for him in the ICU.
For a moment, Stanford tried to muster up some kind hate for the other, if only out of six years of habit. An anger to make the trip less dreadful. He found nothing. Nothing worth yelling at a potentially dying man.
No, he reminded himself sharply, vehemently, Stanley doesn't die.
Right?
Eyes drifting to the clock again, Stanford briefly calculated how much longer for the plane to touch down. An hour and forty minutes at most, if there were no delays. Too much time. He'd already wasted nearly an hour waiting here. More time would slip away on the flight there.
What if something happened while he was in the air, unable to contact the world below? He wouldn't know until after. Until he was minutes too late to even say goodbye.
He squeezed his eyes shut and drew in a sharp breath. There was nothing to do. There was nothing he could do.
He just needed to wait.
Ten minutes later, Stanford stood before the payphone. Enough time had passed now. He dialed the hospital.
One ring. Two.
This is Henry County Hospital, how can I help you?
"Stanford Pines speaking. I'm calling regarding the state of ICU patient Stanley Pines."
He's still here, sir. Still resting.
"Alright. Thank you."
Clk.
He tried to read for another fifteen minutes. Journey to the Center of the Earth wasn't one of his favorites, but it was there, and it was what happened to end up in his hand when he went scavenging for a new distraction.
In the end, he kept tripping over page eight, scanning the paper without really reading the words, before he finally gave up and snapped the book shut. With not much else to do, short of bashing his head against the wall until he fell unconscious, Stanford rose to walk again.
The payphone sat innocently on the wall.
Just to check.
One ring. Two. Three.
This is Henry County Hospital, how can I help you?
"Hello, I'm Stanford Pines, calling regarding the status of ICU patient Stanley Pines."
He's still resting Mr. Pines. If y–
Clk.
For a moment, he stared at the wall, hand still pressing the receiver into the cradle.
He was being ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
He needed to sleep.
Stanford released the cradle and returned to his seat.
Curled up in the plastic chair, legs tucked half over the armrest and coat tucked around him, he managed maybe half an hour of fitful shut-eye that left him feeling more tired than he had before. And possibly with a forming headache, but that easily could have been from the harsh lights overhead and the growing hum of voices.
He needed to check if Stanley was still alive asleep. The sooner they could speak, the better.
Rising, Ford pushed down the familiar path to the payphone and dialed a number he already had the rhythm of memorized.
One ring. Two.
Henry County Hospital, what can I do for you?
A new voice, he noted distantly. There must have been a shift change.
"Hello, this is Stanford Pines. I'm calling regarding ICU patient Stanley Pines– Is he resting, still?"
There was a beat of silence first. Then, ...Actually, this is great timing.
Stanford's hopes rose–
He woke up several minutes ago during his check-in, and, while he expressed a brief period of understanding, has been generally combative with all nurses since then.
–Then collapsed just as quickly. Combative. It sounded like Stanley, certainly, but combative served no one. Especially not himself, in the state they'd described.
"Can I speak with him?" he asked urgently. That was the matter of utmost importance. If they could speak, he could understand, and maybe talk some sense into his brother.
Just a moment.
Silence followed for a minute or so that felt like much, much longer. This was it. An auditory confirmation of Stanley's state, or at the very least a definite sound of life.
Beep!
"Stanley?" Stanford lurched closer to the cradle, eyes fixed on a crack in the tile near his shoes, listening intently.
None came immediately...
Then, a labored breath, more like a gasp of panic, followed by soft reassurances from, likely, whoever was holding the phone for his brother. Ford gentled his approach.
"Stanley? Are you there? It's Sixer. Ford. You asked for me, remember?" More quiet. His voice took on a more desperate edge. "Could you talk to me? Please?"
A few more wheezy puffs of air came through to Stanford, and whatever hope he had left dissolved. He had to say something, swiftly, before there wasn't a chance to say it again. But what? I'm sorry? Are you okay? You're a bastard if you leave me here and I'll spit on your grave?
Inadequate. He needed more time. He needed to make more time.
"Stanley," he began, very slowly, "listen to me very carefully, alright? These people want to help you. They looked for me when you asked, and I'm on my way now, but it's going to take time for me to get there. A lot of time. I need you to listen to them and hold on if you want to see me, okay? Can you do that, Lee?"
A beat passed. Then another. A minute stretched out into ages in the quiet. Stanford tried one more time, though he had a feeling like he was trying to shake answers from a corpse.
"...Lee?"
Nothing.
Frustration welled up, shame heating his cheeks as he ducked his head. This was pointless. He may as well say what he needed to and hang up, because clearly, there would be no–
...Si–..Sixer..?
–answer.
"Yes!" barked Stanford, then immediately realized his error when he got a sharp gasp in response. He tried again, but gentled his approach, "Yes, it's me. They called me, I'm on my way. Are you okay? Can you talk to me?"
Silence, then quiet shuffling. A pause in the movement.
S..Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't– 'm sorry–
Alarm spiked, cold and certain, as Stanley babbled on somewhat incoherently about messing up and safety. This was all wrong. Frightening, even. He'd wanted an apology for the project for ages.
This... Was not about that.
Cautiously, he moved to interrupt the other's senseless pleas. "Stanley, stop. Whatever it is, whatever's wrong, I'll help you, but I need you to talk to me first. Just talk to me, Stanley, that's all."
His brother sniffled wetly.
Okay... O-Okay.
"Good," he breathed, mostly to himself. "That's good, Lee. Thank you."
For a moment, he paused, every script he had made for this moment falling away until had he left was raw fear, and the sudden knowledge that what he said here was infinitely important to maintaining his brother's life. No matter what, he had to try.
"Now, the people with you– They want to help you, I promise. They're trying to. They called me, Lee, I'm on my way, but– In the meantime, you need to work with them, okay? Don't try to– To run away, or anything like that. You have to do that for me, Stanley."
But–
"No buts, swear it to me Stan," Ford insisted with increasing urgency, "You need their help to see me. Tell me you're going to let them help you."
At first, the other didn't say anything, and Stanford feared that perhaps he'd been too demanding in his concern. His brother, a Pines man through and through, had always been known for his stubborn streak; commanding him to do anything often backfired fantastically. The image of Stan doing the exact opposite of what he had asked, fighting the nurses at any given opportunity, even being so foolish as trying to slip out, flashed through his mind in a catastrophic series of events.
I don't– I-I'll– he quieted abruptly, then sniffled dryly and conceded at last. ...I'll try. Sorry, I– Y-You're coming? Here?
Ford's chest tightened at the tentative hope in his brother's voice. He hadn't sounded like that since they were ten and he'd gotten stuck in a tree, begging Ford to go fetch their mother.
"Yes, Stanley. I'm on my way right now. It'll take a few more hours, but I will be there. I swear it. Alright?"
...'kay. Thank you. ...'m sorry.
The relief was a wave, sweeping the breath from his lungs even accompanied by the oily feeling seeping through his body.
"Okay... Okay. Okay. Thank you. That's... That's most important right now." What did he say now? Stanford's throat worked for a second as he mulled over his options. "Are you– Are you..." Alright? A stupid question. "...Is everything okay? What's going on?"
Silence once more. Frustration sparked, less at Stanley and more at the circumstances. At least if he was in the room with his brother, he'd be able to glean more from his quiet than just the wrongness of it all.
He would get nothing like this.
Instead of moving to hang up, Stanford stood there for a moment, drinking in the sound of Stanley's wheezing breaths over the phone. It was different, knowing it could very well be the last time he heard it.
Eyes stinging, he shut them quickly and took a controlled breath. No. It would be fine. He could hear Stanley, and he was quieter than he had ever been, but he spoke, and that meant he was still fighting.
"Stanley, listen. I'll have to go soon–" Stan made a wounded noise. "–but I mean it, Lee. I'm going to be there. I will. You won't have to wait long, but I need you to wait to see me. You must promise me that, Lee. Promise me."
I'll try. I– 'm sorry– I-I'll try, Sixer, I will, I swear.
Ford swallowed, nodding to the empty air as though his brother could see him. "Good. That's good. Just hold on, Stanley. I'm going to be there."
He hesitated for a moment, then set the receiver back into the cradle with a click that felt like abandonment. A stupid feeling. He'd got what he wanted. He heard Stan's voice, confirmed life, and gotten his brother to at least try not to kill himself any faster than he could get there.
chapter one should be out soon, it's mostly exposition though so I'm trying to finish chapter two to post them together, or smth close to it. this post is the general idea that sparked the fic, so if you're interested that's your context
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