#hells writes

As the seconds pass, his anxiety rises. Definitely not just a panic attack. Not even his worst nightmares make him feel this way when they startle him out of his slumber. He’s been scared before, scared shitless, scared for his life in the most literal way. He knows what it’s like when you’re sure you’re going to die, whether it’s by staring at the barrel of a gun or by running out of oxygen with a rope around your neck. It’s a primal sort of fear, the one that sets off every single alarm in his body, making his survival instincts scream.

But this feeling doesn’t come from an external source. No, this feels way too real, too physical.

No, no, no, this can't be how I go, I can’t, I haven't even finished fixing the fucking–

A moment of clarity. The memory hits him all at once.

His eyes burn as he hits the ground with a dull thud.

∼≋∼≋∼

Stanford wakes up slowly. He doesn't know why he wakes up, really. These days (and with no little amount of effort by both his brother and himself), he either wakes up screaming or he sleeps through the whole night. But this time, he simply opens his eyes like he just closed them. Lazily, without worry. He closes his eyes again.

That sensation only lasts a second, though. The telltale feeling at the back of his neck (which Soos had dubbed “spider-sense”, whatever that meant) is tingling. It's a warning sign that he developed during his time through the portal, when he had to sleep anywhere he could, and half of the time without any kind of protection. It was especially useful at Dimension AkL945-/, where he had to search for refuge in caves already inhabited by animal-like creatures.

This sense is now coming back full force. Something is wrong. He doesn't move, but he listens. Nothing around him. He opens his eyes. No creatures in his peripherals. When he's made sure that he can move around, he follows his safety procedure with the only natural next step.

Where's Stan?

He realizes –FOOL, how did you not notice– that he doesn't hear his brother's snores. In fact, if he listens close, he can hear... labored breathing.

Ford looks out the edge of his bed and sees Stan, sat on the floor against his own bed. He has his knees up to his chest, and he seems to be breathing shallowly.

Bad, bad, bad, bad.

Ford catches himself a second before he jumps out of bed. He can't scare Stan now, not when he's clearly having a panic attack. That will only make it worse. Instead, he climbs down the ladder as slowly as his own anxiety will let him, and he kneels so he can be at Stan's level.

“Stanley?” he calls. His twin looks at him with red eyes, and Ford feels shivers down his spine. Stan looks terrified, and that seems generous. Even in the dim moonlight that shines through the small window, he can tell that he's way too pale. He's clutching his chest with a strength that can't be anything but painful. At the very least, he seems to be able to recognize him.

“Six?” he asks in the most horrifyingly weak voice Stanford has ever heard. He sounds beyond helpless; he sounds like he knows he's beyond help.

“Yes, hold on, let me...” Ford reaches for the bedside table and grabs Stan's glasses. As he puts them on his brother's face, he can't help but notice the tears in his eyes. Then, he softly grabs Stan's face and turns it to the side so he can turn on his hearing aids. He realizes with relief that they're already on. He moves his head again so they can face each other.

“Stanley, what happened? What did you remember?” Ford asks, his mind already going to the darkest places. Stan had told him too many things over the last few months, and he keeps waiting for an anecdote that won't make the previous one look like child play. At this point, he expects anything, even though he never feels prepared enough to hear about Stan’s past.

“No,” Stan replies, his voice too high for how slow he's talking. He swallows one, two times, and with each one he clutches his chest again. “Nothin’.”

Ford has to try really hard not to scoff. Stan has a habit of not telling him things right away, and it delays his recovery. He knows this, he knows shouldn't do it. But with his twin's crying face in his hands, he can't bring himself to mention it.

“Alright, Stanley, you don't need to tell me right now, but I need you to breathe, okay? It’s just a panic attack. Come on, breathe with me.”

“No,” Stan replies again, and this time it sounds desperate. Like he's trying hard to deliver his last message. Ford shakes his head at the thought. “A... arrythmia.”

Everything stops around Ford. He can't have heard that correctly. Absolutely not. His brain automatically goes the scientific route, trying to come up with an explanation. Stan is physically fit despite his age, and surprisingly resilient for the things his body has gone through. They don't have any history of heart diseases in the family. Stan is not that old. He can't, he can't, he can't–

His theories fly away like some papers pushed off a table. Who the fuck cares about the explanation, the consequence is right in front of him! He wants to refute Stan's theory, but despite his desperation, his twin seemed awfully sure of his words.

He moves one of his hands to Stan's neck, now noticing how drenched in sweat he is. His heart rate is erratic, and off the charts. It definitely seems like tachycardia.

He doesn't know what to do. There's nothing they can do. They’d need actual hospital equipment to deal with this, and they're in the middle of the ocean. The closest land is about four or five hours away, and they can’t be sure the hospital will be close enough to the coast, or remotely so. Their first aid kit has nothing helpful. There's nothing, nothing!

It's nothing, Sixer. Just a panic attack. Panic attacks can't kill you, did you know that? They physically can't. So calm down and breathe.

Stanley's words come to his mind. Funnily enough, he said them when he was having a panic attack. Not Stanford. No, he decided to use his precious, shaky breaths to calm Ford down while he was experiencing a panic attack.

Panic attacks can't kill you. A tachycardia can.

His mind is not on his side, as it tends to be. Ford finds himself now with his hands on the floor, feeling the tears about to fall, powerless, useless. He needs to think, and he needs to do so fast. He can already feel his own panic setting in, rendering him speechless first and motionless right after. Look up, look up now, he needs you—

Who would need him now? Unmoving, ineffectual, unable to even think—

“Stanf'rd...” Stan mutters, and like if a button had been pressed, Ford's head shoots up. He makes eye contact with his brother, who now has tears down his cheeks, and simply listens for any word that might come out of his mouth. “H-hold my hand.”

Something shatters inside of Ford. His first instinct is to refuse; he knows why Stan is asking him such a thing, and he refuses to acknowledge it. Even though he’s the most inclined to physical contact out of the two of them, Stan would never asks for it just like that; he simply cracks a joke, sits silently next to Ford or lifts him in the air in what they both know is just an excuse for a hug. Hell, even when he’s experiencing an actual panic attack, he just waits until Ford initiates the contact.

So no, Ford doesn’t want to hold Stan’s hand. It’s just an indicator of how desperately he needs that comfort, how unbelievably scared he is.

On the other hand, how is Stanford supposed to refuse? He knows he can’t. Not when his brother has given him a direct order, a request for something he can actually do to help. As always, even when he’s the one in peril, Stanley manages to keep them both afloat. And once again, Ford is useless.

You can be useless if you want, but don’t you dare be both useless AND selfish.

He sniffs and scoots closer to Stan, grabbing the hand he's being offered. Stan's face contorts into a grimace of pain, closing his eyes, letting a couple new tears fall. Ford watches closely, knowing he can't formulate words anymore, and whines.

“It's fine,” Stan whispers, and slowly lowers his legs until they're resting straight on the floor. The movements are painful, as made clear by Stan's expressions, but he doesn't stop. He scoots lower down the edge of the bed until his head is resting on the mattress. “Come 'ere.”

Ford stares at his brother for a second before he breaks down weeping. He should be better than this, better than to let his dying brother comfort him while he stares and does nothing to help. He feels a deep shame boiling him from the inside out, and ultimately does as he's told.

He sits right next to Stan's legs and leans back until he's resting against his brother's chest, like a kid in a mother's embrace. He can feel Stan's heart, too fast for his liking, and tries to put as little weight as possible on him. He should say something, but no sound (or not human, at least) comes out of his mouth. He feels Stan's hand on his hair, a familiar motion trying to soothe him.

“It's okay, S-six,” Stan mutters, and his voice sounds so close to breaking that Ford wishes he too had hearing aids he could turn off. “I love you,” he adds, the tears betraying his tone.

This time, Ford truly cries. Out of rage, out of helplessness, out of fear. He can't answer, or move, or think anything other than the fact that his brother is actually dying, holding him in his arms like he's the one who needs caring. But he can't bring himself to move a single inch; the moment he moves, it might be over. Stanley told him to do this. The least he can do is do as he says.

His non-human side, now becoming more prominent, nuzzles against Stan's shoulder, in a probably futile attempt to answer. To his surprise, Stan hugs him tighter, now visibly shaking. Stanford lays against his twin as he rocks them both slightly, listening to the other's heart. With the last bit of clarity in his mind, he prays to Bill himself to save his brother.

∼≋∼≋∼≋∼≋∼

It might've been minutes, hours, or 30 more years for all that Stanford knows. He hasn't fallen asleep –not like he could've– but he knows that something else took the reins while he was at his most anxious. He remembers it all, down to Stan's last words, and everything after that just becomes a blur with a 200bpm soundtrack.

Speaking of which, the noise has died down. Not to bare silence, as he realizes after a moment of pure dread, but to a steady, average rhythm. He wills his eyes to move around and notices a hand playing with his own. It's a familiar game: count to six moving each finger apart, a light tap on the last one, and count down. Count up again, two taps, and count down. It's a technique that Stanley used to employ when they were little, on the very scarce occasions he'd confess to Ford that he was not okay. He looks away from his hands after the fourth series, and looks up to see his brother's face. The other notices and smiles softly.

“Hey,” he simply says, but damn it if it isn't the most beautiful noise Ford has ever heard. He sounds exhausted, but alive. Alive.

Stanford moves away from his brother's embrace, sitting back on the floor, barely looking away from Stan. He wants to hug him until he forgets the horrible night they've both had, but he hesitates. He's not in the appropriate condition.

“H—,” Ford starts, his throat hoarse but thankfully able to make some human noises. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. It passed, so better. How are you?”

Ford makes his best ‘what do you mean how am I?’ face, which Stan clocks right away. However, he answers.

“I'm fine, I suppose.”

Stan looks down, playing with his hands, looking embarrassed.

“I... just remembered I need heart medication. For... well, you can tell.”

Ford stares at him dumbfounded. “Yes, I can formulate an idea. But... are you... out of danger now?”

“Well, we should still find a hospital. Probably shouldn't sleep until then, just in case. That's what the paramedics said last time.”

Ford nods as he talks. He doesn't want to ask questions, he just wants to get up and set the course for the nearest city. They aren't too far away from the coast of Norway, surely they can find a hospital in 24 hours.

“Sixer,” Stan calls, pulling Ford out of his own thoughts. He puts a hand on his shoulder. “I'm okay, yeah? It probably won't happen again, I just need an ECG and some pills and I'll be good as new, alrigh'?”

Ford nods again. He feels tiny against his brother's seemingly never-ending confidence. He always has. Even after 30 years of survival training, he still crumbles upon seeing his brother hurt.

“Thank you,” Stan adds, looking straight into Ford's eyes. “You did good, man. You got me out of it. Come 'ere.”

Stan raises an arm, inviting Ford to a hug– a proper one this time. Ford accepts and moves forward, careful not to oppress his brother's breathing or blood flow. However, Stanley seems to not care as much, and he hugs Ford tightly. Ford reciprocates.

Nothing lasts forever.

Funny thing, that sentence, at least considering the situation. Does anything truly last forever? Ford would say the universe. Stan would say Ford's nerdiness. Both would be right. However, this was a whole another thing.

At some point, who knows how long into the future, one of them gets tired of immortality. It's been way too long, and even though they don't age anymore, other people do. Some very important people, who weren't supposed to go before them, leave. They decide to keep an eye on their family's descendants over the years, centuries, millennia. But they're still human. And humans aren't meant for immortality. They're made to live for a very short amount of time (relatively speaking) and find enjoyment in the time they have, just like any other mortal species.

As much as the twins wanted to have more time when they decided to sail together, mourning the years they lost, immortality is still too much to handle. They're grateful, of course, but... it's been too long.

Contrary to what one might think, Stanford would be the first to think about this. Of course, his curiosity about the multiverse and Earth in particular would keep him moving and motivated to always learn more, but he's also spent his pre-immortal life travelling between dimensions (which he doesn't do anymore), and that made him a witness of too many things. More than any human eyes could comprehend. And after all of that, what he craved was adventures with his twin, but not as lethal and frenetic as he had grown used to. What he really wanted was to spend whatever time he had left by his brother's side, fulfilling their childhood dream and resting. And, deep down, he wanted to make it up to him. Give him the life he took away from him and return it tenfold, because that's what he deserved and the least he could do.

Stanley, on the other hand, is pretty content with immortality for longer than Ford. It took him a LONG time to fully recover his memories (the ones that were only hidden because of the memory gun anyways), and an even longer time to wake up in the morning without the fear that he'd be back in the basement in front of a broken portal. When that time passed, having solved any possible quarrels between them, Stan felt the best he'd felt in his life. Having lived and loved and lost so much, his current life felt like a dream come true. That didn't mean he was any less grumpy or would complain less about any little thing (even if most times it'd be playful banter); it just meant that he could do all of those things and more without having to put on an act. He could just be himself while also being with his bother! Stan was ready for adventures, and god how he missed this will to live energy that he thought he had lost decades ago.

For Stanford, the realization was gradual. Little by little, their adventures weren't as exciting anymore, and he would rather sit on the deck next to Stan and watch him fish. He'd suggest watching a movie instead of making lists of things they needed to buy on the next port. And when Stanley would ask him if he was okay, Stanford would simply state that he wanted to take a slow day.

Stanley knew that something was up with Ford pretty much since he started feeling this way. You don't live for (how many centuries had it been?) without knowing a guy better than you know yourself, specially if it's your twin. They both had changed over time, but they were still them, and any little change in their personality had been catalogued in Stan's mind. But this? This was new, and Stan knew that Ford would tell him eventually, just like everything else.

Ford did not want to bring this up. After so long since he had felt like giving up, how could he even propose the idea of ending their trip? Sure, they had some houses all over the world where they would occasionally spend time instead of the Stan O' War LXXVIII, but the problem wasn't that he wanted to stop travelling. The problem was that... he just wasn't enjoying... anything. Other than Stanley's presence, there wasn't much that he could find genuine joy in. But how was he supposed to tell Stan that? It wasn't like there was a solution to his problem: they were immortal.

However, one worry overshadowed all the rest: he couldn't– no, he wouldn't put that burden on Stan. As much as they talked about everything these days, this was something beyond that. A conversation, or multiple, would not fix this. It wouldn't help either. He would not ruin Stan's immortal life by telling him that his brother was getting tired of carrying on.

Of course, that determination didn't last long. Stanley had a way of making him talk every single time, and he wasn't strong enough to keep this to himself anymore. He confessed, and cursed himself for having said it, and promised Stan that he would carry on with their journey for as long as he wanted to.

He should've expected his twin to react the way he did, and yet, he always found ways to surprise him.

"What if we try talking to the Axolotl again?"

"We haven't done that in centuries, Stanley. There's no guarantee he'll answer."

"Well, it's not like we have any other options for now."

"But... do you want to do this?"

"Sure. If it helps you find peace or whatever, of course I'll do it."

"But what about you?"

"I don't know, man. If this works, maybe I'll ask for the same dish when I get bored of this too."

Ford couldn't bring himself to understand how Stan could be so relaxed about the whole thing. He knew about his brother's... close relationship with death, so to speak. Part of him was relieved by this, but... how could he not feel guilty about it? Of leaving Stan behind, again? He hadn't felt that guilt in eons, and yet he felt like he was in his first century again.

After a good while, they managed to get a hold of the Axolotl, who happily greeted them. After a short chat, they told him their intentions, and asked him to... deliver? Ford to the afterlife.

So, you are okay with spending the afterlife apart?

"Wait, what do you mean apart?" Ford asked.

You are leaving this world separately, is that true?

"I... that was my intention, but... what do you mean 'spending the afterlife apart'? What's in the afterlife?"

I cannot tell you that. You shall find on your own.

"But... if there's... can't we find each other there?"

That I cannot tell you. I can only confirm that you will go in there alone, as per your request. The rest, you shall find on your own.

"Then... no, I'm sorry."

"Sixer, what are you doing?"

"I'm not going to risk it. It's not worth it."

"And what are you gonna do, huh?"

"Keep living. Until we both decide to leave."

"Six, I'm not gonna wait for that."

Ford stares at him. Part of him breaks, even though he knows it's selfish of him to expect Stan to put up with his gloom until—

"We're both leaving. Now."

"What?! No!"

"Why not? 'Until we both decide to leave'. Well, I've decided."

"You can't— no, Stanley, it's alright. I'll wait."

"I'm not gonna make you live a miserable life until I get tired of mine, Six."

"Well, I'm not making you miss on the rest of your life just because I've decided to end mine!"

A beat of silence.

"Sorry, Axolotl, could we have a minute?"

I will remain here when you come to an agreement, and for infinity after that. Now, wake up.

Both men gasp and sit up from their designated positions on the spell symbol they had messily drawn on the floor of their cabin in the Galician coast. They look at each other, blinking in confusion, trying to voice their thoughts however they can. Finally, Ford breaks the silence.

"I'm not going to make you do that, Stanley. Absolutely not."

"First of all, you're not making me do anything here. Second of all, I've decided on my own. I'm leaving with you."

"No!"

"Why not? Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, of course, but... not like this. We both have to agree to this."

"Yes, and I agree that he should leave now."

"No, you don't!" Ford yells, exasperated. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's just... Please don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying. I'm okay with leaving right now."

"But you did change your mind when you heard its words. You were thinking about living for some time after I left, and now you've decided against."

"That's right."

"How... how can you be so nonchalant about this? This is death we're talking about! Actual, final death!"

"I'm aware, Poindexter."

"Then you'll understand why I'm declining the Axolotl's offer. Like I said, I won't make you put up with my low-energy lifestyle while you clearly want to keep living to the fullest. It's not fair."

"Well, like I said too, I'm not gonna make you keep living your 'low-energy lifestyle' just because I want to keep going a few more years. That's not fair either."

Ford sighs, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Well, it seems we're at an impasse."

"It looks like it."

"That's fine for me. We'll just stay alive while we come to an agreement."

Stan looks at him, his shoulders dropping as he exhales.

"Is this how you want to spend our last years, Ford?"

Ford doesn't move, but he can feel his lower lip tremble.

"No." If there was something that endless time had given them, was the ability to reach a point where the walls they used to put up were nothing but a distant memory. In more than five hundred years they hadn't had an argument that they couldn't solve right there and then, and this one would not be different. "But I can't let you waste the rest of your life with the burden that I will become."

"I used to think that same thing."

"I know."

"I know you know, because he talked about it. Even before we knew about the immortality thing. Over and over, until I got it through my thick head. No matter how tired I was, how fucking difficult it was to get up some days, and how many times I thought you'd be better off without me, I believed you. I didn't give up because you didn't let me."

"That's exactly what I'm saying. I have to keep living, for you. I want to do this for you, because you deserve it."

"Because I deserve it or because you think you owe me?"

Centuries may come and go, but Stanford hasn't gotten better at lying to his brother.

"That... is hardly different."

"Of course it is. Because you want to keep living out of guilt, and that will only make you miserable."

Ford looks to the side, rubbing his arms.

"I can't... take those years from you, Stanley. It's not right. I can't ask you to miss on your future."

"Sixer, I didn't see a future when I was 20. I didn't think I'd make it past 24. Or 29. Or 33. Or 58." The pause is deliberate, Ford knows, but it's enough to turn his attention back to his twin. "I didn't think I'd live for much longer for years, man. And I kept living out of guilt, and it made me fucking miserable. But that had a purpose. This? What you're doing right now? It has no purpose."

"Of course it does. I'm choosing to live for you."

"And I get it, man, and I'd do the same if I were in your position. But the truth is, we're past the point of living for each other. We did that when we were less than a century old, because we had to. But if we had a normal lifespan, this would be like... like refusing to die peacefully on our beds. What you're choosing is wasting your last years suffering just so I can have fun for two more minutes. I'm choosing to lay down next to you and leaving peacefully together."

Ford can feel his arms tremble beneath his death grip. Stanley is making sense, of course, but... this isn't right. He can't accept it like that. It's too much to accept.

"Stanford," Stan says, suddenly much closer to him. He puts his hands on his shaking shoulders, grounding him despite the shivers. "I've had a good life because you were here to live it with me. And whatever the afterlife is, it'll be the same. Wherever we go..."

"We go together," Ford manages to say, half-muffled by tears. He lets go of his arms and wraps them around his brother, hugging him so hard he almost has trouble getting air into his lungs. He rests his head against Stan's shoulder, letting the tears run free and into the other's sweater.

"Are you absolutely, utterly sure of this?" he murmurs, not moving an inch from the embrace. "It's okay if you want to stay for longer, it wouldn't be too much trouble for me. You wanted to try all the new restaurants in this province this week."

Stan laughs loudly, the sound reverberating in his chest and against the eldest's ear. "Ford, I'm staying because you are, not because I want to try restaurants."

Ford chuckles in response. In the blink of an eye, the wooden cabin is no longer around them; in its place, the galaxy extends infinitely around them, and he realizes his feet aren't on any kind of ground. He lets go of Stanley, keeping an arm tight around his waist, and turns around to see the Axolotl.

I assume you have reached an agreement.

"Yes, we have. But before that, could I ask a question?"

You may.

"Why were we granted immortality?"

Ford doesn't need to look at Stanley to see the look on his face, but he does regardless. His brother is shocked, but not from fear. He clearly wants to know as well.

You deserved it.

My personal headcanon is that Filbrick is as much of a coward as he is of an asshole. Therefore, he wouldn't have kicked Stan when he did in canon. Probably not for a while after that.

However, he does try to send him to military school. He keeps talking about how this kid needs to learn discipline and respect, and if he's not gonna bring money to the house, then he should at least bring some honor to his family.

Stan obviously does NOT want to go. Not only because it's a pointless war ("what've the vietnamese done to us anyways?") but because he remembers his mother's face when Shermie got drafted and he will NOT make her go through that hell again. Also, he doesn't wanna die!!!! Hello?????

He talks it out over the phone with Ford, who's obviously just as against it as he is. He tells Stan that, if he gets into a PhD program, he could skip military. Stan laughs in his face. It'd be easier to jump off the plane without a parachute.

And so, he comes up with a plan. When he goes to take his physical, he tries his best to botch it. If he is bad enough, if it looks like he can't do it, maybe he won't have to. Unfortunately, the recruiters are far too used to this by now, and they don't buy it. Stan goes home with a recruitment letter hidden in his jacket.

Everything goes downhill after that. He runs away from home, changes his name several times, does some crime here and there... The military is after him, and it doesn't take rejection kindly.

Stan stays out of contact with his family for a few years. He can't risk getting them involved in this mess. They don't deserve it. So he just leaves, without saying a word, in the middle of the night. No phone calls, no notes, nothing. Not even he knows where he's going. But if it just looks like he abandoned them, maybe they'll hate him. That will make them sound more believable with the police. They aren't covering for him, because they genuinely have no idea where he is. It's the best way to keep them safe.

In that time, Ford doesn't stop looking for him. He finds him every once in a while, but only his phone number, and he knows that could give away his brother's location and get the family in trouble. So, against his deepest instincts, he doesn't call.

One, three, five, seven years pass. Stan has been around almost all the country, and is genuinely considering leaving it. Maybe going to Mexico, or Colombia. Those sound nice. Maybe they'll be nicer to him.

He's passing his time and thinking about this in a small town restaurant in wherever he's in (somewhere he's not banned from, yet), when a family enters. He doesn't make eye contact, but he can't help but stare at them: a man and a woman, probably in their 50s, with 7 kids; one must be older than him, the second one around his age, the third one a little younger, the fourth one a teenager, and the last three between 10 and 15, no more. Except for the last three, they're all taller than him, even the mother, and they have various degrees of blond hair. Their clothes (overalls and plastic boots) suggest they must work in one of the farms he's seen around the state. They don't wear any accessories, except for the glasses that the father and four of the kids have. They're talking loudly and laughing. They look exhausted from a morning of hard work. They seem happy. They... look nothing like his family, and yet, he can't help but think about it.

He can't help the sob that comes to his throat. It's loud and messy from trying to suppress it, which obviously makes it worse. He covers his mouth immediately, and at that point he notices the tears that have run down his cheeks. "Great", he thinks, "that will make it easier to hide, for sure".

He doesn't move. He wants to escape, but that will draw even more attention to him, and he hasn't even paid for the food yet (normally he'd leave without paying, but the old waitress was kind enough to give him some extra food when she saw how little he ordered). He settles for not moving, lowering his head and covering his face, hoping that no one heard (unlikely) or cared (very likely).

"Ya'lright, son?"

The voice startles him. I wasn't very deep, but it was close enough to send his body into immediate danger mode. He looks up at the man towering over him, who's standing in front of him at a prudential distance.

"Y-Yeah, yeah, no worries."

He hates how broken his voice sounds. He's spent more than enough time sweet-talking his way out of trouble, he should be better at this by now. The man looks about as convinced by it as he is himself.

" 'lright then. Can I help ya?"

Damn villagers and their welcoming demeanor. If he wasn't a wanted man, he would appreciate it. But right now, it couldn't be worse timing.

"Come get ya food, kids!" The waitress' yell yanks him out of his thoughts.

"No", he blurts out, and he turns to the man. Least he can do is show him some respect and look him in the eyes. "I'm fine, thank you."

The man smiles lightly and nods. "Okay. Welcome to the town."

Stan watches as the man goes back to his table. He wishes he had been more polite, the guy was just worrying about him, but he can't afford it. They already know his face, he can't risk anyone else recognizing him-

"Sweet Mother of God almighty."

Stan turns to his right. One of the kids, the one about his age, is looking at him like he just grew a second head. He's frozen in place, his eyes wide as plates behind thick glasses. He doesn't say a word, and it's getting increasingly unnerving. Was the bruising on his face still visible? Maybe it's more apparent in broad daylight than in the shitty light that last motel had in the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, I- Can I ask your name?"

The fuck?

"No", answers Stan. Considering how nice his dad was, this guy is pretty rude.

"Son, leave him alone." The mother seems to have manners too, good to know.

The guy does pretty much the opposite. He comes closer to him, until he's right in his path, blocking his exit. That can't be good. Stan feels trapped.

"Are you Stanley Pines?"

Well, that's about it.

Stan tries his best to stay still. This guy doesn't look like a cop, not even an undercover one. But he knows his real name, so maybe someone in his family or friends works in the police; or worse, in the military.

"Listen man, I don't know who you're talking about, but that isn't my name. See?" He reaches for his wallet. He pulls out an ID, with a very clear Jackson Cage on it. He makes a mental note to change it soon, just in case his hunch is right and this guy has connections. "Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to pay for my food and leave. Move."

Stan is already on his feet, but the guy hasn't moved. Stan looks him up and down, trying to appear threatening despite his face probably still being a little red from before. He also gauges how feasible it'd be to escape if things turned bad; the dude is taller than him, sure, but he's also as thin as a toothpick, and by the anxious look on his face, he doesn't seem eager for a fight. The real problem would be evading the restaurant's staff and the other costumers, which include eight carbon copies of the guy in front of him. Probably better to try to de-escalate the situation.

"I- I can't let you leave. Please. I know who you are."

This man is making it really difficult to believe he's not a cop.

"No, you don't. I'm new in town. Move."

"Listen, I-"

"Move out of my way."

"I know your brother."

The words are like a bullet between his eyebrows.

"You look just like him-"

Against his better judgement, he quickly grabs he guy and pins him to the wood in between the booth benches, arm to his throat. If he knows Ford, he knows too much. God he just wanted to have lunch.

The commotion is immediate. He doesn't break eye contact with the guy who's grabbing his arm, whose strength is frankly surprising. He can hear, however, the screams from the dad and the siblings, as well as a couple of gasps from the other costumers. This is not going to go well, but fuck that. He's escaped worse.

"Stop!", the guy shouts as he keeps Stan's forearm from blocking his airway. "Don't hurt him! Don't get closer!"

It takes Stan a second to process what he said. The first part, sure, who wouldn't shout 'stop' when you're being attacked? But the second half doesn't make sense. Is he protecting him? The attacker?

Whatever it is, it works. The family stops in their tracks, still very ready to attack if needed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the three younger kids moving closer to their mother. For a split second, he feels a pang of remorse for the scene he just caused.

"Hang up the phone, Clarisse, it's okay. Please."

Stan looks in the direction the guy was talking to. Right behind him, the waitress reluctantly puts the phone down.

He looks back at the guy. He looks a little shaken up, probably from the impact his back (and his head?) made with the wooden plank, but he doesn't look scared. He almost looks... sympathetic? Stan is confused as hell.

"I know who you are", the guy whispers, low enough for Stan to hear alone. "You're Stanley Pines, and you have a brother named Stanford. I know him, okay? He's my friend. I met him a few years ago in a quantum physics congress and we've been talking ever since. He told me about his family in New Jersey, and about you. About how he hasn't seen you in years, and how he was trying to find you, to no avail."

Stan is gradually loosening his grip on the guy's neck, who takes a deep breath. He should know better, but- shit, hearing that Ford was looking for him was not what he expected. Even if he doesn't know yet if this guy is lying out of his ass, it's enough to make him doubt.

"I know you were called to Vietnam. He told me. I spent a week with him in his place when he found out, he was unconsollable. When you ran away, he called me. He knew what it meant for you and he thought he'd never see you again, whether you got caught or not. All because of that stupid war." Stan is now trembling a little, he knows it. This guy must know it too, with how close they are. If he stays here any longer he'll break down, but he can't move. Anything to hear his brother's name a little longer. "I know what it's like. Three of my cousins were drafted last year, and I know at least one of them won't be coming back home. Please... let me help you."

Stan meets his eyes. They're green and brown-ish, not unlike the immense fields he's seen in his last journey, the one that led him to this town. With the years, he's learned not to trust beautiful eyes, because they are better at hiding. These ones, however, seem serene and honest, just like his words, and he can't help but believing them. This guy, whoever the fuck he is, knows just about enough.

Stan lowers his right arm. The guy still has his hand on it, but this time is much less defensive and much more comforting. He doesn't complain.

"My name's Fiddleford McGucket, and I'm gonna help you find your brother."

______________________________

Essentially, after this Fidds calls Ford as if nothing happened (per Stan's request, since he's still paranoid about the police tracking his calls) and asks him to come to Tennessee. Ford argues that he's very busy and all, but Fidds convinces him in the end.

Obviously the twins have a dual breakdown and cry their heart out. In this AU they're much less emotionally constipated lol

Ford tells Stan that he's gonna build a house in a small town in Oregon as a part of his research, and asks him to move in with him once it's finished. Stan, of course, accepts.

In the meantime, Stan stays in the McGucket farm and helps them out as a way of laying low. He has a great relationship with his family, and they're very proud of him for what he did (i believe that the McGuckets are hippies at heart, and they're VERY anti-war, especially when it already took three of them)