#nerve damage

After that day, it was like Stanley’s body had given up, his limbs refusing to cooperate, hands shaking as they struggled to even lift a glass. Eventually, Fiddleford and he had to take shifts, in between their projects, Fiddleford building as many accessible changes as he could manage whilst Ford worked tirelessly to delay the progression.

What really worried him, was how Stanley seemed to shut down, his stuttered replies slowly fading into various hums, his eyes containing a deep-seated exhaustion Ford barely recognized. It was like his brother was slipping away from him, giving up along with the rest of him, but Ford couldn’t allow it to rob him the chance to apologize. To steal away his twin, his younger brother, the person he should’ve been protecting all these years.

He wouldn’t allow it even if, in the quiet moments, he still had to ask himself. How could he protect Stanley from this?

Over a month after the incident, Ford found himself helping Stanley into one of Fiddleford’s devices, the same ones he’d previously protested. An ingenious invention which allowed the user to input a cleaning routine, allowing any patient the privacy and independence of showering, shaving and other personal hygienes without compromising their dignity.

When Fiddleford had the presented it to the twins, Ford couldn’t help the way his heart had soared as Stanley’s eyes lit up, gratitude overflowing as he stuttered out a quiet “T-t-tha-ank Y-y-you” the first words he’d said in a week. Without its help, Ford was sure Stanley’s spirit would have already broken, strained as it was with the gradual loss of control.

It had been terrifying, watching him lose some of that spark, little by little, especially after he’d caught Stan trying to leave in the middle of the night, trying to ‘unburden’ him with some half-baked suicide mission. Both Fiddleford and he had spent hours reassuring Stan, through tears and whispered apologies, until he had agreed to stay.

Now as he tightened the straps around his brother’s bare chest, thankful he was trusted enough to see the raw shell of his brother, pink scars dotted on his slimming frame, an idea struck him, the cogs turning over and over in his brain as he pondered over Stanley’s skin, eyeing each dark blemish.

Scar tissue remains the same, regardless if new cells replace the old ones, as the body focus’s on rapid, disorganized repair rather than true cellular regeneration. Even if the tissue is repopulated with healthy cells, they remain in the same order as the old ones. In order to truly heal a large scar, an entirely new structure must be created, using skin grafts…

An entirely new structure must be created.

A new structure made of donated tissue…

Or created tissue.

Just like that, something in Ford’s brain clicked into place, all this time he’d been trying to heal the old cells, using various spells and tinctures to try and regenerate them, with limited success. Each time the cells would remain dormant despite their assumed ability to function, dying off once more.

What if it wasn’t a matter of the cells functioning, but how they were structured, forming an ill-fitting piece in the puzzle. If he could replicate the healthy material’s structure, perhaps… In his excitement, he’d almost forgotten Stan was in the room, cutting his thoughts short as a questioning hum came from the man, snapping him out of his rapid thoughts.

“Ah, I’m sorry Stanley, I-I just had a thought, what if I’ve been going about this the wrong way?”

Stan’s head tilted, the movement stiff and jerky, still recognizable as the question it was, pushing Ford to continue.

“What if, instead of focusing on the damaged cells, I should have been looking at the healthy ones! If I can replicate the healthy tissue… maybe… Hang on, I need to write this down, are you ok for Fiddleford to retrieve you once you’re done in here?”

Stan huffed, a small mirthful sound as he shakily waved Ford off, his lopsided smile curling faintly despite the resigned fatigue buried like a piton, anchored in his chest. He’d given up on Ford’s flights of fancy, each idea crashing and burning as he grew frustrated, before reigniting once more with the next idea.

Stan wasn’t sure if Ford would ever give up at this rate, despite both his and Fidd’s concern, so he’d decided to simply let him carry on, until either Ford or his body gave up completely.

With Stan’s acceptance, Ford was away, calling out to Fiddleford before burying himself in research once again, much to the other’s amused dismay. He poured over textbooks, journals and studies, using the diagrams and cells he’d already collected to begin mapping out a strategy.

Hours were spent, gathering resources, carefully plotting out a cellular network, microscopic adjustments, minute details and kinks worked out with the help of magic and science alike. A manic energy powering him through the night, long past his roommates pestering and reluctant surrender, but he’d done it.

In the early hours of the morning, light drifting across the room to lap at his feet from where it trailed in through his study’s window, he’d isolated the pattern, replicating it over and over with each new batch of healthy cells until they all responded, signals lighting up like a motherboard as each new piece snapped into place.

It wasn’t perfect, the corresponding nerves and muscular tissue would never be the same, damaged from months of mistreatment. The disease would still be active… but.

But. But. But! It would slow the progression significantly, enough that Ford could continually replace the damaged nerves with fresh ones, enough that he could theoretically stabilize the condition with magic, like clockwork, refreshing the system before it failed, self sustaining for the foreseeable future.

Stanley would never be the same as he was, he might live in mild discomfort for the rest of his days. It would most likely appear as a form of Fibromyalgia, nerve damage… but he could recover enough, enough to live comfortably, independently, moving of his own free will, talking and laughing and joking as he always had. Ford and Fiddleford could help him manage the pain as it presented, he could still be like everyone else.

It was this resolution, this utter joy and relief, that had Ford crashing through the house, startling the cabin’s other occupants as he whooped with uninhibited excitement. Screaming illegibly at the foot of Stan’s bed whilst Fiddleford clamored to calm the man before he could wake the entire town at 5 in the morning.

Still, it took another 20 minutes of cajoling before he could relay his findings and another hour before the house fell into a light, airy mood as the others shared in the celebration. Stan ending up on the floor wheezing, sat side-by-side with Ford’s equally breathless form as they watched Fiddleford dance some sort of demented jig, each time slowing their laughter before catching the others eye. The raucous screeches starting up once again without fail.

In the coming days, with the nerd’s help combined with the various magical and technological treatments, it was like he was made new, his rough voice growing surer as the stuttering abated, limbs responding, despite the odd tingling sensation. By the end of the week, to all of their delight, Stan even managed to support himself once more, two beautiful, dazzling steps taken whilst they cried.

Over breakfast, finally absent of his wheelchair once more, Stan finally received Ford’s apology, the project forgiven, their old doubts washed away, painted over with a fresh coat of paint. A phone ringing in the kitchen…

Wait what.

To their horror, Caryn’s voice had echoed through the phone, Stan having forgotten he’d told her about his diagnosis before he’d seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth.

And of course, in the chaos, Ford hadn’t thought to pick up the phone or return any of her calls. There ears still rang from where she had yelled herself hoarse, at first in anger and grief at Ford’s lack of concern, before relief fueled her next bout of screaming as she turned on Stan.

Only slightly swayed by his recount of his recovery instead turning back to Ford for the lack of updates.

It had taken many hours of apologizing and an invitation for her to visit, before she’d stopped her tirade, tears shed as the three pines gave their goodbyes. Thankful it was all finally over.