#small space

Stan sighed as he flopped back on a couch, the party below him raging on and the multicolored lights above flashing. It was starting to give him a headache, so he leaned back and closed his eyes.

He wanted to go home.

Or-no. He was actually having a great time! He'd driven out here with his friends, had partied hard for the last few hours, drinking and dancing and laughing at everyone else dancing, then found the stairs to the balcony overlooking the dance floor and darted up them with a bowl of chips to see how long he could throw them at people before someone noticed.

Instead he was given the perfect view of the front door and saw the exact moment his brother slipped through it.

Ford, as gruff and awful looking as ever, stood out like a sore thumb. Everyone else was wearing bright, loose, low cut shirts and moving with the music, while Ford was wearing his dumb black biker coat with the shiny studs and cutting through them like a grumpy shark through water. Even if Stan hadn't been watching him the moment he'd come through the door, he could have tracked his brothers progress across the room by the trail of disgruntled partiers who's drinks had been shoved down or pushed out of the way by Fords determined stride.

Stan moved to duck out of sight and run back to where Bill was or the car, whichever took him farther away from whatever commotion Ford was about to start, but that plan was tossed out the window when Ford scanned the room, locked eyes with Stan, and changed course towards the stairs. From this distance it was hard to make out his expression, but Stan would bet good money that Fords face was either determined or angry.

Just like the last few times Stan had seen it.

There were only two ways off this balcony, and Stan didn't trust anyone down below to catch him.

Now he was stuck, his brother already halfway to him and no one the wiser to Stan's predicament. The chips, once destined to rain crumbs upon the unsuspecting mass of bodies, found their way into his mouth as he angrily munched away. They were bland and sat heavy in his stomach (the reason he'd condemned them to their airborne fate in the first place) but it was better than twiddling his thumbs or trying to book it with his brother hot on his heels.

The last time he'd tried Ford had tackled him, and he'd only gotten away because an old lady walking her dog had started screaming about kidnappers. Fords face had turned bright red, and his mad scramble to explain himself allowed Stan to wiggle free and escape.

The music drowned out most of the noise, and the shouts of the dancers mixed into an indecipherable buzz, but Stan could still hear Fords footsteps as they hit the stairs, marched up them, and came to a stop behind the couch. Stan kept his eyes closed, grabbing handfuls of chips and shoving them in his mouth. Each one felt like he was eating spiky cardboard, but he refused to stop.

"Stanley," Ford sighed, probably putting his hands on his hips with a look of disapproval, "we both know you aren't sleep eating."

"No we don't," Stan replied, slightly garbled from the chewed up chips, "I could have figured it out by now. And sleep talking."

"Stanley."

With a swallow and a groan Stanley opened his eyes and scowled up at Ford. His brother was looming over him, frowning with his hands on his hips.

"What do you want." Stan sat up, crossing his arms and shifting so he could look down at the crowd, chip bowl abandoned on the low table next to him. Bill was in the back doing 'business', but some of the rest of the gang had come out to party with Stan. If he could catch someone's attention they could get Bill, make him Fords problem instead.

"You know what I want," Ford sat next to him and leaned forwards, resting his arms on his knees, "we've had this conversation several times now."

"Well sue me for thinkin' you might want to talk about something else." Keyhole was by the bar, trying to talk up a broad way outside his league, but Amorph was leaning against the wall near the back, and to his relief they nodded in his direction and disappeared when Stan managed to catch their eye, "I already told ya, you ain't in charge of who I hang out with. Bill's-"

"- a monster," Ford interrupted, making Stan bristle, "Stanley, you aren't safe with him! He-"

"Like you ever cared how safe I've been." Stan cut in coolly(and not at all petulent), before Ford could go into another tirade against his friend.

Ford groaned and rubbed his face, sitting back against the couch. Stan watched him push his palms into his eyes from the corner of his own, then move to his temples as the song changed to something more high pitched.

"I don't know how you can listen to this," Ford whispered, probably louder than he meant to from the way his face reddened when Stan scowled at him. Awkwardly coughing, Ford put his hands down and sat up straight, ears red as he contiued.

"Stanley, I know you think he's your friend-"

"-Because he is-"

"-But you have to believe me when I tell you, he's using you, just like he used me. It's an act, one he's putting on to get you to do what he wants."

"What, go to parties and have fun?" Stan scoffed and glared at Fords desperate face. The years had not been kind to his twin, he looked older than they should, wrinkles forming in the corners of his eyes and more haggard than any man their age should be. "Ford, all we do is have fun and hang out, whatever you think he's up to, it's got nothin' to do with me. And don't say vampires!"

Fords mouth shut, and he sighed again. When he didn't say anything, just looked at Stan with the sad, lost look that made Stan's insides squirm, Stan turned back to look over the railing. A quick scan showed Bill making his way through the dancers, bobbing with the music and flowing around them with far more grace than Ford, but still leaving a trail of scowls as he purposely elbowed people and knocked their drinks into their shirts. At the pace he was going, and if he didn't get distracted, he'd be here in a few minutes, saving Stan from having to listen to Fords overprotective smack talk against Stan's friends.

It'd be replaced with the weird flirting Bill did, but Fords faces usually made up for that.

Anything was better than listening to Ford talk about his friends. Sure they were a bit much from time to time, and Stan got left out of whatever business stuff went into their lifestyle, and every once in a while they'd ditch him and disappear for weeks at a time with barely a word, but they picked him off the streets, got him jobs that pulled in quick cash and knew how to cut loose and have fun. Bumping into Bill and hitting it off was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Bill made sure Stan was taken care of, thought he was funny instead of annoying, liked partying and breaking into rich peoples house and totally trashing the place, listened whenever Stan wanted to gripe, and was always happy to see him. No one had every been happy to see him, not since Ford decided he didn't need Stan anymore.

And Stan might have a crush on Bill, if he was interpreting his weird make out dreams right. The fact that he never felt anything towards him when he was awake made him doubt it, but they'd been happening almost as long as he'd known the other man, so????

Thankfully Bill was convinced Ford was his soulmate and hadn't tried to make any moves on Stan, or he'd be forced to actually think about it.

"Stanley," Ford finally said, and Stan jumped when Fords hand touched his shoulder, six fingers digging in through the thin shirt he was wearing, "I... alright. I won't say anything about vampires, or my own thoughts on Bill, just... How about this,"

Stan turned towards Ford, his brothers face softening as his other hand reached forwards to grab Stan's. Their fingers twitched, and a part of Stan desperately wished Ford would push through and grab his hand, intertwine their fingers so each one of Stan's was in between his brothers, like they used to when they were kids.

Ford's fingers sat on top of his, thick and calloused, bigger than Stan's own because-

because-

Stan looked away, focusing on Fords face and shoving the thought aside. Ford always had bigger hands, came with having an extra finger.

"just come home with me, a few days, or even a week. Put some distance between the two of you, and if I can't convince you he's not worth your time, you can..." Ford's face twisted into distaste, "Go back. To being Bill's friend. I won't stop you."

The way Fords face twisted further made it clear what he thought about not stopping Stan.

"I don't know..." Stan trailed off, gripping Fords hand without looking. Technically Stan could leave whenever he wanted, and he had in the past. Never very far and always after telling someone where he was going, but it wasn't like he was a prisoner or something. Ever since he'd met Bill he'd been rolling in more cash then what he knew what to do with, all of it his own hard winning from actually successful scams and heists, and Bill got his own cut, along with a little extra to house and feed Stan.

Not that Stan couldn't buy his own place now that he had the money, but Bill was always on the move, and Stan wanted to be with his friend. It was easier to let the rest of the gang worry about where they were staying and tag along, worry about moving his own things and figure out what kind of mischief they could get into wherever they were going.

So there was nothing stopping him from going off with his brother for a week, except for the fact Ford had been a massive jerk the last few months, trying to control who Stan's friends were and telling him how bad Stan was at making them.

"Just a week," Ford moved the hand on Stan's shoulder down to join the other, "I promise Stanley, I won't stop you from leaving sooner if you want to, I... I worry. About you."

That made Stan squirm, guilt and embarrassment churning in his stomach. They were the same age, there was no reason Ford should be worrying about Stan, just like there was no reason Ford should feel he has any say in who Stan hung out with.

But seeing the sincerity in his brothers eyes made a part of him ache. It used to be they were the best of best friends, closer than close, not a secret between them. Bill was fun, and a blast, and the first person since Ford to think Stan was worth anything, but still.

It wasn't the same, and even if Ford had way too much interest in who Stan was hanging out with after ten years of not caring at all, Stan still wanted to ditch the gang and hang out with his brother. Wanted to see his house, see his weird vampire obsessed biker gang, see what else Ford had been up to in the last decade.

Wanted to sit on the bottom bunk and listen to Ford ramble, wanted to wrap an arm around Fords neck and ruffle his hair. Run off into the sunset, just the two of them.

Wanted to go back to when things made sense, and everything felt right in the world.

"I'll think about it." Stan muttered. He felt his face flush at Fords beaming face, and he quickly added, "but just a week! And no talking about vampires!"

"I'll think about it." Was Fords cheeky reply, just as Bill thrust himself between them, one arm snaking around Stan's neck and pulling him close enough their cheeks were smushed together.

"Think about what, how much Fordsy here's not dressed to party?"

Stan couldn't see the giant wink Bill threw Fords way, but he rolled his eyes and snorted anyway. Ford had already let go and scuttled back to the other side of the couch, sitting as far away as he could. The smile was gone, replaced with fury as Bill jumped over the back of the couch and sat himself down with a sigh, arm loosening so Stan could lean into the couch next to him without getting strangled.

"But seriously, what are you thinking about?"

"None-" Fords started to say, before Stan cut in. He might have agreed to think about Fords offer, but he wasn't about to lie to Bill's face about it. Bill was his friend, no matter what Ford had to say, he'd understand if Stan wanted to hang out with Ford for a few days.

"Ford invited me to stay at his place," Stan reached to grab the chip bowl, eyed the remaining chips, then shrugged and grabbed one. It disappeared over the railing into the crowd, "You know how he is, thinks you're evil incarnate and wants to convince me over a sleepover. Just for a few days, maybe a week."

The hand Bill had thrown around Stan's shoulders squeezed him, while the other grabbed a chip and sent it to join the first. Stan threw another, farther out, and Bill's own followed after, lost in the lights and dancers.

"Its not-" Fords sputtered, once again cut off, this time by Bill.

"Hmm. Well, let me know dates Stansy! Me and the boys are thinkin' of moving shop soon, and I heard- well. Never mind that. Its probably just rumors." Stan shot him a questioning look, but Bill was staring at Ford, his brothers face murderous.

Ugh.

Stiil, something in Stan's chest eased. He was almost thirty, a grown man and in charge of himself, but it was still nice to have Bill's support. Bill was his friend, his best friend now that Ford was swinging back and forth between not caring about Stan and trying to control his every action, but Ford was his twin brother. While he was still angry with Ford about the whole 'vampires are real' and 'you can't be friends with your friends' and acting like he had any say in how Stan lived his life, there was a part of him that wanted so bad to show Ford that whatever had happened between them, Bill did care about him.

Plus, Bill was convinced the two of them were going to get married someday, meaning the sooner Stan could mend bridges between the three of them the faster he could get out of listening to Bill's awful poetry and lamenting about Ford playing hard to get. Why wouldn't Bill want the two of them to get along?

"Hey," Bill sat up, letting go of Stan to clap his hands together, "I know! Since the two of you are making up, why don't we-"

"No."

Now it was Fords turn to interrupt, his hand twitching towards where he had his hidden crossbow, and if he turned this party into another bloodbath Stan was going to be thinking very hard on how much he wanted to hang out with his part time biker part time serial killer brother.

"We won't be doing anything," Ford growled and there it was, one crossbow, already loaded and swinging towards Bill.

And Stan, sitting right next to him.

"Foooooord," Stan groaned, just as the balcony exploded into chaos.

Bill shoved Stan to the side as Ford fired his crossbow. The stake missed, shooting over where Bill's head had been and hitting one of the lights, shattering it and sending glass shards down below. Screaming filled the room as the music abruptly stopped, the dancing quickly becoming a mad scramble away from where more glass was raining down, Ford's crossbow reloaded and aim just as terrible.

"Why don't you let me handle this Stan-O," Bill grabbed Stan's arm and shoved him towards the stairs, standing between him and his brother, "Meet me back at the car. Your brother and I have a lot to talk about."

He didn't have to tell Stan twice. The last time he'd stuck around he'd been forced to listen to Bill's terrible flirting while Ford screamed about ending his reign of terror and sending stakes flying everywhere. The stairs were a quick jog away, Bill's and Fords voices fading as Stan ran down them two at a time. Without the advantage of the balcony he couldn't see the rest of the gang, but he knew where the closest exit was and how to get to the car from there.

There was more shouting above him as he shoved his way through the crowd towards the door, and he rolled his eyes. The last thing he heard was Ford's voice, too far away and drowned out by the screaming partygoers to make out the words.

The silence of the alley when the door slammed behind him was like a breath of fresh air, much like the rancid smell of the alley wasn't.

"Bleh." Stan wrinkled his nose at awful mix of vomit and alcohol that assaulted him as he picked his way around a few slumped over drunks and towards the mouth of the alley. There were a lot more than clubs usually had, but that wasn't too surprising. The clubs Bill found usually had something 'extra' in the back that led to whirlwind nights and waking up with no idea where he was. He had Bill to make sure he didn't end up like the slumped forms passed out all over the cold ground.

He peered around the edge of the building to see people streaming out of the front of the club, then turned away towards where the car had been parked. They'd taken one of Bill's, the Stanley Mobile still in the middle of some repairs he was finally getting around to now that he had the money, and they'd parked it in a nearby lot right next to....

Hmmm.

Stan sighed at the empty spot the car was supposed to occupy. It couldn't have been Bill, there was no way he'd wrapped up his 'talk' (flirting) before Stan managed to get here, so it was probably Keyhole finally getting lucky, or more likely Pyronica getting lucky again.

Was it luck if it happened every time they went out?

Stan rubbed his eyes, then checked his watch. It was pretty late, but no so late he couldn't call a cab. Or maybe he could go back to the club and see if one of the others were still there. They'd only taken the one car after all, might as well figure out how to get back home together.

He'd barely turned to head back when someone grabbed him around the neck and pressed something over his face. His hands immediately moved to grab the arm around his throat, while his legs kicked at whoever was standing behind him. Something cracked as his foot connected, and he let out a muffled cheer.

The cheer, along with his vision and strength, faded as something sharp pricked his neck. The empty lot moved in and out of focus, and his arms slipped to flop at his sides. Lights and colors blurred, sounds echoed strangely around him, and he might have been dropped, or set down, because suddenly there was nothing but pitch blackness above him, an endless and empty night sky, stretching in every direction.

Then he was gone, as unconsciousness slammed into him.

Stan groaned as he felt awareness trickle back. Everything ached, muscles stiff and back twingy in the way all backs were when you slept without moving all night. The night before was a blur, a not uncommon occurrence for him these days.

He really needed to stop drinking so much.

What he really wanted to do was roll over and keep sleeping, but he was too stiff and uncomfortable to slip back under now that he was more awake.

With another groan he tried to sit up, only to cry out and fall back as his forehead slammed into something.

It was stiff and hard, and opening his eyes did nothing to help him figure out what it was. Not with the way everything was just as dark as it was before.

His arms, also stiff and achy, moved to push whatever was on top of him off, only to slam into it. Then into the walls on either side.

Then on the wall over his head, and a quick shove made his feet slam into something on the other side.

It took a few swallows to get his throat working, his mouth dry and stiff from the growing panic.

"Hey." He croaked, then coughed before trying again, louder, "Hey!"

The sound didn't echo. It filled the space and vanished, replaced by his quickening breaths.

"HEY!" There wasn't enough room to turn over or do more than shuffle side to side, but he did his best to slam into and feel the walls around him.

They didn't budge, and after a moment he stopped, breathing heavily.

The last thing he remembered was... the party. Ford. Bill. Then the car, missing.

Someone grabbing him from behind.

Swallowing a few more times, sweat beading his forehead and the small space feeling even smaller, Stan ran his hands up and down the surface above him. It felt familiar, and it didn't take long to figure out why.

Wood, rough but sturdy. Another hit with his fist and the sting it left behind told him it was tougher than what he used to use with the Stan O'War.

"HEY! LET ME OUT!" Stan slammed his hands against it anyways, trying to find a seam, a splinter, some gap to tell him what he was trapped in or where he was.

Nothing.

All he could hear was himself, his own rapid breaths, and the pounding of his fists against the top. He was laying down and there was only what felt like a few inches of space, and soon he abandoned punching for scratching.

"HEY! ANYONE! HELLO!"

The wood didn't give, so he moved on to the sides, trying to push out the walls, kick as best he could in the cramped space, anything to get out.

Out.

He needed to get out.

The darkness pressed on every side as he kicked and scrambled to get out.

He couldn't turn over. Couldn't do more than slide side to side, up and down.

There wasn't any light. No way to know how far the walls were, how close they were pressing against him.'

No sound, nothing but his screams as his calls for help went unanswered.

Nothing but him, too cramped, too dark, too much.

How long before he ran out of air? When- Ford- Ford would-

But why would he, when he lived- but he was always following Stan around, so maybe-

Bill. Bill would know, he'd notice Stan wasn't at the car- or- or

or didn't make it back! Then-

But how long had it been?

How much time had he lost, where was he?

Who had-

"BILL!" Stan's face was hot, all of him was burning, but his face especially, tears prickling his eyes, "PLEASE!"

No one answered, not whoever had stuck him here, not Bill, not anyone.

Not even Ford.

Laying there in the dark, heart beat starting to become rapid and no where to go, Stan screamed.

His throat and hands were raw by the time something else cut through the blackness.

A sound.

Footsteps, unhurried.

A muffled voice, high pitched.

Stan stared, eyes maybe open, maybe not, before he realized what that meant.

A person, someone else.

Out.

He choked on his words, by he managed to press his numb fingers above him and smack the wood.

The footsteps stopped.

Stan wheezed, he couldn't-

couldn't-

The tension grabbing his shoulders eased as they started up again, moving closer, closer closer closer until-

A knock pierced through the darkness of the space, and then-

"Hello~? Anyone home?"

Bill.

Relief crashed into him, and Stan knocked back and coughed, mouth dry and all of him too tight.

Before he could try again something slammed into the side of the container, wood groaned, and he was blinded by light.

Crying out, Stan slammed his hands into his eyes. Bill said something else, and a pair of hands tugged him up.

Stan moved his hands away and blinked, taking in the empty room. He was sitting in a box, set on a table in the middle. There weren't any windows or furniture, and the walls and floor were both stone.

All there was was a door, the smashed remains of the lid, and Bill, smiling as his hands held Stan steady.

"If it isn't- Woah!"

Stan threw his shaking arms around Bill and pulled him in close, shoving his head into his friends chest. The movement was agonizing and relieving all at once, everything stiff from laying here for what felt like years.

"Bill, I-" Stan whispered hoarsely, before coughing. The shaking got worse when Bill wrapped his arms around Stan, and one of his hands pet the top of Stan's head.

"Huh, bit much for you there Mac? I figured you'd be spooked, but this...."

Stan didn't respond. Couldn't respond. Not with how his throat was thick and sore, and how all he could focus on was the weight of Bill's body pressing into him, firm and cool after the heat of the box.

A steady rock, something to cling to while he gasped and tried to steady himself.

"Oh Stanley. Stanley Stanley Stanley. This is my fault." Stan shook his head furiously, but Bill pressed on, voice full of sorrow, "No it is! I heard your pal Rico was around and. Well."

Rico. Stan remembered Rico. He owed him a lot of money from before, back when it was him by himself.

He probably should have started paying the man back at some point now that he had the funds, but he'd always forgotten. Why worry about something like money when he was out having the time of his life.

Now, like most of Stan's choices, that forgetfulness was coming back to bite him.

Figures.

"I should have told you Big Mac," Bill sighed, shifting slightly and prying one of Stan's hands loose, "But Fordsy was right there, and I know how you feel about your brother knowing about your business."

Stan nodded, eyes glued to the floor and tongue to the roof of his mouth. The last thing he wanted was for Ford to know even more about his life. Not just because his twin would butt his head in, but because it'd paint a target on his back.

Stan didn't want or need Ford getting dragged into his messes, especially when he was already convinced Stan was in the middle of one.

Bill turned the hand he was holding, pressing each finger and sending a sharp jolt of pain down Stan's arm as he went. A part of him wanted to snatch it out of the light grip and go back to clutching Bill's shirt, but he didn't.

Not when all he wanted was to be held.

"Good thing I was able to track you down! Imagine if you'd scurried off with Stanford!"

He was still stiff from laying in a box for what was probably hours, but he still managed to stiffen further, and he clutched Bill's hand in his own.

The thought of Ford, stuffed in a box, screaming in the dark, sent a chill down his spine. If Rico had managed to track Stan down, if he knew Stan had a brother, that his brother had his own funds and resources....

"But enough about that! Lets get you out of here, you must be thirsty, aren't you?"

He was, his throat was bone dry and his stomach clenched uncomfortably. The shirt he was slowly rubbing his head against moved away, and he looked up to see Bill, smiling down at him.

"I've got just the thing."

Bill felt his smile grow at Stan's hazy stare. A day locked up by himself had been all his friend needed to remind him who he should be sticking with. Now he'd think twice the next time Sixer tried to get between them.

Rico really was the perfect pawn. Even though they'd never met, the man had done more to help Bill's friendship then anyone else. Whenever he wanted to play a fun prank, or needed someone to take the blame, all he had to do was bring up the humans name and Stan would huff away, leaving Bill free to slide in and comfort Stan in his time of need.

He hadn't intended to use him now, but he needed Stan to remember whose fried he was, and why going with Sixer was a bad idea.

They could hang out all they wanted when Ford finally gave up. Until then Stan's place was at his side, as his best friend. His (platonic) parnter in the night (until Ford finally got bored of his game), his go to buddy for fun and drinks. The one Bill relied on to clean up after everyone's messes. All Bill had to do was bring Stan out for a round of partying to remind his underlings to stay in line.

Like the ones he had waiting in the next room, the ones who failed to slow Ford down or inform Bill of his arrival. They'd be excellent snacks for Stan to regain his strength, and examples for everyone else.

Bill helped Stan out of the blood soaked box, past the destroyed lid, scratches hidden in its destruction, and through the door. Stan's eyes started flickering gold with each step, and he was already perking up as they neared the next room. There was no sign of red, but that was an easy fix.

"Here, let me," Bill said, quickly bending down and scooping Stan into his arms, "You look exhausted, just get some rest, I'll get us home."

"Kay." Stan rasped, fangs peeking out. They were far too close to Bill's neck for comfort, but he knew Stan's limits better than Stan did, he'd be fine. A few more steps and Stan was breathing deeply, eyes still slightly open, but mind already drifting as the panic left him.

By the time they arrived to where Stan's snack was at, Stan was out of it, sniffing at Bill's throat and heart beating rapidly, calling out to him.

With a grin, a slight shift in grip, and a firm grip on Stan's head, Bill sunk his own fangs into Stan's neck. Blood filled his mouth, and he hummed happily at the flavor. Ten pin pricks dug into his back as Stan stiffened, but they'd done this enough times for Bill to shrug it off, and Stan to collapse into him. In a few minutes his stomach was heavy and warm, and Stan was starting to snarl.

Perfect.

"There we go!" Bill pulled away and licked his lips, then smiled at the gold-on-red that greeted him. Now Stan could feed without worry.

The door was open and Stan was tossed inside before the small group on the other side could start begging for their lives. There were three of them, each of them chained to their own wall. He kept the door open long enough to watch Stan start to sniff at the air and lock onto the closest one, then slammed it shut.