Chapter Text
A quiet mind was a rare occurrence for Stanford Pines, even before he'd made the deal that plunged his life into lonely confinement. Yet, it had been nearly twelve hours since the dream demon had last visited him. He understood why. Today's silence was, in itself, a form of torment - time alone, confined, unable to do anything but think about the things he couldn't do. He'd had countless days like this before, when the boredom nearly drove him over the edge, when knowing that access to activities as simple as writing, drawing, or reading could result in more scars added to the spattering of discolored lines and bruises already etched across his body. But today was especially difficult. He hoped, honestly hoped, his brother had enjoyed his day and, at the same time, hoped he'd visit soon, if only to relieve him from the miasma of his own mind.
And so he waited, sitting cross legged on the padded floor among pillows of various sizes and colors and leaning against the equally padded wall of a cell built for him in his own basement; built at his own insistence, to protect the world and built at his brother's to keep Ford as safe and comfortable as possible.
Despite the hours passed, his right eye remained reddened and raw from repeated possession. At least, he thought, it isn't bleeding anymore. At least, it hasn't rotted away to nothing yet. Though, it certainly felt like it might at times.
He hadn't had or wanted access to a mirror in so long that he could only imagine how dark the circles under his eyes must be, how pale his face might look, or how his neglected curls and beard probably made him look like he'd been a drifter for decades. At least Bill was letting him eat enough to maintain some amount of health. After all, he wanted him alive for more than one reason. Too bad he wasn't sure anymore if he still wanted himself ali-
A knock cut off his thoughts. His head snapped up, looking past the bars of his cell to the wooden door centered in a wall covered in family photos and his own drawings (only in crayon, since they were toughest to weaponize); his only window to the outside world.
"Hey, Ford. Can I come in?" his brother asked.
"Certainly!" he answered, lifting himself to his feet and stepping over piles of pillows to approach the bars with an enthusiasm he hadn't felt in far too long mingled with a sinking feeling in his chest.
Stan cracked open the door, peeking through to assure himself it was safe to enter. He emerged slowly, one hand held behind his back and clad in an atypical outfit composed of a tropical shirt, khaki shorts, and his fishing hat.
Before he'd even fully opened the door, Ford flooded him with questions. "How did it go? Did the kids enjoy fishing? Did you catch anything good? Did you have fun?"
"Well, it started off shaky, he answered, closing the door with a light click. "They went off on their own to hunt some monster thing for a while, but they eventually came back and we had some fun. They wore the hats I made them."
"That's good. You worked hard on those," Ford said, his hands absently wrapping around the bars between himself and his brother.
"Yeah. I uh... Here," he said, pulling his hand from behind his back to reveal a floppy fishing hat.
Ford reached out for it and unfolded it, his fingers tracing the hand sewn letters spelling out his own name and a smile lifting the corners of his lips.
"It's for when we figure this all out," Stan said, digging in his shorts pocket. "I uh, have some photos if you want to see."
"Of course!" He set his new hat down on a round pillow beside him and stared down at the photos held out before him, though he refused to reach through and take them. He didn't need them torn to shreds by the monster in his mind. "They're growing up so fast. But, it does look like you had fun. I'm glad. You deserve a break."
"Yeah, well... So do you," Stan said with a melancholy sigh. He turned the photos in his hand, gazing at them as he mused, "They're great kids, ya' know. I think they'd understand if I told them about you and our uh... Situation.” He pocketed the photos, his hand rubbing the back of his head. "I mean- That is- Do you want to meet them?"
Ford smiled, ready to answer with a joyful "yes" but his smile sagged mid-word and he corrected himself, "I would like to, yes. But No. It's too dangerous. I'M too dangerous." He slumped to the floor, his back to the bars, huddled in on himself as if trying to be physically smaller.
Stan dropped to his knees, reaching through the bars to rest his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I know it's been a long time. Far too long. But, we'll figure this out."
Ford cradled his head in his hands, his voice shaking as he spoke, "He keeps rearranging things in my head. There are ways... It's maddening that I know I know them but they're just... I just... Can't think of them."
Stan risked a little more, his arms stretching past the bars to hug his brother. "I swear if I ever get my hands on that monster I'll-," he sighed, his anger melting into a gentle murmur, "I'm sorry things are still like this."
"No..." Ford croaked, his voice straining, "No... Please..."
Stan leapt away, anticipating Ford's violent turn toward him.
Ford's hand swiped through the bars and Stan fell backwards, staring in awe at a sight he'd seen enough times that it should have lost its impact on him. His brother grinned wildly, his eyes glowing yellow and tears staining his cheeks.
The cackle passing through his brother's lips grated on his nerves before the demon's nasally whine echoed unnaturally through the basement, "You know how to end this, Brainiac. Rebuild the portal and you can see your family all you want!"
Ford blinked. His eyes dimmed back to their usual brown as he backed away from the bars. "No," he answered, his tone failing to be as steady and stern as he wished it could be, "No! I won't let you into our world." He took another step back, tripping backwards over a bolster pillow. He clutched his head, fighting against himself, "Get out of my mind!"
But he'd never once been able to successfully ward off the benefactor of the deal forged of his own gullibility and misplaced trust. The yellow glow shone through his eyes yet again.
"Hey, I'm not exactly happy about being in your brain box this often, either," Bill snorted, "It's too confined in here to have much fun," he explained, motioning to the cell, "Sure would be nice if I could throw you down the stairs again like old times! But, suit yourself. Enjoy the mystery bruises tomorrow!"
As the demon faded from his mind, Ford heard his brother call his name, an edge of desperation to his shout.
"Stanley..." He shook his head, looking toward his brother through blurry eyes. Stan still sat, slightly disheveled and stunned on the basement floor. "Stanley! Did I hurt you?"
"Nah, I got out of the way in time," he answered, trying to wrangle his words into a lackadaisical tone and adding a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Because you've gotten used to avoiding it..." Ford turned away, edging himself closer to the padded corner. "I'm sorry Stanley..."
"Ford..."
"Just... Go. Please," he whispered.
Stan sighed, reaching into his pocket for the photos of himself and the kids. He pinned them to the wall beside a faded photo of his childhood self posing with Ford in front of the Stan O' War. "Someday," he muttered nearly inaudibly. He turned back to his brother, huddled in the corner in his fruitless attempt to minimize his breakdown. I'll figure out the way to fix this, he thought, opening the door and letting himself out.