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June 14, 1977
Colombia
Stan swore under his breath. The Stanleymobile must have gotten towed while he was away, and if it was already at the impound lot across town, then he was well and truly screwed.
At the sound of approaching voices, he bolted, shooting down alleyways at random until finding himself at the local marina. There were only a few ships nearby, but the only one that would have any integrity against Jorge's goons was occupied by two figures he couldn't quite make out in the darkness.
He shot a glance over his shoulder and bit back a frustrated snarl. His 'friends' were catching up, fast.
Stan sprinted past the ships, barely sparing the occupied one a glance as he dashed by. Maybe if he managed to get out of the light, he could slip away?
(Oddly enough, one of the figures on the occupied ship turned to stare directly at him, sending a shiver up his spine.)
Stan fled the marina and threw himself into a dumpster. He might smell like rotting shrimp for a while, but he figured it was better to smell dead than to be dead.
Unfortunately for him, his pursuers slowed down at the mouth of the alley, chuckling amongst themselves.
"Come now, Pinefield, you should have known better than to steal from me." Jorge smirked. "And to trap yourself in a dead-end, as well? I knew you were dumb, but this?"
Stan went pale and stifled a terrified gasp. He'd run into a dead end?! No wonder they were so sure he couldn't escape!
It would all end here, wouldn't it?
Five years on his own, and nothing to show for it except whatever the morticians would find.
He'd need some kind of miracle to make it out of this one.
Date: March 26, 2013
Location: Arctic Ocean
Stan found himself in front of the bathroom mirror. He smirked at his reflection and pulled on his beanie. Actually, if he shifted the hat just right, he kinda thought he looked like somebody he'd seen once, way back in the-
"Evening, gentlemen."
He blinked, the memory leaving as soon as it had come. It was kind of odd, actually- the memory showed him a pair of old men who looked strikingly like he and Ford now did, right down to what they'd decided to wear that day.
In the 70's.
Huh. Maybe the kids had a point when they said not to mess with time stuff.
Wait.
Time stuff.
Ford had mentioned a new anomaly off the coast of Greenland, but he wasn't sure about what kind of anomaly it was.
Stan pressed his lips into a thin line and snagged both his own knuckledusters and the pair he'd gotten for Mabel at the last town. He had a feeling things were about to get weird.
"Hey, Ford, about that anomaly you mentioned, I think I might-!"
(There were likely other things that happened between that moment and the time he woke up, but as his head throbbed afterwards, he figured something had messed with his short-term memory. He simply didn't remember.)
Date: ???
Location: ???
Stan blinked his eyes open with a groan, fighting the throb of his head to look around. "Didja get the plates from that semi, Sixer?"
"That…that was no semi." Ford mumbled, pushing himself from the deck and just into Stan's view. "Judging from the sudden increase in temperature, I'd surmise that we went through that anomaly, though how, exactly, eludes me. Perhaps it uses short-term memory loss to keep its location and nature hidden?"
At that, Stan's mind caught back up with him, and he didn't so much 'get up' as he 'stiffened so violently he landed on his feet.' "Oh, yeah! One of my memories smacked me upside the face this morning! I mean, it was already there, but I was looking in the mirror when I realized what was actually happening, and-!"
An angry shout echoed in the distance, and as a beat-up figure stumbled into the marina, Stan felt his heart stop.
He'd heard that exact shout once before.
"Ford, what are your thoughts on stable time loops?" Stan asked, leaning on the rail and watching the figure run by.
(Oddly enough, the figure glanced back at the Stan O'War and met Stan's gaze, and his eyes widened for a moment before he turned his attention back to his escape.)
"…That they're a very rare thing and it's quite worrisome that you're asking me?" Ford responded. "Stanley, do you mean to tell me-?"
A group of solidly-built types came charging down the docks, and Stan clenched his fists.
"Ford, we're in one."
"We're what-?!"
"No time, Poindexter!" Stan cut him off, already jumping down to the dock. "I know where the younger me is hiding, but we need to move fast, or we're gonna have bigger problems than just being stuck in the past!"
Ford quickly leapt down to join him, and as they charged after Stan's younger self, he snorted. "Well, I hope you're willing to answer a long, long list of questions after this!"
"Consider it done!" Stan smirked, sliding his knuckledusters into place as they came across an alley, where the younger Stan's assailants had come to a casual stop.
"I knew you were dumb, but this?"
Thank goodness.
They were right on time.
June 14, 1977
Colombia
It was a miracle Stan needed, and it was a miracle he got.
An older, gruffer voice coughed from behind Jorge, the new man clearing his throat.
Stan caught sight of a flash of teeth from his hiding spot.
"Evening, gentlemen."
Jorge spun around in shock, only for the newcomer to slam a fist into his jaw and send him sprawling.
Stan gaped.
Whoever the old guy was, he definitely packed a punch!
…Stan really hoped he didn't decide to start beating up on him once he was done with Jorge's goons.
The man smirked viciously. "I couldn't help but overhear your little conversation, and I figured I'd just weigh in with my piece."
"You're not welcome here, old man!" One of Jorge's henchmen snapped, advancing on the interloper, but a second man swooped in and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, hurling him aside.
"It's a good thing he didn't come alone, then, isn't it?" The second man said, his voice just as angry as the first, but smoother and not as gruff.
(Something in the back of Stan's mind screamed that he knew those voices.)
(He told it to shut up and let him focus.)
The first man slid back-to-back with his companion and held up his fists, something gold glinting on his knuckles. "Now, anybody else want a piece?"
With the two strangers occupying Jorge's crew, Stan decided to try slipping away and making a break for it. Maybe if they were all distracted with each other, they wouldn't notice he was missing until he was long gone-!
Thunder rang through the alley.
Fire and ice erupted from Stan's left upper arm.
Red splattered the ground in front of him.
Shit.
"HEY!" The first stranger snapped, and Stan found himself staggering around to look as the old men tackled a gun-wielding henchman to the ground. "You gotta deal with us, not m-him!"
A gun.
He'd been shot.
Stan had been shot!
He sagged against the side of the alley and clutched at his arm, desperately trying to keep his blood from pushing through his fingers to no avail. If it had been his leg, maybe he wouldn't have been able to run as easily, but at least he'd have both hands free.
There were a series of quick 'thwacks' from the fighters before him, and he managed to glance up woozily at two shadowy figures as they approached him. All the rest of the people there had fallen to the ground, but Stan couldn't make out who the two victors were.
Before he could do anything to flee, however, his vision went dark.
Date: June 14, 1977
Location: Colombia
Stan hissed and caught his past self before he could collapse to the ground. "Shit, we gotta get to the boat."
"And let your past self see clues about the future?" Ford argued, though he still came around and helped Stan carry their new charge out of the alley.
"Trust me, Sixer, I remember what I saw." Stan shrugged. "We'll get me set up in the the main cabin and hide all our 'spoilery' stuff in our room. I never went and looked in there, so neither will he. Neither will I? Time stuff is weird."
Ford sighed, but he nodded. "If you say so. Here's hoping we don't get paid a visit by those Time Police the kids mentioned."
Stan swallowed.
"Stan. Are we going to be visited by the Time Police?"
Stan steadfastly looked anywhere but his brother.
"Stanley."
"I only caught the tail end of the conversation and none of it was specifically about time stuff, but…it's possible?" Stan finally admitted. "We'll get some kind of cops at the ship, but I was too busy worrying about who the heck the two geezers who'd saved me were! I didn't have the brainpower to focus too much on what kind of cops they were talking to!"
Ford grimaced. "And do we manage to convince the cops to leave us alone?"
Stan nodded, shrugging slightly. "That much, I remember. I was in shock for a bit there, actually, since I was still under the impression I was about to be turned over to the authorities. We manage to convince the fuzz to buzz off, though."
"…alright. Alright." Ford decided. "We can work with that."
"I coulda told you that much."
"Oh, I'll want you to tell me every single detail."
"…figured."
June 14, 1977
Colombia
Stan woke up on a bed.
Well, from the feel of it, it was more of a couch, but it was more comfortable than his car, so he'd take the win.
He shifted slightly, only to hiss in pain as lightning lanced up his arm-
"Ah, you're up." A stranger's voice said.
Stan froze in place, his eyes shooting open and flicking over towards the voice.
One of the old men from the brawl at the marina was sitting on a chair just across the room. He occasionally swayed with the rocking motion of the ground beneath them (a boat?), looking perfectly poised and so much like some hypothetical, completely unspecified long-lost relative that it hurt.
On reflection, that might've also been the bullet wound.
Might wanna get that checked out.
"Wha-? Where am I? What do you want? Who are you people?" Stan tried to demand. Unfortunately, he was weakened from what he could only assume was blood loss. He probably didn't strike a very imposing image, laying on the couch and bandaged like he was.
Wait.
Stan glanced down at his injured arm to find gauze wrapped around it. The good stuff, not scraps from shredded T-shirts of dubious cleanliness.
He gawked.
"When did-? Why-?"
Something in the older man's face twinged at his words, but rather than give any real reason for getting Stan out of a sticky situation, he instead stood up. "Let me go get my brother. He's been making you dinner, but we didn't want to wake you."
"I, uh…sure?" Stan managed.
The man nodded once with a soft smile, then headed out to what Stan assumed was the kitchen, hands in his pockets.
(Heh, it almost looked like how Ford would-)
Stan kept his mind carefully blank.
Only a few moments later, the sound of the other man (they were brothers?) cheering came back down the hall, and Stan hurried to look as nonchalant as he could be in this situation.
Waking up on a boat.
Owned by two badass brothers.
Who he didn't know.
Who'd wrapped his injury.
And got along.
Who should've made metaphorical waves if they made a habit of busting in and stopping folks from being killed by the likes of Jorge.
And were right outside the door.
(He was probably failing miserably.)
The brother who'd been cooking rapped on the door with one hand, the other holding a plate of pancakes that smelled like home. "Morning, Sleepin' Beauty. You up for some solid food?"
Stan's stomach growled, betraying him before he had a chance to decline.
The man in the knit cap grinned wider, even as his brother's face paled. "Hah! Figured as much! Good thing I cooked up enough to feed an army! Osteoporosis!"
Stan blinked.
The hatless man groaned. "He means 'bon appetit.' Our niece taught him that, and I can't get him to stop."
"Aw, c'mon, bro, you know you love me." His brother shot him a shit-eating grin as he set the plate down on the nearby table.
"…this is true."
Stan let the cook tug him upright, but then he yanked his good arm away. "Why're you two being so damn nice to me?!"
Oddly enough, the hatless brother seemed more stricken than the cook, who simply sighed knowingly. "It's a bit fuzzy, but trust me. I know what you've gone through these past few years."
Stan's blood froze, but the man kept talking, even sitting down on the couch so Stan had to turn to keep looking at him. "You prolly think the whole world's against you, right? You make one mistake, and suddenly the crooks and criminals can't get enough of hitting you where it hurts. Hell, look at this."
The older man rolled up his sleeve and flexed, showing off several scars, including-
"I actually got this from a gunshot wound, same as you." The man went on, tracing the pit in his skin with his fingers. "But these two strangers, completely out of left field, took me in for the night and patched me up, good as new. I figured I may as well pay it forward, y'know?"
The hatless man squeaked, but when Stan glanced back to look, he just smiled and gestured for him to keep listening to his brother.
Stan forced a chuckle and sized up the older man on the couch. "That kind of thinking is what gets people killed."
"Oho, don't I know it." The cook snorted, rolling his sleeve back down and pulling something from his pocket. He tucked the something into Stan's hand with a pat. "Ain't gonna stop me, though, and ain't gonna stop you."
Stan stared at the shiny brass knuckles with wide eyes. "But-! Wait, aren't these yours?"
The man shrugged and patted his coat pocket, where a vaguely-brass-knuckle-shaped lump could be seen. "Well, yes and no. They're the same model, but I actually got 'em for my niece. She can handle herself already, though. You look like you could use all the help you can get."
Another squeak, and this time Stan caught a flash of panic(?!) before the hatless brother schooled his face into something calmer.
Unnerving, but nothing had happened to him so far. Stan decided to see how far his luck would take him before ditching him again.
As if the universe was punishing him for even thinking it, a light flashed outside, several sets of heavy boots hit the deck above them, and a deep voice boomed, "Come out with your hands up!"
Stan froze up entirely, but the brothers' faces hardened.
The hatless one asked, "Do you think it's-?"
"I know it is." The cook answered. He gave Stan a pat on the shoulder and stood up. "Hang tight, kid. We'll take care of this and be right back."
Stan nodded, letting the older men head out to the deck…
…and then scrambled to his feet as fast as he could without jostling his arm, pressing himself up against the wall by the nearest window and straining his ears.
The cook. "…do realize we've got this handled, right?"
The deep voice. "…could cause a rip in the…just because you defeated cipher-"
Stan frowned. Defeated a cipher? That couldn't be right.
"-that doesn't mean you get to-!"
The hatless man. "Might I remind you that this is a stable…knows what upsetting the balance could…"
The cook again. "Look, I already know how this goes, and…not gonna screw up your precious plans, ya big baby."
The hatless man hissed something inaudible, most likely the cook's name. Stan shifted to try and hear it, but didn't quite catch it in time.
"What? I'm not wrong, am I?"
A fourth voice, harsher than the deep one but not as gravelly as the cook's. "You're treading on thin ice, and if you cannot actually…then you know what you'll be charged with."
The cook. "Sweet! More for the criminal record!"
A smack, most likely from the hatless brother if the immediate "Are you serious?" was anything to go by.
The cook, without hesitation. "Not once ever."
A moment of silence, then-
"Look, I get that you're concerned, but what wouldja have us do instead?" The cook pressed. "You know as well as we do, probably better, that some things just gotta happen, and I'm telling you, this is one of them."
The deep voice heaved a sigh. "And we cannot budge you on this?"
"Not even a little." The cook answered. "Plenty of folks have tried, but only one ever really had a chance, and you know what happened to him. Not-! Not sayin' I wanna start a fight, just…you know how we get when something like this is on the line."
"…very well." The deep voice conceded. "You have until noon tomorrow to do what you must."
"Thanks, big guy. I'd say this makes us even, buuut I still wanna hold it over you." The cook said, most likely with a shit-eating grin.
The deep voice sighed a long-suffering sigh, but still made no argument.
There was another flash of light followed by the sound of the brothers' footsteps (and only the brothers'), and Stan hurried back to the couch in an effort to look as though he hadn't been eavesdropping.
The two old men came back inside, seemingly exhausted from interacting with the probably-cops, but none the worse for wear.
The cook stretched, then slumped back down, scratching idly at his side. "I think I'm actually gonna hit the hay after that mess. Bro, you gonna sleep?"
"Eventually." His brother replied. "I believe I'll have a bit of a conversation with y-er, our guest, first."
"Suit yourself." The cook shrugged and started heading off, but before he disappeared into the boat, he pointed a finger at each of them and added, "If my bro doesn't head to bed here quick, you make him. And if our buddy here doesn't eat something, you make him. Gonna need those calories, y'know."
"Go to sleep, knucklehead." The hatless man insisted, rolling his eyes fondly.
"Oh, how the tables have turned!" His brother laughed, disappearing down the hall.
The hatless man snorted. "I can still tell our niece and nephew about your most recent stunt!"
"As if they wouldn't think it was AWESOME!"
Stan swallowed thickly and forced his face to remain neutral.
These two old men were living his oldest and most personal dream.
Was it fair of him to be jealous when he didn't even know the guys?
The remaining brother glanced over at him and sighed, sitting down on the couch across from him. "You probably have many questions, very few of which I'm allowed to answer. I won't ask you to try asking any of them, else my very emotions might give away some of the answers…but I can assure you that you're safe here. We'll be- well, if there's anywhere in particular you need to go in the morning, we can drop you off, alright?"
Stan took a deep breath, forcing his voice to stay steady. "It's not like I got anything better to do."
The older man smiled sadly, but nodded. "You just rest and recover. Get some sleep."
"You too." Stan reminded him. "If…if you're anything like my bro, you'll prolly forget if I don't bring it up."
This time, it was the old man who seemed to need a moment to collect himself, though Stan hadn't the foggiest idea why.
"You may have a point." He eventually admitted. "Sleep well, St-sonny."
Before Stan had a chance to react to the slip-up, the old man shot to his feet and stepped out, quick as lightning.
Okay.
They clearly knew at least one of his names.
It didn't have to be his first.
Maybe they just overheard Jorge's guys calling him Stetson…? Did Jorge's guys call him Stetson last night?
Stan mentally added that to his growing mental pile of unnerving things about the brothers and turned his attention to his pancakes.
Date: June 14, 1977
Location: Colombia
"Sonny?!" Stan whisper-cackled. "I forgot about that part!"
"Stan, this is serious!" Ford hissed. "I'm telling you, it's only a matter of time before one of us slips up and reveals more than we should to your past self!"
Stan wiped a tear from his eye and let his laughter fade into something more genuine. "I know that, Sixer, and I'm telling you that it'll work out. I mean…" he gestured to himself, "…it kinda already has."
Ford took a breath, ready to argue…but deflated just as quickly. "You raise a valid point. Still, was there anything else you can remember about tomorrow morning?"
"…don't let your time go to waste."
Stan shrugged, as devil-may-care as he figured he could get away with, and half-lied, "One of us gives me an intense sorta one-on-one promise dealio before we part ways, but I can't really remember which of us it was or what we said. I'm not really feeling the urge to give myself a pep talk, so if you wanted to give it a shot…?"
"Alright…I think I can do that." Ford murmured, the gears in his head already whirling.
Stan smirked and let himself sink into his hammock, closing his eyes.
They were halfway there.
June 15, 1977
Colombia
Stan blinked his eyes open, lifting an arm to scrub away the crusties and-
-oh. Yeah. Right. Gunshot.
He lifted his other arm to scrub away the crusties and glanced around.
It seemed neither of the sailor brothers were up and moving at the moment, judging by the snoring from the hall, so Stan took it upon himself to quietly lever himself upright and drop his feet to the floor. He probably shouldn't have stayed as long as he did, but it wasn't like he was going to just blatantly disobey the two people who could probably kick his ass into next week.
(…and they had saved his skin. He might be going soft.)
He carefully slipped an expensive looking wristwatch into his pocket and tiptoed down the hall. Maybe if he was quiet enough, he could slip away before either of them woke up and noticed he was-
"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey." The old man who'd cooked him dinner said.
Stan froze, his shoulders shooting up to his ears as he turned to look.
The man sat at a dining table, sipping at a pine-tree-patterned mug of coffee and smirking knowingly. "Hey, I get that this whole situation is out there, but you don't hafta leave just yet."
Stan swallowed and forced a nonchalant grin. "Leaving? Hah! Who, uh, said anything about leaving?"
"You're like me, kid. I'd be trying to leave, too." The man said. "And I did. Try to, I mean. When this happened to me. C'mon, have a seat, I don't bite."
Knowing he'd been busted, Stan pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. The man stood up and pulled out two more mugs from the cupboard- one with some kind of science joke on it, the other simply saying "My ex-wife still misses me…BUT HER AIM IS GETTIN' BETTER!"
Stan couldn't help the snort he made at that, and the old man grinned as he filled the mugs. "Figured you'd think that's funny. I happen to think it's hilarious, but my bro just doesn't understand true comedy."
As if in answer, his brother appeared in the doorframe and made a groan not entirely unlike a zombie's.
"I made coffee, you nerd." The first man replied, giving the science mug a little wave before setting it on the table.
His brother made an appreciative grunt and plopped down at a third chair, grabbing the mug with his hands in his sleeves and staring blankly at it.
The cook slid the other mug to Stan, then took another sip from his own. "One of these days I'll break him of his caffiene addiction, but that day is not this day."
"Nor will it be any day soon." His brother grumbled. He took a long gulp of his coffee before continuing, slightly more alert. "Besides, going cold turkey wasn't well thought out, for either of us."
"Fair point."
Stan took a cautious sip of coffee, only for his eyes to go wide.
It was made exactly how he liked it, except he hadn't told anyone how he liked it since before-!
…well, since before.
These two were buttering him up for something. He didn't know what, but it had to be something big.
The coffee did hit the spot, though.
"So, kid, where're you heading?" The cook asked conversationally.
Welp. Here went nothing.
"Figured I'd try to get to the impound lot across town." Stan said, keeping his eyes on his coffee, but watching the brothers out of the corners of his vision. "I'd been trying to get to my car last night, but it musta got towed while I was out."
"I think we can manage getting you there." The cook shrugged, knocking back the last of his mug and setting it in the sink.
"I concur." His brother nodded. "What kind of car are we looking for?"
Huh. He hadn't expected that. He'd expected them to react differently, possibly try to…well, if they weren't gonna stop him, it didn't really bear thinking about.
Stan shrugged. "Eh, if you two know what an El Diablo looks like, it's one of those. I've had it since…well, I've had it for a while, and-"
The man still waking up nearly choked on his coffee, but his brother just rolled his eyes and thumped him on the back. "Don't let Nerdbrain here cut you off. Keep going."
Stan took another sip of coffee to hide how off-kilter the brothers' reactions were making him. "…well, anyway, I kinda need to get back to it ASAP. If…if that's alright."
"Sounds like a plan to me." The cook declared. "How long a walk d'ya think it'll be?"
"Maybe an hour?" Stan guessed. "I haven't exactly been down to the impound lot from this far away before."
The cook thought about it for a moment before shrugging. "Eh, fair enough."
June 15, 1977
Colombia
Stan looked up at the impound lot and gulped.
Chain link fence. Barbed wire at the top. A row of doghouses inside.
How was he gonna get his car out of that?
The old man with the knit hat clapped him on the shoulder. "I think I see your ride right at the edge there. I'll go handle the paperwork and shit if you wanna go make sure everything's still there."
"Wait, what?" Stan glanced over at him, wide-eyed, but the man was already heading up to the main window.
Oh yeah. They were definitely buttering him up.
The hatless brother walked with him to the edge of the lot, where they could get a peek into the Stanleymobile. Stan peered through the windows, but it seemed everything was still in place.
Everything except-!
Stan's breath hitched, and he pressed his face against the fence to try and figure out where the photo clipped to the visor had gone.
"What? What is it?" The man next to him asked.
"There's-! There's a picture-!" Stan managed, but before he had to elaborate any further, he caught sight of the photo sitting on the driver's seat.
It hadn't been stolen.
It hadn't been gone.
It had just fallen out of view.
He visibly sagged with relief. "Never mind, it's still there. False alarm."
The man peered into the car at the same angle as Stan, and his eyes widened at the sight of, presumably, every possession Stan had to his name. Er, well, names.
"I know it's not much, but it's mine." Stan explained, glancing away. "Dunno what I'd do with myself if I lost it."
That was a lie. He knew exactly what he'd probably end up doing. These ridiculously-nice strangers didn't need to know that, though. It wasn't exactly the type of thing that was brought up in polite company.
"…look, S-sonny." The old man eventually said. "If you and your brother are anything like my brother and me, then he does not truly hate you."
Stan stiffened. He'd never mentioned his fear that Ford hated him, so how did he-?!
The old man who clearly knew far too much continued, "He may think he does, and he may insist as much to everyone he knows, including yourself. Should you ever cross paths with him again, I mean. He may keep up his facade of hating you for far longer than he has any right to, but he does not truly hate you. If you ever get a chance to speak with him again…"
Stan stared as the man glanced back at his brother sadly, then shook his head and finished, "…don't let your time go to waste."
The man's brother laughed at something an employee had said, then cringed and rubbed at a spot on his right shoulder, like maybe his joints were locking up or something.
Oh. There were some implications there.
Stan highly doubted they'd gone through exactly what he had, but even so…
The man's brother sauntered back over. "Alright, kid, your car's good to-!"
Stan acted on impulse, like he always did. It was probably stupid, but at that moment, he really couldn't care less.
He yanked the two old men into a crushing hug, the better to hide the way his face was twisting up into something unmanly and the way his voice had suddenly gotten even rougher than usual. "…thanks. I think…I really needed to hear that."
A split second later, both of them returned the hug just as tightly, and after a moment more, Stan pulled back and cleared his throat. "Right. Uh. That never happened."
"What never happened?" asked the man in the hat, grinning knowingly.
"Do you think you'll be alright?" asked his brother, glancing at Stan's injured arm.
"Eh, I've walked off worse." Stan waved him off with his good hand. "With your bandages and shit, I oughta be fine."
"Alright." The hatless man conceded. "You stay safe now."
"You too. Jorge's guys'll be combing the streets for you, y'know." Stan warned them.
The brother in the hat smirked. "Eh, we'll keep an eye out, but we oughta be fine."
His brother smacked him in the arm with a light scoff and turned to leave.
Stan's eyes widened as he zeroed in on the six-fingered hand for the brief moment it was visible.
The five-fingered brother winked and zipped his lips, locking them and throwing away the key.
Stan turned his stare on the man.
The man tapped at his wristwatch, the exact watch Stan had taken and that the man hadn't been wearing before, then headed off after his brother. "I call first dibs on the shower, Nerdbrain."
"Not if I get to the boat first!" The six-fingered brother declared, breaking into a run.
"Hey, wait up!"
"Hah! You should keep up!"
Stan stared as the two brothers who had to be twins took off down the street, his eyes growing wide as dinner plates.
He'd woken up on a (well-loved) boat.
Owned by two badass (twin) brothers.
Who he didn't know (but looked familiar).
Who'd wrapped his injury (and allegedly had one just like it).
And got along (and knew he and his brother didn't).
Who should've made metaphorical waves if they made a habit of busting in and stopping folks from being killed by the likes of Jorge (but had just appeared out of nowhere to save his skin without demanding anything in return).
And had 22 fingers between them.
How was it even possible? Why break the laws of space and time for someone like him?
"If you and your brother are anything like my brother and me, then he does not truly hate you."
No way.
Stan scrambled to his car and shoved the keys into the ignition.
There was no way.
He revved the engine and tore out from the impound lot, driving as fast as he could (without attracting unwanted attention) back to the marina.
There was no way!
He caught sight of the two old sailors flying from the docks to their ship, though it was possible the gun-like device in one of their hands had something to do with it.
There was no way!
Stan veered onto the shoulder of the highway, leapt from the driver's seat, and threw himself against the barrier on the side of the road, eyes wide as he took in part of the ship's name.
The something O' War Ⅱ.
The brothers landed on the deck, brushed themselves off, and took up their positions.
The one in the hat turned and shot off a two-fingered salute in his direction-
-and then there were a giant silhouette and a flash of light.
When Stan finally blinked the spots from his vision, the boat and the silhouette were gone, the only remaining evidence of their disappearance the waves crashing into the void left behind.
"Oh, no fucking way." He breathed.
But there was no other explanation, beyond Stan having simply lost his mind, and he still felt sane enough. Besides, if he went and checked himself into the loony bin, they might convince him that the past 24 hours had never happened.
Call him a sap, but he wanted to hold onto these memories as long as he possibly could. He needed every scrap of hope he could get, and as he reached into his pocket and took out the wad of cash left behind in place of the watch, labelled "Happy Birthday" in both his and Ford's handwriting…
"He does not truly hate you."
…Stan thought he might have just hit the motherlode.
And he definitely Did Not Cry. What are you, a cop?
Date: March 27, 2013
Location: Arctic Ocean
Stan turned his cheeky grin back to Ford as soon as he blinked the spots from his vision. "And then from that day forward I had enough hope that we could be friends again to keep going for the next 30-odd years."
"Wh-" Ford spluttered. "You're saying your past self knew it was a time loop the whole time?! I thought you said you didn't find the note until the next day!"
"Not the whole time." Stan shrugged. "I only pieced it together once somebody smacked his bro in the shoulder and accidentally flashed his extra fingers. Plus I think I eventually repressed that memory after a decade or two. It only really came back once we were sailing for that time anomaly whatsit."
He could see it in Ford's eyes when he did the math to figure out how when 'a decade or two' would've been. "But…then that means…?"
"Yeah." Stan admitted.
Ford frowned at the deck.
After a moment, Stan cleared his throat. "Good thing I got a pep talk from an old man who regretted being angry at his bro for so long."
Ford blinked, then shot him a lighthearted glare. "You knew it was going to be me the entire time, didn't you? You just said you couldn't remember!"
"Busted!" Stan snickered. "What can I say? You're better at winging that sort of stuff. If you knew there was a script to follow, tell me you'd be able to follow it without slipping up."
"I could-!"
"Without lying."
Ford crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow, but didn't deny it.
"Besides, it was probably the best birthday present I ever got." Stan added, almost as an afterthought. "I may or may not have slipped myself some extra cash with the note, too, which may or may not have made it possible for me to sleep in a motel for a few nights, get back to the States, and eventually wind up on the path that led to me getting your postcard."
"…huh." Ford eventually said. "I…huh. So is everything just destined to happen regardless of changes made in the past? Would…"
His eyes widened in horror as a thought struck him.
"…would you have survived if we hadn't been there?"
Stan glanced away and scratched at the back of his neck. "Uh…not likely. That alley was a dead-end, and Jorge was royally pissed off at me."
"I…I almost don't want to ask, but…?"
"Lost my nerve on a job. Don't remember the specifics, but there are some lines even I refuse to cross." Stan muttered. "He wanted me to cross one of 'em, so I grabbed the goods and ran the other way. You know what happened next."
For a moment, neither of them spoke, but then Ford came up beside him and tugged him into a tight hug. "Well, I, for one, am glad to know that all that is in the past, where it belongs. You were just a kid."
Stan buried his face in Ford's shoulder and returned the hug just as tightly. "…I was turning 22."
And he definitely Did Not Cry. What are you, a cop?