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There was going to be a funeral. He'd been waiting for the call, but still let it surprise him. His mother's voice through the phone sounded empty, when she told him so. Even though he knew the body had to have been charred almost beyond recognition. Whatever the police had managed to pull from that car wreck, whatever was left of that paper clone. It was being sent back to Jersey at his mother's request.
He cleared his throat of Stanford's voice and hung up the phone. She'd asked him to come. Some part of him wondered if Ford would have. Some part of him didn't want to face her. But Stanley Pines was his mother's son. He wouldn't leave her alone for this. He'd lie to her face just like she taught him.
That left his hands. They'd weighed on him for a while, dragging heavy at his sides. Few of the townsfolk seemed to notice he was missing two fingers, but it had been clear after the first few weeks in this town that nobody really knew his brother. And Stan had taken advantage of that mystery like only the worst of the worst. He could wear stuffed gloves, but that ruse wasn't long-lasting. The part of him that hoped Ford would be back before Stan had to build anything permanent was slowly dying. So he made a plan.
He already had some vodka on hand, even though he preferred rum or whiskey. He'd had to restock on bandages after his weeping shoulder ran through Ford's supply, so still had some left. A needle, sturdy thread, a lighter. And the knife he'd left in his car, the day he'd arrived. The vodka made his hands feel dry, made his throat burn. He tugged at the sparse fat of his hand, at the pad of muscle. He didn't need to mark where he wanted to cut, but Ford would have, so he did.
A thick sliver, the edge of his last knuckle and some skin above and below. He knew he'd have to do it twice so he started with his left hand, grip clumsy in his right. He'd always only been ambidextrous enough. It was harder than he thought, once the knife bit in. His skin had always been thick, and there was already plenty of callous and scar tissue, both, over all of his now-wide hands. Stan was no stranger to pain, but this hurt in a way that felt wrong. The texture of his flesh as he pressed deeper. The near-squeaking noise that sounded under the pressure of the knife. The separation of the layers was almost bloodless at first, and then he never seemed to run out of it, endlessly pooling and dripping.
It was with a half-yell and a groan that he finally severed the first piece. The part of Stan that always felt he was missing something. The part of Stan that spread his fingers and thought them lacking. The snippet of flesh wasn't a finger, but it might have well been. Five fingers, no dimple on his chin. His father liked to tell him he was spare parts.
The order of operations was a bit muddled, after that. His hand was stinging in the open air, and he was a little underprepared for the blood, it was getting absolutely everywhere. He briefly thought to clean it before he started the next hand, but didn't want to risk the adrenaline fading. He held the knife tight in his left hand, the handle coating with sticky red. It burned, but not as bad as his shoulder had.
It was harder to do the second hand. His grip wasn't as tight, he didn't lop off as much as he had marked off, and the edge was jagged and uneven, a thick short flap of skin sitting awkwardly at the end of the wound. He stared at that niggling bit and fought the urge to bite at it. He couldn't help but think that Ford would have done a much neater job at cutting off his own fingers. The thought made him feel ill.
Stan dropped the knife and found he couldn't bring himself to pick it up again. It clattered in Ford's blood-soaked sink. He would have felt bad about making such a mess if the sink hadn't been splattered in blood before he even got here. It couldn't be any harder to clean than the first time. For a moment, he just listened to his blood drip into the sink as he rested his forearms on the porcelain edge. "Okay, Stan." He said, and drew himself back up.
He washed the wounds out as best he could. The cold water hurt, the exposed meat of both hands feeling rubbed raw. The bleeding was slowing, which was a good sign. He splashed his hands with vodka again for good measure, and began wrapping them as tight as he dared. In a few hours he'd see about doing some stitching. He wanted them to scar as neatly yet obviously as possible, and he was concerned the scars might heal too wide if he left them alone. His hands weren't moving very well either, so he hoped a break would help.
Stan held his cold burning hands to his chest and crumpled down against the wall.
---
He was no stranger to quick-stitching. He'd done it a couple times, on ugly-knotted bullet wounds and knife slashes that wouldn't quit gaping. Ford's bathroom was possibly the nicest place he'd ever had to do it. He used his teeth to grip the thread, mindful of the ache in his mouth that had never really gone away, even when he'd pulled or lost some of the more offending teeth.
The needle was still hot when it bit through the ragged edges of his skin, but not hot enough to burn. The stitches weren't neat. Not as neat as Ford would have made them. But they were in, and his hands were re-bandaged, and he had half a week to let them heal as much as possible before he'd be on his way to Jersey. Fuck him, he couldn't believe they were burying him in Jersey.
Ford hadn't had a car. He didn't want to risk stealing one when he would be so close to his family, and he couldn't exactly take the Stanmobile, unless he wanted to workshop his story a bit more, first. As far as his mother knew, Stanford hadn't spared his twin a single thought over the last fourteen years. If Stan had a little more spine, he would have crashed the Stanmobile into the cliff that day, instead of that stolen car. But even after all these years, maybe especially after all these years, he couldn't bear to get rid of the old girl like that.
The money he'd scrounged up over the last few months doing tours had been enough to keep Ford's bills paid, but didn't leave him a lot spare. He figured he could drive the Stanmobile to Pennsylvania and bus the rest of the way to Glass Shard. He'd be able to afford a full tank of gas for once, and probably only have to start worrying about siphoning on the way back west.
It was a long drive, and his hands ached the whole way. He was wearing Ford's clothes, none of his own were in good enough condition. It hurt how well they fit. Stan hadn't fit into Ford's clothes since they'd hit puberty. Then Ford had went and grown up without him.
---
He was a bit late, but he'd made good time, all things considered. And there she was. His mother, who he hadn't seen in nearly fifteen years. He'd let himself go unshaven to take care of his chin, but was hyper aware of the scratch of his face. She grabbed him in a hug and Stan suddenly felt like crying. He didn't realize how much he missed this.
It didn't take her long to take his bandaged hands in hers. "Stanford... your hands..." She gasped, eyes wide and mouth curving into horror.
"Ma." Ford's voice came to him as easy as it ever did. "They are healing well. I can show you after the funeral if you would like." He said, as stiffly as he could manage. His mother just shook her head, eyes hollow.
"I'm... I'm just glad you're here at all. Even if it isn't in one piece." She muttered, bitterness creasing her forehead. She lit a cigarette and didn't offer him one.
Nobody else showed. Not Shermie, not Pa. An IRS agent stood by while the two of them shoveled. "Shermie's overseas, you know. But I couldn't make my free spirit wait." Ma whispered, mascara dripping in tacky clumps. "He'd be here if he could."
"I know." Said Stan. She didn't mention Pa.
She did make him unwrap his hands, afterwards, grilled him about following the doctor's orders, ghosted her slender fingers over the healing stitches. "Oh Stanford... you shouldn't have done this to yourself baby..." She said, eyes meeting his. Ford's glasses itched on his nose.
Stan looked away, bringing his hands behind his back like Ford so often did. "It had to be done." He said firmly. His mother just shook her head again.
"You'll stay for shiva, won't you?" She looked up at him, hands hovering. Stan had cut his hair before coming here, and the back of his neck felt exposed.
"I can not, unfortunately. I have important research back home." The guilt he felt as his mother's face twisted was nothing less than deserved. "Give Pa my best." He said, though he wanted nothing less.
Stan's eyes burned on the drive back. The scars healed thick and shiny, just like he wanted.