Chapter Text
Stan’s footsteps echoed in Ford’s ears as his brother left for the kitchen. His heart immediately constricted, his vision tunneling on the spot his twin had just been sitting.
He replayed the interaction in his mind.
“Even when you were… gone, I always… I thought about you a lot. I…worried.”
“…You did?”
Stan hadn’t believed him. Stan was pulling away. Stan was going to leave, realize that his brother was fucked up and damanged beyond repair, and never come back. As if Lee’s reaction to the scars on Ford’s arm weren’t indication enough. Stan was disgusted. Horrified.
Ford couldn’t think. He couldn’t hear Stan, though he knew, logically, his brother was just in the next room. He’s gone. He left, and— and he’s not coming back. You’re alone again— you deserve nothing less. His chest was tight tight tight tight. He waited, his vision slipping into tiny black dots. It was all so tight, so blank. A tiny little whine escaped him and rattled in his ears. Pathetic— you’re pathetic.
You punched me!
How long would this continue to happen? How long would Ford continue to hurt his brother, to damage his twin, to shatter his very best friend?
He’s supposed to be your best friend. You went and ruined that— and his whole goddamn life while you were at it! Forget the portal, forget your research— your fucking weirdness magnitism— that’s your legacy: hurt. All you do— Fidds, Stan, yourself— only… only because you’re insane! You're insane, you— what kind of person does that? What kind of— irredeemable piece of human filth— what kind of monster—
WHERE IS STANLEY?
“Ford?”
A hand was on his back, rubbing circles into his skin. He tensed, whipping his head around frantically. Who—
Lee.
His fight drained. He nodded slowly in question, his throat unable to form words. It didn’t go unnoticed to him that Stan’s eyes looked puffier, his cheeks redder. He’d been crying in the kitchen.
Stan seemed to hold himself back from saying something important. His eyes were worried, glassy with guilt and the remnants of tears, but he just shook his head softly and placed a warm bowl in Ford’s lap.
“Soup,” he said simply.
Ford stared down at it. It smelled wonderful, but it made his stomach turn. It was so much. He couldn’t— couldn’t eat all of this. He didn’t deserve more than a teaspoon. He looked back at his brother, unable to speak. A thousand words echoed in his head, dancing behind his teeth. —thank you I’m sorry I ruined your life I want to make it up to you I need you here I can’t I can’t I can’t— but nothing came out. So he just stared.
Stan interpreted this as a stubborn refusal. He sighed. “Eat. It’ll help you feel better.”
It was then that Ford realized he was the only one with a steaming bowl. Stan’s hands were empty. And shaking.
Goddamnit, talk.
“You—” He stumbled over his words. “Are you— n-not eating?”
Stan’s eyebrows raised slightly, just for a moment. Then he glanced to the side, expression going distant. “I’m not hungry.”
He can’t not eat. He has to— if you’re eating, he certainly needs to—
“Please?” Ford asked quietly.
“I’m really not—” Stan stopped himself with a small, shaky sigh. “It— okay. I’ll go… get a bowl.”
Without leaving room for argument, Stan rose from the couch and started toward the kitchen. Ford found himself whining again, and chastised himself internally for how utterly childish he was being. It was the fever. Had to be. Why else would he be acting so clingy?
He waited, feeling the tremor in his hands, his head, his feet all too well. He tried to focus on the faint sloshing of liquid he heard from the kitchen. Stan’s right there. He’s just getting soup, like you told him to. There’s no reason to— you can’t— just calm down—
“Got the soup,” called a gruff voice.
Ford whirled his head around. “You came back!” he said, without thinking. He felt his cheeks heat up and he coughed weakly, rubbing at his throat.
“Er— yeah, ‘course I did, bud,” Stan murmured, his voice strangely soft. He perched next to his brother and sipped a tiny spoonful of soup. He nodded and visibly relaxed, letting his back hit the cushions.
Ford felt nauseous just looking at the soup in front of him. The last thing he wanted to do was eat. Strangely, what he wanted to do was to hold on to his brother and never let go. Funny. If someone had told him not a month ago that he’d be desperate, chained to a couch, clinging to his brother for sanity… Ford probably would’ve punched them in the face. That couldn’t be further from the truth anymore.
“Ford?”
He blinked up at Stan. Cleared his throat painfully. “Y-Yes?” How long has he been staring?
“You gonna eat?”
He stared down at the bowl and set it on the table, wrapping his good arm around his stomach. He shook his head.
“What’s goin’ on?” Stan asked quietly. God, he sounded upset. He was keeping his voice low, steady. His gaze was soft and worried, and he looked afraid to even move. Like anything he said could set his insane brother off like a land mine.
“I’m just—” A repulsive cough, one that rattled his whole body. He sniffled and wiped at his nose. “My stomach— I don’t… feel very hungry.”
Without mentioning it, Stan grabbed a tissue from the box and placed it in his brother’s hand. Ford took it gratefully, blowing his nose and trying to ignore the very disgusting sound he made, and how much it made the pressure in his head get even worse. When he had finally semi-cleared his sinuses, he crumpled up the tissue and threw it lazily on the table— he had never been very neat, but this was a new low for him in terms of cleanliness. He didn’t really care.
“Thank you,” Ford muttered.
“Mhm.” Stan nodded. “You should eat, though.”
“I don’t think I-I can.” He wrapped his arms back around his stomach. “I’m quite nauseous, to be honest.”
Stan grabbed the bowl and placed it back in Ford’s lap. “That’s ‘cus you haven’t eaten for too long. Trust me, I know— you’ll feel better once you get some food in you.”
Ford tried not to think about the implications of Stan saying Trust me, I know. It was another reminder how awful Stan’s life had been— how awful Ford had let it be. He sighed in concession and lifted the spoon. It felt heavy, even using his uninjured arm, but he finally forced himself to take a tiny sip.
Holy fuck, that is amazing. He took another sip, then another. He knew, logically, that it was just canned soup, but— Stan was right. He had been hungrier than he’d realized.
“Stan,” he said between sips, “this is really good.”
Stan chuckled. “Thank the microwave.” He paused, placing his own bowl down on the side table. “Pace yourself, though. Eating too much after bein’ hungry for a while ain’t a good idea. It can make you—” his eyes flickered toward the bucket on the ground. “Y’know.”
Ford nodded awkwardly, prying the spoon away from his mouth mid-bite. He shifted slightly, pressing his weight down onto his other arm. Fuck. He yelped inadvertently and pried his arm away, nearly spilling the soup on himself in the process.
“Shit,” he murmured under his breath, trying to suppress the tears welling up in his eyes at the movement. He was being ridiculous. It was only a minor stab wound— he was acting like he’d been fucking beaten to a pulp and left for dead.
“Ford?” Stan asked, his voice laced with anxiety. “What happened? You—”
“I’m fine,” Ford said quickly. “Just— put too much weight on— I’m fine.”
Stan frowned. “I should probably take a look at your arm. If it looks good, I can do stitches. Wanted to wait to do those until you were… aware, I guess.”
Ford set his bowl on the table. “I don’t— need stitches.”
“Yeah, you do,” Stan muttered. “S’ why I brought all the stuff up when you were sleepin’.”
“I’m—”
“Don’t fight me on this.” He sounded frustrated. Tired.
So Ford agreed, holding out his injured arm, trying to force his frown into at least a neutral expression. He was quite sure it wasn’t working.
Stan stood wordlessly and grabbed a box from behind the table. Ford blinked, muddled. How he hadn’t noticed the medical supplies, he didn’t know. Stan first put on tight gloves, then slowly, carefully, removed the bandages from around the wound. He reached into the box and produced a small razor.
Fuck. “Wait, what are you doing with that?”
“Gotta shave the hair on your arm around the wound to do the stitches,” Stan said, his voice clipped. Without further explanation, he grabbed Ford’s arm and gently shaved it in patches, letting the tiny hairs fall onto the lid of the box. Smart.
Stan paused after he’d gotten out the actual suture threads. “This… it’s gonna hurt. You didn’t have anythin’ to numb the area with, so I’ll just have to…” he sighed. “I did think of— I mean, you had that stuff that you used on Rico and his buddies, right? We could— only if you wanted to—”
“I’ll be fine,” Ford insisted. He’s already done enough, you can at least sit still while he literally stitches you up.
“Are you sure? It’s—”
“Quite.”
Something that looked a bit like… hurt flashed across Stan’s face. Shit, had Ford spoken too harshly? He knew he had a tendency to— he didn’t mean— fuck. You really can’t stop making your brother feel like shit, can you? You can’t— you’re not even capable of basic human decency, are you?
Suddenly, a needle was ripping through his skin, stitching his flesh together like fabric. He attempted to stifle the yelping whine that pried its way through his teeth as his free hand dug into his thigh, his nails poking painfully into him.
“Sorry,” Stan muttered, his voice distant. “Should I get—”
“Mmm— no. I’m a-alright.” Ford felt his eyes well up and spill over. Pathetic. But, god, it hurt. He let his head drop, trying to focus on the tiny specs on the floor instead of the excruciating pain.
He looked over at his brother. So focused, so attentive. Ford knew, of course, that they looked alike— they were twins, after all. Ford almost laughed, envisioning Stan in his old yellow button down, in his glasses— it didn’t fit right in his brain. But right now, especially, his brother really resembled him. Stan even bit the inside of his cheek in concentration just like him.
He didn’t seem very nervous, though. He almost looked like it was routine. Something he’d done before.
“How—” His throat caught. Do not cough right now, you’ll mess up the stitching. He took a deep, gulping breath and sniffled. “H-How did you— learn how to do stitches?”
Stan didn’t even glance up. Ford was once again struck by how much his brother looked like him. “On the road.”
“That’s a when,” Ford said quietly, trying to ignore how scratchy his throat was, “not a how.”
Stan shrugged. His voice grew quiet, shaky. “Learned ‘cus I had to.”
“Stan, I—”
“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Stan said, his voice wavering. His hands shook around the stitches, and his expression grew more focused. He sighed. “Just— okay, when you ran with the crowd I did, you had to learn how to do quick stitches. Same reason I knew how to set your broken finger.”
Something flashed through Ford’s mind. “Does that… I-I mean— mmgh—” His throat was killing him. He made a silent motion to Stan, who dropped his hands, concerned. Ford coughed violently into his un-injured arm, nearly making himself gag. Stan just rubbed his back until the fit subsided, and he finally leaned back, gasping against the cushions.
“Need some water?”
“I’m fine.”
That same almost hurt look flashed across Stan’s face, and tentatively took his brother’s arm back, picking the needle up again.
Shit.
Ford cleared his throat. “So, the, er— does your… knowledge of stitching have anything to do with…” He trailed off, sniffling.
Stan didn’t look up, his eyes laser focused on the stitches. “…anythin’ to do with what?”
Suddenly he didn’t think it best to pry. Not with the strange mood Stan was in. “I-I— I don’t—”
“What, Ford?”
“Does it have anything to do with the scars on your side?!” Ford blurted out. He immediately wanted to take back his words.
Stan’s hands froze and he swallowed hard, a faint tremor running through him. Ford wanted to backtrack, to apologize, to do anything to make things less painfully awkward, but he couldn’t get out a word. He just stared at his brother, who wouldn’t look him in the eye.
But, to Ford’s amazement, a tiny word left his twin’s lips.
“Yeah.”
Ford felt his face crumple and he sniffed back the tears that threatened to fall. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“You couldn’t’a known,” Stan said, forcing a shrug.
Ford felt his lungs crack in two, and he unsuccessfully attempted to bite back the whine that crept from his throat.
“I-I should’ve—” A tiny sob. He didn’t continue.
He suddenly felt pulling from Stan’s end and turned, watching his brother knot up the stitches neatly. He removed his gloves.
“Gonna go throw these away. Be right back.” He didn’t leave room for argument, seeming eager to get away.
Ford wiped at the tears under his eyes pointlessly. He was horrible. He was a horrible brother. A horrible person. He sniffled miserably and buried his face in his hands. Weak. Stupid.
Suddenly, again, a hand was rubbing his back. It was gentle, and soothing. He leaned into the touch. He knew who it was.
“…Hey, buddy, it’s— you’re alright,” Stan said, his voice soft. “It’s all okay.”
Ford whined from inside his cocoon. He was quite aware of how childish he felt.
“Really, it’s gonna—”
Ford didn’t let him finish, just let himself collapse into his brother, wrapping both arms tightly around him as he burrowed his head into his twin’s chest. Small, broken, stupid sobs escaped him but he couldn’t stop them. Stan made a quiet, wheezing, oof sound but didn’t argue, didn’t say anything, just held his brother securely. Ford didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of it, but he needed Stan here, he couldn’t be alone again, he just couldn’t. His brother probably thought he was ridiculous and childish and awful, but he didn’t— he couldn't move.
Stan traced a hand absently across Ford’s arm. He suddenly spoke.
“Hey, Six?”
“…Mhm…?”
Stan’s tracing stopped, but he still had a secure hand on Ford’s arm.
His uninjured one.
Wait—
“These… scars,” Stan started, carefully, “They— I mean, what did— how did you… get… them?”
Ford felt his lungs constrict. “I’m— I didn’t—” He cut himself off with a sharp, desperate breath. He felt the tremor in his body grow, and he let his grip on his brother falter.
“Hey, calm down,” Stan said softly. He kept a firm grip on Ford’s arm, examining the cuts. He wasn’t stupid. He knew. He had to. “S’ alright, I’m just—”
He’ll think you’re insane— you are insane, what kind of person cuts up their own—
“No, I-I don’t— want to talk about that,” Ford insisted weakly, his voice cracking.
Stan sighed. “Ford, I’m not— look, I’m not an idiot, I know what they—”
He can’t, he can’t, he won’t know— I won’t— Fuck fuck fuck fuck—
“No!” Ford shot, pulling himself away, his body shaking so hard he could barely see. He curled into the opposite end of the couch. He can’t know, he can’t know, he can’t— “I-It doesn’t concern you!”
“Doesn’t concern—” Stan huffed, his face going red. “Hey, I told you about stitches on my side—”
“N-No, you didn’t! All you said was that—” He took a gasping breath that rattled in his lungs. “— that it had something to do with the scars!”
“What more do you need to know?” Stan shot up from the couch to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the couch with awkward, frostbitten footsteps.
“Everything!” His words caught on a tiny sob. Every word he said came out like a furious bark . And Stan was getting furious. Stan was fighting back, pulling away again.
“WHY?!” Stan asked, his own voice breaking. “Why the fuck do you even care?!”
“Why wouldn’t I?!” His hands shot up to pull at his hair. “Why does it kill you to just be honest!? Tell me the truth, for once!! Just tell me how you got those—”
“NO—”
“STANLEY—”
“CHRIST!! I got my kidney stolen, alright?!”
What?
Ford froze. “You—”
“I got my fuckin’ kidney stolen, ‘cus I owed Rico money but didn’t have anythin’ to pay him back, so he took my kidney and probably sold it on the goddamn black market and I had to stitch it up which is why it looks so ugly and left those scars, okay?!” Stan gasped as he vomited up the last of the words. He straightened, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Now leave it the fuck alone.”
Ford couldn’t get a single word out. Couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Stan had his— his kidney had been— Rico— a growl escaped Ford’s throat. They should’ve killed Rico, they should’ve dismembered him limb from limb!! Didn’t matter. Ford could find him, he could— he could get to him, he could kill him, he could make him wish he was never—
Stan took in sharp, furious, gasping breaths. The anger rose from him like steam, and he wouldn’t look his twin in the eye. Ford’s heart shattered into a million tiny pieces. It felt like those pieces were stabbing him from the inside, making every inch of his body sting.
It’s not Rico’s fault, not really— it’s yours— if you’d have just been there— you didn’t protect him— if you hadn’t been such a selfish, arrogant—
“Lee, you—” He coughed harshly into his arm, gasping for breath as his face grew hot. He forced himself to swallow the nausea, the dizziness, and pressed forward. He stood on shaking legs and took clumsy steps toward his brother. He grabbed Stan’s hands, squeezing tightly. Desperately. “W-Why didn’t you call me— I-I could’ve— I could’ve fixed it—”
“You couldn’t— that’s not the kinda thing you can fix, Ford.”
“No, I could’ve,” Ford insisted. Was it getting blurry? “I still can, I-I can find Rico, I can kill him—”
“Jesus Christ, you’re not—”
“I WILL! I-I can fix it all, I can fix— the kidney, I can fix you, I can—”
“Shut up,” Stan whispered suddenly. His voice was low. Dark. He yanked his hands away so hard that Ford stumbled back, and the distance between them grew. “You can fix me? S’ that what you think?” His volume grew as he spat the words out. “Christ, I thought— he was right, I am just somethin’ to fix— a-a fuckin’ problem to solve , right!?”
No, no, nononono that’s not what I— that’s not how—
“What—”
“‘Course you wanted me out of your—” Stan’s eyes suddenly widened, like he had just become aware of where he was and what he was doing. A million expressions flashed across his face— he looked conflicted, more than anything. He suddenly let his head drop. One arm hung aimlessly at his side, and the other scrubbed at his eyes.
He was right? Who— who would’ve possibly told him that—
Bill. Bill had told him that. God, Ford needed to know everything Bill had said. He needed to know, he needed to untangle every lie Bill had whispered into Stan’s head.
“I-Is that what Bill told you?” Ford asked, voice shaking.
“Christ,” Stan muttered, shaking his head. He huffed out a frustrated breath. “No, it—”
“Don’t lie to me again!” Ford insisted, pushing forward. His head spun, and the room grew blurry, but he didn’t care— he placed his hands on his shoulders. It’s not— that's not true! “Lee, I need to know what Bill told you, I can’t— you can’t think— what did he say?!”
Stan glanced up. For a moment, it seemed like he might reach out, like he might pull his brother into a tight hug and never let go.
But then his face hardened, and he shook off his twin’s hold.
“I already told you,” he said. “Nothin’ I didn’t already know.”
He gently pulled Ford back to the couch and threw the blanket over him, placing the box of tissues next to him. He didn’t sit, sniffling miserably and rubbing at his nose.
“I’m gonna—” He sighed. “I’ll be… around. Just— gimme a minute. Wanna be alone.”
“Wait, Lee —”
But he didn’t. He turned on his heel and practically sprinted from the room, his footsteps clumsy— he was clearly in pain. He left Ford, once again, alone.
God, you really fucked it all up again, didn’t you? You— you pushed him away— he’s not going to want to stay now— you pushed him too far! He’s going to leave, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself, you fucking coward—
Ford was suddenly sobbing, pulling his knees to his chest. They were half sobs, half coughs that wracked his entire body. He didn’t even bother trying to wipe the tears away, he just wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, trying to squeeze himself so tight that he just stopped existing.
I am just somethin’ to fix to you, aren’t I?
No— nonono— that’s not true!! God, Ford was an idiot. Why did he— how could he have— fuck, he was so thoughtless!
He hated Bill. He hated him, and he was dying not knowing what that monster had convinced his brother to believe so completely. But Stan wouldn’t tell him for some goddamn reason. Ford didn’t know— what was he supposed to— how could he ever— but after what he’d just heard, he couldn’t just ignore it, he needed to—
The security tapes.
Fuck, how had he not even thought— he’d installed them right before Stan had arrived, it hadn’t even crossed his mind— in all the action, the brand, Stan getting shot, the exorcism— he hadn’t even thought about—
Ford shot up and his head spun. He shot his good arm out to grip the side of the couch, breathing hard, willing the room to even out. His stomach turned, but he ignored it, forcing himself forward with uneven steps. The room tilted and blurred. He couldn’t think. Everything felt jumbled, and he repeated the same mantra over and over:
Just make it to the stairs. Just to the stairs.
As soon as he was there, he gripped the railing tightly, his hand shaking. Each step sent shots of pain through his body, and he knew he really shouldn’t have gotten up so quickly, but it didn’t— he didn’t matter.
Once in the lab, he sunk into the rolling chair and pushed himself the rest of the way to the computer. The lab still smelled like blood and sweat, and the restraints on the table were still tinged with a dark, coppery red. He tried not to look.
He hurried to pull the tapes from— what was it, two days ago? Three? His head was foggy. He searched from the records until he saw a picture of a figure in the lab that wasn’t his own. He pulled up the lab footage first. It was crackly, blurry, hard to see— but it didn’t matter. It mattered what he heard.
He pushed play.
There was a long, static-filled silence. Then—
“Oh, yeah? What do I want?”
“YOU WANT SIXER TO LOVE YOU AGAIN!”
Ford saw the blurry, crackling image of Stan sitting in the rolling chair in the lab, knees drawn to his chest. Even through the shitty footage, he could tell how badly Stan was shaking. He was— crying.
“AND, TRUST ME, I’M THE ONLY WAY YOU'RE EVER GONNA GET THAT! HE HATES YOU, STANLEY!”
No, no, that’s not true!!
“Oh, does he?”
NO! I don’t!!
“I LITERALLY LIVE INSIDE HIS HEAD! I KNOW EVERYTHING HE THINKS! AND, LET ME TELL YOU, HE DOESN'T WASTE A LOT OF BRAIN SPACE ON YOU! PERSONALLY, I WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE MORE ON YOUR SIDE. I MEAN, COME ON, HE LET YOU GET PUSHED AROUND BY YOUR DAD YOUR WHOLE LIFE! HE LET YOU GET KICKED OUT! OVER A STUPID SCIENCE PROJECT! ALWAYS WAS DRAMATIC, MY FORDSY.”
He’s right— you did that— you ruined his life!!
Bill’s voice was drilling into his brain, and he wanted nothing more than to shut it off, smash the recorder, burn the tapes. He didn’t want to hear Bill— just his disjointed, menacing laugh was making Ford breath hard and fast, each one feeling shallower than the last. But he needed to know.
“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
There was a loud, wet crack sound from the film. Ford’s heart pounded against his ribs.
“THERE WE GO. WHO NEEDS SIX WHOLE FINGERS, ANYWAY? SEEMS GREEDY.”
He watched as Stan visibly flinched back in the chair, his hand shooting to his chest. No wonder he’d been so concerned about Ford’s fingers, he—
“YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I DO THAT ALL YOU DO IS HOLD HIM BACK, DISCOUNT PINES. I HAVE AN IDEA! LET’S BET ON HOW LONG HE’LL LET YOU STICK AROUND AFTER HE WAKES UP! MY GUESS IS AN HOUR, TOPS.”
Ford was crying harder now, feeling utterly pathetic. He scrubbed at his eyes— it didn’t do anything. He couldn’t stop listening.
“IF YOU JUST LET ME OUT, YOU’LL HAVE FORDSY ALL TO YOURSELF ONCE I USE HIM UP TO FINISH THE PORTAL! ALL I NEED’S A FEW HOURS WITH HIS BODY! I CAN MAKE HIM LOVE YOU, STAN. DON’T YOU WANT THAT? DON’T YOU MISS HIM?”
“Shut. Up.”
“HE DIDN’T MISS YOU. HE WAS GLAD YOU WERE GONE.”
Stan was covering his ears, rocking back and forth in the chair. Oh god—
“YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE, STANLEY! YOU WERE ALWAYS JUST A BURDEN TO HIM! SOMETHING TO FIX! YOU MEAN NOTHING TO HIM!”
Shut up shut up shut up shut up— that’s not true— god, how could you let him think that?! And then you told him you could fix him? You stupid fucking—
“HE WOULDN’T CARE IF YOU DIED!”
“NO!!” Ford yelled aloud, gripping the edges of the screen. He wanted to rip it out of its wires. But he couldn’t— he just had to watch and listen as Bill’s laughter grew and grew and grew and Stan sobbed harder in the chair, his entire frame wracked by the heaving, wet gasps.
Then the tape shut off.
Ford let out a panicked, broken cry, slumping over the desk. His image of the screen blurred through tears, and he buried his face in his hands. His chest was hot and tight and burning. Why did Bill have to go after Stan? Wasn’t Ford enough for him? What more had he needed?! He’d lied, he’d hurt Stan— Ford had never felt so much hatred in his life. A growl rattled in his throat and grew in volume, making his whole body shake with seething energy. He wanted to destroy Bill, to plead with anyone who would listen to end his ex-muse’s existence in the multiverse.
God, of course Stan was so distant, so reluctant to trust his waste of a brother— Bill had fed him lie after lie after lie! And with how Ford had treated him, why wouldn’t Stan believe Bill?! Ford had done nothing to show Stan how much he needed him, how much he loved him.
He’d fucked up. Beyond repair.
It was on him. He’d given Bill control and everything had just… spiraled. How many nights had he woken up, covered in blood and gasping for air, eye swollen and bleeding? Body bruised and broken, house torn to shreds? He’d pushed away anyone who ever gave a damn about him— he’d let Bill in, and Bill didn’t leave room for anyone else, including Ford.
His stomach heaved. The soup was coming back up. He crawled to the floor and leaned over the trash, the meal coming back the way it had entered him. It hurt, it burned his throat, but he didn’t care. His head spun.
It was too too too too much, and he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t— he felt like he might explode. Was he on fire? He felt so hot. His lungs were pressing up against the lining of his stomach. It wasn’t about Lee— the fight— it was—
He was just so goddamn tired. There was too much inside of him, he needed— he needed—
His eyes caught something shiny at the edge of the counter. Sharp and tiny and familiar.
With shaking hands, he picked up the tiny blade and held it to his forearm, letting it prick into the flesh. Huh. His wrists were still bruised from the cuffs. He couldn’t breathe as his vision tunneled onto the razor blade. He was sure tears were still streaming down his face— he registered the tremble in his breath, the sobs scraping at his throat— but he couldn’t feel it.
He couldn’t— he couldn’t do anything— Can’t, can’t, just can’t—
He pressed down hard, and sliced.
A sudden rush of shame. You said you were done with this. You said— you promised yourself—
The blood came. Nothing changed.