Work Text:
Well, that was it. Stan Pines -- or, Stu Pinter, technically -- was done for. Kicking the bucket. Biting the dust. Heading for the other side of the grass, if you will. No matter how you put it, he was dying, and that was that.
Somehow, on his way to find the tiny little town on Ford’s postcard, Rico had caught up to him. This time, he didn’t bother with any sort of semantics. He wanted the job done, once and for all. So he pulled his gun out and aimed right for Stan’s head. The only reason he’d missed was because an errant siren had distracted him, and Stan had taken the opportunity to run. Rico shot anyway, apparently caring more about getting away before those sirens were meant for him than aiming properly, because he’d gotten Stan in the side instead of the head. It didn’t matter now. The sheer amount of blood pouring out of him wasn’t something Stan could just walk off.
As he sat in some random, grungy alleyway, not even bothering to hold his numb, bloody side anymore, Stan considered his life. There wasn’t much to it, which perhaps was a good thing, as he didn’t have much time left to consider. He thought about Glass Shard Beach, wanting his final thoughts to be about something vaguely resembling happy. He thought about how the wind felt on his face those lazy summer days, how it carried the scent of the sea, and with it, Stan’s hopes and dreams. He thought about his mama. He hoped she was doing okay.
Stan’s thoughts drifted to Ford. Oh, how he wished he could hear his voice one last time, tell him he was sorry. He didn’t even want Ford to apologize anymore. He just wanted to be forgiven.
His hands were cold, which made sense, as it was winter. But this cold felt different. It felt like the time he’d been tied with his hands above his head for a bit too long. They weren’t getting enough blood. As thick as Stan could be sometimes, even he didn’t have to wonder why that was.
He looked down at his side, feeling his head grow woozy from the sight of his blood-soaked jacket. The sight of blood itself didn’t make him feel faint anymore, not since he was six, but he thought his head was woozy for another reason. Yeah, he wasn’t making it out of this one.
As he sat there, feeling his life drip, drip, drip onto the cigarette-butt covered ground, Stan tried not to feel too sorry for himself. He hadn’t a good life, per se, but he’d fought for it every chance he’d gotten. And that was something to be proud of. Maybe his pa would have been impressed, after all.
“Stanley?”
Stan opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them. That sounded like Ford…he must be hallucinating. From blood loss, or something.
“Stanley!”
He caught sight of a familiar figure rushing towards him, a worried look on his face. Yep, hallucinating.
“Oh, Stanley, what happened? Talk to me, please!”
Stan didn’t know whether to relish in the vision or tell it to fuck off. He was just about ready to go, and he’d even managed not to be too upset about it. The hallucination of Ford dropped to his knees in front of Stan, his pants splashing in blood. If anything, that just made it more obviously not real. Ford would never --
But then there were hands, touching his face, touching his side, putting pressure on the wound still gushing blood. Stan groaned, feeling the pain somewhere deeper, closer to his heart.
“Stanley, please, hold on, I’m calling an ambulance, please just keep your eyes open.”
Nope. He was done, thanks. He’d seen enough of fake, hallucination Ford, and he’d like to move on now. Even if he didn’t think hallucinations should be able to touch him and feel so real. Even if really, he’d like to stay in this moment forever, dying, with his brother finally by his side again. His broken, bleeding side.
“Sorry,” Stan breathed, unable to say anything more. He prayed Ford heard all the words anyway.
He must have heard the wrong ones, because his eyes widened, and the pressure on Stan’s side increased. “No, Stanley, don’t you dare do this now--”
Stan shook his head. Not for that, knucklehead.
Ford’s eyes searched his desperately, and Stan could see the wheels turning in his head. Then, the realization dawned on him, and when Ford spoke again, it was hushed, thick.
“My science project?” Stan nodded. His vision was starting to darken, though he was sure his eyes were still open.
“Jus’...say you forgi’me…” he muttered. He didn’t care if Ford meant it or not.
The absolutely distraught look on Ford’s face didn’t quite tell Stan if he would do it or not. But then --
“...Okay. I forgive you.”
With sirens approaching, Stan managed a soft smile. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t done much with his life. It didn’t matter that Glass Shard Beach was a distant memory. It didn’t matter that he was going to bleed out in some alleyway a town over from his destination. Stan had done it.
He’d been forgiven.