#and to save those you care about it means going into those grey areas

[we-stan-the-stans-27]

Dead Asleep AU?

Okay, so I kind of wanted to write another part/version of that sleeping beauty AU from the other week. But this time, Stanley is the one who gets too suffer! HAHAH!

So, here is part two. Also, I posted both parts up on my Ao3 account and I'll link it here if you want to save it for later or whatever.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62066953/chapters/158737552#main

And of course, I'm going to @sixerstanley again! Because this was their idea. Now. Let's get into being evil. Heheh.

(I had most of this done on the tenth, but then I basically died and couldn't finish. So, enjoy. That live stream was like crack or something. Idk guys.) (P.P.S. Gonna post this on its own now because I don't think anyone saw it when I reposted it attached to the old post. Rightfully so. That shit was long as hell.)

Truth be told all of Stan Pines favorite and happiest memories took place on a boat. It didn't matter if it was on some crappy litter scattered beach.

It was theirs and nothing could soil those memories. Back then all that mattered was the hot burning sand, maybe the stings of glass cuts across a sole, and tumbling along getting hurt, hand in hand.

Sure, it took forty damn years to get back there, but he's anything if not stubborn. And it paid off.

What's that saying? 'Most gamblers call it quits right before striking it big?'

Good thing he never stopped betting with higher and higher stakes then, right?

The future is much brighter because of it. The deck of the ship has a sharp bite to it now. From one extreme to the next. A hot infected wound, now soothed by a cold compress.

The arctic Ocean.

There isn't a lot in the area for fishing, but there is still plenty of wildlife to watch from the top deck if your patient.

Late at night the sky lights up with the northern lights, or 'Aurora Borealis' if you speak blabbering scientist. It's beautiful and a new flavor of Ford's favorite activity, Stargazing.

Out at sea there is no better place for it without any light pollution. Just them, the universe, and the expansive inky blackness below.

Sitting out on the deck, fish watching with a pair of binoculars, the world is practically blinding this time of the afternoon. The white overcast clouds mixed with the occasional chunk of ice covered in snow lights up the world like being inside a light bulb.

That's not what pulls Stanley's attention from the endless water he's been looking at all morning though. Finally, he sees something!

Off the starboard side from where they've been anchored a group of Narwhals is swimming by, long tusks poking out of the water and interrupting the sleek outline of the waves.

"Sixer, get the hell up here!" He knows his brother won't be nearly as excited about seeing this marvel as he is, but Stan still wants to share it with him anyway.

Just because Ford saw a million different impossible things through the portal doesn't mean whales aren't interesting too. Sure, not what they're hanging out waiting for, but who cares?

When Stanley can't hear Ford immediately running up the stairs, no big surprise if stuck in a book, he stomps on the floor of the deck without looking away from the water. Grinning like an idiot.

"Stanford Pines, get up here! I'm having a heart attack!" Okay, yeah. It's not funny. But that never fails to get him top side no matter what he's in the middle of.

'Boy who cried wolf' Yack! Yack! Whatever. If it works, why fix it?

There are at least ten different Narwhals intermittently breaching for air but the sight is incredibly short lived before they dive again on another breath hold, disappearing from sight below the grey waves.

"Awe, too slow! You missed it!" His booming voice is the only sound on the ship and it makes Stan finally drop the glasses and get up out of his chair with a crack from both knees.

He stomps, again, and then listens with a little more attention to the ship.

There is the lapping of the waves against the side, the slight breeze blowing the fresh smell of sea salt over the vessel, but otherwise its quiet.

Hmm. He could stay up here, maybe even pretend to fall over and really scare his brother. Except the last time he did that Ford almost threw him overboard into the freezing cold water.

Still. It is a little weird that Ford didn't at least yell a few foreign curse words up through the ship.

"Alright, fine. You want to prank me back? I'll bite." It comes out in a mutter and Stan makes his way across the deck after one more glance around at the water.

Through the wheel house, down the steep steps, and around the corner into the room dubbed 'the office' only in the name on the door. It's a glorified science lab that Stan gets to store a shelf of books inside of.

Pushing open the door is a little challenging, like something is blocking it but after a minute of shoving he's able to get enough room to squeeze through to get a look around.

Yep. This is 100% a prank.

The thing blocking the door? Ford, leaning back and looking pretty limp. Stan has got to hand it to him, this is a really convincing look.

"Nice try genius, laying around on the floor isn't going to convince me. Come on, up we go." It takes a lot more work than it should to move Ford from the floor up into the single chair in here.

The only real dead bodies Stan has ever seen have been bloody from being murdered or covered in vomit thanks to overdosing on something. Lots of blood, bruises, stomach acid and empty eyes stained with their last moments.

Ford's open, blank ones, do cause a little bit of alarm, but. It's how damn cold his body is that brings the first real taste of concern to the forefront of his mind.

"I thought I told you to turn on the space heater periodically. You have bad enough circulation as is, you idiot." Ford is very cold, and limp just like a dead body, and his eyes-

To humor Ford, and to reassure himself, Stan does a big show of rolling his eyes and then putting two fingers to Ford's wrist. You can't hide having a pulse, genius.

"................................................................................................................"

Okay. Maybe you can hide a pulse on one arm, if you cut off circulation. Whatever, big whoop?

Stan shifts over to check the other wrist and lets out a tisk of annoyance before raising those same fingers up to Ford's neck.

Same result.

Huh.

Now that's a neat trick.

Ford is doing a really good job pretending not to breathe too.

A really really good job.

That's bad.

"Alright Sixer, good one. I've learned my lesson here, you can undo whatever witchcraft you used to manage this." His confidence that this is a joke is cracking with every second Ford doesn't hop up and start lecturing him.

That's what should be happening. Another long rant about how pretending to be injured or sick isn't funny, not a good way to get attention, and unnecessary.

Yeah. Stan knows all that.

Ford does come topside, eventually, whenever he yells. It's just-

Sometimes Ford gets a little too caught up in his work and needs to be reminded the rest of the world exists. Extremes are the easiest way to do that.

And, yeah. Stanley can admit in the safety of his own head that he enjoys the fretting Ford does, despite knowing it’s a false alarm. It's been a long time since someone cared about him enough for something like that.

Or maybe those memories are what decided not to come back. Eh, his life seems pretty sad. Makes sense.

What doesn't, however, is why Ford is doing this for so long.

Plain and simple, he wouldn't.

But, that would mean something so terrible that his mind still won't accept it.

Because Ford can't be dead. That's not possible. They had this conversation.

Before leaving Gravity Falls, they had a really long and difficult talk about health issues. Ford came up with game plans for emergencies, Stanley had to own up to his numerous health issues, and how does Stanley know with complete certainty his brother can't be dead?

Bill said so.

Ford isn't supposed to die until he's ninety-two of a heart attack.

Now, Stan doesn't trust that demon on much. Or anything. Except this.

Because Bill liked Ford to an uncomfortable degree, otherwise he'd be dead right now. Or, would have at some point during the apocalypse.

So. The devil must have been telling the truth on this one thing, right?

Ford had seemed pretty sure that he wasn't going to be the one needing healthcare at sea, solidifying the belief in Stan's own mind. If Ford wasn't worried, why should he? He's a genius!

But-

What if Bill did lie? Tricking them into a false sense of security only for Ford to drop dead one day. Honestly? That does sound more his style.

Except, it can't be today.

It just can't.

Because if Ford is dead-

That's not a possibility Stanley Pines has ever considered for so much as a millisecond.

Not when Ford went through the portal.

Not for thirty years during the rebuilding process.

Not even prior to rescuing him from Bill and saving the world.

Because he can't imagine a world without Stanford Pines.

Sure, he's been gone before. Missing, but he came back from the portal and they eventually fixed things. They're okay now.

That was six weeks ago.

And, yeah, they still fight, but that's normal. Expected, living so closely after so long apart.

Stan has found himself frozen standing next to the chair simply staring down at Ford waiting for-

The joke to end? The camera crew to jump out? Ford himself to come in from the other room telling him this is a dummy or clone?

That spurs him back into action, rushing out of the room. "You aren't funny, Stanford Filbrick Pines! When I find you, I'm going to give you the worst wedgie in the multiverse!"

There are really only four places Ford could be hiding, given his size. Their bedroom underneath the bunk beds, the bathroom, the tiny kitchen pantry, or the engine room.

The kitchen pantry is bare, as expected. It’s a pretty shitty hiding spot.

Looking underneath the bed is tricky, but he isn't under there either.

The bathroom shower is clear too and he leaves the lights on, doors open, as he yanks the tiny half-sized door to peer into the almost crawlspace-sized room-

Empty.

For good measure Stanley does a second, and third, lap of the ship from the deck all the way back through leaving no chance for his brother to be sneaking around hiding.

In the end he still lands back in the office, leaning against the wall, looking at his brother's freezing cold and lifeless body.

Dead, body-

Nope, nope, nope! Ford can't be dead, he can't be.

Instead of looking at 'Ford' Stan looks around the room at anything else in search of answers. There's a stack of books and some science doohickey on the desk, but that's not all.

When first entering the room, Ford was laying on the floor back against the door. The chair was sideways, almost like he'd fallen out of it.

Down on the floor is a small collection of scattered papers.

It certainly looks like-

"Nope. Not happening." I'm not going to entertain it, not going to think about it. Ford is cold and being an idiot.

Stan busies himself with gathering up the scattered papers off the floor and organizing them on the desk and-

Ford's phone.

Before leaving port they'd both gone out and bought one at the behest of Dipper and Mabel. For taking pictures, calling, texting, and use of the internet.

They have this thing called a 'hot spot' that allows them to use the internet on their laptop for video calls and such. Ford usually sets that up and Stan gets the call going.

Neither of them knows the full process, so they have to work together.

Finding it discarded on the floor fits with the scene Ford has laid out trying to play dead. It's all very convincing, really.

But all that panic and worry remains buried deep, because what else is there?

Losing Ford would probably give him a heart attack, for real, right about now.

So. It's pretty concerning to see the phone open, wasting the battery, to their text chain.

It looks like Ford tried sending him a text up above deck.

'Stanley, I require medical assistance, follow protocol 32-C. Thank you. -Stanford Pines'

Except the text never went through, that red bubble with the exclamation mark 'Not delivered' is obvious enough for even Stanley to see.

Okay. There isn't any ignoring that.

Why? Ford was right here, why didn't he yell or come upstairs, or knock on the ceiling for fucks sake?

Except it does look like Ford might have tried to leave the room-

Real, honest panic claws its way up into the center of his chest from where he's kneeling on the floor looking at the text that didn't go through.

Maybe it was never a heart attack, could've been a stroke-

This text is pretty long and lacking spelling mistakes though, like all the other messages Ford has ever written.

His last words.

"Stanford..." It comes out broken and he ignored the complaints of the floor in the rush to get up, still clutching the phone, and across the room to his brother.

Idiot! Stupid, God damn idiot!

Instead of helping him for one fucking second you decided to play hide and seek!

Nope, we aren't going to cry. Not now, nope. Doesn't matter that there isn't anyone around to-

Nope!

Pulling Ford down onto the floor to assess him is easy with how limp he is and Stan makes quick work of pulling off his gloves in search of-

Something.

There still isn't a pulse, but the skin along each wrist and the neck feels colder than it did earlier. Stan's hands are shaking like he's going through withdrawals, trembling.

Focus.

Despite what his brother might think, he did in fact take the time to review the procedures stored in their extensive first aid kits. Not because any of them are helpful here though.

Ford put that together with Stan exclusively in mind.

What to do in the case of a heart attack, stroke, aneurysms, seizures, and all the small things too. Stuff for stitches, concussions, burns, and there is one small pamphlet on amputations.

The reason he took the time to review them was to put together his own plans, just in case.

If this is a heart attack he can't use to stupid paddles on Ford because of his metal plate. Besides, who knows what kind of effects that might have if it is a stroke-

He's already dead-

"Shut up! Just, shut up. He isn't, not until I say so!" The yell echoes back inside the claustrophobic room. The boat has never felt so painfully small-

CPR it is then.

Thirty-two C is essentially an undefined chest pain. Aspirin, monitoring, and high tailing it to the closest port.

Hard to do any of that when Ford can't breathe, much less swallow. And, you know, being three hours from the closest dock doesn't help either.

Stan has wasted too much time fussing and being useless as is. He knows how to do this. Where the hands go, the rhythm needed and the right amount of pressure to apply. How often to force Ford to take air.

This gives his hands something useful to do, his mind something to focus on instead of pure white-hot panic.

Because that's what he feels.

There is only one thing he could never protect Ford from, himself.

Sickness, and eventually death fall into that same category because the body does those things without considering what you want. Old age would come for his brother someday, regardless of how anyone feels about it.

Stanley had always assumed- no, made damn sure -that he wouldn't outlive his brother.

Because he can't be the one to carry on. That is a world he wants no part in.

He realizes, a while into doing compressions, that he should have consulted a clock before starting to try and keep track of how long he's been doing this.

Whatever, like it really matters.

Stanley continues anyway, long past when his arms started to burn and past hearing two different ribs crack.

What makes him stop is when he physically can't catch his own air enough to continue.

He is, understandably, a mess.

Snot smeared between both faces, tears across the front of Ford's shirt and cheeks, and Stanley himself can't breathe, chest tight and wracked with sobs.

Even if Ford did have a heartbeat Stanley knows he wouldn't be able to feel it because of how badly his hands are trembling and how fast blood is rushing in his own ears.

Six god damn weeks. Is that really all we got? All that time, all those mistakes? So much wasted all because I couldn't control myself for five fucking seconds!

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry Stanford." It comes out choked, barely real words around his chests arguing efforts to sound like a dying animal and take in enough oxygen to avoid meeting his own end.

The pile of regrets is immeasurable, but not so much about the past.

They've done that song and dance, so those aren't the thoughts that tear into him now.

So many things missed that still need to be made up for.

Christmas. New Years. Drunk nights out. Their birthday for fucks sake!

Now they'll never get to share that, ever again. Forever Seventeen.

Just-

Being together again.

Joking together.

Together!

Not apart.

Haven't they had enough of that? Wasn't four cursed decades of loneliness plenty?

Guess time has a funny sense of humor.

Or the world just hates him specifically.

Stanley Pines isn't allowed to be happy, hopefully everyone got the memo!

He can't remember ever crying so hard or for nearly as long ever in his whole life. Countless nights spent breaking down in the basement, slumped over the desk in the upstairs office, or camped out in some slum across the back seat of the car are nothing in comparison.

Lying across Ford's chest feels unnatural. It's too cold, too still-

Wrong.

It's like someone just broke one of the fundamental laws of physics here in their office and Stanley can't handle it.

When he finally manages to pull away a crazed laugh bubbles up and out into the room without permission.

There is nothing funny about this, but it seems to have a mind of its own, running away with his vocal cords.

What the hell else is he supposed to do? His whole world just died. Ford might as well of snuffed out the sun, causing the whole universe to go out with it. All that's left are stars.

Memories.

That's not fair. None of this is, and he knows that life ain't fair. Why would it be now? Of course it wouldn't, but-

"Why?! Why now, huh?! You couldn't of waited ten fucking minutes? At least let me be here with you? I could of done something useful for once! But no, I always have to fail! It's the only thing I'm good at!"

The humor vanishes, the hysterics of it washed away by anger and grief.

He ends up sitting back on his ass with knees drawn up with both arms wrapped around them, just like when they were kids.

What is he supposed to do?

Ford's dead. Stanford is dead. Sixer is dead. My twin brother is dead-

Repeating the same thought doesn't make him feel any better. If anything, it makes the shaking ten times worse. Unsteady hands, trembling shoulders-

He's shivering all over, goosebumps caused by something other than the cold.

"God, i really am a failure. Can't argue with me now, huh? You died, fifteen feet away from me and-" He can't look at Ford like this anymore, so he brings up a hand to cover his face while trying to regulate his own awful breathing.

Who cares? Why does it matter? Why bother calming down if Ford's dead?

As much as he'd like to give up, because it would be incredibly easy to do so, Stan knows he can't. Not now.

Okay. Deep even breathes.

In. One, two, three, four, five.

Out. One, two, three, four five.

It takes several tries to manage getting past two, but it gets a little easier to stop feeling so light headed the more he focuses on it

He can't give up, because like it or not-

Why not?

Because of the kids? Because of Soos? How exactly would they feel to find out both of us were brought into port dead by the coast guard? Two funerals to attend.

Although they would probably do them together-

That's a nice thought.

Nope, we aren't encouraging that!

"Alright, come on. Get it together. You know what to do..." That doesn't make it easier.

Back up. First onto both knees, then both feet.

Unlike moving Ford into the chair, dragging him around, Stanley takes more care lifting Ford up over one shoulder to carry him from the office across the boat into the bedroom.

Laying him out on the bottom bunk, tucked into the blankets, it looks like he's just sleeping.

Despite barely doing anything Stanley is exhausted already. Arms sore, his back is going to be killing him tomorrow from picking up all that dead weight, so he settles on the edge of the mattress. Just for a minute.

There was once a day when the gun would, metaphorically, already be in his hand.

The world hadn't exactly been kind to him. Not growing up. Not on the road. Not even fully in Gravity Falls. Sure, it was home, but the basement was its own form of torture and suffering.

All of that was supposed to stay off the boat.

Land was pain, the ocean was perfect.

Or at least he'd thought so. If death was going to come for them, taking them into the ranks of lives lost at sea, they were supposed to go down together.

It's tempting. More tempting than ever before.

"I'm sorry." He can't turn and look at Ford, but the presence of his body is comforting in a weird way. Just don't think about how-

"I know you keep telling me I don't need to be, and that we're all good, but I really am. I'm the reason we lost so much time, so maybe it’s just that I have to live with that until my heart gives out." These are the kinds of things he'd never say if Ford was really here.

Or in front of anyone, but what's the harm now? Might as well get it out now before heading back.

From there Ford will be carted off to the closest morgue, body probably cremated, leaving Stanley to bring the ash remains home.

"Maybe I was a damn fool to think I could have it all. Should have known it was too good to be true. I can't-" He has to stop to take several deep full breaths before pushing on.

"I can't do this. Thirty years, forty, all alone. Ruined, and now-"

Things were good, fantastic, for fucks sake!

Having someone to cook and clean with. To get annoyed at when they hog the bathroom. Pointless arguments, bickering, but always getting over it.

It was domestic in a way he'd always wanted but never allowed himself. Always afraid anyone who got close would leave.

In a way, Ford did. Not intentionally, but he did walk right back out the door just like everyone else. Who knows, maybe it would have happened sooner or later anyway.

"I-I know I wasn't great to live with. I'm a pain in the ass screw-up and I guess that's all I'll ever be." Failing to notice something was seriously wrong sooner, not hearing any noises his brother might have made, not getting that text-

Overshadows saving the world. It doesn't matter if the sun keeps rising if his brother isn't here to see it.

He doesn't really know what's considered 'normal behavior' around a corpse. It might be incredibly weird of him to decide to sit up against the wall at the head of the bunk and get Ford situated laying back against his chest, repositioning the blankets.

Stan finds he doesn't care either way. If his brother is dead, the love of his life, he's going to sit with him for a little while before his body gets all stiff and gross and corpsey.

It'll take about two hours, give or take, before then.

Other than the bed being cold it’s not hard to pretend things are okay. Stan's own breathing moves Ford with each inhale and exhale in the otherwise quiet room.

They're both to old to be cuddling, but who's around to judge him? The next closest human is miles away and Ford...

He doesn't really get a say anymore.

Stan lets out a sad and exhausted chuckle, shaking his head and tucking his face down into Ford's hair while keeping both arms tight across his brother’s chest.

It smells of sweat, sea salt, and something chemically that makes his nose burn a little. He needs a shower, gross bastard.

"You have no idea how much I'm going to miss you, Sixer. No fucking clue how much I love you."

Never, ever, would Stan dare be so open in front of anyone, much less his equally emotionally constipated brother. But it’s not like he's going to be able to say all this stuff in front of people.

Not when he heads back to Gravity Falls, tail between his legs. Much less at the funeral.

"I mean, you had to know. One person doesn't dedicate a lifetime to fixing a mistake like that if they don't give a shit. But, well, you know."

He's a corpse Stan, he doesn't know anything. Not anymore.

"It was never the boat. I didn't care that you wanted to go to school. I didn't care about taking the journal. I didn't even care about you being a pretentious asshole. Okay, maybe I did care about that last one a little." It's the first genuine laugh Stan's let out since finding Ford.

"It was the separation I had a problem with. We could have been enlisted in the military for all I cared, as long as we did it together. Talk about codependent, am I right?"

His arms are tired from doing compressions so instead of continuing to hug Ford in a vice grip he settles for holding one of his hands instead.

Cuddling, weird but not outside of things they've done before. Usually after or because of nightmares.

Hugging is practically a daily occurrence at this point, sometimes multiple times depending on the itinerary Ford's always got in his stupid head.

But this, holding hands, isn't something they've done since they were kids.

Hopefully, Filbrick found a special space in hell for yelling at them until they stopped. He was right, socially, of course. But Stan can't help holding a grudge regardless. As if Ford needed more negative press about his perfect hands.

They're cold but Stan pointedly ignores that in favor of savoring the moment.

"It was good we spent time apart, in its own stupid way. Not because either of us had a good time or anything, but we finally grew up. Eventually. Just took the world ending for you to get your ego checked." It's nice having Ford lying back against his chest, their hands intertwined over Ford's cold one under the blanket.

It's sad, and temporary, but better than nothing at all.

You take what you get and you don't throw a fit.

"But hey, it wasn't all bad." Looking around the room the proof is right here. "We did it, eventually. We had some fun, stole some treasure. Never did get any babes though, but-"

The wall closest to the door is covered in a large cork board covered in pictures from the camera Soos gifted them as a housewarming present before leaving port. Original pictures of them back in Jersey pinned at the top with their adventures detailed in the ones below, picking up decades later.

He sighs, bringing up his free hand to straighten out Ford's hair. It's always a rat’s nest. "I was never as worried about that part as I probably should have been, because I-"

Dead or not, is this really the kind of thing he should be saying out loud?

The things he's saying aren't really for Ford, they're for Stanley's own benefit anyway. "Well, heh. You see, about that...I, uh. Really only had interest in getting one babe on board." He squeezes Ford's hand for emphasis, like he's listening.

But even Stan can't help bursting out into laughter at his awful joke, managing to avoid letting out more than a couple tears. "Oh god, that's terrible. I'm terrible, I know. But, you never had to worry about that. You being here is more then I could've asked for. No sense betting it on the bonus word and getting left at a dock when things where good as is."

There. It's out there, in the room, shared with someone who can never tell his worst secret. That wasn't so bad now, was it?

"As it was, I guess. Still can't believe you're gone and our adventure is over before it really got started." It's a somber thought, but he leaves it at that.

What else is there to say?

Time passes, only marked by the slight darkening of the clouds outside the boat and the ticking of Stanley's watch.

He keeps saying 'five more minutes' but that started up about two hours ago. It's been nearly three since settling into bed. His back hurts from staying in the same position, fingers cramped, but he still doesn't want to get up.

That means letting go. He isn't ready for that.

Probably never will be either.

It must be the cold keeping Ford from getting all stiff like dead people should because he's still just as limp and relaxed as when he first died. That thought makes him wince.

"Alright. As fun as this is, I should probably get up and bring us back to port before it gets dark." He says it like Ford will be able to encourage him to do so, like the corpse is going to hold him accountable.

Except, it can't.

Stan finds the willpower to get up and off the bed anyway, leaving Ford tucked in, and heading out into the hallway that is the kitchen and dining room.

Next step is getting back to port, calling the local authorities, and explaining what the hell happened. That won't be fun. None of this is.

He only gets as far as the kitchen before having to sit down.

Who is he kidding? This is impossible. How the hell is he supposed to do any of this?

No matter how hard he tries to cling to the fact that he has other family, because Stanley knows full well how much the kids and Soos care for him, that doesn't make the suddenly unbearable weight on both shoulders any lighter.

The boat is suffocating, cold, and it’s only going to get worse.

When Ford had gone through the portal it was easy enough to rationalize his feelings of hopelessness away using pure denial. Can't be sure Ford is dead if you can't see him.

And yeah, he'd been right, though on all accounts he shouldn't have been.

Stan can't do that here because Ford is very clearly dead and gone.

All those years he'd already been through the first several stages of grief periodically. Denial, anger, and bargaining but had always gotten stuck in the second to last step. Depression.

If people can get past that one, they usually reach acceptance and from there, it’s all about finding a way to live with it.

I can't do that.

How on earth am I supposed to after everything? So many mistakes, miscommunications, lost time, and for what? For it to end here?

What the hell am I supposed to do? Pack it up, return to Gravity Falls, and drink myself to death?

That's probably what he would have done if Ford hadn't been able to make it home. If he'd actually been dead for thirty years and all that effort was for nothing.

It doesn't take much to make up his mind. It’s only a matter of when, not a matter of if.

The painful silence of the ship is interrupted by his watch beeping at him several times, indicating it’s time for his blood pressure medications.

This watch is considerably uglier than his gold one, but its water proof and has some fancy alarm and timer settings.

Ford set it up to remind him.

He all but collapses in on himself with tears escaping easier than before in the office.

This was all he ever wanted, for someone to give a damn about him and now the only person who ever did is gone!

No more bickering about who used all the hot water. Complaining about who's turn it is to handle the laundry. Doing dishes together.

No more laughing, cracking jokes, or arguing over what to have for dinner.

"I can't do this, I'm not strong enough for that." His voice is choked, barely above a whisper.

His own feet bring him to the first aid kit fastened to the wall above the toilet in the bathroom. It's where any medications they might need are kept from ibuprofen to some other more questionable alien junk of Ford's.

Nutrition pills are not a substitute for real food, even when you’re sick of fish Stanford.

Down on the bottom shelf right next to the Aspirin and Tylenol is where his stupid medication is to take-

Except currently there is a small and simple letter propped up on the shelf blocking the several bottles there with 'For Stanley Pines' on the front in neat and actually legible cursive handwriting.

He looks around the bathroom, almost comically, because he really has lost it.

Maybe he actually had his own medical problem while trying to do chest compressions and now he's a ghost or something?

Because this looks like Ford left him a letter right inside their medicine cabinet.

Except he's dead in the other room.

After picking up the letter, and taking his stupid meds, Stan goes back to the bedroom to double-check that the corpse hasn't managed to go anywhere in the last ten minutes.

Nope. Still there.

Okay.... Well, might as well read it then?

He closes the bedroom door first and goes about straightening up the million open doors and all the unnecessary lights left on this whole time, settling against one of the kitchen counters and tearing the envelope open with his pocket knife.

'To Stanley,

If you are reading this letter then you must be in the throes of panic at the moment. As I know well, it’s not very fun to have a brother who continues to terrify you with health scares. I have tried discussing this with you several times, but clearly, you don't fully understand.

Perhaps this spook, over a supposed 'blocked blood vessel', will set the record straight. I do not find your jokes about 'keeling over' to be amusing. Waking me up purposefully drooping one half of your body also isn't funny.

It is for these many reasons I've devised a plan to scare you, briefly. The serum I gave myself to cause the presentation of symptoms should have no permanent or ill health effects. However, it does eventually result in a loss of consciousness, so you will need to administer the antidote.

It is tapped to the roof of our fridge and kept at the appropriate cool temperature until it is ready to be used, with the dosage already measured out in a previously prepared needle. Any vein will do, though it may take some time to circulate and take-"

Stanley doesn't bother finishing the stupid list of instructions Ford may have left him filling out the rest of the letter. In fact, he can't even bring himself to be mad right this second about Ford torturing him like this.

He's alive. That's all that matters.

It’s a rush of slamming open doors, making a mess of the top shelf of the fridge, before Stan is able to find the supposed needle right where the letter said it would be. Back to the bedroom he yanks on the light, tearing off the blanket.

"I knew it, I fucking knew it-"

Or at least he hopes this is real and not some hallucination caused by grief. Seems a little too good to be true, but he'd be willing to gamble on giving Ford sulfuric acid if he left a note saying so right about now.

Sure enough, by the time Stanley is able to yank Ford's closer sleeve up he can see a big X drawn with a sharpie over the vein along the interior of the arm where you'd have blood taken. Or shoot up heroin.

How long does he have to give the antidote? Could it be too late? That letter was probably supposed to be opened hours ago.

Whatever.

No time like the present.

He's done this plenty of times on himself, so it’s not hard.

Using one of Ford's ties out of the closet (a ridiculous thing to bring on a boat) he's able to create a tourniquet without having to go back to the bathroom.

The cap gets removed with his teeth and once the vein is visible, he carefully presses the needle in under the skin before pushing down the plunger and injecting whatever the weird black medication is.

Only after putting the needle aside does he run off to get dressings and gauze to patch up the injection sight and stop the bleeding. The same amount you'd expect from a live body.

A weird sense of euphoria takes hold in the time it takes to secure the gauze over the injection site with some medical tape.

And a little bit of hope.

Rightfully, he should be beyond pissed. What the hell was Ford thinking in the first place? Okay, yeah. They suck at talking, and he hadn't been the most open to Ford's previous complaints about his 'death jokes' and such.

Dark humor. But he hadn't expected Ford to do something this extreme in retaliation.

Talk about a prank war getting out of hand.

This is worse than when they got into a closet territory war in high school and it had ended with them both getting yelled at, and grounded, when some itching powder accidentally ended up in the wrong laundry.

Later he can be upset, but right now Ford will probably be waking up in enough pain over his own stupid choices. Being given CPR is a rather violent experience, his chest is going to hurt considerably for a long while.

That's revenge enough, and-

Okay, maybe you could consider this lesson learned.

Stanley is left to wait, with bated breath, for Ford to wake up.

It's pretty safe for Ford to say that this whole experience turned out to be a lot more traumatizing than it should have been.

Maybe he was a bit of a dick, planning on scaring Stanley a little, but that's all. Just a tiny scare to get his brother to stop being so-

Difficult, let's go with that.

Pain in the ass would be more accurate

Regardless, absolutely nothing had gone to plan and it had very nearly ended in the worst possible way. Him dead, and Stanley heart broken.

What was supposed to happen was pretty simple.

Starting with sending the text, which Stanley would get above deck. Meanwhile, below deck, Ford would cast the spell meant to slow his pulse to an unsteady rate on top of accelerating his breathing. Mimicking something close to a heart attack.

Just for a little scare, with no real consequences.

Then Stanley would come downstairs, freak out, but follow the procedure.

Which is when he would have found the letter, stopping the whole scene before everything got so out of hand. Easy.

But, no.

The text hadn't gone through, because their signal was spotty at best out here.

No problem, because the spell does technically leave a window before putting you into stasis.

Or, it’s supposed to.

Thirty-two and a half seconds isn't nearly enough time to do anything useful, as Ford found out the hard way.

The results were him being left waiting on the floor for Stanley to find him and being left fully aware of every second without being able to do anything to stop it.

Having chest compressions done when your heart is fine, just old, is not fun. Very not fun. One of the more painful experiences he can admit to participating in.

This whole thing, in fact, is up there with one of the top five worst moments in his life.

All because Stanley wouldn't listen!

No, it's because you’re an idiot who seems to only know how to hurt your own brother-

Shut up!

That's not helping anything.

The slow-to-restart heart rate, which never fully stopped, is more painful because of the time left lying around. Not a surprising response to his apparent death, but-

Two broken ribs, and some pretty bad bruising, but otherwise physically he'll be fine.

Just as soon as every vein stops burning from the antidote.

Truly that's a just punishment for the time he's left waiting after feeling the injection up until he's able to breathe and move again.

There is a lot that he could unpack here, but that would involve facing everything that he just caused. Which is terrible.

Better to focus on the one damn good thing to come out of this whole mess.

Stanley loves him.

Not only in the 'brotherly love' kind of way, but it certainly sounded like it had been implied romantically, hadn't it?

The spell or the cold he'd been experiencing couldn't have made up a hallucination like that.

It's logical if you think about it.

Stanley was under the impression he was dead, so why not own up to all kinds of gross and sappy crap? Taking time to mourn everything that was, could have, and is.

Brother, best friend, and-

Lover is a rather big leap to make from some simple implications on their own, but-

Was it two or three hours of straight-up cuddling and holding hands?

That might be as much evidence as Stanley would ever willingly provide without being physically tortured out of it.

Knowing that his own feelings are returned is actually worse than being trapped inside your own skin, because what the hell is he supposed to do with this information?

If they can't talk about Stanley no longer making jokes, how is he supposed to bring this up in a way that doesn't make his brother jump off the boat to drown?

Ford can't help but let out a quiet pained groan with the first gasp of air, taking away the option of saying something first thing.

It's better than screaming, which is what he feels like doing from the pain.

Not the first time an experiment resulted in such poor results, it'll be fine.

"Stanley," is the first thing Ford forces himself to say just as soon as it’s not going to come out sounding too pained. As if either of them needs to feel worse at the moment.

Stan hadn't so much as gotten up off the bed after dressing the injection. He brought up a hand to steady Ford when he tried to sit up too fast. "Woah, take it easy there, Sixer. The world's not going anywhere."

Now is not the time for jokes, Stanley. This isn't funny.

His brother’s ability to compartmentalize traumatic events and the emotions associated with them is astounding. Must be a shared trait.

Trying to talk is like swallowing tacks but he managed to make a motion towards the water bottle they kept hanging from a hook above the bedside table halfway between their bunks.

Relief was about all Stanley could feel getting up only enough to grab the water bottle for Ford before settling back next to him on the bed.

He's still cold, but very much alive.

It's visible in the tense set of Ford's shoulders when he's awake, the crease and possibly only wrinkle on his whole stupid perfect face between his brow from worrying or fretting over something, and the strong grasp around the bottle when taking a drink.

It's almost enough to make him cry again, except Ford is awake now, so he keeps a better lid on those feelings by shoving them back in a closet. Hugging Ford as soon as he's had a drink also allows for a good expression of his worries while actively hiding any stupid emotions (or tears) his face could be doing against his will.

No matter how much it physically hurts (maybe at least one of those ribs is broken, rather than cracked) Ford wholeheatedly returns it while trying to lubricate his mouth and throat enough to say something, anything, useful.

"Did it work at least? Do you understand now how physically upsetting it is to have you faking health scares? That pure terror is what I feel every single time, regardless of if you’re kidding. It's not funny." His voice is still ruined and dry with an edge of ache, but audible.

Stan lets out a dry chuckle, but it's forced and tight. "Yeah, yeah. Alright, you got me. But for the record, I knew it was a sham. I could smell it from a mile away!"

Both eyes are also a little dry from the extensive time spent open up until Stan closed them, which gives a good excuse for why he blinks at Stan like an idiot.

What, does he think I'm stupid?

Sure, Stanley seemed fooled for a while, but the last several hours of panic and grieving-

He doesn't know.

Oh.

Well, that's. A perfectly rational assumption given that's what the letter said, the spell was supposed to end in unconsciousness in a form of slowed metabolism and heart rate in a form of intense hibernation.

"I was awake." The reaction is immediate feeling the hand on either shoulder tighten momentarily with several emotions passing over Stanley's face too fast to read.

Panic is all he catches before its smothered with the rest.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Well, that is almost worse than Ford being dead, because what the hell is he supposed to do now?

They're three hours from port, without anyone around, and no internet connection.

Ford could easily kill him and no one would ever know the difference.

Because that is certainly what's about to happen. He knows, he heard, he saw for fucks sake.

If it wasn't for the physical and literal beating Ford would have already had him in a headlock on the floor.

Watching Stanley physically, and not so subtly, recoil is heartwrenching and Ford won't stand for seeing any more pain on his brother’s face.

There has been enough of that in one lifetime, and tonight.

"Hey, I'm not upset." He has to physically stop Stanley from getting up off the bed by grabbing one shoulder and the closer hand tightly, pulling him back to sit again.

This might be the absolute most embarrassing moment of his whole life.

Worse than the teasing they got as a pair over Ford's kissing bot in high school, which previously held the top spot.

Maybe I should just throw myself overboard to get away from this conversation.

Sure, I'm not dead, but living with 'being let down easy' and then everything spiraling into the most awkward friend zone of all time is much worse.

Death would be kinder.

Stan's whole face flushes bright red but otherwise his expression remains mostly neutral and steeled waiting for whatever comes next. Though its still tempting to run.

Very, very tempting.

This is terrifying, but not nearly as scary as thinking Stanley was going to do something drastic while left to his own devices. In comparison, this is easy.

If you ignore the fact nothing has ever been easy for them.

"I'm, you could say that- I understand." What the fuck was that? He tries again, pushing on because that didn't make any sense. "I mean, I've visited more dimensions then I can count, I'm certainly not- I've grown out of my own reservations, so you could say. But, obviously, I never thought..." He does another lame motion with their linked hands, hoping Stan will read his mind and end this painful moment.

Okay, now this is definitely a hallucination triggered by some sort of mental lapse or stroke.

Ford being dead absolutely did get to him.

Enough to make up a whole letter and shoot up a corpse with some random chemical and now some sick hallucination.

That seems more likely than what Ford is trying to imply or suggest.

But the hand in his, with six fingers enveloping Stan's five, certainly feels real.

And there is the small, helpful, argument-nagging details coming from the back of his head that Ford never actually pissed himself or anything like most dead people do.

Stanley must have picked up the habit of laughing when he's nervous over the last several decades because, from Ford's perspective, nothing about this conversation is funny.

It's very serious and raw, so why the hell is he laughing so hard?

At least he isn't pulling away. That's good?

"For fucks sake, Stanley, can you take anything seriously for one whole minute? Why the hell do I even fancy you? You’re an ass!"

"Fancy me, what are you, a British nark?" Jesus, Stanley can barely breathe trying to calm down but doesn't let Ford pull his hand away an inch.

"I'm going to kill you, just as soon as I can breathe without my whole chest convulsing, I'm going to-"

"Oh, I'll show you being unable to breathe alright." He does not know where the boldness comes from exactly, probably the high from the recent near-death experience, but either way he snatches Ford by the shoulder with his free hand to pull him over into a proper kiss.

He ignores how it tastes of stale water and snot.

[fenrysmoonbeamswife]

Masterpost #2

Topic: Nesta Archeron is autistic coded

Black and white thinking

This is a case of seeing things in a very right or wrong, no inbetween way, and struggling with abstracts and grey areas and this is how I would describe Nesta's way of viewing almost everything.

Eg. The way she acts towards Elain and Feyre in ACOTAR, it's practical and very clear to her.

"But I knew that Nesta would buy Elain time to run. Not my father, whom she resented with her entire steely heart. Not me, because Nesta had always known and hated that she and I were two sides of the same coin and that I could fight my own battles. But Elain, the flower grower, the gentle heart, Nesta would go down swinging for her."

Nesta knows that Feyre doesn't need her and that she's capable of fighting her own battles. She sees this in a very black and white way and doesn't waste time pretending because it's very simple to her. In this instance, Elain needs her and Feyre doesn't. Therefore, she directs all of her attention on Elain.

Nesta always dedicates herself fully to one issue and the thing that has to be done, the practical thing. She doesn't half ass it, she doesn't split her attention between two things when one is absolutely necessary and the other isn't.

Now, this doesn't mean that she sees Feyres protection as unnecessary or doesn't care about Feyre. You can even see that Feyre herself doesn't see it that way, Nesta just knows how capable Feyre is and how Elain is the one who needs protection in this case. While Nesta is quite an emotional person, when it comes to things like this she sets that aside and it's all from a completely practical sense. You could even argue that her emotions actually fuel her practicality to an even greater extent. I would also say that Feyre actually sees it this way as well.

Not understanding/caring about social niceties

This ties in with the previous point. The socially acceptable response to Feyre looking after herself is to pander to her (we even see this in the fandom villainize Nesta for not doing this) and offer help even when it would be rejected or hinder what Feyre is doing. Which it would be, I mean, Feyre doesn't need Nesta's help and I believe she would tell her that. People seem to view this situation as one sided but I think it's very clear that both Nesta and Feyre have the same views on their living situation.

We should remember that when Feyre started hunting Nesta did try to help. She asked Feyre to show her how to hunt (because that was the practical choice) and then when it turned out that she was no good at hunting but that Feyre was very good, the next practical move was for Feyre to continue doing the work that she was good at and for Nesta to do the work in the house which she was good at and was also necessary for their living. Nesta understands this and she doesn't feel the need to waste time when she knows the answer and she knows what's required of her. The offer to continue helping to hunt might be the more polite/socially expected thing to do or an expected way to show that she cares but societal expectations are what dictate that this is how you show you care and to Nesta it's impractical and not what they need so it's an empty and pointless gesture. Logic shows her that Feyre can take care of herself so Nesta focuses on where she's actually needed and where she can actually help. In this case that's protecting Elain and doing the more domestic work.

However, when Feyre does need her and Elain doesn't, Nesta does everything in her power to help Feyre while leaving Elain.

Eg. When Tamlin takes Feyre, Nesta leaves Elain and goes to save her. This is not exclusive to Elain, this is just an example, it's just how Nesta is. It's the same when she protects Cassian in ACOWAR, when she shares her story with the high lords, when she becomes the human emissary. Nesta doesn't waste time protecting those who can protect themselves, she puts all her focus on protecting those who can't.

Black and white thinking .2

Nesta's black and white thinking also applies to how she views the world and the people around her.

Eg. The way she views her father. Her resentment and hatred for him are completely full on, he did bad so he is a bad person. She wants nothing to do with him and it's as simple as that. He allowed her to be abused, he let their mother die, he let them starve, he doesn't try and he neglects them so she hates him completely and utterly.

And don't get me wrong, these feelings are completely valid. I'm not saying this is wrong of her, it's just how she is and I'm totally on her side.

Easily manipulated

This is also why it's so easy for a narcissist like Papa Archeron to manipulate her in ACOWAR, which is a really common autistic experience. It's very common for autistic people to be manipulated and to be around abusive people.

When things are in simple good and bad, black and white terms, they're easy for Nesta to work out. Her father is bad, he doesn't do anything to contradict that and there are no good and bad actions there's just bad. Then we see she struggles with the grey area when things seem to change. Her father brings ships to help them and then dies defending her, supposedly, and this makes it more complicated, it's not as clear cut. Now he's good and bad and there's "evidence" for both and she can't handle it. She feels confused and upset and she can't place her own feelings, which is actually also an autistic trait, because things can't be put in a black and white box anymore. There is a lifetime of bad but this last act is good which challenges the absolute way she views things. Suddenly he isn't an absolute and she can't process it, that on top of this final act being extremely manipulative results in all of that shame that we see her experience. This manipulation mixed with her black and white thinking causes the blame to turn into self hate rather than be placed where it rightly belongs.

Black and white .3

Nesta deals in these black and white extremes for almost everything. It's yes or no, the word maybe doesn't really exist to her.

"What happened to Tomas Mandray?" I asked, the words strangled. "I realized he wouldn't have gone with me to save you from Prythian." And for her, with that raging, unrelenting heart, it would have been a line in the sand.

Before, Nesta said that she loved Tomas. It's debatable whether that was actually true but she was going to marry him and move out and then she completely changes her mind because of how she views this action. She has a set view on right and wrong and immediately draws that line in the sand with Tomas when he chooses the "bad" or "wrong" action. It completely changes how she sees and feels about him because she functions based on absolutes, no grey areas. This is how she views the world and the people in it. She sees going to save Feyre as the only option, it's the right thing to do so it's the only thing to do and when he doesn't do that or align with that he's completely changed to her.

Even with Rhysand we see that she doesn't like him as a person, he's arrogant and an asshole and she does not like him, end of story. But, that practical side of her acknowledges that he is a good ruler (debatable👀) and has done a lot for his people. She can acknowledge both the good and the bad here because it's still black and white. Rhysand as a person is bad, Rhysand as a ruler is good.

TBC

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @melpomene-grey!

OC Interview

I feel like I've done all of my protags, so let's go in a different direction >:)

Are you named after anyone?

"My first name, Vermir, just means sea bird, which is sort of a fucked up thing to name a baby. My surname, Nadvalsib, is in keeping with Teaban traditions. My mother's name was Nadval and I'm a woman, so hence the -sib."

When was the last time you cried?

"I can't anymore, so... about five hundred years ago, in that case? I think I cried all the tears I had left when- when I saw the results of my experiment with the dark beyond. I never meant for things to end like that.... I was supposed to have saved them...."

Do you have kids?

"Absolutely not. I don't mind kids, but I've never had the desire for my own."

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

"For people smart enough to pick up on it, sure."

What's the first thing you notice about people?

"If they're sorcerers or not. I might prefer to plan out my captures, but I'll take what's given to me if it comes down to it."

What's your eye colour?

"They were a dark brown when I was human. Perfected as I am, they shine an electric white."

Scary movies or happy endings?

"Oh, scary endings! I love anything with practical effects, especially. The craftsmanship is incredible."

Any special talents?

"Other than my incredible intellect, unbreakable determination, and willingness to do what needs to be done to save the people of Illaros? I've always had an impeccable sense of direction. I don't know if I've been lost a day in my life."

Where were you born?

"In the town of Laben, in what you would now know as the Janazi principality of Teaba."

Do you have any pets?

"Can't say that I do. I don't have the time to take care of one."

What sort of sports do you play?

"Son, I'm in the middle of conquering a planet in order to buck the boot of our tyrant gods. And you think I have time for sports?"

How tall are you?

"I was about 5'5" before my ascendency, but I'm a solid 7'0" now. It feels good."

What was your favourite subject in school?

"I never formally went to school - those weren't so widespread when I was a girl - so I learned my trade through apprenticing under the former mage of the village. He was a nice enough fellow, even if he never had the ambition to add any more to his knowledge than what he'd learned from his predecessor. He did, however, have an incredible knack for alchemy. Learning the potion trade from him made up for his failings in other areas."

What is your dream job?

"It's not ruling Illaros, if that's what you're thinking. I will rule Illaros, don't get me wrong. I'll do it, make the world the best it can be, and keep it spinning that way until it can stand on its own. This is my sacrifice for the greater good. Perhaps after my empire is established though, I'll be able to step back and dedicate myself to my studies alone. I've always wanted to finally crack the secrets of the dark beyond."

I'll tag @the-golden-comet @evilgabe29 @aesthetic-writer18 @autism-purgatory and anyone else who wants in :)

Blanks under the cut

Are you named after anyone? When was the last time you cried? Do you have kids? Do you use sarcasm a lot? What's the first thing you notice about people? What's your eye colour? Scary movies or happy endings? Any special talents? Where were you born? Do you have any pets? What sort of sports do you play? How tall are you? What was your favourite subject in school? What is your dream job?

[mywingsareonwheels]

Here be yet more Fred Thursday musings ;-)

[Long post and spoilers for all of Endeavour here.]

So, I was thinking yet again (for the billionth time ;-) ) about Fred Thursday and the three people we see him kill over the course of Endeavour while trying to save someone else:-

Mrs Coke-Norris

Ludo Talenti

Raymond Kennitt/Peter Williams

The show seems to be pointing us into believing that the third of those is somehow much, much worse than the first two and I... have a problem with this.

I mean, in all three cases Fred was responding to an immediate threat to life (of someone he cared about, and in the second and third cases also Fred himself). In the case of Mrs C-N Fred was officially on duty which gives him some extra legal cover, but I'd say no extra moral cover.

I'm no legal expert, but from what I understand, under English-and-Welsh law, none of the three were murders; you're looking at manslaughter at worst, at best a good case for self/other-defence, which... is a grey area but certainly a decent defence lawyer could have had a good go.

(It is worth noting, of course, that this is the morseverse and this is Fred Thursday; he's made so many enemies both in the criminal justice system and among criminals, mostly through doing actively good things, that his chances of either a fair trial or then surviving prison are basically non-existent. I think we have to weigh all of Morse's decisions in "Exeunt" with that in mind because there's no way Morse isn't aware of it. Sam's chances of surviving prison for drug-dealing I think we can assume would also be remote, again due to the enemies Fred has made. And I think again, we have to weigh both Fred's and Morse's decisions with that in mind.)

So... yeah. I think there are only three things that you might consider as making the killing of Raymond Kennitt worse than that of Ludo Talenti or Mrs Coke-Norris:-

the use of the knife rather than a gun, which makes it theoretically possible that Fred could have found a way to end the fight that didn't involve killing Kennitt. That does strike me as something that's probably easier to see from a backseat than if you're Fred in the middle of what's happening, but still.

we know Kennitt's horrifying backstory (not that Fred does), and so feel huge amounts of compassion for him even though he's obviously awful in the "present", and sympathy for the grief that Jakes would feel if he knew what had happened. That's inevitable I think, but, well. Can we be sure that Mrs C-N and Ludo aren't child abuse survivors too? (We do know that Fred and Charley both are, though not the details.) All in all, I think this is a show that wants us to feel compassion for as many characters as possible, and I don't want to assume that Mrs C-N and Ludo didn't end up Like That for no reason.

the fact that Fred kills Mrs C-N and Ludo in defense of Morse (the protagonist, Fred's protege, and a character we all love) and kills Kennitt in defense of Sam (a more minor character, and Fred's son). I would hope that Morse wouldn't see it like that and that neither does Russell Lewis because obviously that's a dreadful position to hold, but... yeeeah. It would annoy me a lot if that's part of the reasoning of the show, but protagonist-centered morality is a flaw in an awful lot of fiction, and while Endeavour mostly doesn't give into it, I don't think any writers are immune. So I do have a horrible suspicion that this is the bit that makes the actual difference, even though I really think it shouldn't be. If Fred had killed Kennitt to save Morse rather than Sam... would we as an audience feel differently? (I ask that of myself as well as of anyone else who wants to ask it of themselves! And honestly, I probably would feel better about the killing if it was for Morse, even though rationally I know it's no different!)

I'd actually say that in the case of the killing of Kennitt there are a couple of minor mitigating factors that the first two lack:-

Fred is in the worst state mentally we ever see him in "Exeunt", and is completely falling apart; earlier in the day he had some form of heart episode or possibly severe panic attack. At any rate: he's going through hell and he is ill as a result.

I can't actually remember if he has his gun with him during the fight with Kennitt, but he certainly isn't willing to use it given the situation; the knife is Kennitt's not his, and a weapon you aren't intending to use is for practical purposes not here, so he's... taken on an armed man while essentially unarmed. Fucking berserker that he is. Rather than two people with guns going up against each other.

you can see a moment of decision in Roger's face for the killings of both Mrs C-N and Ludo; by Fred's own account to Morse (which I think we can take as honest) he didn't make any conscious decision to kill Kennitt (see above re awful mental state).

Honesty? I think that killing in immediate self-defence and/or defence-of-other is however as close to necessary and justified as killing ever gets, and I'm inclined to be extremely forgiving about all three deaths. I'm not sure Fred had a real choice in any of the three cases.

What Fred does do in the third case that really is different of course is the cover-up, in misleading everyone, in being an absolute arsehole to Morse when he comes to check on him that night. In all of it it's massively, massively understandable (as he's a) ill, b) still trying to protect Sam). Morse's sense of betrayal though is also massively understandable. Ugh. My heart hurts. *shakes fist at Russell Lewis, and also at Roger and Shaun for being so amazing*

Anyway. Do I have an overall point? Probably: Fred Thursday is a complicated character and I love him and I want to hug him and also throw things at him. He has horrible violent tendencies but he isn't a murderer under English-and-Welsh law, and I don't think s9 makes sense unless we interpret him as very mentally unwell by the end of it. Also: Morse and Thursday both need different jobs, holy shit. Also also: I reckon Morse ended up forgiving Thursday and being in touch with him, because he is pretty fair when given time to process things, and he doesn't have Morse-centered morality. Also also also: Russell Lewis is a meanie and I want more fix-it fics. ;-)

[datvtranscripts]

A Warden’s Best Friend Pt. 3

Missing

Signs and Portents Masterpost Previous: Monster Hunter

They defeat the darkspawn, and Davrin runs up to someone lying near a doorway.

Davrin: Remi! Where are you?

Remi: (Coughs weakly)

Rook: Remi, where are you hurt?

Remi: (Coughs) Everywhere. The monster came out of nowhere. Darkspawn were following it. Lancit ran ahead…

Davrin: It's back?

Assan: (Squawk)

Remi: Davrin, remember: a light touch. Assan's still learning.

Davrin: You're the trainer.

Remi: Not anymore…. (Dying cough)

Davrin: (Heavy sigh) We have to keep going. Let's get through here. Those two statues are the spare key. Line up the symbols.

Rook: What did you mean by "It's back"?

Davrin: Something's stalking Grey Wardens. We call it the "Gloom Howler". I'm hunting it. Started happening seven, eight months ago. Darkspawn obey it. Has some kind of hold over them.

Rook gets the doors open.

Davrin: Assan, on me!

Assan: (Loud squawk)

Davrin: No time for hide-and-seek, Assan. This is real.

Assan: (Irritated squawk)

Veil Jumper Rook: Rook: "Assan". That's elven for "arrow".

Non-Veil Jumper Rook, Bellara in party: Bellara: "Assan". That's elven for "arrow".

Non-Veil Jumper Rook, Bellara not in party:

Harding: "Assan". Is that elven?

Lucanis: "Assan". Does it mean something?

Neve: How'd he get his name? Davrin: It's elven for "arrow".

Davrin: Hope he grows into it.

They continue up the path.

Rook: More darkspawn here.

Davrin: Lancit's trying to stop the Gloom Howler. It's going after the other griffons.

Bellara: Wait, other griffons?

Harding: There's other griffons?

Lucanis: More griffons?

Neve: More? You're serious?

Davrin: Whole family. Assan's brothers and sisters.

Rook looks around and finds a next full of nug carvings.

Rook: What's all this?

Davrin: I wondered what happened to them. They're mine. I like to carve.

Rook: How'd they end up here?

Davrin: The griffons. They take things to make a nest. Or play pranks. I don't know.

The reach a collapsed bridge.

Rook: The bridge is out.

Davrin: This place is falling apart. There's a ladder up there. That's our way through this.

Assan knocks the ladder down.

Davrin: Good job!

Assan: (Satisfied squawk)

A darkspawn javelin whirs by.

Bellara: Watch it, Rook! Darkspawn!

Harding: Watch out, Rook! Darkspawn!

Lucanis: Rook, you've got darkspawn!

Neve: Watch yourself! There's darkspawn!

Davrin: Make this quick! We have to get through here. Assan can help with the fight!

They fight, and a giant darkspawn appears.

Bellara: Oh, that one's big! Watch out!

Harding: Watch out: one more to go! Big one!

Lucanis: Watch it: there's a big one!

Neve: Careful! They saved the big one for last!

Davrin: I see it!

The defeat the last of the darkspawn.

Gloom Howler: (Shrieking howl)

Bellara: Um. That sounds bad?

Harding: What was that?

Lucanis: That cannot be good.

Neve: Well, that sounds cheery!

Davrin: It's coming from the aerie. There's an elevator we can use to get up there.

Rook loots the area.

Davrin: The elevator's behind that blight. Let's get through it.

They get through to the elevator.

Davrin: I've never seen darkspawn this bold. Not unless there's a Blight.

Rook: There's a Blight.

Grey Warden Rook: Davrin: Would explain the weird things I'm hearing. But the First Warden hasn't said anything. Rook: He doesn't want to listen.

Non-Grey Warden Rook: Davrin: The Wardens told you this? Rook: I told them, but your First Warden doesn't want our help.

Davrin: He's a stubborn one.

Bellara: So why does the Gloom Howler want griffons, anyway?

Harding: Why does the Gloom Howler want the griffons?

Lucanis: What does this darkspawn want with griffons?

Neve: The Gloom Howler wants the griffons. Why?

Davrin: The real question's how it knows about them. Up until now, it only went after Wardens. Now it shows up here with a rabble of darkspawn? These griffons are a secret.

They head up the elevator and continue on. Rook takes a zipline, and Assan flies beside them.

Assan: (Excited squawk)

Rook: Hi?

Assan: (Excited squawk)

They fight through more darkspawn after landing.

Davrin: Keep moving. The aerie's not far!

They defeat the darkspawn.

Davrin: That was the last one.

Bellara: Is… that a body? Under the blight boil.

Harding: There's a body over there, under the blight boil.

Lucanis: Over there. A body. Under the blight boil.

Neve: That's a body. Over there. Under the blight boil.

Davrin: We better take a look.

Rook destroys the boil.

Davrin: Damn it, it's Lancit. I want this thing's head on a pike!

Next: The Gloom Howler

[peanids]

Kayne

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) they r like my freak oc. for freaky scenes. but like the switchup for aftercare is such a 180. He'll reassure you that it was just a scene and that you're safe. He yaps a lot, very erm. lighthearted? silly.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) He likes his hands. Touching you, feeling you. Lowk loves feeling your size in comparison to his.

C = Cum (where does your muse prefer to cum/have someone cum) In you, on you, anywhere so that you're his.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Panty sniffer I fear.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) Very experienced 👍 sex worker + freak central (most clients come to him for harder scenes). He's a well trained dom he knows what he's doing I prommy

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) Bondage + vibrator. Might cum on you and use that as lube. Or like, wall sex from behind but he picks you up so you're just clawing at the wall for purchase.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) IT DEPENDS he does a lot of roleplay.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) HAPPUY TRAIL and trimmed. his hair is pretty coarse and straight.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Not very, I don't think. Save that for after.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) He does, sometimes. To keep sex as like, a personal thing and not just A Job yk. It's self care. Maybe once or twice a week.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Bondage, sensory deprivation, roleplay, degradation, forced/denied orgasms, sadism, dacryphilia, cnc, begging.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Private dungeon 👍

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) Begging, crying, squirming.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) Not necessarily a turn off or a hard no, but generally he doesn't do intox. Consent 👍 it's a grey area for him. I think he'd only experiment with someone he's involved with outside of work. Subbing and bottoming too. Stone top 🔥

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) Giving. obv. Skilled, especially when he's seen the same person over and over again.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) Either way, no preference. Whatever fits better.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) Sometimes fantasises about asking you to kneel for him so he can cum in your mouth rq, but it's not something that's likely to happen.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) Honestly, not really. He has a pretty good idea of what he likes and doesn't like, but maybe for a partner he'll ask someone for guidance.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) Maybe 2, 3 rounds max? But that's usually a few hours, at least.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) A lot, yeah. Mostly on his partners

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) Sometimes, yeah, if it calls for it, but it's not like his default.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) Vocal, but not loud. He is more of a yapper.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) Only had a yeast infection once, when he was 15. He gave it to himself.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) 15.7cm hard curves up uncut a little hyperpigmentation around his balls and perineum but minimally on his cock.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) I mean, not too high. Not low but not freaky high either.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) Depends, but maybe half an hour to an hour after immediate aftercare.

[wearingaberetinparis]

I love your fics so much! Jily is amazing, and you write it brilliantly. I wanted to ask what you think of their canon relationship in that James once tried to blackmail Lily into going out with him? Like ethically, what's your thoughts about that? And do you think it ever came up later - how can she trust him without talking about those things kind of talk?

Hi anon! Thank you so much for your question! Obviously, I love Jily and I am glad you like my interpretation of them! ❤️

In all honesty, I think that all of us make mistakes and James Potter was an infatuated, teenage boy who did something he should not have done in an attempt to ask out the girl he fancied, while also not wanting to lose face in front of a crowd of people, seeing as he was “the cool guy”.

This does not mean that his behaviour is excusable and I certainly think this is something that he and Lily would have addressed. Personally, I imagine that James would have apologized for his action, very badly right after - which did not necessarily help him, because she would have been fuming still - and - after some reflection and conversations with his parents and maybe some of his friends too - in a much more mature and aware manner.

Clearly, I am very fond of both James and Lily, meaning that I wear rose-coloured glasses around them a lot of the time, but I am also a teacher and see this exact demographic of teenage boys and girls every day. Not to mention, that adults are as fallible and make tons of errors too.

I think the important thing - when doing something you should not have - is that you take accountability and recognize that you should have handled things better. What I know from canon is that James Potter was a Gryffindor, that he was a Quidditch Captain, that he was appointed Head Boy, that he was an intelligent young man, that he would rather die than betray his friends, that he became an Animagus to help his suffering werewolf friend, that he was there for his outcast best friend, that he married (Muggleborn) Lily - who always saw the best in people, but also recognized their faults - was a loving father to his son and died protecting two of the people he loved most, facing their enemy without a wand, knowing that he would not survive this encounter.

Rather than looking at his teenage errors, I would like to look at his growth and admire the fact that James Potter - as a very young adult - is incredibly brave and must have loved both Lily and Harry more than he did himself, his final action being the ultimate sacrifice in the hopes of stalling Voldemort enough to save their lives.

This - even though this was not the point of this ask - in juxtaposition to Severus Snape who wanted Lily all to himself and did not care if the people she loved most would die, as long as he could have her.

What I thus see is a true, loving and heroic redemption arc, which leaves much to the imagination, something I am incredibly grateful for.

There is no such thing as black and white, the grey area in between is what makes our characters interesting, but I do believe that James and Lily were inherently good people who chose light and love over darkness and hate.

[messydiabolical]

Just saw a poll about what in fanfics you dislike the most and it reminded me about a specific plot line I see in Thane fics a fair bit and, well I have a lot to say. I've thought about writing this before but I chickened out tbh, I hate getting into discourse generally. I feel the need to preface that this is personal opinion and feelings, no fic authors owe readers a damn thing, and you can write what you damn well want to! Just to make that abundantly clear. This is also not written with any one fic/author in mind, this aint some vague posting attack on any person in particular. It is a trope I have seen occur on multiple occasions with Thane in particular, and one that gives me a lot of feelings. I bloody LOVE a Thane lives AU. That's my jam, no doubt. It's a cathartic, soothing balm for me. And how you choose to get there can vary massively and I love that too. I would say that I prefer when his motivation to persue treatment is based in wanting to live for Kolyat and especially for himself, and not just because his love of Shepard. And while they break my heart, I also think stories that follow canon, or divert from canon but still have him die, are also super important and I applaud the writers who go there, because ouch. Disability and terminal illness are difficult, real subjects and having that representation is so important. I completely understand why there are people who dislike Thane lives. So to the thing I really dislike: nothing makes my stomach drop faster than the disregarding or removal of Thane's bodily autonomy/consent on his own health. They tend to go like this: Thane has decided not to persue any potential treatments, collapses/is rendered otherwise unable to have his say on the matter past his already stated wants, and while unconscious Shepard overrides his DNR wishes and has him given life saving or extending treatments. He wakes up and is upset at Shepard, but ultimately forgives or even thanks them for making that decision for him (basically saying that he was 'wrong' and Shepard was 'right'.) I do think this can be written in an interesting, character study way. There's also those grey area tangents: For example, what if the treatment suddenly becomes available after he's already unable to give consent, one that he was not aware of. Or what if the source of the treatment changes; before he was against a transplant because it would mean taking from another drell, but suddenly cloning or something else becomes available? etc. Perhaps such plot lines have been explored and I've missed them, because unfortunately after reading a handful of the type where he is just wholesale disregarded by Shepard if I get even a whiff of this kind of plotline I abandon the reading. As for why this does not sit well with me at all? It creates a situation where you have to basically make out that Thane was somehow in the wrong for ever feeling that way, that his acceptance of his terminal illness is bad, his motivations wrong. Again, something that can be explored- but not by just wholesale disregarding and overriding him then later teaching him why he was 'wrong'. We are getting into the very murky area of "if a person is depressed/mentally compromised by trauma/their past enough, they are no longer able to make decisions on their own health, this is for their own good'. And- yikes. Red alert. Because that is a story that needs to be handled with so much care, and it absolutely should not be used as a temporary source of angst to further a fucking romance plot. I think this hits hard for me especially as a disabled person who has had to deal with my fair share of medical fuckery. I'm also neurodivergent and have mental health issues. Advocating for myself is something I have had to battle many a time. Anyway hoo I had that one pent up hey? Again, I hope no one feels personally attacked by this. It's my own ick, one that might resonate with some, one that others might completely disagree with.

[threadsun]

👌NOM NOM NOM! That’s some good soup right there! But I’m guessing it could be one of those, “If I had a nickel for every time I said that” kinds of things right? The power y’all doms have I swear! Got me sweating like a sinner in church 😂 In any case, that makes total sense that people would hire him to be more dominant in the bedroom because of his looks. My brain might have a little more trouble imaging a submissive Joesph, but that’s only because of how heavily subby my mind is. It’s also why I’m so grateful seeing other people’s views and perspectives of a character that I may have never thought of before, so how you describe why Joesph would be more of a sub leaning person helps me better connect the dots. OOO but that also means that his sub side kinda still pops out at times as Jack because of his need to make his sunshine feel good and how things like aftercare are so sexy for him. It’s almost taboo for him to have anything similar to Joesph, so those desires to want to be useful connecting both sides of his sexuality could be considered sinful to him in a sense. Like stealing a bite of a cookie that you said you’d save for later because it just tastes so good, but you know it’s bad. I wonder if it’s slightly empowering for Joesph too being a sub. Since he’s felt small and helpless when he was younger, I can see how feeling that way with someone he loves could be healing for him, knowing that they’ll stop if he wants them to. It’s SAFE and like you said, it allows him to be vulnerable. So do you think Jack lied to himself so much about how he would be more dominant to the point that he actually BELIEVES he’s dominant or do you think he’s aware of that sub part of himself he’s repressing? Healing ending Jack/Joesph accepting all parts of himself, including his sexuality is just chicken soup for the soul. Freaking YES to everything you said about Jack.👏 I don’t know how to add on to the deliciousness of that last part so I’m just going to clap instead lol.

-🎃

Oh I love domming, so like every time it hits I'm like >:3c it's just too fun to make people squirm! At all times I'm actively trying not to use my dom voice when talking to people on here. But it turns into a grey area when it comes to writing about sex, so... sometimes it slips out :3c

I think both Jack and Joseph have the full capacity and desire to be switches, but their respective circumstances have pushed them to crave domination and submission respectively. Like I think in a time and place where Joseph feels 100% safe and loved and comfortable in every aspect of his life, he'd want to dom and sub equally. And in a time and place where Jack feels 100% safe and wanted and settled in every aspect of his life(?), he'd want to dom and sub equally too. But in the places they are, Joseph craves the ability to submit fully to someone he trusts to care for him, and Jack craves someone who is devoted enough to submit to him fully. But a bit of it slips out both ways, definitely. Sometimes Joseph's partner just looks so small and cute and flustered by his strength that he can't help but want to dominate them. And sometimes Jack's partner makes him feel so safe and warm and secure that he wants to submit to them and show how good he can be. They're both definitely service oriented in general. Whether they're domming, subbing, topping, bottoming, at the heart of it is service to their partner.

I don't think Jack is aware of any of this. I don't think he's capable of self-awareness without acknowledging more of Joseph than he's comfortable with. If he starts to open that door, if he starts to introspect or think too hard about himself at all, the mask of Jack starts to slip. And he can't allow that, so I think he intentionally refuses to even think about it. So he's wilfully ignorant of his own feelings and motivations and everything beyond the surface level stuff that he can justify as being Jack's.

[fistsoflightning]

sudden deluge

for wolcredweek day 4: rain/sparks

i think everyone should know this one was saved as was ‘thunderclap to ur bf to hug him’

“Looks to be clearing up,” Thancred said, peering through the window across the room, and leaned his shoulder against the wall beside it, arms crossed over his chest. True to his word, when they glanced up the thunderstorm had died down enough that it was only drizzling over the Crystarium, the afternoon skies gone a light bluish-grey with the clouds. “If only you’d seen Captain Lyna’s face when I told her I could take care of the storm.”

Their hands were still occupied toweling off their hair, but Zaya huffed and rolled their eyes from where they were sitting, knowing they were just at the edge of Thancred’s field of vision even half-turned to the window. It was the Scions’ collective delusion that they were the cause of any unnatural or frequent storms in the area—weather was so fickle, and only bowed in the face of immense aetherial disruption, or whatever Urianger had said. After a hundred years of Light of course the weather would be strange, now that it wasn’t being forcefully dragged into eternal stillness.

Still. It did tend to rain a lot when they wanted to go adventuring, especially when they weren’t looking for it. There was only so much they could write off as bad luck before they started to wonder.

They bent over to comfortably dry the back of their head with the too-large towel; it draped over their forehead and caught on the tips of their horns. “You di’n’t do anything,” they said, muffled but teasing. It was nice to hear him not calling himself useless for once—or unneeded, or other words with similar meanings—but this was a little silly. Probably why he was able to do so, but still.

“I came to get you with an umbrella.”

“Still soaked.”

Thancred paused thoughtfully. “Here I thought that was on purpose,” he said, his voice too close to actual remorse, “but if not I apologize for my late arrival. Never studied the weather in Sharlayan, I’m afraid; I was hardly expecting the cloudburst either.”

“‘s okay,” they said, reaching back with both hands to wring their hair in the towel one last time. A haircut might be nice, soon, but they liked how long it was now even if it was a nuisance when wet. “I did stay in it f’r a bit. Was nice.”

He laughed softly. “It is rather warm today, isn’t it? Ryne’ll be complaining about how humid it is later, I’m sure.”

Zaya made a small noise in acknowledgement, finally freeing themselves from the formerly-white towel; they’d forgotten about their face paint earlier, distracted by all the water dripping down their chin, and now there was a blue smudge smack in the middle of it. Thancred hadn’t seemed to care, though, only giving it a amused look before he walked over to the window. Satisfied that their hair wasn’t dripping onto the shoulders of the dry shirt they’d changed into, they reached down for their shoes to dry off the insides, then glanced up again at the window, and to Thancred.

He was still looking out the tall window at the rain, but there was a certain distant look in his eyes. His voice was quieter when he said, mostly to himself, “Never thought I’d end up homesick for rain.”

They blinked a few times. It was a little too easy to forget how long everyone had been living on the First for, some days. Five years on their end had only been a handful of moons back home, even if those moons felt impossibly long for them.

Thancred glanced back at them, as if suddenly remembering he wasn’t alone to—reminisce, or brood, whichever he was doing—then looked back out the window. “It rained for three days straight before you arrived on the First,” he said, voice clearer now for them to hear but no less sentimental. “Somewhat of a blessing, at the time. Upon seeing the night return to Lakeland, Ryne ran away from me to find your fellow Warriors, and you know well how that went. The downpour kept the Eulmoran airships grounded while the Crystarium gathered its forces—and you, though I didn’t know it then.”

Zaya didn’t know what to say to that. They slipped their now-dry leather shoes back on quietly, the light tap-tap of them putting their feet back down on the tiled floor and the patter of rain against the window the only sounds for a while.

When he spoke up next it was with an exhale, like he was clearing something heavy from his lungs. “When I managed to catch up to Ryne, close enough to see Laxan Loft and the Eulmorans, I remember seeing the curtain of rain and thinking—‘They’re finally here,’” he said. He looked at them almost teasingly, except his eyes were too soft at the corners, matching his smile just shy of a smirk. “It was as if the skies opened the floodgates in preparation for your arrival. Had to get to the Crystarium just to be able to dry off.”

That was even sillier than the belief that they left rain and storms in their wake—they weren’t even on the same shard when it had happened—and Zaya started to laugh without sound but not out of mirth, the muscles in their throat feeling tight and relieved all at once. Thancred finally turned away from the window and the rain to look at them with a slight frown.

“Was what I said that ridiculous?” he asked, but they shook their head and left him to sort out the confusion on his face. Tossing the towel onto the bench, Zaya stood up and with a light crackle of sparks at their heels rushed over, appearing at his side before he could register the sound and wrapping their arms around his neck, pushing up on their toes to not throw him off balance any more than necessary when his head dipped down suddenly from their weight.

“Missed you too,” they said, voice embarrassingly thick for something so little as words. Their face grew hot, but maybe Thancred would pass both off as a side effect of having to tilt their head up not to stab him with their horns, their throat pressed right against his shoulder.

It took a moment, but eventually Thancred returned their hug, and it didn’t matter that they’d already told him how much he was missed before because he tipped his head to press a kiss to their pulse and said, “I suppose I did, didn’t I.”

[waitingforwinterwinds]

ASOS; Steel and Snow: 14 CATELYN II (pages 188-201)

Robb returns to Riverrun, Catelyn meets her surprise new daughter-in-law, and Edmure learns his victory against Tywin was not the best outcome.

-

"King Robb has returned from the west, my lady," the knight said, "and commands that you attend him in the great Hall." It was the moment she had dreamt of and dreaded. Have I lost two sons, or three? She would know soon enough.

Reading this line and my first thought is just "there's more than just one way to lose someone." And I think Cat's aware of that, especially with how she's been treated and shunned for releasing Jaime, even if Robb returns alive, he might turn his back on her too. Treat her like the enemy because (it feels like) she's the only one who even seems to remember that Sansa and Arya are still hostages.

(Well not really Arya, not that anyone knows that at the moment outside that little in and King's Landing. But very much it's like no one else cares about the why now that Ned's dead.)

"- Love is not always wise, I've learned. It can lead us to great folly, but we follow our hearts... wherever they take us. Don't we, Mother?" ... "Forgive him, Mother." "If you will forgive me." "I have. I know what it is to love so greatly you can think of nothing else."

Cat, my beloved, let me translate what he's circling around. "Ma, I kinda sorta fucked up, because I couldn't keep it in my pants, but also let's not focus on that too hard because you fucked up too and honestly I think we should all just let bygones be bygones on this one, okay? no blame for anyone? plz?"

all hail king robb, the oathbreaker. but let's not talk about that. I'm sure it will have zero consequences later down the track. (exhausted sarcasm)

She had the uneasy feeling that someone was missing, too. ... It was only then that Catelyn realized what was amiss. The wolf. The wolf is not here. Where is Grey Wind? She knew the direwolf had returned with Robb, she had heard the dogs, but he was not in the hall, not at her son's side where he belonged.

It's actually kind of interesting, ... how to put this? I dunno, I'll just ramble it out and hope that it makes sense.

First of all I suppose: look at that foreshadowing, Grey Wind not being with Robb, and we'll call back to one of Ned's chapters (GoT) just after Summer saved Cat and Bran, where Ned realised that the Wolves were sent to protect his children.

This is the moment, for those of us who've already read or seen the show, we know that Robb's done something he can't come back from, this is the moment we see him set on the path to death.

But it's interesting in that, with Bran and Rickon and Jon, there's a steady presence of their wolves even when they go hunting or aren't by their side, there's still a connection, between the boys and the wolves and Winterfell/the Stark family.

The girls both lost their wolves, Nymeria to the wilderness, Lady to misplaced duty and death, but it's not them being cut off from their heritage at all, it's representative of how their home intertwines with the support they've been receiving. ( "support," "receiving," for given values.)

Sansa (and I have seen the theories that Lady's death means she's not a Stark, and the theory that like the warg who got stuck in the bird, Lady did a reverse and is still with Sansa in spirit) has no help from former allies, she's stuck in place, her help is coming from people with a connection to her mother, and from herself.

Arya literally just reconnected with a man from Winterfell after helping free some of her brother's men, she and Nymeria were in the same area, Nymeria was helping her, but Arya's path is leading her back north to Winterfell (for now) and reconnecting her with those allies (for good or ill) before she'll be lead away from that path again to Braavos (the wilderness, metaphorically).

Jon and Bran are both shown warging with their wolves, but the wolves are both wandering away from them and home to them, and their own paths lead them away from and back to allies and familiarity.

And Rickon is a feral baby.

There is a reflection in the wolves and the fate of the stark children, not about blood rights, or inheritance, or whether they are part of the family, but in... pack bonds, for lack of a better term.

For Grey Wind to be missing in these moments, feels like a reflection of the broken bond, the broken oath which will lead to Robb's death.

... Well, at least Lady Mormont and Greatjon are on Catelyn's side with the Jaime-exchange plan... or understanding of it.

The first thought that flew across Catelyn's mind was, No, that cannot be, you are only a child. The second was, And besides, you have pledged to another. The third was, Mother have mercy, Robb, what have you done?

quick on the uptake, if only her eldest son had inherited her intelligence. I'm sorry Robb, I'm being very mean to you, but you just did such a stupid thing.

"- Jeyne had me taken to her own bed, and she nursed me until the fever passed. And she was with me when the Greatjon brought me the news of... of Winterfell. Bran and Rickon." He seemed to have trouble saying his brothers' names. "That night, she... she comforted me, Mother."

Oh? She got you in her bed before she got you in her bed, did she? I'd love to know whose plan that was, hers or one of the adults in her life.

Well played though, shame their efforts to secure themselves to Robb's crown safety are what led to the Red Wedding. (Let's not kid ourselves, it was probably the crown.) And involved taking advantage of an emotionally vulnerable, possibly medicated boy.

(I do wonder if the swap from this Jeyne to Talisa more about false-feminism brownie points - Look, our love interest isn't like other girls, she's a cool battle field medic! Girl Boss! Empowerment! Don't you mansplain politics to her you man! - or about making Robb look like less of a boob by giving him pseudo-agency, and turning his flustered teenage boy hormones and sense of honour into a battlefield romance.)

"- If I'd listened to you and kept Theon as my hostage, I'd still rule the north, and Bran and Rickon would be alive and safe in Winterfell." "Perhaps. Or not. Lord Balon might still have chanced war. -"

Oh he would have, he'd already given Theon up for dead (or worse: turned into a delicate wilting flower like the rest of those land-lubbers!)

Robb bristled at that. "The Westerlings are better blood than the Freys. They're an ancient line, descended from the First Men. The Kings of the Rock sometimes wed Westerlings before the Conquest, and there was another Jeyne Westerling who was queen to King Maegor three hundred years ago."

... which Maegor? Cause babe? Probably not the positive argument you think it is.

...brb, wiki.

... Maegor as in Maegor the Cruel... Jeyne was one of three women he widowed during the wars then wed in a single ceremony (where her son by her dead husband was used as a hostage to force her to go through with it), called the 'black brides' ... got pregnant and ... ah, yeah, there it is: premature labour resulting in a still-born and malformed feotus, Jeyne died shortly afterwards.

Robb: "She'll make a great wife mum, she even shares her name with another queen!" The other queen: widowed and killed in childbirth losing the baby.

Damn. GRRM did not pull punches on this one.

"- Grey Wind doesn't like her uncle either. He bares his teeth every time Ser Rolph comes near him." A chill went through her. "Send Ser Rolph away. At once."

Cat's got more of an eye for the wolf warnings than the boy with the wolf bond. Probably helps that she's not addled by hormones right now, but you'd think Robb would be vibing.

... oh good, and now Robb and Blackfish are telling of Edmure.

I feel I'd enjoy that a lot more if it didn't boil down to "how dare you do things without telling us, now you've upset the plans we had that we told you absolutely nothing about nor indicated you needed to stay out of, how dare you take initiative."

People in this series either need to stop getting upset at people for taking initiative and acting with incomplete information, assuming they get any information to begin with, or start sharing information with their family members/closest allies.

... learning that Edmure's sallie against Tywin led to Stannis' loss from the rear at King's Landing does change the context of Edmure being the sacrificial Groom at the Twins.

[serenailith]

forgiveness is such a simple word (but it's so hard to do when you've been hurt)

for @dreamlingbingo

Square: b5, too late Rating: g Word Count: 4465 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling, eleanor & hob gadling, death of the endless & hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - no powers, alternate universe - human, heartbreak, begging for forgiveness Summary:

Hob will do anything to win Morpheus back. Unfortunately, Morpheus isn't as receptive to those attempts as Hob might have hoped.

Link: on ao3

second half of this (ao3 | tumblr) masterlist

Hob stares at Doctor Morris (which sounds so similar to Morpheus that it causes a physical ache in Hob’s chest, or maybe it’s the same ache that has yet to disappear since Morpheus left). His boss stares back. There’s no amusement on his face, and Hob knows without a doubt that this is his final chance. Doctor Morris means it: If Hob doesn’t get his head on straight, he’ll be out of a job. A job he actually enjoys.

Promising that things will change, he forces a smile and waits for his boss to walk away. Hob sighs and drops to sit on the stool. How can things change when Morpheus is still gone? It’s been two weeks, and there has been no sign of him. Hob hasn’t heard from Morpheus, and it’s killing him inside.

What’s worse is the jumper that Morpheus left behind. It used to be Hob’s. It had been his favourite golden-yellow wool thing, but Morpheus had borrowed it the first night he stayed over in Hob’s flat and that was it. Hob refused to take it back–“Looks better on you, love,” he’d said. “Though, if I’m honest, it would look much better on the floor.”

It still smells like Morpheus, and Hob dies a little bit more as he clutches it to his nose, breathing in the scent of clean linen and cloves.

Morpheus’s candles still reside in their places on the shelves around the flat. Hob burns one for approximately five minutes: The smell of a rainstorm is too much. He leaves the candles where they are and avoids looking at them. Sometimes, though, he thinks he can smell them in the air.

He can still hear Morpheus’s laughter, quiet and measured with everyone else but so carefree with Hob. He snorts at the end of each laugh when he’s laughing with Hob. Hob remembers the first time he’d heard the little snort. Morpheus had flushed so deep a red that Hob worried for his heart. After all, that much blood rushing to one area couldn’t have been healthy.

After a while of no judgement from Hob, Morpheus had grown more confident and stopped caring about how his laugh sounded. Hob has thought it beautiful from the start.

Everything about Morpheus is beautiful. His bright grey-blue eyes that say so much, the wild mass of hair atop his head, the stretch of pale skin as he lies nude, sprawled beside Hob in their bed. There has always been a depth to his soul that captivates Hob, his words planned to maximise effect, to elicit emotions Hob never thought he possessed. He can craft worlds and stories as fine as silk, as detailed as the richest tapestries.

Hob misses the nights Morpheus would whisper plans for his newest novel in the dark, as if speaking the words in the daytime would ruin the magic. Perhaps it would. Hob would never fall asleep until long after Morpheus did; he was too preoccupied with the imagery dredged up in Morpheus’s voice roughened with his fatigue. Many nights, Hob dreamt of the worlds Morpheus spoke of.

His novels remain on the bookshelves. Each one stares back at Hob, judges him for letting their author go. Hob scowls at them, yanking Morpheus’s debut from the shelf. What do they know, anyway? But they know as much as Morpheus. He’d poured so many tears and a lifetime of love and devotion into each word. Hob had spent hours listening to his boyfriend rant about plot-points that wouldn’t resolve themselves, gush about the characters he brought to life, lament about the latest critical review while blushing at every positive one. Hob has each of them saved in a document on his laptop.

Morpheus never understood, but he didn’t need to. It was enough for Hob. His pride for his boyfriend was enough.

Why couldn’t he be?

How could he have let it get to this point?

Morpheus grins up at him, his hands tangled in Hob’s hair. He tugs Hob down until their lips collide, and he opens easily until Hob is drunk on the taste. He groans and settles more securely over Morpheus. The kiss drags on, barely interrupted as Hob shifts to align his cock with Morpheus’s. To stroke them as one until they come together—or as close to “together” as he can get. It doesn’t matter; it’s a gorgeous sight to see Morpheus falling apart beneath him, to taste the desperation on his tongue.

Hob startles awake, squeezing his eyes closed against the hot tears burning paths along his cheeks. That had been the first time they ever did anything intimate. He hadn’t been ready for more, and Morpheus had been so damn understanding. He hadn’t pushed. He’d only waited until Hob took them further. He’d promised Hob that it was worth the wait: “It was as amazing as you are,” he’d said before pinning Hob beneath him with another searing kiss.

Eleanor arrives on his doorstep only thirty minutes after the phone call. In one hand, she holds a bottle of wine. In the other is a box of tissues. Hob nearly breaks down at the sight of her there. They may have broken up long ago, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still friends. Or perhaps the time has allowed them to move from lovers to friends again. She bustles about the kitchen as if she lives in the flat. As if she knows where everything is. Maybe she does.

Hob has been accused more than once of being a creature of habit in some regards.

“Oh, Hobs,” she groans when he tells her the truth nearly forty-five minutes later–three-quarters of an hour spent drinking wine in silence. He tells her that the man he loves left almost three weeks ago and hasn’t contacted Hob at all. Not even to tell him to fuck off and die (as if Morpheus would ever say such a thing). “You utter idiot.”

Hob snorts and curls further in on himself. “Thanks, El. Knew I could count on you to make me feel better.”

“You rang me to tell the truth, not to sugarcoat and lie. And the truth is you’ve done a poor job of being there for Morpheus lately, haven’t you.” She sighs and reaches for his hand; he lets her lace their fingers together. “Hob, you always went out of your way to make me happy, often to the detriment of your responsibilities. You did the same with him until recently. What’s changed?”

Hob stares at his feet, at the sheep print on his socks. Morpheus bought them for him. Morpheus bought a lot of novelty socks for Hob, and though he didn’t like many of them, Hob never got rid of a single pair. Not even the ones with his face printed on them, mouth agape as he drooled in his sleep.

Eleanor’s question is a good one. What has changed in the last few months? She’s right: He has always, without hesitation, put his relationship before a lot of things. Work, friends, even his family sometimes. He can’t think of anything, any reason that he would have cast Morpheus aside as he has.

He admits as much to his ex-girlfriend, and she blows out a breath and squeezes his hand. Hob swallows down the last mouthful of wine in his glass then sets it down to grab the bottle. The very empty bottle. He exhales sharply and flops against the back of the couch. Eleanor glances at the clock on the wall, cursing under her breath when she sees the time.

“I’m so sorry, Hob, but I have class. I can stay if you really want me to, though.”

“No, no. Go on. Don’t let me hold you up.”

She rises to her feet with a grace that reminds him too harshly of Morpheus. Her ocean-deep eyes find his, her gaze so knowing and–not pitying, she’d never, and she cups his cheek with a warm, gentle hand.

“Things won’t always be so bleak, Hobsie.”

“What if he doesn’t come back?” Hob croaks out, and her thumb brushes away a tear.

“Oh, love, you always were a resilient one. You’ll make it through, no matter how it hurts.”

She leaves him with a kiss to his forehead, and Hob watches the door close behind her. Her perfume lingers in the air, so familiar and not what he wants to smell. He gropes blindly for the blanket Morpheus always keeps on the back of the couch and wraps it around himself. There is no chill in the room; it’s all from within.

“I don’t want to make it through,” he whispers, a broken crackle of sound in the silence, “not without him.”

The quiet is deafening.

It’s been one month, two weeks, four days, seventeen hours, five minutes, and thirty-nine seconds… Forty… Forty-one… Hob wrenches his gaze away from his watch and knocks again.

Footsteps approach on the other side, the click of heeled boots. She must have just arrived home. Hob would feel guilty for disrupting her time, but this is more important than she is.

“Oh.”

“Hey, Tel.”

Morpheus’s sister sighs, hand coming up to rest on the door frame. “What are you doing here, Hob?”

“Is he here?”

“No.” Teleute raises a brow then sighs again. Her expression softens. “He left a few days ago.”

A few days. Hob is late by a few fucking days, and now Morpheus is somewhere out of reach once more. He clears his throat but can’t breathe properly. Teleute cocks her head and shifts her weight between her feet. Her gaze is too knowing, too heavy on Hob’s shoulders, and he wants to scream. He wants to curse at her for not sending Morpheus back home to where he belongs. He wants to rail against the universe for everything that’s gone wrong lately.

It’s his fault, but damn it, it’s unfair.

“Where did he go?”

“Hob, you know I can’t tell you that.”

“Please. Please, Teleute. I need to know.”

Teleute scowls and clenches her fingers around the doorframe. Hob fully expects her to shut the door in his face, so he’s surprised when she speaks: “You hurt him, Hob. Like, really hurt him. I’ve never seen him so upset, and I was there for his first heartbreak.”

“Tel–”

“No. You listen. Morpheus has never loved anyone as much as he loves you, and you decided to be selfish and forget that. You took advantage of the fact that he was always gonna be there for you. Whether you meant to or not is irrelevant. It happened, and now I’m the one helping him pick up the pieces of his heart.”

“I–”

“Hob.” Her shoulders slump, and she closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, the deep brown glistens with unshed tears. “He was devastated when he showed up here. He never wanted to leave you, but you pushed him away.”

“I want to fix this, Teleute. You have to believe me.”

“I do,” she murmurs after a moment. “I do believe you. And I know that once upon a time, you made him happier than ever. I… I want to believe you can again.”

Hob doesn’t dare breathe as she stares at him. He doesn’t dare believe she’s saying what he thinks she is saying. After all, she’s angry for the way he treated her brother. He is angry at himself for the way he treated her brother. Teleute holds up a finger and walks away. Hob waits and waits and waits until she comes back. Between her fingers is a piece of paper.

“He’ll hate me for this. Make it worth it, Gadling.”

“I will. God, I fucking will,” he swears as he turns toward the street.

“Oh, Hob?” she calls, and he glances back at her. “If you fuck this up again, I will be first in line to beat you senseless.”

“I’d let you. Thank you, Tel.”

The paper holds an address. Hob punches it in on his GPS and frowns when the data loads. The dot pings in the middle of a sea of green–trees. There’s nothing around that Hob can see. Where the Hell is Morpheus at? Instead of wasting time questioning it, he puts the car into gear and peels away.

The entire two-hour drive is spent rehearsing, practicing promises and apologies over and over until it’s smooth. Perfect. Enough to win Morpheus over once more. It’s everything Hob thinks will work. It has to work. Hob can’t lose another love, especially not Morpheus who has brought joy to his life in ways no else ever has..

Thunder rolls, lightning forks across the sky in the distance. Hob runs his hand through his hair and prays to reach his destination before the rain lets loose–he loathes driving in inclement weather. His car can hardly handle it, and his nerves definitely can’t.

His GPS dings, tells him he’s approaching the turn-off, so he slows and flicks on his indicator. The smooth road disappears from under his tires with his turn. The driveway is little more than dirt, and the car bounces over small hills and divots in the ground. He grits his teeth at a particularly deep pothole, muttering an apology to his car as if it can hear and appreciate his words.

Finally, Hob comes to a stop behind a small silver sedan. Teleute’s, he knows, having borrowed it once when his own was in the shop after an accident. Morpheus had vowed after that to never get behind the wheel again; it took seven months before Hob convinced him that it was an accident and therefore nothing to feel ashamed over. Hob certainly wasn’t angry that Morpheus had been sideswiped on his way home from the shops. All he cared about was that his boyfriend was uninjured.

Even with Morpheus’s assurances that he was without damage to his being, Hob had doted on him for weeks after. Spoiled him rotten.

Shaking violently, Hob draws in a steadying breath and pushes open his door. Dry grass crunches beneath his feet as he strides toward the cabin before him, and he wonders without real curiosity how Morpheus even found this place. His knuckles ache with the force of his knock, and Hob grimaces at the sound. He hadn’t meant to knock so hard.

The door opens, and Hob gets a split-second look at Morpheus’s pleased smile before it disappears. Before Morpheus slams the door shut once more.

Hob swallows against the lump growing in his throat. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, of course; that would have been absurd. This is actually exactly like Morpheus. Sweet though he can be, he’s also got a temper that doesn’t allow much room for listening. Not at first. It always takes him far too long to open his ears.

But this is important, so Hob will wait as long as it takes. Even if it takes years, he will wait for Morpheus’s patience, his understanding, his forgiveness.

So he knocks again, calling out loudly enough for his voice to carry through the wood, “I’m not going anywhere, Morpheus. I’ll stay here all night if I have to. I—I can’t leave here without you.”

Silence but for the slow-rolling thunder overhead. Hob knocks again and, when there is still no response, blinks quickly to rid his eyes of the burning. Resting his forehead against the door, he squeezes his eyes closed and fights to quell the sob struggling to break free.

“Morpheus, please. I just… I don’t want to lose you for good. I love you, even though I’ve been shit at showing it lately. I need you. You are the better half to me, the one person I have always counted on to be by my side. You—you make me laugh, and you make the bad days less awful. You make them amazing, just by being in my life. Being there when I get home. Please. Don’t—don’t make me live without you.”

It’s hardly the polished speech he’d practiced, but it’s far more heartfelt, he thinks. He raises a hand, hesitates, then curls his fingers in against his palm. Knocking does no good. Morpheus is far too stubborn to give in. Hob knows it. He had just hoped it would be different. That Morpheus would realise he needs Hob just as much as Hob needs him.

That he would open the door and forgive Hob, come home with him. Hob is so goddamn tired of sleeping alone, of being alone.

“Morpheus. I’m begging. I’ll get on my knees for you, if that’s what it takes.”

In response to his pleas, the sky breaks open. There is no warning, there are no slow drops; the dark grey clouds release all their moisture in one go. Hob’s hair plasters itself to his skin within seconds. His clothes are no better. He shivers in the sudden chill but doesn’t move.

He made a vow to himself to not leave without Morpheus.

His voice grows hoarse with use by the time the door opens a crack. He hadn’t heard the locks over the thunder and crash of rain on the leaves of the surrounding trees. He pushes a lock of soaked hair from his face and meets Morpheus’s gaze.

Guilt lives on the other man’s face, and he glances behind Hob before stepping back. Hob hurries inside before Morpheus can change his mind. This is good, he thinks. This is one step toward reconciliation.

“You can sleep on the couch,” Morpheus says quietly, “and leave in the morning.”

Leave? “So there’s no chance you’ll hear me out, then?” Hob croaks, and Morpheus frowns but avoids looking at Hob.

“I already have, if you recall the last two hours. But nothing you have said changes how you made me feel for too long.”

“I know. God, I know this. I just… I’m asking—begging—for another chance. I’ll prove I’ve changed. That I’m the man you fell in love with.”

Morpheus’s blue eyes finally focus on Hob. Dark lashes frame them so beautifully. He chews on his lower lip for a long moment, then: “That is not a risk I can take. I deserve better than what you have given me.”

He turns away before Hob can speak. Hob stands there, rainwater dripping to the wood floor, as Morpheus moves about the cabin. He comes back with two towels and a thick blanket. He stays silent while handing them to Hob then disappears into what Hob assumes is the bedroom.

The door closes with a pointed click.

Hob bites the inside of his cheek to stop the curse. Stripping quickly, he scrubs himself dry before draping his wet clothes over the back of the dining chairs. His skin prickles in the cool air of the cabin, despite the fire in the fireplace. He rushes toward the blanket he’d tossed onto the couch, wraps himself in it, and drops to sit on the cushions.

The bedroom door stays shut. Tears burn in his eyes, slip down his cheeks without permission. He doesn’t bother wiping them away. More will only take their place, anyway. He’s never felt this way before. He’s never felt as if Morpheus is so close yet so far. There’s an ocean between them, and Hob isn’t sure if he’ll sink or swim.

He slowly, eventually, falls asleep.

“—no right.”

Hob’s eyes fly open at Morpheus’s voice. It’s a tone he hasn’t heard in a long time, not since Dee nearly broke them up six months into their relationship. Sitting up, Hob scrubs a hand over his eyes and shamelessly listens in.

“No, Tel, I do not care for your reasons!… Because I left for my own reasons. You should have respected that… Yes, I know that. And I love you, too, but he is not the best for me. Not anymore.”

Hob claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sob that suddenly bursts free. He reaches for the throw pillow and buries his face in it.m as Morpheus continues.

“He is leaving today… I’m certain. And Tel? You would do well to never meddle in my affairs again.”

By the time Morpheus emerges from the bedroom, Hob has dressed in his still-damp clothing. He swallows past the lump in his throat, tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Morpheus stands before him in a pair of sweats and his favourite jumper.

“I guess I really am too late to change your mind, so I’ll leave you alone. I… I’m so fucking sorry for all I’ve done to hurt you, Dream.”

“You lost the right to call me that,” Morpheus snaps. It takes all of Hob’s willpower to not rear back at the venom in his great love’s voice. Then Morpheus’s shoulders slump, his face twisting up. “Do not call me that. Please.”

Hob snorts, shakes his head. “You’ll always be my dream, even though I’ve not shown that to you in quite a while. I wish you the best.”

Hob turns away before Morpheus can see the tears and heads out to his car. Thirty minutes and a lot of cursing later, he gets the vehicle unstuck from the mud. He can see Morpheus’s face in the front window as he leaves the cabin behind.

Three days. Three days after Hob admits defeat. That’s all it takes before Doctor Morris fires him. Security shows Hob from the building, though he wasn’t planning on making a scene. He may love the job, but it’s lost its joy. So many things have lost their appeal. God, he needs Morpheus again.

His phone fills with missed calls and unanswered texts from Crispin, Eleanor, even Teleute. He ignores them all; none of them bother to search for him at the rundown pub he sequesters himself in night after night. He avoids the White Horse—they know to look for him there. It was his and Morpheus’s favourite place to drink and people-watch. Hob no longer people-watches. It hurts too much to see happy couples and remember all the backstories Morpheus would create about perfect strangers.

Unfortunately, no job means no income. He’s spent the last three weeks drinking away the money he’d had squirreled away; he would have had more if it weren’t for the box hiding at his parents’ house.

He loathes himself for having to ask his mum for help covering his rent. I’m officially the lowest I’ve ever been. How pathetic he’s become.

He stumbles to the door, vision blurring and world swirling. His chest still aches, feels tight in a way that hasn’t gone away since Morpheus left. He can barely put one foot in front of the other; he thinks it might not be just the drink. His entire body has hurt this entire time.

“Hob.”

Hob barely registers the way Morpheus’s eyes widen when Hob opens the door, as if he’s horrified by what he sees. He repeats Hob’s name in an undertone. Hob squints though he means to glare.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“Thought nothing I say can make you love me again,” and God, his voice slurs. Yeah, he’s pathetic.

“I will always love you, Hob. That is the problem.”

Hob flinches at Morpheus’s word choice, quickly moving aside when Morpheus brushes past. He comes to a stop in the middle of the living room and waits until Hob has closed the door to speak.

“I cannot stop loving you, no matter how I try. I… I thought I could push down everything I feel for you except the hurt and anger. I needed to hold onto those, or I would have allowed myself to fall back into the rut we became stuck in. However, trying not to think about you meant all I thought about was you.”

Hob curls in on himself, crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, well, who says I want to hear what you have to say?”

“Listen, please. I am begging you.”

“Fuck no! I begged you to listen to me, to hear me out, yet I wasn’t worth the time. And don’t give me that shit about how badly I hurt you to the point you couldn’t give me the time of day despite the claims that you love me.”

“Shut up!” he shouts, and Hob’s teeth clack together as his mouth slams closed. “Let me speak, fuck.”

It’s the curse that does it. Hob stumbles to the couch, dropping inelegantly to sit on the couch. Morpheus remains standing, and Hob has the wild thought that Morpheus has always been bigger than him, bigger than life. A being of endless everything. Morpheus finally sits beside him.

“Though I said I did not want to hear you out when you showed up at the cabin, I did. I listened to every word, and it hurt to hear. I listened, and I ached for you. I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into your arms and forgive you. To go back to how things were before.” Morpheus sighs. “I couldn’t, though. I said it before: I deserve better than how things grew to be, Hob, and I can’t let anyone, not even you, treat me less than that.”

“I apologised for that,” Hob protests. “I swore to you that I’ve changed. Why forgive me now?” he asks softly, voice cracking.

“Because I was reminded by Teleute that you made me happier than I had ever been before. She told me she was always jealous of how fiercely you love me, how you did everything to make me happy. I realised I… I do not want to live without you, either, Hob.” He turns toward Hob, cool hand coming up to cup Hob’s cheek. It slides to wrap around the back of his neck, and Hob shivers. “I love you, Hob Gadling, and I am so sorry it took so long to remember that.”

Hob’s breath hitches, a slight sob, as Morpheus kisses him gently, hesitantly. It hurts—it kills Hob—to be kissed like this after so long with nothing. Hob cherishes the ache, the pain. It means everything to him. He pulls away far enough to rest his forehead against Morpheus’s.

“Love…”

“Can you forgive me?” Morpheus whispers.”

Hob laughs hoarsely and nods. “Nothing to forgive, my dear Dream. Forgive me?”

“I do.”

Hob loves the sound of that, the words that have slipped from his love’s lips. He wants to hear it in every setting, but especially before family and friends. He doesn’t say that, though—it’s not the right time, but it will be. Eventually.

He kisses Morpheus once again. And again. And again, for good measure.

[tigerbears]

DNI footnotes/explanations.

Realized my DNI got a bit wordy so I decided to put the long text here instead of in the introduction. Full DNI list is in the introduction, and this is only the footnotes for a few select items on the list.

(Footnote 01): "DNI if you ship THOSE ships. Y'know, the ones which involve some form of i*nest or p*dophilia."

I don't want to get into the flipping "pro-ship/con-ship" discourse. Those who harass people for making reprehensible content aren't much better then said people making reprehensible content, and honestly I don't care about this terminally online crap beyond my own boundaries with who I want to interact. I do not pick a sides.

Both Antis and Proshipers seem guilty of harassment, the difference is Antis seem to lack media-literacy and are unable to understand that people should be allowed to write about dark and uncomfortable topics, and Proshippers don't understand that how said dark/uncomfortable topics are depicted and handled fucking matters, and you can't just hand-wave "depiction doesn't mean endorsement" in every single situation.

That being said, if your interested in these relationships not because you like the two together, but because you want to explore these uncomfortable topics (while handling it with care and recognizing yes this is very fucked up and your supposed to be horrified, instead of treating it like "awww isn't it nice how these two characters are in a relationship.") Then yeah, that's fine I guess because unfortunately, these f*cked up things both happened in the past (looking at you Hellenic Egypt and Ancient Greece) and unfortunately still happen now. Not really interested in fan works that depict characters I like as bloody gr*omers but you do you.

However, if you don't tackle that and just ship the two characters like nothing is wrong with the situation, I'm going to think you're a weirdo/creep and ask you to not interact with me. At first glance I'll assume you're the latter and not the former. If you are the former please make it clear your not the latter. (and no if you're the latter and are using the former as a shield without doing anything, you don't get a pass.)

I guess there's some gray area where you age up Frisk in a Frans AU while steel acknowledging that canonically in UT's canon their a child, which I still think is fucking weird but whatever, don't interact with me but as long as your not using it as a shield while actually doing nothing to age up then whatever.

I'll also think it's weird if you like, try and justify why Chara and Asriel aren't actually siblings despite Gerson mentioning the Dreemurr's children in plural, or why Lancer is actually a teenager and not a child but whatever. I don't care about this stupid pro/anti-ship discourse. I'll just silently be like "that's weird I don't like it" and move on with my life because two wrongs don't make a write.

Two things can be true, that it's weird and creepy to ship i*and p*dophilia in a "it's nice how these two characters are together" way, and that harassing people for doing so isn't much better.

Also to clerify, Friskriel and Charisk don't fall under this DNI unless specific extenuating circumstances are in effect. Friskriel is fine unless Toriel adopts Frisk because then it's incest. Charisk is fine, and I guess there's some grey area in "is it moral to date a ghost that used to be your mom's adopted child like 100s years ago" because of I guess that lacks the whole "power dynamic" issue, but if it's a "save ghost pal" situation where Chara's magically alive because ????? and Toriel adopts Frisk then it's incest. (Hey things get complected when one of the characters is dead!) I will give the benefit of the doubt and assume Friskriel and Charisk isn't the incestuous versions unless stated otherwise.

(FOOTNOTE 02): "Kralsei just barely gets a pass until we know what Ralsei is. Potential reveals may push the ship into the DNI zone."

This is only until we get an answer on what Ralsei is. There's still the caveat of "there's some sort of connection between him and Asriel due to the anagram, and characters drawing attention to the resemblance so future reveals may push the ship into the yikesy category." The resemblance is concerning but I'm just not going to touch the ship until we know more about what Ralsei is.

Currently, I just see Kralsei shippers similarly those who shipped Luke and Laia in 1982, as ROTJ isn't out yet so you don't know that they were siblings. (Except for the Kralsei example we know he's somehow connected to Asriel, while with Luke and Laia it was a retcon in ROTJ and SW fans pre-1983 had no reason to be worried, especially seeing as they f--king kissed.)

I don't think Ralsei is Asriel, but if its revealed that Ralsei is like a personification of Kris's familial love for their brother or something, then that's going to push Kralsei into the "OH GOD YIKES" category and if you still ship them after that reveal, please don't interact.

Still, even the best case scenario for Kralsei is going to feel weird to me just because of Ralsei's connections to Asriel but again I'm withholding judgment until we know what Ralsei is. At best Kralsei's going to be kind of weird at worst it's going to be "OH GOD YIKES!" (and this isn't even taking into account Kris's whole possession situation and how that would impact their consent in any relationship seeing as were controlling them.)

(Footnote 03): Please tag your anti-ship or anti-character posts, or I will likely block you.

I don't really care about shipping discourse and stuff (beyond the above "DNI if you ship yikes ships"), but please if you make anti-ship or anti-character posts tag them as anti-[ship name here] (E.G "anti-suselle" or "anti-kris" or any anti-tag equivalent). If you don't and instead just use the normal ship or character tag, I'll likely block you because I follow that tag for anything but posts bashing that character or ship.

I don't care if you hate a ship or character that I love, (i may make posts defending a ship/character, or debunking arguments against them without targeting anyone individually), but generally if you hate a relationship I love I don't care. I just don't want to see anti-suselle posts tagged with just "suselle," or "Chara's horrible" posts that ignore the nuance because I follow the suselle and Chara Dreemurr tags to see anything but "This ship/character is bad." Just do the basic thing and tag your anti-ship posts that's all I ask.

I used to be pretty loose with blocks (and honestly the more time goes on the more likely I'm going to be chill with blocks.) In the past I used to only block if there were extreme circumstances involved.

(Basically, p*rn bots, explicit NSFW blogs with untagged nudity, blogs with "yikes ships" who interact with me, blogs run by TERFs and other phobic weirdos, or just generally if you're being a dick.)

Inadequate tagging is a nowblock-able offense, and as I'm getting more lose with blocking in the future, I might block some just because "There's Nothing Wrong With Them But I Their Take on [Character_Name_Here] Is Just God Awful."

Return to my introduction here.

[we-stan-the-stans-27]

Dead Asleep AU?

Okay, so I kind of wanted to write another part/version of that sleeping beauty AU from the other week. But this time, Stanley is the one who gets too suffer! HAHAH!

So, here is part two. Also, I posted both parts up on my Ao3 account and I'll link it here if you want to save it for later or whatever.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62066953/chapters/158737552#main

And of course, I'm going to @sixerstanley again! Because this was their idea. Now. Let's get into being evil. Heheh.

(I had most of this done on the tenth, but then I basically died and couldn't finish. So, enjoy. That live stream was like crack or something. Idk guys.)

Truth be told all of Stan Pines favorite and happiest memories took place on a boat. It didn't matter if it was on some crappy litter scattered beach.

It was theirs and nothing could soil those memories. Back then all that mattered was the hot burning sand, maybe the stings of glass cuts across a sole, and tumbling along getting hurt, hand in hand.

Sure, it took forty damn years to get back there, but he's anything if not stubborn. And it paid off.

What's that saying? 'Most gamblers call it quits right before striking it big?'

Good thing he never stopped betting with higher and higher stakes then, right?

The future is much brighter because of it. The deck of the ship has a sharp bite to it now. From one extreme to the next. A hot infected wound, now soothed by a cold compress.

The arctic Ocean.

There isn't a lot in the area for fishing, but there is still plenty of wildlife to watch from the top deck if your patient.

Late at night the sky lights up with the northern lights, or 'Aurora Borealis' if you speak blabbering scientist. It's beautiful and a new flavor of Ford's favorite activity, Stargazing.

Out at sea there is no better place for it without any light pollution. Just them, the universe, and the expansive inky blackness below.

Sitting out on the deck, fish watching with a pair of binoculars, the world is practically blinding this time of the afternoon. The white overcast clouds mixed with the occasional chunk of ice covered in snow lights up the world like being inside a light bulb.

That's not what pulls Stanley's attention from the endless water he's been looking at all morning though. Finally, he sees something!

Off the starboard side from where they've been anchored a group of Narwhals is swimming by, long tusks poking out of the water and interrupting the sleek outline of the waves.

"Sixer, get the hell up here!" He knows his brother won't be nearly as excited about seeing this marvel as he is, but Stan still wants to share it with him anyway.

Just because Ford saw a million different impossible things through the portal doesn't mean whales aren't interesting too. Sure, not what they're hanging out waiting for, but who cares?

When Stanley can't hear Ford immediately running up the stairs, no big surprise if stuck in a book, he stomps on the floor of the deck without looking away from the water. Grinning like an idiot.

"Stanford Pines, get up here! I'm having a heart attack!" Okay, yeah. It's not funny. But that never fails to get him top side no matter what he's in the middle of.

'Boy who cried wolf' Yack! Yack! Whatever. If it works, why fix it?

There are at least ten different Narwhals intermittently breaching for air but the sight is incredibly short lived before they dive again on another breath hold, disappearing from sight below the grey waves.

"Awe, too slow! You missed it!" His booming voice is the only sound on the ship and it makes Stan finally drop the glasses and get up out of his chair with a crack from both knees.

He stomps, again, and then listens with a little more attention to the ship.

There is the lapping of the waves against the side, the slight breeze blowing the fresh smell of sea salt over the vessel, but otherwise its quiet.

Hmm. He could stay up here, maybe even pretend to fall over and really scare his brother. Except the last time he did that Ford almost threw him overboard into the freezing cold water.

Still. It is a little weird that Ford didn't at least yell a few foreign curse words up through the ship.

"Alright, fine. You want to prank me back? I'll bite." It comes out in a mutter and Stan makes his way across the deck after one more glance around at the water.

Through the wheel house, down the steep steps, and around the corner into the room dubbed 'the office' only in the name on the door. It's a glorified science lab that Stan gets to store a shelf of books inside of.

Pushing open the door is a little challenging, like something is blocking it but after a minute of shoving he's able to get enough room to squeeze through to get a look around.

Yep. This is 100% a prank.

The thing blocking the door? Ford, leaning back and looking pretty limp. Stan has got to hand it to him, this is a really convincing look.

"Nice try genius, laying around on the floor isn't going to convince me. Come on, up we go." It takes a lot more work than it should to move Ford from the floor up into the single chair in here.

The only real dead bodies Stan has ever seen have been bloody from being murdered or covered in vomit thanks to overdosing on something. Lots of blood, bruises, stomach acid and empty eyes stained with their last moments.

Ford's open, blank ones, do cause a little bit of alarm, but. It's how damn cold his body is that brings the first real taste of concern to the forefront of his mind.

"I thought I told you to turn on the space heater periodically. You have bad enough circulation as is, you idiot." Ford is very cold, and limp just like a dead body, and his eyes-

To humor Ford, and to reassure himself, Stan does a big show of rolling his eyes and then putting two fingers to Ford's wrist. You can't hide having a pulse, genius.

"................................................................................................................"

Okay. Maybe you can hide a pulse on one arm, if you cut off circulation. Whatever, big whoop?

Stan shifts over to check the other wrist and lets out a tisk of annoyance before raising those same fingers up to Ford's neck.

Same result.

Huh.

Now that's a neat trick.

Ford is doing a really good job pretending not to breathe too.

A really really good job.

That's bad.

"Alright Sixer, good one. I've learned my lesson here, you can undo whatever witchcraft you used to manage this." His confidence that this is a joke is cracking with every second Ford doesn't hop up and start lecturing him.

That's what should be happening. Another long rant about how pretending to be injured or sick isn't funny, not a good way to get attention, and unnecessary.

Yeah. Stan knows all that.

Ford does come topside, eventually, whenever he yells. It's just-

Sometimes Ford gets a little too caught up in his work and needs to be reminded the rest of the world exists. Extremes are the easiest way to do that.

And, yeah. Stanley can admit in the safety of his own head that he enjoys the fretting Ford does, despite knowing it’s a false alarm. It's been a long time since someone cared about him enough for something like that.

Or maybe those memories are what decided not to come back. Eh, his life seems pretty sad. Makes sense.

What doesn't, however, is why Ford is doing this for so long.

Plain and simple, he wouldn't.

But, that would mean something so terrible that his mind still won't accept it.

Because Ford can't be dead. That's not possible. They had this conversation.

Before leaving Gravity Falls, they had a really long and difficult talk about health issues. Ford came up with game plans for emergencies, Stanley had to own up to his numerous health issues, and how does Stanley know with complete certainty his brother can't be dead?

Bill said so.

Ford isn't supposed to die until he's ninety-two of a heart attack.

Now, Stan doesn't trust that demon on much. Or anything. Except this.

Because Bill liked Ford to an uncomfortable degree, otherwise he'd be dead right now. Or, would have at some point during the apocalypse.

So. The devil must have been telling the truth on this one thing, right?

Ford had seemed pretty sure that he wasn't going to be the one needing healthcare at sea, solidifying the belief in Stan's own mind. If Ford wasn't worried, why should he? He's a genius!

But-

What if Bill did lie? Tricking them into a false sense of security only for Ford to drop dead one day. Honestly? That does sound more his style.

Except, it can't be today.

It just can't.

Because if Ford is dead-

That's not a possibility Stanley Pines has ever considered for so much as a millisecond.

Not when Ford went through the portal.

Not for thirty years during the rebuilding process.

Not even prior to rescuing him from Bill and saving the world.

Because he can't imagine a world without Stanford Pines.

Sure, he's been gone before. Missing, but he came back from the portal and they eventually fixed things. They're okay now.

That was six weeks ago.

And, yeah, they still fight, but that's normal. Expected, living so closely after so long apart.

Stan has found himself frozen standing next to the chair simply staring down at Ford waiting for-

The joke to end? The camera crew to jump out? Ford himself to come in from the other room telling him this is a dummy or clone?

That spurs him back into action, rushing out of the room. "You aren't funny, Stanford Filbrick Pines! When I find you, I'm going to give you the worst wedgie in the multiverse!"

There are really only four places Ford could be hiding, given his size. Their bedroom underneath the bunk beds, the bathroom, the tiny kitchen pantry, or the engine room.

The kitchen pantry is bare, as expected. It’s a pretty shitty hiding spot.

Looking underneath the bed is tricky, but he isn't under there either.

The bathroom shower is clear too and he leaves the lights on, doors open, as he yanks the tiny half-sized door to peer into the almost crawlspace-sized room-

Empty.

For good measure Stanley does a second, and third, lap of the ship from the deck all the way back through leaving no chance for his brother to be sneaking around hiding.

In the end he still lands back in the office, leaning against the wall, looking at his brother's freezing cold and lifeless body.

Dead, body-

Nope, nope, nope! Ford can't be dead, he can't be.

Instead of looking at 'Ford' Stan looks around the room at anything else in search of answers. There's a stack of books and some science doohickey on the desk, but that's not all.

When first entering the room, Ford was laying on the floor back against the door. The chair was sideways, almost like he'd fallen out of it.

Down on the floor is a small collection of scattered papers.

It certainly looks like-

"Nope. Not happening." I'm not going to entertain it, not going to think about it. Ford is cold and being an idiot.

Stan busies himself with gathering up the scattered papers off the floor and organizing them on the desk and-

Ford's phone.

Before leaving port they'd both gone out and bought one at the behest of Dipper and Mabel. For taking pictures, calling, texting, and use of the internet.

They have this thing called a 'hot spot' that allows them to use the internet on their laptop for video calls and such. Ford usually sets that up and Stan gets the call going.

Neither of them knows the full process, so they have to work together.

Finding it discarded on the floor fits with the scene Ford has laid out trying to play dead. It's all very convincing, really.

But all that panic and worry remains buried deep, because what else is there?

Losing Ford would probably give him a heart attack, for real, right about now.

So. It's pretty concerning to see the phone open, wasting the battery, to their text chain.

It looks like Ford tried sending him a text up above deck, but it didn't go through.

'Stanley, I require medical assistance, follow protocol 32-C. Thank you. -Stanford Pines'

Except the text never went through, that red bubble with the exclamation mark 'Not delivered' is obvious enough for even Stanley to see.

Okay. There isn't any ignoring that.

Why? Ford was right here, why didn't he yell or come upstairs, or knock on the ceiling for fucks sake?

Except it does look like Ford might have tried to leave the room-

Real, honest panic claws its way up into the center of his chest from where he's kneeling on the floor looking at the text that didn't go through.

Maybe it was never a heart attack, could've been a stroke-

This text is pretty long and lacking spelling mistakes though, like all the other messages Ford has ever written.

His last words.

"Stanford..." It comes out broken and he ignored the complaints of the floor in the rush to get up, still clutching the phone, and across the room to his brother.

Idiot! Stupid, God damn idiot!

Instead of helping him for one fucking second you decided to play hide and seek!

Nope, we aren't going to cry. Not now, nope. Doesn't matter that there isn't anyone around to-

Nope!

Pulling Ford down onto the floor to assess him is easy with how limp he is and Stan makes quick work of pulling off his gloves in search of-

Something.

There still isn't a pulse, but the skin along each wrist and the neck feels colder than it did earlier. Stan's hands are shaking like he's going through withdrawals, trembling.

Focus.

Despite what his brother might think, he did in fact take the time to review the procedures stored in their extensive first aid kits. Not because any of them are helpful here though.

Ford put that together with Stan exclusively in mind.

What to do in the case of a heart attack, stroke, aneurysms, seizures, and all the small things too. Stuff for stitches, concussions, burns, and there is one small pamphlet on amputations.

The reason he took the time to review them was to put together his own plans, just in case.

If this is a heart attack he can't use to stupid paddles on Ford because of his metal plate. Besides, who knows what kind of effects that might have if it is a stroke-

He's already dead-

"Shut up! Just, shut up. He isn't, not until I say so!" The yell echoes back inside the claustrophobic room. The boat has never felt so painfully small-

CPR it is then.

Thirty-two C is essentially an undefined chest pain. Aspirin, monitoring, and high tailing it to the closest port.

Hard to do any of that when Ford can't breathe, much less swallow. And, you know, being three hours from the closest dock doesn't help either.

Stan has wasted too much time fussing and being useless as is. He knows how to do this. Where the hands go, the rhythm needed and the right amount of pressure to apply. How often to force Ford to take air.

This gives his hands something useful to do, his mind something to focus on instead of pure white-hot panic.

Because that's what he feels.

There is only one thing he could never protect Ford from, himself.

Sickness, and eventually death fall into that same category because the body does those things without considering what you want. Old age would come for his brother someday, regardless of how anyone feels about it.

Stanley had always assumed- no, made damn sure -that he wouldn't outlive his brother.

Because he can't be the one to carry on. That is a world he wants no part in.

He realizes, a while into doing compressions, that he should have consulted a clock before starting to try and keep track of how long he's been doing this.

Whatever, like it really matters.

Stanley continues anyway, long past when his arms started to burn and past hearing two different ribs crack.

What makes him stop is when he physically can't catch his own air enough to continue.

He is, understandably, a mess.

Snot smeared between both faces, tears across the front of Ford's shirt and cheeks, and Stanley himself can't breathe, chest tight and wracked with sobs.

Even if Ford did have a heartbeat Stanley knows he wouldn't be able to feel it because of how badly his hands are trembling and how fast blood is rushing in his own ears.

Six god damn weeks. Is that really all we got? All that time, all those mistakes? So much wasted all because I couldn't control myself for five fucking seconds!

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry Stanford." It comes out choked, barely real words around his chests arguing efforts to sound like a dying animal and take in enough oxygen to avoid meeting his own end.

The pile of regrets is immeasurable, but not so much about the past.

They've done that song and dance, so those aren't the thoughts that tear into him now.

So many things missed that still need to be made up for.

Christmas. New Years. Drunk nights out. Their birthday for fucks sake!

Now they'll never get to share that, ever again. Forever Seventeen.

Just-

Being together again.

Joking together.

Together!

Not apart.

Haven't they had enough of that? Wasn't four cursed decades of loneliness plenty?

Guess time has a funny sense of humor.

Or the world just hates him specifically.

Stanley Pines isn't allowed to be happy, hopefully everyone got the memo!

He can't remember ever crying so hard or for nearly as long ever in his whole life. Countless nights spent breaking down in the basement, slumped over the desk in the upstairs office, or camped out in some slum across the back seat of the car are nothing in comparison.

Lying across Ford's chest feels unnatural. It's too cold, too still-

Wrong.

It's like someone just broke one of the fundamental laws of physics here in their office and Stanley can't handle it.

When he finally manages to pull away a crazed laugh bubbles up and out into the room without permission.

There is nothing funny about this, but it seems to have a mind of its own, running away with his vocal cords.

What the hell else is he supposed to do? His whole world just died. Ford might as well of snuffed out the sun, causing the whole universe to go out with it. All that's left are stars.

Memories.

That's not fair. None of this is, and he knows that life ain't fair. Why would it be now? Of course it wouldn't, but-

"Why?! Why now, huh?! You couldn't of waited ten fucking minutes? At least let me be here with you? I could of done something useful for once! But no, I always have to fail! It's the only thing I'm good at!"

The humor vanishes, the hysterics of it washed away by anger and grief.

He ends up sitting back on his ass with knees drawn up with both arms wrapped around them, just like when they were kids.

What is he supposed to do?

Ford's dead. Stanford is dead. Sixer is dead. My twin brother is dead-

Repeating the same thought doesn't make him feel any better. If anything, it makes the shaking ten times worse. Unsteady hands, trembling shoulders-

He's shivering all over, goosebumps caused by something other than the cold.

"God, i really am a failure. Can't argue with me now, huh? You died, fifteen feet away from me and-" He can't look at Ford like this anymore, so he brings up a hand to cover his face while trying to regulate his own awful breathing.

Who cares? Why does it matter? Why bother calming down if Ford's dead?

As much as he'd like to give up, because it would be incredibly easy to do so, Stan knows he can't. Not now.

Okay. Deep even breathes.

In. One, two, three, four, five.

Out. One, two, three, four five.

It takes several tries to manage getting past two, but it gets a little easier to stop feeling so light headed the more he focuses on it

He can't give up, because like it or not-

Why not?

Because of the kids? Because of Soos? How exactly would they feel to find out both of us were brought into port dead by the coast guard? Two funerals to attend.

Although they would probably do them together-

That's a nice thought.

Nope, we aren't encouraging that!

"Alright, come on. Get it together. You know what to do..." That doesn't make it easier.

Back up. First onto both knees, then both feet.

Unlike moving Ford into the chair, dragging him around, Stanley takes more care lifting Ford up over one shoulder to carry him from the office across the boat into the bedroom.

Laying him out on the bottom bunk, tucked into the blankets, it looks like he's just sleeping.

Despite barely doing anything Stanley is exhausted already. Arms sore, his back is going to be killing him tomorrow from picking up all that dead weight, so he settles on the edge of the mattress. Just for a minute.

There was once a day when the gun would, metaphorically, already be in his hand.

The world hadn't exactly been kind to him. Not growing up. Not on the road. Not even fully in Gravity Falls. Sure, it was home, but the basement was its own form of torture and suffering.

All of that was supposed to stay off the boat.

Land was pain, the ocean was perfect.

Or at least he'd thought so. If death was going to come for them, taking them into the ranks of lives lost at sea, they were supposed to go down together.

It's tempting. More tempting than ever before.

"I'm sorry." He can't turn and look at Ford, but the presence of his body is comforting in a weird way. Just don't think about how-

"I know you keep telling me I don't need to be, and that we're all good, but I really am. I'm the reason we lost so much time, so maybe it’s just that I have to live with that until my heart gives out." These are the kinds of things he'd never say if Ford was really here.

Or in front of anyone, but what's the harm now? Might as well get it out now before heading back.

From there Ford will be carted off to the closest morgue, body probably cremated, leaving Stanley to bring the ash remains home.

"Maybe I was a damn fool to think I could have it all. Should have known it was too good to be true. I can't-" He has to stop to take several deep full breaths before pushing on.

"I can't do this. Thirty years, forty, all alone. Ruined, and now-"

Things were good, fantastic, for fucks sake!

Having someone to cook and clean with. To get annoyed at when they hog the bathroom. Pointless arguments, bickering, but always getting over it.

It was domestic in a way he'd always wanted but never allowed himself. Always afraid anyone who got close would leave.

In a way, Ford did. Not intentionally, but he did walk right back out the door just like everyone else. Who knows, maybe it would have happened sooner or later anyway.

"I-I know I wasn't great to live with. I'm a pain in the ass screw-up and I guess that's all I'll ever be." Failing to notice something was seriously wrong sooner, not hearing any noises his brother might have made, not getting that text-

Overshadows saving the world. It doesn't matter if the sun keeps rising if his brother isn't here to see it.

He doesn't really know what's considered 'normal behavior' around a corpse. It might be incredibly weird of him to decide to sit up against the wall at the head of the bunk and get Ford situated laying back against his chest, repositioning the blankets.

Stan finds he doesn't care either way. If his brother is dead, the love of his life, he's going to sit with him for a little while before his body gets all stiff and gross and corpsey.

It'll take about two hours, give or take, before then.

Other than the bed being cold it’s not hard to pretend things are okay. Stan's own breathing moves Ford with each inhale and exhale in the otherwise quiet room.

They're both to old to be cuddling, but who's around to judge him? The next closest human is miles away and Ford...

He doesn't really get a say anymore.

Stan lets out a sad and exhausted chuckle, shaking his head and tucking his face down into Ford's hair while keeping both arms tight across his brother’s chest.

It smells of sweat, sea salt, and something chemically that makes his nose burn a little. He needs a shower, gross bastard.

"You have no idea how much I'm going to miss you, Sixer. No fucking clue how much I love you."

Never, ever, would Stan dare be so open in front of anyone, much less his equally emotionally constipated brother. But it’s not like he's going to be able to say all this stuff in front of people.

Not when he heads back to Gravity Falls, tail between his legs. Much less at the funeral.

"I mean, you had to know. One person doesn't dedicate a lifetime to fixing a mistake like that if they don't give a shit. But, well, you know."

He's a corpse Stan, he doesn't know anything. Not anymore.

"It was never the boat. I didn't care that you wanted to go to school. I didn't care about taking the journal. I didn't even care about you being a pretentious asshole. Okay, maybe I did care about that last one a little." It's the first genuine laugh Stan's let out since finding Ford.

"It was the separation I had a problem with. We could have been enlisted in the military for all I cared, as long as we did it together. Talk about codependent, am I right?"

His arms are tired from doing compressions so instead of continuing to hug Ford in a vice grip he settles for holding one of his hands instead.

Cuddling, weird but not outside of things they've done before. Usually after or because of nightmares.

Hugging is practically a daily occurrence at this point, sometimes multiple times depending on the itinerary Ford's always got in his stupid head.

But this, holding hands, isn't something they've done since they were kids.

Hopefully, Filbrick found a special space in hell for yelling at them until they stopped. He was right, socially, of course. But Stan can't help holding a judge regardless. As if Ford needed more negative press about his perfect hands.

They're cold but Stan pointedly ignores that in favor of savoring the moment.

"It was good we spent time apart, in its own stupid way. Not because either of us had a good time or anything, but we finally grew up. Eventually. Just took the world ending for you to get your ego checked." It's nice having Ford lying back against his chest, their hands intertwined over Ford's cold one under the blanket.

It's sad, and temporary, but better than nothing at all.

You take what you get and you don't throw a fit.

"But hey, it wasn't all bad." Looking around the room the proof is right here. "We did it, eventually. We had some fun, stole some treasure. Never did get any babes though, but-"

The wall closest to the door is covered in a large cork board covered in pictures from the camera Soos gifted them as a housewarming present before leaving port. Original pictures of them back in Jersey pinned at the top with their adventures detailed in the ones below, picking up decades later.

He sighs, bringing up his free hand to straighten out Ford's hair. It's always a rat’s nest. "I was never as worried about that part as I probably should have been, because I-"

Dead or not, is this really the kind of thing he should be saying out loud?

The things he's saying aren't really for Ford, they're for Stanley's own benefit anyway. "Well, heh. You see, about that...I, uh. Really only had interest in getting one babe on board." He squeezes Ford's hand for emphasis, like he's listening.

But even Stan can't help bursting out into laughter at his awful joke, managing to avoid letting out more than a couple tears. "Oh god, that's terrible. I'm terrible, I know. But, you never had to worry about that. You being here is more then I could've asked for. No sense betting it on the bonus word and getting left at a dock when things where good as is."

There. It's out there, in the room, shared with someone who can never tell his worst secret. That wasn't so bad now, was it?

"As it was, I guess. Still can't believe you're gone and our adventure is over before it really got started." It's a somber thought, but he leaves it at that.

What else is there to say?

Time passes, only marked by the slight darkening of the clouds outside the boat and the ticking of Stanley's watch.

He keeps saying 'five more minutes' but that started up about two hours ago. It's been nearly three since settling into bed. His back hurts from staying in the same position, fingers cramped, but he still doesn't want to get up.

That means letting go. He isn't ready for that.

Probably never will be either.

It must be the cold keeping Ford from getting all stiff like dead people should because he's still just as limp and relaxed as when he first died. That thought makes him wince.

"Alright. As fun as this is, I should probably get up and bring us back to port before it gets dark." He says it like Ford will be able to encourage him to do so, like the corpse is going to hold him accountable.

Except, it can't.

Stan finds the willpower to get up and off the bed anyway, leaving Ford tucked in, and heading out into the hallway that is the kitchen and dining room.

Next step is getting back to port, calling the local authorities, and explaining what the hell happened. That won't be fun. None of this is.

He only gets as far as the kitchen before having to sit down.

Who is he kidding? This is impossible. How the hell is he supposed to do any of this?

No matter how hard he tries to cling to the fact that he has other family, because Stanley knows full well how much the kids and Soos care for him, that doesn't make the suddenly unbearable weight on both shoulders any lighter.

The boat is suffocating, cold, and it’s only going to get worse.

When Ford had gone through the portal it was easy enough to rationalize his feelings of hopelessness away using pure denial. Can't be sure Ford is dead if you can't see him.

And yeah, he'd been right, though on all accounts he shouldn't have been.

Stan can't do that here because Ford is very clearly dead and gone.

All those years he'd already been through the first several stages of grief periodically. Denial, anger, and bargaining but had always gotten stuck in the second to last step. Depression.

If people can get past that one, they usually reach acceptance and from there, it’s all about finding a way to live with it.

I can't do that.

How on earth am I supposed to after everything? So many mistakes, miscommunications, lost time, and for what? For it to end here?

What the hell am I supposed to do? Pack it up, return to Gravity Falls, and drink myself to death?

That's probably what he would have done if Ford hadn't been able to make it home. If he'd actually been dead for thirty years and all that effort was for nothing.

It doesn't take much to make up his mind. It’s only a matter of when, not a matter of if.

The painful silence of the ship is interrupted by his watch beeping at him several times, indicating it’s time for his blood pressure medications.

This watch is considerably uglier than his gold one, but its water proof and has some fancy alarm and timer settings.

Ford set it up to remind him.

He all but collapses in on himself with tears escaping easier than before in the office.

This was all he ever wanted, for someone to give a damn about him and now the only person who ever did is gone!

No more bickering about who used all the hot water. Complaining about who's turn it is to handle the laundry. Doing dishes together.

No more laughing, cracking jokes, or arguing over what to have for dinner.

"I can't do this, I'm not strong enough for that." His voice is choked, barely above a whisper.

His own feet bring him to the first aid kit fastened to the wall above the toilet in the bathroom. It's where any medications they might need are kept from ibuprofen to some other more questionable alien junk of Ford's.

Nutrition pills are not a substitute for real food, even when you’re sick of fish Stanford.

Down on the bottom shelf right next to the Aspirin and Tylenol is where his stupid medication is to take-

Except currently there is a small and simple letter propped up on the shelf blocking the several bottles there with 'For Stanley Pines' on the front in neat and actually legible cursive handwriting.

He looks around the bathroom, almost comically, because he really has lost it.

Maybe he actually had his own medical problem while trying to do chest compressions and now he's a ghost or something?

Because this looks like Ford left him a letter right inside their medicine cabinet.

Except he's dead in the other room.

After picking up the letter, and taking his stupid meds, Stan goes back to the bedroom to double-check that the corpse hasn't managed to go anywhere in the last ten minutes.

Nope. Still there.

Okay.... Well, might as well read it then?

He closes the bedroom door first and goes about straightening up the million open doors and all the unnecessary lights left on this whole time, settling against one of the kitchen counters and tearing the envelope open with his pocket knife.

'To Stanley,

If you are reading this letter then you must be in the throes of panic at the moment. As I know well, it’s not very fun to have a brother who continues to terrify you with health scares. I have tried discussing this with you several times, but clearly, you don't fully understand.

Perhaps this spook, over a supposed 'blocked blood vessel', will set the record straight. I do not find your jokes about 'keeling over' to be amusing. Waking me up purposefully drooping one half of your body also isn't funny.

It is for these many reasons I've devised a plan to scare you, briefly. The serum I gave myself to cause the presentation of symptoms should have no permanent or ill health effects. However, it does eventually result in a loss of consciousness, so you will need to administer the antidote.

It is tapped to the roof of our fridge and kept at the appropriate cool temperature until it is ready to be used, with the dosage already measured out in a previously prepared needle. Any vein will do, though it may take some time to circulate and take-"

Stanley doesn't bother finishing the stupid list of instructions Ford may have left him filling out the rest of the letter. In fact, he can't even bring himself to be mad right this second about Ford torturing him like this.

He's alive. That's all that matters.

It’s a rush of slamming open doors, making a mess of the top shelf of the fridge, before Stan is able to find the supposed needle right where the letter said it would be. Back to the bedroom he yanks on the light, tearing off the blanket.

"I knew it, I fucking knew it-"

Or at least he hopes this is real and not some hallucination caused by grief. Seems a little too good to be true, but he'd be willing to gamble on giving Ford sulfuric acid if he left a note saying so right about now.

Sure enough, by the time Stanley is able to yank Ford's closer sleeve up he can see a big X drawn with a sharpie over the vein along the interior of the arm where you'd have blood taken. Or shoot up heroin.

How long does he have to give the antidote? Could it be too late? That letter was probably supposed to be opened hours ago.

Whatever.

No time like the present.

He's done this plenty of times on himself, so it’s not hard.

Using one of Ford's ties out of the closet (a ridiculous thing to bring on a boat) he's able to create a tourniquet without having to go back to the bathroom.

The cap gets removed with his teeth and once the vein is visible, he carefully presses the needle in under the skin before pushing down the plunger and injecting whatever the weird black medication is.

Only after putting the needle aside does he run off to get dressings and gauze to patch up the injection sight and stop the bleeding. The same amount you'd expect from a live body.

A weird sense of euphoria takes hold in the time it takes to secure the gauze over the injection site with some medical tape.

And a little bit of hope.

Rightfully, he should be beyond pissed. What the hell was Ford thinking in the first place? Okay, yeah. They suck at talking, and he hadn't been the most open to Ford's previous complaints about his 'death jokes' and such.

Dark humor. But he hadn't expected Ford to do something this extreme in retaliation.

Talk about a prank war getting out of hand.

This is worse than when they got into a closet territory war in high school and it had ended with them both getting yelled at, and grounded, when some itching powder accidentally ended up in the wrong laundry.

Later he can be upset, but right now Ford will probably be waking up in enough pain over his own stupid choices. Being given CPR is a rather violent experience, his chest is going to hurt considerably for a long while.

That's revenge enough, and-

Okay, maybe you could consider this lesson learned.

Stanley is left to wait, with bated breath, for Ford to wake up.

It's pretty safe for Ford to say that this whole experience turned out to be a lot more traumatizing than it should have been.

Maybe he was a bit of a dick, planning on scaring Stanley a little, but that's all. Just a tiny scare to get his brother to stop being so-

Difficult, let's go with that.

Pain in the ass would be more accurate

Regardless, absolutely nothing had gone to plan and it had very nearly ended in the worst possible way. Him dead, and Stanley heart broken.

What was supposed to happen was pretty simple.

Starting with sending the text, which Stanley would get above deck. Meanwhile, below deck, Ford would cast the spell meant to slow his pulse to an unsteady rate on top of accelerating his breathing. Mimicking something close to a heart attack.

Just for a little scare, with no real consequences.

Then Stanley would come downstairs, freak out, but follow the procedure.

Which is when he would have found the letter, stopping the whole scene before everything got so out of hand. Easy.

But, no.

The text hadn't gone through, because their signal was spotty at best out here.

No problem, because the spell does technically leave a window before putting you into stasis.

Or, it’s supposed to.

Thirty-two and a half seconds isn't nearly enough time to do anything useful, as Ford found out the hard way.

The results were him being left waiting on the floor for Stanley to find him and being left fully aware of every second without being able to do anything to stop it.

Having chest compressions done when your heart is fine, just old, is not fun. Very not fun. One of the more painful experiences he can admit to participating in.

This whole thing, in fact, is up there with one of the top five worst moments in his life.

All because Stanley wouldn't listen!

No, it's because you’re an idiot who seems to only know how to hurt your own brother-

Shut up!

That's not helping anything.

The slow-to-restart heart rate, which never fully stopped, is more painful because of the time left lying around. Not a surprising response to his apparent death, but-

Two broken ribs, and some pretty bad bruising, but otherwise physically he'll be fine.

Just as soon as every vein stops burning from the antidote.

Truly that's a just punishment for the time he's left waiting after feeling the injection up until he's able to breathe and move again.

There is a lot that he could unpack here, but that would involve facing everything that he just caused. Which is terrible.

Better to focus on the one damn good thing to come out of this whole mess.

Stanley loves him.

Not only in the 'brotherly love' kind of way, but it certainly sounded like it had been implied romantically, hadn't it?

The spell or the cold he'd been experiencing couldn't have made up a hallucination like that.

It's logical if you think about it.

Stanley was under the impression he was dead, so why not own up to all kinds of gross and sappy crap? Taking time to mourn everything that was, could have, and is.

Brother, best friend, and-

Lover is a rather big leap to make from some simple implications on their own, but-

Was it two or three hours of straight-up cuddling and holding hands?

That might be as much evidence as Stanley would ever willingly provide without being physically tortured out of it.

Knowing that his own feelings are returned is actually worse than being trapped inside your own skin, because what the hell is he supposed to do with this information?

If they can't talk about Stanley no longer making jokes, how is he supposed to bring this up in a way that doesn't make his brother jump off the boat to drown?

Ford can't help but let out a quiet pained groan with the first gasp of air, taking away the option of saying something first thing.

It's better than screaming, which is what he feels like doing from the pain.

Not the first time an experiment resulted in such poor results, it'll be fine.

"Stanley," is the first thing Ford forces himself to say just as soon as it’s not going to come out sounding too pained. As if either of them needs to feel worse at the moment.

Stan hadn't so much as gotten up off the bed after dressing the injection. He brought up a hand to steady Ford when he tried to sit up too fast. "Woah, take it easy there, Sixer. The world's not going anywhere."

Now is not the time for jokes, Stanley. This isn't funny.

His brother’s ability to compartmentalize traumatic events and the emotions associated with them is astounding. Must be a shared trait.

Trying to talk is like swallowing tacks but he managed to make a motion towards the water bottle they kept hanging from a hook above the bedside table halfway between their bunks.

Relief was about all Stanley could feel getting up only enough to grab the water bottle for Ford before settling back next to him on the bed.

He's still cold, but very much alive.

It's viisible in the tense set of Ford's shoulders when he's awake, the crease and possibly only wrinkle on his whole stupid perfect face between his brow from worrying or fretting over something, and the strong grasp around the bottle when taking a drink.

It's almost enough to make him cry again, except Ford is awake now, so he keeps a better lid on those feelings by shoving them back in a closet. Hugging Ford as soon as he's had a drink also allows for a good expression of his worries while actively hiding any stupid expressions (or tears) his face could be doing against his will.

No matter how much it physically hurts (maybe at least one of those ribs is broken, rather than cracked) Ford wholeheatedly returns the hug while trying to lubricate his mouth and throat enough to say something, anything, useful.

"Did it work at least? Do you understand now how physically upsetting it is to have you faking health scares? That pure terror is what I feel every single time, regardless of if you’re kidding. It's not funny." His voice is still ruined and dry with an edge of ache, but audible.

Stan lets out a dry chuckle, but it's forced and tight. "Yeah, yeah. Alright, you got me. But for the record, I knew it was a sham. I could smell it from a mile away!"

Both eyes are also a little dry from the extensive time spent open up until Stan closed them, which gives a good excuse for why he blinks at Stan like an idiot.

What, does he think I'm stupid?

Sure, Stanley seemed fooled for a while, but the last several hours of panic and grieving-

He doesn't know.

Oh.

Well, that's. A perfectly rational assumption given that's what the letter said, the spell was supposed to end in unconsciousness in a form of slowed metabolism and heart rate in a form of intense hibernation.

"I was awake." The reaction is immediate feeling the hand on either shoulder tighten momentarily with several emotions passing over Stanley's face too fast to read.

Panic is all he catches before its smothered with the rest.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Well, that is almost worse than Ford being dead, because what the hell is he supposed to do now?

They're three hours from port, without anyone around, and no internet connection.

Ford could easily kill him and no one would ever know the difference.

Because that is certainly what's about to happen. He knows, he heard, he saw for fucks sake.

If it wasn't for the physical and literal beating Ford would have already had him in a headlock on the floor.

Watching Stanley physically, and not so subtly, recoil is heartwrenching and Ford won't stand for seeing any more pain on his brother’s face.

There has been enough of that in one lifetime, and tonight.

"Hey, I'm not upset." He has to physically stop Stanley from getting up off the bed by grabbing one shoulder and the closer hand tightly, pulling him back to sit again.

This might be the absolute most embarrassing moment of his whole life.

Worse than the teasing they got as a pair over Ford's kissing bot in high school, which previously held the top spot.

Maybe I should just throw myself overboard to get away from this conversation.

Sure, I'm not dead, but living with 'being let down easy' and then everything spiraling into the most awkward friend zone of all time is much worse.

Death would be kinder.

Stan's whole face flushes bright red but otherwise his expression remains mostly neutral and steeled waiting for whatever comes next. Though its still tempting to run.

Very, very tempting.

This is terrifying, but not nearly as scary as thinking Stanley was going to do something drastic while left to his own devices. In comparison, this is easy.

If you ignore the fact nothing has ever been easy for them.

"I'm, you could say that- I understand." What the fuck was that? He tries again, pushing on because that didn't make any sense. "I mean, I've visited more dimensions then I can count, I'm certainly not- I've grown out of my own reservations, so you could say. But, obviously, I never thought..." He does another lame motion with their linked hands, hoping Stan will read his mind and end this painful moment.

Okay, now this is definitely a hallucination triggered by some sort of mental lapse or stroke.

Ford being dead absolutely did get to him.

Enough to make up a whole letter and shoot up a corpse with some random chemical and now some sick hallucination.

That seems more likely than what Ford is trying to imply or suggest.

But the hand in his, with six fingers enveloping Stan's five, certainly feels real.

And there is the small, helpful, argument-nagging details coming from the back of his head that Ford never actually pissed himself or anything like most dead people do.

Stanley must have picked up the habit of laughing when he's nervous over the last several decades because, from Ford's perspective, nothing about this conversation is funny.

It's very serious and raw, so why the hell is he laughing so hard?

At least he isn't pulling away. That's good?

"For fucks sake, Stanley, can you take anything seriously for one whole minute? Why the hell do I even fancy you? You’re an ass!"

"Fancy me, what are you, a British nark?" Jesus, Stanley can barely breathe trying to calm down but doesn't let Ford pull his hand away an inch.

"I'm going to kill you, just as soon as I can breathe without my whole chest convulsing, I'm going to-"

"Oh, I'll show you being unable to breathe alright." He does not know where the boldness comes from exactly, probably the high from the recent near-death experience, but either way he snatches Ford by the shoulder with his free hand to pull him over into a proper kiss.

He ignores how it tastes of stale water and snot.

Sleeping Beauty AU?

@sixerstanley Here had this HUGE big brain idea and I immediately sprung into action to write a little something about it.

Basically, they read a merlin fic where a spell made it seem like Merlin was dead, but he was basically asleep and aware of everything going on. Arthur was not having a good time. (trauma and pain ensues) I'm going to replicate it, based on the idea alone.

(Also, I had no idea this would turn into an almost 4k oneshot, oops! Color me inspired, I guess! I can do this, but not my actual fan fiction. LMAO!)

Suffer with me. (JK, enjoy. XD )

For the first time in weeks, Ford had allowed himself a full night's rest downstairs. Why not reward himself, just this once? The rift is sealed, the universe is safe, and things are slowly getting back to normal. Or as normal as they get in the pathetic excuse for what used to be his home.

Ford still has a hard time calling it what it is, 'The Mystery Shack' is a little on the nose, isn't it? The exhibits are hardly anything close to a mystery. They're botched taxidermy projects.

Insults. That's what they are.

A slap in the face to his life's work.

Whatever, that's not his problem right now. Coffee is the first order of business.

It's early and no one else is awake, but the coffee pot is still hot with a fresh pot. One cup appears to be missing. Stanley must be awake then.

Ford takes his time pouring the life-bringing liquid into his favorite cup (it is amazing Stanley didn't break it or lose it after all these years) and adding in ample sugar, and a dash of cream for color.

He adds a single ice cube to cool it faster, listening to the sounds of the house. It's silent, too quiet.

Ford can't help that even in a peaceful environment it puts him on edge.

The TV is off and a walk through the living room reveals Stanley isn't sitting on the couch. The first-floor bathroom light is off, door is slightly ajar, but empty.

That's weird.

He really shouldn't be looking for his brother anyway since the only good that will do is start another fight. It's too early for that.

Ford settles back in the kitchen, hovering near the window and sipping his cup watching the clock on the wall tic on. Minutes pass.

The silence is no longer just putting him on edge, it's sounding alarms.

Why? There is nothing dangerous here in the house, they are perfectly safe here now that Bill has been dealt with.

What then?

To put his own stupid mind to rest he leaves the empty cup in the sink and goes upstairs to the attic, checking on Dipper and Mabel.

They are both still fast asleep in their beds. Dipper, drooling on his pillow with half the blanket on the floor. Mabel, hair stuck up in all directions, clutching one of her many stuffed animals like it might try to escape.

Waddles is here too, curled up on its makeshift bed on the floor.

He stays just long enough to ensure they are all breathing, and sleeping soundly, before noiselessly going back downstairs.

The second floor is as empty as the first, including Stanley's poor excuse for a room. It is a mess of half-packed boxes, several trash bags, and the always-unmade bed.

Soon enough the house will be normal again.

Stanley will be gone, the kids will go home- (Perhaps they'll visit again next summer? It's a shame Dipper can't stay) and the Mystery Shack business will be over forever.

This once secluded corner of the valley will be that way again, his haven away from prying eyes. And tourists.

With the interior of the house cleared that only leaves the yard and porch.

Ford makes his way out onto the one Stanley finds the most use out of and the worry he hadn't realized to be carrying vanishes. There he is, sitting back dead asleep on the disgusting couch. How old is that thing? It appears to be growing several kinds of mold along the bottom because of the constant rain this region gets.

One hand is barely holding onto Stan's coffee cup, the arm of the couch holding it up while its owner sleeps.

"Seriously, Stanley? Being old doesn't give you an excuse to sleep anywhere, much less flash the local wildlife in little more than boxers." It's a good dig, in his opinion, and he speaks loud enough to rouse Stanley despite how hard of hearing he has become over the years.

Except no quick response comes.

Stanley doesn't so much as twitch in his spot on the couch.

The fear comes back-

Oh, don't be ridiculous!

"Very funny, Stanley." He lets the door close, quietly, before moving to stand in front of his brother, hands on either hip.

He looks, really looks, at Stan.

And sees nothing good.

The first notable, and most concerning finding, is that his brother isn't breathing. He waits, watching, assuming this to be a breath hold.

A joke.

But that isn't the only concerning evidence. Stanley's eyes are also halfway open, looking over the yard. Empty.

Not funny anymore, very much NOT funny!

Ford does not panic, not yet. He moves and picks up the cup, plucking it out of his brother's hand- It lacks any strength, like taking a toy from a child.

"Stanley? Wake up. Very good joke, you got me. Stop it now." He kneels on the couch, next to him, after setting the cup aside on the porch by their feet.

For the second time since coming home, Ford touches Stanley. This time with a kinder hold, reaching up to press two fingers along the pulse point between the jaw and collar bone, off to the side of the Adam's apple.

Nothing.

'One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten-'

He could count on one hand the number of times true panic has overtaken him in his lifetime. It isn't a luxury one can often afford when coming face to face with death constantly in the multiverse-

But what harm can come of it when someone is already dead?

His hand stays right where it is, tucked into the still-warm skin-

"No, this isn't funny-" But Ford's voice shakes and he snatches the hand away quickly. If he can't feel the lack of pulse, it's not there. Simple.

How didn't he notice? When did this happen?

What happened?

No- Ford turns, looking around the peaceful yard. Dew covers the grass, the sun peaked up about half an hour ago basking the clearing in pink and yellow hues.

There isn't any blood.

Death is messy. He has seen it countless times, but it is never, ever, peaceful. Knives, guns, cracking bones, broken bodies...

Looking back at Stanley none of that is present. The skin is still pink, and warm, eyes open but- Dead.

No. That can't be. It just can't.

Stanley looks almost peaceful, asleep. His coffee, barely a sip or two taken from the looks of it. "No."

Panic takes many different forms. Initially, instinctively, Ford looked for the cause. It had to be someone, something, who did this. Who took his brother?

But there is nothing, no one, in sight. No blood.

"Stanley, who-" His feet stop, body stalling, in the middle of turning back from the yard to look at the corpse...

He had been about to ask, to question who did this. But a dead body can't answer. A dead body, a corpse.

There is a distinction between a vessel and a person, or so Ford had always thought.

Everyone dies and until then you live inside and pilot your body. Someday, it becomes a corpse and you leave it behind.

That is such a cold and callous way to look at it, in retrospect. Because this, is Stanley. He's just- Gone.

With quick hands, Ford begins looking, almost in a frenzy, for the cause.

No blunt force trauma to the back of the head. No perforations to the abdomen, arms, nothing. There is nothing.

But that's not possible, people don't just-

Except they do. Sometimes-

No. NO! Not them, not him! Stanley Pines wouldn't just die, not without a fight!

Death doesn't play favorites, anyone can go, anytime-

"Shut up! No, he wouldn't! He wouldn't leave me!" It comes out in a shout and shakes him.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

He never allowed himself to think very far into the future, how could he? Everything was always changing and it was better to live in the now anyway. So long as you were safe now, other things could be handled later-

Except later doesn't always wait for you to be ready. Time has its own plans and you have to work around it or something-

Stanley wasn't supposed to die. Isn't! he can't be-

Except-

There are no obvious injuries, but then again there don't have to be. They may not be old, but they're old enough. Brain aneurysms take hold suddenly, killing the affected almost instantly.

Leaving barely enough time to set down a cup of coffee-

Or a heart attack?

No, Stanley would have come inside, asked for help-

Wouldn't he?

"You idiot!" It comes out in a hiss from where Ford has shifted. He's kneeling right next to Stanley, hand on either shoulder, looking at his half-open but- Dead. Dead eyes. Empty. Gone.

Soulless.

Ford isn't sure who he's talking to. Himself? or Stanley? Both?

"I would have helped you, we could have called someone, I-" He has to pull away, sinking down into the empty space of the couch to hide the tears springing up without permission.

This can't be happening. Things weren't supposed to end like this-

Oh yeah, how was it supposed to go then?

With you, kicking him out next week? Leaving him homeless, again, just like Pa?

"Stop it! I don't know, not like this!" Stanley was always the stronger between them, persevering through everything no matter what happened.

Is this my fault?

What a stupid question.

It forces him to sit up again, one hand covering his face while half peering out at Stanley.

Of course it is. What did you expect? That he would take his life being uprooted lying down?

Did he do this on purpose?

In the rush to pick up the cup of coffee Ford almost knocks it over but finds he can't hold it without spilling some of it over the sides, down onto the porch, anyway. He is left with no choice but to set it back down to avoid wasting the sample.

Maybe.

Ford takes both a physical and mental step back, leaning against one of the columns holding up the roof over the porch, to look around.

Breathing is getting a little more difficult, coming in tight short inhales and smaller and smaller exhales.

What better way to get back at me? Thirty years of a life spent learning math, science, and engineering skills well beyond any normal human's comprehension, for what?

To get a brother back who first chance he got told him to pack it up and get out?

"What kind of brother am I?"

The kind who would rather be right than-

Then apologize. Forgive. Make up. Let go.

And now, it's too late. The train left the station, Stanley is gone, and its all my fault.

"He died thinking I hated him." That realization is what breaks the decade-old dam, tears finally escaping. Ford closes the distance, sitting on the stupid couch and pulling Stanley over into a hug, even if he's not here to feel it.

The lack of strong, still buff, arms encircling him, returning the sentiment only makes him cry harder into the thin and crappy tank top Stanley must have worn to bed.

"I'm sorry." He chokes out between sobs, "I thought I'd have more time, you'd have more time. I didn't think- How could I?" Nothing he's saying is making much sense.

The ramblings of a heartbroken lunatic.

As if we really deserve to be upset, like you'd of cared if it wasn't life or death-

Maybe his own thoughts are right. If Stanley had been alive, sitting here, having his morning coffee they would have traded morning insults before going their separate ways.

But that's not the reality they live in. This one is much worse, much darker.

I spent so much time running away, trying to break apart, and be unique. No longer part of a broken pair, or what I saw as one, I-

"I never expected to miss it when the other half was gone." He is still shaking, refusing to let go, with thoughts still scrambled in a million different directions.

CPR wouldn't do any good now, although it's a nice thought. If Stanley came out here directly after preparing his coffee then that was almost twenty minutes ago, give or take-

Oh god. What about the kids?

Without letting go Ford checks the time on his watch, wincing. A few hours at most, but he'll have to call the coroner-

What does he do?

For the first time, possibly ever, Ford feels lost.

Not only because his twin is currently dead, which is already world-ending, but everything that comes with it.

Who does he say the corpse belongs to? Stanley Pines has been dead for decades-

Is that why he did this? So that Ford could slot right back into his old life, fixing the broken and shattered history? No. This had to be an accident-

Only the testing of the coffee will confirm it or not.

Ford has never had to stick around and deal with a dead body before. Moving on was easier, and necessary. He can't remember attending a funeral, other than their great aunts when they were barely seven.

That's not the same. He'll have to make arrangements, put together pictures, and give a speech-

About a life he knows nothing about.

"God, I'm sorry Stanley. I'm so sorry." It feels safe to let his voice break here. No one is around to see how completely destroyed he feels. "All you ever did was love me, and I pushed you away. I crushed it, refused, and now..."

"Now you're gone. I can't even remember the last time I told you that I love you, but I do. So much, more than I could ever handle." Ford can't let go, but he does shift back to look at his brother's face, holding his limp body with one hand and clearing his own tears with the other.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad I'm here. Thank you, for bringing me back." He has to close his eyes, fresh tear tracks spilling across both cheeks, "Even if only so I could say goodbye. I'm glad I got that, at least. If only you were here-"

With a broken voice, Ford can't stand looking at Stan like this anymore. He reaches up, closing both eyes with feather-light fingers, before leaning close to press them forehead to forehead. Just like when they were young. Before everything.

It's odd. How fast do corpses cool? Not that Ford is going to complain. It lets him pretend, just for a few more moments, that Stanley isn't gone. That they could have this again.

Too little, too late.

"I love you, Stanley." It comes out broken and cruel, like the universe is mocking him. What was the point in protecting them from Bill if death came knocking anyway?

For the first time since coming home, Ford understands.

Finally, he can see why Stanley wasted so much of his life trying to bring him back. Because he loves so much, so big. To his own detriment.

He would do anything, even destroy the world, to have Ford by his side again.

"I'm so sorry, you deserved so much better." How different could things of been?

What would Stanley of done instead? Gotten married? Had kids?

A better family, that's for sure.

Ford knows he can't stay here forever. He needs to let go, head inside, and make some phone calls. To tell Soos to close the shack for the day, get an ambulance to bring Stanley to the morgue.

He needs to prepare for when the kids wake up and figure out what to tell them.

But first, he indulges himself a little bit more by leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Stanley's lips. It smells of coffee, cigars, and denture cream, but Ford can't detect any sort of drug or chemical from close proximity alone. It's nice.

Not what you'd expect from a corpse, but it's enough.

A goodbye, a real one in a weird broken way. Just their luck.

The absolute last thing Ford expects, upon starting to pull away, is to feel the body still pressed very tight to his own take in a very deep breath followed by Stanley's discarded hands coming up to grab at him.

"Stanley!" His voice is still broken, mixed with anger and joy in a typhoon of confusion.

And Stanley? He has the nerve to laugh!

"Don't think you're walking away from that so easily!" No longer locked inside his own body without the ability to do anything it's a relief to be able to breathe. But even better, he can pull Ford over on top of his lap, locking one leg in place against the side of the couch.

"Excuse me! I thought you were dead! What the fuck, Stanley! You can't just go around pretending to be dead to mess with people! What if the kids had found you, or Soos, or Wendy?! You would have scared them half to death, you scared me half to death!"

Truly, it's a complicated story. One Stan is pretty sure Ford doesn't want to hear right now when his mind is running a mile a minute.

He has other things that need to be said instead of explaining whoever that weird wizard was who came out of the forest.

Forcibly Stanley grabs Ford's face, bringing him down so they are face to face again, leaving no room for argument in their close proximity. "Shut up, will you?"

Being locked in was sort of a blessing because participating in the conversation is so much harder than he thought it would be moments ago. He steals his nerves anyway, "I love you too, I'm not dead, and I'm pretty sure forty years should have made you a better kisser than that. Otherwise, I've got my work cut out for me. Try again."

By now Ford's face is bright red both out of anger at being tricked and embarrassment at their current position. But Stanley's hands are no longer weak, holding him tightly in place. Not that he seriously wants to argue anyway.

Stan waits, but the longer Ford stares, the more unsure he becomes. Maybe he misunderstood? Or maybe Ford just has a thing for corpses and now that he isn't one, the interest is gone.

Fair enough, Stan knows he isn't much to look at. Age wasn't as kind to him as it was to Ford. All lean muscles, few wrinkles, and barely greying hair. It's stupid, really.

It would be hypocritical to go right back to being mad, wouldn't it?

Just because Stanley isn't dead now, doesn't mean he won't be next time. Or the time after that.

Anything could happen.

Ford knows he should pull away. They should talk about what the hell just happened. He should move off his brother's damn lap!

Or, he could give in to the very thing he's spent two-thirds of their lives running from. The details and tough conversation can be hashed out later, right?

It's the hold on his jaw loosening that yanks Ford out of his spinning thoughts back to the present. Stanley is pulling away, looking down-

How long was he lost in thought? It couldn't have been more than twenty seconds. Did he change his mind? No, then why does he look so-

Well. Stanley looks the same as he always does.

Oh. Briefly, for a few seconds, Stanley was being brave. He opened up and showed his hand. Let himself be vulnerable.

Idiot!

His hands had never fully left Stan's shoulders, but he tightens their grip now, shifting one up to cup along the underside of his jaw. He doesn't feel the need to say anything, because neither of them has ever really been good with words.

He leans down, surprising them both, with a much more insistent kiss.

A hello. And maybe? A new beginning.

[captainmdhridoyhossain-blog]

[ad_1] A couple of months in the past, the C.E.O. of Poggio Labs, a San Francisco instrument corporate, sounded an alarm. “If you happen to’re a instantly man elderly 25 to 35,” he tweeted, ladies are judging you “in keeping with a suite of requirements created via an individual named tinx.” The arbiter’s complete title is Christina Najjar; as a teen-ager she followed the title Tinx, which is how her just about two million social-media fans know her. “They’re most commonly ladies,” she stated the opposite day. She wore a inexperienced sweatshirt, grey leggings, and cantaloupe-colored wrist weights. “They've disposable source of revenue and need to know the way to spend it. They need to have margaritas and get up at 6 A.M. and pass to a exercise. They don’t need to be dicked round via fuck boys.”A former freelance creator, Najjar, who's thirty-one, joined TikTok in 2020. “I used to be, like, I don’t give a shit anymore,” she stated. “I’m hungover and by myself. I’m going to make some TikToks, as a result of differently my simplest interplay might be with my Amazon gadgets.” She satirized alternative-milk adherents, “fundamental” New York millennials, and wealthy mothers, describing how they could acclimate to quite a lot of areas. (Brooklyn: “You’re going to wish one thing delicate, like a $15 million townhouse in Park Slope.” Higher East Aspect: “Get a bit of crusty white canine that’s no longer that lovable. Title it Tabitha.” Beverly Hills: “Oddly sufficient, a large number of other people in Beverly Hills have completely no style . . . a couple of lion statues out entrance by no means harm.”)“It’s part satire, part aspirational,” she stated, surroundings off on her day-to-day “rich-mom stroll” via Beverly Hills, the place she lives. “Everyone hates the wealthy mother, the archetypal anal lady who doesn’t devour carbs and has the five-thousand-dollar stroller, however they’ll additionally say, ‘Ooh, I'm going to the similar espresso store as her.’ It’s the closing crew of people who you'll be able to safely poke amusing at.”Najjar grew up in London, the daughter of an expat company legal professional, and attended Stanford and Parsons. “I used to take footage of my outfits and describe them in humorous techniques, get a hold of those rich-mom characters,” she stated. “It began in grad college, when all my pals had those cool, high-powered jobs and I used to be crying in a espresso store in Tribeca, seeking to write a paper.”Each and every Monday and Thursday, she invitations her Instagram fans to “Ask Me The rest,” addressing such subjects as how one can care for relationship burnout (“Take a ruin,” however “set a point in time”), which Nobu is the most efficient Nobu (“Malibu”), and what to do whilst you see your ex for the primary time after breaking apart (“Shove them right into a bush”). Najjar varieties every solution in a daring, sans-serif font and posts it on her Instagram account.“I took a couple of psych categories at Stanford, however not anything severe,” she stated. (She majored in English, which, she has stated, taught her “how one can bullshit.”) She added, “My entire ethos is, if in case you have a roomful of girls and any person has an issue, any person in that room has the solution. It’s about sharing data.” She went on, “If I will save a lady 3 weeks of feeling crummy a couple of fuck boy she’s relationship, or if I will give any person recommendation so that they don’t waste cash on a face product, that’s a win.”At a espresso store, Najjar ordered an iced Americano and ready to deal with the day’s A.M.A. “I’ll get upwards of 10000 questions inside twenty-four hours,” she stated. On her telephone display was once a grid of purple squares, virtual Publish-its: “Can I ask any person on a same-day date?” “Any recommendation for condo searching?” “Perfect hen hands in L.A.?” “I’m gonna solution that one,” she stated, tapping her display, “since the solution is Delilah”—a West Hollywood membership frequented via Drake—“clearly.

”“ ‘Who have been your celebrity early life/teenage crushes?’ Vin Diesel. I’m simply warming up with mild ones at this time,” she stated, working a Google Symbol seek for Diesel. “You’ve gotta upload a photograph,” she defined. Posted. Again to the questions: “How one can recover from activity rejection?” “How one can discover ways to love your self?”“Let me take into accounts this one,” she stated, biting her lip. “On occasion I dictate, since the font will get so small.” Seven mins later, she posted a paragraph about journaling, gratitude lists, and doing extra of what you like. “I all the time attempt to couple woo-woo with sensible.”A person approached. “Tinx? I met you on the Grove some time in the past, when I used to be with my female friend—neatly, ex-girlfriend.”“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” Najjar stated.“No worries.” He labored at a dentist’s place of job. “We maintain a large number of superstar clientele,” he stated. “I’d like to hook you up.”“You’re so candy,” Najjar stated.“I low-key need to get you within the place of job simply to make my ex jealous,” he stated. Najjar laughed uncomfortably. “I in fact need to get her jealous at this time.”The dental man scooted subsequent to her for a selfie and dropped a industry card. “Let’s see,” Tinx stated, resuming scrolling: “ ‘Ideas on texting the fellow and no longer responding to his reaction?’“We waste such a lot time on video games,” she stated. “You must simply assume, like, Why am I taking part in this sport? Extra incessantly than no longer, it’s ego.” ♦ [ad_2] #Tinxs #Box #Information #Wealthy #Mothers #Unhealthy #Boyfriends

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