A Friend (Stanford Pines x Reader)

Lies

You couldn't sleep, and after what had just happened, you didn't want to. The room was cast in darkness, the curtains drawn, and silence pounded in your ears. It was an eerie silence, so profound that it almost seemed loud, drilling into you, increasing your discomfort. Your hand itched to reach for the six-fingered one that should be beside you, but you knew it wasn't there. 

Pressure built up in your chest, making it difficult for you to breathe and think properly. Tears brimmed in the corner of your eyes, leaking out and trickling down the sides of your face. You couldn't bring yourself to wipe them away. What was the point? 

Millions of thoughts spiraled in your overwhelmed mind. Thoughts of how the tragedy could have been prevented. Thoughts of how the man you loved could be anywhere at this point. Thoughts of how completely and utterly helpless you felt in that moment. With a sigh, you rose into a sitting position and drew your knees close to your chest. Sleeping was impossible, and you weren't sure why you were even trying. You craved to feel a soothing motion of circles being rubbed on your back, Ford's arms wrapped around you as he murmured soft reassurances to you in the gentle way he did when you were unable to sleep. Eventually, you would have been able to nod off against him, and he would lay you back with him into a lying position, pulling you close as you slipped into a peaceful oblivion until the sun came up again. There was no Ford to reassure you now, and it felt like the sun would never rise. 

You swung your feet off of the bed and slowly padded across the room. You opened the door and climbed down the stairs, your hand trailing on the railing as you went. When you reached the bottom, you heard a soft, gravelly sigh coming from the living room. Interest piqued, you made your way into the room. 

As expected, the lights were off. Your vision adjusted to the darkness, revealing Stanley, one hand supporting his head, the other cradling a large bottle. You knew immediately that it was liquor. "Stanley?"

His response to your words was delayed. He slowly lifted his head and met your eyes, then looked back down at the ground again. "Hey, Y/N."

You frowned and stepped closer. "How much of that did you even have?"

Stanley shrugged, then immediately winced and drew in a sharp breath. Alarm rang in your mind. "Are you okay?" you asked quietly. Stanley lowered a calloused hand from his temple and gently prodded at his upper back near his shoulder. "'M fine,"

Frowning, you crept closer and peered over his shoulder. From that angle, you could see a hole in the fabric of his white t-shirt, revealing burnt skin beneath. "Good God, Stanley, what happened to your shoulder?!" you cried out, stumbling around the room for the first aid kit. Stanley's voice was monotone and indifferent. "I burnt it," 

"I see that," you acknowledged, grabbing the kit and a damp cloth. You maneuvered yourself awkwardly beside him, getting ready to tend to the wound. "But what did you burn yourself on... oh." Your eyes widened as recognition struck you like a hard slap in the face. You knew that symbol. It was branded in one of the machines in the basement. A wave of nausea overcame you. 

"Yeah," Stanley said flatly, pulling the bottle to his lips and taking a hard swig of the bitter liquid. You frowned. He didn't even seem to flinch at how hard the whiskey was when it went down his throat. Taking mental note of this, you raised the cloth, pausing before making direct contact. "This is going to sting,"

"Well, I've been through worse." Stanley muttered. You decided not to ask for elaboration. Gingerly, you pressed the cloth against his skin. He tensed beneath you, but he didn't move away or whine. While he didn't offer any stories or retellings of his life, you could tell it wasn't an easy one. Ford was in his mid-thirties, which meant Stanley was, too, but he seemed so much older. You wanted to say something, anything, to break the heavy tension in the room, but Stanley beat you to it. "You're a lot like him,"

Stanley didn't need to expand on who he was referring to, but your breath caught in your throat all the same. "What?"

"You remind me of Ford," Stanley explained, "When we were younger, some punks in school liked to rough him up. Whenever I fought 'em off, Ford would help clean up my scrapes and cuts. Heh. You two are really perfect for each other."

Pain tugged at you as you moved the cloth away, taking the disinfectant from the kit and applying it to a cotton ball. "You're a good brother to him," 

"Sure don't feel like it,"

You didn't have a response as you cleaned the wound. "We're so screwed," he said softly, mostly to himself.

Time Skip

You weren't sure of when you had fallen asleep, but you pried your eyes open and looked around. You were sprawled out on the couch. For a moment, you were confused, a call for Ford forming. The memories came, the call dying on your lips. He wasn't there to answer. 

Trying to ignore the pit of grief inside you, you sat up and rubbed your eyes. You had no idea what time it was, but you didn't care to look. You knew deep down that you had to be optimistic for Ford's sake -- you couldn't bring him home if you gave up all hope. Maintaining any optimism wasn't coming easily, though. Hopelessness, however, infiltrated your mind and attacked your resolve. 

Getting to your feet, you stumbled around the house and made your way into the kitchen. You brewed a pot of coffee, glaring at the machine and the blackness inside. You poured the coffee into your (F/C) mug, added the creamer and sugar as you liked it, then went in search of Stanley. The basement. It made perfect sense. Where else could he have gone?

As you stepped into the room, intending to make your way over to the elevator, you stopped. Stanley stood in the center of the room, talking to a crowd of people. "Stanley?" you asked as you took a sip from your mug. 

Stanley turned to face you, his eyes widening in surprise. The surprise was short-lived, fading into a more natural expression. "Ah, and this, folks, is my wife, Y/N!"

Immediately, you choked on the liquid and began to cough and hack in shock. Stanley's eyes widened. "Whoa, honey, are you okay?" He turned back to the crowd. "We'll just be a moment."

Grabbing your shoulder and pulling you aside, you gaped at him. "What the hell was that, Stanley?! I'm your brother's girlfriend for crying out loud!" you hissed, placing your mug down rather harshly. Stanley shushed you. "No, don't call me that. Call me Stan."

"What the... how in... what the hell are you even doing?" you demanded. Stan sighed and rubbed his temples. "I figured it out."

"Figured what out?!"

"I need them to think I'm Stanford," he said. 

You stared at him with bulging eyes. "What does that accomplish?!" 

Stan groaned and raised his hands in frustration. "We've gotta make a livin' somehow, Y/N! I went to the store because we needed food. We're broke as hell, and they recognized me as the scientist who lives in the woods. They said they'd pay for tours of the place, so I'm giving them what they want!"

"Yes, but why do you have to be Stanford?" you asked. 

"'Cause Stanford Pines is the one who lives here, not Stanley. I gotta pretend to be Stanford so it doesn't draw suspicion. I don't think Sixer wants the whole town to know that he was sucked into an interdimensional portal." he looked over his shoulder at the direction of the crowd. "Is everyone in town this stupid? God, I feel like a genius compared to all them."

"I can't... I'm just..." you trailed off, trying to form an argument. None came to you. As much as you didn't want to admit it, Stan had a point, and he pulled off the lie flawlessly. Not that the townsfolk were smart enough to put two and two together like that, but regardless, it made sense. "Fine," you relented, "I'll play along."

"Thank you," he said. "Now, come on. I've got a tour I need to bullshit through, and I need your help."