"Perhaps he may yet prove his worth to me" headcanon

I have So many Ford thoughts about this era of his life, here is only a sliver of my insanity FGHJSD

Alt text below cut ^^

When Stanley had been given the job he wasn't sure if they were serious but...well...a job comes with money or something right? Maybe he should've asked what they were paying him with-

"You want me to what?" He asked the looming dark figure

"Be Death" it said

"Be deaf? What- why?" Shocker was they meant Death, apparently Stan had been living like a dead person so that made him perfect for the job.

Not that he liked it but it did give him some sense of purpose... A comfort in his chest that perhaps all the things he messed up, had broken or destroyed on accident was simply this fate of being Death manifesting.

At least that's what he told himself as he knocked on a door of some wooden shack. He could feel the soul of whoever was beyond the door and, while he is able to guide sound into the afterlife, he has permission to try help those who are yet to lay their heads for enternal slumber.

"Who is it?! Have you come to take my eyes?!" Well, he wasn't expecting his twin dying to see him (literal, unfortunately)

Ford looked bad. Plain and simple. Both his eyes were bloodshot- though one was FAR worse than the other-, eyebags hikers would be jealous of, pale skin, shaky hands, stubble and tangles, along with the occasional spot of blood on his clothes or the many bandages that covered his hands made him look as though he were seconds away from collapsing.

Which, apparently, he was.

Stan froze. Yes, partly because of the crossbow, but mostly because he suddenly wanted nothing more than to run away. He'd wanted to see his brother again for so long, and now here he was- the next poor soul scheduled to be lead away into a calm, dark afterlife. One Stan wouldn't be able to follow him to, not really.

Ford was shaking, the crossbow making little rattles as he gave Stan a good look over. "Who are you?" he demanded. He sounded angry, but the shaking gave away what he was really masking.

Oh, shit, right, the hood.

Now see, real life Grim Reapers didn't really do the long black cloak and scythe thing, but they did have dark clothes that covered most of their bodies. For Stan, he was wearing a thin, black hoodie, long sleeves, thin gloves, loose pants, and boots. He held no real weapon, just coming as himself. He wouldn't need one, anyhow.

Stan cleared his throat, hoping that would help him re-find his voice after he'd suddenly lost it. Script. Just stick to the script. "Fear not, For- Stanford Pines," he stumbled, "I am not here to harm you."

If I can even do this in the first place.

Ford's expression melted into one of distrustful confusion. "Well you look very ominous for someone who wishes me no ill will." He yanked the crossbow back up, straightening it to point right between where Stan's eyes would be, if Ford could see them. "Are you with Bill?! Answer me now!"

Uh.

Stan cleared his throat again. "I... know not of this 'Bill' you speak of." He spoke slowly, but very unevenly. This whole old-timey pretentious way of speaking was stupid. (Apparently they only still did it to show humans that they were, indeed, a variant of the undead. Because of all things THAT was what gave it away. Somehow.)

"I don't believe you." Ford took a step closer, shoving the crossbow bolt towards Stan's face. "Let me see your eyes!"

"My eyes?" For a moment, Stan broke character in genuine confusion. What on Earth was his brother going on about?

Ford took another step closer, making Stan back up, else the bolt physically hit him. "The sign clearly says 'no trespassing'! So either you're a minion of Bill Cipher, or you're trespassing on private property, and either way I have more than plenty of reasons to shoot you right now where you stand!"

"Moses, Ford, calm down!" Stan lifted his hands up in front of him on instinct, still backing away. "Who the hell is- I mean, I know not of who you- no." Stan threw his head back exasperatedly. "You know what? Screw it." He raised his hands up and threw off the hood.

Ford froze, bloodshot eyes widening. "St... Stanley?"

Stan gave him as easy-going of a smile as he could manage, given the situation. "What's up, Sixer?"

Without warning, Ford reached forward to grab at his jacket, then yelped as his hands phased through nothing. He stumbled forward, Stan dodging out of the way, not wanting to accidentally touch Ford himself. He watched with a wince as Ford ate shit in the snow.

"Yeesh. Sorry 'bout that."

Ford whipped around, glaring at him with distrust again. "Wh... what the devil was that?!" He flung a hand out at Stan as if it were his fault he didn't have a physical form anymore. "Are you even real?!"

"Okay, first off, ouch." Stan rolled his eyes, then crossed his arms, looking away. "Was gonna tell you in the monologue, but y' interrupted me, so."

Ford blinked, then ran his eyes back down Stan's outfit again. He continued to stare, mouth working soundlessly.

Stan huffed. "I can smell the smoke comin' out yer ears."

Ford looked back up at him, expression wide with... something. Probably nothing. "The mailbox said you were dead," he murmured.

"Oh, that." Mailbox? Whatever. "Yeah, uh, I'm not really dead-dead, I just uhh, got a new job, s'all." He closed his eyes with a grin. "I'm literally Death, Sixer. And I, uhh..." he turned away, wincing. "...The soul that lives in this house needs to come with me."

Ford's eyes flicked down, before his entire frame hardened. "No... no! I won't let you!" He re-brandished the crossbow, pointing it at Stan. "I'm not ready yet! I still have to find a way to hide my last journal, and figure out how to change my eye color at will!"

What?

Stan shrank in on himself a little bit. "Yeah, I figured," he grumbled. "Boss says this is a pre-empty- eptive- epl- preventative kill." Fuck his stupid tongue sometimes. "Said that if someone didn't take you now, you'd just," he took a breath, "suffer more until dying a real painful death."

Stan heard Ford's breath catch in his throat. "What does that mean?"

"I dunno, genius, you tell me." Stan shot him a look. "The hell have you gotten yourself into that a grim reaper got sent to your place to take ya before things get even worse than they already are? D'ya know how much suffering an order like that needs before it's issued?"

"I'm fine." Ford started backing up towards his house again. "My health does not matter so long as Cipher can't access the portal."

Stan took in a long, deep breath, then blew it back out, slowly. "Ford." He let his head drop again, meeting his brother's eyes. "I have no idea what the hell you're goin' on about."

"The inter-dimensional portal," Ford re-stated, which magically explained everything. He continued to back up, up the steps now, towards the door. "If you're not going to help me defend my home, then you need to go. And I'm not going with you." A dark look crossed over his face. "I'm not ready. Not until I can ensure the world's safety."

Then he shut the door, Stan listening as three separate locks clicked into place quickly. As if that would really do anything to prevent his entry.

Instead of barreling directly inside again, Stan took a moment to process all of that. Ford had been talking over his head for the most part, but it seemed like he was in some deep shit. A portal? Journals? Defending this creepy shack? Sure. Seemed like he'd let a monster loose in the woods or something.

And what the hell kinda name was Bill Cipher? Sounded like a fake name if Stan had ever heard one.

He ran a hand down his face. He had a choice now. He could either go in and help Ford with his would-be unfinished business, he could go take his soul by force (which would hurt Ford in the process, so hell no to THAT one), or he could just... leave. He'd have to explain to his boss why he hadn't collected the soul, and he wasn't sure what would happen from there, but he could just leave Ford to deal with his own shit.

But, this order was a preemptive kill. Preventative. It was supposed to be a painless release from some kind of deep, heavy suffering. Like torture n' shit.

Leaving Ford to experience the worst of it, only to die a slow, painful death alone was never on the table, either. There never really was a choice for Stan.

So, he took a deep breath, and phased through the door. He had to find Ford and convince him to let him help, somehow. And maybe get an explanation as to what the fuck was going on.

Then he was gonna kick Bill Cipher's ass, whoever he was. And he could make it as painful as whatever he was going to do to Ford.