Tw: Child abuse.

Ford wasn't sure exactly what happened, but it was definitely bad. Stan was snuggled up against his side, quietly sobbing.

He pulled his fingers through his brother's hair, whispering silly comforts under his breath so their parents wouldn't hear.

All Ford knew was that he had been sleeping and suddenly he was awake with a very sad Stanley.

It was all pretty disconcerting, considering it was usually the other way around. Ford got nightmares fairly often and usually removed himself from his own bed to join Stan on the bottom bunk, but there were rare nights where Stan would be so upset for whatever reason that he would battle his fear of heights to be with Ford. The first time it happened, Ford had been so surprised, he rolled off the bed, Stanley in tow. They had fallen to the floor, Stan still crying, but laughing as well, pointing at Ford's shocked facial expression.

As the years rolled on, it got more and more common.

That is until it just stopped.

Ford had tried asking why Stan was upset, but he never answered. Eventually, Ford gave up, never noticing anything out of the ordinary or even a pattern as to why these nights occurred, but when they all of a sudden, ended is when he got really concerned.

Sure they were getting older, but Ford wasn't ever going to be too old for his own brother, would he? It wasn't like anyone but them knew about it anyway, so what was the big deal? He was positive he'd heard harsh, quieted sobs emanating from the lower bunk, so why didn't Stanley reach out anymore? Ford tried going to his brother, the first time he'd heard him sob alone from his bed, but Stan faked sleep, and Ford didn't see any tears to prove what he was hearing wasn't just his imagination, so he went back to his bunk and fell asleep, albeit, after staring at the ceiling for hours on end.

He knew something was wrong, he just didn't know what it was.

The worst day of his life is when he found out.

They were both sixteen. Stan rolled into bed after hours, probably think Ford was asleep.

Stanley never cried anymore, but Ford could still hear the pain in his brother's breaths.

"Stanley, what's wrong?"

He heard Stan jumped when he spoke, despite his voice being so soft. Stan grunted,

"Nothin'. Go to sleep."

Ford stuck his head from over the railing to look at his twin, "No. Not until you tell me what's going on. What's been going on for the last...last...Stanley, what is that?" Ford pointed to his arm, where a deep purple and blue were sticking out from underneath his t-shirt. Stan hurriedly pulled his sleeve down, eyes wide.

"Nothing, I told ya."

Ford rolled off his bed, landing on the floor with a thump! Stan winced but didn't say anything or move when Ford grabbed his elbow and forced his short sleeve up past his shoulder. He gasped.

It was entirely bruised, black, blue and purple making a terrifying mosaic on his brother's shoulder. Ford could feel the blood rush out of his face. His mouth set in a grim line,

"Where did this come from? Are their more?"

No answer.

"Stanley so help me I will check myself if you don't show me."

A red face. Reluctant compliance. Stan lifted the corner of his shirt slightly to reveal even more extensive bruising on his belly. He let it fall, unwilling to show the extent of the damage.

So that's why Stanley never took his shirt off during boxing practice anymore.

Ford, aware that Stan's entire top half was probably layered in bruises, let go of his arms and sat next to him, trying to get Stan to look him in the eyes. "Stanley...this wasn't from boxing practice. What if you have a broken rib?! Where did these come from?" Ford begged Stanley to tell him. He needed to know.

Ford saw his twin's face drawn in resignation. Stan turned away.

No! I won't let this stand anymore. "Stanley, tell me," Ford demanded.

Stan, still looking away, mumbled something that sounded like 'accident.'

Oh Heck no! "Stanley, don't give me bullcrap like that," Stan turned around in surprise. Ford raised his eyebrows, "yeah, I'm being serious. Tell me what's going on or I swear..." He trailed off, letting the threat of 'or else' hang in the air.

Stan, without any warning, burrowed himself into Ford's side. Ford let his arms wrap around Stan naturally, but made sure to be light, as not to agitate the bruises too much. Ford, before he could say anything, heard one word. A harsh, deep, yet quiet whisper that turned his entire world upon its head.

"Dad."

His heart quit beating. His brain stopped working. The entire earth ceased spinning. He had only one question.

"WHAT?" Ford hissed, his face worked into a sneer full of anger that Stan didn't think he was capable of feeling. Ford glared at the door as if Filbrick were about to walk in and he wanted him to feel the full force of his righteous rage.

It was sad because he could believe it.

Filbrick had never physically threatened Ford. No, that must have been all on Stan. Stan the worthless spare. Stan the extra grunt that no one wanted. He knew what Filbrick thought of his twin. He just never imagined...

oh, but it was so easy. So easy to see his robot of a father beating on his brother. Telling him to man up. To do something with his life. It was too freaking easy.

His anger dissolved into sorrow however when he was struck with a realization.

How had he never noticed? How could he have...and Stan...but he never...Ford felt hot salt water boiling beneath his eyelids and he didn't fight them as they spilled over. And then it was suddenly Stan comforting Ford and gosh, why did he have to be such a cry-baby? Stan was living with bone breaking bruises and barely seemed to notice and it was all his fault, wasn't it? Wasn't it? How didn't he notice and Stanley I'm sorry, I'm so sor-

"We're leaving."

Stan stared, wide-eyed at his brother, who was suddenly moving around the room hurriedly, throwing things in both of their boxing bags. "Uh-What?" Stan's voice was choked and dry from all the high run emotion, even though Ford was the one who was crying. Ford gave him a glance of desperation. "And we're taking mom with us."

"What? Ford- I'm fine, it's fine. He doesn't hurt mom, or you or Shermie, just...just me. I swear, it's fine. I can handle it." Stan grabbed Ford's wrists even though it must have hurt like hades to move at all.

Ford peered into Stan's knowing eyes, filled with fear and regret. "No. No, who's to say he won't hurt them in the future?" Ford asked logically, "After we move out?" Ford tugged his hands away and continued filling the bag. "No, I'm right. Were leaving. And bringing all the money with us, that dirty hoarder." Ford stuck the last thing he thought they needed into his bag and zipped them both up. He hefted them on each shoulder, ignoring it when Stan tried to take at least one.

"No. You're injured, and like heck, I'm I gonna ever see you like that again Stanley. Don't you dare think otherwise! This is over. Were leaving, and calling the police." He added, almost as an afterthought.

"Go wake up mom. Does she know?" Stan shook his head, and Ford's face fell further. No one knew...no one at all?

"Well then go tell her. Don't leave anything out. Make sure she brings a bag."

Stan brought up the only flaw in his plan, as usual, "And what if she doesn't want to leave?" Stan asked, realizing he couldn't persuade his brother to stay.

Ford looked at him long and hard. "She will."

"How do you know?"

"Because she loves you, Ley." Ford turned away and walked out, stepping quietly. Stan took a moment to mull things over before going to fetch his mom.

Well that escalated quickly.

Yay! Abused Stan au. You're welcome. Never mind I am terribly sorry...no no no! Don't be sad, please, have some cake. *hands you cake*.