Chapter Text

The portal room was way too big.



Admittedly Stan didn't have much experience with the average size of portal rooms, but he knew most of Ford's projects matched his ego, and his ego was enormous. Even though the walls weren't very smooth, the echoes of their argument still bounced around it like tennis balls, each one adding an extra layer of pain to Stan’s growing headache. Ford's voice was as harsh as the freezing air. “I’m giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won’t even listen!”



That stung. Stan knew perfectly well that he wasn’t much more than a penniless grifter, scraping his life off the bottom of the barrel, but hearing Ford confirm it still hurt like hell. So he did what he did best: he lashed out. “Well, listen to this! You want me to get rid of this book?" He held the journal up as he fumbled his lighter out of his pocket. "Fine, I'll get rid of it right now!”



Ford paled, “No! You don’t understand!” He lurched forward, reaching for the book. His eyes were wild and terrified.



Stan was so, so tempted to burn the stupid thing, but when he saw the naked fear in Ford's face he couldn’t muster up enough rage to go through with it. his arms dropped to his side and he deflated.



He cares about his dumb mysteries more than he cares about me…



He threw the tattered journal to the ground with a snarl and stormed past his brother to the stairs.



Ford hesitated, looking anxiously between Stan and the journal, before following. He caught up as they reached the main level, grabbing Stan’s shoulder to slow him down. “Stanley wait! You can’t leave without the journal!”



Stan grunted and struggled to throw him off. He was willing to bet he still had the advantage in upper body strength, but he would probably regret it if he socked Ford in the mouth. “Shut up! Obviously you made a mistake calling me here because I’ve got nothing to offer!” he managed to break away, bumping into a shelf that stood next to the door. Its contents rattled in protest.



Ford stepped closer, his expression pleading. “I don’t have any other choice! You’re the only person I can trust with this!”



“Ha! That’s rich!”



“Please!” Ford begged, “I need your help!”



Stan shook his head with a growl. “I’m sick of helping you! All it’s ever gotten me is-! Fuck!” In his anger one of his gesturing hands slammed into the shelf, causing it to wobble. Instinctively he grabbed for the sides to straighten it, but the damage was done. A glass jar full of strange blue sand tipped onto its side, and the lid bounced off of his head. He looked up just in time to be engulfed by a cloud of blue dust.



He stumbled and wheezed, pawing at his face to clear the grains away from his mouth and nose. He heard Ford gasp. “Now look what you’ve done!”



He tried to speak but broke into a coughing fit when he only managed to inhale a lungful of the dust cloud. His eyes watered profusely. “Wha… What was that stuff?!” he croaked. It smelled like burnt pixy stix.



Ford looked like he couldn't decide if he was concerned, or pissed. “I don’t know! I’d only recently gathered that specimen for study, I haven’t figured out its properties yet!” He clutched at his hair in frustration. “And you just dumped it all over yourself! Do you have any idea how difficult it was to obtain that?!”



Stan was reminded vividly of another project he’d ruined a long time ago, and with another hoarse cough he straightened up to apologize.



Well, he tried to straighten up at least, but as he did the ground underneath him shifted and the house swayed, forcing him to grab at the shelf for support. When had they gotten on a boat? Something steadied him before he could fall over, twelve fingers digging into his shoulders. His vision decided just then to make a rather rude attempt at imitating a tunnel.



Ford was definitely worried now, his eyebrows drawing dangerously close together. He always looked worried, one way or another, but Stan just couldn't quite figure out what was causing it at the moment. There were a lot of things he couldn't figure out right now, come to think of it. Like, why was everything tilting at a 40-degree angle? That was weird.



Ford squeezed his arms, catching his attention. “Stanley? Stanley are you alright?”



“I’m fine.” He grumbled, though if he considered it for a moment his eyelids were actually getting really heavy. He could feel Ford grabbing at his coat, trying futilely to hold him upright, but the world was turning without him and there was nothing he could do about it.



So he passed out instead.







_____________________







When he woke up it was in someone else’s bed. Not the first time that had happened to be honest.



He squinted at the ceiling before realizing that it probably didn't hold any answers, and turned his head to look around. He had to be in Ford’s room. The various oddities scattered everywhere would have been a good enough hint on their own, but the hunched figure seated at the nearby desk, writing furiously in the journal, proved it. Ford’s hand flew across the page as he muttered to himself. The now-empty jar sat next to him in a sealed bag.



“Ford?” The word came out feeling more like a saw blade than a name. God that dust must have done a number on his throat, he sounded awful.



Ford jerked, his pen flying from his hand and landing several feet away from him. He ignored it and sprung to his feet, rushing over. “Stanley! Thank goodness you woke up, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”



Stan cringed. So he had fainted in front of his brother, right after having a huge tantrum. Great. And Ford had carried him all the way to the bedroom too apparently. He needed to get out of here if he wanted to retain any of his dignity. He dragged himself up onto his elbows, avoiding eye contact. “Right. I’ll, uh, get out of your hair. I’ll even take the stupid book too if you want, I guess.” He pushed aside the covers in one quick movement, shifting to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.



“Wait!”



He froze, staring blankly at his legs. They... Hadn't looked like that before. Why were they so skinny? Where'd all his hair go? His feet were tiny, and his ankles barely reached the bottom of the mattress. His hands, clutching at the covers, were equally small. His knuckles were unblemished, despite his extensive history of fighting, and he was missing a host of familiar scars on his arms. He wasn’t wearing pants, just a shirt. His shirt, judging by the familiar stains, but much larger than it should have been. It was big enough to be a nightgown.



He brought his fingers up in front of his face, flexing them. God, they were so... Pink. “Stanford… What happened to me?”



Ford studied him carefully, his expression analytical. “What do you remember?”



“I remember that weird portal… We fought…” Stan looked down at his knees. They were just as alien as the rest of him. “I tried to leave, and then I knocked something down and got it all over me.”



Ford rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “So you retained most of your recent memories it seems. That’s correct. You came into contact with an unclassified substance and lost consciousness shortly after. Then you started to… Change into this.”



Stan studied his hands again, swallowing. “So, what… Do I have cancer or something?”



Ford’s eyebrows rose. “No, I don’t believe so.” He rocked slightly on his heels as he tucked his arms behind his back. “In fact, you're probably less susceptible to cancer now than you were before. Children aren’t as likely to get it as adults are.”



Stan blinked. “What?”



Ford cleared his throat, looking at the bedspread and avoiding his brother’s eyes. “Your body may have... Reverted slightly. What I mean to say is... Your body’s natural aging process may have been reversed. By several years. Somewhere around twenty years is my estimate, give or take, I'm not quite sure what your exact age is currently...”



“That’s a funny joke Sixer.” Stan said, his voice monotone. He wasn’t laughing. “That’s hilarious. You almost had me. So, what's actually wrong with me?”



Ford looked pained. “This isn’t a joke Stanley, I’m serious!” He moved to his desk to grab something and returned, shoving an old mirror into Stan’s hands. Stan raised it, shaking, and stared.



The face that looked back at him wasn't what he remembered. He didn't see a mop-headed thug with a big nose and a bigger jaw, or a washed-up salesman with a smile that showed too many teeth. He saw a kid. A young one by the looks of it, with round freckled cheeks and a missing tooth. A cowlick stuck up over the curls that covered his head.



Ford knelt down beside him, face sympathetic. “I'm sorry Stanley, but it appears you’ve been turned into a child.”







_____________________







Things had not gone according to plan.



Wasn't that the understatement of the year. Ford had to admit that he may have taken for granted how readily Stan had leapt to his aid in the past. In hindsight it was rather naïve of him to think that Stan would be the same as he was a decade ago, boisterous and simple-minded, ready to forgive any perceived slights at a moment’s notice. Back then all Ford had to do was offer to work on the boat, ask for a high six, and they would both be laughing as if nothing had ever come between them. He'd hoped that would be the case this time as well.



But no, that’s not quite right. That implied that he was the one in the wrong. Really, Stanley should have jumped at the chance to help him, and make up for the mistake he’d made back in high school. He'd gotten offended instead, and had even broken something again! Maybe he really hadn’t changed, and what Ford had hoped for was a smarter, more mature Stan. One who would understand what was being asked of him, and would take on the responsibility he would have avoided in the past. But that was apparently asking too much.



After their disastrous argument, Stan had tried to leave, knocking a specimen over and getting covered in it before collapsing. Ford’s immediate reaction had been panic, shouting at his brother and slapping him to try and wake him up. But then Stan had started shrinking, provoking a whole new level of fear and confusion. Five minutes later Ford was left with a small child in his arms, baggy clothes draped over bony limbs. The sand on the floor around them had turned grey, its energy most likely spent once it had been used.



He'd barely managed to gather his thoughts and scoop Stan up, collecting the jar in a plastic bag just in case before moving to his room. Once the boy, his brother he'd reminded himself, had been tucked in he'd proceeded to silently freak out. His journal was useless, beyond providing a place for him to vent his confusion. None of his research told him what he should do. But he couldn't just sit and do nothing, so he'd sat reluctantly at his desk and wrote out every conceivable solution he could think of. Nothing seemed viable.



At least he had mostly been able to compose himself by the time his brother finally woke up.



Now Stan sat on the edge of the bed, feet dangling high above the floor. The neck of his T-shirt had slipped down over one of his thin shoulders, and his sleeves fell past his elbows. He let the mirror fall to his lap, staring at Ford in slack-jawed shock.



Ford cleared his throat, unnerved by the nostalgic face. “Now I know this sort of thing is difficult to take in. You’ve only recently been exposed to the concept of the supernatural after all.”



Stan shut his mouth with a click of teeth. His eyes only grew wider. “Supernatural!?” He squeaked, “I thought you were dealing with a bunch of dumb sci-fi crap, not supernatural crap!”



“It’s not crap it’s science! And it could have been much worse, to be honest, you’re lucky that it didn’t kill you!”



Stan pouted. At least his petulance matched his age now. “Well sorry if I don’t feel lucky when I get turned into a baby!” He waved his arms in Ford’s face, the billowing sleeves of his shirt exemplifying his point. “What the hell did you do to me?!”



Ford felt the anger from earlier surging back up, clouding his vision like a red fog. The last half hour of worrying, on top of the previous weeks of high strung paranoia, had not done his temper any favours. “What did I do?! This is your fault!” He stood, slamming a hand on the bedside table. “If you’d just done what I asked you to do in the first place none of this would have happened!”



He expected his brother to fire right back at him, and for their argument from the basement to continue. He almost welcomed it as an excuse to let off some steam. But Stanley recoiled instead, pulling his knees to his chest and leaning away, looking alarmed. “Okay! Sorry!”



Stan wasn’t usually the type to accept blame or take the fall in an argument. Ford drew back, surprised. “Right, well.” He coughed and took another step backwards. Stan relaxed slightly as he did.



He’d almost forgotten that his brother was much smaller now. He was so used to them being of equal heights if not equal girths, and to his chagrin he realized he may have been looming a bit. “At the moment it doesn't matter who's at fault," he conceded, "what matters is finding a solution. You can’t remain like this forever, obviously.”



Stan tilted his head, “What about that thing you needed help with? You seemed pretty freaked out.”



Ford felt a chill crawl up his spine. Of course, how could he be so foolish?! He didn’t have time to deal with a problem like this and figure out how to stop Bill. He hadn’t slept in days! He cursed and sat heavily on the bed, burying his face in his hands with a groan.



Tiny fingers patted his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. I can wait. You deal with your weird portal problem and then you can turn me back.”



It was so familiar and soothing, a balm from a lifetime ago when Stan would console him on the beach after a run-in with bullies. He remembered a sunset, salty air, and the calls of seabirds. One of these days, we’re gonna get out of this dumb town.



He sighed and shook off the touch, getting to his feet. “You were supposed to be the solution to my problem.” He said, rubbing his eyes. A bit of dried blood flaked off and drifted to the floor. He watched it fall vacantly. “For now I need to figure out a way to make this place safe. Once I can sleep I’ll be able to regain my focus.”



Stanley slid off the bed behind him, his small feet plodding across the wooden floor as he came up beside Ford. The younger brother in so many ways. Ford had never realized how many freckles they’d had as children. Stan’s face looked like a map of constellations. One of them resembled Orion, splashed above his ruddy nose.



“Well,” Stanley said after a moment of consideration, “Can I ask for one thing at least?”



Ford frowned, wary. “What is it?”



“Can I have some pants?”