Chapter Text
When he woke up, all he saw was blood. His blood, which stained the pure white snow that surrounded everything.
His head hurt especially— Somehow boiling hot and freezing cold all at once. Pressed against the ground on his side as if passed out, with ears full of snow and a mind full of cotton, Stanford coughed, and even more blood spilled from his cracked lips. It leaked onto the frost. With frayed vocal chords he let out a frail groan trying to process the blanket of pain that smothered him whole. The pulsing behind his right eye made him want to claw it out, and he could barely manage to open it without fractions of light making his sensitive eye explode in agony.
He tasted the metal on his tongue, and a deep pain pooling at the side of his jaw. He moved his tongue around the cavern of his irritated mouth, and quickly realised what happened there when he found a gap— Wincing in pain at the stimulation of torn nerves, he felt the discomfort of a missing molar.
His fingers twitched and clutched at the snow, having gone numb and purple with the cold. They tried to ground him in this world of pain undoubtedly caused by the monster he used to consider his ‘Muse’.
How did this happen? He had timers for when caffeine wore off to have more coffee. He kept himself occupied as to not have any free time to even think about sleep. He even taped his eyelids open and debated sewing them to stay like that all in fear of that monster invading his mind. Ford scolded himself. Somewhere in there must've been a flaw or something to make him pass out. Either way, if that was the case, the memory would've bled out of his skull along with half the blood in it.
All he felt was regret. His partner was right, and, oh, how he wishes he listened— published his findings and called it a day, that would've been just fine. Moses, Stanford, why are you like this? He felt something well in the back of his throat, a deep sadness— and he bit his tongue to suppress it. Just like dad always said to do.
He could hear the ringing in his head long before he could hear the footsteps approaching him. He couldn't quite distinguish the increasing footstep speed from his frantic heartbeat.
“Stanford!” A voice exclaimed from somewhere in a tone akin to shock. It was a familiar voice heavy with a southern drawl— one that struck a chord in him, as it triggered a flood of incoherent memories that felt like the loose threads of something far, far away. Ford tried to communicate, but found his lips quivered too much to form anything coherent. A jumbled attempt to say something, anything.
The familiar yet distant man gently touched his cold shoulder, as they kneeled down beside him as he gently rolled him over on his back and observed his limp form. His numb skin nearly didn't register the touch of the man's long, slender fingers on his shoulder. The bright winter sun that shone and invaded Ford's eyes made him squint. “By god…”
The next thing he processed were two gloved fingers gently prodding into the side of his neck, as they pressed down. It felt uncomfortable, but he let it happen, as he didn't have any strength to fight back—or, well, do anything other than lay there collapsed. The figure let out a sigh of relief upon feeling the weak beats that thudded against his fingertips. “Stanford, can y’hear me?”
His bones didn't want to work, and they stuttered along as he attempted to bring his left hand up to signal that he could hear… whoever this was. It was agonisingly slow, and his knuckles burned and twitched in response— but he thinks he does it.
“Alright,” the man said, gently touching his hand. The woollen gloves felt nice against the frostbitten skin. “I'm gonna get you back to your house, and I'm gonna get you all fixed up, alright?”
Ford let out a small groan of confusion from his sore voice box, as he cranked his head up just enough to see a little bit more of the man— who looked so achingly familiar, but his identity (and, too, whatever link he might have with him) is just out of reach of his anomalous hands.
Suddenly, he was hoisted up into slender, warm arms, his head flung over the man's shoulder with surprising strength. The harsh motion elicits a small whine to leave his throat, to which the figure gently stroked his cold back and pulled him closer. The man's lanky frame seemed to be a façade, as he was carried with ease.
It was a nice feeling, he'd admit. His head was left to rest into the crook of the man's neck and Ford nearly didn't acknowledge the way that he sunk into the figure's touch, the warmth slowly melting away the ice deeply embedded in his marrow.
“How’re you feeling, Ford?” The man asked in a more casual tone, as if he was just asking how his day was, and not if he was feeling like he was in a world of pain. Ford wasn't sure how to respond. All he could focus on was how the hot viscous blood flowed from his eye and clung to the fabric of the man's coat. The shoulder now had a horrible, ugly blotch of red on it. He gently clutched onto the man's back to get a better grip, grasping at fistfuls of fabric.
“Okay, s’alright. Take your time.” The man gently ruffled his hair, before he moved his hands to secure the man, as he guided Ford's arm to rest on his shoulder. “I'm gonna start walking while carrying you. It'll hurt, but just hold on, okay?”
Something about the situation made the corners of his mouth tug. He wasn't quite sure why. It was a comforting feeling. Like being carried to his bed after falling asleep somewhere he shouldn't have as a child.
He remembered a situation like that once. The blemished skin of a mother with neatly styled black hair as he was picked up out of a wrecked boat. The strong smell of vintage perfume on her neck mixed with the salt of the shore as she held him close and stroked his hair. He remembered the giggles and chatter of a boy in red and white stripes, teasing him for falling asleep.
Who were they again? His memory fails him.
The heat in the deceptively strong arms of the figure was something that warmed him from the inside out. The hike through the snow, on the other hand, was infinitely more uncomfortable. With every step he felt small jolts rattle to his core. Blood trickled down the sleeves of the familiar man's coat from where he was holding his head up. He’d have to compensate for them when he's healed, or else the guilt would eat him alive.
Despite the snow-cushioned footsteps, it felt as though the jostles that came with every step intended to tear his spine from his brain stem. His head throbbed and ached at this discomfort and he felt his eyelids lazily loll open as he viewed the footsteps formed behind them. The man’s dirty blond hair smelt of rust and metal as he pressed his face against it to block out the light.
“Go to sleep, Stanford. You need it.” The figure with the strong southern accent whispered to him gently, as they began to approach something beyond snowy white plains.
Ford wanted to refuse. He couldn't remember why. The word ‘no’ pried at his lips but his tongue felt much too numb to act upon it. Something about the idea of going to sleep caused him to shudder, as if something inside of him screamed at to not do it.
And yet, his eyelids grew heavy. Had he always been this tired? How did he ignore it for this long? It's as though the weight of the earth dragged them down, and he couldn't resist it when they closed themselves.
He didn't quite process the small chuckle he heard from the man's thin lips as he slipped through the final cracks of consciousness and drifted away nearly immediately.