For a second the two of them were frozen in place.

Then the crossbow dropped from Stan's hands, landing with a loud clatter on the floor (fortunately not in such a way that it would go off, like it would in the movies); at the same time Stan's legs, apparently unable to bear his weight any longer, gave out, and he collapsed to his knees.

Before Ford could react, his brother had pulled himself forward and caught his (Ford's) head in both hands, tilting it back and pulling his eyelid all the way open with his thumb.

Ford quickly realized what he was doing, and so he didn't struggle, going quite still and letting Stan get a good, long look.

His twin checked the other eye too, staring at them in something between fierce concentration and abject bewilderment. Then, with just as much abruptness as before, he released Ford and scooted back, biting down on his hand and staring at him in horror.

"It's okay, Stanley," Ford said, even though it really shouldn't have been. "It's all right-"

"Two of you."

And there was Ford's fourth surprise of the day.

For a moment he wasn't even sure he'd really heard Stan speak, since his voice was so weak and hoarse from not being used in so long. But once he realized that his brother truly had spoken, and what he'd said, he was about to try again to apologize, until Stan went on talking, the words all coming out in a harsh, gravelly babble.

"There-there were two of you, weren't there? You're not in the same body or split personalities or nothin', you saved me from the other one, you're the-the real Ford-" his voice cut off with a choking noise- "and I just almost-" His eyes darted to the crossbow, and with another sob he covered his face with his hands, hunching over on himself and shaking.

Instantly Ford forgot about the terror from his near-death experience; his twin was upset and hurt, and needed him. He crawled over to his brother, letting his hands hover for a moment in indecision before setting them on top of Stan's.

"Stanley, will you look at me, please?"

Gently he pushed them down until he could see Stan's eyes-now bloodshot and glassy.

"Believe me, it's all right. I don't blame you for it."

"...It wasn't you, was it? You didn't hurt me."

"No, never. It was-"

"B-Bill Cipher?"

So Stan had been listening to him, all this time. "Yes, that's right! He knew all my thoughts and memories, so he knew all the best ways to hurt you. I'm so sorry, Stan." He couldn't say he was sorry enough.

Stan stared into his eyes again, searching, probably trying to see if there was any grain of untruth in his words. And then just like that he slumped forward, basically collapsing against Ford until the top of his head was nestled under his chin.

"I never meant to break it," he whispered, letting the words all come out in a rush again. "I thought I fixed it, but I shoulda told you what happened, or never even gone near the table-"

As soon as he realized what he was talking about, Ford wasted no time in wrapping his arms around Stan's shoulders, and whispering back, "Don't worry about it, Stanley. It doesn't matter anymore."

It wasn't long before both of them were shaking, and rocking back and forth. Ford could feel dampness spreading across his chest, but he didn't care-he was probably leaving a match in his twin's hair.

They knelt for ages, the only sounds between them loud sniffling and gentle murmuring.

Eventually, though, Stan murmured, "Do I haveta leave?"

"What?"

Despite how his voice was muffled into Ford's shirt, Ford could hear him perfectly. "You said...when I got better, I could leave. But...do I have to?"

Ford pushed Stan back a tiny bit, enough to see his face. Stan's face was worn and exhausted and unshaven, but it was also sincere.

"...If you want to stay…" Ford managed a small smile, and rubbed his face on his own shoulder, "you absolutely can." He didn't even register that he should have said "you may" until after he said it, and decided that at the moment that didn't matter either.

And for the first time in years Stan smiled back at him. Before he snorted. "Geez, I sound like I got Stockholm Syndrome or somethin', askin' the guy who tied me to a bed for two weeks if I can stay with him."

Ford blinked-and then he burst into laughter.

Before long Stan was laughing too, voice still sounding terrible but at least it was happy, and the fact that he was capable of making an inappropriate joke about their situation was enough to give Ford hope that things could get better for them, that maybe they could bounce back from this somehow. They leaned against the side of the bed, not bothering to let go of each other, and spent a full minute just cracking up. And neither of them cared if their laughter had a slightly hysterical edge to it; it was warm and real and refreshing and the first thing that felt completely right between them.

Yay, an ending where everybody laughs!

Even though among other things, they're both gonna need a LOT of therapy-assuming, of course, that they'll be able to find a therapist who won't look at them the way that one doctor looks at Sam and Dean in the episode of Supernatural where they check into the mental hospital.

A big thank you to Keleficent for letting me write this, and another to all my loyal fans who followed this story to the end; I hope it didn't disappoint.