Archive of Our Own ^beta

Travelling with a cat in his car would've been weird on itself, now imagine with a family of them.

“MROOWW MROOOWW” 

“Be quiet! I got it!” Stanley turned the wheel sharply towards a gas station

"You're not the only one who's hungry, alright?” he argued with the small fluffy ball who kept yowling at him “have you considered that maybe the world doesn't revolve around you, huh? Bet you havent- have you? Huh? Have you considered that maybe, just maybe, there's other people in the world and your stomach or- or your happiness doesn't matter, Stan?! Have ya?!”

Off to a great morning. Stan just called a cat his own name, that's cool. Sane even.

Groaning, Stanley smashed his forehead against the wheel, listening to the long beep and ignoring anyone that may have turned towards his direction.

Although he didn't need to, Stan dug in his pockets counting up all his three dollars and one paper clip. Hooray.

“Coffee always does kill the hunger” he reassured himself, ignoring the series of meows that erupted like disagreements. He could understand the sentiment, he had been using that logic the last four stops in these three days but what else could he do? Cat food was extremely hard to steal so he settled on stealing crackers for himself and buying coffee and cans of tuna.

Stanley was getting to that familiar point of hunger where it wasn't painful but was a constant in the back of his mind, settling in like a sneaky little tic sucking at your life forces without you noticing. 

He would need to get rid of said little tic called Hunger before it was too late. A starving man will go so many lengths afterall…like that time he ate the leather of his boots– Not the worst but still.

Taking deep breaths, Stan looked over to the clowder beside him. Well, kinda beside him, the big black cat was making her way onto his lap, meowing softly as she gazed up at him.

“Don't worry, I won't let you starve” he reassured the Lady, smoothing a hand over her soft fur.

Carefully, he moved- or tried to- the Lady, her claws holding onto his already shitty jeans that now sported not only the usual stains but too much cat hair for his own good. 

“Let…go-” he struggled, unhooking each claw as Lady meowed in dissatisfaction, seemingly to find new ways to hold onto Stanley.

“I know- ladies…love me- but-” he breathed, struggling for a few minutes too long to admit before finally setting Lady on the passenger's seat where the other three watched. 

They looked far too pleased with his struggle so he threw a “Fuck you” over his shoulder as he stepped off his car.

“So we all agree he is getting worse, yes?” Sherman was the first to turn to the others, fluffy tail flicking anxiously behind him.

“Hmph” Filbrick huffed helpfully.

Stanley hadn't eaten a proper meal since they had seen each other again, he had munched on a few snacks here and there and mostly drank coffee, so much so Sherman is certain he is not only getting dehydrated but beating Stanford in coffee drinking.

“There's only so much shouting I can do to get him to make a stop” he sighed, shaking his head as he paced the car seat “but Stan always mistakes it for us being hungry…”

“Hmph”

“I have tried pushing our food towards him but he still refuses it” his mother meowed sadly, ears down all dejected. Not even the special treatment she had been getting (“little Lady this, little Lady that”) seemed to cheer her up lately.

“Oh, Shermie, what if he starves himself?” She cried with worry.

“That won't happen!” He tried to soothe his mother, walking over to gently push against her side “it won't happen, ma”

“But–”

“It won't happen, Caryn” Filbrick interrupted, eyes on the window outside “we won't let it happen”

Mother seemed a little more calm at the reassurances father sent her way, Sherman was thankful for it even if he was still bitter with the man for putting Stanley in this situation to begin with.

However, the lack of sarcastic and snarky replies was growing into a new worry of Sherman's.

“Stanford” he spoke softly, pulling away from his mother's side before she bathed his fur away “how are you holding up?” 

Stanford was curled up on the backseats, face pulled into a sour expression as he eyed the back of the driver's seat. It may take a genius to realise this, or someone who knows his younger siblings well, but while most would assume Stanford was angry, Sherman knew better.

It's the classic Pines way of ‘I'd rather be angry than feel sad’.

Every now and then Stanford’s eyes would snap to the duffle bag on the bottom of the car before he would force them away once again.

When no response came from his little brother, Sherman merely sighed and hopped on to the back with him, curling up beside the other. Stanford could try to ignore him all he wanted but the quiet purrs that came from him as Sherman joined his side gave him away. 

It's a shame, really. The cats all looked comfortable in his car, he hated to disrupt the peace.

“THIEF!” 

Slamming the door to his car closed, old jacket still stuffed to the brim it made him look more of a fat fuck than he already was, Stanley barely waited for the car to spark to life before driving away at a light speed (or as fast as he possibly could).

He could hear the panicked yowls from his new family- sorry, he meant pets, but kept driving on. 

Yep. Brink of insanity, a classic sure sign he's too hungry for anyone's good really. 

He knew it had been a bad idea. It was a bad idea to stuff his pockets with cans of tuna, to feel like a failure as a family member for not providing and grabbing actual food- cat food, that is. He knew it! He knew that even if the guy was half asleep behind the till he would hear his stumbling footsteps, would realise the packets of chips and cereal bars he sneaked past as he handed his cash for a cup of coffee. He knew…

“Fuck, my coffee” he whined despite not meaning to. He's reaching desperate levels and he knows it. The hunger that had been dormant was an infection taking over, something you can ignore until it starts burning and borderline irritating you right before it eats you alive.

He is rotting from the inside out and there is no one to help him. There is never anyone to help him, really. There's no one.

A sound tears out of him, something animal, something angry and bitter, he's not sure if it's a sob or a laugh. 

Stanley is forced to stop the car once he feels he's faraway enough, the road has been swimming about too much for his liking and his hands shook too much for comfort. He's got lives in his car…he won't put them at any more risk than he already has.

A soft meow forces his gaze away from the road, his shoulders slumping with a shaky sigh as he brushes a hand over the silky black fur.

“Sorry, Lady” he rasped “I know you're hungry” 

He was too.

Pulling the things from his pockets, Stan put them over the passenger's seat where Mr Grumpy Pants liked to sit. The fat cat seemed to settle for staring at him, not moving even as Stan didn't have anywhere else to place the things.

“Have it your way” he sighed and set a bag of chips over Mr Pants who didn't move a muscle. He would have moved the guy to his lap but all the times he attempted to pick him up ended with claw and teeth marks all over his arms and sometimes face…Plus, Lady was already occupying his lap, curled up into a furry donut.

Once all items were out, Stan sighed. No money, he used it in the coffee he's not even drinking and the biggest of items, and now all he had were snacks that would never be enough…at least he got actual cat food. 

“Alright” he opened up the bag of kibble and looked around for somewhere to put it. He used an old can of tuna and set it in the back seats, moving Lady to sit with Fluffy Neck (work in progress) and Sixer, Mr Pants could join in if he wanted, Stan could always feed Mr Pants after…he seemed keen to eat after everyone else.  

He watched Fluffy and Lady munch, waiting for them to finish so he could refill, not wanting Sixer to be left out, but when the time came to refill and Sixer had the can all to himself… the cat just didn’t approach it.

“Oh, I see” Stan moved the can to Mr Pants, who gave a grumpy meow to Sixer before diving in “You're a picky one, ain'tcha? Can't have the regular kibble, want just the fancy wet food” 

Sixer hissed at him which, honestly, just proved Stanley's point–

“Oh…Moses…” Stanley's eyes slowly began to widen with horror as realisation slowly set in. He quickly took in the state of each cat, all full belly and fluffy shiny coats.

“YOU GUYS HAVE OWNERS!” He tugged at his mullet, feeling absolutely horrible “I JUST KIDNA- I CATNAPPED SOMEONE'S CAT FAMILY! SOMEONES FAMILY!” 

How could he? When Stanley was a kid he had lost Shanklin and couldn't sleep peacefully at night worrying about him, her- it. He'd cry quietly into his pillow, holding the knife (later confiscated) that Shanklin loved! How could he do that to someone else?!

“Oh God- you guys probably belonged to some loving grandma too…some crazy cat grandma lady who overfeeds her cats with only the fanciest of wet foods- Oh God” he quickly turned to face the road ahead, allowing the reality to dawn on him.

“Stray cats aren't this nice- I should've known, really- MOSES, we're so far from where I found you too- Oh Moses, Oh God- Oh no” he turned his car on, brushing his greasy mullet back.

“Okay- okay, no worries!” 

“Meow”

“I SAID NO WORRIES!” his squeaky voice shouted in a panic “we just gotta- we just go right back to Oregon, right? Right. It's fine! You're fine. I am a horrible human being- YOU'RE FIIINEE” 

Stanley needed a plan. He was short on money and the drive back to Oregon would be long which meant he'd need gas and food and hopefully, pretty please, an actual shower. A shower with warm water, shower gel (none of that soap shit, texture is awful) so he could feel a little more human and maybe not scare off the grandmama.

“Pa was right about me” he muttered to himself, unaware of the meowing stopping almost abruptly.

Shaking his head, Stan swerved down the road and pulled down the sun visor to reveal his trusty map. Right. Plan.

He eyed that map with jaw set, multi tasking because he's so good at it, somewhere in the future he'd even bet they'd make map devices just for cars and people will get distracted by said devices because…they do other stuff too like..games or whatever but Stan would be able to game, look at the map AND drive. He's great like that.

HOOOOONKKKK

“Oops-” he swerved back into his lane, this time the cats didn't scream. They seem pretty used to it despite their furs being all fluffed up and spooked.

Checking on the cats reminded Stanley of Sixer's issue. He (or she- the guy never lets him check) didn't eat but surely he will soon enough, right? No one is picky when starving, Stan sure wasn't- Hey! Maybe a little moral lesson is in order! 

“You know, my ma always said there's people starving in Africa?” Stanley said suddenly after his weird moral freak out. They had literally watched him steal, it was a little too late to be feeling bad for being a bad person.

“So you gotta eat it all because those starving kids will come for you- i think” he continued once 

“What?” Shermie was just as confused as the rest of them

“I..I never quite understood why ma would scare us like that to eat” Stanley muttered 

“That was not what I was trying to teach” Ma meowed, tail flapping about “is that really what you two thought?” 

“Not me” Stanford finally spoke after what felt like forever, his throat felt scratchy, he definitely needed to drink something “although I must admit, telling us how other parts of the world are starving does not help make the point you were trying to-”

“No back talking” Stanley huffed, interrupting him which caused annoyance to spike up his tail, a hiss escaping Stanford.

“Oh hush” Stanley went on “my point is- you don't see me making a fuss! You think I wanted to have actual trash for food? No! But beggars can't be choosers, Sixer! And whenever you want or not- you are a beggar right now, alright? You guys beg for food all the time! And you're WITH a beggar so- what was my point again?”  

Stanford kept making hissing sounds towards his brother despite trying his best not to. 

“You know nothing!” He called, feeling frustration bubble up. Stanley merely began hissing back.

Their hissing argument went on for a while like those games Stanley would pull to annoy him by copying everything Stanford did. The best way to deal with this is to merely stop‐

“Hah! I win!”

The hissing argument began once more.

When the car finally came to a stop it was in an unfamiliar place, somewhere between Oregon and the place they had been before. 

Stanley had driven all throughout the afternoon and night, it was close to midday by now and her boy may look exhausted but Caryn had a feeling it's the sort of tired no sleep could ever fix. 

It may be just her motherly imagination but she could swear his cheeks were caving in and his eyes were more sunken than before. His lips were certainly white and chapped, bright red peeking through the dried skin he ate all throughout the ride while his stomach begged for a scrap of food.

She had attempted to feed her babies, pleaded with them but still nothing, not even from Stanford who could fully understand her cat speech. 

“Come on, bud” Stanley attempted once more to feed his brother (although he didn't know it was his brother), gently urging their empty can of tuna filled with kibble as though it was caviar being served.

“It's good” he reassured, brushing a hand over Stanford’s fur and getting a swipe of claws in return “rude”

Eventually Stanley gave up once again, sighing in defeat as he stepped off the car with his duffle bag, locking the doors as he disappeared from them. At least they were in the safety and warmth of his car…

“What's up with you?” Filbrick was the first to break the tense silence, his gruff voice carrying in his meows. 

Stanford tensed and so Caryn took it upon herself to try to soothe him, grooming his fur despite his complaints, he ought to give up soon enough. 

“Answer me, boy” 

“I am not sure what you mean, father” Stanford lied, eyes avoiding Filbrick.

“Why aren't you eating?” Filbrick growled, more annoyed than angry at his son feigning cluelessness.

“I just don't feel like it” Stanford curled up closer towards her, avoiding looking at Filbrick in a tell tale lie “I will once I feel like it” 

And all Caryn could hope for was that it was true.

Stanley didn't return until much later. Whereas before Caryn had thought he looked horrible, now he looked much worse, all shrivelled up as though his energy had been sucked out. 

He entered the car, drove for a bit just to park somewhere secluded before joining them in the backseats, all curled up in a ball where he sat.

No one commented on the stench he brought back with him, the sweat and flushes to his cheeks or the bruises all over his neck. Caryn avoided looking at the clear hand marks that peeked from under his shirt, the smell of heavy sickening cheap perfume that stuck to nail marks and of foreign sweat that clung to the edges of her baby's hair.

Caryn found herself heaving a few times at the mixture of smells, at the thought that clawed its way up her brain despite her efforts to keep it down with denial. She had seen the sort of clothes peeking through the bag, she had hoped it was some joke present for a friend or perhaps some gift for a girlfriend she didn't know about… she had hoped.

“You alright, little Lady?” Her son croaked, voice worn and tired. When Caryn looked up, nearly running from her own baby's hand merely due to the mix of smells, she found her little free spirit's eyes empty, devoid of light, as if his spirit had gone somewhere else leaving its vessel behind and abandoned. 

Caryn cried then. Her sobs came out as weird sad little sounds as she pushed her head firmly against that small innocent hand, it overtook her whole head and neck but it was so small. So small. That was her baby's hand.

She pleaded for forgiveness as she brought up onto his lap, brushed her fur over as much surface of his little tummy as she could to erase the history of the scents that remained there and replaced it with her own, with family. 

All the while her baby comforted her, unaware he was the one being comforted. 

After that Stanley wasn't allowed to leave the car alone. For some odd reason, the family of cats had collectively decided he needed babysitting after he returned from a few hours of work.

Everytime he tried to leave somehow, someway, a cat managed to escape the car, forcing him to open the door. He'd try to shove said cat back only to find another made its way out.

Stanley was being babied by a bunch of cats, it was sad how loved he felt, really. 

He avoided his old work place after that, the place was loud and packed with people, it would suck if someone stepped on their tails or stole his fam- cats. His cats. That are pets. 

Instead, Stanley was stuck roaming the streets, pick-pocketing or conning his way one way or another.

In his arms was Mr Grumpy Pants since the guy wobbled too slowly to keep up, he may hate the treatment, always so high and mighty, but even he seemed to understand his own disadvantage.

On his shoulders was Sixer, his long body draped over them like a rich-lady's scarf, his tiny six-kitty-paws kneading every so often. Stan allowed him to first climb up, even if the prick of claws had hurt, the guy hadn't eaten for nearly two days and Stan was afraid he was getting weaker.

Fluffy Neck (name STILL in progress) was stuck following him on the ground, every so often he'd hop on his foot and hitch a ride to rest before continuing on. Stan found Fluffy disappearing more than he liked, sending his heart thumping in a panic and him calling his name, the little guy was curious unfortunately, always staring at signs as though he could read them.

Little Lady had long slender legs so she followed at his pace, right by his side with her head held high. She was quite the charmer, meowing at strangers for treats and always returning with a dollar note somehow… Still, she was a black cat, so people often avoided her way to avoid the ‘bad luck’.

“Don't worry, I'm far from lucky” Stan would reassure her “no amount of bad luck can make my life worse” which is always a mistake to say.

Stanley had gotten a bit of attention by now, something about the cats got people giving him free money. It was very worrying at first, considering giving is never free, Mr Pants seemed to agree despite him being the most popular amongst the people.

Eventually Stan realised there was just something about homeless people with pets that got people's heart strings plucking towards them. He hated it but accepted it despite it, using any money given away in such a way for solely the cats. He still had the money from his one day at his old job, he would use that for gas and food later.

Food….

Anyway, eventually his own words came to bite him in the ass because before him was none other than Jimmy Snakes.

“I'll say, if it isn't Steve” 

Stanley stopped where he'd been walking down the streets, searching for inspiration or another job. The familiar voice scratched at his brain, all heavy smoker and friendly in that foreign way Stanley barely hears anymore: genuine.

“Snakes?” Stanley turned and lo and behold there he was, his old pal Jimmy Snakes. His hair, although still long and blond, had some streaks of white from the age finally catching up and his downwards pointy nose was still just as handsome.

“The one and only” Snakes still speaks in a drawl, his arms opening in a welcoming way. Stan hadn't felt a kind touch in…probably since last time he had seen Jimmy Snakes. Years. 

Setting Mr Grumpy Pants down along with Sixer, Stan walked over to give his old friend a hug, giving him a manly pat and snickering at the familiar way Snakes’ hands were always too low on his waist to be a proper hug.

“I must say. I barely recognised you” Snakes pulled back to take a proper look at Stan, it allowed Stan to take one right back. Jimmy Snakes was still too tall, wide chest and thin legs, his eyes were the same ghostly blue that used to scare Stanley as a kid and somehow his mustache had not changed at all.

“Look at you” Snakes laughed, pinching his cheek “you've lost all that chub!”

“Ow- hey!” Stanley smacked Snakes hand away, rubbing his cheek as the older man laughed, commenting about how thin his cheeks felt now- Real fucking nice to say when hes starving.

“Quite the parade you got going” 

“Hm? Oh” Stan turned back to where Jimmy had been peeking around him to look at the cat catruple all standing in a line and staring “right…uh…weird story”

“How about you tell me about it back at mine?” Jimmy Snakes only smiled, all lopsided and kind “it's been years, Steve- last time I saw you, you were….what? 18?”

“17” Stanley corrected, leaning down to pick Mr Pants once again, relief lifting the weight that his body had carried for a while. With Snakes he could probably get a quick shower, maybe a couch to sleep in for the night? 

The fellow that Stan knew was quite the ruffian. You could tell by the bandana he used to cover his bald spot, the worn leather of his jacket leaving its tiny black specks on the back of his neck and the heavy cologne to hide the potent stench of Whiskey. 

Still, the man welcomed Stan and them into his home, petting Sherman who had been the only one to allow himself to be touched (thank you for your sacrifice) because Caryn, who was ready to play the part of a normal cat as well, was off limits to this and any other man. Caryn is his wife, Filbrick would kill any man that laid a hand on her, caring or otherwise.

Stanley always called this biker ‘Snakes’, which was assumed to be a nickname right until Stanford found some documents revealing his name to be James .S. Snakes. A dumb surname, if you asked him. 

“Sorry about them, they're usually friendlier” Staley apologised on Stanford's behalf as he hissed at the approaching hand of James. 

“Ah, no worries” the man remained crouched down, brushing a hand over his mustache as he admired Filbrick's family, who were cats. Despite Folbrick's clear hisses and warning, he still swiped a hand over his and Caryn's fur as they passed by, seeming to not understand what a ‘no’ was.

“Yeah, the brown one, that's Sixer, he hasn't been eating much” Stanley crouched besides the man “I think that's why he's grumpier” 

“That so…” James Snakes hummed, leaning over towards Stan and showing zero interest in any of them. His pale blue eyes looked over Stan, who was far too clueless, playing with Caryn.

The movement was not sudden but, in fact, very slow. It still caught Filbrick by surprise.

James Snakes leaned over, hand coming to rest at the nape of Stanley’s neck, leading him towards him. Stanley turned his head just in time for the man to press his lips to his. 

Apparently it didn’t take just Filbrick by surprise but everyone else too, the noise of cats padding around stopping abruptly just as Snakes pressed closer, further, firmer. Horror was brewing in Filbrick’s gut as Stanley returned the kiss-

But his son isn’t gay! Stanley couldn’t be gay! Filbrick would notice, honestly, that boy could not hide his interest in the opposite gender- Unless… That was him playing it up? Was this a recent development? Did someone put him up for this? Someone must be manipulating him! Forcing him to!

“Jimmy” Stan pulled back but the bastard just went for his neck, it made Filbricks hair- fur puff up. The disrespect! Right in front of his parents! His father! Do they have no shame?!

“Fil, maybe it’s best we go in the other room” Caryn brushed her tail against his, throwing glances towards the two men, embarrassed.

“There is no other room! This is a shitty apartment!” Filbrick yowled, watching the man push his son down despite how much Stanley pulled away. See? He doesn’t want it! He’s not gay!

“There’s…the bathroom?” Sherman suggested but immediately backed down with the growl that erupted from Filbrick.

James’ hands travelled up Stanley’s leg before they found themselves around his belt, undoing it before attempting to give Stanley’s jeans the same fate. He bit and whispered things against Stan’s ear that Filbrick didn’t want to know but Stanley’s attention was turning to the cats, to them.

“Jimmy, stop it” he insisted “it feels weird with them watching” 

“I thought you were used to it” there’s annoyance present in his tone “if they pay enough”

“Wh-”

Suddenly, Snake’s hand was around Stanley’s jaw, it squeezed painfully and forced his cheeks together, making Stan look up at him as he sneered. Stanley’s eyes were wide, afraid and full of recognition, clearly this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you were up to last night. Prancing around, shaking your tush for any kind of payment" 

His son didn’t say anything, just froze. He froze like all the times Filbrick specifically told him not to, like Filbrick hadn’t taught him not to freeze in boxing matches, like he never was in a fight before.

Or maybe he froze in a way he only froze with Filbrick.

“It’s the least you could do, after I went through all the trouble of making use of that babbling trap of yours” 

“Jimmy, please”

Pleading only made things worse, it seemed, as the next second Stanley got a fist to the face, his head hitting the dirty floor of the shitty apartment. Filbrick could hear the distant voices of his family, Caryn crying out for her son, Sherman and Stanford shouting, but the blood was filling in the noise in his ears.

“Had I not taught you, you’d be starving in the streets! You should be thanking me like the cocksucker you are”

All he saw was the man making advances on his son, on Stanley who never backed down, on Stan who faced every fight for his twin with a bright dumb smile, on his little spirit who never shook as much as he was doing down. All Fillbrick saw was red.

He was on the man before he knew it, clawing and biting and yowling like a cat with rabies. He relished in the shout of surprise and cry of pain from the man as he attacked, aiming for those cold blue eyes, for anything and everything, somehow avoiding hands trying to pry him off.

James stood, fumbling to grab Filbrick on his back, his hands tugged and pulled at his fur but Filbrick refused to let go, content to stay here and kill this motherfucker-

“Little- shit!” 

Filbrick flew through the air, the world spinning before there was pain all over his side as he hit the shitty apartment's yellowed wall. He fell to the ground with a THUMP, struggling to lift his head to face off the advancing man.

“Fil!”

“Father!” 

From here, Filbrick had a view of his whole family; Caryn was stood in shock, her luxurious black fur standing almost comically, Shermie was rushing towards him with fear in his eyes, Stanford right behind him although his eyes looked much more calculated, it reminded Filbrick of himself as a young man…

And Stanley. Stanley sat up, eyes wide and afraid, face pale with purple blooming on his cheek. He was not looking at his opponent despite the amount of times Filbrick told him to do so, he always did prefer to look into the crowd and find Filbrick, then again… Suppose Filbrick isn’t looking at the opponent either. 

Everything buzzed, much alike the first time he had a drink at 11, his eyes drifting to the approaching leather boots. Who wears shoes in their home? Rude. 

Filbrick willed everything to stop doubling itself as the shadow of the man reached for him. He needed to get up, get up, get up–

CLANG

James Snakes’ body crumbled to the floor, the sound so sudden it forced Filbrick out of his dizzying state. He could feel his ears stand erect as he was kicked into wakefulness, eyeing the still body, nose twitching as copper pinched his nostrils.

When his eyes drifted upwards he found Stanley, his son, standing over the body with a rotary phone held just beside his head as though gearing up to use it as a weapon. Again.

Stanley was breathing hard, his face pale and hands shaky, his eyes looking from the man to Filbrick with this wavering panic settling over his shrunken pupils. 

He could hear the struggling wheezes from his son, his panic settling over his chest and never making into his lungs causing him to shake much more. The rotary phone was dropped noisily, phone receiver clattering and stretching towards Filbrick.

“Stanley” Filbrick breathed out a small meow and just like that he was suddenly scooped up into Stanley's arms. The boy held him close, almost painfully so, before rushing out the door.

Pressed close to his son's chest, Filbrick listened to the panicked gasps as he was jostled around. His nose was hit with the outside freezing cold as it took the scent of cheap shampoo and sweat, he wondered if Stanley was crazy to be out in the cold in just a t-shirt.

They didn't stop. Stanley didn't stop. He kept running right until his own feet collapsed on themselves- which didn't take a lot considering he had been a fool and hadn't eaten.

Still, when Stanley tripped and they hit the ground, Fillbrick didn't feel the impact, his son's arms protecting him.

“Fil! Stan!” Caryn cried from afar, running towards them. Sherman and Stanford followed, although Sherman was further away with his tiny legs.

“Are you alright?” Stanford asked, checking over him before his gaze went to his brother who refused to let go of Filbrick. 

He didn't really talk nor reply, far too focused on the fast beat of Stanley's heart that began to slow down as Caryn, Sherman and Stanford pushed and meowed at him. He listened to the breaths deepen, to his shaking subside only to return with those quiet jerks of silent cries.

Onto the next town. 

Stanley has some money in his pocket, the cats are all fed (minus Sixer), he’s got a full tank and he is ready to go onto the next town now. His old job was shit anyway and, really, he should have expected better by now, no one is ever kind for no reason. Not to him.

The wheel he gripped was the only thing anchoring him to the present as he drove in the night, his eyes unblinking as he kept replaying moments he had long forgotten with James Snakes. 

“I was really hoping for a shower” he muttered to no one in particular, watching the dark shadows of the trees increase the closer he got to Oregon, the faster he went over the speed limit.

White knuckles trembled. He ignored that.

“I mean, the guy had a point- he taught me an emergency money making skit” he told his friends, the cats “the least I could have done is show how much my skills improved or pay him” he made a crude gesture of pumping something into his mouth and laughed.

No laughter followed. Just silence. 

It wasn’t funny anyway. He’s not funny anyway. He’s not the fun twin anymore. Just…

What is he really?

“Cocksucker” it doesn't sound like his own voice when he says it. His body doesn’t really feel like his own actually. 

Stanley forces himself to blink but his mind still doesn’’t come back to its shell, like a hermit crab that has left for a bigger and grander home but now his squishy bits are all out for the world to attack and he will die, he’s going to die all vulnerable and weak and homeless. 

Parking the car was a surprise to himself, he doesn’t remember when he did it. He doesn’t remember crawling in the backseats, he doesn’t remember when his new family got comfortable around him or when Mr Pants actually decided to lay down in the backseats with them despite having never done so.

“I hope I don’t wake up” he muttered to no one in particular.

“Come on, eat something!” 

“No” 

“Stanford, please” Sherman sighed as his two younger brothers argued, both not eating “you cannot starve yourself- I understand it's cat food but…”

“It tastes good” his mother licked the top of Stanford's head, who swiped at her- it was no use though, as she quickly batted him a few times before continuing.

“Doubtful”

“It's true, our cat tongues like it” Sherman insisted

“Eat, you dingleberry!” Stanley shoved the cat food closer. He had eaten that morning a cereal bar and Stanford hadn't had a problem with eating as well then.

…Wait

“I am not a dingleberry!” 

“What's that? I hear a dingleberry hissing somewhere”

“Stop calling me that! I am not a dingleberry! You are!” 

It was hard to not realise those two couldn't hear each other, Stanley argued as though he knew exactly what was being said.

“What did you say about my mother?!”

Most of the time anyway.

Sherman sighed, licking his paw as he watched the two argue, his eyes going to Stanford, stubborn Stanford, as he slowly connected the dots.

“That's not going to work, you know?” He says 

“What? Me gouging his eyes out? Oh it will” Stanford hissed “as soon as mother let's me go, I'll-” 

He didn't finish, his eyes finding Sherman's and understanding crossing them. 

“...You don't know that” 

Stubborn Stanford. 

Sighing, Sherman settled down for a nap while his brother, the current human one, finally gave up and got out of the car. He grumbled to himself, dragging a smile to Sherman's lips, some things never changed.

“I'll go with him” Ma hopped out of the car before Stanley could really close the door. She had been worried since two nights ago, after that Jimmy…

A growling began to build up, it took a moment to realise it was coming from himself. He could feel his chest rumble and his lips pull back to reveal fangs, the memory of the man still fresh. 

He couldn't forgive that man for the way he treated his family, how he treated Stanley. He tried not to think about the indications of their conversation, how they met when Stanley had been seventeen…the ripe age he got kicked out.

“What's up with you?” Ford turned to him, ears at a weird adorable angle as he tilted his head.

“Sorry-” Shermie cleared his throat, or tried to “just remembered Snakes”

Before he knew it, all Pines men (minus Stan who was not present nor a cat) were growling into nothing. Stanford’s claws were destroying Stan's leather seats and his father looked more fluffy than earlier, Sherman imagined he looked similar.

A quiet sound made him pause, though. A soft bump against the window. When Sherman looked up, he found a man looking into the window, their eyes meeting.

“This is definitely his car” the voice was muffled but his feline ears picked up the sound perfectly.

“I didn’t know he had pets” another voice said, it sounded further away. 

“Let's wait for him nearby, if he sees us he'll run” and another.

“Run? You really think he'd leave this piece of junk behind?”

Sherman didn't know what was happening but it didn't take a Stanford to know these men were bad news. That these men were here for his little brother.

“Shermie?” Stanford’s voice was weak but attentive.

“I know” 

Filbrick was already up, hopping tk the back seats and putting himself between the door and them as though his waddling cat body could protect them.

It didn't matter, the men disappeared from their view. 

“We need to find a way to warn Stanley” Sherman stared at the window as though they'd pop right back. Father and Stanford made sounds of agreement, all their eyes set where the shadow of the large man had been.

Waiting for Stanley and ma to come back was stressful. Stanford kept pacing the car, mumbling to himself which only sounded like very quiet “mew mew mew mew” and father sat still by the window, exactly like how he would in his chair waiting for them to come back and keeping track of curfew. Shermie, on the other hand, had taken upon himself to sit on the driver’s seat, ready to jump on his brother when the opportunity arose. 

Said opportunity was bound to happen.

Sherman heard Stan’s faraway voice, his tail already waving behind him, preparing to jump. Stan was talking to their ma (not knowing it was their ma), holding her in his arms and brushing her fur. From here, Sherman could see his smile, it was softer and much more carefree in comparison to the stressed state he had been in since Jimmy…

“Get ready, guys” Sherman commanded, lowering himself and ignoring his ass wiggling by itself. 

The door opened, Sherman barely had a chance. 

For a moment, Stan’s face had brightened at the sight of him before it morphed into worry as he noted Sherman’s position. Sherman hopped out, warning Stan even though he knew he didn’t understand him, but he barely had made contact before Stan's eyes were rolling to the back of his head and he crumbled.

“Stanley!” ma cried out, crawling from under his weight, completely freezing as she took the sight of the men behind. One was holding a bat, having struck Stan on the back of the head. 

Sherman stood his ground, his ground being Stan’s back, hissing at the men warningly. It was no use, though, he was a cat and they happened to be a group of men with blunt weapons. 

With a snicker and a swift kick, Sherman was cast aside, rolling on the pavement before he landed on his feet (would you look at that). He watched his family try to stop the men from dragging his little brother in the truck, watched the men hold out their weapons and lift them in momentum to hit the fainted boy just as the doors to the truck closed.

Some big brother he’s been. 

As the truck began to drive away, the sound of solid hitting flesh and of grunts of pain following, Sherman ran after. He kept running and running even as the truck grew farther away and even then he didn’t stop running…

He had turned his back on his brother once, never again. 

There's something curious and exciting about the unknown.

There are times where Stanford forgets that the unknown can be terrifying too.

Memories of a young boy lead him on through the hot climate, he runs ahead barefoot on the burning sands. The boy is calling, promising they'll be together and so the unknown is not scary as long as they're together.

When did the unknown become so terrifying again? Stanford had lived in Gravity Falls, he's met anomalies after anomalies and, although some were scarier than others, never had he been so petrified without that freckled boy.

“STANLEEEYYY” 

“STAN!!” 

His family called for the boy as Stanford willed his vision to stop swimming (how did Stanley go so long without proper food?). He had to be here somewhere, according to his calculations this was the right area, this was the place they had planned to dump Stanley (‘s body).

Where is his brother?

The heat is an agonising thing, burning the sensitive parts of his paws. Stanford watched Shermie run around, father following mother and attempting to comfort her as they took breaks to stand on their tails to give the burning a rest.

Stanford just sat on his own tail, eyes scanning his surroundings, no use in wasting energy running around like crazy. He needed hints, he needed to look for hints…like those detective games Stanley and he used to play.

Weren't his instincts supposed to be better now? A starving cat surely could go above and beyond? Why is his body so useless? 

Why is Stanford so useless?

A mewl in the distance. His ears flicked towards it and Stanford’s head followed the direction.

The place was empty, sand and dry plants peppering the place here and there, a few abandoned items polluted this hell from the abandoned car parts, to weird mannequins parts, a random box with its contents gone, abandoned car, a telephone boot-

The car.

“Stanley!”

Stanford ran towards it, its once baby blue color fading and peeling, the air around the car waved in a haze due to the powerful sun. There was a groan, an animal thing, coming from its trunk.

“Stanley! Stanley! Is that you?” 

The scent of metal mixed with something else, something rotten and familiar, there was a hint of sweat. A hint of blood. 

“Is Stan in there?” Shermie was quick to be by his side, pressing his paws to the car despite the sizzling sound that followed. 

“I believe- STANLEY!” Stanford called scratching at the trunk with his brother, as if they tried enough they could erode the thing away. 

“My baby! Oh my God- Oh God-” he could hear his mother but couldn't bring his eyes away from the trunk. The trunk his brother was in. The trunk that was quickly becoming his tomb.

Stanford mewled, not having the mind to be surprised by the sound of distress and he headbutted the trunk, threw himself at it- anything! His body was small and powerless, his brain could do nothing to help right now- 

Still, he looked around, breathing quickly as he eyed the random items scattered around. Maybe- maybe there's a piece in the engine they could pick the lock with! Maybe the mannequins hand could smash the windows and they could open the back seats and-

All those things need hands. Arms. The body of a human. 

“No-” Stanford breathed, weak dumb body trembling despite the heat “No…no-” 

Would…would Stanley die? Logically, yes, but it was so hard to imagine Stanley, strong spirited Stanley, to just…keel over and never get up again. That idea itself did not make sense to Stanford.

Stanley always got up. He always did…right? 

And if Stanley died, here, right now…what then? Would he have died without talking to his family ever again? Stanford had watched the pitstops near telephone booths…he had watched the numbers being pressed and always the disappointment that followed when ma didn't pick up. When Stanford didn't pick up.

“It's fine, she probably had enough of her good-for-nothing son” his twin would laugh and wave it off, act as though he didn't hug himself at night to keep himself together.

“It’s fine, I never say anything to him anyway” his brother would shrug, pet him and act like he wasn't shaking.

Would Stanley die believing his family didn't care? That he, truly, died alone? 

Would he blame them? Stanford sure would. Would he hate them? Stanford would be obliged to.

Would Stanley die thinking Stanford never cared for him? Shoved him into this kind of life because he hated him? Because of a mistake? Because he was angry at him?

Don't get him wrong, he is angry but no one deserves this sort of punishment. No one deserves this…not unless they're the men that put Stanley in that trunk.

No one deserves to be kicked out of their home as well.

All they could do was call for Stanley Pines, their son, their brother, their free spirit who was dying. All they heard were meows and wordless pleas.

A crack. A crunch. Plastic and metal groaning from the inside, Stanford stopped calling, listening. A crunch, a crunch, a crunch, a crack, a cough, a crunch, a cry…

It felt like forever, really. The heat was long at the back of their minds as the noise seemed to get closer until it was interrupted by a THUMP. And another. And another.

Stanford could hear the panicked in the way the kicks were getting more erratic, faster and yet weaker, he could hear the panic in the way Stanley whined, could almost imagine his fast paced breathing and his teeth clenching, a bad habit of his, as the THUMP THUMP THUMP kept up.

“Come on! You can do it Stan!” Shermie encouraged desperately.

The trunk popped open, they all jumped back, out came crashing a body. 

Crashing on the floor was a lump of flesh, muscle and sweat, wheezing pathetically and weakly. It took a moment for Stanford’s mind to catch up and connect the things in front of him to his brother, arms bound behind his back and feet held together with that rope Stanley always hated the texture of as a kid and refused to touch. 

“Stanley!” Stanford rushed forth, going for the hands first, gnawing and scratching at the rope, willing it to come undone. 

They needed to get Stanley into a sheltered place, somewhere away from the heat, and they needed to get him water! He needs to stay hydrated, cool down his body and-

A head bumped against his, when Stanford looked up, he found Shermie helping him. Turning away, he also found his parents taking care of the ropes around Stanley’s ankles. 

“Keep going” Shermie reminded him and Stanford didn't even think to whine about the commanding tone, he just dove in and continued to bite away twine after twine. 

Eventually, their struggle proved fruitful and both Stanley's hands and feet were unbound. Stanford’s teeth had a dull ache but it was worth it.

They stepped back as Stanley moved his limbs at last instead of just breathing raggedily. He looked like a ragdoll, his arms flopping about as though they had no bones and barely being able to pick himself up.

“Come on, boy, get up” his father urged, similarly to all the times Stanley was down during a boxing match. This was no boxing matches though…this was torture.

When Stanley finally lifted his head, blood dripped down his chin, his long bangs covered his face and the damage. He seemed to sway even though he was already on the floor, the steady drip drip drip of blood making Stanford’s worry tenfold.

“Stan-”

The thing before them lift its head, revealing a disfigured mouth covered in blood, it reminded Stanford of this channel recently aired where they filmed the lives of animals and he had watched a coyote eat its prey… the snout of the predators covered in blood with the same look as the thing was giving them.

The Thing's eyes that peeked through the curtains of fur were inhospitable, hungry and desperate. Pupils shrunk and almost a fiery color in the cruel sunlight.

When it moved, Stanford found himself yowling warningly at it, taking a few steps back. The mount of sweat and flesh struggled to lift itself but it was bound to come for them, it would hunt them down if they stayed, eat them like it ate….

Its mouth was disfigured. A cough and a tooth fell out.

Stanford blinked down at the very human tooth, ears focusing on the present at last. Finally he could hear the hisses and yowls from his family, the wheezy struggling breaths of the predator, of Stanley. His twin.

Stanford couldn't let his instincts get in his way now, Stanley needed him.

With a resolute look towards his twin, Stanford bumped against Shermie to knock him out of his cat-brain state.

“I'm going to try to find help! Go find some water!” He demanded.

His eldest brother barely had time to process the words before Stanford was running out, leaving Shermie to wake his parents and find Stanley some water.

Everything was spinning, the world was spinning all around him or perhaps he was the one spinning around the world… like the moon, always trying to block the earth from the light of the sun, tugging and pulling the ocean selfishly. 

“Poor thing” 

God, he was so hungry. He thinks. At this point he's not sure… the ache is a constant, so much so he thinks it's just part of him. Always had been.

“Drink up, sweetheart” 

Something soothes his throat, like the honey his mother would sneak after the disgusting medicine, it's cool and smoothes out the prickly dry weeds that must have grown in his gullet.

“Meoow”

“I know, don't you worry, lovelies” 

Whatever sweet nectar had been gifted to him runs out, he thinks he hears a pathetic whine somewhere but isn't sure where it comes from.

“You're swallowing too much blood, hun, rinse it off” 

There's a hint of metallic taste in the cold nectar. It takes everything in him not to gulp it down… He tries anyway and the nectar is quickly gone.

“Please”

It returns and this time Stanley obeys, what else is he good for? All he has ever done is disobey, fight back, and now look where that got him…

Where did it get him? He can't really remember.

Eventually, the water runs out and Stanley has nothing to soothe the burning anymore. He thinks he hears frantic footsteps, hears the quiet meowing of…his family before something wet and cold is slapped on his forehead. It feels like heaven- was he even allowed in heaven? He's pretty sure not.

The wet thing remains but another is slid over his body, cold and lovely, it tries to wipe away at the dirt and grime he knows is on his body. His body is always dirty, always disgusting and used.

His body- this thing, this vessel - is useless and gross, sweaty and covered in germs from every man and woman that has ever touched him. He can see it, it's covered in bright lipsticks and blood just as bright, it's painted with pretty purples and ugly yellowed bruises in different shapes, scratched clean of any evidence of a sun-kissed skin because no sun would ever kiss a freckle on this rotten thing…

It's a rash, an infection, a rotting thing. And it's Stanley's. 

It's Stanley.

“I know” a voice, the one that's been speaking to him all along, sighs “I know…”

It's a stranger's voice but Stanley doesn't have the strength to open his eyes much less panic. What's another stranger touching his body? What's another grimy disgusting hand on his ruined body? He should be thankful someone even wants to touch him despite it all… Jimmy says he should be thankful.

Stanley should be thankful anyone would want to use up his body, fat squishy thing. He should be thankful people are willing to pay for his sweaty mess, for his services. He should be thankful they just don't take and if they do, he should be thankful then too…

It means he is wanted…because no one else is going to want him. His family didn't want him. 

Stanley hears something that doesn't belong to this stranger, it sounds as though it comes from inside, from him. It terrifies him to connect the pathetic sob to himself so he assumes it's not his.

“Help is on the way, hun” 

When Stanford had run to get help, no one could have expected the help he brought back. Then again, who would have followed a cat if not a crazy cat lady? 

The lady was stereotypical cat-lady; her dress was tacky and had a pattern that did nothing to hide the amount of cat hair sticking to her, the frames of her glasses were a bright purple and cat-eye shaped, she wore sandals with socks… 

She rushed after Stanford like a woman on a mission, “pspsps"ing away as Stanford ran towards them.

They had managed to find water but her sweet baby had yet to drink anything, it was as though he wasn't even there. Just a body, animal instinct that had managed to drag itself to the shadow of the car before giving up.

Stanley had vomited, empty and near clear, his stomach didn't have anything to throw away anymore but its own sweat.

Now, all Caryn could do was watch this stranger care for her little free spirit. The lady had managed to drag Stanley into her little beetle car and then into her own home, despite all the cats that blocked her path and weaved between her legs.

She was a thin thing, that woman, knobby knees poking through her tacky dress, but she managed to drag her son like Hercules himself, putting Stanley on her equally tacky couch and kicking out all her cats except them.

Caryn had tried to crawl up to her baby but the crazy lady had shooed her away every time, even pushing her off or throwing her- once she even threatened to throw her out of the room- 

“You'll raise his temperature" she tutted “i know you want to comfort the poor thing but you can't” 

She wiped her son's mouth like Caryn had after feeding him as a baby, she brushed his wet hair back from his forehead like Caryn had on those nights her baby had been sick and…what else could Caryn do but watch? Stanley was in good hands, any hands were better than paws.

Caryn sat back with Filbrick by her side and her two other children on her other side, listening to the whines and cries of her baby boy and being unable to do anything about them. 

“...mama?” 

“...no, sweetheart, I'm sorry”

“Mama…mama..” 

Her little free spirit called for her and all Caryn could do was sit back and watch. 

This time when they were being fed, no one ate.

Last he remembered he had been in a trunk. Beaten up and then thrown in a trunk. Beaten up, tied up and THEN thrown in a trunk. That was locked. Impossible to get out of.

Well, Stanley had always been stubborn, he had a thing that when people said ‘no’, he'd do it anyway, where if someone commanded him to do something then suddenly he wasn't going to do that. Reverse Physiology…or was it Psychology? Anyway, it's a problem since he's been little. 

Now, he is waking up to the painful fluorescent light, the sharp scent of disinfectant and the terrifying familiar scratch of uncomfortable bedding. 

Stanley closed his eyes once again. Maybe if he pretended, he wouldn't be here…

…

Nope.

Hospitals were like airports, once you've been to one, you've been to all and once you escape from one, you've escaped them all.

So, breaking out could be worryingly easy but it was just easy. 

Stan wasn't an idiot, he waited for the crappy meals first before leaving in his gown. He was pretty sure they didn't gown just anyone, maybe he stunk too much so they had no choice. 

The point is, it was far too easy to leave a hospital with a hospital gown and not get chased down…then again maybe this wasn't as bad as the other times where he got his kidney stolen or had been labelled as ‘mentally unwell’ or some shit.

“Now…where's my car?” his voice was scratcher than usual, it hurt too but he didn't let it bother him-

Something brushed against his bare leg, something furry, Stan jumped with a shriek. A manly shriek.

When he looked down he found his family, the quadruple of cats, all looking up at him with adorable eyes. They meowed and meowed, always so talkative.

“Were you worried about me?” he found himself smiling, chuckling as Fluffy…Fluffernutter (also a work in progress) pushed against his leg. It almost seemed as though he was trying to push him back in the hospital! Haha! 

Stanley gave each of his family attention, lots of pats and baby talk- even Mr Grumps (AKA Grumpy Pants) who, surprisingly enough, didn't scratch him.

“Alright, we need to go find our home” he stood upright, groaning at the dull ache in his body.

“That's the car, by the way” he clarified.

Sixer meowed before running off, it sent Stanley's heart into a panic right until the big cat stopped and turned back to him. The others followed and all copied Sixer.

“Hm…something tells me you're trying to tell me to follow you” he tapped his finger against his chin.

Shrugging, Stanley followed the cats.

“This is just like Alice in wonderland” he commented with them “but hopefully you’re not leading me to a ditch”

“That or that time where some junkie made me follow him to buy drugs” he mused “also led me into a ditch”

As always, the cats (minus Mr Pants) were talkative, it felt as though they were making conversation with him. Nagging him, almost, but mostly conversation.

“This is a whole lot different than all the other times I escaped from hospitals” Stan laughed “less lonely” he admitted “and painful- im still trying to figure out why I was there- sure some teeth are missing but nothing major. I think.”

“I mean, at least it's not a kidney!” He went on, laughing “last time i got my kidney stolen I had to stitch myself up! No hospitals, so how bad could this time have been?”

The cats were quiet after that.

“Bah, don't be like that” Stan waved the silence off “I have two kidneys, I don't need both” 

“Meow” Sixer gave him some sass, Stan didn't have to look to know it was him. Asshole.

“Okay so maybe I got a heart attack at the young age of….I forgot how old I am, actually-”

“Mrow” Fluffynutter interrupted

“The point is- the nurse was wrong about me getting a heart attack over the kidney! I mean sure the blood pressure and...uh… was it blood pressure?”

“Mew” Sixer added helpfully

“Shut up. I know” Stan scoffed “I knew that. My point is I'm fine” 

The judging silence that followed was not appreciated.

Eventually, his cat family led him right back to his sweet baby girl, his home/ccar.Stanley found himself smiling at the sight, his legs already feeling shaky and weaker at the thought of some much needed rest…

But first clothes. This gown made him look like a pregnant lady. A sexy pregnant hairy lady but pregnant nevertheless. 

Opening his car with his keys that he has with him at all times (he's pretty sure he was born with them actually) Stan unlocked the trunk and froze.

Inside, Stanley looked back at him. Beaten, bruised and disgusting, dirty and used. 

Stanley shook, making sounds that he had no memory making or even being capable of. His eyes are wide, pleading, pathetic and…so uncharacteristically young.

The trunk closes, he feels as though his chest is closing in as well.

Fuck the clothes.

Shakily, Stanley crawls in his car, he hugs his knees close as the doors close in. His car is shrinking and his ribcage shrinks with it, trying to fit in the small space.

Fur finds him and forces their way through his arms and knees, Little Lady meows at him and Stan knows he has to feed the cats- he knows but he can't bring himself to do so.

Fluffynutter pushes against his side until Stan gets the hint and lays on his side, fetal position and all. Embarrassing. Still, Fluffy just curls up with Lady, meowing a meowle a meownite.

Stanley thinks something is licking his hair but Sixer is sitting on his duffle bag looking at him the same way cats look at ghosts (he just knows they can see ghosts) and that leaves only Mr Grumpy Pants to groom him which is impossible.

Something in Sixer's serene eyes forces him to talk despite the shortness in his breaths. 

“I don't know how I have slept in here for years” he admits, never able to deal with the silence. He needs noise, he needs someone meowing nonstop like Fluffy and he needs the snarky comebacks from Sixer.

From Sixer. He needs Stanford. 

If he could find it in himself to move, Stanley would drive to the nearest payphone and call…even if he's pretty sure Stanford has stopped taking the calls. He'll use his last dime even to hear a snippet of his snarky voicemail asking him to talk after the stupid beep. 

Sixer, the cat not his brother, moves closer and his wet little nose meets Stanley's. Somehow the cold little nose and the tiny breaths help calm him…along with the vibrating purrs of Lady, Fluffy's weight and Mr Pants’(?) grooming.

Stanley realises he's surrounded by warmth, just not human. He's got family, just not his real one.

He also realises this is all there is. There is nothing more for Stanley Pines…if such a man even exists.

Sitting up, Stanley goes through the motions of setting up their food. He removes the shitty hospital sandwich from inside his gown (don't ask how it didn't fall (gauze)) and sets it aside and sets up two little cans of tuna, they'd earned it.

He watched the cats sniff the food, their little mouths drooling as they eyed the tuna. Stan chuckled and moved to the front seats despite how much his body ached.

He gripped the wheel, taking deep breaths. The cats needed their owner…he needed to take them to the crazy cat grandma Stanley had created in his mind…

Stanley opened the glove box instead.

His heart slowed at the coolness against his palm, the comforting weight in his hand. He couldn't really hear a thing as he put in the bullets but maybe that should've given him a heads up.

One, two, three, four, five-

“Meow?” 

Stanley stopped and glanced back, all four cats looking at him, the tuna untouched.

“Six is never too much” he turned back, his mind filling in the blanks to their ‘words’

Six.

Closing the revolver, Stanley prepared his gun and hesitated for a moment… not because he was scared, no, he was just considering the least painful way to go. He's heard far too many stories of people who survived a gunshot to the head and he really didn't want to miss and survive. Would it cost too much… his actual Family may hear about it and… And Stanley is too afraid to live to find out how none visited, much less cared about, him.

There's nothing else for Stanley Pines. No such man exists.

The barrel is pressed under his chin and Stanley leans back in the car cushions he's lived in, two smiling strangers meet him and Stanley vaguely has a regretful thought about getting blood on the photograph, the one thing that kept him going, as his finger begins to press on the trigger.

“MRROOWW” 

BANG

“Fuck!” 

Stanley drops the gun, his head ringing as a series of yowls and claws attack him. He is gripping his ear where the bullet went through and he's vaguely aware that the cats are screaming at him despite the high pitched aftermath of the bullet.

Blood rushes past his fingers, through the cracks like grains of sand, dirtying his car like Shermie, Stanford and him did to pa's car growing up, bringing the whole beach inside with them.

He can't hear the cats but anymore as the pain makes itself present, digging its own hole in the soil to plant itself and getting nice and snug, right at home, like a seed that will grow thorns. A quick glance shows that they are indeed still making noise, Stan's good ear barely picks it up though.

The tuna is untouched. Stanley's last good deed lies untouched, his goodbye is untouched. 

Stanley feels his throat constrict in the horrifying familiar move of a sob but he can't hear it so he isn’t entirely sure if the sound makes it through or if he silenced it like he perfected it all those years ago.

The movement of sobs follows, like little seizes in his throat and chest and Stanley realises he is crying, he must be crying aloud but he can't hear it nor stop himself from doing so.

His mouth moved and his brain short circuited in that way it does when you're too sad to form a perfect thought, he isn't sure what he is saying, he just knows he's saying something. He is so sure he is repeating the same phrase over and over because his lips move the same exact way repeatedly, because it's exactly how he'd cry as a kid until he learnt to stop.

Drool drips from his mouth along with tears he's revolted to notice, it all drips with the blood, staining and dirtying and leaving its mark, its evidence of the wimp he is. 

Is he even making words anymore? He's not sure. 

Is his heart beating anymore? He's not sure… the pain is so big he thinks he is having another heart attack. He kind of hopes he is.

Some part of him, some childish part of him hopes he does… he hopes he dies this time.

He hopes he wakes up this time…in a hospital, despite how much he hated hospitals since a kid. He hopes he wakes up and finds his mama and his brothers by his side and pa and they're all there for him. He hopes he gets to wake up to their regretful faces and their begs for forgiveness…

He hopes he wakes up to love. To family and warmth. He hopes he wakes up to their thankful faces at seeing he made it, despite everything he made it, and they welcome him despite how dirty and disgusting he is, despite being a failure and a flaw.

Stanley hopes he wakes up and Stanley Pines still exists to them.

“I wanna go home” his little brother gripped his ear the same way you'd try holding something from falling apart. He sobbed uncontrollably, face screwed and red, body perking with hiccups as he shrunk in on himself, curling up and weakly wailing.

“I wanna go home I wanna go home I wanna go home I wanna go home I-” he struggled to breathe and Sherman struggled to watch.

He wished he could help, he wished there was something he could do. They could do…

“I'm ready to go home now” 

Yet despite trying to call Stanley’s attention enough to try to calm him, pawing at him and even biting to knock him out, nothing brought the man out.

“I'm ready- I'm sorry. I wanna go home. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry- I learned my lesson, I did- I learned my lesson, please” 

His baby brother had pulled a gun. Those hands Shermie recalled reaching for him, all covered in sauce and sticky, had pressed a gun right under his jaw.

“I wanna go home” 

And those eyes… the ones that used to squint in school plays and choirs out at the seats, looking for Shermie because he was the only one who ever could go, before brightening up with glee and recognition upon noticing his big brother…those same eyes had looked so accepting of those same hands. Of what they held.

“I wanna go home now please” 

Ma curled up on Stanley, calling weakly to him as she cried, getting blood on her precious fur.

Father stood frozen. For once, the man who always knew what to do didn't know what to do. His chest rose and fell quickly, eyes wide as he watched his youngest fall apart, brain fighting to connect what he had attempted to do to reality. 

His brother Stanford was in a similar state, clearly in shock. Sherman could understand, Stanford probably doesn't have as clear of a memory of the days Stanley could cry, having been as young as him. Not to mention… What does a person even do? 

What can you do when your baby brother just tried to kill himself?

When he was younger, Sherman struggled only once to decide whenever or not to leave home for good. Sure, the hesitation was always there but he never really struggled, he knew Stanford and Stanley had each other unlike Sherman who had no one to help him navigate his parents first time parenting and being adults.

The time he found himself truly struggling was walking in a Stanley who was crying quietly. Stanley wasn't quiet with anything but crying apparently. 

Sherman didn't think he had ever seen Stanlwy cry after ten years old and yet here he was, nearly sixteen with his face drenched with tears, quiet hiccups that he couldn't quite contain (and ain't that something compared to the man that cried silently a few nights ago?). 

Sherman remembers well why he had been crying, had to drag it out of the teen. He thought maybe Carla had broken up with him or pay had been especially hard on him but no.

“I'm stupid” Stanley had said in a wavery voice, Shermie remembers it well considering he almost burst out laughing, surprised. Almost. 

Despite Shermie's best efforts to prove his brother wrong, Stanley kept finding proof and ways to reinforce his statement.

He spoke about how he was too stupid … Too stupid to make friends, to behave, to do well in school. How he was too stupid to be a good son, a good brother, a good student. That even when he tried, he was too stupid to try.

It had been (and probably still was) so drilled in his head, no matter what Sherman said could change his mind. 

“Stanford will get sick of me one day… because I'm too stupid for him. He will realise he is better off without the extra Stan”

“Nonsense, Stan” 

“And you will leave. You're leaving…and then I'll be all alone”

And damn. If Shermie didn't want Stanley to be naive and stupid enough to at least not know that. If he didn't want to stay just to prove him wrong.

The current situation was much drastic but as Shermie sat here, he couldn't help but compare. Stanley was still a kid, still that anxious teen afraid to be left behind. The same baby brother who thought the only people who ever saw any value in him were his family and yet he had this fear his family would leave him too.

Sherman couldn't help but wince. For all Stanley had said about himself being stupid, he sure got a lot of stuff right.

Pa finally moved. He made a low sound of a distressed cat and hopped onto Stan's lap, his big fat butt trying to scramble up as his claws held on.

Stanley hiccuped, surprised. He sniffled and kept crying but at least he wasn't repeating the same begs over and over.

“Mr Grumps?” He spoke softly, sounding so very small and childlike it almost scared Sherman into believing it truly was his brother as a kid. 

Pa didn't say anything, he simply settled on Stanley's lap, something he never let Stanley or himself do, his pride far too big. Instead, he rubbed his ears and face against Stanley the same way ma had done some nights ago when Stanley had gone to ‘work’ (as he liked to call it). 

Stanley had calmed down into a shocked state, still holding onto his injured ear as he stared at the two cats on his lap.

Finally, Sherman brought himself to move and hit the power button on the radio.

“What are you doing?” the tiny Stanley had asked, rubbing his snot filled sleeve past his nose again

Sherman, in his panic to get the boy to calm, had broken out into song, the same way a mother might have tried to soothe their baby. 

He remembered feeling embarrassed, especially since Stanley had that thing where he just stared at people. His brother had just stared at him, blinking as Sherman sang some song he heard earlier that day, something inspirational maybe, like those cartoons his brother liked to watch.

“That's not how the song goes” he had pointed out, correcting him a moment later. 

Before Sherman had known the two were singing.

The radio blasted with some new hit, Disco Girl, and Stanley startled at the sudden sound, his big confused eyes going to the radio and then Sherman who still had his paw on the button.

“Uhm…”

“DISCO GIRLLLLLLL” Sherman began to sing, dancing at the yowling his throat made “COMING THROUGHHH” 

And just like that Stanley who had curled up all by himself to cry, this Stanley stared at Sherman the same exact way, blinking and leaving Sherman feeling embarrassed and silly. It's worth it.

Stanley's hearing was damaged, it took no genius to know this. Whenever it got damaged thanks to Shermie's horrible singing or due to the gunshot it was a difficult guess.

Stanford huddled close to his family on the passenger's seat, finding it amusing to watch Stanley fight off their family members from climbing onto his lap as he drove.

Everyone had already eaten. Everyone except Stanford of course. It would not be a problem if his idiot brother would eat as well.

Stanford poked his head out from under pa's heavy paw to look at his brother. Stanley was focused on the road, still in his hospital gown and most likely feeling faint if the tremor in his hands meant anything. He had this distant look, the same one he had as he fed the others tuna (it had smelled so good, Stanford was going to binge eat tuna as soon as he was human again) causing Stanford’s stomach to turn.

Everyone was asleep. Everyone except Stanford of course. It would not be a problem if the previous events hadn't happened.

Everyone rushed in to help Stanley but all Stanford had done was sit by. Frozen.

His twin brother had tried to–

Standing up on all fours, Stanford shook himself and carefully stepped over his catified family members. His fur was beginning to stand on its own as he approached his brother, cat senses reacting to his own anxiety as he eyes his brother carefully.

“Lee” he called softly.

Stanley didn't hear him, of course he didn't. His injured ear was on Stanford's side and it was covered in leftover gauze and tape, his mullet held up in a ponytail with crusty blood sticking to the side. 

Reaching over, Stanford put a paw on Stanley's thigh to get his attention. It worked, if only because Stanley was ready to drag another cat off his lap.

“Not now, I’m driving-” Stanley looked over before stopping, eyeing Stanford. Whatever gave him pause, Stanford didn't know but he would take it.

“You need to eat” he reminded his brother despite knowing the language barrier “and sleep. Actually you need a whole lot of things right now but let’s start with some water and food” 

Stanley kept his eyes on Stanford, occasionally looking at the road as he drove. If Stanford didn't know any better it was as though he could understand him–

“You finally hungry, little buddy?” 

“Do not call me that” Stanford stretched across to get on Stanley's lap, ready to accept his fate of being moved non stop. He wouldn't give up though, he would make it so Stanley pulled over and–

Stanley pulled over to the side, slowing his car and parking there. 

Looking up, Stanford blinked in surprise as his brother simply sighed and gave him a tired smile, heavy hand patting him.

“I was getting worried” he said, standing up and picking Stanford up with him. 

“Put me down at once” Stanford meowed, moving about but making no real effort to get down as Stanley cradled him like a newborn with a single arm.

Stanley moved about quietly, setting out the finest of tunas (it was the cheapest one bought in a pack but it sure smelled like luxury) and placing it down on the ground where he sat propped up against the car.

His ass must be cold, Stanford can see goosebumps on Stanley's bare legs, but the man gives no indication he feels the cold and simply waits for Stanford to walk up to the can when he sets him down.

Stanford looks to Stanley, notes he has no food and doesn't move.

“Come on, man” Stanley sighs, nudging him towards the can “I don't- I don't know what else to do”

“Isn't that funny” Stanford scoffed, licking his paw 

“Please” 

“I don't know what else to do either, Stanley” Stanford admitted, walking over to sit besides his brother. Here he could see the cars driving past, no one stopped to check on the man in a hospital gown sitting on the floor with a cat.

Stanley is frowning, Stanford doesn't have to look to know. A hand returns to his head, brushing his fur back in comforting motions that makes Stanford feel sick deep down. He shouldn't feel comforted, Stanley is the one who needs it.

“I don't know how else to convey it to you, brother” Stanford sighs, looking at the tuna longingly. How did Stanley go so long without food? How did he live in these conditions? Was living the correct word for it?

How could his twin survive all this? 

“I'm sorry” Stanford muttered “my anger shouldn't have cost you…everything” 

“Come on, Six, eat” 

“I had no idea you would even…that you could ever consider…that you were even capable of…” Stanford’s chest constricted and he quickly recognised he was crying, eyes tearing up and meows turning into pathetic things.

“You're not dying, are you?” Stanley asks him and Stanford feels the worst for it.

“You're the one that's dying!” He hissed “You nearly died! Killed yourself!” 

“Woah there–” Stanley tried to calm him but Stanford was having none of it, standing up and turning to him.

“You were going to leave me!” he shouted, fur piloerected and back arched “you were going to leave me forever!”

“And then what?!” Stanford found himself unable to stop, the world blurry and Stanley just a shape “and then what?”

“I would've never been able to keep being angry- I'd- I'd just be sad! And lonely! And without you!” 

The very thought terrified him, the thought that the last time the two had ever talked was over some argument instead of one of Stanley's silly jokes or over Stanford's ramblings, that scared him. It left him saddened beyond words that his brother would have died at his own hand, having no idea just how much Stanford loved him. Loves him.

“I still want to be angry with you! I still want to mope and give you a cold shoulder until- until something someone else does makes us laugh and suddenly it's all okay again!” 

“And I still want to be dragged to bed and be told tales no matter how unrealistic they may sound!”

“What about the little promises?” Stanford asked his brother, feeling his goosebumps rest at last as he quieted down 

“Sure, sailing is far fetched but there are many other things we promised eachother…like..like the matching photographs during graduation, like pranking Mrs Forrest next door every year like we have since little or… or like posing for a picture like ring girl next time you won a boxing match because I lost that bet? I feel as though I shouldn't be reminding you of this but…” he trailed off.

“And your comics? Your jokes? Your poems you tried hiding from me? What about those? You're just going to- going to disappear without letting others know your art? Your creativity?” 

Stanley didn't answer. 

“You're just going to…what? Let Stanley Pines, my twin and best friend, disappear like he never existed?” 

Stanford felt exhausted… he wondered how exhausted Stanley must feel.

“You're just going to let yourself disappear?” 

Stanford’s chest hurt. His ribcage felt too small, the edges pricking his heart like predator's claws dug deep, his head pounded as he blinked the wetness from his eyes to take a proper look at his brother. 

Stanley looked absolutely confused. Of course. 

“Excuse me” Stanford cleared his throat and brushed his paws over his face, embarrassed but also… he had meant every word.

“Woah” his dumb twin breathed, Stanford couldn't help but chuckle.

“You're family, Stanley. You're my family” he sighed, walking towards the can of tuna and gently pushed the can closer to Stanley with his snout, sitting in front of his brother afterwards.

Wow. That was impressive. Like really impressive? Stanley is actually impressed. Also confused. But mostly impressed. 

Sixer had just gone on a rant, he was like those rappers Stan hears nowadays on the radios but only faster, like a little meow-motor. 

Stanley was amazed there was a being capable of talking more than he did… and he already thought Fluffernutter spoke a lot.

Still taken aback, Stan watched Sixer head for the can of food (finally!) only to push it towards Stan (no!!), looking expectantly at him. 

“I don't have anything other than that” he lied. He did but Sixer had refused every other option and, truth be told, Stanley did not want to hand the big guy his food after being scolded (because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?) like that. 

The big feline before him seemed to almost roll his eyes, padding over and pawing at the door. Great. Now he wanted to go inside… Cats, man, never can make up their minds. 

Sighing, Stanley reached over, trying his best to open the door without getting up. Ever since his ear got shot his balance felt off and, frankly, he was too exhausted. 

Opening the door, Sixer immediately jumped inside before hopping back out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me” he groaned. Cats, man…

In Sixer’s mouth was the hospital sandwich, still wrapped up in its plastic and looking bland. Sandwiches weren’t supposed to be cooked but somehow this specific sandwich looked raw, it made Stan scrunch up his nose automatically. He had to remind himself beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

“Really? You have tuna and kibble and you just happen to be hungry for my food?”

Sixer, little bastard he was, just pranced right up to Stan and dropped the bag in front of him, just waiting for him to open it for him. Little shit even nudged it towards Stan when Stan did not move to do as asked. 

“Meeooow”

“Fine” he sighed in defeat, too bad the little bugger was adorable. 

So Stanley opened the little plastic bag and suddenly remembered how truly hungry he was… but Sixer hadn’t eaten anything and had chosen his sandwich, Stanley really didn’t want him to die. 

“I didn’t even know cats could have bread” he tore off a bit of the sandwich, making sure it had the cheese and the slice of beef in before holding it out to the big kitty. 

Sixer, still the little shit, turned his back on the piece of sandwich and walked over to his own can of tuna. Stanley blinked, staring in disbelief. The nerve on this cat! 

“Meow” 

“Yeah fuck you too, guy” Stan grumbled, ignoring the small sassy hiss he recieved in return.

Now his sandwich was open, what should he do? Did he have anything to wrap it up with? 

“Meow” 

Looking up, Stan sighed as he saw Sixer nudge his can of food closer to Stan again. If he didn't know any better, he would think the cat wanted him to eat it.

“Eat”

“Meow”

“No backtalking”

“Meow Meow meow”

“...are you…repeating what I'm saying?”

“...”

“...hm. For a moment I really thought you were” afterall cats were bastards. Just like Stanley.

Whatever the Sixer was trying to do involved Stan, the cat kept looking at him expectantly despite his tiny little mouths salivating so much Stan could see it. 

The cat's eyes went to the sandwich before flipping back to Stan. Huh.

Stan wanted to save up the sandwich for emergencies, last moments of collapsing, you know? But he is hungry. Like really hungry… and if Sixer wanted him to eat, who was he to deny it?

Stanley pointed to his sandwich just to be sure. Sixer bobbed his head up and down.

Wow… cats were smart! Stanley had no idea they could do that. 

Carefully, Stan brought the sandwich to his lips and took a small bite. It took him everything in his will power to chew and not just swallow and proceed to breathe the rest desperately.

“Mrowmrowmrow” 

Stan froze as he looked to his cat-friend eat at last, tiny little bites with kitty noises and all. Breathing in the food like Stan was trying not to do. 

Sixer's ears perked up and when his eyes glanced up at Stan (mouth still munching away) he froze. 

Licking his lips and sitting up, Sixer stopped eating and Stanley felt that desperate fear in his gut again‐ was Sixer going to stop eating again? What if he died of starvation??

Sixer's eyes glanced at Stan's sandwich.

Stan took a bite.

Sixer continued eating.

The bread was dry and it stuck to the roof of his mouth, the cheese felt like plastic in his mouth and the beef tasted more like turkey than anything. It was the worst sandwich Stanley has ever had in his life, school sandwiches tasted better than this abomination…

But it was the tastiest meal Stanley has ever had in years. It was the first meal he didn't have alone. 

“You know…” he paused to swallow down the food, ignoring the almost judgemental look Sixer sent him when he spoke with his mouth full.

He would ignore the tightness in his throat and how everything looked a little blurrier too.

“My name is Stanley” 

“Meow”

And Stanley would like to think Sixer had said his name, that someone finally called his name. Stanley would love to think that ever since his family stopped receiving his calls, his mother stopped answering the phone to her no good bum of a son, this was the first time he heard his name being said…

Stanley took another bite of his shitty sandwich, feeling fat tears roll down his cheeks.

But somewhere he feels as though Sixer had replied “I know”...

And somehow that was better. 

Stanley realises he's surrounded by warmth, just not human. He's got family, just not his real one. He also realises this is all there is. There is nothing more for Stanley Pines…if such a man even exists.

But maybe that's okay.