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It all started one fine day when they stopped in a port on a small island off the coast of Canada. As usual, Ford bought himself whatever sounded the most interesting from whatever weird street vendor or hole-in-the-wall eatery he could find. But Stan spotted a McDonalds and, deciding he missed good old American fast food, ordered himself a Big Mac and one of those breakfast sandwich things, just because he could. After their meal Stan challenged his brother to a burping contest and won by a landslide. And if Stan’s burps were accompanied by a little indigestion, well, that was just the price you paid for a good cheap burger sometimes.
The following morning Stan made Stancakes for breakfast, but he didn’t seem interested in finishing his. He claimed he was still full after his burger last night, and used his leftovers as bait for his fishing hook.
Throughout the day Stan continued to burp loudly and frequently, as well as pass gas just as often. At first, Ford thought his brother was purposely being as obnoxious as possible, probably as revenge after Ford outed his cheating at poker a few days ago. But come lunch time, Stan didn’t eat a single one of the fish he’d caught, and for dinner all he had was a bowl of rice and a thin mint. The old researcher also noticed that Stan was drinking a lot more water than usual. Perhaps his brother was finally taking his hydration seriously. Or perhaps he wasn’t feeling well.
“Something you eat not agree with you?” Ford asked that evening.
“Uh, nah, just heartbu-URP!” Stan’s rationalization was cut off by another enormous belch. “I meant to do that.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re not sitting like that because your stomach’s upset?”
“I always slouch like this!”
“You’re slouching much more than you normally do, your stomach is completely horizontal!”
Stan sat up a little straighter, then burped again. Ford stared cooly at him. The old con man avoided making eye contact by taking another long drink from his water bottle.
“No more McDonalds for you.”
“Oh come on!” Stan complained, followed by a violent fit of sneezing.
Ford raised an eyebrow in concern. “Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine!” Stan insisted. “I just got some heartburn and a bit of a headache. I just stayed up too late last night.”
Frowning, Ford reached out a hand to feel his brother’s forehead. Stan swatted him away.
“I don’t have a fever, poindexter!”
“Well at least take something for your stomach and go to bed early.” Ford turned to their medicine cabinet and pulled out some pills he’d picked up on an alternate earth. “Here, it’s five times more effective than Pepto Bismol.”
Stan rolled his eyes but took the pills and went to bed without further complaint.
That was when Ford knew his brother was really sick.
Despite the pills, Stan got up several times to use the bathroom that night. He didn’t throw up, but each time he really felt like he wanted to. Each time, Ford stood at the bathroom door, ready to help if he was needed. Eventually they both feel asleep for real; Stan slept in until noon. He finally awoke to see his brother had opened one of their last cans of chicken-noodle soup.
“Here,” The old researcher offered, “I figured you might be tired of fish.”
Stan just groaned and pulled his head under the blankets like a turtle. “ Don’t wanna eat .”
“That’s fine. I can reheat it for you when you feel up to eating again.” Ford set the bowl down on the nearest table. “Can I take your temperature now?”
Stan really didn’t have the energy to protest, but he wasn’t gonna cooperate either. So he just continued to lay in his hammock. Ford sighed, peeled the blankets back, and held the back of his hand to his brother’s forehead.
“No fever.” He tisked. “But that isn’t really a sign of anything. Open your mouth please.”
Stan opened his mouth wide and Ford stuck a swab into his cheek. As his mouth reached its widest point, Stan suddenly sneezed again, spitting the swab out in the process. Ford looked down at his snot-covered hand, grabbed another swab, and used it to wipe off the mess.
“I suppose that works too.” He stuck the swabs into separate tubes and stood. “I’m just going to run some tests on these at my work station, I promise I’ll be nearby if you need anything. Oh, and let me know the next time you need to use the bathroom, I want to take a stool sample.”
Stan gave a disgusted groan.
“I just want to know what’s making you sick! I’m worried about you! If whatever this is hasn’t run its course yet, it could be serious.”
“Jus’ a cheap burger” Stan moaned.
“Yes, well, depending on the species of bacteria in said cheap burger, you could be dealing with a serious gastrointestinal infection. And the best way to determine exactly what kind of infection you have is with a stool sample.”
“Nuh-uh” The old con man shook his head weakly. “I can ride it out. Done it before.”
This particular protest sparked a train of thought in Ford’s mind. Of course Stan wasn’t used to being taken care of when he was ill, he’d been on his own for the past forty-something years. Ford could certainly relate. He could count on one hand the times he’d been taken care of while he was sick or injured beyond the portal, and a few of those times had been because he was considered property. If Stan had been anything like him, he likely hadn’t ever had anyone to help or look after him with a “minor” sickness like food poisoning. But things were different now. They could look after each other. Perhaps Stan’s resistance was a matter of pride.
“Stanley, I know you’ve had to take care of yourself for a long time. I’ve been in similar circumstances. But you’re not alone anymore. Please, let me help you.”
Stan shifted in his hammock and looked directly at his brother. “I know I’m not alone.” He said solemnly, taking his brother’s hand in his own and squeezing it. “You just being here helps more than any medicine.”
Ford squeezed his hand back. “I’m glad my mere presence comforts you, but that really isn’t enough to eliminate a bacterial infection.”
Stan took on a more joking tone. “Alright, fine. Swab my mouth, take my temperature, stick me with all the needles you got, but don’t ask me for a stool sample. That’s too gross, even for me.”
“Oh for the love of… Stan, it’s the easiest and most straightforward way to determine exactly what’s making you sick!”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean, nope ? Would you rather I pump your stomach?”
“Maybe.”
“No you don’t.” Ford answered for him, “It’s like torture.”
“Why can’t you just use the spit and snot you just got?”
“While those are perfectly good for determining the microbial culture of your mouth or nose, that’s not the source of your illness.”
Stan squirmed in his hammock, making a series of disgusted faces. “You’re just gonna keep pestering me until you get it, huh?”
“Absolutely.”
Stan gave one last overdramatic moan and rolled himself out of the hammock.
“You don’t have to do it right now!” Ford protested.
“Let’s get this over with.” The old con man slowly trudged his way to the bathroom. “You got a cup or something you want me to crap in?”
“I have a biohazard bag that should suffice.” The old researcher dashed back to his lab, deposited the samples he’d already collected, and grabbed the bag in question. When he came back, Stan was leaning tiredly against the doorframe to the bathroom. He took the bag without comment and slammed the door.
A minute later, the door opened a crack, and Stan shoved the now full bag into his brother’s waiting hands.
“Here, do your gross experiments.”
“This is for your own good!” Ford reminded his brother as the door slammed shut again.
“You’re a sick man, Stanford!”
“You’re going to thank me later when I develop a targeted antibiotic that cures you within a few hours!”
“I’m going to shower for a few hours. It’s gonna take me that long to feel clean again.”
Ford rolled his eyes and brought the stool sample back to his lab. First he put on a mask and gloves, opened the bag, and swabbed a bit of fecal matter into a waiting tube. This tube, along with the ones containing the saliva and mucus samples, went into an incubator of his own design. He’d been using it to observe the growth of anomalous microbes; the sort of glowing moss and algae that tended to grow around magical places. Hopefully it would also serve to grow a culture of bacteria from Stan’s body and help Ford isolate exactly what was making his brother sick.
He could hear Stan starting up the shower as he waited for the incubator. He had to shake his head. His brother had no problem reaching into a seabear’s mouth or punching a kraken in the eye, but apparently anything to do with his own bodily waste was going too far. Oh well. Stan had cooperated in the end, and now the sample was being analysed.
Stan had exaggerated his time in the shower. He’d certainly felt like he wanted to spend a few hours in there, especially when the hot water first hit him. It felt great. But he knew the hot water wouldn’t last. He had twenty minutes, tops. At first he fully intended to use every second of that twenty minutes, but he was still pretty sick, and soon he felt like he couldn’t stand any longer. He sat down with a thump on the floor of the shower stall and just enjoyed the hot water raining down for a moment before remembering that it wasn’t going to stay hot for long. The old con man quickly finished washing up, climbed out of the shower, dried off with a hot towel, and changed into some warm pajamas. He was practically asleep on his feet as he climbed back into his hammock and tried to get comfortable despite his churning stomach.
It felt like just a few seconds later when Ford gently shook him awake.
“Here, I’ve developed an antibiotic.” Ford offered him a couple of medium-sized capsule.
“Already?” Stan grunted. “How long was I out?”
“Six hours, I think. Not that I was timing you.”
The old con man took the pills with a glass of water, rolled over, and went back to sleep.
Ford smiled and climbed into his own hammock. It’d been a long day. Hopefully, Stan would be all better by morning.