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“Fooooooooord,” Stanley muttered, flopping over onto his brother’s bed. “If you’re gonna go and get sick without me you can at least take your nose out of your boring nerd book.”
“Mom said I have to stay inside today, it’s not my fault,” he replied. “And it’s not a boring book, it’s the autobiography of Nikola Tesla.”
“You said words, but I heard ‘dumb nerd book’.”
“That’s an oxymoron.”
Stanley rolled over to look Ford in the eyes right-side-up. “What’d you just call me?” His eyes narrowed as his brother started laughing, and looked as if he would have pressed further if it hadn’t quickly devolved into a coughing fit.
“Yeesh, you don’t sound so good,” he said, pulling himself up on his knees and frowning.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Ford said, hoping the weakness of his voice didn’t hide the sarcasm. He’d set down his book, bringing up an elbow to his face as a reflex.
“Do you know what you got?” Stanley said after the fit had passed.
“Flu?” Ford offered, shrugging.
“You mean you don’t know!” he said, almost victoriously. “That’s a first.”
Ford rolled his eyes. “My head hurts too much for thinking.” Suddenly he went solemn. “But you know, whatever it is, it’s probably contagious.”
“Pshaw,” his brother said. “I’m not scared of germs.”
“Your immune system might not say so.”
“Nah, mine’s better than yours.”
“Is not!"
“Says you, but look who’s sick.”
“...Are you…” Ford coughed again before he could continue, “...turning illness into a contest ?”
He’d meant it as a joke but all it managed was producing another coughing fit, this one making his eyes water before it ended. So it really just got Stanley to look at him in concern.
“Geez Sixer, you sound like you’re gonna cough up a lung.”
“That’s not possible,” he protested weakly, though at the moment he felt inclined to agree with his brother. "...But my throat is still sore"
“D’you want me to leave?” Stanley asked apologetically. Ford shook his head.
“You don’t have to, I mean,” he backtracked, realizing that response was a bit contradictory to the earlier one that he didn’t want to get his brother sick. Which was true. He just also didn’t really want to be all alone -- everything felt miserable enough already. It had gone unmentioned, but his headache was getting so bad he was having trouble reading. Without his book, the only thing he’d have left to do was stare at the ceiling.
“No, I got an idea,” Stanley said, starting to scramble down the bunk bed ladder. His head popped back up briefly and he grinned. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Haha, very funny” Ford said dryly, falling completely backwards onto his pillow and sighing. Not many other options.
A good 10 minutes passed, of him laying there in silence, that made him wonder if Stanley was coming back at all, but the door to their room creaked open eventually and his head jerked back up in surprise.
Big mistake. His head pounded at the action, and everything went blurry. He missed seeing his brother at all until Stanley had scurried up the ladder once more, arms wrapped around his middle like he was hiding something.
“Stanley?” he said, adjusting his glasses like it would make the room come into focus faster.
“Shhhhh,” his brother said, putting a finger to his lips not very silently at all. “I brought you something.”
Two bottles of ginger ale spilled out from under his shirt and onto the bed as he lifted his arms, clinking slightly against each other with the movement.
“Y’know,” Stanley said, “I thought it might feel good on your throat.” He picked one up and offered it in Ford’s general direction. Before he could grab it from him though, Stanley pulled it back.
“Wait a minute,” he said, reconsidering. “Let me get it for you.” He but the bottle up to his mouth and bit the cap so it popped off neatly.
“There!” he said, handing it over.
Ford took a cautious sip from the bottle, tilting it more dramatically when it didn’t trigger another bout of coughing. It was still cold.
He gave his brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry I kept us from going outside today, I know you really wanted to.”
“S’okay,” Stanley grinned. “I had an adventure anyways.”
“....you didn’t actually ask Mom for these, did you?” Ford said, holding up his ginger ale bottle and squinting at it.
“Nope. We’ll see if anybody notices.”
“Stanley….” Ford started. His brother’s eyes got wide and looked a little worried, and he was suddenly very happy with how he’d planned on ending that sentence all along. “...Thank you.”
He got a toothy grin in response as his brother popped the cap on the other bottle to clink it against his.
“Cheers!”
“Yeah,” Ford smiled. “Cheers.”
***
The knowledge that he had an impending chemistry test was enough to make Ford feel slightly ill to begin with, so an actual illness was about the last thing he needed. But like it or not, here he was, holed up in his dorm room and unable to drag himself to even the library to study, much less to class the past two days. He pulled his blanket over his head and groaned, unhappy about literally every aspect of his current situation.
Then, there was a sound.
At first he thought the knocking on his door was a product of his stressed imagination. But it intensified his headache too much to be entirely imaginary. Resignedly, Ford dragged himself out of bed. Maybe his roommate had forgotten the key again? He couldn’t imagine why else someone would be at the door. Just his luck it happened when his body ached at even moving.
But when he opened the door slowly, ready to apologize for his sluggishness in getting the thing open, he was surprised to be met by an equally apologetic face.
“Fiddleford?” he said weakly, leaning against the doorframe.
“Shhh, shhh, go lie down before you fall over an’ bust somethin’,” his friend said quickly. “Sorry I had t’make you get up at all, I reckoned you’d be in a state.”
“You knew?” Ford said, not doing that at all. He was still trying to make sense of this.
“Heard from someone in lecture you’d passed out in lab, when you t’weren’t sitting in your usual seat up front I figured the rest from there.”
“But--”
“Lie down, Stanford! Heaven knows I’m not here t’make you have a spell again.”
Ford shuffled back over to his bed, sitting on it obediently as Fidds shut the door behind him. When his friend turned to face him, he managed to formulate his confusion in a question.
“So why exactly are you here?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t too blunt. He knew he was usually too blunt.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Fiddleford said incredulously. “I dropped by ‘cause you clearly ain’t feeling well! Brought you a couple things t’help as best I could.”
“Oh,” Ford said a bit lamely, wondering what it said about him that the thought someone might care to check in on him had not come to mind.
“First there’s this,” Fidds said, pulling several sheets of notebook paper out of the box in his arms and handing it over. “Notes from the lecture today, in case y’wanted to study ‘em. Knowing you I’m sure missin’ class was botherin’ you more than your health.”
“I mean--”
“--Thought so,” he said, shaking his head affectionately. “Here you go.”
“...Did you transcribe it all?”
“Did my best. I was gonna record it for you but wouldn’t you know my tape recorder had t’go and die when I tested it.”
“Fidds that’s--”
“I also brought y’this,” Fiddleford continued quickly, voice at the same speedy clip it picked up when he started talking about some particularly interesting machines -- excitement, as best as Ford could sort out. He was pulling a thermos from the box now. “It’s a flu-season staple for the McGucket clan. Herbal tea. Sorta. There are some…. secret ingredients mixed in there, had t’get ‘em from the store. That’d be why I didn’t get here any sooner.”
“You really didn’t need to--”
“--Now, I know you’re awful picky but I also know y’probably been surviving on breadcrumbs the past few days so give it a go at least. Stuff’s all in there for their reasons.”
Ford accepted the thermos from him as he shoved it in his direction, cracking open the lid and making a face when he caught the scent and saw the dark liquid inside.
“...Are you sure one of the secret ingredients isn’t ‘eye of newt’?” he asked, eyeing it suspiciously.
“Y’sure one reason you’re feeling so ill isn’t because you’re malnourished?”
Ford stared back at the tea. “...Fair enough.”
“It tastes better’n it looks anyway,” Fiddleford said triumphantly.
Taking a cautious sip, Ford was pleasantly surprised to discover he agreed with his friend.
“Unfortunately that’s the best I can do for you,” Fidds said. “Wish I could get y’completely patched up but y’know. Thought I could at least give you that -- and make sure you’re takin’ care of yourself.”
“It’s more than enough, Fiddleford,” Ford said, wondering if his throat felt funny just because it had been sore since Monday, or because he was getting choked up. “Thank you.”
“I’ll leave you t’get some sleep then,” Fidds said, moving towards the door. “You take care of yourself though now, y’hear me Stanford? Finish that tea. Eat some food. And take your medication -- y’did get somethin’, right?”
“...Yes,” Ford said slowly, the realization that he had in fact forgotten to take it this morning dawning on him. He wasn’t very good at this, was he?
“Hope t’see you in class soon,” his friend said, turning the door handle and preparing to slip back into the hall.
“I’ll do my best,” he quipped, and Fiddleford smiled back.
“If y’don’t I’ll be back to mother hen y’again. Complete with squawking.”
***
The couch in the spare room wasn’t uncomfortable at all. At least, not anymore. Position the pillows just right, drag in a blanket -- Ford had spent most of the last three decades with less comfortable sleeping situations than that.
But tonight he couldn’t even try to sleep.
It was generally a feat, that he’d admit, but at least slightly less of one when he wasn’t violently shivering. In the middle of July.
Being honest, he knew the fact that his throat hurt might lend some clues to the chills but he pushed the thought from his mind. Ignoring inconvenient things like that was pretty much force of habit for him now. Just not enough to mean he could sleep.
It was probably one or two in the morning, but the best thing he could think to do was drag himself to the kitchen for a glass of water to try to fix the throat problem. Maybe he was just dehydrated. That happened often enough.
Deciding to take the blanket with him, he wrapped it loosely around his shoulders and shuffled into the hall. A third, possibly excessive layer, on top of his coat and sweater, but which he wasn’t comfortable sleeping without those anymore, constantly struck by the thought that he might have to up and run at any time Their heavy layers were comforting, he couldn’t leave them behind. And he was cold.
The kitchen, however, wasn’t empty.
“Mabel…?” he said slowly, jumping slight with surprise when his niece turned her flashlight towards him. She seemed equally startled by his appearance.
“Grunkle Stan?” she asked.
“Um. Ford, actually,” he said awkwardly, knowing it was probably a simple mistake in the dark. Still, a reminder of the fact that he remained a bit of a stranger in his own home.
“Oh!” Mabel said, almost sounding excited, “You don’t usually come in the kitchen!”
“2 AM isn’t exactly ‘usually’,” he said. “What are you doing up?”
“You first,” she said, crossing her arms and smirking.
“....I was just looking for a glass of water,” he said, starting to realize just how out of his element he felt talking to someone less familiar, while feeling off, this early in the morning.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she said back. “I couldn’t sleep either, I was gonna see if we had any maple syrup left over and put it on popcorn.”
“That sounds…. experimental.”
“You should try it sometime! Dipper says it tastes like caramel corn and pancakes had a very sticky child.”
Ford was going to try to respond to that, he really was, he liked the description -- but everything turned out to be just a little too much. He leaned heavily against the table and accidentally let out what must have been a pained noise, because Mabel’s flashlight-lit face fell slightly in apparent concern.
“Are you okay?” she said suddenly. “Let me get the lights.”
He didn’t think mentioning that turning them on would probably only give him a headache was fair, so Ford just nodded at her weakly and pulled his blanket tighter.
Once she’d flicked them on, Mabel climbed on top of the kitchen table to look him in the eyes. Before it had completely registered, she laid a tiny hand on his forehead and frowned.
“Grunkle Ford, you’ve got a fever!” she said.
That would definitely explain the chills, he thought, but externally his only reaction was to remove her hand gently and let it drop.
“Hey!” she protested.
“If I do, I don’t want you catching it, young lady.”
“Then who’s supposed to take care of you? Someone immune to germs, huh?” she said.
“In the past 30 years I’ve gotten rather good at doing it myself,” he said.
After all, he added mentally, I’m sure if I got one of you kids sick Stanley would never let me hear the end of it….
“Boooooooo,” Mabel protested. “The only good part of being sick is everyone else taking care of you. You can’t miss out on that , even if you do think you’re Mr. I-Can-Do-It-Myself.”
About to protest further, Ford was hit by another sudden chill. He wrapped the blanket even tighter and shivered.
Mabel seemed to take this as a sign of victory. “Sit down,” she ordered. “I’m making cocoa.”
“... Hot cocoa?” he said, hoping she’d catch his drift that that might not be the best way to treat someone with a fever.
“ You’re walking around in a blanket,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Does it sound good?”
“....Yes,” he said, shifting said blanket slightly. Damn he felt cold.
Time passed to his foggy brain in a bit of a blur, so Ford wasn’t sure how long it took for her to make the cups -- knowing Mabel, she probably had her own method that sped the process to half the time and involved glitter -- but next thing he knew she was pressing a warm mug into his hand and grinning from ear to ear.
“Just what the great-uncle didn’t order but got anyway,” she said.
They sat there in silence for a bit, wordlessly sipping from steaming cups that were just at the point where they were cool enough to drink, but only barely. Finally Ford spoke up.
“Thank you, Mabel,” he said. “I appreciate this.”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I do this kind of thing--”
“--No, really,” Ford said softly. “It’s the first time in a long time anyone has…” he trailed off.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully. “I can do stuff for people who aren’t sick. It's just that the sick ones just need a little extra. So you know, when you're feeling better... if you want...”
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” he said affectionately, and Mabel beamed. It was occurring to him that he hadn’t really had a conversation with her alone before. He was certain he wasn’t the easiest of people to warm up to -- her bubbly attitude was really quite admirable.
“Now you have to, no take-backs,” she said. “But tonight Nurse Mabel says you should probably go to bed.”
“I think Nurse Mabel is very wise,” he said, a smile creeping across his face. “And that she should also try the same thing.”
“Hmmmm….” she said. “Taking advice from my patients isn’t the norm, but I’ll think about it."
Ford actually laughed at that, not really caring that it hurt his throat.
"And I’m gonna make sure nobody wakes you up in the morning,” she said, taking his empty cup from him and starting to carry both their mugs to the sink. “Sound good?”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that even when he managed to sleep, it was never for very long. But he could at least express his thoughts on the sentiment.
“Sounds wonderful,” he said. “Nurse Mabel knows how to take care of her patients.”
“Nurse Mabel knows lots of things,” she smirked.
“I’m sure,” he said, lifting himself from the kitchen chair. “Like how to make excellent cocoa.”
She beamed at him, apparently ecstatic at the compliment. “Thank you, Grunkle Ford!”
“No Mabel, thank you,” he said.
And while his head may have hurt and the chills were still there, he actually felt pretty good -- it was nice to say that again, and mean it.