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Summary
Stanley’s been holed up here, under Ford’s roof, for barely a week, and it’s already unbearable. The place is too quiet, too goddamn clean, and worse still, too damn kind. Ford treats him like he’s made of glass, handling him carefully, like he’ll shatter with the wrong move or a word too sharp. Every morning, Ford helps him sit up, lifting his shirt so he can change out the gauze pads, careful not to let the stitches snag. Stanley doesn’t know how he manages to keep his hands steady. Hell, his own fingers shake every time he even looks at his scar, let alone touches it.
But it’s more than just the gauze or the medicine Ford hands him, uncomplaining. Ford even taught him these ridiculous, almost laughable breathing exercises. “To keep your lungs clear,” Ford had explained, in that clinical, matter-of-fact way he has when he’s trying not to show he’s worried. “You don’t want to end up with pneumonia on top of everything else.” So every day, Stanley sits there, puffing out breaths slowly, feeling stupid, feeling guilty—feeling like a goddamn leech.
Series
- Part 2 of Bring me Home AU