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Despite his initial reservations, Stan ends up enjoying diving a lot. He’s always loved the ocean, but never really had any interest in going too deep into it. He’s a decent swimmer, but summers on Glass Shard Beach always consisted of goofing off in the shallows and working on the original Stan O’ War. In Gravity Falls, he was happy staying in his little boat and bringing the fish up to him.
Ford always had a bit of a different attitude, though. Ever since they were young, he was pressing his luck swimming out further and filling his eyes with salt water. Sometimes Stan would look out and see Ford floating face down in the water and he’d freak out every time, only for Ford to suddenly perk up and turn to Stan with red eyes and wide grin, insisting that he saw something this time.
So it really was no surprise that he ended up getting his diving license at some point while they were apart. He admitted that he hadn’t really ended up using it much— the bait shop by Gravity Falls Lake definitely didn’t double as a dive shop and he couldn’t really justify any destination diving— but he was happy to tell Stan all about it, and, eventually, insist on getting him certified as well as they planned a trip in warmer waters.
With the certification done, both of them properly geared up with a little help from Fiddleford both in terms of finances and technology, and some small modifications to the Stan O’ War II, they were ready to dive as soon as they circled around to the Caribbean through Panama. While part of Stan prickled at being so close to Colombia and all the unpleasant memories that brought back, Ford’s enthusiasm was, as usual, infectious, and made it very hard to get lost in his memories.
With a few air tanks rented from a dive shop in Belize and one of Ford’s sci-fi doohickeys detecting something over the reef, they were set to go.
“Any idea what we’re in for down there?” Stan asks as he gears up.
“Charles Darwin once described the Belize Barrier Reef as the most remarkable reef in the West Indies! Over 100 species of coral, 500 species of fish, and countless other invertebrates! It’ll be an incredible dive, Stanley, just you wait!” Ford says, fumbling with the buckles of his BCD in his excitement.
Stan rolls his eyes as he tightens the straps of his own.
“I meant whatever anomaly your doohickey detected.”
“It’s a highly advanced sensor,” Ford defends, looking down at the sensor on his wrist. With Fiddleford’s help, he’d modified it to serve as a fully functional dive computer as well. “As for what it might be sensing, it’s hard to say for sure.”
“So much for highly advanced,” Stan teases, and Ford huffs. “That guy at the dive shop mentioned the reefs being a little sparse lately. You think that’s related?”
“It could be!” Ford agrees, perking up. “Reefs are very fragile, any disturbance due to our anomaly could upset the balance and have a significant impact on the richness and abundance of local species. That being said, the same fragility means that any number of other factors could have the same effect…”
“So… who knows?” Stan concludes.
“We will,” Ford says with that bright-eyed smile that he gets whenever he discovers something new. “Are you ready?”
Stan clips the last strap of his BCD into place, checks that everything’s tightened, and nods.
“Lemme check you over,” Stan says, and Ford rolls his eyes but nods.
At first glance, it was easy for most people to assume that Ford would be the more cautious twin. That was never really the case.
Stan looks his brother over as Ford does the same, making sure everything was strapped or clipped or held in place. He gives both of Ford’s air supplies a quick squeeze, making sure the loud burst of air didn’t cause the gauge to dip from just over 3000 PSI, and then making sure his watch read the same thing. He does the same for his own while Ford watches.
Once they give each other a nod of approval, Ford slips his mask over his eyes, adjusts the strap, and gives Stan a grin as he stands. It’s a little infuriating how easy he makes standing and balancing with forty pounds of steel strapped to his back look. Stan slides his own mask into place and stands up with none of the same elegance, steadying himself against the wall of the boat as he steps around the dive bench with clumsy flippered feet.
Stan is glad he insisted on installing a gate at the side of the boat because he’s not sure if he’d be able to pull himself up onto the wall to enter the water backwards like Ford had first suggested. As it stood, he clumsily waddles over to the gate that Ford had already opened and secured.
“I’ll enter first,” Ford says over his shoulder. “You can follow once I give you the sign, remember?”
Stan rolls his eyes, pressing his fingers to the top of his head to form an ‘o’ with one arm. Ford nods his approval, slips his air supply into his mouth, holds it and his mask in place with one hand, and takes a large step into the water. He lands with a heavy splash, and immediately turns to face Stan and kick away from the boat. Stan steps into place, hand on either side of the opening, and waits for Ford to give him the sign. He does so as soon as he’s a few feet from the boat, bobbing along with the gentle waves.
Stan checks himself over one more time, grabs his air supply, and slips it into his mouth. He fits the mouthpart between his teeth and takes a few puffs, double checks his gauge one more time. He holds his mask and air supply in place, lets go of the boat, and steps into the water.
The cold shock he always expects when entering the water never comes. According to his dive computer, the water is 80 degrees Fahrenheit, a fair bit warmer than most showers Stan has taken in his life. Even the 3 mm shorty wetsuit he’s wearing almost feels like overkill, which is a shame considering how much of a pain in the ass it was to wiggle his fat old man body into the damn thing.
Ford catches his attention by pointing at Stan, making an okay sign with his hand, and then pointing down.
‘You okay to go down?’ Stan translates, and gives Ford a thumbs up, before shaking his head and giving him an okay sign instead.
He swears he sees Ford smile around his air supply, eyes amused behind his mask. He confirms with another okay of his own, and pulls the dump cord on his shoulder to begin the descent. With a bit of a struggle that mostly consists of Stan flapping with the hand not around his deflator in an attempt to submerge himself, Stan follows. Ford is already a bit below him, following the mooring line to the bottom. Stan descends a bit more cautiously, clearing his ears all the while; he’s already lost hearing in one of them, he doesn’t need to do any more damage to the other.
By the time he hits the sandy bottom, Ford is already there, has adjusted the air in his BCD, and is squinting at his sensor. Stan puts a quick pump of air into his own vest, just enough that the pressure of the water stops pushing him into the sand. Ford catches his attention, gesturing with a flat palm to one side, towards what looks to Stan like a whole lot of boring open ocean.
Still, who is Stan to protest? He follows Ford without question, just like he used to.
Eventually, the flat expanse of sand slopes downwards into a steep cliff wall littered with coral and crevices, and Stan is briefly awed by the sight of it. The man in the dive shop had said that the reefs were looking sparse lately, but if this is sparse, Stan can’t imagine what one might look like in full swing. A small school of tiny bright blue fish weave behind a purple fan of coral. Below them, a massive grouper disappears into a deep crevice. In a dark cavern lined by coral, an orange fish cautiously peaks out at them with a massive red eye. A large school of greyish fish with yellow and blue tails circles above them, each individual nearly indistinguishable within the group.
Not for the first time, not even for the first time today, Stan thanks whatever higher power might be out there for letting him make it this far. For letting him live long enough to see all of this with his brother.
Ford continues to descend, and Stan checks the depth on his computer. He’s at 51 feet, and isn’t exactly dying to go that much deeper. It’s not that he particularly cares about following the rules of his certification, he just doesn’t want to use up too much of his air. He doesn’t have a good handle on his breathing yet, his lungs are fucked up from years of smoking, and he’s a pretty big guy. He doesn't want to have to tug Ford up to the surface before he finds whatever anomaly he’s looking for. He doesn’t want to ruin this for him.
So, at least for now, he keeps an eye on his brother from above. Ford doesn’t so much as glance up at him, flicking on his flashlight and shining it into each barrel coral and crevice he comes across. Even above him and unable to see his face, Stan can read the excitement carried in Ford’s every move. Stan isn’t nearly as fast as Ford once they really get moving, but he also isn’t stopping to shine his light into every little hole he comes across, so he keeps pace well enough.
And it’s not like he’s entirely distracted by his brother either; there’s too much to see all around him. Some round lump with a silvery sheen catches his eye, nestled amongst the algae. He barely stops himself from grabbing it, because he knows the lecture he’ll get from his brother if he does. A huge lobster wiggles some of its weird spiny mouth parts at him, glaring from the crevice it’s lodged in. A sea star’s long, hairy limbs tangle along the inner surface of a smaller barrel sponge. A small dark head of a wide-eyed fish darts into a hole in the coral before Stan can see much of it.
Everywhere he looks, there’s something to see. Stan isn’t often amazed by the beauty of nature— he fancied himself too cynical for that kind of crap— but even he’s left in awe. He swims a bit closer to the coral, trying to make sense of the tiny fish he saw retreating into it, when he sees something big moving out there in the open ocean out of the corner of his eye. He turns to face it, but he must have been closer to the rocks than he thought, because his tank bangs against them hard enough for the first stage of his regulator to jam into the base of his skull.
Ouch.
The thing that caught his attention is still too far away to make out beyond a long, dark shape. It almost looks like a massive eel, but even Stan knows eels aren’t typically out swimming in the open ocean.
Still, it’s big enough to leave him a little breathless.
Real breathless, actually. The next breath is a struggle.
Is he panicking? He’s never been the most in touch with his emotions, but he’s pretty sure he’s not having a panic attack or anything. Sure, big unknown creature squirming around in the depths of the ocean is kind of scary, but he knows they can handle it.
Another inhale, even harder than the last.
Okay, well, maybe he’s panicking a bit, but only because he can barely breathe. That’s an effect, not a cause.
So what is the cause? He checks his computer, meaning to confirm that he’s not that deep, but his eyes catch on the air gauge. He gasps a little when he sees how low it is, and it dips even lower, the arrow plunging to zero.
Fuck. Fuck. Okay.
He needs Ford. He needs to find Ford.
Stan glances around, gasping in what little air he can. For a brief, terrifying moment, he doesn’t see Ford at all, can’t make out the shape of him in the water, before finally, finally, he sees the dark silhouette of him below and ahead. He has his flashlight on, head buried in some crevice in the rocks of the cliff. He can’t be that far, but the distance seems insurmountable.
He tries to take another breath, but he can’t. He can’t.
He grits his teeth around the regulator— don’t take it out unless you have something better to put in— and kicks down towards Ford.
Don’t hold your breath, especially not while ascending, air expanding as pressure decreases, burst lungs.
Good thing Stan’s going down.
His watch beeps at him, warning him that he’s exceeding the maximum programmed depth.
Ford! He thinks desperately, staring at his brother’s back. That twin telepathy stuff is bullshit, and even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be strong enough to reach Ford when he’s so focused.
You lose air more quickly the deeper you go. Stan swears he can feel it being crushed out of his lungs. A dull ache grows between his ears, but he can’t stop and clear them, not when he can’t breathe.
He reaches out for Ford, but can’t quite touch him. His legs ache as he gives one final kick and his fingers press against Ford’s tank. They scramble uselessly against the metal, searching for something to grab onto, before he gets his thoughts together enough to follow the straps to his BCD and slide his fingers into the narrow gap where the curve of the plastic doesn’t quite meet that of the tank itself. He tugs Ford towards himself, or himself towards Ford, and scrambles to grab his arm and turn towards him. He can faintly hear a startled noise from his brother, one that would be amusing in any other context.
No air, Stan signals desperately. Ford’s expression is hard to read behind his mask, but he’s not doing anything. He knows, in an emergency, he’s supposed to rip the reg out of his buddy’s mouth, hand them their backup and let them figure it out, but he can’t bring himself to do it, not to his brother.
No air, Stan repeats, and finally Ford moves. Without bothering to unclip his secondary, he spits out his primary, rips Stan’s out, and all but shoves his own into Stan’s mouth and pushes the purge before he can suck in a lung full of water. Good thing too, because clearing it was the last thing on Stan’s mind at the moment.
He gasps. The dry air and faint taste of salt water has never felt better. He doesn’t even care that it was in his brother’s mouth seconds earlier.
He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes. Fuck. He loves breathing.
Ford grabbed him at some point, and he tugs Stan closer as he continues to gasp for breath. He hooks his elbow through Stan’s and pulls them shoulder to shoulder. Stan, for his part, just lets himself be manhandled. He doesn’t mind any of it, doesn’t mind anything at all now that he can breathe.
After a bit— Stan has no idea how long— Ford squeezes his arm with his other hand to get his attention. Stan reluctantly opens his eyes, and is relieved to see Ford has his secondary in. Shit. Stan didn’t even think about making sure Ford was alright.
He points at Ford’s chest before he can do anything and holds up an okay sign.
‘You okay?’ he asks his brother, cocking his head to emphasize the question. Ford looks so annoyed that Stan can see it through that mask and reg, and it’s another thing that would have been funny in any other context. He can particularly hear Ford say, ‘are you seriously asking me that right now?’
Ford nods with both his head and his free hand, before jabbing a finger into Stan’s chest and making an okay sign of his own. Stan mirrors the two part nod. Ford squints at him, and Stan curves his fingers back into the okay sign.
I’m okay, he wordlessly insists. For a moment there, he wasn’t sure he would be, but he’s okay.
Ford still seems unconvinced, but he gives Stan a thumbs up. Thoughtlessly, he mirrors the gesture before remembering what it means in this context, but it serves him just as well. He’d love to be able to breathe an entire atmosphere’s worth of air without worrying about the tank on his back or any of the hoses connected to it. He’s still not sure what went wrong, but at the moment he doesn’t particularly care. He can breathe for the time being, but Ford’s air tank won’t support both of them for long.
Ford pulls Stan even closer, and Stan doesn’t mind even as it drives Ford’s boney-ass elbow into his hip. It gives him the opportunity to check the gauge attached to his brother’s regulator, to see that it’s around 1700 PSI and not visibly dipping with every breath the two of them take. They’re also at 83 feet, well below what Stan’s basic certification covers. Oh well, he’s never followed any other rules, there’s no reason for this to be an exception.
They’ll be fine, Stan concludes. Ford looks down at his computer, and gestures to the side and slightly upwards. Stan can only assume what that means, but he nods either way. He trusts his brother. He’ll get them out of this. Thinking is a lot of work right now.
Nitrogen narcosis, part of Stan’s sluggish mind whispers. Oxygen toxicity, it insists.
The rest of his brain, even running at half speed, knows that he’s not really displaying symptoms of either of those. He was scared, and now he’s tired. He knows that as long as his brother is with him, he’s safe to shut down just a little. They aren’t out of the water yet, but they’ll be alright.
Blearily, he lets Ford lead the way. He kicks weakly at the knees in the exact way he knows he shouldn’t, but his hips hurt like hell. He refuses to ever believe it, much less act on it, but as usual, his brain tells him he’s too old for this shit.
Luckily, Ford has a lot more stamina than Stan, and more than makes up for his weakness and poor form. He’s also capable of navigating underwater, which is more than Stan can say about himself; he’s fine making his way through an urban environment, and he even got pretty used to the forests of Gravity Falls, but he only knew enough about underwater navigation to get his certification.
Before he knows it, they’re back at the mooring line. His watch beeps at him again, and as he glances at it, he sees a three minute timer start to count down.
Right. Safety stop.
They’re seventeen feet down. Ford’s computer tells him they still have somewhere around 1500 PSI. As much as he wants to be out of the damn water already, he lets Ford hold him in place, and nods when Ford taps his own computer and gives him a questioning ‘okay?’
Stan nods. Okay, he confirms, hoping Ford can’t see his reluctance.
2:37, his computer tells him, and Stan focuses on breathing steadily but shallowly, watching it count down the whole time.
It’s among the slowest three minutes of his life, but eventually it counts down to zero and lets out a little beep of confirmation. He looks over to Ford, who gives him the okay, and the two of them finally make it to the surface.
Stan’s hand scrambles blindly for the snorkel attached to his mask, and he eventually manages to tip it upright and tug the mouthpiece to him. He spits out Ford’s regulator, clears the snorkel with a wet puff of air, and breathes into that. It tastes, as expected, of saltwater, but it feels great to breath and not feel like he’s stealing the air from his brother's lungs.
He glances around, and finds the Stan O’ War II waiting for them a few yards away, just where they left it.
“Are you alright?” Ford calls. His hold relaxed once they hit the surface, but he’s still gripping onto Stan’s hand like a bear trap. His other holds his snorkel at the ready, but he seems more worried about Stan than he is about the seawater splashing into his big dumb mouth.
Stan rolls his eyes, gives him the okay sign with his free hand, and gestures towards the boat. Ford mumbles a confirmation, puts his snorkel in, and begins kicking his way towards it, dragging Stan along with him. Stan tries his best to carry his own weight, but he feels like a kid doggy-paddling next to an Olympic swimmer.
They make it to the boat easily enough, and Ford reluctantly releases Stan in favor of the ladder. He plunges his head into the water, and Stan is briefly baffled before he resurfaces moments later with his fins around either wrist. He glances over at Stan one more time, as if worried he disappeared the moment he looked away, before he starts making his way up the ladder.
It’s far from effortless, but Ford manages to get up with little issue. From above, Stan can hear the loud clang of Ford’s air tank hitting the deck, and he winces at the thought of the dent it must have left on her.
He can barely manage to tilt his head up far enough to see Ford above him, his neck aching and the first stage of his regulator digging painfully into the back of his head, but at least he can see his brother above him. Now he just needs to get to him.
He takes a deep breath that feels like it’s mostly sea foam, and clears the remaining distance between him and the ladder.
Stan hooks his arm through the first rung above the water and braces one foot against the hull. He awkwardly contorts himself to grab at the other foot, slick, wrinkly fingers scrambling at the easy-release buckle at the side of his fins. His arm shakes with the strain, and even through the snorkel, it feels like he's breathing in mostly water.
Finally, he releases the buckle of one of his fins, and barely manages to loop his fingers through it before it slips off into the water. Now that it’s off his foot, it’s easier to latch the buckle again and slide it over his hand, keeping it in place as he shifts his aching body to grab the other.
“Brace!” Ford calls from above, and Stan does so without question, pulling himself tighter against the boat and holding his breath as a large wave sweeps over.
Once it clears, Stan scrambles to get his other fin off and pull himself further from the water. The relief of being mostly out of the water is undercut by the sudden weight of the tank on his back. Without the buoyancy the water provided, Stan’s legs nearly buckle beneath him.
Ford calls something to him, as loud and clear as he always talks, but Stan can’t quite catch it. All he knows is that it’s too long to be another call for him to brace.
“Throw up your fins!” Ford tries again, slower this time, louder.
He sounds impatient, but Stan knows he’s just worried.
Probably.
Still, he wiggles his fins off his arms as quickly as he can, and tosses them weakly up towards his brother.
Ford catches them with ease, and drops them on the deck without a second thought. The removal of a few extra feet of plastic around his arm helps some, but climbing the ladder is still a slow process.
They’ll have to add some traction tape to the damn thing next time they get a chance, Stan thinks as his foot slips against a rung yet again. As long as he doesn’t fall backwards with his feet caught between a rung— something that has happened to him at least once on land— he’ll be fine. Slow and steady.
“I’ve got you, Stanley!” Ford calls, and the weight of the tank on his back suddenly begins to lift.
With that, Stan scrambles the rest of the way up the ladder, all but crashing into Ford once he's on the deck. Luckily, Ford manages to keep his footing and shove Stan back into the bench. His legs buckle at the slightest pressure against the back of his knees, and the tank ends up landing in the right place by sheer luck.
Before Stan can even raise his hands to do so himself, Ford is unbuckling and loosening his BCD. Just as that registers, he pries off his mask as well, tossing it beneath the bench and out of the way. Stan just lets it happen, blinking blearily at the blurry figure of his brother.
Ford mumbles something to himself that Stan has no chance of hearing over his own coughs.
“You okay?” Stan slurs, mouth struggling around the words. He feels like his teeth are still locked around Ford’s regulator.
Ford huffs in the bitchy little way he so often does.
“I’m fine, I’m not the one who ran out of air approximately 27 minutes into our dive.”
He doesn’t mean it like that, a kind, logical part of his brain tells him, a part that was created recently and gets a bit louder every day.
Way to fuck it up, knucklehead. You saw that thing, but you had to ruin everything before Ford even caught a glimpse of it, another part says, loud and familiar. You should have stayed down there.
“Well sorry,” Stan says, thick with sarcasm even though he means it.
“You—“ Ford huffs, cutting himself off. He runs a hand through his soaking wet hair, and then immediately shakes off the sensation with a grimace.
And then he turns around and retreats into the cabin, leaving Stan, soaked and aching, alone on the deck.
Shit. He really is angry, huh. When they really, seriously fight, Stan tends to pursue, to hurt the other party before he can get hurt but Ford, Ford retreats. He doesn’t do it out of fear or even an unwillingness to argue with his brother— everyone who’s been around them for more than five minutes knows how much they both love to squabble— but because he needs to cool off before he says something he regrets. The thing about them being twins, despite all the time apart, is that they still know, almost instinctively, exactly how to hit where it hurts.
If Ford’s retreating, he felt, in that moment, like he wanted to hurt Stan.
Shit.
It’s not like it wouldn’t be justified. He’s not sure what he did wrong down there, but he did something that ruined the dive for him. That would be bad enough on its own, he saw how excited his brother was just being down there, but there was an anomaly. Potentially a very dangerous anomaly that’s having a negative effect on biodiversity or some crap. And Stan tore him away from that.
His brother wanted to share this with him, and he ruined it.
He wants to get up and pace out his frustrations, but his legs ache. His head pounds painfully with each rapid beat of his heart. The wind can’t be that cold, but soaked and alone, it has Stan shivering.
Get up, get dry, fix this, Stan tells himself.
He doesn’t move. His pruny hands, still dripping saltwater onto the deck, clench into useless, shaking fists.
Get up, Stan insists, fix this.
Diluted by sea water, blood trickles lazily from a scrape on his calf. He has no idea when or how he got scraped, but he didn’t feel it then and he doesn’t feel it now.
Get up.
Despite everything, his throat feels dry enough to hurt.
Get up.
Saltwater is running into his eyes from his wet hair, stinging with each blink. He can’t even manage to lift his arm to wipe it away.
The door to the cabin swings open, and it’s like a switch is flipped as Stan finally stands. His legs shake beneath his weight, and the gentle rocking nearly sends him right back down to the bench.
“Stanley!” Ford scolds. He’s stripped out of his wetsuit, just wearing his swim shorts and a towel around his shoulders. He has his actual glasses back on, and his hair is dry enough to no longer be dripping at least. Another towel is draped over his arm, hand holding Stan’s glasses.
Oh. So that’s where he went. Obviously. The scared animal in Stan’s chest reluctantly settles.
“Sit! Sit down!” He fusses, and Stan can’t even be mad about his brother insisting on undoing all his hard work. Sitting down is better than collapsing on the deck in front of Ford.
“Get out of your wetsuit, you can’t be comfortable,” Ford says, and Stan can’t really argue with that. He reaches for the zipper on his back, and Ford flits over in an instant to unzip it himself with a, “Oh, let me help.”
Stan stills, just to make sure Ford doesn’t intend to do anything else while he’s still standing over him, but he just gives him a quick once-over and nods, before turning his attention to Stan’s BCD.
Stan leaves him to it, and begins squirming, wiggling, and writhing his way out of the shortie. Once it’s off and in a wet heap by his feet, he pulls his hair out of the tight ponytail he had it in, and starts scrubbing it dry. As much as he likes growing out his hair, it’ll be a pain to brush it later, and it’s a pain to dry it now.
Ford says something beside him, and Stan stops scrubbing and lets the towel fall around his shoulders. He slides his glasses on to see Ford is staring at the first stage of his regulator with a look somewhere between horror and rage. Stan follows his gaze, and sees that it’s not quite sitting on the tank properly. He’s amazed that neither of them noticed it leaking, because it must have been the whole time.
“Stanley…” Ford says, and that expression settles into guilt.
It’s a look Stan seems to be on the receiving end of more often than he ever expected. Every time Stan has a memory lapse, every time he remembers something unpleasant, every time he references some unsavory part of his past, Ford looks at him like a kicked puppy. He might not directly apologize every time, but he’s done it often enough. Too often, Stan would argue.
He just doesn’t know why he’s doing it right now.
“Stanley, this is all my fault, I… I must have screwed it on wrong, or perhaps I didn’t tighten it properly, I didn’t even check your air supply properly, I let you test your own regulator, and I thought I was watching, I thought it didn’t dip, but it must have been leaking the whole time and I just didn’t notice, this is all my fault and I’m so sorry,” Ford says breathlessly, running his hand through his hair and tugging. “And I shouldn’t have swam off like that, I didn’t even check if you were following once I reached the shelf, I should have stayed close, how long were you without air? No, it doesn’t matter, it was too long, and you had to go so deep to get to me, Stanley, I’m so sorry.”
“Quit it, Poindexter,” Stan huffs, swatting at his wrist. Ford lets go of his own hair and starts shaking out his hand instead, like a cat with a piece of tape stuck to its paw. “I checked my air, it was working fine before we got off the boat. Hell, it was working fine until…”
Stan shifts towards his regulator, now laying on the bench beside him. The knob on the first stage is scraped up, plastic torn, and he holds it out for Ford to see.
“I bumped it against some rocks while I was turning. It must have gotten knocked out of place.”
“It shouldn’t have gotten ‘knocked out of place’ so easily! It must have been to lose in the first place, ergo, it’s my fault,” Ford insists. “I could have killed you with my negligence, Stanley.”
“But you didn’t,” Stan argues. He can’t definitively prove that Ford had attached the first stage properly, and yeah, if he didn’t and that was his fault, that would suck, but Stan was alive. Sore, exhausted, and a little rattled, but alive. They both were.
“But I could have,” Ford repeats.
“And I could throw you off the boat right now,” Stan dismisses, leaning back and waving a hand lazily.
Ford frowns and straightens up into his usual haughty posture.
“… I doubt it,” Ford says, which is as close as he’ll get to admitting defeat in their prior argument.
“Totally could,” Stan mumbles, and then louder, “whatever. Doesn’t matter. The point is, even if you did fuck up, we’re fine.”
“Are you fine?” Ford asks, staring at him with wide, worried eyes.
“Yeah yeah yeah, I’m fine,” Stan dismisses. “I’m aching like hell but when am I not, am I right?”
Ford frowns at him, but nods anyway.
“I… I truly am sorry, Stanley,” Ford says, soft and painfully genuine. “Regardless of my own role in its failure, this is not how I wanted our first reef dive to go.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t great for me either, but that’s just the way that it is in this bitch of a world,” Stan says, shrugging. His neck jolts painfully. “It was pretty cool before it all went to shit, though.”
Ford smiles slightly, his eyes flashing with that bright-eyed nerd look he gets sometimes.
“It was, wasn’t it? I dove off the coast of Oregon a few times, even explored the Gravity Falls lake once or twice, but neither could even compare. Even if we didn’t find whatever set off my sensor, it was worth seeing,” Ford trails off, his hesitant smile dying on his lips. “Or, it would have been, if I hadn’t nearly gotten you killed.”
“You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that if you want me dead, brother of mine,” Stan snarks, elbowing Ford in the ribs.
“I don’t!” Ford protests, offended at the mere idea. “I don't want you dead at all!”
“I know, I know,” Stan says, “you care about me or some crap.”
“I do,” Ford agrees, painfully genuine. “In fact, I care about you so much that I’ll let you take the first shower.”
“I just started to dry off,” Stan grumbles, just to be an ass.
Ford is, as expected, not especially sympathetic. He gently helps Stan to his feet and escorts him down the stairs into their tiny bathroom. Stan wishes he was more upset about the babying than he is, but as it stands, his shaky legs definitely appreciate the support, even if he’d never admit it out loud.
“Holler if you need anything, okay?” Ford says, lingering awkwardly in the doorway as Stan shrugs off the towel Ford brought him. It’s one of the thin ones that dries real fast, and there’s a proper bath towel waiting for him on the closed toilet.
He waves Ford away with a dismissive grunt, and he closes the door as he finally leaves.
The rest of the day proceeds in a similar fashion, with Ford only leaving Stan’s side to fetch things for him. It’s always like this every time Stan gets hurt or something goes wrong, has been ever since the damn memory gun. He can’t even enjoy having someone at his beck and call when that someone is his brother and he looks so damn guilty the whole time.
“C’mon Ford,” he says, tugging his brother down to sit beside him as he settles in to watch tv. “Relax for a second, will you?”
Ford sighs, but sits down beside him and, as usual, shoves his feet beneath Stan’s legs. He can be touchy about being touched sometimes, but he does like the reassurance of having some form of contact. Usually, it’s brushing elbows or butting his head against Stan’s shoulder or shoving his cold little toes under Stan’s thighs when they sit next to each other. He wasn’t always like this, but Stan has gotten used to it.
“I’m okay, got it?” Stan insists, tilting his head to butt it gently against Ford’s.
“… got it,” Ford says softly.
He repositions himself to settle into Stan’s side, resting his head on his shoulder. His hair is still slightly wet; his thick curls don’t let go of moisture easily, especially not in this humidity, but Stan doesn’t mind as much as he’s sure Ford would if their positions were reversed.
His need for reassurance seems to have overcome his general aversion to touch, and Stan is happy to oblige, even if that means being stuck on the couch for a few hours after he would have preferred to go to sleep because Ford passed out on his shoulder.