Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ford shot awake, his breaths coming quick and fast. He didn’t know why he was awake, but something felt off. Wrong. He hadn’t had a nightmare, he knew that. He had always been an incredibly light sleeper, even more after he got back to the proper dimension, but there was always a reason. 

It took him a minute to realize what was off. Then he heard it. 

Crying. Soft, pathetic cries from below him. Stanley. Ford stirred in the bed, preparing to jump to the lower bunk, when the cries stopped. They became tiny, stifled, hitched breaths. Stan was deliberately trying to keep himself quiet. Unheard. 

Is he having another lapse? 

“Stanley?” Ford whispered. No response. “Are you alright?” Yet again, nothing. That was worrying. 

What if he doesn’t know who you are? What if he thinks you’re going to hurt him? 

Ford jumped down the side, landing softly on his feet beside his brother. He perched on the edge of the bed and flicked the lamp on. Stan was shivering, curled up with his back to the room. A show of trust, at the very least. 

“Lee?” Ford hesitated to touch his twin in any way. That had gotten him a bloody nose in the past. He didn’t want to risk scaring Stan, especially if he was in the middle of a lapse. 

Finally, Stan sniffled quietly and turned. His eyes were wide and tired, welling up with tears. He didn’t bother trying to wipe them away. 

Ford felt his body flood with panic. Did something hurt him fuck what if he was hiding an injury and it’s gotten worse what if he doesn’t know who you are what if you can’t get him to remember this time—

Stan made a tiny, wounded sound. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He huffed out a frustrated breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. 

“...F—” He stopped himself and sighed again. 

He’s struggling to speak. He never struggles to speak. Something is wrong, something is very wrong— 

Stan had never struggled to speak after nightmares in the past. That was more of Ford’s special brand of odd. No, talking was always what seemed to help Stan. Verbal processing, if you will. He’d never— he’d never gotten like this. This was an entirely new issue, one Ford had no idea how to tackle. When he himself struggled with words after a nightmare, it was always and only Stan who was able to calm him down enough to get a few syllables out. 

Stan didn’t continue trying to force out the words. Instead, he let out a small, wounded cry and pulled at his twin’s arm like a child. Instinctively, Ford hurried to lay down beside him. Without missing a beat, Stan pressed in close, burying his head in his brother's chest, another sob escaping him. Ford enveloped him in his arms and ran a hand through his hair, anxiety running through his veins. Stan was clinging tightly, shaking like a leaf, trying to keep himself quiet. 

“L-Lee, it’s alright,” Ford reassured, hoping those were the words he needed to hear. “You’re safe. I’m right here, okay?” 

Finally, Stan wasn’t able to hold back, and he let out a loud, unrestrained sob. It was broken and pleading and desperate. He clung tighter. Soon, he was bawling, holding to his twin like he was the only safe thing in the multiverse. 

Ford didn’t bother trying to rush him, content to let his brother do whatever he needed to feel safe. It was still new, uncharted territory. For a long time, Ford couldn’t be sure how long, they stayed like that, secure in each other’s arms, with Stan visibly trying and failing to hold himself together. Eventually, his wailing became quiet sniffles and caught breaths. 

Finally, he spoke. 

“F-Ford?” The words came out choked and quiet, almost hesitant. 

“Yes?” Ford said. His voice was too rushed, too desperate to fix, to help. Stan flinched, ever so slightly, at the volume. Calm down, you’re scaring him. “I’m right here. Do you know where you are?” He was relatively sure it wasn’t a lapse, but needed to be certain. 

“S-Stan— O’ War… II…” 

“Good, you’re doing wonderfully. And do you know what year it is?” 

“Twenty… t-thirteen…” 

“That’s right, good job,” Ford confirmed gently. “It’s alright. You’re safe. Did you… did you have a nightmare?” 

Stan nodded weakly. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“It—” Stan’s breath caught on a small sob, and his breathing sped up. “Jimmy— h-he— he was making me—” He couldn’t get another word out, and his fingers curled into the fabric of Ford’s shirt, desperate and afraid. 

Ford’s chest grew hot with barely restrained anger. Jimmy. He didn’t know much about the man, only what Stan had told him in choked, broken stories that were always the aftermath of particularly nasty nightmares. But Ford knew in his heart and his head that this man, this bastard, deserved nothing but a slow, painful death. From Stan’s fear and panic after his nightmares, from the way he flinched away from certain touches, from what little Stan had told him, Ford knew what that man did to his little brother. And he hated him. 

And he hated himself for not being there. For letting it happen. 

He tried his best to hold it in, but a low growl rattled in his chest and escaped through his teeth, and he gripped Stan tighter. “That fucking—” 

Stan whimpered. “I-I— can’t—” 

Ford’s heart clenched, and he forced himself to swallow the rage. It burned his throat, his chest, but he couldn’t— he couldn't risk upsetting his brother. Later. He let the growl taper off behind his lips before continuing, though the anger still burned inside of his chest— a tiny, flickering flame that he couldn’t let get any bigger. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” He forced gentleness into his tone and stroked his hand along his twin’s back, drawing out small, steady circles. “You don’t have to talk about it. I understand.” 

Stan hummed gratefully, and his grip loosened, just barely. Ford didn’t falter in his hold— he would be there, as long as Stan needed him to be. Longer, even. He couldn’t— he refused to let anyone hurt his brother, ever again. But that didn’t mean old wounds couldn’t break open. In fact, they often did. And Ford would be there for those, too. 

Eventually, Stan’s quiet whimpers faded into soft snores. Ford, however, was still mentally tossing and turning. Stan had had nightmares in the past, even ones about Jimmy, but he had never struggled to speak upon waking up. And he’d just never seemed so… small. So very afraid. 

Ford wanted to help. Actually, he wanted to kill Jimmy. But that wouldn’t do anything to help Stan now— that would only bring himself catharsis. What Stan needed was security, safety. Support. And Ford had to be that right now. 

At least until he could murder Jimmy Snakes. 

Ford didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he’d woken up. He blinked and glanced sluggishly at the alarm clock. Four in the morning. Christ. The lamp had been shut back off, and the boat was rocking slowly on the water. 

He was alone in the bed. 

He shot up immediately, panic surging through him electrically. 

—the nightmare must’ve triggered a lapse you didn’t make him feel safe enough now he’s probably run off and is hiding and fuck what if he accidentally locked himself in a tiny space again what if he’s panicking—

CALM DOWN. You’re a scientist, for god’s sake. Be logical about this. 

He took a steadying breath (more accurately, a hollow, shaking breath) and felt around on the nightstand for his glasses. The room became clearer— he realized there was still light coming from somewhere. He searched for the source. 

The bathroom. The light was coming from under the bathroom door. 

See? You freaked out over nothing again! He’s just using the bathroom! 

Ford waited, still sat up in the bed, for Stan to return. As pathetic as it might have made him, he couldn’t relax until his brother was next to him. He was shaking as it was, even though he knew exactly where Stan was. 

God forbid something ever happened, you’d be useless—

That’s not going to happen. Ever.

Ford would defy death itself to keep him and his brother together. There was no use thinking about it all. He was a scientist. Breaking the laws of nature, for him, was just an average Tuesday. 

He heard shuffling from inside the bathroom, but the doorknob didn’t even rattle. His chest was getting tight. Calm down. He’s literally only a few feet away. 

More time passed. Jesus, how long is he going to take? He spared another glance at the clock. 4:27 AM. 

What could Stan possibly be doing in there for thirty minutes? And that was only while Ford had been awake. 

How long has he been in there? What if he is having a lapse? What if he had another nightmare? God, how could you let yourself fall asleep while he was in such a state? What is wrong with you? 

Ford threw the covers off and hopped out of the lower bunk. Hurriedly, he knocked on the bathroom door, trying to keep his tone level and safe when he spoke. 

“Lee? Are you alright in there?” 

There was shuffling and a distinct, sharp clink noise. “...Ford?” Stan’s voice was shaky, almost distant. “...did I…wake you up?” 

“Er— n-no, I was just— are you okay? You’ve been in there for half an hour.” There was no response, except for more shuffling. “Stan?” 

“...Mhm. M’ fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yep… m’ sure.” Stan’s voice cracked, just slightly, on the last syllable. No one else would’ve been able to hear it. But Ford heard it. His chest tightened. 

“I-I just worry… I mean, you had a nightmare, and then you couldn’t speak, a-and now—” 

“Don’t…wanna talk about that,” Stan muttered through the door. “Just… go back to bed, Six, I’ll… be out in a few.” 

“I just—” 

“Ford.” Stan’s voice was still distant, but his tone didn’t leave room for argument. Ford shrunk back behind the door. Shit, you pushed him too far— now you’ve made him angry at you! And why shouldn’t he be? You won’t give him a moment of peace!

Ford stepped back, reluctantly resigning himself to listen to his brother, when he heard strained sounds from inside the bathroom. There was a grunt and another clink, followed by a sharp hiss.

No, no, no, nononono something’s wrong. Something is wrong. 

Ford knocked harder on the door. “Just let me in. Something is wrong—!” 

“Said… I’m fine—” 

“You’re clearly not!” Ford squeaked. He knocked again. “Stan!” No words, just a heavy thunk noise from inside the bathroom. Then— silence. Fuck. “Stan, are you alright?! W-What happened— just please let me in!” 

Suddenly, the lock clicked. Ford swung the door open and nearly keeled over with a gasp. 

“Oh my god…Lee?” 

Stan scooted back from unlocking the door and curled up in a ball in the center of the bathroom, his knees to his chest, positively shaking all over. He wouldn’t look his brother in the eye— instead, he stared straight forward, his eyes wide and and red and distant. 

His arm was covered in blood. 

He did get injured and he was hiding it— fuck, how bad is it you have to fix it find some goddamn bandages what are you just standing here for— 

Stan sucked in a tiny, shallow breath and pulled the towel by his feet up to his arm, pressing it tightly with a hushed hiss. 

“Lee?!” Ford was on the ground in an instant, kneeling in front of his brother. “W-What happened?! When— fuck, okay, let me just—” He reached out tentatively but stopped an inch from his brother’s skin. “I’m going to touch you, alright? It’s just me, it’s Ford. You’re safe.” 

Tears streamed down Stan’s face, but he didn’t even seem aware of them. He didn’t pull his eyes away from the floor. He didn’t even flinch when Ford gently removed the towel.

There’s so much blood— fuck, it’s on the floor, it’s on his shirt, it’s everywhere— 

There was far too much blood to see the specifics of the injury, but it almost looked like… a hoard of smaller wounds that littered Stan’s bicep. Fuck. The bleeding wasn’t letting up. 

“When did you get hurt?” Ford squeaked, his voice cracking. “H-How recent is this— did it happen today, o-or did you just aggravate it—  what happened? Why did you hide it?” 

“...Didn’t mean to…” Stan’s distant, foggy voice caught. “...sorry…” 

“No, no—” Ford couldn’t look away from the wound. His words came out rushed, not all there, as much as he was aiming for comforting. “It’s not—your fault you got hurt. Just— w-why did you hide it?!” 

“You’re…mad—” Stan muttered. His words felt far away. He dropped his head sluggishly, letting his face hit his knees. His breathing was ragged. “M’ sorry… couldn’t stop…”

You’re making it worse! 

“N-No— damnit, it’s—” He grabbed his brother’s hands, squeezing them tightly. “I’m not mad— I just thought— we agreed not to hide injuries anymore! But I’m not angry at you. It’s not your fault you got hurt. It’s not.”

Stan shook his head but said nothing. His breaths were loud and ragged, filling the otherwise silent bathroom. 

“Stan?” Ford asked hurriedly. “Are you still with me?” 

Stan nodded from inside of his cocoon. 

“Can you look at me, please?” 

For a moment, Stan didn’t move. But slowly, hesitantly, he peeked out, tears streaming down his face, looking blankly toward his big brother. His expression was far away. 

For a millisecond, he was back in the woods, and his brother was still in Ford’s turtleneck, his eyes revealing the nothing left of his memories. 

“It’s alright,” Ford said, praying his voice wouldn’t waver. “It’s not your fault that you’re hurt. We’re going to fix it, okay? But first, can you tell me what happened?” 

Stan hesitated. “... I’m sorry…” he said again.

“Don’t apologize,” Ford murmured. “It’s not like you were trying to get hurt.” 

A long pause. Stan blinked sluggishly at his arm, unfazed by the sheer volume of blood surrounding him. For a moment, he furrowed his brows, seeming almost confused. His eyes widened, just slightly.

“I did it.” 

Ford’s breath caught. “What?” 

“… I did it… to myself…” 

He did it to himself? What did— what is he saying?

Ford stared forward, his brain stuttering. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and, when he opened them, he saw it— a small razor blade on the floor. Coated in blood. No. No, no, nononononono—

Suddenly, Stan was falling into Ford, burying himself in the safety of his brother, shaken to the core with broken wails. He kept his face hidden in his twin’s chest, clinging to the fabric of his shirt. His cries were loud, uncontrolled. He just looked so… small. Ford, for the second time that night, wrapped his arms around his brother, holding tightly, like Stan might float away, as they sunk into a crumpled heap together on the floor. 

He did it to— is he saying that— fuck, how could you let this happen? Stan hurt himself, and you were sleeping! You couldn’t even stay awake to keep your brother safe! 

Ford felt like he might be sick. His throat was tight and his eyes welled up, spilling out tears that streamed down his face. He couldn’t even bring himself to wipe them away. His little brother had hurt himself. 

Stan's let out another weak sob and his grip loosened, exhaustion seeming to overcome him all at once. His fingers twitched, his hold on the fabric weak as he sniffled, his wails fading into silent cries. Ford’s heart clenched as he was broken from his thoughts, trying to ignore the way it was getting harder to breathe. He found himself unable to speak, as if he’d just woken up from a nightmare. He let out a small, animal whine and pulled his limp brother closer, his breath hitching in his chest. Need Stan here can’t let him get hurt can’t ever let him get hurt again— 

Stop spiraling— calm down now, this can’t— can’t can’t can’t be about YOU! This is about Stanley. 

He forced out the words, though they came out chopped and disjointed. “H-Hey, hey, it’s— it’s…” A long pause. He huffed in frustration. “...Going to— b-be okay,” Ford choked, running a hand through his brother’s hair. God, you’re pathetic. And selfish. He’s the one that needs comfort right now, not you!  “Let’s— w-we’re going…” Another, shorter pause. “...to bandage you.” 

“Don’t need—” Stan shook his head faintly, still buried in Ford's chest. “... bandages…”

“What— y-yes, you— most certainly do need bandages!” Ford couldn’t help the way his voice cracked, the words spilling out of him suddenly. “You’re bleeding o-onto the floor!”

Stan hiccuped on a weak sob and turned toward the floor, his eyes catching the droplets of blood on the floor. “I’ll… clean it up…M’ sorry…” 

“N-No, that’s not— what I was—” Ford sighed. “I-I’m not— mad. I’m not… worried about the floor, I’m worried about you.” Finally, he felt he had control over his brain and mouth again. “You’re bleeding, and we need to bandage your arm.” 

Then we need to have a serious, difficult conversation, Ford’s brain finished. He thought it best not to bring that up to Stan in the state he was in. Ford’s twin had never been one for difficult conversations— to bring it up now might push him over the edge. He was already dangerously close. 

But it has to happen. This can’t happen again— you can’t let it happen again, you can’t fail him again. You have to protect him. 

Stan shook his head again, but Ford promptly ignored it and stood, stretching out his tight limbs. He leaned back down to gently ease his trembling brother from the floor. Stan slumped into him, seeming more exhausted than anything all of a sudden. 

What if he lost too much blood? What if the cuts are deeper than you— is he going to pass out?!

“Stanley?! A-Are you— do you feel lightheaded? How much blood did you—”

“Jus’ tired…” Stan murmured. “M’ fine…”

Fine? Jesus Christ, how can he say that? He’s dripping blood on the floor— he was sobbing and shaking in the bathroom and he’s saying he’s fine?

“You’re not fine,” Ford murmured, his voice cracking. A few tears slipped out and he sniffled, trying to keep his emotions in check. Letting them out wouldn’t help right now. “You’re— you’re not.” 

When it was clear Stan was exhausted wholly in body and mind, Ford had him sit on the lid of the toilet as he searched through their first aid kit for gauze, bandages, and antibiotic ointment. 

He grabbed a washcloth from the cabinet and ran it under warm water, soaking it then squeezing it out in the sink. 

“I-I’m sorry—this is going to sting.” 

“…kinda the point…” Stan muttered under his breath. 

“Lee!!” Ford choked. “I-I don’t— please don’t say that!”

Stan ducked his head, sniffling. “…Sorry…” 

You made him feel bad, again!

“N-No, it’s not—” Ford huffed. Nothing he said seemed to work. “Just— brace yourself.”

Ford pressed the cloth against Stan’s arm, wiping away the dripping blood, careful around the actual cuts. Stan hissed, pulling his arm back just a moment, staring at his brother like he’d been betrayed. Ford’s heart clenched, and damnit, part of him wondered for a moment if he was handling the situation all wrong. But he was a scientist, a man of logic— injuries had to be cleaned, he knew that at the very least. It was the right thing. 

“Please,” Ford murmured, holding his hand out. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I promise.” 

Stan seemed to think it over, his eyes flickering between his wounds and his brother multiple times before he took in a shaky inhale and held out his arm again, almost seeming a bit sorry. 

That’s trust, Ford thought. Don’t break it. 

He cleaned even gentler this time, only coming in direct contact with the wounds if he truly needed to. It took longer, this way, but he didn’t care if it took a lifetime— he wasn’t risking his brother’s trust. 

Once they were clean and his own hands were washed thoroughly, he was able to see the cuts more clearly. There were so many, all over his arm. But— he squinted, observing. A heavy weight settled on him.

There were scars behind the cuts. Mostly faint, a few raised and purple. Without thinking, he grabbed Stan’s other arm, scanning quickly, in a panic, for what he was afraid to find. Identical scars. And they all looked like healed variants of the current cuts. 

Ford thought back to every moment he’d had with Stan since he returned to this dimension. All the scars he’d seen on his brother, the ones he hadn’t even thought to question. He’d just— he’d just assumed—

This has been going on for a long time— some of those scars are old— how could you never notice? You just let it happen!

Goddamnit, pull yourself together. Crying won’t help Stan. Crying won’t fix anything. He couldn't observe them for as long as he felt he needed to. Stan was still bleeding badly. Later. He forced down the rising panic, the rising guilt in his chest, forcing himself to be clinical. Logical. Focus. Clean up the cuts. 

They weren’t terribly deep, save for a few bad ones near the top. Those ones were longer, wider, angrier. Ford knew that they needed stitching— now. Otherwise, Stan would lose too much blood. He’d already lost enough. 

“Lee, these—” his voice was strained. “These ones are deep…” 

He started on the worst ones first— they were already starting to bleed down Stan’s arm again. Ford quickly rinsed them, then grabbed the suture kit from the first aid supplies. He tried to be quick, and gentle, weaving the sutures as carefully as he could. Stan cried out, wincing. He fought not to pull his arm away and squeezed his eyes shut, tiny, desperate tears squeezing out of them, running down his face. 

“I know, I know,” Ford murmured. “I-I’m so sorry…” 

You're hurting him you’re hurting him you’re hurting him—

“S’ alright…” Stan choked out. “Not your fault…” 

Ford’s eyes welled up, and he couldn’t keep them from spilling over onto his cheeks. He’s getting stitches and he’s trying to comfort you—

Ford muttered hushed, weak apologies as he finished the stitches, tying them off with a knot, and finally, securing them in place with bandages. When it was over, Stan slumped further against the back of the toilet, breathing hard. Ford squeezed his hand reassuringly. 

“You’re doing wonderfully,” he whispered. “The worst is out of the way. You’re so close.” 

Stan nodded sluggishly, eyes still closed. God, he's completely out of it— lightheaded, sluggish. How much blood did he lose?

As much as Ford wished they could talk and figure it all out immediately, there were still cuts to attend to. He made sure he had cleaned them completely before applying the antibiotic ointment and wrapping them in gauze. 

Finally, Stan was bandaged and clean. But Ford couldn’t let himself relax. Stan may have been fixed up physically, but it was clear the wounds extended far beyond his skin. 

“Alright, let’s— we should head into the bedroom now, yes? We can… talk?” 

Stan shook his head. “...Tired…” 

Ford’s heart twisted. He knew, most likely, that Stan was at least partly trying to avoid the inevitably painful discussion. But he was also slumped against the back of the toilet, his eyes fluttering open and closed, his expression uncomfortable. He’d had a nasty nightmare and an overall sleepless, painful night. He was avoidant, but he was also pitifully exhausted. He deserved to rest. 

“O-Okay— we can— yes. You should rest. You can rest,” Ford said softly. “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood, though, are you alright to walk?”

Stan nodded weakly.

“That wasn’t convincing in the least.” Ford carefully eased Stan to his feet and hooked his arm under his brother’s, wrapping an arm around his waist. Stan fell against him, groaning quietly under his breath. They stumbled forward, with Ford holding most of his brother’s weight. 

“Ford…” Stan mumbled as he was eased into his bed, “M’ sorry…” 

“It’s not your fault,” Ford reassured him. “Don’t apologize.” 

“...Didn’t mean to,” Stan insisted. He let out a tiny, broken sob and flopped into his covers. He stared up at his brother, his eyes pleading. “...Don’t be mad…”

Ford couldn’t hold back the sob that clawed its way from his throat. “Christ, I’m— I’m not mad. I-I’m worried , a-and I’m so sorry…” He crawled into bed beside his brother. Stan buried his head in Ford’s chest and brought his arms protectively around himself. He whimpered softly. 

“Not your fault…” Stan murmured, his voice quiet, slurred with exhaustion. Ford just cried again and wrapped his arms around his brother. 

“I-It is,” Ford whispered miserably, squeezing his eyes shut. “I-I can’t believe I never saw it before. I-I couldn’t protect you— I let you hurt yourself… I never even thought— I’d just assumed you—” He let out another pleading sob and squeezed harder. “I’m so sorry, Lee, I’m so, so, sorry…” 

Stan made a soft noise beside him— something close to a whimper, but distant. Tired. Ford blinked his eyes open and craned his neck to see his brother buried in his cocoon. 

Stan was asleep. He was already snoring. Ford’s chest lightened, only a little. At least Stan was resting. 

It wasn’t over, though. They needed to have a serious discussion, one that Stan would want to avoid at all costs. One that Ford had no idea how to start. But it had to happen— it had to. 

Because this couldn’t happen again. Ford couldn’t let it happen again. He couldn’t stand to see his brother like this. 

He sighed shakily and pulled Stan closer, resting his chin on his twin’s scalp. Stan was asleep, and Ford finally broke down completely. He let out a loud, wet, broken sob. The tears fell freely down his face, but he couldn’t pull his arms away from Stan for a moment. Stan needed him, even asleep. Ford’s cries were loud, unrestrained, desperate, his hold on Stan tight. 

And he couldn’t let go ever again. 

Stan blinked his eyes open. The first thing he was aware of was pain. His arm stung. He was in bed. Fuck, had there been an accident? Some sort of anomaly hunt gone wrong? Was he injured? No, screw that—  was Ford injured? 

His heart spiked as he sat up, biting back a cry at the slightest movement in his arm. Seriously— what the fuck happened? His head was pounding. 

Where’s Ford where’s Ford where’s Ford—

“Ford?!” He called. His voice was hoarse, almost panicked. 

Ford was at the door immediately, his eyes wide and exhausted. The bags under his eyes seemed to stretch all the way to his chin. He was shaking, wringing his hands together, his eyes fixed on Stan. But his gaze seemed to flicker between Stan’s eyes and… his left side? Something was going on. 

“Lee—! You— you’re awake,” he said softly. “I’m—” he glanced toward the kitchen, hesitating. “I-I just put on some coffee, do you…want any? And I… made eggs. They came out sort of… well, they’re more liquid than— whatever they’re supposed to be. So perhaps… toast?”

Stan rubbed at his face. “I’ll… take the coffee. Not really— hungry though.” 

“You’re not hungry?” Ford frowned, concerned. His eyes flickered again to Stan’s left side. His arm. Was that where whatever had attacked them had got him? “That’s—” Ford shook his head. “Yes, I’ll grab you some coffee. And I’ll grab myself… a lot of coffee. Milk and sugar, yes?” 

Stan nodded, trying to hide the confused expression he was sure he was sporting. 

“Just— stay there, alright?” Ford said quickly, his voice wavering. “Please, just— don’t get out of bed, I-I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He turned on his heel and walked swiftly toward the kitchen. 

Alright, seriously, what the fuck? 

Something had clearly happened yesterday. Ford was wiry, panicked, walking on goddamn eggshells. And he had kept looking at Stan’s arm. His left arm. Finally, Stan spared a glance at it. 

It was bandaged. Odd. 

He knew he probably should,  but he had no idea what had happened. He had loose, foggy memories— a vague fear, Ford’s panic, pain. Nothing concrete. Jesus, he was so tired of not remembering shit, and if he had a chance to figure out what happened on his own, goddamnit he was going to do it. He pulled at the bottom of the gauze until it rolled off and he saw what was under it. 

Oh. 

Oh fuck. 

No. 

No, no, no this was supposed to be over. It wasn’t supposed to happen again— why had it happened again? He had Ford, he had the kids, he had everything— why wasn’t it enough!?

And yet, he’d still done it again. God, he’d fucked up. He’d fucked up bad. 

And Ford had seen it. Fuck fuck fuck, Ford had seen it all! Of course Ford was being so awkward, he knew his brother was a fucking mental patient!! God, he was probably trying to figure out how to tell his waste of a twin that he couldn’t have him getting in the way anymore!

There were dozens of cuts, all over his bicep. And those were just the ones he could see. He could imagine how bad it was over the rest of his arm. And the pain was a stronger, more prominent throb near the top of his arm. It was all coming back to him— the nightmare about Jimmy, the way his old partner’s words had echoed in his head until he just couldn’t fucking take it. He’d stumbled into the bathroom and it had just… happened. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t. 

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all— it had happened. He’d done it. He’d ruined everything. 

He braced himself before taking the rest of the bandages off. He needed to see how bad it was. He gently pulled them away from his arm and let them fall into the covers. His breath hitched. Stitches. They’d been so bad Ford had stitched his arm. Shit. 

As if on cue, Ford tentatively peeked back into the room, two mugs of coffee in his hands. His eyes met Stan’s and widened dramatically. 

“Stanley, what are you doing?!” He squeaked, hurrying over to the bed. He set the coffees down quickly and perched on the edge of the bed, taking Stan’s arm. “ Why are you taking off your bandages?!” Stan yanked his arm back instinctively. A new expression flashed across Ford’s face. Part remorse, part guilt, part panic, part… something else. He rubbed his eyes. “I-I— okay, I’m going to go get some new ones, j-just— stay there. Just—” He stood suddenly, already heading out of the room. He finally turned when he reached the doorway. “Stay. There.” It was almost barked. Like an order. Stan curled into himself, staring at the covers, listening as Ford’s footsteps grew more distant. 

He was back before Stan could blink. He sat on the edge of the bed next to his brother, his whole body trembling faintly with a strange, unfamiliar, nervous energy. Silently, he grabbed Stan’s arm again. This time, Stan flinched, but let him take it. As he bandaged, Ford let out a low, tiny whine, his fingers shaking around the fabric. When the task was done, he set the leftover bandages on the table beside him and sighed, a hand shooting up to pull at his hair. The whine crescendoed and tapered off into a hitched breath.

“Hey, hey, woah.” Stan gently pulled Ford’s hand away and took it in his own. “C’mon, none of that, now.” 

Ford stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a tiny shudder went through him and he turned sharply to the side, grabbing one of the mugs and shoving it into Stan’s hands. 

“Coffee.” He said softly. “I put some of the… er— hazelnut syrup that you like in it. I-If it’s too sweet, just, let me know. I can… make more.” 

Stan took a small sip. “It’s great.” 

Ford nodded shakily and took a sip of his own coffee. He wasn’t looking Stan in the eye. His hands were twitching, his leg bouncing. He was clearly itching to say something. 

He’s gonna tell you to get lost, he’s gonna drop you at the nearest mental institution, he’s never gonna look at you the same again— 

“Just— say whatever you’re gonna say, Ford!” The words came out harsher than he’d intended, and Ford flinched back. Shit. 

Ford blinked. “I’m— I don’t…” He sighed, frustrated, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s fine, I already know what you’re gonna say,” Stan continued, his voice more level but with no less bite. He avoided his twin’s gaze. “I know you saw everythin’ I did, a-and I know you know I’m even more of a mess than you thought and I know you know I’ll just get in the way of all your work! So I’ll just go, alright?! You can— you can drop me off at the next port, I’ll… find my way back to…” His voice faltered and he felt his eyes well up.

“Lee—”

 “I’ll be fine, alright? I’ve been on my own before, I can do it again. I-I mean, we both know I’m just gettin’ in your way with all the anomalies and shit, and I—” 

“Lee!!” 

Stan turned to his brother. Oh, fuck. Ford looked completely broken. His face was crumbling, and a few tears leaked down his cheeks. A raw, almost animal sob escaped him. He slapped a hand over his mouth and shook his head, taking in a deep, shaky inhale through his nose. 

Shit, you made him mad. “Ford?” 

Ford shook his head again and gently took the coffee mug from Stan’s hands, setting back on the side table. He took another breath. 

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” Ford whispered, his voice cracking. “Don’t.” His words weren’t commanding anymore. They were pleading. “Where— where are you getting all of that from?” 

Stan stumbled over his words. “I-I just…thought—”

“I would never make you leave. A-And even if I did want you to—” Ford’s eyes widened and he waved his hands wildly as he spoke. “Which I don't, a-and NEVER WOULD!— it wouldn’t be my place to make you! This space is yours as much as it is mine. I-It’s ours.” He sighed, visibly attempting to calm himself down. “I— I love being here with you, I wouldn’t want to do it without you! You have to know that by now!” Ford sighed, taking Stan’s hands in his. “You don’t hold me back. You don’t get in my way. I-I want you here. I mean, Moses, I need you here!” 

Stan sniffled, trying to keep the tears at bay. “But, last night—”

“And last night doesn’t change that,” Ford interrupted softly. “It’s something we need to handle and discuss, of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re my brother, a-and my best friend and I still want and need you here!” He hesitated, squeezing Stan’s hands tighter. “I’m— I’m so sorry that I made you feel like… I might kick you out. I should’ve— known, I should’ve checked in, o-or—”

“S’ not your fault,” Stan interjected. “Just— don’t put my fucked up brain on you—”

“Don’t say that!!” Ford’s voice cracked again, and he let out a tiny whine. “Your brain is not— fucked up! I’m— just— don’t say that about yourself!!” He sighed, and he pulled his hands away to run them through his hair. He made a deliberate point not to pull at it. “Is this— how long have you thought this way about yourself, a-and I just… let it happen?” His eyes suddenly welled up, and he swiped at them. “I-Is why… last night happened? B-Because I led you to believe I might— that I’d kick y-you…” He buried his head in his hands, his elbows digging into his knees. “Oh god—!”

Great going, idiot! You made him feel like it’s all his fault!! 

“Hey, hey, n-no—” Stan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Don’t— s’ not your fault. At all. I’m just— like this, I guess.” 

Ford pulled his head from his hands. His next words came out hushed. Almost afraid. “Lee… how long have you been doing this?” 

Fuck. 

“I don’t… know if you really wanna know the answer to that.” 

“Please.” 

“I— a… long time,” Stan murmured, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “Started…pretty soon after I was… kicked out.” 

Ford’s eyes spilled over, and let out a tiny, weak little sob. “I’m so sorry…” 

“Not your fault.” 

“N-No, I let you get kicked out—”

“Ford, we’ve been over this. Pa had the bag packed, okay? He was lookin’ for a reason. It was gonna happen no matter what.” 

Ford didn’t look convinced, but he pushed forward. “Can I—” He stopped himself, his eyes flickering to Stan’s arm. His fingers twitched, like they wanted to reach out. “I-I mean… I don’t…” 

Oh. Stan understood what Ford couldn’t bring himself to ask. Slowly, he held out his uninjured arm, letting Ford observe the scars under their new context. 

Ford looked up with impossibly wide, questioning eyes, his fingers hovering over Stan’s arm. 

Are you sure? he seemed to ask. 

Stan nodded. 

Gingerly, with more care than Stan had ever seen his brother exhibit, Ford took his arm and squinted, tracing a lone finger over a particularly raised scar. He bit his lip, clearly trying as hard as he could to keep himself from completely breaking down. 

“I-I never— I just always thought these—” He let out a tiny cry and sniffled loudly. “I should’ve known, I-I should’ve—” He suddenly collapsed forward and wrapped Stan in a tight embrace, his whole body trembling. Stan didn’t think twice before following suit and keeping a firm hold on his brother, burying his head in the crook of his neck. 

“Six,” Stan said, his words partially muffled, “s’ not your fault. I’m sorry. I-I shoulda’ told you, shouldn’t’a tried to hide it.” He sniffled pathetically. “Don’ know if it makes you feel any better, but this was the first time it happened since we got out here. First time it’s even happened since… the apocalypse.” 

Ford squeezed tighter. “A-And before that? I-I mean, when was the last time this happened? Before last night, that is.” 

Stan hesitated. Telling Ford would just make him feel even worse, and he didn’t know if he could handle hurting his brother again. 

Ford sensed his tension. “Lee?” Stan bit his tongue. “Lee, I need you to be honest with me right now. This— you can’t lie about this, alright? Please.” 

Stan sighed shakily as Ford pulled back slightly. Stan tightened his hold even more. Ford made a quiet oof but said nothing of it, just ran a hand through his twin’s hair. 

“It was— the night you came outta the portal. After we— had the… y’know…” 

“…Oh.” Ford stiffened. His shoulders began to tremble. “A-After I told you— I-I punched you… and I tried steal the shack—”

“If you’re about to say you’re sorry—”

“I am sorry!” Ford insisted. “I just— I can’t believe how I acted after you worked for thirty years to—”

Stan pulled away from the embrace, grabbing his brother's shoulders firmly, securely. “Hey. We’ve talked about this. Don’t go spiralin' again. We both hurt each other, and we both forgive each other.” 

“I know,” Ford whined. “I do, but I just—I just hate that you’ve been hurt, that I hurt you.” 

“I hurt you too, though,” Stan countered, taking his hands off of his brother’s shoulders. “I mean, it’s my fault you were in the nightmare—”

“Stop,” Ford said, his voice sharp. “You know I don't hold that against you—”

“Jeez, do you hear yourself?” Stan interrupted softly. He was sure to keep his voice warm, gentle. “If you don’t hold all that against me, why do you think I still hold anythin’ against you?” 

Ford opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated. He closed it again, his confliction clear on his face. Finally, after an internal debate, he sighed, resigned. 

“You’re right,” he mumbled. “You are, I know you are. I know we hurt each other, and that we forgive each other, but— sometimes, I’m just going to hate myself for it. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize. Hate myself for it too, sometimes.” 

They reached a comfortable silence. Ford took another sip of his coffee, his expression going sour. “It’s cold,” he muttered.

“We got a microwave,” Stan offered. 

Ford gave him a look Stan couldn’t decipher. His eyes flickered between Stan and his bandaged arm. Finally, he set the coffee down. 

“No. Coffee can wait. We’re not done talking.” 

Fuck. Stan knew his brother— he knew this was bound to happen. Ford couldn’t leave things like this, it wasn’t in his nature. He would want a plan of action, logical steps to ensure this situation never happened again. He’d want details, reasons. And Stan didn’t know how to give them to him. 

He didn’t even know the reasons, not really. It had started so long ago, and every time it had happened since, it wasn’t because of one specific thing. It was just… a sudden itch, an urgent realization of what he needed to do. And, sure, the nightmare about Jimmy played a part, but it wasn’t all of it, not in the least. 

Ford wouldn’t like that. Ford was a scientist— to him, everything had a reason. A cause. And he’d keep digging until he found it. In this case, he’d be digging forever. 

“So,” Ford’s voice was hesitant. He rubbed at his own arm awkwardly. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it in detail, a-and I understand that, but I…” he shook his head. “We have to discuss it.” 

Stan nodded, his chest tight. 

“I was thinking about it while you were sleeping, and my first idea was to remove all sharp objects from the boat.” 

“Fuck no,” Stan shot immediately. “We’re not— that’s fuckin’ ridiculous— M’ not a kid! ”

“I know,” Ford conceded, holding up a hand. “It would be difficult, yes, b-but I think it’s doable, I really do!” 

Stan was losing the battle with his own panic. “Ford— what— no! No, we aren’t fuckin’ doing that! Just— how would we cook without any knives?” 

“Forks?” 

“Those are sharp too! What, are we gonna cut up our steaks with spoons?” His questions were sharp, biting. You’re being too harsh, his brain yelled at him. He didn’t care. He wasn’t crazy. 

Ford hesitated. “…I—”

“A-And my fishin’ hooks,” Stan spat, the words coming out of him like vomit. “M’ I just not allowed to fish anymore?” When Ford looked baffled, Stan continued. “We wouldn’t be able to shave—”

“I use my lighter—”

“Which is equally dangerous! There’s a billion sharp things on this boat, and a billion other things that could cause just as much harm, a-and if every sharp thing was gone, I-I’d still—” He cut himself off, the words hanging thick in the air. 

Ford’s brows drew together. He knew what was coming— it was obvious from his guilty, almost pitiful expression. “You’d… still what, Lee?” 

“I’d…” Stan took a breath. It’s just Ford. “I’d still— find a way. If I needed to.” 

A silence hung between them, with Ford’s brows furrowed in thought. Stan couldn’t take it. Ford ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply through his nose. 

Finally, he spoke.

“I can find a way. I can get rid of everything dangerous on this boat. I-I don’t care— I just want you to be safe,” He pleaded. “I-I don’t care if I’m inconvenienced— no, no, it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, not if it’s keeping you safe!” 

“It’s not just that,” Stan said, stumbling over his words. “I— I know what you’re tryin’ to do, but…all that? It’ll just make me feel like a fuckin’ mental patient. It’s not— I’d go crazy, livin’ like that. You would too.” 

“I don’t want you to get hurt again,” Ford whispered. “I don’t— want you to hurt yourself again.” 

“I know, and I don’t either, but, I’m tellin’ you, this isn’t the way to do it. I’ll feel like shit if we turn the boat into a padded room.” Stan fiddled with the fabric of his shirt. “But you’re right, we— we gotta do somethin’ to try and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

Ford sighed. “You’re…right. I guess that— I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I’d— I don’t want you to feel like that. You’d… be miserable! I can’t believe it— God, you’re not a child, a-and I was trying to treat you like one.” 

“You weren’t—”

“I was! I just… I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to— I don’t know how to do this. It’s not like you can just stop having nightmares, but if you have one, a-and this happens again—”

“It wasn’t just cuz of the nightmare,” Stan offered.

“Then why? If we know what set it off, then we can—”

“It— I mean, I don’t know, exactly. M’ sure the nightmare had somethin’ to do with it, yeah, but it was— it was… I dunno— everything?” 

Ford squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing at his temples. “I’m— I’m confused. What does that mean?”

“Sorry,” Stan mumbled under his breath. 

“Don’t apologize,” Ford said quickly. “I just— can you try and explain it further?” 

Christ, how do I even do this? 

“Okay, I’m— I guess I just… get in these— moods, right? And s’ not even sad or anythin’, not really, but s’ like… nothin’, I guess. And usually, on those days, I just… I know it’s comin’. I know it’s gonna happen. And I try to avoid it, o-or just fuckin’ control myself, but… I knew it was comin’, and I thought when I went to sleep that I’d— I dunno, won? But the Jimmy stuff just pushed me over the edge, I guess.” He wrung his hands together. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. I just couldn’t stop thinkin’ about all the shit Jimmy used to say, a-and then all the shit Pa used to tell me, and then— other stuff, and I just…” His voice broke. The last few words came out choked and wet. “Couldn’t take it. But I didn’t mean to.” 

Ford suddenly reached up and placed his hand on Stan’s face, wiping tears he wasn’t aware of from under Stan’s eyes. He smiled, his face full of compassion and warmth and exhaustion and safety. 

“I know you didn’t, Lee.” He took Stan’s hands, squeezing them reassuringly. “I know. And I… I guess I understand what you’re saying. About it all sort of… building up , that is. I can… follow that line of reasoning. Thank you for explaining it to me. I know it couldn’t have been easy.” His expression darkened. “But we still need to figure out a plan. I don’t— it can’t happen again. I never want this to happen again.” 

Stan shifted uncomfortably. Come on. Be honest with him. 

“I don’ want it to either, but— I can’t… promise it won’t. I-I mean, I didn’t mean for it to happen this time, but it still did, y’know? So I can’t—” He shook his head, defeated. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for," Ford said immediately. He bit the inside of his cheek, his expression deeply conflicted. He didn't speak whatever he was wrestling with aloud, instead taking inhaling through his nose and letting his shoulders drop before continuing. "And… thank you, again. For telling me that. Obviously, I don’t like that there’s any chance it could happen again, but… it’s better to know.” His brows furrowed. “You said you could— sort of… sense that it was coming, yes?” 

Stan nodded. 

“Is that always the case?” 

Stan shrugged. “Usually, yeah, I get sort of a feelin’ that it might happen. Not every time, but… mostly.” 

“Alright, well— would you be willing to come to me? When you’re feeling like that? And we can try and work through it?” Ford asked softly. “O-Or, if you need someone to just sit with you, or be your… fishing buddy for a while, I can do that too? I just— as long as you’re not alone.” 

That’s… doable. Stan’s chest felt lighter at the thought. 

“Yeah, Six.” He smiled. “I can do that.” 

“And…” Ford bit the inside of his cheek. “I think we should limit the amount of razors in the bathroom. I’m not— we don’t have to be completely rid of all of them, but… we certainly don’t need a surplus. And perhaps I should be in the kitchen, when you’re cooking? Just because of all the— I-I mean…” He trailed off. 

“No,” Stan said instinctively. “That’s— I don’t need a chaperone while I’m cookin’, and shavin’, alright? I’m not a land mine , I can handle myself.” Well— could he? Stan shook his head. Shut up, brain. “I’m tellin’ you I’ll come to you when I start feelin’ like that, why do I gotta be monitored?” 

“What if you don’t feel like that, but it still happens?” Ford begged. “You said you can usually tell— a-and I want to make sure you’re safe if something were to—” 

“S’ not gonna—”

“We don’t know that!” Ford insisted. His voice wasn't sharp, wasn't demanding. It was… desperate. “And I know I can’t ensure your safety one hundred percent of the time, but I can— I will try. I— I need you to be safe. And I’m trying my best, a-and I might fuck it up, but— can we try this? Just for a while?” His voice cracked on the last syllable. 

Oh, damn it all. 

Stan rubbed the back of his neck. He tried to see it from his twin’s perspective. He tried to picture it flipped. If he’d walked in on Ford bleeding and crying like a child, if he’d found out that Ford had done it to himself… Fuck, he couldn’t lie to himself. He’d be just as panicked. Of course he’d try to get rid of anything dangerous, anything that posed a possible threat. He’d be attached to his brother at the hip (as he assumed Ford would be to him in the coming weeks). 

He glanced at his brother again. The desperate, pained expression on his face. Fine. Fine. Jesus! Stan didn’t care about his own safety. He really didn’t. But this wasn’t just about his own safety. It was about his brother’s peace of mind. If Stan knew anything, it was that he would do anything to make his brother happy. 

If he had to be uncomfortable to give him that… fine. 

“I—” He sighed, trying to keep it from becoming a grumble (he didn’t succeed). “Yeah, that’s— okay. We can… do that. I guess.”

Ford breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you, Stanley. It— you don’t understand how much this means to me.” 

“I do,” Stan said softly. “I— you care.” 

Ford smiled. “I do. I love you, and I— I can’t live without you. I don’t want you to— I just…” He trailed off, the right words escaping him. 

“I know, Ford,” Stan reassured. “I love you too.” 

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, Ford visibly relieved at their plan of action. Still, he looked… quite exhausted. 

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Stan asked gently. 

“I— I mean—” Ford hesitated. “It’s not that I—” 

“I’ll take that as a no,” Stan said, shaking his head in disapproval. “C’mon, you know you gotta sleep. And we got no plans today.” 

“It’s not even ten in the morning, it would be ridiculous to—” 

“Don’t argue with me on this,” Stan insisted. “Just a nap, alright? You look like you need one.” 

Ford looked genuinely offended. “I do not—”

“Ford.” Stan gave the sternest expression he could muster. 

Ford huffed, but conceded. “Fine. Scoot over.” 

Stan cocked an eyebrow. “What was that?” 

“I’m— please?” Ford held his arms out like a child, and Stan immediately knew what he meant. He shifted over, closer to the wall, and Ford crawled into bed beside him, squirming to wrap his arms around Stan’s middle, his head buried in his brother’s chest. Stan followed suit, wrapping his good arm around his brother, making sure he felt safe. Ford was warm, snuggled up securely against his brother, reminding Stan a bit of when they were kids. He pulled in tighter. Ford was here, and Ford was real. And Stan didn’t want to let go. 

Ford sniffled softly from inside his cocoon. “I'm glad you’re okay.” 

Stan ran a hand through his brother’s hair. “Yeah. I am too.” 

And damnit, He meant it. 

Chapter Text

“Ford?” 

Someone grabs his shoulder. 

Ford wakes quickly, even at the hushed whisper of his name. He bolts upright, breathing hard, searching for whatever threat somehow knows his name. It can only mean one thing if someone knows his name, it means that Bill got to them somehow, and if that’s the case, he needs to run or he needs to fight, but he can’t– 

“Ford, hey, it’s just me! It’s Stan!!” 

Ford realizes his hand is reaching for the blaster that isn’t at his side. He really– jesus christ. Of course he doesn’t have his gun, he’s just on the Stan O’ War II. With his brother. His brother who has his arms raised placatingly in front of him. 

“S-Stanley,” Ford breathes. It’s Stan. It’s only Stan. 

“Shit, I’m… sorry, I-I didn’t mean to– y-you can go back to sleep, I didn’t mean…” Stan shakes his head, rubbing his temples. 

“No, I’m–” Ford attempts to rub the sleep out of his eyes. His brain is foggy. “Is something wrong? Why did you– are you alright?”

Stan turns away, already beginning to climb back down the ladder. “S’ fine. I’m good.” His words are clipped. Shaky. 

“Wait, just–” Ford scrambles and reaches out and takes his hand. “What’s going on?” 

Stan pauses before answering, taking a shaky inhale. “Nothin’, Ford. I’m– fine.” His voice breaks, ever so slightly, on the last word. He squeezes Ford’s hand before finishing his descent down the ladder, and Ford hears the familiar groan of the lower bunk as Stan presumably sits on it. Ford hears another shaky breath from below him. He doesn’t hesitate before swinging his legs over the side of the bunk and hopping down. Stan is sitting slumped on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. He jumps when he realizes Ford followed him down. 

“No, you’re clearly not.” Ford perches on the edge of the bunk and places a gentle hand on his twin’s back. “Stanley, what’s going on?” 

Stan leans into the touch. “I just– you… I mean, I was–” he huffs and shakes his head. “Nevermind. S’ stupid.” 

“I’m quite sure it’s not. Are you– are you okay? I’m– I'm worried, Lee.” 

Stan sighs. “You– you said to… come to you. If I was… I mean, if I felt like I– might–” He rubs at his left arm awkwardly. In the same spot where– where he– 

Ford feels his heart stutter. “O-Oh! Shit, I– did– did you–” his voice hitches and he instinctively grabs Stan’s arm, searching. 

Stan is curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, his arm covered in blood. He’s shaking, and he’s sobbing, and Ford let it happen, Ford let it happen, and Stan’s hurt, he hurt himself– 

“No! No, I-I– I didn’t–” Stan is quick to correct, grabbing Ford’s hand from his arm and squeezing it. “I didn’t.” 

Ford breaths a sigh of relief.

“Sorry, I shoulda’ led with that.” 

“NO! N-No, don’t apologize, you have nothing to be sorry about! I’m– I’m glad you didn’t–” he squeezes Stan’s hand back. “I’m glad you came to me.” 

Stan shrugs and gently pulls his hand away. “I just– I-I didn’t know… w-what to do.” He brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “Don’t know how to–” he shakes his head and lets his face fall into his knees. He takes a shaky breath.

“Would you… like to go out to the deck?” Ford ventures. “It’s a nice night.” 

Stan sniffles from inside his cocoon. “…Sure.” 

Ford helps Stan up to his feet. Stan grabs hold of his arm and leans against his shoulder, letting himself be led out to the deck. 

Stan relaxes slightly when he gets a breath of the fresh air, his hold loosening on his brother just a bit. Ford brings him to the railing, and Stan props his arms up and stares out at the ocean, his head leaning on Ford’s shoulder. Ford wraps an arm around him, absently rubbing his back. 

Stan has always preferred open spaces to more snug ones, ever since Ford can remember, at least. But ever since Ford came back, he’s noticed that it’s less of a preference now, and more of a necessity. Stan can’t be in small spaces. Ford can recall a time shortly after Stan got his memories back, Mabel locked Stan in a closet as a prank, and Stanley… he didn’t take it well. It took a long time to calm him down. Ford fights the urge to smack his own forehead. He should’ve taken Stan out to the deck so much sooner. He should’ve known it would make him feel more comfortable.

His first instinct is to ask why, to ask what happened. But Stan told him last time, there… isn’t always a reason. Ford’s not entirely sure that this is true. Every effect needs a cause. But… Stan might not always be in the right frame of mind to know what the cause is, Ford supposes. So he adjusts his question. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ford asks quietly. Stan only shrugs. “Y-You don’t have to… I just– thought that maybe…?” 

“No, I can.” 

“You really– you don’t have to.” 

“I–” Stan nestles further in Ford’s shoulder. “I don’t know… why… today was just– kinda shitty. N’ then I was kinda shitty… a-and then…” he sighs again. “I don’t know.” 

God, even after that entire, long, painful conversation they had after Ford realized what Stan did, he still… he doesn’t know how to handle it. Not really. All he can do is just give soft reassurances that he’s quite sure are pointless. 

“Sorry,” Stan mutters after a moment of silence. “It’s stupid.” 

“NO! It’s not stupid, a-and you don’t have anything to apologize for,” Ford says quickly. “It’s okay. It's alright. You don’t have to talk about it.” 

 Stan turns to him. “You’re not– mad?” 

Ford’s chest aches. “Stan, why on earth would I be mad?” 

“I dunno… woke you up, got you all worried for no reason.” He turns away again. “Can’t even talk about the damn reason I woke you up–”

“I’m glad you woke me up,” Ford interrupts softly. “You’re doing wonderfully. You don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay if you can’t.” He tips Stan’s chin up to look him in the eyes. “Lee, I’m proud of you for coming to me.” 

Stan’s eyes well up, and he swipes at them quickly. 

“Oh, Stanley…” Ford opens his arms in invitation. Stan hesitates for a moment before burying his head in Ford’s chest. He trembles faintly, hands pulled up to his own chest, clinging to the fabric of Ford’s sweater. Ford wraps his arms around him securely. 

“Ford,” he whispers, letting out a tiny sob. “I-I don’t–” his words broke on another sob. 

“It’s alright,” Ford murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” Stan just cries harder, putting his ear against Ford’s chest. Listening for his heartbeat. 

“I’m proud of you,” He repeats. “You’re alright. It’s going to be okay.” 

Ford lets Stan cry for a while. He isn’t sure how long. After a bit, his cries fade to quiet sniffles and hitched breaths. He loosens his hold, just slightly, and tips his head up so his words don’t come out muffled. 

“Thanks, Six.” 

“Of course, Lee. Always.” He gives Stan another squeeze. “Feeling a little better?” 

“A bit, yeah.” And Ford can tell by his twin’s voice that Stan means it.

“Do you feel ready to head to sleep? O-Or we can stay out here. Whatever you need.” 

“No, we– we can go inside.” 

“If you’re sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Stan sniffles. “S’ cold out here.” 

Ford nods and takes his brother’s hand, leading him inside, back to the bedroom. He lets Stan crawl into bed and under the covers pulling them up to his chin. He hesitates. After all this time, one would think he’d feel comfortable asking Stan to… 

But he doesn’t. Part of him still worries it’s an invasion. 

Stan senses this, and he smiles, though it’s tired. He scoots over so he’s pressed up against the wall and opens his arms. “C’mere, you old sap.” 

Ford swallows down the lump in his throat and crawls in beside him, feeling his eyes well up. Stan wraps his arms around him, and Ford lets his head rest on Stan’s chest, listening to the quiet rumble of his breathing. He has a hard time not letting his mind drift to the what ifs. What if Stan didn’t wake him? What if he hurt himself? What if he– 

“Hey,” Stan said softly. “I can hear those gears clankin’ around in there.” He gently taps Ford’s forehead. 

“I was just–” his breath hitches. “If you would’ve– o-or if–” his voice breaks on a tiny sob. “I’m just… very glad you woke me up.” 

“I am too,” Stan murmurs, pulling him closer. “And, Ford, if I feel like that again, I’ll wake you up, okay? You don’t gotta worry about those what ifs.” 

“Far easier said than done.” 

“Yeah. I know. But I mean it, okay?” 

“But you can’t guarantee it,” Ford insists, turning to look up at him. “A-And I can’t either!” 

Stan is silent for a moment, his body tense. His hands shake. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Ford says hurriedly. “I didn’t– nothing even happened, I-I don’t know why I’m–” 

“I can’t guarantee it,” Stan says firmly. “But I can try. I-I’ve been trying. I don’t know if it’s enough–” 

“It is!! I’m sorry, I just– I’m going to worry about you, I don’t think I couldn’t worry about you, but– I know you’re trying. I love that you’re trying, and I appreciate that you’re trying. Really. That’s all you have to do. A-And you’re doing wonderfully.” 

Stan smiles, another tear leaking from his eyes. “…Thanks, Six.” He runs his hand through Ford’s hair. “You’re doin’ great too, buddy.” 

“It’s not about me,” Ford murmurs. “But– thank you.” He doesn’t even have the strength to stifle the yawn that escapes him. 

“Tired?” Stan lets out a yawn of his own. 

“Er– no. No, I’m not tired–” 

“Shut up,” Stan says lightly. “Yeah, you are.”

“I’m quite sure I’m–” 

“Ford.” 

“I’m not!!” 

“Fine.” Stan offers a tiny smile. “Well, I’m tired. So can we go to sleep?” His smile fades for a minute, eyes pleading. “Could you– could you stay?” 

Ford softens. Maybe he is just a little tired. “Of course, Lee. And– I… might as well… get some sleep, while I’m at it.” 

“Yeah,” Stan murmurs sleepily. “Might as well.” 

Ford pulls the blanket up further, soaking in the warmth. Stan settles in, letting his cheek hit Ford’s scalp. 

It doesn’t take long until the waves have rocked them both to sleep.