Work Text:
Link to the German original: https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/6707f4fc000863de2d4c07f6/14/Momentaufnahmen
I care for you
If this keeps up, I’m going to croak here, Stan thought as another violent coughing fit wracked his entire body, leaving him gasping for breath and hurting his chest and sore throat so badly it felt as if he had swallowed a handful of sharp nails. For a good ten full seconds he practically coughed his lungs out before the fit finally subsided, and with a hoarse, pitiful groan Stan let his pounding head sink back into the pillow of his bunk, completely exhausted and at the end of his nerves.
It had really knocked him flat. The worst kind of flu. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this sick… But after his and Ford’s pub crawl in some Norwegian fishing village whose name he had already forgotten and hadn’t been able to pronounce properly to begin with, it probably shouldn’t have come as a big surprise that he was now laid up with fever, coughing, and aching head and throat — the bartender’s hacking cough alone should have made him suspicious. And his involuntary dip into the icy sea off the west coast of Norway the day before probably hadn’t helped either (curse that stupid three-eyed giant halibut that had yanked him, fishing rod and all, right off the boat).
But there was nothing Stan could change about any of that now. All he could do was wait it out and hope he’d get over this miserable, wretched flu quickly, which he’d already been suffering from for three days…
“Here,” Ford’s voice suddenly sounded beside him, and a moment later a cup filled with a steaming, pale green, clear liquid was pushed into his field of vision in front of his stuffy nose. “Tea with honey. It’ll do you good.”
“Thanks,” Stan croaked, trying to sit up a little as he took the cup with trembling hands. Gosh, he felt like an old man (well, much older than he already was): weak, shaky, and barely capable of doing anything on his own. All he could do was lie here in his bunk while Ford had to bring him everything, even needing help just to get up and go to the bathroom because his legs were so weak and unsteady that the otherwise fairly moderate swell would have thrown him off balance.
At least it didn’t seem to be a stomach flu — otherwise, combined with the motion of the sea, he’d probably be hanging over the toilet the whole time, puking his guts out. But even so, he already felt miserable enough. And now Ford not only had to keep the Stan O’ War II on course all by himself, but also keep checking in on and taking care of his sick brother.
He probably already regrets bringing you along. You’re nothing but a burden to him, a dark voice whispered in the back of Stan’s mind, adding to his headache and guilt. He quickly tried to wash the thought down with a sip of tea, avoiding Ford’s gaze as he did.
“Do you need anything else?” his brother asked. His voice was so kind and caring. Wasn’t he annoyed? Wasn’t he getting tired of having to look after Stan instead of chasing and researching mysteries?
Stan shook his head hastily — only to regret it when the unpleasant throbbing in his temples intensified. “No, thanks. The tea’s enough. It helps,” he replied with a fleeting smile. And that was the truth. The tea was a real blessing for his raw, aching throat.
Stan took another sip, but of course that was exactly when the next coughing fit hit, making him almost spit the tea back out and choke on it.
“Easy,” Ford said with concern, crouching down beside him and patting his back with one hand while quickly taking the cup from Stan with the other so none of the tea would spill. Stan could only cough into the crook of his arm and hope his germs didn’t reach Ford.
Fortunately, this coughing fit didn’t last as long as the previous one and probably ended more quickly thanks to Ford’s steady patting, though it still left Stan drained and further irritated his throat. Once the coughing stopped, Ford attentively handed him the cup of tea again so Stan could carefully take a small sip to soothe his newly aching throat. But it didn’t take long for the flu to present him with its next torment: when he set the cup aside again, he suddenly felt an inner chill spreading through him despite the fever and the warm blanket, making his hands shake even more.
Stan suppressed a pathetic groan. Great. That too. Another annoying bout of chills. One moment the fever made him feel far too hot, as if he were burning up from the inside, and the next he was suddenly freezing like crazy, as if he was back in the icy waters of the Atlantic. Even the warm tea did nothing against the sudden internal cold, not even after Stan had painstakingly finished the entire cup.
“Are you cold?” Ford asked, still standing beside Stan’s bunk as if he had nothing better to do, having of course noticed Stan’s shivering.
“It’s f-fine,” Stan replied shortly, but the chattering of his teeth and the faint clinking of the cup in his trembling hands gave him away immediately.
Ford studied him for a moment, thoughtful, then wordlessly took the empty cup from him. But instead of leaving with it and attending to other (more important) matters, Ford merely set the cup aside before suddenly climbing under the blanket with Stan, slipping an arm around him and pulling close.
Stan stared at his brother in surprise and confusion through fever-bright eyes. “W-What are you doing, S-Sixer?”
“I’m giving you warmth,” Ford replied matter-of-factly, rubbing Stan’s upper arm several times to warm him further.
A little embarrassed and overwhelmed by so much care, Stan turned his gaze away. Ford shouldn’t do this. Stan didn’t want to infect his brother on top of all the trouble he was already causing him. That was the last thing either of them needed.
“You’re going to catch it,” he protested weakly, despite the fact that his traitorous, shivering body was already instinctively pressing closer to the comforting warmth of Ford’s sweater instead of moving away to protect him from infection.
Ford merely shrugged and stayed right where he was. “Maybe. But I don’t care.”
You should. I’m not worth that, Stan thought bitterly. But he tried to mask those thoughts with a crooked grin and a joking remark. “Why, so I can return the favor to make it up to you and pamper you when you’re sick?”
Something of his thoughts must have slipped into his voice and expression anyway, because Ford turned his head toward him and looked him seriously in the eyes.
“You don’t have to make anything up to me, Stan. And this isn’t just a ‘favor,’” he said firmly. “I’m taking care of you because you matter to me — not out of obligation, and not because you’re a burden or anything else your feverish, self-esteem-starved mind might be telling you. I want you to feel better, and I want to be there for you until you do, because you’re my brother and I love you. That’s the only reason, and it’s more than enough. So I don’t care if I end up getting sick too. You’re worth that ‘risk,’ got it, you old knucklehead?”
Stan only nodded, a thick lump in his throat — definitely not from emotion, but from this stupid flu — and managed a grateful smile.
“Good,” Ford said, smiling back gently before shifting into a lighter tone and adding with confident ease, “Besides, my immune system has survived far more dangerous, alien diseases and infections during my travels through the multiverse. I’m fairly certain it can handle a simple flu.”
Stan was decidedly unconvinced. “I’ll remind you that you said that when you’re laid up sick in bed in a few days,” he replied dryly. When they were kids, it had always worked that way: if one of them got sick, the other followed a few days later — just in time for the first twin to be well again.
“Care to bet?” Ford countered with a self-assured grin.
“You’re on,” Stan shot back challengingly — only for the last word to dissolve straight into another coughing fit. Ford once again patted his back lightly, the grin replaced by a sympathetic expression, then rubbed soothing, comforting circles between Stan’s shoulder blades until the coughing subsided, the tension drained from Stan’s shoulders, and he sagged back against the pillow and his brother, exhausted. Gosh, how he hated these coughing fits…
“Try to get some sleep,” Ford said softly, drawing a little closer and wrapping his arm around Stan again. “I’ll stay here. The Stan O’ War II is on autopilot for now and the weather’s calm, so there’s nothing more important for me to do at the moment than being with you.”
Stan only sighed quietly, but he was grateful for Ford’s closeness. He pushed away his darker thoughts and worries, drawing comfort and strength from Ford’s words. Then, with a murmured “Thank you,” he rested his head against Ford’s chest and closed his tired eyes, listening to the steady heartbeat of his brother that slowly lulled him into the most restful sleep he’d had since the flu had begun.