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Stan still can’t sleep. It’s a bit of a role reversal, honestly– Ford went to bed at eight, and now it’s three in the morning and Stan is the one who’s awake. He would laugh if he wasn’t so exhausted. And frustrated. He’s glad that Ford is getting sleep, at least. Doesn’t happen often enough. It’s just one of those nights, Stan supposes. Sometimes they happen. He’ll get a nap in tomorrow, and everything will be fine. He really shouldn’t be as frustrated as he is.
It’s a little surreal that he’s even here. At the cabin, with his brother. Ford. The thought of his twin makes Stan’s chest feel a little lighter. He really never thought he’d see him again, much less be brothers again. Sure, he hoped, goddamn he really hoped, but hope and belief are two very different things. But it’s real. He’s here, he has Ford back, and sure, things aren’t perfect, but, especially now that Bill is out of his brother’s head, for good, it’s kind of all Stan can ask for.
A loud scuffle breaks him from his thoughts.
He sits up groggily, running a hand through his hair. He waits, listening, but no other sound comes. Still, he can’t help but be concerned. Similar sounds have come from down the hall when Ford is having a nightmare, or a flashback, or, when they’re really lucky, a combination of both. Stan sighs and gets out of the bed, making his way out and down the hall to his brother’s room.
He swings the door open, and is met with his brother’s face.
It's red and puffy, with tears leaking down his cheeks. Stan’s chest tightens immediately.
“Ford, hey, what’s goin’ on? I thought you were asleep.” When Ford only sniffles and blinks at him, Stan pries some more. “What happened, Six?”
“I-I was coming to…” Ford glances aside. “I need– I-I didn’t mean…”
“Didn’t mean what?”
“I need…” Ford’s voice breaks. “H-Help.”
Stan freezes. The only other time Ford has ever asked for help was when he sent that goddamn postcard. Ford doesn’t just ask for help, not unless something is seriously wrong.
“Yeah,” Stan breathes. “Yeah, I can help you. Wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
Silently, Ford rolls up one of his sleeves. Stan watches, confused, as Ford takes a deep, shaking breath, and holds up his arm for Stan to see.
“Shit,” Stan mutters. “Ford… what happened?”
His arm is covered in thick blood. Stan can’t even see the source of it, whatever wound it is that’s making him bleed so profusely. It doesn’t matter yet, he just needs to help him, just needs to stop the bleeding.
Ford’s eyes begin to well up, new tears evident even in the dim light. “I didn’t… it just…” He suddenly pitches forward and hides his face in the crook of Stan’s neck. “I'm sorry…”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Stan murmurs. He wraps his arms around his brother, gently rubbing his back. “It’s alright. You’re okay. Lets just…” his brain hurts. Did Ford get hurt? Part of him panics at the thought– Bill is back, Bill is back and he’s going to hurt them, oh god– but his first priority can’t be anything other than cleaning up his brother. “Let’s get to the bathroom and clean this up, okay?”
Ford sniffles, breathing growing frantic. “I didn’t mean– I-I’m so sorry, I’m–”
“Ford, it’s gonna be okay, keep breathin’. You’re okay.”
Ford lifts one hand up to cling to Stan’s shirt, fist trembling. “Lee– I just– I-I–”
“Hey.” Stan pulls him back slightly, gripping his shoulders firmly. He gives his brother the best, most reassuring smile he can muster. “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe for me. We’re gonna clean you up, then we can talk.”
“I-I’m sorry– you’re mad–”
“I'm not mad," Stan reassures him. “I’m not upset at you. I just wanna help you. You said you needed help, right?” Ford lets out a low whine, but nods. “Okay. Then let me help you.”
Ford nods again, nervous, and lets Stan take his hand and lead him into the bathroom. Further still, he lets Stan sit him down on the closed toilet and waits, patient and shaking, as Stan tears through the medical cabinet for bandages and some sort of ointment to help them. He grabs a washcloth and runs it under the water, then squeezes it out. He tentatively approaches Ford, who looks rather absent. Wide, unseeing eyes meet Stan when he kneels down beside him.
“I’m gonna clean this up, alright? Just me. I’m sorry, it’s probably gonna sting.”
Ford only nods absently.
Gently, Stan brings the rag to Ford’s skin, cleaning up the currently drying blood. It’s an odd mixture of liquid and dry, thick, with a sort of outer coating on it. Stan wipes it all away until his brother’s pale flesh peaks through.
He sees the cuts.
They’re horizontal lines across his skin, new blood already blooming along them. There are at least ten of them, deep. He can see the layers of skin peeling from them, like someone cut across bread dough.
Stan knows what these are.
Cuts like these– they shouldn’t– Ford didn’t–
He keeps cleaning.
He moves to the wounds themselves next, pausing only when Ford hisses in pain or his arm twitches.
“Some of these are deep, Six, I–” he sighs. “I’m gonna bandage ‘em for now, make sure they don’t get infected, but then they might need stitches.”
Christ, Poindexter, what are you doing to yourself?
Stan doesn’t know. All he does know is that he wasn’t there, and something happened, something that’s utterly familiar to Stan, but– it couldn’t have been that. Ford wouldn’t– he wouldn’t. Right?
Fuck.
Ford’s shaking only grows as Stan rubs some of the ointment into the cuts, then bandages them tightly, to keep any more blood from getting through. But by the time Stan is done, the white fabric is already dotted with crimson.
“You’re done,” Stan murmurs, squeezing his brother’s hand. “You did great, bud.”
Ford sniffles. His hand shakes in Stan’s. His breath hitches, and Stan can see the early stages of full-blown panic in his brother’s eyes. He’s gotta calm down. Can’t let him get hurt, can’t let him hurt himse–
“How about I make you some coffee?” Stan chokes out. “That sound good?”
For a moment, it doesn’t seem like Ford will respond. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. No. Stan’s chest tightens. He’s never known his brother to refuse coffee in his life. I mean, christ, the guy started drinking it at age seven!
“You sure? Might help you calm down a little.”
Ford shakes his head again, one hand coming up to scrub at his eyes.
“Lee,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and broken, “m’ sorry.”
“Don’t got anythin’ to be sorry for.”
“You don’t– I– it’s my–” he lets out a sob. “I’m a-an idiot, it’s my fa–”
“You’re not an idiot. Don’t say that.”
“I did it,” Ford sobs. He yanks his hands away and buries his face in them. “I thought I was over this, I-I thought I had it handled…”
Ford did it to himself.
Stan knew that, deep down. It’s not as if there was any other logical explanation.
It doesn’t make it any easier to hear.
It’s not as if Stan doesn’t get it. In fact, of all people, he probably gets it the most. He knows what fear, and anger, and hollowness can lead someone to do. What a desperate, consuming need for control can lead someone to do. He felt it a thousand times out there on the road, and gave into it most of the time, too. But that’s on Stan. Those sorts of feelings are meant for someone like Stan. Not Ford. It was never supposed to be Ford.
“I know, Ford,” Stan murmurs. Instead of taking his twin’s hands back, he rests his own hand on Ford’s thigh. A grounding reminder that he’s not alone. “I know.”
“I’m sorry,” Ford sobs again. He suddenly breaks out of his cocoon and lunges at Stan, taking them both to the (probably quite dirty) bathroom floor. He buries his head in Stan’s chest and curls up, making himself small. Stan immediately pulls him close, cradling him practically in his lap, rocking him gently as he wails.
“Shh, it’s okay. We’re alright.” Stan uses one hand to rub slow circles into his brother’s back. “It’s gonna be fine.”
“Lee– I-I-” he cuts himself off and clings tighter as another sob wracks his shaking frame.
“I know.” Stan’s insides feel hollow. Not supposed to be Ford. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s so wrong, it’s supposed to be you, not Ford, never Ford. He would take on all of his brother’s pain if he could. Anything for Ford to be happy.
But it doesn’t work that way, as much as he might want it to.
So all he can do is rock his brother back and forth as his sobbing slowly, slowly fades. Sobs, then soft crying, then nothing but tiny hiccups and sniffles against Stan’s chest. Stan has no idea how much time has passed. He doesn’t care. He’d stay here for the rest of his stupid life if Ford wanted him to.
“Lee,” Ford croaks, after quite a bit of silence, “…sorry.”
“I told you, you don’t got anythin’ to be sorry for.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad. I promise.” Ford hums in question, as if to ask why. “I’m worried, sure, but– not mad. Never. Just want you to be okay, Six.”
“Even though–”
“Even though nothin’,” Stan says conclusively. “I’m not mad at you.”
Ford slumps slightly in relief, seeming convinced and utterly exhausted. His hold doesn’t loosen a bit. He still has two tight fists in Stan’s t-shirt. His shaking is nearly gone, though, which Stan counts as a win. Small victories.
“We should get you to bed,” Stan murmurs, tipping Ford’s chin up to look him in the eyes. “You could use the sleep.”
Ford nods anxiously, slowly untangling himself from his twin’s arms. Stan rises, then takes Ford’s outstretched hands and pulls him to his feet. He wobbles (well, both of them do after god knows how long all curled up on the floor) and leans into Stan for support, wrapping two arms around one of Stan’s. He lets himself be led into Stan’s bedroom– no way is Stan bringing his brother back to his own room, not tonight– and into bed. Stan fluffs the pillow, gets Ford under the covers and sheets, and brings the blanket up to his chin. Ford blinks sleepily, letting it all happen.
“That feel a little better?” Stan asks, once the task is complete. He squeezes his brother’s shoulder before taking a small step back. “I’m gonna go grab you some water, okay?”
Ford immediately tenses, eyes growing wide. He reaches out, his hand locking onto Stan’s wrist.
Stan freezes, trying to ignore the way it makes his skin crawl. It’s just Ford. He’s not gonna hurt you, he’s just trying to get your attention. Don’t pull away, don’t push him away. Ford grabbing his wrist is not the same as Jimmy grabbing his wrist, as Rico forcing him into those restraints, as the rope that tore up his skin.
Sometimes he has to remind himself of that.
“Woah, Ford, what is it?”
Ford’s eyes begin to well up.
“Don’t go,” he whispers, choked. “Please, d-don’t leave, don’t leave me–”
“Hey, hey, I’m not leavin’ you.” Stan takes his free hand and brushes some stray hair from Ford’s face. “I just thought you might– nevermind. I’m not goin’ anywhere, okay?”
Ford nods, taking in a shaky breath. “Can you…?” He leaves the rest of the question unsaid, giving a vague glance to the empty side of the bed.
Stan can’t swallow the lump in his throat. He nods, gently prying his wrist from his brother’s iron grip, and climbs into the bed. Ford presses up against him, face once again buried in Stan’s chest, arms wrapped loosely around Stan’s stomach. Even his ice cold feet snake around his brother’s, and Stan fights the urge to jump away. Goddamn, Ford really runs cold. He pulls Ford in close, arms wrapped securely around him, one hand running through his brown curls and massaging his head.
“Lee…” Ford mumbles, slurred with sleep and muffled by his twin’s chest, “love you…”
Stan can’t sniff back the tears at that one. “I love you too, Ford.” He takes a moment to pull himself together, then gives Ford a gentle squeeze. “Get some rest.”
A few minutes later, Stan can feel the heavy, exhausted rhythm of Ford’s now even breaths against his chest. And finally, once Ford is asleep, Stan lets himself sob into his brother’s hair until he too gives into the pull of unconsciousness.