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It’s one of those days, it seems, where Ford doesn’t have it in him to move.
It’s morning, he thinks. He blinks his eyes open, and the light hurts–in a blurry, distant sort of way–so he closes them again. He can feel Stan next to him, breathing deeply. He’s still asleep. Good, Ford thinks, he deserves rest. He should be able to sleep as long as he wants to.
Ford lays there while his brother sleeps, silent and unmoving. He doesn’t move even when Stan finally stirs, yawning and sitting up, greeting the day. Ford doesn’t even have it in himself to turn and say something to his brother. He can’t move. Well, he can, probably, but he can’t. These days happen sometimes. They happen for Stan too, Ford’s seen it, been there for it, hopefully done something to help him through it. But it’s different for Stan, he’s allowed to have days like that after what he’s endured. Ford’s just being selfish. And he still can’t move.
“Six? You awake?” Ford feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. It feels nice. He’d like it to stay.
But it doesn’t. Ford feels the weight shift in the bed, hears footsteps travel around the room. A hand shakes his arm, and Ford blinks his eyes open again. The light feels a little softer, now. For some reason.
Stan is knelt down next to the bed, hand lingering on Ford’s arm. His smile is gentle, if not concerned.
“Hey, bud. Mornin’.” Ford can’t find it in himself to respond, or even smile. He tries, tries hard, but– nothing comes. He doesn’t even have the capacity to be angry at himself for it.
Stan takes it in stride. “You feelin’ okay?”
Come on. Say something. Say something.
Stan’s expression shifts into something Ford can’t quite place, but Ford knows it’s bad. He’s worrying his brother. That can’t– he has to do better. He can’t worry him. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus, force something out of his mouth.
“Don’t… feel good.”
Wow. Brilliant. You’re a modern Shakespeare, truly.
He forces his eyes back open–it really did feel nice to have them closed for a bit– and sees Stan’s brows draw together in concern. He lifts his free hand and rests it on Ford’s forehead.
“You don’t feel warm.”
Ford clears his throat, with effort. “Tired.”
Stan makes a clicking sound, eyes taking in his failure of a sibling. They suddenly widen in recognition, understanding. How does Stan always understand?
“Is it… one of those days?”
Ford makes a weak hum that he knows his brother will understand is a yes. Stan brushes a bit of hair out of Ford’s face, then stands, his joints cracking.
“It’s okay. I’ll let you sleep for a bit, bud. I’ll be back to check on you, okay? Take it easy.” He squeezes Ford’s shoulder, then leaves, closing the door gently behind him.
Ford doesn’t want Stan to go. He wants Stan here, but he doesn’t have it in him to move to follow him, or to call out for his twin. So he lays there, on his side, staring at the wall. Eventually he closes his eyes, he thinks. He must have, because now it’s dark. He feels a little hollow, he always does on days like these. They don’t happen as often as they used to, now that Stan is here. Especially now that Bill is gone, out of his head, and there’s no portal looming in the basement below.
He should be fine. Everything is fine now. He has no reason to be behaving like this, like a child that tired himself out after a tantrum. Stan is the one who was abandoned, left alone to fight for himself out on the streets for ten goddamn years. He’s allowed to have days like this, as many as he needs.
Ford’s just… being stupid.
But he doesn’t have the strength to stop being stupid right now.
He falls asleep wishing his brother was holding him.
Ford wakes again at the sound of a knock, and the soft creak of a door opening.
“Hey, Sixer?”
“Don’t… call me…” the words come out automatically, but he can’t finish the sentence. He feels like there’s tar in his throat.
“Sorry. I just brought you some coffee. Figured that might help you wake up a bit. Not that you– I-I mean, you can go back to sleep, if you want. Just thought this might help.”
Ford sniffles, still not wanting to move. He feels a safe, familiar hand on his shoulder.
“Can you sit up? Just for a little bit?”
He can’t worry Stan. He can’t keep worrying Stan. Slowly, he begins to push himself up, with Stan bracing his back for support. The effort drains him, and he leans heavily against the pillows once he’s sitting up. He’s met with a smile from his brother, and a warm cup of coffee is pressed into his hands.
He stares down at it. It’s far lighter than he usually drinks. More opaque. “Cream and sugar?” He murmurs.
“Yeah. I know you take it black, but I figured you wouldn’t feel up to eating, and this was the only way I could think of to get some calories in you.”
Ford nods and takes a sip. It’s a little too hot, but he swallows it anyway. He can’t remember the last time he had cream and sugar in his coffee. He should take it like this more often. It’s quite nice.
“Lee…” Thank you. Say thank you.
“It’s alright, Ford. Don’t push yourself. You already had a pretty rough night.”
Did he?
His memory is a bit foggy. He tries to focus. How did the morning start? He woke up next to Stan, right. His alarm clock didn’t go off.
Did he…
Oh.
Right. He had a nightmare. Again. That’s why Stan was there. That’s why Stan was so gentle this morning, why he’s so gentle now. Because Ford freaked out over a dream, again, like a child. Not only is Ford completely ruining Stan’s day, he ruined his night, too. And didn’t even have the courtesy to remember until Stan reminded him of it.
He’s ruining everything for his brother, isn’t he? He let him get kicked out, he let him be on the street, he–
“M’ sorry,” he mutters hollowly. He takes another sip of the coffee. The coffee Stan brought him. That he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t deserve his brother’s kindness. His constant, unfailing, ever present kindness.
“What for?”
“I…” He sighs. It comes out shaky. He tries to breathe in again, and not enough comes in. He regrets letting so much air out with his sigh. “I don’t…” He sets the coffee down. He suddenly feels like there’s an awful weight on his chest. He tugs at his shirt. It feels tight.
“Ford? You alright?” Stan’s face is so gentle, so full of concern. It only makes the weight on his chest feel more pressing.
Ford can’t respond. The room suddenly feels warm. Hot. Stifling. The weight on his chest is growing heavier, and heavier, and heavier. Why is he– he misses the empty, numb feeling from this morning. He never thought he’d miss that feeling, he’s selfish for missing that feeling, it only puts more of a burden on Stan. He’s horrible. He’s horrible.
“Ford, hey–”
“I need– a-a minute.” Ford rockets up, woozy for a minute. He steadies himself, blinking rapidly, and speeds out of the room before the momentary dark spots in his vision have fully faded. The hallway is blurry as he stumbles through it.
He can hear Stan saying something, he thinks, but it’s like he’s hearing him from underwater. It’s all– distant. Ripply. He keeps going, keeps walking, and he doesn’t know where he’s going, but he has to move, for some reason he has to keep going, he needs– he needs to–
“Ford!!”
Ford stumbles over his own feet, trying to regain his footing. His legs begin to shake and he feels them give out from under him, and suddenly his fingers are curled into the shag carpet, clinging to the tiny fibers and shaking, he’s shaking so bad. Oh god, everything is wrong. Everything is wrong, and it’s hard to breathe. Where’s Stanley? Where– Stanley shouldn’t see him like this, but he wants his brother here, he needs his brother here–
“Ford, Ford, hey!”
Two hands are suddenly grabbing his shoulders. He jerks away instinctively, panting.
“Shit, I’m sorry I should’ve have– i-it’s just me, it’s your brother. It’s alright, everythin’s okay.”
“Lee?” Ford breathes. His vision begins to clear, slightly.
“Yeah. Just me, Ford.”
Ford blinks. Stanley. He feels his eyes welling up and takes in his surroundings, shifting upright, untangling himself from his crumpled heap on the ground. He pulls his legs up to his chest and buries his face in his knees. He still won’t stop shaking. He has no reason to– he’s such a child.
“Ford, hey, can you tell me what’s goin’ on?” Stan’s voice is wobbly. He’s worried. “Talk to me. Did I do somethin’? I was just tryin’ to–”
“N-No,” Ford chokes out. “You didn’t do– I’m just–” His voice breaks, and he makes a stupid little sob. “M’ sorry.”
“It’s okay! It’s okay, can you just tell me what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know…”
Stan is silent for a moment.
Then, slowly, Ford feels two hands take his own. He peeks up, and finds his brother smiling gently at him. He just looks so… he understands. He always understands, even when Ford doesn’t deserve it.
Ford collapses into his brother’s chest, face hidden in the fabric off his off-white t-shirt. His arms come to wrap around Stan’s middle, and he breaks into stupid, heaving, pathetic sobs. Stan startles for a moment, then pulls Ford in close, enveloping him in his arms. He uses one hand to draw slow circles into Ford’s back. Ford leans desperately into his brother’s touch, crying harder, practically soaking Stan’s shirt.
“Lee–”
“It’s okay. Just breathe. You’re alright.”
“Stupid– don’t even–”
“Not stupid,” Stan interrupts, squeezing him tightly.
“I-I didn’t even– I don’t know why I’m so–” He sobs harder, partially wishing he could just disappear. “Ruining your life–”
“You’re not ruining anything,” Stan says, his voice suddenly taking on an icy edge. “Don’t say that.”
“But I–”
“Ford, I don’t wanna hear it. You’re not ruining my life, you’re not– how many times do I gotta tell you that I love you, and I like bein’ around you? I mean, christ, you’re actin’ like you’re some sort of chore to me, a-and you’re not!!” Ford flinches back at the volume and immediately feels shame curdle in his chest. Stan softens his tone. “I– sorry. I didn’t mean to– just, I love you, okay?”
Ford sniffles back another sob. “I love you too.”
Stan begins to rock Ford gently back and forth. “And it’s okay if– somethin’s wrong and you don’t know why. Sometimes things are just wrong.”
“But– I have no reason to–”
“Don’t start. After everythin’ with Bill–”
“Don’t.” Ford brings a hand up to tug at Stan’s shirt. He can’t think about that right now. “Please.”
Stan sighs, any fight leaving him at once. “Sorry. I just– you’re allowed to just… be… off, sometimes. As much as you need to be.”
Ford nods, letting himself curl into his brother’s arms, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. He feels a gentle hand brush some hair from his forehead. He smiles, the weight on his chest finally lifting. His brother’s here. That’s all he needs.
“Okay, let’s get you back to bed, yeah?”
Ford hums sleepily, hand dropping from where it was curled around Stan’s shirt. He lets Stan guide him up until they’re both standing, then keeps a weak grip on Stan’s sleeve as he’s led back to his own bedroom. Stan sits him down in the bed, then gently pushes his shoulders into pillows until he’s laying down, curled slightly on his side.
“Lee?” He rubs at his nose and sniffles.
“Yeah, Ford?”
“Can you stay?”
There’s a beat of silence in which Ford feels his throat tighten. Stan’s ashamed. He’s tired of you. He’s not going to stay with you now, he’s not even going to stay at the cabin! You’ve ruined it, you’ve fucked it all up–
“Of course I can, bud.” Stan’s voice is soft, thick with emotion. He crawls into bed, and Ford doesn’t waste any time in nuzzling his head into his brother’s chest and letting one arm rest over his stomach. Stan chuckles and holds Ford securely, one arm around his shoulders and the other resting near Ford’s arm. He uses one finger to draw absently on Ford’s arm. The touch is soothing.
“What time is it?” Ford asks, the words coming out as the question hits his mind.
“It’s around two by now, I think,” Stan murmurs.
“I shouldn’t– I-I– I should be up–”
“Up for what? Don’t got anythin’ to do today,” Stan soothes. “Relax. It’s alright. Everything is okay.”
“…We’re okay?”
“Of course we are. We’re always okay. I promise.”
“Thank you.” Ford feels quite a bit stupid. Maybe tomorrow–or later, even–he’ll be able to better explain to Stan… well, he’s not quite sure what he’ll explain. Because he’s not even sure what happened. Why he got so… that.
But Stan is holding him, and Stan is warm and safe and right, he’s just– right. Ford nuzzles further in, humming contentedly, exhaustion completely overtaking him. God, he’s tired. He’s so tired. But he can’t… he still has to… explain to Stan about… something…
Stan senses his hesitation.
“Ford, I promise you, everything is okay. Get some sleep.”
“You’re not– upset–”
“Of course I’m not. The only reason I’ll be upset at you is if you don’t get some sleep when you’re clearly exhausted.”
“I…” Ford sighs. “Okay. I love you, Lee.”
“Yeah. I love you too, buddy.” Stan ruffles his hair affectionately. “You’ll feel better after you get some rest.”
“…What if I don’t?”
“Then…we deal with it. And even if you don’t, that’s okay.”
And something in Stan’s voice just sounds so sure. So kind. Understanding. God. Stan really always gets it, doesn’t he? And he always will. So Ford falls asleep, safe and content, knowing his brother will always understand. Even when Ford doesn’t understand himself.