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Stan knows pretty much as soon as he wakes up that something is wrong with Ford, because his brother is still in bed.
Ford is always up before Stan, already bustling around the room, dressing and shutting the alarm off because Stan will allow it to ring for too long without silencing it. Whatever biological programming his twin has apparently makes him physically unable to sleep in, even if nothing’s on the agenda for that day. He’s always up and at ‘em, and usually only allows Stan an extra hour or so of sleep before waking him with some kind of demand—breakfast, typically, or just company.
Except, today, Stan can tell the alarm has been blaring for several minutes by the time he actually rouses from his sleep, and when he rolls out of bed to shut it off, he can hear his brother’s measured, unconscious breaths—seeming somewhat labored and phlegmy.
So, he pokes his head over the top bunk, takes in his brother’s flushed, sweaty face and shivering shoulders, then understands that nothing productive will be getting done today.
See, Ford is an absolute baby when he’s sick. It’s happened once or twice already while they’ve been at sea—his immune system has weakened to Earth diseases—and Stan has absolutely had his hands full each time. Ford is fussy, grumpy and clingy all at once, and becomes, for lack of a better term, a pain in the ass.
It makes sense why he’s this way, though. He does get hit pretty hard due to the whole immune system thing, and usually he’s completely out of it for a couple days. Plus, he was a pretty sickly kid, and dramatic about it even back then.
But they’d been raised by a father who’d advocated for pushing through till you keeled over, and Stan has internalized that mindset (and lacked insurance for enough years) to the point of disaster a few times. He’d passed out in the middle of a Shack tour last year, and Soos had to convince an audience of middle schoolers that it was all a part of the show. It had been even more difficult to keep up the illusion when he’d tried to fight off a paramedic.
So it’s a little unfamiliar to him to stop when one is sick, but he’s also a bit of a worrywart when it comes to his brother, so he doesn’t really question it. Ford is different, after all—Ford is inherently, and due to circumstance, more deserving of dedicated care. That doesn’t stop him from trying to offer it to Stan when he’s sick, though, as much as he tries to explain this key difference.
Anyway, today, Stan decides, he’ll prepare to take care of Ford until his twin wakes up, hopefully get ahead of what he might need so he can be out of sight a little less. A sick Ford is easily made distraught by a missing Stan.
So, he strides into the kitchen and raids their medicine cabinet, bringing a thermometer, a bucket, a bottle of fever medication, cold medication, and that goddamn bottle of nutrient pills that he hates, but might be necessary if Ford can’t keep down food, into the bedroom and setting them up on and around his bedside table. He’ll help Ford down to this bunk when he inevitably wakes up.
Finally, Stan fills up an enormous bottle of water, sets it beside the rest of the things, then hurries off to do some boat-tasks before his day becomes consumed with taking care of Ford. He drops the anchor, stopping them on their course to see whatever strange mutant fish Ford had wanted to see this week, cleans up the couch area in case Ford wants to come out and watch TV, and moves the samples Ford had planned to analyze today from the lab fridge into the lab freezer for long-term preservation.
He’s just put two slices of bread into the toaster in hopes of making himself some breakfast when he hears a hacking sound coming from the bedroom, wheezy and strained. Stan’s chest immediately tightens with concern, and he hurries into the room just in time to hear his brother call out softly, a touch panicked:
“Stanley?” His head pokes over the side of the top bunk, staring down at the bottom one, eyes hazy, half-focused, confused.
“Hey, Ford,” Stan replies, pasting on a soft smile despite his immediate worry. “Right here.” He waves. “You not feeling well?”
His twin shakes his head, and replies gravely, “‘M pretty sure I’m dying. I’d like you to—to help get my things in order, please, Stan.” He coughs harshly, looking dazed.
Stan suppresses the urge to smile for real, now. “You ain’t dyin’, Six, you’ve just got a fever. I’ll make sure you don’t go anywhere, alright?” He approaches the bunk beds. “Let’s start by getting you down from there, so you can take some meds and drink something, huh?”
He claps his hands together, and Ford shrinks back a bit at the noise, but nods reluctantly.
“M’kay.”
He inches forwards on the bed, then begins to descend the ladder—a sign he’s really out of it—daintily, facing backwards and lowering himself down bit by bit with his arms. Two rungs from the bottom, his foot misses the hold, and he pitches forwards into Stan’s prepared arms, stumbling a bit. The younger twin slings a supportive arm around the elder, and aids him in getting over to the bottom bunk and lying down. Ford is shivering like a leaf in the wind by the time he’s horizontal on the bed, and Stan feels alarm-bells ringing in his head: This could be a bad one. He’s surprised Ford managed to make it down the ladder at all.
He allots his brother two fever reducers and a capful of cold medicine, handing them both over and reaching for the bottle of water.
“Take those, go on,” Stan encourages, and when Ford swallows the pills and the liquid, he hands over the water, allowing his brother to drink deeply. He’s relieved the meds went down with no fuss. In the past, Ford has thought Stan was trying to ‘drug’ him—which, in a way, Stan supposes he was, but for Ford’s own benefit. Nonetheless, it had been a fight.
After he’s done drinking, Ford hands the bottle back over, then lies on his back, practically coughing up a lung. Stan settles on the bed beside him, tugging him up into a seated position, placing a hand on his back.
“Nauseous at all?” Stan asks. “Think you can keep tea down? Food?”
Ford simply leans into Stan completely, resting his head against his brother’s arm and allowing him to support the entire weight of his top half. He makes a noncommittal sound, burying his face in Stan’s shoulder.
“‘S over,” he murmurs simply. “Dying.”
“So dramatic,” Stan chides. “Let me take your temperature, will you? Sit back a little.”
Ford presses his face further into Stan’s t-shirt, shaking his head. “No,” he replies, stubborn and self-satisfied.
Here we go, Stan thinks. “No?”
“No,” Ford repeats, refusing to move.
“Come on, Poindexter.” Stan jerks his shoulder a bit, halfheartedly trying to shake his brother off of him. “I gotta see how bad of a fever you’re running. Just sit up for a second, don’t gimme a hard time.”
“Whatd’yaneeditfor?” Ford accuses incomprehensibly, words muffled and slurred. “Stop—stop try’na—” He coughs again, wracking his entire frame.
“What, stop tryin t’ help you?” Stan replies. “Don’t be an idiot.” He adjusts Ford by the shoulders, leaning him back against the headboard, then sticking the thermometer in his mouth when he opens it to protest.
“Keep it in there,” Stan warns. Ford just glares at him. “Oh, quit that, too.”
After a moment, he removes the device. “101.5. Not great, Six. Not great. You’re gonna be layin’ down the rest of the day, probably most of tomorrow too—that’s if it doesn’t get worse.”
He gets another grumble for that. “Yeah, yeah,” Stan shoots back. “Bitch all you want, you’re still—”
Suddenly, he smells smoke.
No, he thinks after a moment, not smoke…
Burning toast. That’s the smell. Oh, shit. Am I about to have a stroke? Damn. Shit timing, huh?
Then, it occurs to him. Wait. I was making toast, before—oh fuck. Gotta go handle that before I burn the boat down.
“Hold on, Six. I gotta deal with something real quick, okay? I’ll be right back. Just relax for a minute.”
Not waiting for a response, Stan darts out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him so Ford doesn’t smell the burning and become concerned.
The toaster is, in fact, smoking, so he yanks the plug out from the wall, and upends the thing over the sink, emptying the charred bread and a spray of crumbs into the metal basin. He places the toaster back on the counter, fanning the smoke away, then turns on the sink, soaking the burning slices so they don’t melt a hole in the trash bag, then tosses them into the can and washes the crumbs down the sink.
He continues to bat at the smoke for a minute or two, not wanting to set off the alarms. When he’s done doing that, the smell still lingers, so he opens the window in the galley a crack, letting in a bit of the chilly air.
Stan surveys the kitchen, satisfied—then his stomach growls, and he realizes that he just trashed his breakfast. He reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a cereal box.
A call from the bedroom, tentative. “Stanley?”
“Just a second, Six!” Stan calls back at the closed door, grabbing the milk from the fridge.
No reply. Stan shakes the cereal out into the bowl, and pours the milk over it, snagging a spoon and beginning to wolf down his food.
He gets in about eight bites, before another call comes, this one overtly panicked, high-pitched, frightened:
“Lee?!”
It’s muffled through the door, but it’s evidently urgent, and Stan lets his spoon clatter to the countertop, rushing back into the bedroom and reassuring his brother.
“Hey, hey, I’m here. I’m here, okay? I’m just having breakfast. I’m going to go grab my cereal bowl, alright?”
He feels bad for leaving again, but he’s hungry, damn it, and he’s not about to waste half a bowl of cornflakes he’s already poured!
So he darts out of the room, grabbing his bowl from the counter, and re-enters their sleeping quarters, where his twin is staring at him, his brown eyes wide, gleaming, and panicked. Stan sets the bowl down on the bedside table, and sits on the bed, placing a hand on Ford’s shoulder.
“Stanley,” his brother breathes, relieved. His shoulders relax, his face visibly growing less tense.
“That’s me,” Stan confirms. “Sorry, buddy. I had to go take care of something important, okay?”
“Don’t leave again,” Ford insists, his voice urgent and hoarse. He coughs so hard that Stanley thinks for a moment that he may vomit, then manages, “Don’t go. Please.”
“I didn’t go anywhere, Six. I was only in the other room, okay?”
He wants to promise to stay, but he knows he might have to get up again for Ford’s own benefit—for food or tea or the restroom—and can’t bear to break such a commitment.
“I would never leave you behind,” he adds. “So, don’t worry. You’re not alone, I’m always in the other room, if you don’t see me.”
Ford nods warily, but Stan can tell the words aren’t quite effective.
“Here,” he says instead, “Budge over, will you?”
The bunks are each full beds, so there’s technically room for two people on each of them, but Ford is lying directly in the center of Stan’s, so he needs to shift a bit towards the wall for Stan to sit beside him properly. Lethargically, he does, and Stan pulls the covers over himself as he settles in next to Ford.
He’s seated up against the headboard, but soon, Ford is lying down completely, cold and fever medication making him sleepy once more. He rests his head against Stan’s leg awkwardly until his brother finishes his food and reclines beside him, then presses himself up against Stan’s side, burrowing into it until he wraps an arm around his shoulders. Ford ends up sleeping curled in a ball, protected by his twin, making a humming sort of sound one might classify as a purr.
He twitches a bit in his sleep, like usual, seeming anxious at first, not quite fully at rest. It’s always this way, whether Ford’s sick or not. Sleep is inherently a state of unease for him, considering his history, and he’s often haunted by night terrors about his time in the multiverse (or right before the multiverse) that morph into nasty flashbacks. When they first got out to sea, it was an uphill battle to get him to quit sleeping with his gun. It had taken a confused, terrified Ford pointing it at Stan to finally convince him. That had been a rough night.
See, Ford can be kind of high-maintenance in a lot of ways. He has strict preferences, strange rituals, and a lot of odd, animal behaviors he’s picked up from decades of various nonhuman dimensions. He’s as stubborn as Stan is, and potentially even more dramatic. It’s easy to freak him out, easy to trigger him, and easy to send him into a frenzied, guilty spiral. It’s hard to talk him down, to earn his trust, to reassure him that he’s safe.
But Stan has fought hard for his status as someone Ford can rely on for everything—has negotiated a protected status with Ford’s animal side, has been there after every nightmare, every meltdown, every wave of self-loathing, and, of course, every illness since they’ve been out at sea. It’s not perfect, but on the whole, Ford depends on Stan—in fact, Stan is the only one Ford can wholly depend on.
It has its adverse effects, sure. Ford has a hard time being alone—Stan goes to shore to be social and resupply by himself when his twin’s not up to conversing, and often comes back to a paranoid, nervous Ford—and generally shadows Stan wherever he goes when he’s able, if he’s not working in the lab. He has this strange inability to let Stan out of his sight when he’s sick, or after a nightmare—he’s pretty sure it’s the vulnerability, that Ford’s worried something may harm him or Stan while his guard is weakened—and definitely has an unhealthy degree of separation anxiety and protective drive. He’s nearly bitten a few people’s heads off on shore for interacting with Stan in a mildly unpleasant manner.
But, all in all, Stan is proud to have achieved this kind of trust, and is more than willing to support his brother’s idiosyncrasies. Ford supports his in turn, and none of Ford’s especially bother him. They all make sense, really, are logical for someone who’s been through what Ford has over the last few decades. Besides, having someone who relies on him almost entirely, someone who feels his absence when he’s not there, someone who depends on him—well, Stan isn’t used to feeling needed, at all. And a small, guilty, selfish little part of him enjoys that. Craves it, even. Takes it as proof that he finally isn’t alone.
He doesn’t like it, pushes it down—but it’s there.
The morning bleeds into the afternoon, Stan in and out of sleep, Ford soundly passed out beside him, mostly burrowed beneath the blankets, only a mess of silver curls visible. He wishes he’d grabbed a book, or something to keep himself occupied, because Stan does not particularly enjoy being left alone with his thoughts. His mind tends to wander to less than favorable places.
Today, he finds himself thinking about how much his life has changed, lately, how different things were when he’d lived on the road, decades ago.
He doesn’t really keep track of how long he’s been sober, specifically, but it’s probably just passing the thirty-year mark now. He remembers he stopped when the money ran out, when the drugs had no longer been available—he can’t have had much stashed on him when he came to Gravity Falls, not enough for more than a few nights of unsuccessfully trying to distract himself from the colossal mistake he’d just made.
He does remember the withdrawals, though. Those had been the hardest weeks of his life—stone cold sober, with a third degree burn on his back and a probably-dead twin brother. He had been sick and sleep deprived in Ford’s filthy cabin, vomiting in the bathroom beside a shattered mirror covered in what he can only assume was his brother’s blood.
A fitting sort of irony, really.
Remembering it, thinking about it, brings the picture back, makes his skin crawl from the recalled mental grime, the feverish withdrawal-sweat. He tries to push the image from his mind, but despite himself, it lingers.
What was your plan, if Ford hadn’t gone through the portal? To what? Be on drugs in his house, go through that withdrawal and try to hide it? Find more and try to hide that? Fuckin’ junkie, man. It would never have worked out, even if you hadn’t nearly killed him, back in the day. Because you did nearly kill him, you know. All the scars he has may as well have been at your hand. At least, back then, you had the smart idea of trying to make yourself forget how pathetic you were, how little anyone wanted you.
He’s finding his mind is exceptionally harsh today, for whatever reason.
And, oh yeah, and don’t forget that your parents—that your mother died thinking that’s all you ended up being: a homeless junkie who drove off a fuckin’ cliff. Bet they were real proud. Dad certainly never was.
What’s there to be proud of, even now? You never made anything of yourself, not really. Even now, you can hardly even manage to take care of—
Alright, Stan thinks, that’s enough. I need some air.
He shimmies out of the bed and moves quietly out of the bedroom, trying to subdue the tightness in his chest with deep breaths. It’s stupid, how he works himself up like this just lying there, but it’s not good for him to be sitting around thinking all day. He needs to go outside, get some fresh air, have a smoke.
Ford was dead to the world, Stan thinks, he’ll be fine for a few minutes. He’ll smoke, then grab a few things to do lest he tear himself apart in his own mind.
Soon, Stan’s leaning against the railing of the boat, half-smoked cigarette in between his fingers, surveying the sea. The open air clears his head—it’s why he likes to go fishing. There’s nothing to think about except the ocean. So, he stares for a while, watching the late afternoon sun reflect off of the water, and calms himself down.
I shouldn’t be gone long, Stan thinks, as a chill starts to set in, I should grab a book or a notepad from inside, get back to watching Ford. He shouldn’t be alone, I don’t want to freak him out.
So, reluctant to leave the fresh air, he turns and heads back inside, stepping into the galley—
Suddenly, something slams into his side, and he’s toppling over, hard, onto the wooden floor.
He lands on his wrist, thankfully not hearing the crunch of bone, but feeling the pain bloom there regardless as he flails beneath the pair of trembling arms that are pinning him to the ground.
Stan looks up at his attacker, heart pounding, startled—and sees Ford, not dead asleep but wide awake, his face still flushed, his breathing raspy. The growl he lets out—which might normally be hair-raising—is weak and thin, ending in more of a whine. As Stan struggles against him, he feels his twin’s arms threatening to give way, shaking.
Shit. Ford’s eyes are distant, looking through Stan, narrowed into aggressive, red-rimmed slits. He’s got no clue where he is, Stan thinks, this could be very, very bad. Gotta get him calmed down.
Fuck, I’m an idiot for leaving. I should have just stayed in the bedroom, should have just dealt with it, I know it’s fragile to just abandon him while he’s asleep—the nightmare must have started as soon as I left the room. Damn it all.
No time to think about that. Help him, calm him down, bring him back.
Stan goes limp, fighting the instinct to struggle despite the pain in his wrist. He needs to show Ford he’s not poised to attack, that he’s not a murderous interloper but his brother—the one person that, if recognized, will signal some kind of safety.
“Ford,” He starts nervously, “Hey, Six, look at me. It’s Stanley.”
Another sputtering sort of growl, half-effective. Ford’s chest heaves, lungs wheezing. He refuses to meet Stan’s eye, seeming unsure of what to do next. The grip is weak, now, holding Stan down, and he could easily break free—he probably only got tackled to the ground successfully in the first place because he was caught off-guard.
“Listen to me, Ford. It’s Stanley. Your brother. I am not going to hurt you. Nobody is here to hurt you, buddy. You’re safe, I promise. Look at me.” He speaks slowly, softly, deliberately, aiming to soothe as much as his gravelly smoker’s voice allows.
Ford’s eyes flick over to his face, then dart away again.
“Six, you’re sick. You had a nightmare, and you woke up, and I wasn’t there. Nobody took me, alright? I’m here, you’re not alone, okay? There’s nothin’ to be afraid of, tiger.”
A momentary pause. Ford shakes his head as if to clear it, moving a hand from Stan’s shoulder to wrap around his trachea, pressing down, preparing to squeeze.
He’s lucky his brother hadn’t been aware enough to find his gun. He can’t stop his heart from pounding, his head from screaming run get him off of you knock him out cold—
He won’t hurt me, Stan thinks determinedly, perhaps foolishly. He wouldn’t. He just needs to know it’s me.
“Six,” he croaks, while he still has the air to, “It’s Lee. I’m not going to hurt you, I swear. I’m right here, Ford. Come on, buddy, you can do this. Look at me.”
Ford suppresses an agitated whine, six fingers trembling around Stan’s throat. It’s obvious he’s having a hard time keeping himself upright. No way his fever isn’t worse, Stan thinks, perhaps nonsensically, considering his situation. He looks terrible. I’ve got to help him. He’s probably terrified.
One of his arms has been freed, thankfully the uninjured one, and Stan has an idea. He slowly shifts the limb, navigating it so Ford can clearly track its movements, and places his free hand atop the one his brother has wrapped around his neck. He rests it there delicately, gently, to provoke an image of six fingers in five.
“Ford,” he breathes. “Come on.”
Two things happen at once. Ford begins to squeeze, his fingers tightening desperately, stealing the breath from Stan’s lungs, and his eyes finally shift, connecting with Stan’s. When they do, something sparks in them—something knowing.
Immediately, his brother practically throws himself back, releasing his grip on Stan and skittering away from him with a dexterity a man as ill as he is should not possess, letting out a wounded, high-pitched whine. The sound is pitiful, intensified by the sickness to the point where it sounds like Ford’s been struck. Stan pushes himself into a sitting position with his good wrist, then holds out both his hands.
“Hey, it’s alright! You didn’t hurt me, I’m fine, it’s okay!”
Ford descends on him at once, apparently rethinking his immediate instinct to put distance, thoroughly checking him over from head to toe, examining for any visible injuries. His breath is sharp and quick, and his inhales are labored enough that it sounds like a panicked sort of panting, like a wounded dog. It hurts, hearing Ford in such obvious distress, and Stan tries to keep his injured wrist in as normal a position as possible, so as not to alert his twin to its status.
It’s not enough. Ford picks up one hand, then the other, and Stan can’t suppress the wince, can’t disguise the immediate swelling. Another whine, upset and sick and guilty, and Ford’s eyes are wide and wet as he trains them on Stan’s neck, then his face.
His twin is red-faced, his eyes shadowed, and he’s shaking in the still, room-temperature air as if he were out in the snow. It’s a pitiful picture, really, and Stan can’t help but wrap an arm around Ford as his twin’s face drops into his shoulder, burrowing in as if to express his remorse, to hide himself.
“I’m alright,” he reassures. “It’s not your fault, you didn’t know, you just had a nightmare. We’re okay, it’s okay, I’m here now, alright? We’re safe. I’ll keep you safe, Six.”
He’s trying to soothe, but he feels Ford’s tears soak into his jacket, hears the congested sniffles, watches the shaking of his shoulders.
“I know.” He pats Ford on the back gently. “I know. Why don’t we—”
But, just as Stan thinks it might be possible to get Ford back to bed, his brother’s head jolts up, his eyes panicked again. Suddenly, he’s on his feet, clicking rapidly at Stan, wrapping a hand around his good wrist, tugging him to his feet and towards the bedroom.
Fuck. “Hang on, Sixer, there’s no need to—”
Two more clicks in rapid succession, another tug at Stan’s arm. Ford gives him this pleading look, panicked and desperate and so, so, out of it, and Stan finds himself moving at his twin’s behest beyond the door to the bedroom, watching as Ford whirls around, slams it shut, and locks it.
This part always freaks him out. He doesn’t like being locked in, being trapped. He tries to shove the wave of anxiety down, his shoulders going tense.
“Nothing’s out there, Ford. It’s just us on the boat, okay? Nothing wants in here, I’m tellin’ you. So, there’s no need to lock the—”
He reaches for the handle, and is met with a sharp hiss. His brother’s hand is back on his arm, tugging him away, and before he knows it he’s been shepherded over to the bed. Ford gently pushes him down onto it in a seated position, then begins to pace the floor in front of the door, eyes flicking between Stan and the entrance.
“Hey, how about you come sit, too?” He tries.
Ford doesn’t even seem to consider it, prowling across the floor, his body tense, loaded like a spring. Despite this tension, though, his weakness is obvious. He’s swaying a bit as he walks, uncharacteristically unsteady on his feet, not helped by the still too-quick, labored cadence of his breaths.
He only pauses his movements occasionally to press his mouth shut and suppress his own coughing fits, trying to silence them with limited success, seeming distressed by his own inability to remain silent, which in turn only worsens the issue—he’s practically whining between every breath. Stan watches his hands shake as he reaches up to tug at his own hair.
This isn’t sustainable, he thinks. He’s going to make himself pass out.
Normally, he would allow Ford to pace for a bit longer before making an attempt to intervene, but he can’t be exerting himself like this at the moment—the sheer anxiety of this mental state is evidently taking a physical toll, never mind the walking and tackling.
So, it’s time to be just a shade firmer.
“Stanford,” Stan instructs. “You’re making yourself sick. Nobody is there, do you understand me? Nobody is coming for us. Nobody’s even out here—not for miles and miles.”
Trying his hardest not to feel like he’s commanding a dog, he adds. “So…so come over here and sit down. Please.”
Ford pauses at this change of tone, tearing his eyes from the door and inspecting Stan’s expression carefully.
After a moment, though, he clicks dismissively, returning to his pacing.
God damn it. Fine.
Stan stands up. Immediately, Ford’s gaze snaps over to him, and he issues a reprimanding, almost pissy rumble. He doesn’t heed it, taking two steps closer to his twin.
Ford turns, fixing him with a look, then moves to take hold of his shoulder again, to steer him back to the bed, but Stan does not allow himself to be moved. Ford makes a frustrated, anxious noise and tries to push him back, but it’s a pitiful effort—he’s feverish, weak, out of it. So instead, Ford changes tactics, fixing him with a pitiful, pleading look, his eyes wide, two hands wrapping around Stan’s arm, tugging softly.
“Don’t gimme that face,” Stan chides softly. “I’m only sitting back down if you do.”
Ford coughs, unable to suppress this round, caught off guard. When the fit subsides, his shoulders slump, and he looks exhausted. He tries to shake his head, but Stan is already practically dragging him over to the bottom bunk, and when he gestures at the mattress, Ford sits tentatively on the edge, shadowed eyes still locked on the door. Stan sits beside him.
Progress. He knows what to do from here.
“See, look. You sat down, and the world didn’t end. Lookit that.” He smiles encouragingly. “Good.”
Stan scoots back so he’s sitting against the wall, and tugs Ford’s arm until he’s back there too—though, his posture is still angled forwards.
“We’re safe,” he repeats, “Nothing’s comin’ in, I’m watching.”
Slowly, he wraps an arm around his twin, reaching the hand up to ruffle his hair, then settling it around his shoulders, drawing him in a little closer.
Ford stiffens, for a moment, nervous—but when nothing happens, he seems to relax. His eyes are still darting around the room, though.
Stan pulls him in a bit closer, so Ford’s up against his side, and hums in mock thought.
“Say, Sixer,” he wonders aloud, “Did I ever tell you the story about the time Soos got himself caught in the Shack’s chimney?”
His brother blinks at him for a moment, then his eyes narrow slightly, as if to say I know what you’re up to, here, but Stan’s already got him right where he wants him, and he’ll be damned if he lets go.
“No, really, it’s a good story, promise.”
Ford looks at Stan, then at the door. Stan pushes forward, clearing his throat.
“So, it all started when we had a bunch of school kids in the Shack on a field trip. Who the hell knows why they were there—low budget, probably, you know how it goes. They had to have been eleven at the absolute oldest, around the same age we were when we found the Jersey Devil—you remember that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer.
“Anyway, I’m touring ‘em around the place, putting on the charm, as I do, when we start hearing this crazy thumping from up somewhere above us. Now, it’s loud, but not person-type loud, yet, so of course, since I’ve been freakin’ all these kids out with made-up stories for half an’ hour, they start losing it, thinkin’ some kinda critter is up there.” Stan chuckles. “You would’a thought so too, probably would have crawled up there and caught the thing, tried to make friends with it, but I wasn’t about to—obviously.”
He pauses for a second, glancing subtly over at Ford. His brother’s attention has turned from the door, and he’s got this half-amused expression on his face, like, of course you wouldn’t, and before he looks away again, Stan continues.
“So, naturally, because I’m handling the tour and didn’t fuckin’ want to deal with it, I made up some story about how the building was haunted by the ghost of some famous mad scientist—which, hey, half-true, right—who I’d trapped in a chimney so he stopped breakin’ the exibhits that exposed the truth behind his secret experiments. What can I say, you know, you inspired me!” He grins. “Thought about you all the time, may as well’ve used it. Either way, in hindsight, that tale probably didn’t make the problem any better, what with the kids freaking out and all, but it shut em’ up until I could yell at Soos to go deal with it.”
Beside him, Ford nods—he actually nods, like he’s following along! He feels much more relaxed against him, and Stan feels his eyes on him as he continues in earnest.
“And, you know, Soos was about sixteen at the time, only a few years into helping out around the place, and still enough of a pipsqueak that he could squeeze into tight spaces—real convenient, at the time, too bad he grew up.” Stan shakes his head. “Figured it was one of those dumbass gnomes or something, that he’d be fine. An’ of course he was all, ‘Yes sir, Mr. Pines! I’ll get right on that, dude!’” He does a poor Soos impression. “Sure, I felt a little bad about sending him up there, but, what can you do, it needed fixed, and he was who I had. So, he goes up through the attic…”
Ford’s head drops onto his shoulder. Stan does his best not to move, continuing on with his story, dramatizing the important bits, utilizing his masterful voice impressions, and throwing in enough references to his brother to make it clear that he’s thinking about him, and that he was thinking about him back then, too. He’s reaching the conclusion of the tale when he finally starts to hear it—the telltale rumbling from his brother’s chest, congested as it may be today, that indicates he’s finally asleep.
“Well, that’s the story of Soos’ first time stuck in the chimney, and his first ever rabies vaccine! I’ll admit, at the time I was pissed about having to dry-clean all the butter stains out of my suit, but looking back on it, I think we made a pretty good memory. He’s still afraid of bats, though. His abuela would have kicked my head in if she’d found out, but the kid didn’t let much slip, so I stayed on good terms with her. Nice lady.”
He falls silent for a moment—and beside him, Ford begins to stir, sniffling and shifting against him, near-waking.
“Ah, shit. So it’s like that?” He asks. “Not gonna sleep unless I’m talkin’? Man, Six, I tell you, you’re a real pain in the ass. I got a wrist to bandage, here!”
It’s true, he does—and it hurts like an absolute bitch. Probably a nasty sprain. But there’s no way in hell he’s moving a muscle—and talking aloud’s the best he’s going to get in terms of a break from his own mind, anyhow.
“Nah, I don’t mind, really,” He continues. “I’ll talk for as long as you need me to, buddy. You need the rest, anyway. Fever’s definitely gone up, I feel your forehead. It’ll probably be a rough couple days. I’m hopin’ you let me out at some point for a book or somethin’, though. Don’t want my voice to go. But I can also sleep all I want—got enough years of insomnia stored up that there’s plenty of catching up to do.” He cards his good hand through his twin’s hair. “Besides, you’d do it for me. I’m pretty sure you’d do almost anything for me.”
Stan pauses. “I think you’re the only person I’ve ever known that would. So I ought to repay you for that. ‘Sides, even if you wouldn’t, I would still do anything for you, you know.” He considers something for a second. “Yeah. I’d probably kill a guy, if you needed me to. Shit, wait, I guess I kinda did kill a guy for you, huh? But we won’t talk about that bastard right now. Got a few other bastards I could tell you about, though, if you want to hear.”
Ford, fast asleep, does not respond—but Stan continues regardless. He talks until his voice is hoarse, his throat sore—there’s no way of knowing how long exactly, he doesn’t wear a watch, but the sun has dipped below the horizon by the time his brother properly stirs against his side, fist coming up to rub at his red-rimmed eyes.
“Lee?” He slurs, sitting up a bit.
“Yeah,” Stan croaks in response. “‘S me.”
“Oh,” he murmurs, relaxing a bit. “Good.”
Ford yawns, and Stan thinks he’s about to fall back asleep—but a moment later, he sits bolt upright, coughing, then trying to collect himself.
“Was—was someone trying to get in?!” He sounds panicked.
“No! No, we’re safe, you just had a nightmare.”
“Ah,” Ford manages, a touch embarrassed. “Was it—” He gasps, remembering. “Stan! Your wrist! Did you—” He leans over, looking, snatching Stan’s arm by the elbow, making a pained sound when he winces.
“Shit, Lee, you didn’t even—” He coughs. “You didn’t—I’m so sorry—” He whines, distraught.
“It’s not your fault, Six, you didn’t know what was—”
“‘S not an excuse!” Ford cries, his voice thick and emotional, a touch feverish and irrational. “I h-hurt you, I swear, I didn’t mean to—Stan, I—” He’s already working himself up again.
“Ford, breathe. It’s only a sprain, I’ll be alright. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll go get some ice and bandages, alright?”
Ford tries to move. “No, I can—”
“You can lie down,” Stan orders. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll leave the door open.”
He pushes himself into a standing position with one arm, back and legs creaking, and moves quickly into the kitchen, raiding the top medicine cabinet first for the aforementioned supplies, then grabbing two books, a notebook, a pen, and their laptop from the couch area. Then, he heads back into the bedroom, setting the non-medical items down beside the bed, cradling the supplies in his lap as he sits back down.
Ford has not lied down as instructed, and his face looks anxious for a myriad of reasons Stan can’t quite differentiate, so he just says:
“It’s alright. I’m alright.”
His brother’s eyes are wet, his cheeks bright red. “Let me help,” he pleads, then practically coughs up a lung, trying not to slump back against the wall.
Stan sighs, pinching the space between his brows with his good hand. “Ford,” he replies, “You know something you could do that would really, really help me right now?”
“What?” Ford asks in earnest, desperate.
“Lie the fuck down.” Stan retorts, pointing at the pillow.
His voice and expression are stern, and Ford finally listens, lying down quickly, pulling the covers over himself, shamefaced.
“I’m sorry, Lee,” He whispers as Stan begins to wrap his own hand. “I’m so, so sorry. I know. I know I’m too much work, I’m sorry—” He hiccups. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do it, I didn’t mean to act like some stupid animal, I didn’t mean to make you—”
“Hey. Stop that,” Stan chides. “I don’t like it when you say things like that, Sixer. You have nothing to apologize for, so stop. It wasn’t your fault.”
“B-But it was!” Ford’s voice is dramatic, childish and fever-ridden. “‘S all my fault, I’m making you—I’m trapping you—I—” He can’t finish his sentence, another fit of coughs wracking him.
“Stop. I take care of you because I love you, Stanford. I’m not trapped, you’re not too much work—you’re my brother. I would do anything, lose any amount of sleep or time or anything for you, okay? So just—so just quit that! You know you would do the same for me, if I needed it.”
“But you n-never do need it!” Ford protests. “It’s always me, it’s always—”
“That is not true,” Stan retorts. “You help me with my nightmares all the time! You helped me get my memories back—do you remember when I nearly punched your lights out last time I was sick? You didn’t blame me then—so why are you blaming yourself now?”
Ford blinks at him for a moment, then mumbles, “It’s different.”
“No it ain’t,” Stan retorts. “We take care of each other, Ford. That’s the way this goes. No matter what.”
His brother tugs the blankets up to his chin, shivering a bit, eyes too foggy to put up a long-term fight.
“Okay,” he whispers, “Okay.”
“Good.” Stan is satisfied with an okay, for now. He cracks the med-kit ice pack and places it against his wrist, largely for Ford’s benefit. Hypocrite.
A moment of comfortable silence passes, Ford watching Stan nurse his injury, eyes narrowed a bit. Then, he observes, his voice a bit sheepish:
“You brought in a book.”
“Two books,” Stan confirms.
“Will you—” Ford coughs. “Will you…read to me?”
Stan’s voice is damn near shot, after hours of talking. He pauses.
“I—I mean, you don’t have to! I know I’ve kept you busy, I don’t want to—I don’t want to bother—” His twin stammers.
“Of course, Six.” Stan answers. “Of course I’ll read to you.”
And, grabbing the book from beside the bed, Stan does. He reclines beside his twin, and he reads until neither of them can keep their eyes open, until his voice is all but lost—because that’s what they do.
They take care of each other.