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“We’re about a mile to the cave!!” Ford is at least five feet ahead of Stan, footsteps getting quicker as he grows more excited. “I told you there should be babies there this time of year, right?”
“Yeah,” Stan wheezes. “Don’t know if baby eye-bats are as cute to me as they are to you, though.”
Ford waves him off without sparing a glance behind. Thank god. Stan doesn’t know why this hike is draining him so much, but he feels… fuzzy. His legs are moving, he’s pretty sure, but it also feels like he’s asleep, a little bit. His stomach hurts.
But he doesn’t need to bug Ford with it. He’s not so high maintenance he can’t sustain a simple hike.
Besides, this is only the third time Ford’s taken him anomaly hunting since… everything happened. The postcard, Bill, the exorcism. Stan gets it– he’s a liability. Makes sense Ford would only have the energy to drag him along every month or so. But three or four months in a dingy old cabin can get kinda boring, so Stan always jumps at the chance to go.
He can’t mess it up today. Even though, for the first time in ages, he’d really rather just be curled up on the couch.
“Stanley?”
Stan blinks. Ford is suddenly right next to him, taking hold of one of his hands.
“Yeah?” He clears his throat. It’s scratchy today; he should’ve brought water. But he can’t take any of Ford’s. “Sorry, you say somethin’?”
“I just asked if you’re alright. You’re lagging behind a bit.”
Shit. “Sorry, I was just– I’ll keep up. Promise.”
Ford shakes his head, eyes widening. “No, no, I didn’t mean I was upset, I just– are you feeling alright? You’re a bit pale.”
“Feel fine,” Stan mutters, pulling his hand back. He has to suppress a cough. It takes most of his focus. “Let’s keep goin’.”
Ford seems hesitant. “Are you sure? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with pushing this to another day… or you could always stay back.”
You should’ve kept pace, now he regrets bringing you along. Fucking idiot.
“M’ fine,” Stan insists, forcing energy and pep into his tone. “Promise. C’mon, don’t tell me you’d pass up a chance to see those cute little newborn eye-bats.” He gives his best smile.
Ford smiles back, though it’s wobbly. “Well, alright. If you’re sure. I’ll slow down a bit.”
Stan’s chest tightens, but he doesn’t have it in him to argue.
They keep walking, and Stan finds himself shivering after another twenty minutes. It’s usually not this cold in the fall. He shouldn’t need more than his jacket. Ford’s not even wearing a jacket. But Stan can’t stop himself from shivering like he’s naked in Antarctica. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets and sniffles.
God, he’s tired. His stomach is doing somersaults.
He coughs a bit.
Ford glances to the side but says nothing.
“Hey, Six, tell me more about the eye-bats, will you?”
As expected, Ford lights up immediately. “Certainly! So, I concluded that their species came to be by the mating of a common fruit bat and a now-extinct species of sentient eye. Fun fact: similarly to seahorses, the males are the ones who give birth, though the species actually self mates, most of the time. They’re capable of either, but they’re rather solitary.”
Stan nods along, trying his best to listen. He does care, really, he does, but the nausea is distracting. He makes sure to interject every now and then, mostly with little hums and clicks, to indicate that he’s paying attention. But he’s not paying attention, and the guilt makes his stomach churn even more.
Ford’s excitement makes his pace quicken again, and soon he’s a few feet ahead of Stan yet again. Thank fuck. Stan’s able to let his guard drop a little bit, no longer having to keep up with the humming and nodding, the latter of which has begun to cause a nasty headache.
It’s another ten minutes before his legs begin to wobble, and his vision starts to blur.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, don’t pass out. Don’t you fucking dare pass out. He’s gonna ruin it. He can already tell– Ford’s never gonna bring him on an adventure again. Fuck.
His legs are starting to give out.
“Ford?” He calls out, shocked by how fucking feeble his voice sounds.
He shoots an arm out to brace himself against a tree as he crumples to the ground, nausea rolling through him all at once.
“Stanley?” A pause. “Stanley!!”
Stan doesn’t have time to look up to see his brother before he’s retching up breakfast. His body convulses with a weak heave, and he’s hot and it hurts, his whole body just hurts. He wants to go home.
A steady hand is suddenly drawing circles along his back. He moans softly at the touch.
“Easy, easy, it’s alright. I’m right here.” Ford’s voice is low and calm, and Stan knows it’s taking everything in Ford to make it that way. “Just get it out. You’re okay.”
Stan vomits intermittently for the next few minutes, then, finally, seems to have cleared himself out. He scoots away and leans up against the nearest tree, closing his eyes and coughing weakly.
He feels a six-fingered hand press against his forehead.
“Lee, you’re burning up!” Ford’s voice is shrill and worried. Damnit. Stan’s worrying him. “Shit. Why didn’t you say you were– damnit. Let’s just get you back home, okay? It’s going to be fine, I promise.”
No, no, no, no, no.
Stan shakes his head weakly. He feels like he’s underwater. He coughs again, then forces scratchy words out of his mouth.
“Still gotta see–” another nasty cough. “Eye-bats–”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ford interrupts, brushing some hair from Stan’s face. Stan keeps his eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing. “We’re going back to the cabin. You’re sick.”
“Sorry,” Stan slurs. “Didn’t mean to.”
If he had been more aware, he probably wouldn’t have been acting so pathetic and childish. But he can barely keep himself awake, and finds his innermost thoughts being verbalized despite his best efforts to keep quiet. He’s never been good at that.
“Don’t apologize.”
“You’re not gonna wanna… take me on adventures anymore.”
“I…” Ford pauses. “What ever do you mean?”
“Ruined it. M’ sorry…”
“Stanley, you–” A frustrated noise. Ford’s hand grabs his. “It’s alright. I’m not upset. I… I just want you to feel better. Let’s get back to the cabin, and we– w-we can talk about… that later. Okay?”
Stan coughs. “‘Kay.” He finally blinks his eyes open, and they land on his brother’s worried face.
Silently, Ford takes out his water bottle and presses it into Stan’s hands, indicating for him to drink. Stan takes a few sips–not too much, it’s still Ford’s–and gives it back. It does feel damn good on his dry throat. Ford shakes his head when it’s handed back to him, and instead presses it to Stan’s lips.
“Drink more. You’re dehydrated.”
Stan obeys, selfishly finishing off the bottle.
When he’s done, Ford wraps an arm around Stan and helps him to his wobbly feet. He slings one of Stan’s arms over his shoulders, and makes sure his hold is secure before guiding him forward. Their steps are slow and shaky, and Stan can barely keep his eyes open. His coughing is only getting worse with each step. To his horror, he can’t suppress the tiny whimper that escapes him, and he presses his face into Ford’s shoulder. He feels like he’s simultaneously on fire and being covered in snow. He won’t stop shaking.
“It’s alright,” Ford murmurs. “Almost there.” Another pause. “Do you… do you want to take a break?”
Yes. Stan nearly cries the very idea, actually. But part of him fears that if he sat down now he wouldn’t get up again, so all he can do is shake his head against his brother’s shoulder. After a moment, he lifts his face, forcing himself to continue.
Ford sighs, then gets an odd sort of look on his face, looking right at Stan. Stan blinks at him.
“What is it?” he slurs.
Wordlessly, Ford lifts his free hand and presses it under Stan’s eye, rubbing his cheek gently.
What– oh. Tears. He’s wiping away tears. Stan would be embarrassed if he wasn’t so tired.
They get back to the cabin a few minutes later.
Stan lets Ford guide him into the bedroom and sit him down on the bed. He presses his hand against Stan’s forehead for a second time, curses under his breath, then begins to gently unzip Stan’s hoodie and peel it off of him.
“No…” Stan argues feebly, “Cold…”
“I know,” Ford says miserably. “I know you are, but you’re burning up. You can get under the blankets in a few minutes, I promise.”
Once Stan’s jacket is off, Ford turns hurriedly to leave. Probably sick of his waste of space brother. Good, Stan thinks distantly, letting himself fall onto his back. He coughs again. God, it hurts.
He’s starting to fall asleep when two strong hands guide him up to sit again. He whines.
“I know, I know,” Ford soothes. “I know, I’m sorry. You can sleep soon. Let’s get some medicine in you first, alright?”
Stan doesn’t argue against the thick, viscous liquid poured down his throat, or the two pills that travel into his system, or the water bottle pressed up against his lips.
Finally, blessedly, Ford lets him lay back down. Ford presses a hand against Stan’s cheek and lets it linger there for a moment, sighing heavily. The hand travels up to Stan’s hair, massaging the greasy, most likely sweat soaked, tangled mess as if it’s a precious thing.
“Ford,” Stan croaks again, feeling his brain beginning to shut down, “m’ sorry… ruined it…”
He isn’t awake to hear Ford’s response. If he even gives any.
Stan dreams of eye-bats.
They’re attacking him, pupils equipped with sharp teeth, biting at his neck like vampires. Brown-red blood falls from him, disappearing into the black void where he flails around. He tries to call out for help, for someone, for Ford, but there’s nothing and no one. One of the eye-bats makes a sickening screech, and more begin to feast on him.
They rip off bits of flesh from his arms, from his face, and it hurts, it’s a freezing, burning type of pain. He curls up into a ball, trying to shield himself, but one of them wiggles up between his legs.
He tries to scream.
One bites out his eye, and grows bigger, bigger, bigger. It bites out his other eye. He assumes it continues to grow, but he’s blind, he can’t see, and he’s screaming but no sound is coming out and it hurts, fuck, it hurts, where’s Ford, where is his brother, where’s Ford, Ford Ford Ford Ford Ford–
“STANLEY!!”
He opens his eyes and screams. Wasn’t he just blind? He shrieks again, and his stomach rolls, and his body jerks, and oh god he can’t stop it– he’s retching painfully, and he feels something shoved in his arms, but it doesn’t really register because he’s puking his goddamn guts out, coughing and sputtering and shaking.
And then it’s done.
He closes his eyes.
The something is removed from his arms, and he’s suddenly being gathered up, face pressed against something solid, something warm, something that rises and falls. He’s surrounded. This would usually make him panic. Why is he not–
“Shh, shh. It’s okay. It’s alright. I’m here. You’re safe, I promise.”
He’s being rocked back and forth.
He glances up.
Ford.
Ford came.
Ford is smiling at him, but his mouth is wobbling. But he’s smiling, and he’s here, he’s here, he’s here, he came.
Stan sobs and wraps his arms around Ford’s stomach, pressing his face back into Ford’s chest, listening–past his own sobs– to the slightly fast rhythm of his twin’s heartbeat.
“Ford,” he sobs, coughing, “Ford– they were– I-I didn’t know where you were– I’m sorry–”
“Shh.” Ford’s voice is low. Soothing. Gentle. “It’s okay. It’s alright. Breathe, Lee, just breathe. It was a nightmare, that’s all.”
“You’re here,” Stan breathes through sobs. “You came.”
Ford tenses, slightly. “I– of course I did, Lee. I’ll always come. I promise.”
He starts coughing again, and they hurt and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, fuck.
Ford loosens his hold slightly, rubbing his back in earnest. “Easy, it’s okay. Just breathe. I’m right here.”
Stan lets himself fall apart in his brother’s safe, strong arms. When did Ford become the strong one, too? That used to be Stan. Now, weak and frail and pressed up against Ford’s chest, Stan doesn’t know what he is.
He cries for a long time.
“Ford,” he murmurs after his sobs have faded into little sniffles and hiccups. “Don’t feel good. M’ sorry…”
“It’s alright.” Ford runs one hand through Stan’s hair.
“Tired…”
“Rest, Lee. I’m here. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Stan coughs. “Promise?”
A sniffle. One that doesn’t come from Stan.
Ford clears his throat. “Yes. I promise.”
Stan falls asleep in Ford’s arms.
He wakes up, unsure of when it is.
But Ford is there. He notices the moment Stan stirs.
“You’re awake,” he breathes. Stan scoots slightly and sits up as much as he’s able. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Water? Are you hungry? I could make something easy on your stomach. I think we have some soup, and I could grab some ginger ale as well, or–”
“What time’s it?”
Ford blinks. “Oh. It’s around six.”
“Six… p.m.?”
Ford tilts his head. “No. Six in the morning. You slept for almost 18 hours.” He presses a hand against Stan’s forehead. “You feel slightly cooler. But you’re still sick. You should rest.”
Shit. 18 hours. Stan feels a little dizzy at the thought. He shoves his face in his hands. “Sorry. You didn’t have to stay.”
“Of course I stayed.” Ford’s voice is adamant. He gently reaches for Stan’s hands and takes them, forcing Stan to look up and meet his eyes. “Can I… ask you something?”
Stan nods.
Ford swallows. “You said something about… ruining things? And you said that I– that I wouldn’t want to bring you along on expeditions anymore. What did you… mean by that?” He looks so concerned.
Stan glances aside. “Ah, just the fever talkin’.”
“I don’t think it was.” A pause. “Please, Lee.”
Stan sighs heavily. No gettin’ outta this one.
“Just… you know. You don’t really like bringin’ me along on your science trips and all… don’t like me down in the lab. W-Which makes sense, I’d probably mess it all up, but I just didn’t wanna fuck it up the one chance I got. But, y’know, I did anyways.” His voice breaks slightly. “Don’t gotta bring me along anymore. I know you don’t wanna.”
A long, long pause.
Then:
“That’s not true.”
Stan glances up.
Ford looks pitifully confused. “That’s not true at all. I–” He makes a small, wounded noise. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you thought that– shit.” He squeezes Stan’s hands. “I’m so sorry. Stanley, I don’t invite you along because most of them are dangerous, and I don’t–" He pauses, breath hitching. “I can’t stomach the thought of you getting hurt. You matter too much. I didn’t realize… I’m so sorry.”
“Ford, if it’s not safe, you shouldn’t–”
“A-And as for the lab, I’m fine with you being down there. I– I quite enjoy your company, Lee, I mean– I just thought it made you uncomfortable, being in there. When you come down, you’re so fidgety, and you just seem like you want to leave. I figured you just didn’t like it there.”
Stan clears his throat. “I just– don’t wanna break anythin’ of yours. I’m not– I don’t wanna do that again.”
Something flashes across Ford’s face.
And before Stan can think, Ford is pulling him into a tight hug. Stan tenses for a moment, then returns it, hiding his face in the crook of Ford’s neck.
Ford sighs shakily. “I’m so sorry, Lee. I had no idea you thought that way. I–” he squeezes tighter, “I would love for you to be down in the lab. And I don’t think you’re going to ruin anything, or break anything. And even if you did, I don’t care. Nothing down there or out there means as much as you do. You’re my brother.” He begins to cry, softly. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry…”
“Hey, hey, shit.” Stan rubs his back gently. He made Ford cry. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he made Ford cry. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’a said anything. Just ignore me. I’m sorry.”
“No!!” Ford pulls away and takes Stan’s face in his hands. He looks more serious than Stan’s ever seen him. “Stanley. Listen to me. I love you. I love being around you. You matter more to me than any research, any invention, any machine, anything. You matter most. Do you understand?”
Stan blinks rapidly. He sniffles. Nods.
“Oh, Lee…”
Ford pulls him back into his arms and rubs his back as Stan cries.
“Ford,” Stan murmurs between pathetic little sobs, “You said– I want you to be safe too. Don’ go if it’s not safe.”
“I’m a scientist, I have to–”
“You’re my brother, too.”
Ford freezes for a moment. Then,
“Okay. I’ll be safer.” He sniffles. “If you promise to come down into the lab more. I-I mean, not if it makes you uncomfortable!! But, just that– I only mean–”
“I will,” Stan whispers. “Don’t worry. I will.”
“Good.”
After a moment, Ford pulls away, swiping under his eyes.
“You haven’t eaten in 18 hours,” he says. “Let me at least get you some crackers and some water, alright?”
Stan nods.
“I’ll be right back.”
Stan watches him go, content in the knowledge that he means what he says. He’ll come back.
He’ll always come back.