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“Ford? Are you alright in there?”
They hadn’t even been home from their winter aboard the Stan O’ War II for two weeks and Ford was already sick. It started out as a little sniffle at breakfast. Just one little sneeze that just didn’t seem to want to stop.
“Yes, Stanley. I’m fine.” The bathroom door muffled his voice but Stan could tell he was on the floor.
“Sixer, come on. Let me in.” Stan was a nervous wreck over these kinds of things. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he was worse than their mother when it came to someone he loved being sick or injured. His heart jumped into his throat as he listened to Ford getting sick. “Please, Ford. Unlock the door!”
What if Ford passed out? What if he started puking up blood or something and Stan wasn’t there and Ford didn’t tell him. He was a stubborn jackass and would do something dumb like ignore it. Odds are it was just the spring flu but what it it wasn’t? What if he caught some crazy disease from one of those monsters they had been hunting down all winter. There was no way in hell he was letting some weird sci-fi asshat kill his brother with a space cold.
“Stan I can assure you-” He was cut off by another wet heave. Stan paced outside the door and a few more minutes ticked by before he heard the toilet flush and the sink running. After what seemed like an hour, the bathroom door finally swung open revealing an extremely pale, Stanford Pines, shirtless and sweating despite the cool night air blowing through the open bathroom window.
“Holy Moses, Ford! You look horrible!” Stan pulled Ford into a hug and immediately recoiled. “You’re burning up. Come in here. Take your clothes off. You’re going to take a cool shower and I’m going to go find you some aspirin.”
“Stan, that isn’t necessary. Really, I’m ok.” His voice was hoarse and scratchy, not showing any real force behind his disclaim.
“Bull fucking shit. My puke covered toilet says otherwise. Now stop arguing with me.” Stan turned the faucet and held his hand under the water, trying to find the perfect luke-warm temperature while his brother leaned against the sink, watching him and fighting back the growing surges of nausea and need to sneeze. He knew that wouldn’t be an ideal combination and definitely not with Stan in the room. He wasn’t going to be subject to the childish embarrassment of throwing up on himself.
“Stan, please. Go. I can run my own bath-bathwater.” Stan needed to get out of the bathroom right now. Ford was shaking when Stan turned back to face the sink. His face fell flat and he pointed to the toilet.
“In the toilet, Sixer.” Stan walked to his brother and grabbed his shoulders.
“Stanley, I’m f-fine.” He was not going to throw up with his brother in the room. He was a grown man and he didn’t need to be watched like a damn child.
“Mhhm. Sure. I’m not leaving.” He sat on the edge of the tub next to the toilet, watching his brother sweating and shaking at the sink, his throat bobbing and fists clenching. He was really going to ride this out as long as he could, wasn’t he? Stan hated seeing his brother purposely putting himself through pain, so he might as well help him along. “If you’re a good boy and listen to me, I’ll give you a rim-job.”
“Ughhh! Oh, god! Stanley!” Ford threw himself at the toilet and Stan chuckled in spite of the scene in front of him. He ran a hand along his back and muttered endearments as he waited for his brother to finish.
“Ok, now jump in the shower, alright? I’m going to go find some alka seltzer.” Ford obeyed, his body giving up on supplying him with the energy and will to argue, resorting to the place Stan knew he would always end up. No better than one of the kids.
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He was freezing and yet he was sweating in nothing but the bath-towel he had wrapped around his waist as he walked into his and Stan’s bedroom. He really just wanted to sleep and Stan was waiting for him with a glass of water and an aspirin. He patted the bed and Ford dropped his towel, not bothering with clothes and instead crawling over to his brother and burying himself in their bed sheets. Stan swung an arm around his back, holding out a glass of water and two little white pills.
“Take these. Try to keep it down, alright?” Ford swallowed the pills with a couple sips of water before shaking his head and grabbing the trash can Stan held out to him. “Or not.”
“I’m sorry, Stan.” He pressed his body close against where his brother sat on the bed, pressing his face in his shoulder, trying to absorb his body heat and stop the shivering racking his body.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” Stan pushed him back down on the bed and ran a wet washrag over his overheated eyes. A twinge of pain stabbed in his stomach and he curled in on himself with a whine. Stan refolded the washrag and lay down next to his brother, tucking the blankets around his back before allowing the sick twin to cuddle up as close as he could.
“Stomach hurts.” You would think the man didn’t have twelve PhD's under his belt by the way he mumbled like a ten year old into his brother’s chest.
“Haha. I know, Sixer.” He raked his fingernails gently through his graying hair and folded the washrag over his forehead, ignoring the way it was soaking his own shirt. “Don’t puke on me, ok?”
“Won’t. Probably. I think our prolonged absence from civilization weakened my immune system.” Ford shivered and wrapped his arm around Stan’s chest, clutching a fistful of his tank top and wiping his face on it.
“No shit. Don’t use me as a tissue, Stanford.” Stan reached behind him, grabbing the box of tissue and pulling one out for his brother. Ford only buried his nose deeper into his brother’s shirt.
“Don’t need a tissue.”
“Ford!” Stan didn’t fight him. His shirt’s were pretty gross anyways. His brother twitched and grumbled something incomprehensible, pulling the blankets closer around his and Stan’s body. “What did you say?”
“I said, you’re going to get sick, too.”
“More than likely. But, oh well.” Stan kissed his brother’s forehead and rubbed his cheek on his hair.
“Don’t want you to.” His legs were tangling themselves around Stan’s as Ford did his best impression of an octopus.
“Yeah, well. You can’t always get what you want, now can you?” Stan turned his body so that he could wrap Ford around him to help sweat out the fever.
“Yes.” Ford touched his nose to Stan’s chin and back down, planting it in his throat.
“Wrong answer, Poindexter.”
“Never wrong.” Stan sighed and Ford pressed impossibly closer.
“Oh, I know, hot-stuff.” Stan could already feel a tickle in his throat. “Now, get some sleep. I’m not dealing with a crabby and sick Stanford in the morning.”
“You will. You love me, remember?” Ford looked up, puppy-dog eyes enhanced by their dark ringed, sunken in look.
“Fuck you, Sixer. People think I’m the manipulative con-man.”
“ My manipulative con-man.” He kissed the side of Stan’s neck, turning into the pillow to cough.
“Always, nerd. Always.” Finally he felt Ford’s breathing even out and he let himself relax into the pillow, trying to clear his throat without waking his brother. That’s when the sneezing started.