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Stanley wakes up slowly. Strange. He isn't awoken by a nightmare, he hasn't forgotten where he is, or who he is. But there, in the limbo between the dream world and reality, he knows something is wrong.
Still half asleep, his right hand finds his chest. There's nothing on top of him, but it sure feels like it. It doesn't feel like a panic attack either, he'd know that right away. This is different, new, and bad. Or... maybe not new? He can't be sure.
Bad, however, he's sure of that. As the last remains of sleep fog fade away, he feels his chest tighten. With his free hand, he moves the blankets out of the way, the warmth having become more and more overwhelming by the second. He turns on his hearing aid and tries to focus on the sound of the waves softly hitting the hull, the creaks and cracks of the wood, his brother's snores. All of it together makes a symphony that he's grown fond of, and usually manages to do the trick and put him right back to sleep. Not this time, apparently.
He needs to get out of bed, now. Even if he doesn't know what is happening, he's always thought better while moving. Thinking while laying down, in silence, with nothing to do, has never been his forte.
He turns to his side, pulling his legs out of the bed and resting them on the floor. The cold sensation is welcomed, and he tries to focus on that for the shortest moment. When it passes, he rests his arm on the bed, trying to sit up as slowly as possible so he doesn't get dizzy.
As he sits up straight, he's suddenly aware of how nauseous he feels. His brain feels numb, like it isn't getting enough blood. His chest now hurts from the tension, and the hand that was previously resting on it is now grabbing, short nails digging into his skin. His stomach is twisting, and some joke about not making it to the bathroom crosses his mind, failing to soothe his racing brain. He sits closer to the edge of the bed, even though he knows his legs won't support him if he tries to stand up.
Bad, bad, bad, bad.
As the seconds pass, his anxiety rises. Definitely not just a panic attack. Not even his worst nightmares make him feel this way when they startle him out of his slumber. He’s been scared before, scared shitless, scared for his life in the most literal way. He knows what it’s like when you’re sure you’re going to die, whether it’s by staring at the barrel of a gun or by running out of oxygen with a rope around your neck. It’s a primal sort of fear, the one that sets off every single alarm in his body, making his survival instincts scream.
But this feeling doesn’t come from an external source. No, this feels way too real, too physical.
No, no, no, this can't be how I go, I can’t, I haven't even finished fixing the fucking–
A moment of clarity. The memory hits him all at once.
His eyes burn as he hits the ground with a dull thud.
∼≋∼≋∼
Stanford wakes up slowly. He doesn't know why he wakes up, really. These days (and with no little amount of effort by both his brother and himself), he either wakes up screaming or he sleeps through the whole night. But this time, he simply opens his eyes like he just closed them. Lazily, without worry. He closes his eyes again.
That sensation only lasts a second, though. The telltale feeling at the back of his neck (which Soos had dubbed “spider-sense”, whatever that meant) is tingling. It's a warning sign that he developed during his time through the portal, when he had to sleep anywhere he could, and half of the time without any kind of protection. It was especially useful at Dimension AkL945-/, where he had to search for refuge in caves already inhabited by animal-like creatures.
This sense is now coming back full force. Something is wrong. He doesn't move, but he listens. Nothing around him. He opens his eyes. No creatures in his peripherals. When he's made sure that he can move around, he follows his safety procedure with the only natural next step.
Where's Stan?
He realizes –FOOL, how did you not notice– that he doesn't hear his brother's snores. In fact, if he listens close, he can hear... labored breathing.
Ford looks out the edge of his bed and sees Stan, sat on the floor against his own bed. He has his knees up to his chest, and he seems to be breathing shallowly.
Bad, bad, bad, bad.
Ford catches himself a second before he jumps out of bed. He can't scare Stan now, not when he's clearly having a panic attack. That will only make it worse. Instead, he climbs down the ladder as slowly as his own anxiety will let him, and he kneels so he can be at Stan's level.
“Stanley?” he calls. His twin looks at him with red eyes, and Ford feels shivers down his spine. Stan looks terrified, and that seems generous. Even in the dim moonlight that shines through the small window, he can tell that he's way too pale. He's clutching his chest with a strength that can't be anything but painful. At the very least, he seems to be able to recognize him.
“Six?” he asks in the most horrifyingly weak voice Stanford has ever heard. He sounds beyond helpless; he sounds like he knows he's beyond help.
“Yes, hold on, let me...” Ford reaches for the bedside table and grabs Stan's glasses. As he puts them on his brother's face, he can't help but notice the tears in his eyes. Then, he softly grabs Stan's face and turns it to the side so he can turn on his hearing aids. He realizes with relief that they're already on. He moves his head again so they can face each other.
“Stanley, what happened? What did you remember?” Ford asks, his mind already going to the darkest places. Stan had told him too many things over the last few months, and he keeps waiting for an anecdote that won't make the previous one look like child play. At this point, he expects anything, even though he never feels prepared enough to hear about Stan’s past.
“No,” Stan replies, his voice too high for how slow he's talking. He swallows one, two times, and with each one he clutches his chest again. “Nothin’.”
Ford has to try really hard not to scoff. Stan has a habit of not telling him things right away, and it delays his recovery. He knows this, he knows shouldn't do it. But with his twin's crying face in his hands, he can't bring himself to mention it.
“Alright, Stanley, you don't need to tell me right now, but I need you to breathe, okay? It’s just a panic attack. Come on, breathe with me.”
“No,” Stan replies again, and this time it sounds desperate. Like he's trying hard to deliver his last message. Ford shakes his head at the thought. “A... arrythmia.”
Everything stops around Ford. He can't have heard that correctly. Absolutely not. His brain automatically goes the scientific route, trying to come up with an explanation. Stan is physically fit despite his age, and surprisingly resilient for the things his body has gone through. They don't have any history of heart diseases in the family. Stan is not that old. He can't, he can't, he can't–
His theories fly away like some papers pushed off a table. Who the fuck cares about the explanation, the consequence is right in front of him! He wants to refute Stan's theory, but despite his desperation, his twin seemed awfully sure of his words.
He moves one of his hands to Stan's neck, now noticing how drenched in sweat he is. His heart rate is erratic, and off the charts. It definitely seems like tachycardia.
He doesn't know what to do. There's nothing they can do. They’d need actual hospital equipment to deal with this, and they're in the middle of the ocean. The closest land is about four or five hours away, and they can’t be sure the hospital will be close enough to the coast, or remotely so. Their first aid kit has nothing helpful. There's nothing, nothing!
It's nothing, Sixer. Just a panic attack. Panic attacks can't kill you, did you know that? They physically can't. So calm down and breathe.
Stanley's words come to his mind. Funnily enough, he said them when he was having a panic attack. Not Stanford. No, he decided to use his precious, shaky breaths to calm Ford down while he was experiencing a panic attack.
Panic attacks can't kill you. A tachycardia can.
His mind is not on his side, as it tends to be. Ford finds himself now with his hands on the floor, feeling the tears about to fall, powerless, useless. He needs to think, and he needs to do so fast. He can already feel his own panic setting in, rendering him speechless first and motionless right after. Look up, look up now, he needs you—
Who would need him now? Unmoving, ineffectual, unable to even think—
“Stanf'rd...” Stan mutters, and like if a button had been pressed, Ford's head shoots up. He makes eye contact with his brother, who now has tears down his cheeks, and simply listens for any word that might come out of his mouth. “H-hold my hand.”
Something shatters inside of Ford. His first instinct is to refuse; he knows why Stan is asking him such a thing, and he refuses to acknowledge it. Even though he’s the most inclined to physical contact out of the two of them, Stan would never asks for it just like that; he simply cracks a joke, sits silently next to Ford or lifts him in the air in what they both know is just an excuse for a hug. Hell, even when he’s experiencing an actual panic attack, he just waits until Ford initiates the contact.
So no, Ford doesn’t want to hold Stan’s hand. It’s just an indicator of how desperately he needs that comfort, how unbelievably scared he is.
On the other hand, how is Stanford supposed to refuse? He knows he can’t. Not when his brother has given him a direct order, a request for something he can actually do to help. As always, even when he’s the one in peril, Stanley manages to keep them both afloat. And once again, Ford is useless.
You can be useless if you want, but don’t you dare be both useless AND selfish.
He sniffs and scoots closer to Stan, grabbing the hand he's being offered. Stan's face contorts into a grimace of pain, closing his eyes, letting a couple new tears fall. Ford watches closely, knowing he can't formulate words anymore, and whines.
“It's fine,” Stan whispers, and slowly lowers his legs until they're resting straight on the floor. The movements are painful, as made clear by Stan's expressions, but he doesn't stop. He scoots lower down the edge of the bed until his head is resting on the mattress. “Come 'ere.”
Ford stares at his brother for a second before he breaks down weeping. He should be better than this, better than to let his dying brother comfort him while he stares and does nothing to help. He feels a deep shame boiling him from the inside out, and ultimately does as he's told.
He sits right next to Stan's legs and leans back until he's resting against his brother's chest, like a kid in a mother's embrace. He can feel Stan's heart, too fast for his liking, and tries to put as little weight as possible on him. He should say something, but no sound (or not human, at least) comes out of his mouth. He feels Stan's hand on his hair, a familiar motion trying to soothe him.
“It's okay, S-six,” Stan mutters, and his voice sounds so close to breaking that Ford wishes he too had hearing aids he could turn off. “I love you,” he adds, the tears betraying his tone.
This time, Ford truly cries. Out of rage, out of helplessness, out of fear. He can't answer, or move, or think anything other than the fact that his brother is actually dying, holding him in his arms like he's the one who needs caring. But he can't bring himself to move a single inch; the moment he moves, it might be over. Stanley told him to do this. The least he can do is do as he says.
His non-human side, now becoming more prominent, nuzzles against Stan's shoulder, in a probably futile attempt to answer. To his surprise, Stan hugs him tighter, now visibly shaking. Stanford lays against his twin as he rocks them both slightly, listening to the other's heart. With the last bit of clarity in his mind, he prays to Bill himself to save his brother.
∼≋∼≋∼≋∼≋∼
It might've been minutes, hours, or 30 more years for all that Stanford knows. He hasn't fallen asleep –not like he could've– but he knows that something else took the reins while he was at his most anxious. He remembers it all, down to Stan's last words, and everything after that just becomes a blur with a 200bpm soundtrack.
Speaking of which, the noise has died down. Not to bare silence, as he realizes after a moment of pure dread, but to a steady, average rhythm. He wills his eyes to move around and notices a hand playing with his own. It's a familiar game: count to six moving each finger apart, a light tap on the last one, and count down. Count up again, two taps, and count down. It's a technique that Stanley used to employ when they were little, on the very scarce occasions he'd confess to Ford that he was not okay. He looks away from his hands after the fourth series, and looks up to see his brother's face. The other notices and smiles softly.
“Hey,” he simply says, but damn it if it isn't the most beautiful noise Ford has ever heard. He sounds exhausted, but alive. Alive.
Stanford moves away from his brother's embrace, sitting back on the floor, barely looking away from Stan. He wants to hug him until he forgets the horrible night they've both had, but he hesitates. He's not in the appropriate condition.
“H—,” Ford starts, his throat hoarse but thankfully able to make some human noises. “How are you feeling?”
“Good. It passed, so better. How are you?”
Ford makes his best ‘what do you mean how am I?’ face, which Stan clocks right away. However, he answers.
“I'm fine, I suppose.”
Stan looks down, playing with his hands, looking embarrassed.
“I... just remembered I need heart medication. For... well, you can tell.”
Ford stares at him dumbfounded. “Yes, I can formulate an idea. But... are you... out of danger now?”
“Well, we should still find a hospital. Probably shouldn't sleep until then, just in case. That's what the paramedics said last time.”
Ford nods as he talks. He doesn't want to ask questions, he just wants to get up and set the course for the nearest city. They aren't too far away from the coast of Norway, surely they can find a hospital in 24 hours.
“Sixer,” Stan calls, pulling Ford out of his own thoughts. He puts a hand on his shoulder. “I'm okay, yeah? It probably won't happen again, I just need an ECG and some pills and I'll be good as new, alrigh'?”
Ford nods again. He feels tiny against his brother's seemingly never-ending confidence. He always has. Even after 30 years of survival training, he still crumbles upon seeing his brother hurt.
“Thank you,” Stan adds, looking straight into Ford's eyes. “You did good, man. You got me out of it. Come 'ere.”
Stan raises an arm, inviting Ford to a hug– a proper one this time. Ford accepts and moves forward, careful not to oppress his brother's breathing or blood flow. However, Stanley seems to not care as much, and he hugs Ford tightly. Ford reciprocates.
A few minutes later, when Ford is sure he's got most of himself pulled together, he stands up and sets the route to Norway.