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“Ford! C’mere, look at this thing!!”
Stan waits until his brother is out on the deck to display his discovery. He holds his hand out, the creature sitting calmly in his palm.
“What?” Ford asks, that natural tone of curiosity that can bring Stan to tears if he thinks about it too much. “What is it?”
“Look!” Stan gestures to his hand as Ford joins him by the rail.
Ford stares at the thing. It’s sort of like if a fish was a spider. Larger than a tarantula, with eight legs, all with thin, spiky hairs, but it’s covered in rainbow scales. Weird as fuck, but Stan’s really come to appreciate and love the weirder things in life. It seems almost domestic, practically nuzzling into Stan’s palm, making an odd sort of contended chirrup sound. All in all, the kind of creature that will fascinate Ford. Stan is so sure of this, in fact, that he barely looks at his brother while he talks.
“I saw a swarm of ‘em swimming– at first I thought they were just fish, but then this one crawled up the side of the ship and made a little home in my hand! They’re kinda cute, Six, the whole anomaly thing is really growin’ on me. Here, take a look.”
Stan places his hand directly next to Ford’s and lets the creature scurry onto the back of his hand, which grips the railing tightly.
Stan smiles proudly at his discovery and gazes up to see his brother absolutely frozen. His eyes are locked on the anomaly. To Stan’s utter surprise, Ford looks blank.
“Hey. Six. You alright?”
Ford doesn’t respond, eyes distant.
Stan waves a hand in front of his eyes. “Can you hear me?”
A tiny, curt nod.
“What’s wrong?”
A pause. After a moment:
“Please get it off.”
Stan blinks. “You– the spider?” Another nod. “Er– y-yeah, you got it.”
Without a second thought, he takes the creature and flings it back into the ocean, presumably with all of its buddies. The thing is suddenly miles away from his mind, and all of his attention is locked into his still frozen brother.
The moment the creature is off of him, Stan notices Ford begins to shake, just slightly.
“Ford, hey, what’s goin’ on? You okay?”
Ford takes a trembling inhale, then visibly shakes himself off and forces a smile. “I– yes. I’m fine.” He clears his throat.
“You’re sure? You totally froze up there.”
“Yes,” Ford answers immediately, “I’m sure. I’m going to…” he looks around, “I have… work to do. Please excuse me.”
Stan watches, dumbfounded, as Ford turns on his heel and hurries inside.
What the fuck was that?
Stan only takes a few seconds to wonder before he comes to his damn senses and follows Ford inside. He lets the door slam behind him and is about to call out his brother’s name when he hears the shower running. Ford is showering. Now Stan is even more concerned– Ford never showers in the middle of the day, he’s strictly a morning shower person. Stan’s never known him to take a shower unless it’s before six in the morning. Shit. Is this all because of the spider? That’s all it could be about, right? I mean, he totally froze up once it crawled on him, and he asked Stan to get it off, but… but he likes weird things like that, right? The whole reason Stan had called him out to see it was because he remembered how much Ford loved insects growing up. Maybe he’s remembering wrong. It’s not as if his memory is the most reliable in the world. Ford’s never mentioned having a thing about spiders. Stan doesn’t know. Jesus.
He waits in the bedroom until Ford finally comes out– nearly an hour later. He still looks a little… rattled. He startles slightly when he sees Stan.
“Oh! I’m sorry, were you waiting for the shower?”
“No, I was waitin’ for you.”
Ford blinks owlishly. “What for?”
“What for–” Okay. Calm down, clearly he doesn’t want you to make a big deal out of this. Maybe he really just… doesn’t like bugs anymore. “Just… wanted to check on you. Froze up a little back there.”
“Oh. Yes. I–” He glances aside, awkward. “I’m sorry.”
Stan rises and crosses to where Ford stands, taking one of his hands and squeezing it. “Don’t apologize. Are you okay?”
Ford does his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I– just don’t like spiders very much, is all.”
“Why didn’t you say anythin’ about it?”
“It’s no big deal. Really, it’s rather childish. I’m quite fine, Stanley. We don’t need to discuss it anymore.”
“You’re sure–”
“Yes.”
His voice sounds final, so Stan decides to drop it and switch the topic. “So, uh… leftover lasagna for dinner still okay? I can make somethin’ else if you want.”
Ford looks completely relieved to have dropped the subject. “Lasagna is great.”
With that, he heads into the kitchen, leaving Stan utterly confused and with no room to discuss it.
Dinner is a relatively peaceful affair– lasagna is one of Ford’s favorites, though he does insist on a side salad, because You need to eat more vegetables, Stanley, the doctor said so herself! Whatever. Fine, he’ll eat the damn vegetables. Anything to make Ford happy, he supposes.
The rest of the night is quite calm– after dinner, they sit out on the deck for a while, with Stan fishing and Ford finishing up some book Mabel insisted he read. Ford didn’t even finish the first chapter before buying up the whole damn trilogy, and he doesn’t stop talking about how the use of Suzanne Collins’ unreliable narration via Katniss serves to reveal the blah blah blah blah blah and more shit Stan doesn’t have any interest in.
He heard there’s a movie of the first book though, which actually seems pretty good. Maybe he’ll give that a watch. But, knowing Ford, if he wants to watch the movie, he’ll have to read the fuckin’ book first.
Once it’s too dark to read, Stan drags his twin inside and insists he go to bed.
All in all, a relatively peaceful night.
The trouble starts once it’s technically the next morning.
Stan wakes to screaming. Not an uncommon occurrence for him, but certainly one he never welcomes. There’s only one place the screaming could be coming from, so he pulls himself out of bed and strides across the room to Ford’s bed (they’ve been meaning to bunk them), beginning to gently shake the post.
“Ford, c’mon, wake up! Just a nightmare, you’re okay!”
Ford thrashes, getting no closer to waking. He looks drenched in sweat, and Stan can hear how shallow his breathing is. Shit. It’s a bad one.
Stan shakes harder. He knows better than to touch Ford in the middle of a nightmare. “Wake up, buddy! You got it!” Please, please, please, Ford. “Ford, please!!”
Ford wakes with a start.
He bolts upright, gasping, shaking all over. His pupils are blown wide, terrified. He looks like he can’t even breathe, but he begins to tear through the covers, yanking them all over like he’s looking for something. One hand grips at his throat. He’s mumbling something between gasping breaths, but Stan can’t make it out.
“Ford, Ford, hey, it’s okay! You’re alright, you’re safe!” Stan tries to keep his voice calm despite his growing panic. This one must’ve been awful for him. “Ford, listen to me, okay? It’s me, it’s Stanley.”
Ford’s eyes flicker to him for just a moment before he resumes his search for god-knows-what.
“It’s me, buddy, remember? We’re sailin’ the world together, just like we always wanted. We’re safe. You’re safe.” He considers reminding his brother that Bill is dead, but he hesitates. If Ford wasn’t dreaming about Bill and Stan reminds him of his old muse, then that could make his distress even worse. He settles for more vague comforts, to be safe. “It’s all gonna be okay. You gotta breathe for me, yeah? Remember that breathing exercise we learned? Wanna try it out?” Still nothing more than a quick flicker. Damnit. “Ford? Can you hear me? I’m right here, please let me help you.”
Ford turns, panting and unsure. There are tears running down his face. He sniffles, squints, then his eyes widen.
“L-Lee?”
“Yeah! Yeah, it’s me, I’m right here.”
Ford looks like he’s about to say something else when he gets a very sick look on his face. Then he gags.
“Shit, Ford, are you gonna be sick?”
Ford doesn’t even need to answer. He gags again. Without a word, Stan helps him up and they all but sprint into the bathroom, and Ford just barely is able to fling up the toilet seat before he’s coughing up his dinner, hunched over the toilet and convulsing.
“Jeez, Ford,” Stan murmurs, sympathetic. He kneels down beside his twin, ignoring the way his knees protest, and begins to rub Ford’s back in slow, circular motions. Ford is able to keep himself from vomiting for just long enough to let out a small, pathetic whine, and then he’s back to puking his guts out. “It’s okay. M’ right here. You’re alright, just get it out.”
Ford vomits for a few more minutes before he seems to have cleared himself out. But right as Stan is about to do… something…
(He never knows quite what to do when Ford is in distress. It’s just so wrong to him, and he hates the way that he freezes when it happens. He’s used to Ford being strong, unshakeable. Not that he’s not allowed to fall apart, he’s allowed to more than anyone, but Stan wishes he didn’t even have a reason to in the first place. And Stan really, really wishes he knew how to help, truly help.)
Anyway. Right as Stan is about to try and help, Ford shoves his fingers down his throat and begins to vomit again.
“Woah, woah, hey, Ford!! Stan stops rubbing his back and starts to pull gently at his shoulders. “Ford–”
Ford shakes him off and keeps vomiting.
“Ford, why are you–” Poison is where Stan’s mind goes first; he can recall a few times when he had to do something similar because of whoever making him take whatever, but Stan’s been with Ford all day! What could he have ingested?
“Stop, Sixer, please,” Stan begs quietly, rubbing Ford’s back again, hoping that somehow snaps his twin out of it. Whatever it is.
But Ford doesn’t stop, not until everything is cleared out, and he can only dry heave. When he’s done, he stares at the bowl intently, as if his own puke is speaking to him.
“Hey,” Stan says softly, “you there?”
Ford blinks at him. Then finally, finally, he scoots away until his back hits the shower door. His eyes are closed, face pinched in discomfort and distress. He breathes heavily.
Stan places himself next to his brother, leaving a little bit of room, making sure Ford knows where he is, and who Stan is. It’s clear he’s not ready to talk, that much is obvious. So Stan simply says, quietly:
“Take your time. I’m right here.”
Slowly, Ford scoots closer and lets his head fall onto Stan’s shoulder. Then, his hand reaches out and takes Stan’s squeezing tightly. It’s the hand he had shoved in his mouth to make himself vomit. Stan tries not to let his disgust show and squeezes back. Ford needs this. They can clean up later. Still… gross.
After a long time of Ford visibly calming himself down, he speaks.
“Lee?” He coughs and clears his throat, voice hoarse.
“Yeah. M’ right here.”
A pause.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t say that.” Stan nudges him gently. “Can you tell me what happened, though? I mean, Jesus, Ford, that was…”
“I know.” Ford sounds so sad that Stan nearly tears up.
“If you’re not ready yet, that’s- that’s okay, but– just… were you poisoned? Is that why you… you know.” It feels a bit stupid, saying it out loud.
Ford sniffles, not seeming to pick up on how idiotic the question is. “No. I wasn’t poisoned.”
“Then… why…?” Stan sighs. “Did it… was it because of the nightmare?”
Ford’s head comes off of Stan’s shoulder. He pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them, then clears his throat.
“Kind of. And– the, er…” He seems to think over his words. “Spider.”
Stan blinks. “The one from earlier today? Shit, if I’d’ve known you hated ‘em that much, I just wouldn’t’ve showed it to you, I just remembered you bein’ all into bugs when we were little, and–”
“No, you didn’t– it’s not your fault. I do really love insects, it’s just the spiders I take issue with. I’m sorry. It was… I overreacted.”
“No, no, hey.” Stan squeezes his hand. “I’m willin’ to bet you didn’t. But you don’t have to tell me about it yet if you’re not ready.”
Ford sighs. “Remember I told you about how– Bill used to… push the physical limits of the human body?”
Stan winces. How could he ever forget what Bill did to his brother? “Yeah. I remember.”
“There was one time, a-a few times, actually, that, er– he… well…” His voice breaks. “Christ. This is ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous.”
“Ford–”
Ford sniffles back a few tears. “It is. He– he made me… eat them.”
“Eat… spiders?”
“I had been studying this anomalous species, I kept them in a jar in the lab. They were harmless, really, but he– I– ate them, and he woke me up to feel them– c-crawling down my throat.” He begins to cry, softly. “I was coughing them up for days, I-I found them in my hair, my bed, I even fully digested some of them, I–” He squeezes his eyes shut and hides his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. That’s what the stupid nightmare was about, and I thought– I-I needed to get them out. I know it’s foolish, considering the dangers we face out here, but I just– damnit.”
Stan immediately wraps his now sobbing brother in his arms, his chest burning with anger. It seems like he finds a new reason to hate Bill Cipher everyday. Sometimes he wishes he could go back in time and kill him again, knowing what he does now. He’d make it fuckin’ hurt! That bastard, taking something Ford studied, something Ford loved, and making him– christ. Stan could throw up just thinking about it. The thought of them crawling up and down his brother’s throat, infesting his twin’s body… Stan hates Bill Cipher more than anyone. More than Rico, more than Jimmy, all of them. Hurting Ford is crossing a line.
He tightens his grip more and more, protective anger taking over, when Ford makes a quiet noise of protest, and Stan realizes how very tight he’s holding on.
“Shit, sorry.” He loosens his hold. “I just– Jesus, Sixer, I- I’m so sorry. Christ.”
Ford hums. “Not your fault.”
Part of Stan can’t help but feel like it is. If he wasn’t so hard headed and just swallowed his pride and talked to his brother, or, beyond that, if he’d just not been an idiot and broken the project in the first place, Ford would’ve been able to go to West Coast Tech, and he never would’ve met Bill!
But Stan knows, from experience, that going down that line of reasoning only makes Ford more upset. He always insists things that were clearly Stan’s fault were his fault or Pa’s fault or whatever. Stan can admit, sure, that Pa is to blame for a lot. But Stan’s own stupid choices were his own and no one else’s.
What are you doing? You’re making this all about you, and it’s about Ford!! Stan shakes his head and flings the thoughts away. He can hate himself later. And, if history repeats itself, he will. But not now.
“I mean I’m sorry that it happened, Six. You didn’t deserve that. You know that, right?”
Ford hums noncommittally.
“Hey. I mean it,” Stan insists. “And I’ll keep sayin’ it until you believe it. You know I will.”
Ford just burrows further into Stan’s chest and lets out another tiny little sob. And in that instant, Stan completely melts.
“It’s okay, Ford,” he murmurs, rubbing circles into Ford’s back. “I gotcha.”
“I hate him,” Ford sobs, barely audible. “I-I hate– I hate him…”
“I know.”
But he doesn’t, not really. Stan can hate Bill all the live-long day, but he didn’t experience Bill the same way Ford did. God, Stan really, really wishes it would’ve been him instead of Ford. Ford didn’t deserve that, and if Stan could, he’d take it all away. But all he can do is hold him now, keep him safe now.
Stan sniffles back the emotion that swells in his chest, the guilt, the sadness, the rage.
“I know, Ford,” he repeats. “I’m here. I gotcha.”
Ford nods timidly and continues to cry. Stan holds him until his sobs finally quiet, and he rubs at his eyes and peeks up, looking exhausted and wrecked. It breaks Stan’s heart all over again.
“Hey,” Stan says softly, “there he is.”
Ford offers a small smile that holds his obvious gratitude.
Then his eyes widen and he pulls away.
“Woah, hey, Ford–”
“God, Lee, I– oh my god,” He holds his hand up. “I-I used this hand to– a-and then I held your hand, if you get sick–” his breathing speeds up again. “Why didn’t you say anything?! Your health is already questionable–”
“Rude,” Stan interjects.
“And I got vomit all over you!” Ford continues, without skipping a beat. “You need– shit, you need to shower, a-and so do I, if I haven’t already gotten you sick–”
“Hey.” Stan grabs his shoulders firmly. “Calm down. I’m okay. Tell you what, we’ll both shower, okay? I’ll go first, then, while you’re in there, I’ll get us a nice midnight snack. Somethin’ easy on your stomach.”
Ford sniffs. “M’ not hungry.”
“You puked up your whole dinner,” Stan points out. “At least just some crackers or some toast.”
Ford sighs. “A-Alright.”
They stand, and Stan pulls his twin into a tight hug. Ford makes a small, happy purring sound and buries his face in the crook of Stan’s neck. When they pull away, he looks far calmer than before.
“Thank you, Lee.”
Damn. Hearing those words never gets old.
Stan sniffles. “Yeah, yeah. Now get out and lemme shower. Yeesh.”
Ford smiles, giving one last look before he leaves Stan alone. On his way out, he calls:
“I love you too.”