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Stan is still asleep, and Ford is dreadfully bored.
Stan always was a bit of a late sleeper, but he needs a lot more, now. If he doesn’t get a solid ten hours, the migraines are brutal. Ford can certainly understand that last part– if you’ve ever had Bill Cipher in your head, you know what an awful migraine is like.
At least Stan doesn’t get seizures, like Ford does. He wouldn’t wish them on his worst enemy. But Stan’s migraines last a lot longer than Ford’s, his already existing condition being exacerbated by the effects of the memory gun, by the trigger Ford pulled. On the worst of occasions, he can be bed bound for days after particularly bad lapses.
But he didn’t have a lapse yesterday, as far as Ford knows, and it’s nearly nine. Stan is almost always up by eight. But Ford would rather die than steal away the rest his brother so rightfully deserves. Still, he worries. And he’s quite bored without someone to talk to.
Well, not just someone. He prefers his own company above the company of most, save for Fiddleford, his grand niece and nephew, and, most prominently, his twin brother. He doesn’t think he could ever tire of spending time with Stanley.
Slowly, quietly, he creaks open to the door to the bedroom. It’s quiet; Stan’s not snoring, and all Ford can hear is the soft song of the waves, rocking the boat gently beneath his feet. He approaches gingerly. One hand comes up cup his sleeping brother’s cheek, affection swelling in his chest. After a moment, he shakes Stanley’s shoulder–gently– and murmurs, calling him to the land of the living.
“Lee?” His voice is soft and gravelly, a special gentleness he reserves only for his brother and the niblings. “Time to get up. Can you hear me?”
Stan stirs, slightly. He makes a small, indecipherable noise and blinks his eyes open, then immediately shuts them again as if the very action was far too much. He turns on his side, curling up, face still turned toward his brother. He looks unwell.
“Are you feeling alright?” Ford prompts. “You’re not sick, are you?” They just got over joint colds, Stan couldn’t be sick again, could he? They were both coughing and sneezing and sniffling for a whole week. Germs spread quickly in close quarters. Ford reaches a hand up and feels his twin’s forehead. “You’re not warm. Lee? Lee, can you please open your eyes and talk to me?”
Stan groans softly. “…No.”
Ford blinks. “No?”
Stan’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out, like his brain is having trouble syncing to his vocal chords. After a moment of focus, he croaks out:
“Head hurts.”
“Ah.” Ford sits down at the edge of the bed and rubs Stan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Is it…” Damnit. The question always comes up. Always. Ford can’t ever fight it away, even though he knows, by now, that is always the same. It’s not him. Can’t be him. But his fear lingers. “Just a headache? No pain anywhere else, no? How– h-how are your eyes feeling? Please, can you open them for just a moment? Then you can close them again, I promise.”
Begrudgingly, Stan obeys. He blinks them open heavily, not complaining as Ford peels them wide and uses the morning sun as a light source to make sure there’s nothing wrong. Nothing yellow. Nothing slitted and piercing.
After a moment, he relinquishes.
“Sorry,” he says, somewhat hollowly. He doesn’t want to make Stan uncomfortable, of course he doesn’t, but a minor inconvenience is far better than–
MISS ME, FORDSIE?
Far better than the alternative.
“Don’ worry about it,” Stan slurs in response. “Close the curtains?”
“Oh– Yes, yes, of course.” Ford rises quickly and slides the blackout curtains closed, then shuts the door to mute the unrelenting noise of the bathroom fan. “I’ll grab some tylenol, and the headache hat as well.”
“No,” Stan mutters, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. “Looks stupid on me.”
“It looks stupid on everyone,” Ford argues lightly. “It’s not supposed to be fashionable, it’s supposed to lessen the pain.”
“Don’t even hurt that bad.”
“Yes, you look like you’re in peak condition currently.” Ford gently opens the door and calls over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.” He hears Stan grumble behind him.
He returns a few minutes later with the headache hat from the freezer, a glass of water, and two extra-strength tylenols. He perches back on the edge of the bed. Stan groans, but lets his brother ease his head up and wiggle the hat on. He places the pills into Stan’s hand, and the glass of water into the other. Stan takes them blind, a familiar routine, then finishes the water for good measure. Ford eases his twin’s head back onto the pillow, and hears a small sigh of relief escape Stan.
“You didn’t feel warm, so I assume you’re not sick. Did you…” Ford’s voice is quiet. Another question he hates to ask. “Did you remember something?”
Stan tenses slightly. But he’s clearly too exhausted to put up a front or try to play it off. He sniffles, expression unreadable under the headache hat. “…Yeah.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“What about?”
“Stupid.”
“Not stupid,” Ford says instinctively. He doesn’t realize that he gets louder, firmer. Stan flinches with a quiet whimper. “Oh– I’m sorry,” Ford whispers, one hand once again massaging Stan’s shoulder again, soothingly. “I’m sorry. But I’m sure it’s not stupid.”
“Wasn’t even that bad.”
“From the migraine, I can assume it wasn’t even that good, either.” When Stan doesn’t respond, Ford sighs. “You don’t have to tell me about it, especially right now. It’s okay.” Stan rolls over onto his stomach, clearly wanting Ford to massage his back. Ford does so, making gentle circles between his twin’s shoulder blades, murmuring soft, incomprehensible comforts that sound almost more like coos.
After a moment, he tries again. “I-I’m sorry to ask, but– and, I’ll drop it, if you want me to, just– can you tell me what would–”
“Pa,” Stan grumbles. “Remembered somethin’ ‘bout Pa.”
Ford is silent, an awful weight coming over his chest.
“Was stupid. Happened a thousand times. Don’ know why this time–” he takes a shuddery inhale. “Got in a fight. With Crampelter. Beat me up real good, couldn’t hide it. Nose was all crooked, wrist was bent all wrong. Pa–“ his breath hitches, and he stops for a moment.
“Lee?” Ford pauses in his massage. “You don’t have to continue.”
Stan shakes his head, then groans in regretful pain. He turns so that his face isn’t crushed in the pillow, hands reaching to pull at the fabric of Ford’s pajama pants, clinging to it pitifully. Gently, carefully, Ford takes his hands and squeezes them.
“Lee…”
“Pa didn’t like when I got into fights. Went ahead and took it all a step further. Broke my other wrist, got my nose more crooked and bloody– I mean, god, Six, it didn’t stop bleedin’ for hours.” His voice wavers, and he sniffles loudly. He won’t let himself cry. He always tries not to cry when he talks about Pa. Sometimes his efforts prove successful. Sometimes they don’t. “Anyways, he banged me up real good. Couldn’t walk right for a month. Ma wanted to take me to the doctor, but… I mean, you know Pa. He wouldn’t let her.”
“Oh, Stanley…” Ford’s voice is thick with tarry guilt. “Where– I mean, when this all… happened, was–”
“You were off at some science camp,” Stan answers gruffly, addressing the unspoken question. “Were gone for about two weeks. Cleaned up a bit by the time you got back, blamed what you could see on boxin’.”
“I–” Ford shoves it down. He’s asked the same question a thousand times before, thought it a million times more than that. Stan didn’t tell him because Stan was afraid. Stan wanted to protect him. And as much as it kills Ford that he didn’t know, he never knew, he let it happen he let Stanley suffer alone for so long for their whole childhood he was too ignorant too stupid too selfish to see what was right in front of his eyes–
He didn’t know.
He knows now.
And marinating in that guilt would be making it about himself, and it’s not about him. It’s about Stanley.
“It was wrong, how he treated you,” Ford chokes. “You didn’t deserve it.”
Stan sniffles from under the headache hat. “I know.”
“I know you know. But… do you know?”
Stan is silent for a moment, his finger tracing Ford’s calloused hand.
“…Yeah. Sometimes.”
“Do you now?”
“I dunno.”
Ford sighs. “You know you could’ve woken me up. Last night, I mean.”
“Thought I could… I dunno. Got a thousand of memories like this, I didn’t think it would…” he gestures, vaguely. “You know.” He suddenly lets out a quiet, sad noise, a borderline sob. “Ford, my head really hurts…”
“Oh, Lee. I know.” Ford squeezes his hand tightly. “I know. I’m right here, okay? You’ll feel better soon.”
Another not-sob. “You promise…?”
“I promise.”
Stan hums, sniffling back any more tears that threaten. “Can you stay with me?”
Ford’s heart breaks a little in his chest. He’s not mad at Stan for asking that, for assuming Ford will want to escape at the first chance he can get. It’s not like their past has given Stan any reason to believe otherwise. No, Ford only has himself to blame, to hate for that.
But in Ford’s mind, remaining by Stan’s side isn’t even a question. It’s a given. Automatic, like breathing.
“Of course I can. I’d love nothing more.”
Slowly, with effort and through pain, Stan scooches over and makes room. Ford crawls in, making sure to be extra careful and not jostle his brother–especially his head. Stan rests his head gently on Ford’s chest, one arm curled up against his own chest and one snaking around Ford’s torso. He sighs, weighed down by sadness, but relieved. Contended. He makes a quiet hum.
Ford places one arm on his own torso and gently runs a finger along Stan’s arm, then massages his back gently with the arm that’s wrapped around his shoulders.
“Lee?” Ford whispers, questioning.
“Hm?”
“You know I’m here, right?”
“Uh. Yeah, Six, I’m like, layin’ on you right now.”
“No, I mean– well, yes, but I mean. I’m here. And I’m not going to go anywhere, I’m not– I’m not going to leave you alone. You want me to stay, I’ll stay. It’s not even a question. I always– want to be around you. And you don’t even have to ask. You’re– I understand why you– of course you can ask, I just– I’ll always stay. Is what I mean.”
“I know, Ford.” Stan’s voice is full of affection. Of trust.
“Do you know know?”
Stan sniffles. “Yeah. I do.”
Ford tries to hide the small, quiet noise that escapes him. He doesn’t sniffle, tries not to for any indication of the emotion pouring from his eyes. He waits until Stan finally falls asleep for that.
But the tears don’t come.
Instead, he holds Stan close, murmuring quiet comforts, hoping that they somehow seep through the headache hat, through his skin and skull and into his brain. He hopes Stan knows, knows knows, that what Ford said is true.
He’s not going anywhere. He’s not leaving his brother alone. Not ever again. He doesn’t think he could, really. He needs Stan, probably more than Stan needs him. Stan built a life for himself in Ford’s absence, formed a community, planted roots. Ford, however, his whole life is three people. His life is his family. He’s done putting anything else before his family. He’s done putting anything else before Stanley.
So he stays put by Stan’s side. Eventually, he falls asleep. Wakes back up, Stan is still asleep by his side. Ford doesn’t know what time it is, and he doesn’t care.
He stays, still.