Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ford doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that the rain hitting his face feels warm. Probably not, though it stops feeling like anything fairly quickly, so he puts it out of his mind and focuses on the lines. His clothes are drenched, clinging uncomfortably to his skin, and all he can hear is the noise of the storm and the crashing of the waves against the boat. Better the boat than him though.

His fingers are shaking as he ties down supplies and pulls things back into place. The quick burst of adrenaline that kept him going after he hit the water seems to be fading much quicker than he expected, leaving his movements sluggish, and his hands clumsy. He’s fine. He’s still on a particularly stubborn knot when Stan suddenly reaches around him and ties it swiftly and efficiently.

Huh.

He takes a moment to stare blankly at it. Surely he can’t have been failing that badly, but when he turns his head to glance around the deck, he sees that the rest of the crates and machinery have already either been tied back down or otherwise secured.

Huh.

He’s pulled back by Stan’s hand on his shoulder, turning in time to see his mouth moving. He looks concerned, his brow furrowed. Ford can’t hear him over the roar of the wind, can’t feel anything aside from a growing numbness. He stares back, confused. His brother does not seem to like that. Frown deepening, Stan turns towards the door, grabbing his forearm, and tugging him behind. Ford follows, surprised to find that his feet also seem to not obey him properly. He finds himself stumbling back, catching himself on his crate, arm still stretched out behind Stan.

Stan turns around, eyebrows raised. When he sees him, his expression gets even more serious. He steps back, hauling Ford upright with an arm wrapped around his waist. He walks them both quickly towards safety, Ford stumbling along side him. It’s strange. He doesn’t feel cold. He doesn’t feel much of anything, let alone Stan touching him. That thought should concern him more than it does, that his limbs won’t obey him, that he can barely think, but all he feels is a strange floaty-ness, like his head is filled with fog.

They reach the door and are soon inside the main room of the boat. Ford is sharply aware of the sudden silence that hits him as the door is shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the storm. A wave of warmer air washes over him, although he still feels removed and distant from the sensation. He feels...tired? Maybe. There’s more movement, but it all seems to be from so far away. He isn’t aware of his eyes closing until Stan is shaking him, gripping his shoulder again.

He blinks his eyes open and glances around. The world keeps fading in and out or his view. When did he sit down? He isn’t sure, but he is. Sitting on something hard in what appears to be their bedroom. A chair? He blinks again, Stan’s worried gaze filling his view.

“Hey, you with me?” His voice is low, but intent.

“Hm,” He wants to say more, see why Stan looks so tense, but he feels so tired. So numb. He doesn’t think he could get his mouth to work, even if he could get his brain to. Still his reply seems to relieve some of Stan’s tension, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly.

“’K. That’s good, Ford. You just keep listenin’ to me, okay? We gotta get ya outta that wet stuff. You’ve gotta be freezing.”

He isn’t. He tries to focus on keeping his eyes open, despite the pull of sleep tugging at him. Being tired is a feeling with which he is very familiar, given his usual sleep schedule. This feels different though, like a tide that would sweep him away if he wasn’t careful.

Stan helps him out of his jacket. Even soaking wet, it’s loss makes goosebumps break out on his skin. The numb feeling starts to recede and he starts to become aware of the cold he feels. It starts as a tingling in his fingertips and toes. He becomes even more aware of the feeling of seawater dripping off him, his clothes heavy. His boots and socks are tugged off, as well as his pants. He tries to help, but his limbs won’t obey him, starting to shake slightly. With every article that comes off, he’s left even more aware of the temperature of the air around him. It must be warmer in here than outside, but it still feels frigid on his skin.

When Stan grasps the hem of his sweater, his brain remembers enough to protest, his hand coming up the rest on Stan’s, grasping weakly.

“N-no…” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He can’t really think enough to remember why, but he knows there’s a reason he doesn’t want his sweater off. In front of others? Stan?

Stan pauses in his movements, eyes darting up to his face. He softens slightly, one of his hands moves and rests on Ford’s. It feels hot.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. You just need to warm up some. You’ll feel better without it on.” His voice is low, and far more gentle than it’s usual gruffness.

Ford blinks at him. He can’t...he knows-no, Stan is right. He isn’t thinking very clearly right now, but he trusts Stan. The back of his mind is whispering to him how It’s not safe you can’t he’ll see they’ll see, but for once, he ignores it. He’s being foolish. He wants to be warm and Stan is here. He feels uneasy still, but he finds himself nodding, and releasing Stan’s hand. The loss of the warm grip is almost enough to make him regret that choice, but it’s too much effort to move it back now.

Stan looks surprised for a moment, before smiling a little at him, easing the worry still in his gaze.

“Good. Now you just rest up, Sixer. I got ya.” And with that he starts wrangling Ford out of his sweater, despite it doing its best to cling to him.

Ford stops paying as much attention at this point. Before he felt numb and tired with mild concern, but now with the tingling and shivering becoming more and more a presence in his mind and his body, he finds himself wishing for it’s return. His eyes shut again, this time squeezing. He wraps his arms around his bare chest as best he can. It’s definitely cold in here now. They have a heater right? Maybe it broke in the storm, or the storm is in here now, although he’d probably hear the wind, if that was the case.

He feels warm hands tug him into standing, and he leans against Stan, legs wobbling. He hears a quiet “oof” as he does so, and then his brother is rubbing something roughly over his skin, despite his slurred protests. Then, Stan is coaxing him into a dry pair of pants. It’s a bit difficult with Ford leaning on him like he is, but he can’t find it in himself to move. Now that he’s aware of the cold, it’s quickly becoming all he can think of. Between the growing chill, and the exhaustion settling in, he finds everything slipping away again. He is distantly aware of his teeth chattering, and shivering. Stan wraps his arms around him tighter for a moment and, as much as a small part of him is surprised by the closeness, he finds himself relaxing a little in his hold. This is...

Huh.

He doesn’t really know what to think or feel in this moment. He is only aware of the warmth; it distracts him from everything else. It makes him feel warm in his chest, inside where he didn’t know he was cold. It feels strange, and invasive, but...maybe good. Maybe very good.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), the arms don’t stay very long, loosening around him and pulling away from him, until it’s just hands on his arms. He isn’t really aware of his limbs moving but then he feels the world tilt around him as he’s eased onto something soft. As the arms release him completely, he lies there shivering fitfully, already missing the heat. He wants to reach out or tell them to come back, but his limbs are too heavy.

Something heavy falls on top of him with a soft “fwump”. As it’s tugged and arranged around him, he still finds himself missing the warmth of before. The blankets stop rustling, and for a moment he is left there, shivering and shuddering now. It’s dry and comfortable, but not as warm. Not as cozy. It doesn’t give him the feeling of something that he felt. The strange mix of discomfort, and maybe a little fear, but also soothing warmth, and he doesn’t want to think safe, because he knows he never is, but…

He shuts his eyes tighter and can’t stop the sound that leaves his throat. He hears sounds, faintly. He recognizes it as Stan’s voice, although he can’t make out the words. It brings him a surprising amount of comfort, to know that Stan is there, even if he can’t see him. His world continues to narrow. He almost wishes he could sleep, but the cold keeps him present, just enough to not be numbing.

The warmth is back, touching his head. Distantly, he wonders if it can read his mind. Stay. He can’t hear anything now, removed from his body. There’s more movement around him, faint rustles, and for a moment he’s even colder than he already is.

Then he’s shocked by the sudden heat wrapping around him. There’s more movement but he is too far gone to pay much attention to anything, except for the contentment in his bones. He falls asleep faster than he has in years.

***

Ford blinks himself awake, some time later, laying on his back in bed. Confusion is the first thing that hits him. He’s not in his bed, it’s too low to the ground for the top bunk. He’s bundled under several layers of blankets, and he is alone. There’s a space next to him that’s warm, another pillow stolen from somewhere else. He almost wants to spend time thinking about these facts, but his body’s discomfort draws his attention.

Focusing on how he feels isn’t a pastime Ford is accustomed to. He pays enough attention to his body to know if he’s injured, and to gauge how badly, but most of the time, it is a distraction. Over the course of his life, he’s had much more important things to do (his mission, planning, surviving) than to worry about things like hunger, or illness. He made sure to pay enough attention to ensure he didn’t die, of course, but he’s well-practiced at the art of ignoring discomfort. Which is why it surprises him that it is suddenly all he can think about, demanding his scrutiny.

He’s aware of warmth, an oppressive heat over him, as the blankets are tucked up over the lower half of his face. He feels sweaty and his body aches as he shifts, testing out movement. Mind sluggish, he runs through his checklist. Capable of movement? Yes. Senses working? He isn’t wearing his glasses, but that seems to be the only cause of the blurriness in his vision. So good enough then.

He turns and gets an arm under him to push himself into sitting up. The blankets fall away and cool air washes over him. He takes a moment to savor the feeling. His body feels heavy, but the coolness is pleasing on overheated skin. It takes him a moment to realize what is so odd about that feeling. He glances down at bare skin. He feels a thrum of panic at this realization, but it feels distant, like he doesn’t have the space right now in his head to feel it properly. Still, he can’t stay like this.

Ford shoves the rest of the blankets off, throws his legs over the side, and stands in one movement. This does not seem to be the best decision he’s ever made, as the room immediately swims around him, made even worse without his glasses. He gasps, his legs shaking, and catches himself on the dresser. He endures for a moment, looking around for his glasses before it becomes to much and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. Where did he leave them? He can’t remember... No matter. That’s fine. He doesn’t need them.

He scrubs at his face with one hand as he waits for the world to stop spiraling. This is getting annoying. He can’t function like this. He huffs in frustration. This is fine. He can fix this. Whenever he needs help focusing and getting it together, there is one thing that has never failed. One constant throughout some of the worst times in his life. Coffee. But first, a shirt.

Ford opens his eyes again, squinting around for his missing sweater. He doesn’t see anything resembling it, in fact he notes that their floor seems to be lacking in the usual clothes scattered about. Of all the times for Stan to clean up, it has to be now. He lets out an angry breath, before turning to his current crutch, and opening a drawer. It’s fine, really. He doesn’t need his sweater, just a shirt or something. These are Stan’s, but given that this is probably his fault, it’s really fitting that Stan helps fix it.

He throws on the first thing he finds, some t-shirt with a graphic on it. Good enough. He isn’t eager to run around the ship in pajama pants and a t-shirt, but he’s already wavering on his feet. Maybe he’ll change after coffee. That will make it better. Probably. (Or at least make it easier to ignore.)

Ford straightens and makes his way to the kitchen, passing the other doors that lead to the rest of the rooms. He pushes through the dizziness and the weakness, and soon finds himself standing in the middle of their small kitchen. Here he finds his fortitude failing him and takes a moment to lean on the counter. He attempts to take a breath and force through it, but it’s difficult and his concentration keeps straying, thoughts slipping from one thing to another.

Should start coffee. That always helps. More energy. Can’t sleep.

No, that’s not now. That’s in the past.

You’re fine. Just need…

“What the fuck, Ford!?”

He’s jolted out of his thoughts at Stan’s shout. He abruptly straightens, standing as upright as he can and turns to face his brother, clearing the discomfort from his face. Stan looks shocked and flushed, like he’s been running around, although Ford can’t make out the finer details of his face. He stares at Ford, face slipping into a concerned frown. He can’t have that.

“He-” He’s interrupted by a tickle in his throat, coughing slightly. “Hello, Stanley. What-what brings you here?”

His pathetic attempt at acting normal seems to have an adverse effect as Stan’s face hardens and he crosses the room in long strides.

“What the hell are you doing up right now?” Stan sounds angry as he stops in front of him, hands on his hips.

Ford stiffens. He doesn’t-He’s-Stan’s just looking at him. Waiting. Watching him. He takes step to the side, away, still leaning back slightly on the counter. He finds himself glaring back, hackles rising.

“I-that’s none of your concern.” He can’t meet Stan’s eyes any longer, glaring to the side. He hears Stan make a choking noise, a mix of offended and enraged. He glances back up for a second before looking away again. Stan is just standing there, expression a mix of angry and something unreadable.

He doesn’t really want to fight right now, doesn’t have the energy to fuel any real anger. He’s not even sure what they’re arguing about, but Stan is mad and he won’t just give in. He can’t give in. He swallows, tense. Ford hopes Stan doesn’t notice the way he leans more heavily on the counter, or how despite waking up overheated, the cool air inside is starting to feel unpleasantly cold. It feels like ages of terse silence, as they stand there.

Ford is seriously about to consider leaving, maybe going into the study/storage room to get away from this. From arguing and getting looked at and- he hears Stan sigh, heavy and tired. When he speaks, there’s none of the anger. His voice is just quiet, and even.

“Ford.” Another sigh. “I’m...sorry. I didn’t...I don’t want to fight with you.”

He feels himself relax the smallest bit. He looks back to Stan through the corner of his eyes. The fight has drained out of him, and he stands with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s still watching him though, face unreadable.

“I don’t want that either.”

If he speaks quietly, it’s less likely Stan will notice anything in it. Now that they don’t seem to be about to about the start shouting at each other, he can feel the adrenaline fading and he starts to be more aware of his growing weariness. He doesn’t even feel like coffee anymore. The thought of moving an inch feels like a tremendous effort, let alone getting a mug from the cabinet or starting the coffee machine. He’s honestly not sure what to do at this particular moment. He feels caught in place, immobilizes by his own apparent failure to control himself, and Stan. Who is still just staring at him.

“Okay, glad we got that outta the way. You gonna go lay back down now?”

“What? No.”

“Ford-”

“Stanley. I’m fine. Honestly, you’re overreacting.”

His stomach is churning and never-mind, he would rather be arguing, doing anything than this, but Stan doesn’t bite. He doesn’t hear offended scoffs or anything other than more silence.

“Look, Ford. You gotta tell me what’s wrong.”

Any ounce of ease he’d still felt slips away at those words. His mouth goes dry and he swallows uncomfortably.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Stan gives him a stink eye that suddenly reminds Ford of their mother, or perhaps Mabel when she feels like it.

“Uh-huh. You’re standing in the kitchen in pajamas, not a day after almost freaking freezing to death, shaking like a leaf. And nothing’s wrong. I’m overreacting.”

Huh. So that’s what happened. When he puts some effort into it, he can recall flashes of that. Of cold and warmth in equal amounts that confuses him to think about so he stops. He shifts again, looking away.

“I’m really fine, Stan. No need to worry. I just-um-was going to get coffee going. Would you like some?”

“You-of course you would, you idiot.” He looks back just in time to see Stan rub his temple with one hand, the other on his hip.

“Look Ford, uh, maybe we can, ya know, sit down and talk about this more?”

Ford frowns.

“I’m fi-”

Stan cuts him off, sounding exasperated.

“Look I get it, you’re totally fine. But wouldn’t ya know, maybe I’m the tired one. Ya know after fighting that crazy storm and then tryin’ to keep your sorry ass alive all night. Ya know, you, who almost freakin’ died.”

Oh. Well, that does make sense when he thinks about it, even though he knows what Stan is pulling. He can let it slide though. Just this once. Plus, sitting down would be nice, given the way he feels moments away from sliding down the wall.

“I suppose...that’s alright then.”

Stan looks relieved, moving to the small booth by the window and taking a seat at one end. With all the self-discipline he possesses, Ford straightens and strides the steps to join him, steady as he can manage, before sinking into it as well. He thinks he did a decent job there, but Stan doesn’t look reassured, still watching him like a hawk.

“Okay, Ford. Do you remember what we talked about before we left?” Stan’s tone is even, trying for normal, even as his face is the opposite.

“Of course I do.” He sniffs.

Stan looks unimpressed.

“Uh-huh. What was it then.”

Ford frowns. Waving a hand, he says “Well, you know. Making sure we don’t… well...repeat our past mistakes.”

“Uh-huh. And what were some of the things we promised we’d do?”

He does not like where this conversation is going.

“Well. You know. Not arguing-”

“Aaaand?”

He stays silent, glaring at the table. He hears Stan sigh, again. That’s starting to be annoying. Like Ford is the one being difficult here.

“I think...that maybe...one of the things we talked about…” He pauses, looking at Ford expectantly. He stubbornly keeps his eyes down. Stan continues anyway.

“...was maybe, ya know, communicating and shit. Just a hunch. Maaaybe.”

He glares at Stan. He almost wants to be annoying purely out of spite, but given the way he’s started feeling cold and shaky and most certainly the most terrible he’s felt in maybe years, he doesn’t have that kind of time. He wraps his arms around himself in an attempt to stay slightly warmer. Why does Stan always have to be right?

“I know you’re not happy about it, but, I’m just, maybe, a little concerned about you or something like that. Given that when I left to clean up a bit, you were passed out, and running a fever. And then, I find you missing and discover that you somehow made it to the kitchen, and were trying to get even more dehydrated, by making coffee. Which didn’t look like it was going too great for ya.”

He groans, raising a hand to rub his face. “You don’t have to keep rubbing it in.”

“Heh, sorry bout that. But seriously. What’s up? How ya feeling?”

Ford looks down again. There’s barely any point to pretending anymore. He’s failed spectacularly in that regard. Still, the idea of speaking the words aloud feels like...weakness, makes his skin crawl and his hands shake where they’re gripping each other.

He’s fine.

Stan would know he’s lying, but still. It’s the principle of the thing.

“I…” He can say it. Right? He swallows and shuts his eyes at a sudden dizziness that sweeps through him. Shit. He thinks longingly of the bed he’d left.

He hears Stan stand up from his seat.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yes.” The answer leaves him without thought, eyes still shut tight.

“Ya know...it’s okay if you’re not. I-uh… just wanna help.”

Stan sounds as awkward as he feels. This is still so new to him. To both of them. Honesty and being open. The things that are important to healthy relationships, according to the research he’d done on the subject anyway. He knows that, but it’s still so hard to admit things that would’ve gotten him killed a year ago. 6 months ago. But it’s worth it. It has to be. Stan is worried about him, genuinely cares about his well-being, despite his sarcasm.

Ford has a sudden memory of being very warm and safe, wrapped in something very unlike the blankets he’d woke in. He feels a sudden yearning so strong it almost takes his breath away, to experience that again. That’s a bit too much for his already overwhelmed mind and he shoves the thought away for now. The important thing is that Stan is right. He needs to be more open. Stop keeping so many things hidden. Even if that’s all he’s done, for a very long time. Stan is worth that.

Stan is also still standing by him, watching him with a concern he can feel. He takes a deep breath.

“I…yes. I might not...be.” Well. It didn’t come out like he’d wanted, but good enough.

Stan steps closer, til he’s at his side. He hesitates before reaching out a hand and placing it on his shoulder. Ford feels a touch of the warmth from his fuzzy memories. It feels solid and steady on him, helps him relax enough to look hesitantly up at Stan.

His brother still looks concerned, but he also looks...relieved.

“Okay. Thank you for telling me.” Stan’s hand tightens on him for a moment, reassuringly. Then he just waits there, looking at him expectantly.

“So huh, how are you feeling really?” Stan prompts him, when Ford says nothing.

“Oh, um...not entirely well.” Bad.

“You wanna expand on that a little?”

Ford shakes his head. Stan is looking at him again, concerned, but he is running out of energy to really mind the watching.

“That’s fine, you can tell me later. Why don’t we just get you back to bed. I’ll take care of everything else. You just need to rest, okay? Can you get up?”

“’course.” He’s felt worse than this and done much more intensive activity. He can’t recall a specific example at the moment, but he’s sure there is one. He shrugs off Stan’s hand (with a surprising amount of reluctance), and struggles to his feet. The fact that he almost immediately staggers into Stan (who instantly catches him with a shocked “oof”) proves nothing.

“Uh okay. This works, I guess.” Stan sounds a bit uncertain, but gets an arm around him. “Damn, you’re burning up.”

He almost wants to tell Stan about how he actually feels rather cold, but finds that his thoughts don’t magically get spoken aloud. How unfortunate. His brother’s arm around his waist is doing a lot to warm him though, and his own arm around Stan’s shoulder even more so. Stan’s just...warm, like a fireplace after a winter day or coffee in the mornings. He’s quickly finding it just as comforting.

So, for the second time in 24 hours, Ford is escorted back to bed. He honestly feels like he could make it there himself, but Stan does seem rather concerned, and the walls are spinning, so he’s alright with being coddled, just this once.

He almost laments their arrival, despite his shaking legs, because Stan immediately sits him on the bottom bunk and releases his hold.

“Here, you lay down. Lemme go get some stuff.” He narrows his eyes, but his voice is light when he adds, “Don’t you go running off again.”

Ford doesn’t dignify that with an answer as he manages to lean back against the pillows again. He can’t help the relieved sigh that leaves him when he does so, but at least no one hears it. He lets his eyes rest for a bit as he waits. Stan’s coming back, so he can wait. It feels wrong to just be laying down, doing nothing. The sun is up, and it’ll probably be a nice day after the storm. He shouldn’t still be in bed so late, shouldn’t waste the day doing nothing, shouldn’t waste so much time. But...he has time now, doesn’t he? He doesn’t have an all-important mission anymore to dedicate every waking moment to, or an infinite amount of enemies tracking him, ready to strike. So…this is okay, probably.

Even if it isn’t, Ford doesn’t think he can manage his usual amount of concentration to push through it. Has he gotten weaker since coming home? Unable to ignore things he’s ignored for years? Less disciplined? The thought would worry him, but then he thinks of the things he’s gotten to experience in place of that. Meeting friends, new and old, the kids and their kindness, getting his brother back. He thinks that it’s probably worth it, losing that skill, if it means he’s gotten to have this.

His pondering is paused when Stan returns with an armful of things that he sets on the dresser. Ford squints, trying to look closer.

“Ah, you’re prob’ly looking for these, right?” And he finds his glasses placed on his face, vision finally coming into focus. He blinks up at Stan. Hm. He does look rough himself, hair ruffled and eyes tired. He also frowns again, before walking over and fussing over him.

“What’re you doing, Sixer? You’re supposed to be under the covers. That’s how they work, ya know.”

When he finishes, Ford is back bundled up again. Waking up as a mummy early suddenly makes a lot more sense. Then Stan turns back to the dresser.

“Okay, you got a sore throat?”

He blinks and then shakes his head.

“Hmm, headache?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Hmm, what else you feeling?”

He hesitates only a moment and answers slowly.

“Just...cold and achy. Tired.”

Stan turns back to him, inspecting him with another “hmm.” His watching doesn’t feel bad like it did before. He doesn’t feel judged or unsafe, instead he just feels… nothing much at all, gazing back, tiredly.

“Well, you still look like shit. Not white as a sheet anymore though. So that’s a plus.” Stan leans forwards and presses a hand to his forehead. He has to shut his eyes at how nice it feels. “You definitely have a fever though. Not a small one either.”

He pulls away again. “Here, you should take this and make sure you drink some water.”

Ford sits up slightly, taking the pills and the glass Stan hands him. The water does feel nice on his throat and he drinks until he feels full, before handing it back and laying back down. He watches with hooded eyes as Stan starts sorting and putting things away. How many of their random medications had he grabbed? It’s almost enough to make him laugh, but instead he just watches fondly. He feels warm, and not just from the blankets. Stan might deny it, but he’s one of the fussiest people Ford knows, especially when it came to the people he cared about. Ford is happy to be included in that.

Stan turns back to him, finished with his organizing.

“So, uh. You should probably rest. Get some sleep and all that good stuff.”

He does feel tired, being horizontal at last wearing away at the last of his reserves, but still not quite comfortable enough to drop off. He still feels...weird. The odd vulnerable feeling that’d opened up in him along with his words is still there.

“What are you gonna do?” He asks, sleepily. Hopefully.

Stan looks surprised.

“Oh, probably go finish some chores. Check outside and finish cleanin’ up the deck.”

Oh. That’s probably important. Ford can’t help the little sigh that leaves him though. That’s fine. He’s not a child, he doesn’t need to be babysat. And yet. He’d been hoping…

“What’s up?” He looks back to Stan to see him standing there, attention back on him.

Ford looks down. “Nothing.”

“Aww come on, don’t clam up on me now. You’ve been doing good.” He knows Stan is just teasing him, but he can’t help the heat that rises on his face. Although that might just be the fever.

“Well...I was just wondering, if perhaps, you might need some rest as well.”

He grips the blankets and turns his face into more into the pillows so he doesn’t see Stan’s reaction. He cannot believe he just said that. Is he really doing this? It’s so childish. It’s just… he kind of remembers last night and being held and how safe it felt. It reminds him of when they were children and more nights than he can recall clearly, bad dreams or the like would drive them into each others beds for comfort.

It’s been a long time since he’s been held by Stan. They’ve been doing well rebuilding the bond they once had, but Ford still counts every hug or touch they exchange, even if time has made them awkward with each other. Ford doubts he’d be thinking so much about how much he wants that if he was in his right mind, but right now it doesn’t feel quite as embarrassing. Still, when Stan says nothing, he finds his bravery withering.

“Nevermind, it’s stupid, you don’t-” His whisper is interrupted suddenly. “No!”

Ford doesn’t peek up, but he does pause, waiting.

“I-um-you.” Stan sounds uncomfortable, stammering. Ford regrets his words even more, until Stan clears his throat and continues.

“Um, you’d want that?” He sounds… surprised, but not unhappy. Well, Ford has always been the more reserved of the two of them, even more so since returning. He buries his face even more, muffling his response.

“Well, yes…uh, I’m rather cold, and you’re very warm, um, and well, yesterday, you… it’s okay if you don’t want to…” God, he feels stupid, but he can’t take it back now.

There’s a few moments of silence before, “You remember that? Last night?”

“...a little. Was nice.” Ford’s dying. He must be dying to have embarrassed himself this badly, to speak this much without thinking it through. Hopefully, he can suffocate himself on this pillow he’s currently inhaling.

Stan clears his throat again, and Ford feels the fragile warmth in his chest grow.

“Well, I mean, I am still pretty wiped… and uhh, if it’ll help you sleep better...” His voice sounds choked with some emotion Ford can’t name. He peeks his head up the slightest bit. Stan meets his eyes and also looks as embarrassed as he feels, and yet.

“Scoot over.” Ford is still for a moment, wondering if he heard right, before Stan sits down half on top of him, knocking his breath away, and leaning back on top of him, ignoring his protests.

“Welp, there ya go. I guess I’m sleeping here now.”

“Ger..of...me”

Stan gives an exaggerated sigh, and sits up enough for Ford to inch over closer to the wall. It’ll still be a tight fit for the two of them, but Stan’s antics have served to help relieve some of the tension Ford feels. Stan scoots in next to him, under the covers, and pauses for a moment before awkwardly holding out his arm.

“Uh, you should...com’ere, I guess. If you’re cold.”

Ford barely hesitates before settling on the outstretched arm, burying his face in Stan’s shoulder. He puts an arm over Stan’s chest, and feels Stan’s arm wrap around him in turn. As he relaxes into the hold, Ford is incredibly grateful that he’d swallowed his pride enough to ask for this. He can feel the warmth emanating from his side against Stan’s, and it’s quickly making him feel cozy. Best of all, he just feels… safe., like nothing can get to him, hidden between the wall and Stan. Like he did when he was ten and scared of monsters in the dark, the fake ones.

He feels Stan huff a quiet laugh, feels a hand ruffle his hair.

“You good?”

“Mmm.”

“You can sleep now. I’ll wake ya up later and see how yer doin’.”

“Mmm.”

***

Ford wakes up a couple times after that, most of them with Stan still next to him, warm and comforting. He gets lots of water held out to him (“Gotta stay hydrated.”) and Stan’s critical yet warm eyes on him, assessing how he’s doing. At one point, Stan makes him change into a clean pair of pajamas, which as much as he protests, are quite comfortable. Overall, he spends most of that day sleeping, and burning away. He can’t remember the last time he slept this much for this long, but while he doesn’t necessarily feel better when he wakes, he feels marginally less exhausted and more aware of himself. It does have the unintended side-affect of him being even more aware of just how terrible he feels. His body alternates between sweating and shivering, sometimes both at once, and he doesn’t know how he can have so many aches and pains when he hasn’t even done anything remotely strenuous. Ford, for once, just tries to sleep through it as much as he can.

Later, Stan wakes him, a hand shaking his shoulder gently. When he blinks up as his brother, hazy, Stan smiles at him.

“How you feeling?”

Like the past couple times he’s asked, Ford’s answer is a little shrug. He feels no worse, but still not great.

“Hm, it’s about dinner time. Think you feel up to eating anything?”

Ford frowns a little. He doesn’t feel nauseous, but he doesn’t feel hungry either.

“You should try if you can.” Stan adds, giving him the slightly judge-y look of someone who cares.

He sighs. “Sure.”

He gets himself into a sitting position, tugging the covers up to keep out the cold, as Stan leaves and comes back with some soup.

“It’s like, the classic sick-person food.” Stan defends when Ford raises an eyebrow at him.

Stan sits with him while he eats, slowly and carefully. It feels weird in his stomach, but the warmth feels nice on his throat, so it could be worse.

“Hey, tomorrow’s Saturday.”

Ford looks at dumbly for a moment, spoon in his mouth. “Hm?”

Stan, of course, takes a moment to chuckle at him, before adding, “Do you want to tell the kids we hafta skip this week? Or do you feel up to a chat?”

Oh, his head must be more scrambled than he thought if he’d forgotten about their weekly chat with the kids. Time differences were always a problem, depending on their location. Although they often ended up calling more often, they always had at least one regular call a week, early Saturday mornings, or later Friday for the kids who could stay up as late as they wanted on a Friday night if their call ran long, which it often did.

Ford opened his mouth to say yes, of course he wanted to see the kids, before he paused. He highly doubted he’d be recovered in the several hours until the call, and while the thought of the kids seeing him like this wasn’t as troubling as it had been earlier, it still left a pit in his stomach. Would they notice? Of course they would, he couldn’t even try to appear well. He didn’t want…

Stan lightly flicks his forehead, laughing when Ford jerks back slightly, torn from his thoughts.

“I can hear you thinkin’ from here, Sixer. What’s going on up in that brain of yours?”

Ford frowns, looking down at his soup.

“Do you think… the kids would be concerned?”

“About you? I mean, yeah. They care about you.” He sounds confused, like he isn’t sure why Ford even asked.

“I mean…I don’t want to give them cause for…” They both knew Dipper and Mabel worried about them, so far away, facing unknown threats with only each other for help. They did their best to reassure them, and keep in regular contact, but still. Ford didn’t blame them for being anxious. After last summer, he still feels thrums of anxiety thinking about the kids, so far away (and safe at home) where he can’t see for himself that they’re alright.

He continues. “I… I’m sure I look terrible. What if it worries them?”

“Huh.” Stan sounds thoughtful. He stays quiet for several moments, deep in thought. Ford sits and holds his bowl, feeling the warmth, and waits.

“Well, you could argue that telling them we can’t talk this week could be more freaky, especially if we didn’t tell them why. Your own imagination is worse than reality, ya know? Dipper’d lose his little mind wondering about what could have happened or whatever.”

“Oh, that’s true.” He’d be the same way.

“Right? At least, if we talked to them, they can see for themselves that you’re okay as you can be.” Stan averts his eyes, “That you’re being looked after.”

Ford opens his mouth to speak, but Stan continues before he can, barreling on.

“Anyway, even if we canceled and told ‘em you were sick, I think they’d still wanna see for themselves that you’re fine.”

Ford bites his lip, thinking. That makes sense, when Stan lays it out like that. There’s a small part of him that still balks at the idea of seeing anyone like this, that says he’d just be causing them unnecessary grief, but Stan is right. They’d just worry more and even if it’s embarrassing, he couldn’t do that to them. Besides, he’s starting to feel tired again, and thinking more about it just makes him feel dizzy.

“… Okay. Yeah, I want to see them. Will you wake me up?”

Stan smiles at him, bright and easy. “’course.”

When he lays back down, after taking more drugs, he drifts off to Stan sitting next to him.

***

It’s before sunrise when Ford wakes next, blinking away sleep as Stan stands there with the laptop in hand.

“Rise an’ shine, Sleeping Beauty.” Despite his teasing, his voice is soft.

Ford greets him back tiredly and works on sitting up and not thinking about how gross he feels. God, he would love a shower, if only he was confident enough in his ability to stand for extended periods of time. Then he takes Stan in again.

“You brought it in here? I can-”

“You are not walking out to the kitchen for a video call, Ford. We’re gonna sit, nice and cozy, on this bed and chat with the kids.” His tone has no room for argument, and as he settles down next to Ford, the two of them pressed close, Ford finds he doesn’t really feel the need. He feels that warmth again, the closeness of another person, a person he trusts and he relaxes boneless against Stan.

His brother huffs a laugh and reaches over, putting a hand on his forehead. Ford’s almost used to it by now and only jolts a little.

Stan hums. “Feelin’ at least a little better, I think.”

“H-” A Yawn. “How much longer do you think, Dr. Pines.”

Stan laughs.

“Til you’re better? You’ve got it pretty bad, Sixer. I think you’re gonna be laid up at least the next few days.” His eyes focus on him, still teasing. “Don’t think I’m gonna let you get outta it, either. I’m gonna be watching you like a hawk.”

Ford groans, turning his face into Stan’s shoulder (he doesn’t seem to mind it). He is not looking forwards to days of bed-rest, he’ll probably melt into a pile of sweat and clothes before then. Surely, he’ll feel better sooner than that, or if he isn’t, he’s going to have to find Stan-approved things to do to occupy himself. He’s debating how willing Stan would be to bringing him some of his research materials, when Stan starts setting up the computer and getting everything ready.

He stills, watching.

“You… still think this is best?”

Stan glances sideways at him for a moment before turning back to his work.

“Yeah. They’ll be okay, trust me.”

Ford nods, hesitantly. Absentmindedly, he attempts to tug his hair into anything other than the mess it is, and straighten his shirt. When that fails, he just pulls the blanket up and over his shoulders. Stan notices him, laughs and shakes his head when he glares back.

A call pops up and Stan clicks a button. All too soon (and not soon enough), Mabel and Dipper’s smiling faces fill the screen. Their matching grins fall, as they take in the differences from the normal scene, Dipper frowning, and Mabel’s face an “o”.

“Grunkle Ford? Grunkle Stan?”

“Are you guys okay?”

Ford hates that he’s the cause of their distress, and tries to smiles reassuringly.

“Hello Dipper, Mabel, everything’s alright.”

“Yeah, kids. No worries. We just felt like a scene change this morning.”

Mabel’s eyes widen. “Oh my gosh! Are you guys dying?!”

Dipper is looking between the two of them, a small frown on his face.

Thankfully, Stan interrupts their panicking, his voice light.

“Kids! No one is dying. Ford’s just a little under the weather right now. I didn’t want to give him an excuse to get up, so we’re in the bedroom.”

For all his nonchalance, Stan’s eyes are serious, watching.

Mabel and Dipper both quiet, eyes widening. They look mostly reassured, but there’s still that bit of concern in their eyes, a “but what if”, a very familiar emotion. He wishes they didn’t have to feel that, wished they hadn’t gone through the apocalypse, especially so young, but Stan was right. This way he can reassure them himself.

“Grunkle Ford? You’re sick?” Dipper’s voice is softer than it should be. Both of their eyes are on him now, brows furrowed.

He smiles at them, which is never hard.

“Well, just a little. I’m honestly-um”, He shouldn’t lie, Stan is right next to him. He sighs, “Yes. But, I’m going to be fine, I promise.”

“Yeah, kids don’t worry. I’m watching ‘im. Nerd’s been resting and everything!”

They look a bit better at that.

Still, “It’s not some weird alien virus, or-or curse or something, right?”

“Not at all, Dipper. We haven’t come into contact with any new anomalies recently that could be the cause of this. I also...well-”

“Nerd fell into the ocean.” Stan finishes for him, ignoring his glare.

“He what!?”

“The ocean!?”

“Stanley, you didn’t-”

“Oh hush, all of you!”

The three of them quiet. Stan huffs.

“Look kids, we’re on a boat. It was bound to happen eventually, and it’ll probably happen again. But! We knew what to do, and I got him out fast. Just gave him a cold or flu or something.”

Or made it worse...

At least Stan isn’t mentioning the storm, or the possible hypothermia.

“Yes, don’t worry. We have safety measures in place, and we’ve got each other. We’ll be okay.” Ford looks them in the eyes, “We would tell you if we weren’t. I promise.”

Their eyes flick from him to Stan, before they seem to relax more fully. Still with a bit of lingering worry, but Mabel smiles again, and Dipper puts a hand on her arm and they’re okay.

“Okay, well, you be sure to get plenty of rest, okay Grunkle Ford?”

“Grunkle Stan, you have to make sure he doesn’t be stupid!”

Stan just laughs, as Ford sputters.

“Mabel, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, really.” He did it for several decades, and did fairly well in his opinion.

Stan just laughs harder, face turning red. Mabel giggles, and even Dipper cracks a grin.

“Yeah totally, Grunkle Ford.” Her words are undercut by the wink she shoots Stan.

“I can still see you, you know.”

They just laugh more at him. Still, he’d rather this, then the tense looks from before, even if he has to deal with their fond teasing.

Stan asks them about their week, and they start rambling, excitedly telling them about classes and friends and things they’ve done. Ford finds himself drifting again. It’s frustrating, he’s slept more in the past day than he usually does in a week, and yet his body still seems to tire so easily. But he’s warm and comfortable, and Stan is pressed next to him, and he can hear the voices of his family, happily chatting. They’re all okay.

Stan is probably going to frustrate him in the coming days, when he cannot spend a moment more in this bed. But he’ll know it just because Stan cares. So he can try to put up with his fussing, for a little while at least. If there’s going to be more hugs, then…maybe a bit longer.