Chapter Text
“N-No, No, I don’t– I can’t sleep–”
“Yeah, Ford, I know, I know it seems like this big, ugly thing right now.” Stan crosses his arms over his chest. “But I checked the locks a thousand times over, no one’s gettin’ in here. You’re fine to sleep.”
“No!” Ford howls, thrashing yet again. He throws the covers off and pulls his knees against his chest, rocking back and forth. “You don’t get it, i-it’s not– he– I can’t, I can’t, I can’t–” He cuts himself off, sobbing tearlessly.
Stan gets it. At least he thinks he does. He knows what it’s like to be afraid to sleep– anyone who’s lived on the road does. Sleep means letting your guard down, opening yourself up to threats. Stan really doesn’t get what the issue is now that all the locks are secured. Once that was done and Ford got calmed down enough, Stan’s first goal was to get him to sleep. After a good night’s rest and a strong cup of coffee, Ford could explain to Stan what’s going on. But, knowing Ford and knowing how this kind of fear worked, he led Ford around the entire house, making sure they got every lock secured. Ford seemed to relax more and more as each one clicked into place. But when brought him into the bedroom and tried to lay him down to sleep, he freaked out again. Worse than before, even. It’s kind of like trying to console a sobbing toddler who just wants their mom.
“Ford, I swear to god, sleeping will help.” Stan grabs his shoulders firmly. “Come on, look at me.” Ford obliges, his blood-shot eyes meeting Stan’s. “I understand. I promise, I do. But you gotta sleep, everyone does. You’re not–” special? Different? “–exempt from that.”
Ford shakes his head furiously and slams a fist on the mattress. “NO!”
“Ford–”
“SHUT UP!” Ford screams, standing on wobbly legs. He tries to push Stan away, but only succeeds in leaning against his chest and weakly slamming a fist against it. Stan can hardly feel it. “You don’t– you don’t understand!! Can’t sleep, can’t, can’t, can’t, please–” He stares up at Stan with wide, terrified eyes, beginning to well up with fresh tears. “Don’t make me.”
Stan can’t make him.
He can’t.
It hurts too much to see him like this. Stan isn’t a strong person– quite the opposite. He doesn’t have it in him to make Ford sleep.
“Okay,” he breathes, holding up his brother’s shivering frame. “Fine. Fine, you don’t gotta sleep. But we gotta get you sitting, get some food in you, something. So get in bed.”
“N-No, no, no bed, no–” The words come out of Ford breathy and anxious. “TV. Living room. Not the bed. Can’t sleep.”
“Yeah, I know. You only said it, like, a billion times,” Stan grumbles. “But, sure. TV works too.”
Ford attempts to lead him down the hall. He grips onto Stan’s sleeve and tugs weakly, stumbling. Stan holds onto him just enough to make sure he doesn’t topple over. Gotta let the guy have a little bit of independence. Once they’re at the couch, though, it’s clear that Ford needs to sit down, now, or he’s gonna pass out. Stan all but shoves Ford into the loveseat– well, it’s a little bigger than that, but not a full couch– and begins to rifle through his various VHS tapes. He picks up the one that’s the most in reach and holds it up. A post it note with shitty handwriting he can’t make out falls off the bottom of it.
“What’s this? Somethin’ nerdy of yours I can put in for you?”
Ford blinks, then his eyes catch the tape in Stan’s hand.
“You gotta label these eventually, Ford. I mean, seriously–”
“NO!”
In an instant, Ford is tackling him from behind. Stan is knocked onto his stomach, and the tape falls from his hands. Ford crawls off of him and grabs it, breaths tight and loud. He wobbles to get back to his feet and begins to sprint (well– fast hobble might be a more accurate description) over to the kitchen. Stan follows him.
“FORD! Ford, what are you doing, what– we don’t have to watch the tape, I just thought it was– FORD!!”
Ford keeps moving, too fast for Stan to process what’s happening. He digs under a pile of books until he finds a hammer. He slams the tape down on the kitchen table and begins to pound the hammer against it, over and over and angrier and angrier.
“Ford, Ford, what is it? I-I–” Stan hesitates to get closer. “You got it, buddy, it’s dead, you got it!! It can’t hurt you!” It never could. It’s a fuckin’ VHS. “You’re safe, okay!? Calm down!”
But Ford keeps going. He keeps slamming the hammer into the already crushed tape, harder and harder, and Stan can see the wood of the table beginning to splinter under the force. Ford starts sobbing. They’re broken, animal sobs. Tears stream down his face, and he’s shaking, shaking bad, but he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. Can’t, maybe.
“Ford,” Stan says, quiet this time. “It’s okay. I promise. You’re safe. I’m here, okay? Right here. Not goin’ anywhere.”
Ford hesitates, just for a moment, letting one hand fall to the table.
Then he slams the hammer onto his own fingers.
He howls in pain, and at the same moment, Stan lunges forward and attempts to wrench the hammer out of Ford’s grip. Ford tries to fight it, but he’s barely able to keep himself upright, much less win in a fight against Stan. The hammer falls from his hands as Stan pulls him away by the waist, tears beginning to prick at his eyes. He lifts Ford up into a bridal carry. Ford squirms to the very best of his abilities, but it’s a weak fight at best. Ford sobs against Stan’s chest, tugging at his shirt with his uninjured hand, his words incomprehensible.
Stan doesn’t have the energy to say that it’s okay.
He sets Ford down on the loveseat, wrapping him up in a blanket and setting his glasses down on the side table.
“Just– stay there,” Stan says firmly. His voice breaks. “Stay there, and I’m gonna grab you some ice for– f-for your finger, and some water, a-and… somethin’ to eat.”
Ford shakes his head weakly. “Not hungry…”
“Ford…”
Ford doesn’t justify Stan’s protest with a response, so Stan turns on his heel and heads back to the kitchen. Ford doesn't have any ice packs that Stan can see, so he simply grabs a mostly (hopefully) clean washcloth and wraps some ice in it. He also grabs some water, but doesn’t grab anything for Ford to eat. This is primarily because Ford has almost no food. The only thing he can see is a bag of three unshelled hard-boiled eggs and some mostly mold free grapes, both of which he fears would hurt rather than help.
He comes back with the supplies, immediately pressing the water into Ford’s uninjured hand. Ford stares at it.
“Drink,” Stan commands gently. “It’ll help, I promise.” Ford takes a small sip. “Finish the whole thing. Please.”
Ford sighs, but obeys, downing the cup, then simply tossing it to the floor.
“Jesus– could’a handed it to me, but, y’know, floor’s fine too, sure. Whatever.”
Stan ignores the glass for the time being and gently takes Ford’s already swelling fingers in his hand. He wraps the middle two in the makeshift ice pack. Ford’s middle finger is the most swollen and bruised. The extra finger.
“You’re in luck,” Stan murmurs, adjusting the ice pack. “You had, like, no food. So tomorrow–”
Stan pauses.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow?
What right does he have to make plans for tomorrow? Plans with Ford? He can’t expect to be here tomorrow, he can’t even expect to be alive tomorrow.
“I–” Stan hesitates to continue. He takes a shaking inhale, forcing words, any words, to come out. “Maybe we can… see about getting you some food. At some point.”
If Ford notices his blunder, he doesn’t call Stan on it. He simply blinks up at him, looking a bit like a lost, kicked puppy. It breaks what’s left of Stan’s heart.
Slowly, Ford scoots over, pressing himself up against the arm of the chair, leaving room beside him. He stares down at the open spot, then at Stan. Then back at the open spot, then Stan again. He fidgets. Then looks down at the spot again, then (big surprise) back at Stan.
“Yeah, Jesus, I get it.” Stan squeezes in next to him, and Ford immediately presses in, laying his head sort of in Stan’s lap. His face is pressed up against the bottom of Stan’s stomach, breath hot against Stan’s skin. His arms snake around, clinging onto Stan’s lower torso. Stan can’t imagine how this could possibly be comfortable for him, but, who knows? To each their own, Stan figures.
Stan lasts about five minutes. Ford just keeps squirming, like he just can’t get comfortable. First, his arms move to come up to his own chest, then back around Stan’s waist. Then, he decides he doesn’t want his face hidden, and turns around completely so that he’s facing the wall, face open to the room. Then, obviously, all of that is wrong, and he should obviously be sitting up with his ice-cold nose digging into the crook of Stan’s neck. But, duh, that’s wrong too– he should actually be resting his head against Stan’s chest with his arms wrapped around Stan’s stomach.
He makes noises too, because of course he does. He makes small little moans and hums, seeming uncomfortable.
“Ford? Somethin’ wrong?”
Ford doesn’t respond, but he stills.
And then, a few minutes later, he keeps squirming.
Stan can’t take it anymore. He loves his brother, he really does, but he feels itchy with wrongness. He stands suddenly, and Ford flops into the space where Stan just sat.
“M’ gonna try and clean up a bit, okay?” Stan rubs the back of his neck. “Stay there if you can. I can grab you more water while I’m up, too.”
Ford just stares up at him with those big, stupid, smart eyes. He whines softly.
“I’ll come back and sit later. I dunno how you’re livin’ like this.” Says you. “I’ll just clean up a little, then I’ll be back. Promise.”
Ford nods anxiously, but, beyond that, he doesn’t protest.
So Stan cleans.
It’s something he’s learned is a special treat, cleaning. It means you have a place to stay, to rest your head. And if you have it, you should keep it nice. He’s gotten good at cleaning up those shitty motel rooms he stays in when he’s able to splurge– he’ll snag some cleaning stuff from the service cart and take it upon himself to make the room spick and span. He tries to leave places better than he finds them.
He starts in the kitchen, making sure to toss all the moldy food and bag up all the garbage he can see. He wipes the counters with water and a cloth– not ideal, but all he can find– and sweeps the crumby floor. Once he’s satisfied, he checks on Ford, who’s still sitting blankly on the loveseat, then moves to the bathroom. It’s bloody. He tries not to gag. But he doesn’t totally succeed. Luckily, the toilet is right there, and it’s not getting any dirtier.
He clears himself out, fighting against the nausea, then washes his hands and continues cleaning. He finds some bleach below the counter, thank god, and goes at it. He wishes he had some glass cleaner for the dirty mirror, but beggars can’t be choosers. When he’s done, he once again checks on Ford. His position has changed, and his arms are wrapped tightly around his stomach, but he still looks relatively content, so Stan moves down the hall, scrubbing all of the blood and grime from the walls and scooping up the trash from the floor. He ends up in the bedroom and continues there. His mind is peacefully blank, as it usually is when he’s cleaning.
It stays that way until he hears a clatter.
He’s instantly alert, sprinting from the bedroom.
“Ford?!”
He’s not in the living room. His blanket is on the floor. Shit.
“Ford, where are you?!”
There’s a horrible, awful moment where Stan thinks he’s imagined it all. It wouldn’t be the first time he hallucinated his brother.
Then he hears another clatter.
He lets out a sob. Ford is here.
The clatter came from the bathroom.
He finds Ford throwing up. He’s hunched over the toilet, his hands clinging to the rim, and he’s shaking. He’s shaking really badly.
“Shit, Ford, why didn’t you tell me you were feelin’ sick?” Stan kneels down next to him, instinctively massaging between his shoulder blades. Ford retches again, convulsing. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re alright.”
Ford sobs, but it sounds scratchy and animal. He glances up, eye wide and face red. “Lee– you can’t–” He pulls away, afraid to touch, to be touched. His back hits the door of the shower. “You can’t– you– I’ll hurt–” His already wide eyes grow impossibly wider.
Before Stan can do anything, Ford jerks forward and vomits on the floor.
And Stan screams.
“FORD, WHAT THE FUCK!?”
There’s–
Fuck. Fuck, how did–
There are spiders in his vomit.
Most of them are dead. Most of them.
Some of them are still twitching, most of them are crumpled up and dead, and a few of them begin to crawl.
Instinctively, Stan slams his boot onto the moving ones, killing them instantly. Ford is able to contain himself long enough to get back to the toilet and keep clearing himself out, and Stan really doesn’t want to know if there are more spiders in that bowl. He grabs the nearest hand towel and tries to mop up the vomit to the best of his abilities, but he doesn’t grab the bleach because he remembers, suddenly, that the smell used to give Ford headaches. He’s not sure if that’s still the case, but he doesn’t want to risk making his already miserable brother feel even worse, so he just squirts a bit of hand soap onto the floor and then rinses it off.
Ford whimpers when he’s finally done and collapses into Stan’s arms, a horrible, pained noise escaping his lips, still wet with sick. He coughs.
“Oh, Ford…” Stan’s voice breaks. “It’s okay. It’s alright, I’m here. Let’s clean you up, okay?” Ford nods miserably. He relinquishes his hold so that Stan can stand to grab a wet washcloth. He kneels back down to his brother tips his chin up. When he presses the cloth to his skin, Ford flinches back with a whine.
“I know. M’ sorry, water’s pretty cold, huh?” Ford just whines again. “I tried to get hot water earlier, and I couldn’t.” A thought hits Stan suddenly. “How long’s it been since you paid your water bill?”
Ford shrugs weakly.
“Yeah. Figured.”
Stan scoops Ford up in his arms yet again, and Ford presses his face back into Stan’s chest, crying steadily and softly.
“I know, Ford. S’ okay. You’re safe. Not gonna let anythin’ happen to you.”
There were spiders in his vomit. Spiders. In his vomit. Live spiders.
Stan feels really, really sick.
Still, it’s not about him. Ford needs help.
Stan lays him down on the loveseat, curled up and shivering. He hurries to the kitchen and searches through the only stocked container in there– the coffee container. He’d prefer to give Ford tea (spiked with melatonin, maybe), but coffee always did help him calm down a little bit. Made him shake a lot, but, you know. He’s already shaking a lot.
After a few minutes of brewing, he has a full mug to bring back to his brother.
He perches on the edge of the loveseat and holds the cup to Ford’s lips. He’s not risking Ford spilling a second mug. Luckily, Ford doesn’t even protest. He sips and swallows gratefully, not even bothering to lift his hands to the cup. He lets his eyes close, tears finally slowing.
There’s peace, for a moment.
When the mug is empty, Stan sets it aside. He sighs heavily and clears his throat.
“Stanford, did…” Stan clears his throat again. “Did you… eat… spiders?”
“I–” Ford hiccups, and his crying resumes instantly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t–” Sobbing, now. He shoves his face in his hands. “Hurts– throat hurts– I’m so sorry, I’m so–” He coughs, and Stan worries there’ll be a spider in his palms. “Gross– I’m so–”
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. It’s okay, shh, shh.” Stan pulls him into his shoulder, feeling Ford’s hands slowly drop from his face. He sobs; the kind of sobs are more like gasps for air. A deafening lack of sound, even as Stan can feel his own shirt growing wet with tears. “It’s okay. You’re safe, I’m here, I’m right here.”
“Stay.”
It’s the only clear word Stan’s heard from his brother in hours.
“Not goin’ anywhere.”
Ford nods furiously against his chest, throwing his arms around Stan and squeezing so hard that Stan wheezes. “Thank you, thank you– you came, y-you– I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to–”
“Shhh. Don’t think about that right now. You don’t have to fix everything right now. Just focus on getting calm, okay?”
“You c-can’t leave me, you– e-everyone left, I can’t be alone with– please, please, Lee, you can’t–”
“I’m not leavin’,” Stan insists. It’s not true. He’ll fix Ford up, get everything fixed, and then… what?
Ford will want him to leave. Once he’s of sound mind, of course he’ll want Stan to leave. He’ll be embarrassed he even wrote for him in the first place. He’s not staying, not really.
But Ford’s clearly not fixed yet. As long as he’s coughing up spiders, he’s in desperate need of help. And until he’s safe and sound again, Stan has to stay, right? He owes that much to his brother. He can’t fail him again. He has to make up for his mistakes. His many, many mistakes.
“Lee–”
“It’s okay. I promise.”
“M’ sor–” He cuts himself off, coughing harshly into Stan’s shoulder. “I–”
“Shhh.” Stan runs a hand through his hair. He adjusts them slightly and cradles Ford in his arms. “Don’t push yourself, you’re gonna make your throat feel worse.” Finally, blessedly, Ford nods. “Good. Good job. You’re doin’ great. Tomorrow, I’ll run out and get you some tea and some– er, cough drops. That’ll help.” With what money, Stan doesn’t know. He’ll figure it out tomorrow.
Tomorrow, when he’s still here. With his brother.
“Get some slee–” Stan stops himself. “Just relax, okay? M’ right here.”
Ford nods against him, looping one of his hands into Stan’s squeezing tightly. He stares at their hands, running one of his fingers along Stan’s calloused skin in curious affection. Stan squeezes back, then lets Ford pull his hand back to his chest and curl up in Stan’s lap.
Ford looks up. “Love you.”
Stan’s throat constricts, but he forces himself to smile, gently cupping Ford’s face in his hand. He draws a tiny, faint constellation on the skin of his cheek. The Little Dipper.
“Love you too.”