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“WAIT–!”
Stan’s head turns instantly to his brother, who has just shot awake in his head, head slamming against the ceiling. He winces at the pained sound Ford makes.
“Ford, hey, everythin’ alright?” He stands from the desk, flicks on the lights, and approaches the bed, calling up. “Can you hear me?”
“I-I–” Ford inhales shallowly and nods, eyes locked onto Stan’s. He sniffles. “Yes.”
“Nightmare?”
Ford rubs his eyes and pulls his knees up to his chest, clearly focused on calming his rapid breathing. “Mhm.”
Stan’s heart twists in sympathy. “You wanna talk about it?” Ford doesn’t respond, just buries his face in his knees, trembling. “Ford?”
Ford makes a tiny, sad noise. “Not really.”
“Anythin’ I can do?” Ford shrugs. “Wanna come down from the bed?” Ford glances up at that, seeming unsure, but he finally nods after a moment. His movements are shaky as he climbs down the ladder, and he stands uncertainly at the foot of the bed once he’s on the ground.
Gently, Stan takes one of his hands and squeezes it. “Hot chocolate?”
Ford sniffles. “Sure.”
Stan pulls him forward, and Ford lets him lead. His grip on Stan’s hand is tight and trembling, searching for an anchor. Stan spares a backward glance as they walk, and sees Ford’s eyes are locked on the floor. When they arrive at the kitchen, Ford strides ahead of him with a strange, new sort of anxious energy. He reaches for the cupboards and pulls out the hot cocoa powder and two mugs, his breathing audible.
“Ford, I can make it, you should sit down–”
“It’s fine. I’ll make it.” He opens the silverware drawer and produces two spoons. His hands are shaking badly as he fumbles to get the powder into the mugs. Most of it ends up on the counter. Stan hears him swear under his breath as he brushes the mess into his hands and dusts them off over the sink. He tries again.
“Ford, really, I can–”
“I’ve got it,” Ford says, firmer this time. He lifts one of the mugs, as if to accentuate his point. “I can– I’m–” He sighs, words not seeming to come, and sets the mug back down on the counter.
Or, he tries to.
It doesn’t quite make it.
Instead, it falls straight from his hand to the floor, shattering on impact. Stan jumps up as Ford jerks away, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Ceramic shards and cocoa powder litter the floor near his feet.
“Damnit,” he mutters. “Damnit, I-I didn’t– I’m–” His voice breaks, and he buries his head in his hands.
Shit.
Stan ignores the shards on the floor and approaches his brother, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Ford doesn’t react. “Woah, woah, it’s alright. You’re okay.”
Ford shakes his head, sniffling pathetically. “M’ sorry. I-I’ll clean it–”
“It’s okay. S’ just a mug.” Ford just shakes his head again. “C’mere.” Stan reaches out and pulls him into a hug. Ford melts into his arms instantly, hiding his face in Stan’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around him. He clings tightly, fingers digging into the fabric of Stan’s t-shirt. He cries quietly, exhaustedly, into Stan’s shoulder. And Stan holds him close, one hand rubbing slow, steady circles into his back.
“Stanley,” Ford chokes out between tiny sobs, “M’ sorry–”
“Shhh, hey, s’ alright.” Stan murmurs quiet, somewhat coherent comforts, letting him hold on. He fights the urge to ask what the nightmare was about. It doesn't matter, not really. What matters is that Ford is in distress, Ford’s crying, and Stan can’t have that. He has to be here for his brother, comfort him to the best of his abilities. It’s all he can do. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Ford turns his head and rubs at his face, scrubbing away the tears. He hiccups and takes in a shaky inhale, letting his hold on Stan loosen so that he’s more slumped against him than hugging him. Stan doesn’t mind.
“I can still make that hot chocolate if you want some,” Stan offers, adjusting his grip so that he doesn’t drop his brother.
Ford hums. “I-I don’t… really…”
“S’ okay. Wanna lay back down?” He’s learned not to ask if Ford wants to try to go back to sleep. It tends to stress Ford out even more. Better to ask if he just wants to lay down. More often than not, that alone leads to him at least getting some rest, even if he doesn’t end up going back to sleep.
Ford nods against the crook of Stan’s neck, humming softly. Not very talkative. Stan gives him a squeeze then leads him back into the bedroom. He guides Ford into the bottom bunk and indicates for him to scooch in.
“I’ll be right back, okay? Gonna go clean up the mug. Last thing we want is one for one of us to cut up our feet on it tomorrow.” Ford gives him, honest to god, the most pitiful expression Stan’s ever seen. Seriously, it rivals the puppy eyes he’s gotten from Dipper and Mabel. He whines sadly, and without speaking, Stan knows exactly what he wants. He sighs, but there’s no frustration or bite. Just fondness. “I’ll be fast, I promise.”
He hurries from the room, trying desperately to scrub the image of Ford’s broken expression from his mind as he grabs the broom and sweeps up the cocoa powder and broken mug. When he’s thoroughly sure that there’s no chance either of them will get themselves hurt in the morning, he shuts off the kitchen lights and ducks back into the bedroom.
Ford perks up at his arrival, eyes lighting up. He presses himself against the wall, making room for Stan in the bed, and stares at him expectantly. Stan chuckles and crawls in beside him. Ford immediately curls up beside him, head resting on Stan’s chest, one arm lazily strewn over Stan’s gut. It’s moments like these where Ford feels a bit like an oversized, nerdy cat to Stan. He doesn’t really mind. The opposite, in fact. Call him a sap, but sometimes it’s nice to feel needed and loved.
Ford shudders suddenly, a nervous sound escaping him.
“Ford?”
Ford sighs. “Just… thinking.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Stan’s pretty sure he knows what answer he’s going to get.
“No. I’m– I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Stan says immediately. “Anythin’ I can do to help?”
Ford presses in closer. “Stay.”
“Don’t gotta worry about that.” Stan presses a kiss on his brother’s forehead. Ford smiles softly, then buries his face back into Stan’s chest. “M’ not goin’ anywhere.”
Ford makes a soft hum, making himself small next to his brother. Just when Stan is about to let his eyes close– because damnit, he’s tired– Ford looks up at him and stares with wide, still slightly red-rimmed eyes. He blinks, tilting his head and offering the smallest, faintest smile.
Stan feels something warm spread across his chest, a fondness reserved only for his brother.
“Don’t mention it,” he murmurs, a response to the unsaid thank you that he knows Ford’s expression was trying to communicate.
Ford, content, lets himself fall back to where he was and yawns. Stan raises one hand to run through his brother’s hair, letting himself give in to the pull of sleep. Ford is warm and safe beside him.
As the last of his mind falls into unconsciousness, he hears a quiet murmur.
“Love you, Lee.”