Chapter Text
Ford’s eyes are beginning to blur, the words melting together on the page. But he needs to finish this chapter tonight. He’s not quite sure at what point in the night he decided that there was nothing more important than finishing this chapter of Contact, and he knows the strange fixation on something objectively unimportant is probably even more reason to sleep now, but he’s only two pages away!
He really should’ve slept more last night. He could’ve stayed up later to read.
He’s able to complete another page and a half, but then he’s stopped. Not by sleep, no, but–
A scream.
Something guttural and terrified. His heart races in his ribcage, and he discards the book on his bed, jumping up, ignoring the momentary dizziness. He really should’ve slept more last night. But he can’t think about that now. There’s only one other person in the house, one person who’s terrified and alone right now– his brother.
He’s out the door in an instant, feet propelling him down the hallway to his brother’s new room. He knocks on the door, but receives no response other than another, slightly stifled, yell. Is he hurt? Fuck– did something get inside the house? The gremloblin was still on the loose, what if he’s– or–
What is Ford doing just standing out here?!
He swings the door open, rushing in and flicking on the nearest floor lamp. The light spreads over the room, and Ford scans it for whatever the danger is. He finds nothing. Nothing is attacking him. The window is still closed, and Stan is still in bed. But– shit. He’s completely panicking. Stan is thrashing on the bed, gasping and letting out terrified, animal sort of sob-yells. He’s trapped in the sheets and covers, seeming almost like he’s trying to fight them off. He’s saying something, but it’s low, whispered and choked between the wailing, and Ford can’t make it out. He moves closer, carefully.
“Stanley?! What’s wrong– what’s happened–” Oh. Upon moving closer, Ford realizes, stupidly, that Stan is asleep. He’s having a nightmare.
“N-No– please, I-I–” Stan’s words are barely audible. He makes another horrible sob. “Don’– m-make me–”
“Stanley!! Stan, you’re having a nightmare!” Ford’s voice is shrill and nervous, desperate to pull Stan out of sleep. “Wake up, Lee!!”
Stan doesn’t wake up. He just keeps muttering out nonsensical pleas and trying to untangle himself from the covers. Possibly against his better judgement, he reaches out and shakes his twin’s shoulder.
“LEE! Lee, please, please, you need to wake up!!” He shakes harder.
Stan shoots awake. He jerks upright, eyes wide, practically hyperventilating. He yanks himself back from Ford’s touch, slamming himself against the headboard. He shakes his head, terrified, mouthing something. But no words come out.
“Lee, hey, hey, it’s alright!” Ford scoots back, perching slowly on the edge of the bed. “It’s just me, it’s Ford, you’re okay. You need to breathe. I’m right here. I’m here.”
Stan doesn’t even seem to recognize him. He’s shaking horribly, and tears are streaming down his cheeks. He has a look on his face Ford knows all too well. He’s going to run.
A moment later, he does. He rockets out of the bed, eyes still fixed on Ford, brain still fixed on getting away from Ford. Shit. He begins to run, skirting along the edge of the bed, when he suddenly halts to a stop and cries out in pain. His knees are shaking, and he grips onto the railing of the bed desperately.
“What happened?!” Ford cries, jumping to his feet. “Did you hurt– Lee…?”
Slowly, he slides down against it, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them. He’s not breathing right. Ford tentatively approaches him, making sure his footsteps are loud enough to hear. He finds a few drops of blood on the floor, and his throat tightens painfully. But before he can handle that, he needs to get Stan breathing correctly.
“Lee?” He asks softly, kneeling down in front of him. “Hey. It’s just me. It’s Stanford. I promise you, you’re safe. You just need to breathe, okay?”
Stan’s head raises tentatively, still looking like a terrified animal in a cage. Ford lifts a hand up, slowly, gently, and Stan flinches away like he’s going to be struck. Ford’s eyes well up with tears– and his heart twists in anger, desperately wishing he could kill their sorry excuse for a father with his own bare hands– but he keeps his hand up.
“You’re safe,” he chokes out. “Look. Six fingers. It’s just me. Your brother’s here, Lee.”
Stan’s head tilts, and he blinks, confused. Slowly, he reaches up and presses his own hand against Ford’s. He lets out another animal noise as he interlocks their fingers, five in six. A perfect fit, always a perfect fit.
“F-Fo-ord?” His voice is rough and gravelly, completely pitiful. His eyes finally flicker with a small hint of recognition.
“Yes,” Ford breathes. “Good job. It’s me. You’re alright.” Stan nods, understanding. “Okay, Lee. You need to breathe, I don’t want you to pass out. Can you try and follow my breathing, please?” Stan nods again, so, slowly, as slow and gentle as he’s ever been, he unlaces their hands, and brings his brother’s hand to his own chest, then puts his six-fingered hand on Stan’s chest. He inhales, slowly, letting Stan feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. He feels each hitch of Stan’s breath as he tries, tries desperately, to follow. His breathing is fast and stuttering, but, in his own time, it begins to even out. Soon, but certainly not soon enough, Stan seems to have calmed down enough to remove his hand. He stares blankly into space.
“Lee?” Ford says, tentative. Stan makes a choked little hum of acknowledgement. “There’s blood on the carpet. What happened?”
Stan opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is another little noise.
“Stan? Please tell me what happened, I just want to help.”
Stan tries again, but the same sort of noise comes out. He almost looks embarrassed, and he shakes his head, defeated. He can’t speak. Ford supposes he knows what that’s like, he’s often rendered unable to get out words after nightmares or flashbacks. But it’s never happened to Stan. The nightmare must’ve been bad.
“Okay. It’s alright. Don’t push yourself. Can you show me where you’re hurt?”
Stan nods, breathing a shaky sigh of relief, and rolls up one of his pants legs. There’s a small scrape, bleeding steadily down his leg and through the fabric. It’s not horribly deep, but it still needs attention.
“Shit,” he mutters. “How did you…?” He looks around for what could have hurt him. He couldn’t have gotten a scrape like that just from the wood of the bed post, and there’s nothing sharp around–
Fuck. In the dim light, he can barely make out the shiny, sharp nail poking out of the post of the bed, hammered in askew. Damnit. At least it’s a clean nail.
“Okay, I-I’m going to go get a bandage and something to clean this with. I’ll be right back.” Stan nods anxiously, clearly uncomfortable with letting his brother out of his sight. But he doesn’t have the words to argue. Ford’s heart twists in sympathy as he speeds into the bathroom, vowing to get the nail out of the wood once he’s sure Stan is once again safe and secure– most likely not until tomorrow.
He grabs a washcloth and gets it damp with warm, soapy water, and snags a large bandaid from the box. He flicks on the main light when he re-enters the room, to be sure he’s being safe when he cleans the wound. He kneels down in front of Stan, whose eyes are wide and locked on Ford desperately. Ford offers the most reassuring smile he can muster, then rolls Stan’s pant leg above his knee.
“I’m sorry if this hurts,” he murmurs, pressing the warm cloth to the scrape. Stan flinches, but says nothing. He rests his chin on his free knee, watching anxiously as Ford works. He cleans up the blood that’s run down his leg, then where the nail scraped it as well, making sure there’s no dirt or grime left inside. When he’s satisfied with his work, he covers it with the bandaid.
“All done,” Ford says softly. “You did great, Lee.” Stan only nods. Ford sniffs. “Do you… want to talk about it?” Shit! “I-I mean– you don’t have to, if you’re unable to– i-if you’re not in the mood, I mean. Which, you’re, uh–” He sighs. “Sorry. Let’s just– it would probably help to get back in bed, yes?” Stan nods.
Ford rises slowly, hearing the popping of his knees and stretching out slightly. He offers a hand to his brother, who takes it. Ford pulls him up, and Stan wobbles slightly, blinking. He lets himself be led to the bed and sits, propped up against the pillows. Once he’s securely on the bed, Ford flips the overhead back off, and sits down next to him. There’s absolutely no chance he’s leaving his brother alone. Not tonight, not ever again.
“Is there… anything I can do?” Ford tries, squeezing Stan’s hand. “I’ll stay, if you want me to. I’m here.”
Stan turns to him. His face crumples.
“Oh, Lee…” Ford scoots forward just in time to catch Stan, who pitches forward, hiding his face in Ford’s shoulder. He wraps his arms tightly around Ford’s stomach and lets out a heart-wrenching sob. Ford pulls him closer, cradling him in his arms and rocking him gently back and forth. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “I’m right here. You’re safe.” He rubs his back, drawing slow, soothing circles into the fabric of Stan’s t-shirt.
“F-Fo–” Stan’s voice is weak, not ready for use. He tries to choke out the words anyways.
“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s alright.”
“M’ suh– m’ sorry–” his voice breaks on a choked sob, and his face slides down to Ford’s chest as he curls in on himself further. “F–”
“It’s alright,” Ford insists softly. “I promise. It’s okay, I’m right here.”
Stan nods at that, but Ford knows his brother, knows he probably feels like he’s being some sort of burden on Ford. That couldn’t be further from the truth, but getting Stan to understand that is a battle Ford’s been fighting since Stan moved into the cabin a few months ago. He’s determined, more than anything, to show Stan how much he loves him. How sorry he is. He’s determined to make up for his mistakes and give his brother the happiness he deserves.
Stan cries some more, beginning to slump further into Ford’s arms. Slowly, the sobbing fades into soft, sleepy hiccups and sniffles. Ford doesn’t stop murmuring his reassurances, doesn’t stop rubbing his back, doesn’t stop rocking him. He wouldn’t, not for the world.
“Lee?” he whispers, after a long while.
No response. He glances down, tentatively tipping Stan’s chin up to make sure he’s alright.
Stan is asleep.
Ford immediately lets him sleepily nuzzle back into his chest, a feeling of warm fondness overcoming him. Stan deserves rest and peace. Ford’s reminded of a smaller, younger version of his little brother. Stan wasn’t usually the one who had nightmares– that was Ford, most often– but he still got them, occasionally. They were usually about Pa, and that night was no different. He woke up, crying pathetically. Ford had immediately climbed down to the bottom bunk, trying to get him to stop crying before Pa heard. He’d taken Stan in his arms similar to how he’s holding him now, rocking him back and forth until he fell asleep.
When Stan was kicked out, Ford thought he’d never get to hold Stan again. Never get to be there for him on his worst nights. After a while, he’d come to realize that he didn’t deserve to be there for him. Not after what he’d let Stan endure.
But Stan still seeks him. For some reason, Stan trusts him, after everything.
Ford rocks him for a few more minutes, then tips them both back so that they’re laying down. still sleeping, Stan hums and squirms, one arm snaking over Ford’s stomach and the other folded up against his own chest. His head is resting on Ford’s chest, and he sighs contentedly, expression peaceful.
If Stan still trusts him enough to seek him out, still loves him enough to stay, then Ford’s staying.
He falls asleep, still holding his brother tight.