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“Ford?”
Ford blinks his eyes open, head still resting on the hard, wooden desk. He didn’t realize he fell asleep. Instinctively, his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. He keeps telling Stanley he’ll go to bed when he’s tired, instead of just trying to power through it. But he doesn’t. Or, hasn’t. Yet. He means to.
“Damnit,” he mutters. He takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Stanley, I know what you’re going to say, I– I didn’t mean to fall asleep, really…” he trails off, sighing.
This always happens. Stan comes to bed and finds Ford asleep, hunched over the desk as if he were a child studying for a big test. Though, he can swear Stan went to bed before him. Perhaps he woke him up, he does have a tendency to talk in his sleep, and Stan is… well, he’s a lighter sleeper than Ford remembers, now.
“Just say it, Lee, I know,” Ford grumbles, tone biting. He can’t bring himself to meet Stan’s eyes. “I should’ve gone to bed, I know. I’m not taking care of myself, I know, I just–”
“No, Ford, I–” Stan inhales shakily. “S’ fine. Nevermind. I should– go back to– t-to bed.” He turns back toward his bunk, sniffling quietly.
Something in Stan’s voice makes Ford turn his head. He sounds… afraid. Tired.
…And Ford just snapped at him.
Fuck.
“No, wait!!” Ford jumps up from his chair, waving his hands frantically. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry.”
Stan stops in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn around. “It’s fine, Ford.”
“No, it’s not,” Ford insists. “Please. I’m sorry. Is… is everything alright?”
Stan finally turns.
He sighs, rubbing at his blood-shot eyes. “I– I’m fine. I should go back to bed.”
“Lee, you’re clearly not fine.” Ford approaches slowly, carefully. “You don’t have to tell me whatever’s going on, but… is there anything I can do?”
Stan hesitates, seeming unsure, before he suddenly pulls Ford close and buries his face in the crook of his neck. He sniffles. Ford makes a surprised, oof sound and immediately wraps his arms around his brother. His chest only grows tighter with worry.
“Lee?”
Stan inhales shakily again. “Had a nightmare.”
Ah.
Ford squeezes him tighter. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“I know it’s not, but I’m still–” Ford sighs. “What was it about? I-If you want to say, you know you never have to. I would never make you.”
Stan pauses thoughtfully, one arm coming up to scrub at his face until he lets it fall back into his brother. “Was… about Pa.”
“Oh, Lee…” Ford’s chest immediately burns with anger. Of course it was about Pa. Sometimes it seems Stan will never escape their late father’s ever watchful eye. Ford can still remember when he first found out about what their father did to Stanley. How Stan protected Ford, never said anything, never let on anything was wrong. Ford should’ve noticed, he should’ve seen it. He should’ve protected him. But instead, he let Stan suffer, alone.
If Filbrick Pines wasn’t already dead, Ford would kill him.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“S’ nothin’ I haven’t told you about before.” Stan’s voice breaks slightly. “Don’t really wanna… rehash it all.”
“That’s okay,” Ford says gently. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Don’t go.”
“I won’t,” Ford says immediately. “Do you want to get back in bed?”
“…Sure.”
Stan separates slowly, reaching one hand out to hold onto Ford’s arm. It makes getting into bed a bit awkward and clunky, but Ford would die before pulling away from his brother. They crawl in and finally settle, with Ford leaned against the pillows, and Stan curled up next to him, his head on Ford’s chest and one arm laid lazily over Ford’s stomach. Stan keeps his ear pressed tightly against Ford– listening for his heartbeat. A reminder, to him, that his brother is here, and his brother isn’t leaving him– never again, not for the entire multiverse. Ford doesn’t say anything. He’s never sure if Stan will want to talk about his nightmares, but he’s had enough experience with both outcomes that he knows what to do in either scenario, more or less. And right now, he knows he needs to simply be here. If only he would’ve done that back then, too. After a while, Ford finds himself drifting off.
But a gruff, quiet voice pulls him back to consciousness.
“He really hated me, didn’t he?”
Ford’s heart shatters a bit. Stan’s voice is thick, laced with bone deep exhaustion. But it’s not the kind of exhaustion that sleep can fix– it’s rooted in him, right now. Life hammered it into him. Life was cruel to Stanley, in a way he never deserved. And now he’s exhausted, but wide awake.
“His opinion doesn’t matter, it’s not worth anything.” Ford runs a hand through Stan’s hair, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “You don’t have to worry about what he thought of you.”
“I know, but… I just… sometimes I just wonder why, you know?”
“I–”
“I mean, like… I know why. I was the stupid one or whatever, n’ it’s not like I made his life any easier, just another mouth to feed, made sense he took all his anger out on me–”
“Stanley–”
“I just wish he liked me. Sometimes I think I’ll always want that, a little.” He chuckles darkly. “Stupid.”
Ford can’t speak for a moment. He’s barely able to conceal the growl that escapes his throat. A dark, selfish part of him wishes he could bring their father back to life just to kill him again. Stanley is wonderful, he’s a hero. He saved the entire multiverse with his sacrifice. He’s the greatest part of Ford’s life, Ford’s very best friend, his brother. And Stan doesn’t see that, can’t see that, because of Filbrick Pines.
(And, of course, because Ford let it happen. Ford let him believe it, all those years.)
“Stanley–”
But before he can say anything, Stan suddenly lets out a quiet, broken little noise and buries his face in Ford’s chest. His hand clenches a tight fist around the fabric of Ford’s sweater, frame beginning to shake as he visibly attempts to make himself small.
“Damnit,” Stan chokes out again. “The old bastard’s dead, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t–” Another sob pries its way from his throat, and he shakes his head softly. “So fuckin’ stupid.”
“It’s not stupid at all,” Ford murmurs. He runs a hand through his brother’s hair. “The way he treated you, I can’t… I’m so sorry, Lee. You didn’t deserve it. And I can’t believe I didn't even–” Ford’s voice breaks slightly. “I should’ve noticed.”
“Not your fault,” Stan mutters, still sniffling. “Sorry, I shouldn’t’a–”
“NO–!!” Ford immediately kicks himself. He made it about himself, again, because it seems there are no limits to his selfishness. “Don’t apologize, please don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He squeezes Stan tighter as his crying begins to slow. “I’m so sorry.”
“S’ not your fault–”
“I’m sorry that it happened,” Ford interrupts quietly. Then he goes silent. He’s just… he’s not very sure what to say. It’s not something he can ever fix.
“I’m here,” he whispers. It’s all he can do. “I’m here, Lee.”
Stan sniffles. “Thanks.”
“Nothing to thank me for.” Ford tilts his brother’s face up and kisses his forehead before letting Stan nuzzle back in.
“Ford?”
“Hm?”
“I don’t think I can go back to sleep.”
It must have been bad. Stan can usually get back to sleep after nightmares. It’s only when they’re really bad that he refuses to sleep after. Ford’s heart twists with guilt and sympathy.
“That’s alright. Would you… like to get up and make some hot chocolate? Or… coffee?” If they’re going to be staying up all night, Ford could certainly use it. He shakes his head. That’s selfish thinking. It’s not about him. He can stay up.
“Could we… just stay here?”
“Oh! A-Alright, I– yes. Of course. We can stay.”
Stan hums in appreciation, slumping exhaustedly into Ford’s chest. Ford holds him gently, one hand running through his hair, listening to the ever-steadying rhythm of Stan’s breathing. He tries to quiet his own thoughts. But that’s never been his forte. It was his fault. Maybe not directly, but– he let it happen. He should’ve seen it, he should’ve protected Stan. He could’ve done something, he– there had to have been something he could do. Endured the pain alongside him, at the very least. It’s not right that Stan has to suffer like this, that somehow, even from beyond the grave, their father is still hurting him. But he can’t change it, as much as he would kill to. He tries to remind himself of what Stan says whenever Ford has trouble escaping from his own brain. Ya can’t change the past, Six. So stop dwellin’ on it.
He doesn’t even realize he’s drifting off until he hears Stan calling his name.
“Ford?”
“I–” Ford stifles a yawn and nods. “Yes, yes, I’m here. Are you okay?”
“Are you okay? Took me, like, five times of sayin’ your name for you to answer.”
“I’m fine,” Ford says immediately. Then he yawns, and it’s too loud to stifle or play off.
Stan sighs. “You’re tired, aren’t you?”
“I– no.” Ford clears his throat.
“I found you on the desk,” Stan muses. “Christ, you barely slept, did you?”
Ford stays quiet. He can’t lie to his brother.
“Go to sleep, Ford.”
“No,” Ford insists. “I’m staying up with you. I’m not– I’m not leaving you alone again, I won’t do it–”
“Woah, woah, hey.” Stan sits up, eyes wide. “You’re not leavin’ me alone, what are you talkin’ about?”
“I–” A pause. “I didn’t notice when we were children, a-and I should’ve, and I left you alone to deal with it then. I won't do that now,” Ford says. “I can’t do that now.”
“Look, Ford, I–” Stan sighs. “One, there was nothin’ you could’a done. You know that, right?”
“But–”
“No buts. It’s not your fault.” Stan’s tone is laced with finality. “And I don’t want you killin’ yourself for me, alright?”
“I would–”
“Yeah, yeah, I mean I’m feelin’ better. Really. And you bein’ here for me doesn’t mean you stop takin’ care of yourself. You’re exhausted, and you should get some sleep.”
“But–”
“Ford. I care about you, and I want you to take care of yourself. And right now that means sleepin’.”
“I–” As if on cue, Ford suddenly yawns again. His cheeks heat up in embarrassment again.
Stan only chuckles. “Sleep. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Ford swallows thickly. “You’re sure? Because I’ll stay up, you know I–”
“Yeah, buddy. I’m sure.”
Ford sighs and pulls Stan back into his chest, letting his own head rest on his brother’s. Stan takes his hand absently, running a finger along Ford’s scarred knuckles. Ford feels himself relaxing more and more, slumping against Stan, who still holds on tightly. They sit in silence for a while as the pull of sleep gets harder and harder to resist.
“Thanks for bein’ here, Six,” Stan whispers.
Ford tries to say something along the lines of of course, but all that comes out is a slurred “Mm… love you…”
Stan chuckles. “Love you too.”
He gives in to sleep.
When he wakes, he’s still holding his brother, who’s snoring softly against Ford’s chest. Ford can’t help but smile, memories of a younger version of his brother floating through his mind, before the world chewed him up and spit him back out. He looks peaceful. God knows Stan deserves peace. Ford presses in closer, a warm feeling coming over him.
Life was cruel to Stanley, so Ford will never be again. He’s been given a chance to protect him, now. A chance to make things right, and to never, ever let him get hurt again. Stan is his best friend, his brother.
And he’ll spend every second of his life making sure that his brother never feels alone again.