Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“C’mon, poindexter, it’s a shiny rock!”

“It’s not quite a ruby, a bit pinker, a bit lighter— is it glowing? Oh, this certainly has anomalous properties!”

“So we’re keepin’ it, right?”

“Absolutely!”

“Good.”

Stanley hadn’t felt this particular way in many, many years.

Sure, his depression had never really gone away. It was a constant battle, especially with his situation, how isolated he felt. When he set off on the Stan O’ War 2, though, achieving his boyhood dreams of sailing the world with his twin brother? He’d felt great, then. Things haven’t been perfect, he’s been struggling with his returning memories, but up until a couple of weeks ago, things had been pretty damned alright.

They’re not alright anymore.

Firstly, he remembered the details of an incident that had been blurry before. An impulsive act that got him out of prison and into somewhere that wasn’t better; supposedly, psych wards have improved a bit these past thirty years.

Secondly, he started feeling that itch to hurt himself again. He tried not to; it’s hard to find enough private time to do something stupid like that without getting caught, but fuck, Stan still has a lighter and a pocket knife and almost always wears a shirt. Ford gets so enveloped in his important work that Stan just fades into the background and sometimes he can disappear for an hour without his brother even noticing and it’s not like he matters anyways because Ford’s the one that matters and—

So, he’s got a few new marks under his shirt now. He feels like shit about it, thinking how crazy Ford would go if he found out, but he really doesn’t feel like he can do anything else.

Then, there’s the worst part: he keeps looking off into the ocean and thinking about how easy it would be. The water’s cold and deep and vast. Ford would never even have to see his body. And isn’t that a thought?

He can’t do that to his brother, though. Can’t abandon him after everything. After all the work he’s put in to help Stan, it wouldn’t be fair. He can’t. Right? He just can’t.

Ford would not be better off without him. Wouldn’t want to lose him. Stan just has to remember that.

That doesn’t stop him from staring. Ford’s noticed, too, but he thinks it’s more of a long-distance spaced-out gaze, which is concerning enough by itself. That’s the kicker, Ford’s already getting worried, and he doesn’t even know the half of it. Stan’s worrying him, and it makes him miserable, makes him sick to his stomach to think that even now, after everything, he’s still managing to be Ford’s personal burden. He can hardly be surprised.

“Stanley, you need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You said that this morning. Is everything okay? Are you coming down with something?”

“Nah, I just…”

“Stanley? What’s been going on with you, lately?”

“Hm? Nothing, I’ve been fine, why?”

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Of course. And you can talk to me. We’re here for each other and all that.”

“Okay. I… won’t make you eat if you’re not hungry, Stanley. Just, think about it, won’t you?”

“Sure, Sixer.”

Stan’s staring into the ocean again. He’s been doing it all morning. He came out here to clean, but he can’t even seem to do that, he’s useless, and the ocean is right there and he’s leaning over the rail, just to get a good look, just to really see—

“Stanley!”

Ford’s voice snaps him back into reality and he loses his balance, kicking so he stumbles back instead of forward. He blinks a few times before turning to face his brother, who sounds upset,

“What? What’s the matter? You okay?”

Ford looks at him strangely, then laughs a bit as he walks closer,

“You were really leaning over the rail there, Stanley— you could’ve fallen in! Be careful, won’t you?”

Fallen in. Ford would assume it was an accident. That would be good— an accident. Stan could just fall in and he’d disappear and nobody would have to know what it really was.

“Stanley?” Ford’s tilting his head, looking concerned, and Stan’s taken far too long to respond.

“Yea, I’m here, sorry, just. Spaced out a little.”

“You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Is it your memory?”

“No, no, it’s…” There’s no comforting explanation for this. “It’s nothing, Ford, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s clearly something.” Ford furrows his brow decisively. Shit, he’s not gonna keep letting this stuff go, is he? He wanders up to the railing next to Stan, looking over as if trying to see whatever he was seeing. He… he really leans pretty far over.

“Geez, poindexter, I wasn’t that far, was I? Get back here!” Stan jokes, pulling the man back by the sweater. Ford huffs petulantly,

“You very much were.” He turns toward the ocean again with confusion, “What were you even looking at? There’s nothing down there, not that we can see through the water from here.”

“I guess I was just looking at the water.”

Ford turns to him slowly, gears visibly turning in his brain, and Stan starts to sweat.

“Is that always what you’re looking at out here? The water? You do that often?”

“Uh, I guess, sometimes, yea.”

Stan really wishes he had the energy for a more convincing lie. That’s the thing about depression, though; it drains away your energy. It depletes you until there’s nothing left, not even enough to pretend you don’t have a problem. By that point, it’s always pretty bad; Stan’s a particularly good liar, able to be more convincing on less energy than most people by a wide margin. The fact that any half-decent lie or excuse feels so out of reach for him right now is truly a bad sign. He knows that. He still can’t cave. It’s like purgatory.

Ford stares at the water again. It’s a ruthless, unyielding blue as far as the eye can see. It’s like the bottomless pit except you can’t breathe in there and you might never come out.

“Why?” Ford asks sternly. He’s a smart guy, he’s picked up that something’s going on; Stan figures he knows he won’t get a straight answer, but whatever he does get will have some information in it and he’ll extrapolate from there. So, Stan tries not to give him information.

“No reason, really.“

“No reason at all?”

“It’s just nice.”

“In what way?”

Stan chuckles, “Are you seriously asking me what’s nice about the ocean? Go pick up a poetry book or something.”

Ford looks back at him again, amused but undeterred.

“I mean why are you staring at it so much more now than you did before?”

Again, there’s no good answer. No good reason. Stan knows that. He also knows Ford catches the moment of hesitation in his eyes.

“Things are calming down, I guess. We’re all settled and stuff. Got time to think.”

Ford shakes his head.

“That shift happened over a month ago, and it wouldn’t explain why you’re not eating.” He crosses his arms. “Tell me what’s going on with you, Stanley. Right now.“

Shit shit shit shit shit shit—

“Even if something was going on with me— which it’s not— you can’t just demand answers when you decide it’s time!”

“I’ve been patient enough.”

And he has, oh, he has.

“Look, it’s really not a big deal.”

“So you acknowledge that there is something.”

“I don’t want you to worry about it!”

“Is that why you won’t tell me? So that I don’t worry? Stanley, that’s clearly not working!”

“It doesn’t even matter!”

“Then why won’t you tell me?!”

Stan goes quiet for a moment. Flounders. Fumbles for words. Ford waits for him, patient again— he’s been so patient and that’s not his strong suit and Stan hasn’t been showing him nearly enough appreciation for it. That’s just the sick cherry on this miserable sundae.

“It’ll be fine, okay? I just need to think. That’s all.”

Stan goes back to the railing. He stares into the ocean. It stares back. This is too hard, everything’s too hard, he wants to take the easy way out, he wants it so badly.

“I can’t just sit back and watch you suffer.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t been through already.”

“That’s hardly comforting.”

Ford’s voice is dry and Stan chuckles. Barely. It’s getting harder to laugh these days.

The quiet is long and almost peaceful. Sea birds call in the background. The waves rise and fall. The tension holds steady and painful.

“Careful, Stan,” Ford’s voice comes in delicate but firm, “you’re leaning over the rail again.”

Ah. So he is. He shrugs.

“Stanley, be careful— you don’t want to fall in.”

Doesn’t he, though? Stan laughs bitterly. Glances at Ford briefly. Glances at Ford again, letting his gaze linger on the curiosity, the intensity, the puzzle pieces coming together moment by moment until suddenly, Ford straightens his spine, face going sickly pale.

“You… don’t want to fall in, right, Stanley?”

Stan swallows hard.

“Of course not. That shit’s cold.” He hears his own voice, how dull and unconvincing it is, and gives up even more, mumbling more to himself than Ford as he looks back at the ocean, “Cold enough to kill a guy.”

The quiet comes back much worse than before, the air heavy with the dark understanding falling upon the brothers like nuclear fallout. The waves still sound the same; they always do.

Something grabs Stan hard by the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards away from the railing with a force that makes him yelp and briefly panic. He whips around and Ford is there, full-body trembling with something that could just as easily be anger as fear. When Stan tries weakly to pull away, the grip just tightens, and so does Ford’s jaw. He grabs Stan’s bicep with the other hand and starts manhandling him towards the door.

“You’re going inside. Now.”

Stan pulls again but it’s no use. He’d be a nearly even match for his brother at his peak, but he’s not at his peak, he’s empty, running on fumes.

“Whoa, Sixer, it’s not—“

“No.” Ford interrupts firmly, like a growl. “Nothing else until I get you inside.”

So Stan acquiesces to what he can only see as a gross overreaction. He’d been standing there all morning, it’s not like he was going to jump overboard at that exact moment— certainly not with Ford watching! They make it through the door and Stan allows himself to be miserably shoved all the way into the bunk room, where Ford slams the door behind them before finally, finally releasing Stan.

Seriously, the man looks like he has the flu. He’s pale and shaking like a leaf, fists clenched tightly, pain and terror and tears in his eyes— Stan has to look away when he sees his eyes, he can’t bear to look at that anymore.

“You—“ Ford starts, choking on his own words, struggling with every breath, “You weren’t seriously thinking about— you wouldn’t— would you?!”

“Nah, Ford, I wouldn’t do that,” Stan comforts like it’s obvious, but it’s empty, and Ford cuts him off with a bark of laughter,

“What kind of— that’s absolutely insane! How could you even think—“ his hands fly to his hair, gripping tightly, the shaking getting worse and worse, “Fuck, I’m not helping, am I? I’m sorry, I just. I don’t understand, I don’t understand at all!”

“Good.” Stan declares before he can stop himself. When Ford’s head snaps up with furious confusion, he looks away. “I don’t want you to have to understand. I’m glad you’ve never felt this one, Stanford, seriously.”

Ford just gazes at him with an open mouth, leaning back against the door. The tears escape his eyes and make it down his face. He looks like he’s about to start yelling again, then instead, he starts gasping for breath, reaching out towards Stanley,

“I can’t breathe— I can’t— oh, fuck—“

Very little has ever made Stan as miserable in his sixty years of life as causing his brother this panic attack. He leaps into protective mode,

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay, Sixer. Deep breaths. I gotcha, I’m here, everything’s okay.”

He wraps Ford into his arms and Ford scrambles for purchase, gripping him like one of their lives depends on it.

“Stanley, you can’t, you can’t— please don’t leave me alone, I just— please, don’t do it—“

“It’s okay, come on, deep breaths.”

“—don’t— I won’t let you, you hear me? You can’t— I can’t lose you now!”

If this is the amount of pain it would cause Ford? Stanley’s misery no longer matters. He holds the man tight, pulling back enough to look in his eyes,

“Ford, look at me, buddy.” He fills his voice with weight and levity, every ounce he has, “I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? I won’t do anything. You and me against the world, right? I’m staying right here with you. I’m staying.”

Ford finds some oxygen with the words, lip trembling, voice broken,

“You’re staying? You promise?”

He doesn’t want to.

“Yea, bud. For you? I promise.”

That’s enough for Ford to catch a deep, gasping breath as he collapses into Stan’s chest, sobbing and heaving, and Stan just rubs his back.

“There we go, Sixer.” He talks through the attack tiredly, gently, “Let’s take some big, deep breaths, okay? Like this, do it with me.”

Stan leads his brother through breathing and slowly gets his heart rate down, back to somewhere near normal. They sit down on the nearer bed and stay there for a long time, arms wrapped tightly around one another. They’re tired.

Eventually, Ford takes a deep breath and pulls back a little, not letting go, just enough to see his brother’s face; his own is splotchy and red.

“I’m sorry. That’s— you needed help, and instead, you had to help me.”

“Eh, ‘s okay. Makes enough sense.” Stan shrugs. “I know I’d freak out if I thought you were gonna…” he trails off into mumbling, glancing away, “jump in the arctic fucking ocean.”

Ford’s grip tightens again and Stan runs a soothing hand down his back, mumbling “Sorry.” With a few more deep breaths, Ford speaks again, unable to keep eye contact with his brother for long enough to matter.

“How long has this been… how long have you, er…”

“I mean, I’ve kinda been depressed my whole life, Sixer. Not usually half this bad, though. Couple weeks, maybe.”

Ford struggles. Swallows. Evens his breathing out again. Stan recognizes his disposition shifting to something more scientific, analytical, like he always does when there’s a problem to solve.

“How bad is it? Do you think you might really…”

“No. I already figured I wasn’t gonna, and… if it gets to you that much, then—“

“Of course it gets to me that much!” Ford exclaims, furrowing his brow, “What, did you think I wouldn’t mind?!”

“Geez, calm down, Sixer. I just meant… well, I dunno, I didn’t think that far into it, I guess. I’ve got a hard time seeing myself as important right now, I guess I forgot I’m important to you.”

Ford’s grip tightens again and he grits his teeth, scrabbling for his brother’s front, grabbing somewhere near his shoulder,

“Of course you’re— you—“ he takes a deep breath again. “You are very, very important to me, Stanley.”

“Yea. Ditto.”

“Right. So your health and wellbeing matters to me very much as well.”

“Great.”

“What other depressive symptoms are you experiencing?”

Oh, boy. Doctor Pines, PHD is going to pick apart his problem for every bit of information he can find. And what the hell is Stan gonna do about it? Nothing— he doesn’t have it in him. He relents,

“Well, I’ve pretty much lost my appetite. Stuff’s not so fun anymore. I’m tired a lot. And, I, uh…”

He pauses. Is this really necessary? He could just stop and pretend it never happened. Ford looks up at him with deep thought, then unfortunately seems to clue in, pursing his lips, staying tactfully calm.

“Have you been harming yourself, Stanley?”

“A little bit, yea.”

“Where?”

“Stomach. ‘S where I could hide it.”

“May I see?”

Reluctantly, Stan lifts his shirt to reveal the small set of fresh cuts and burns on the side of his gut. Ford sucks in a sharp breath.

“Just that.”

“Right. You’ve been keeping them clean? Disinfected?”

“Yep.”

Ford looks up at him again, staring into his face for a long moment before apparently deciding to believe him. He doesn’t let up the intensity of his gaze, though,

“Where are the implements you’ve been using for this?”

With a sigh, Stan fishes the pocket knife out of his pocket and hands it over knowingly, then shifts them until he can reach the nightstand, fishing around in there to produce his lighter. Ford takes both items calmly and tucks them into an inner pocket in his coat.

“Don’t harm yourself anymore.”

“I won’t.” The words come too smoothly, too easily, and he sighs, “Eh, I’ll try, at least.”

Ford nods solemnly.

“If you do harm yourself, or if you think you might, please tell me. Please let me help you.”

As if he hasn’t already done so much.

“Yea, okay. I’ll try to do that, too.”

“Stanley, if you ever think there’s any possibility that you might… take your life…”

“I’ll come get you, yea? ‘Cause you want me to stick around.”

“Yes. If something happened to you— especially here, especially now— I’d never forgive myself.”

“Wouldn’t be your fault.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Fair enough. Consider my life saved.”

Ford looks at him annoyedly, pleadingly, and Stan sighs again,

“I’m not feeling better, Sixer, not really, but there’s no way in hell I’m gonna kill myself with you all worried about me like that.”

Ford leans his head against Stan’s shoulder.

“Alright, that’s good enough for now. There has to be a way to fix this, to get you at least back to where you were.” His eyes clench shut. “This just feels so sudden.”

“Yea, it was weirdly sudden for me too.”

For the umpteenth time today, Ford freezes with a realization.

“When did you say this started? Be as specific as you can.”

Stan squints with thought, confused but willing to follow,

“Uh, I dunno, I started feeling it like two weeks ago, and it’s sorta been slowly getting worse.”

“Do you remember a day?”

“It’s not that specific, this stuff.” He thinks further, then shrugs, “Well, maybe the day after we left that one island.”

“The one where we picked up the gem?”

“Yea, that one.”

Ford disappears from Stan’s arms, rushing towards his desk. He shuffles through the assortment of paper, swiping some off to the ground before picking one up, and the gem as well,

“I’ve been analyzing it, and it has all the properties of a neuroaffective material, but I hadn’t been able to pinpoint any effects! Usually, these things are very immediate and direct, whispering things to you and such; it’s possible that this is an exception, one with a slower-acting, more subtle, wider proximal effect— I did identify potential distance-affective indicators.”

Stan blinks at him a few times.

“You think this rock is making me more depressed?”

“It’s possible.” He contemplates, reading his notes. “If it has an AOE, it probably also has a contact effect.” He looks up at Stan and holds the gem out, not thinking very hard about it, “Here, touch it.”

Stan wanders over to his brother and stares at the rock in his hand. It’s about the size of his palm, maybe a little bigger.

Stan picks it up. Holds it. He doesn’t really notice a difference at first. It sinks over him like a wave of molasses and Stanley hums with understanding, opening his hand to stare at it in his palm,

“Yep, I pretty much wanna kill myself now.”

Ford snatches the gem from his hand in an instant, then looks at it in his own hand and startles, dropping it on the floor. He looks back at Stan, a bit fascinated and a bit frantic,

“Really?!”

“Like I said, I’m not gonna do anything, but yea, touching that thing made it way worse.” The intensity already slips slowly back down, an ounce of relief in his spine when it fades back to where it was.

“Right. We’re disposing of this immediately.”

“You think that’ll help?”

Ford begins rifling through drawers, pulling out a pair of six-fingered gloves,

“Based on its secondary properties, I estimated a range for this thing’s potential area of effect. It’s large enough to encompass the boat twice over, but it won’t be able to affect us from the bottom of the sea.” He searches for something to grab it with before giving up and securing it in one gloved hand, “Neuroaffective materials like this one don’t have permanent effects. Even if it created a buildup in your system, it will slowly fade, taking no longer than twice the duration of exposure.”

“Wait, hold on,” Stan pinches the bridge of his nose, gesturing at Ford holding the suicide-rock, “if it’s an area thing, is it affecting you?”

Ford thinks for a short moment before shrugging very genuinely,

“No, I don’t think so. I haven’t experienced any depression symptoms lately.”

“Okay, well, that’s good… but why?”

He shakes his head,

“I have no idea. And I’m not keeping it around long enough to find out.” He goes for the door as he thinks, “It could be an intensifier. You said you’ve struggled with moderate-to-severe depression in the past, yes?”

“Not sure those are the words I used, but yea.”

“Perhaps it’s because I don’t have that experience, so there’s not as much for the gem to draw upon.” Ford opens the door before pausing, looking at Stan with concern. “Maybe you should wait here.”

Stan squints at him.

“Why? You think I’m gonna toss myself overboard or something?”

“Well. Yes.”

“I said I won’t.”

“And if you intended to,” Ford suddenly snaps, “you’d have told me that?”

He then bites his lip like he regrets saying that out loud. Stan sighs and offers an understanding smile,

“Alright, go chuck the rock in the ocean, I guess I’ll wait here.”

Ford takes a single step, then pauses again.

“You’ll wait here. Alone.” He stands in the doorway, visibly struggling. Stan fights back giggles.

“Do you need me to hold your hand, poindexter?”

Ford huffs, then squints for a moment before looking back at Stan sheepishly,

“Yes?”

Aw.

Stan leaves the bunk and offers his hand. Ford bites off one of his gloves to take it. They make their way back to the deck together, Ford gripping his twin’s hand tightly. Stan stays comfortingly close, trying not to be offended or patronized when Ford holds him firmly away from the side of the boat, even as he rears back to chuck the gem. Something in Stan is sad to see it go, but his instincts tell him that might just be the rock talking, so he firmly ignores it.

Ford throws it with the power of protective rage and it soars, plopping down into the water quite a ways away and disappearing from view.

“Right.” Ford evenly sighs with relief. “That’s settled. Let’s drive away from here, just in case.”

Stan smiles fondly and shakes his head.

“Okay, Sixer, whatever you say.”

Ford smiles at him appreciatively, squeezing his hand again.

“I’ll want updates every day on how you’re feeling.”

“Sure.”

“And don’t expect me to leave you alone for a while, especially on deck.”

“Sure.”

“I might check you for self harm scars, just to make sure you stop.”

“Yea, that’s probably smart.”

“And I—“

“Sixer.” Stan interrupts, grabbing Ford’s shoulder with his other hand, “It’s gonna be fine. Okay? You figured it out, we got rid of the rock, and I’m sure I’ll start feeling better soon.” He’s not actually sure about that, but for Ford, he’ll try to trust it.

Ford closes his eyes and takes a deep shaky breath. “You’re right.” He looks at Stan again, head tilted, “I just worry about you.”

“Yea, I can tell. But I’m not worried. Y’know why?”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I got you taking care of me, and you’re a genius.”

Ford chuckles and shakes his head, leading Stan back inside,

“You’re incredible, Stanley.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Well, then… sure.”

Chapter Text

The next day, at somewhere around noon, Stan starts feeling a bit sick. He keeps thinking about that rock. He wants it back. He doesn’t actually, and he knows there’s not really a way to get it, and even if they could Ford would never let that happen, but he wants it.

He startles out of his thoughts when Ford places a plate on the table in front of him. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Nice and simple. The sandwiches are cut into quarters for him. He’s not hungry, but he picks up a piece anyways, dipping it and taking a bite. It tastes good, he thinks. That doesn’t really help.

“How are you feeling?” Ford asks gently, sitting down across from him with a matching meal. Stan still doesn’t really have the energy to lie convincingly, nor the motivation, so he just shrugs,

“I miss the rock.”

Ford blinks at him a few times. “What?”

“I want the rock back.”

“Well, Stanley, um, we—“

“I know, Sixer, I’m not that stupid. Even if we could get it back, I wouldn’t actually want to, just…” he trails off with a sigh, “I miss the rock.”

Ford nods with a little more understanding.

“Right, I see. That can happen with neuroaffective artifacts. They lure victims in, then they have a sort of addictive quality.” He winces with thought, “Actually, you may even experience withdrawal symptoms. We’ll want to watch for that.”

“That’s… great.”

He looks sympathetic. Stan shrugs again, tired, tries to eat more of his grilled cheese and soup. Ford watches sadly. This makes it much harder.

“Talk about something, Ford.” He pleads dryly, “Talk about anything. Something normal. Please.”

“Ah… oh! Dipper’s working on a science project for his class. He emailed me a list of questions and a description…”

Stan forgets about the rock for a bit while Ford tells him about their grandnephew’s current science project. Something with nuts and bolts and a little bit of coding— Stan doesn’t bother to understand it fully, just enjoys listening.

They move on. Calculate the next location to track an anomaly they’ve found. Stan hasn’t been keeping up lately, so he doesn’t fully know what it is, but Ford’s doing math about it and Stan’s across the room trying to fix a broken fishing pole. He gets it connected, but it’s tilted awkwardly, so… not fixed, really. He’s working, then he’s working more slowly, then he’s just holding a screwdriver and some string, then he’s just… sitting there. Numbly.

Those scissors are pretty sharp. Could probably do some good damage.

The thought is unwelcome, but it settles in his gut anyways. Makes him a bit nauseous. It might help relieve some of the stress. The tension. The miserable helplessness. He’s not sure when he reached out, but he finds his hand on the scissors. Fidgeting. Spinning them. Thinking.

He picks up the scissors. Stands. Picks up his chair. Takes the things and himself across the room. He sets the chair down with a thud right beside Ford’s desk, making the man jump and turn with curiosity; he takes this opportunity to place the scissors down in the center of Ford’s desk, right on his workspace.

“You can have those, and I’m gonna sit here now.”

Ford looks between him and the chair and the scissors with confusion, gears turning in his head until Stan sees it click. Clearing his throat, Ford tries to maintain an air of calm and really doesn’t succeed,

“Did you—“

“No. And now I’m not gonna, ‘cause you’re gonna take the damn scissors.”

Ford nods and shoves the scissors in a drawer in the desk, one that Stan certainly wouldn’t be able to open with Ford sitting there. Stan grabs a comic book and sits in his chair, and Ford firmly grabs his hand.

“Stanley. Thank you.”

They lock eyes. Ford’s face holds some concern, but mostly genuine appreciation and relief. Stan just nods,

“Yea, ‘course.”

Ford returns to his work and Stan delves into the comic book, not enjoying it as much as he usually might but letting it distract him. He sees Ford look up every couple of minutes, as though checking on him, but neither say anything. Ford eventually starts dozing over his work and Stan chuckles, poking him awake so they can both properly go to bed. Stan makes it through the day unscathed.

Stanley wakes up in the very, very early morning. He can’t find a reason for it, he’s just awake. He lies still for a while, listening to his brother’s gentle snoring in the room. His brother who has more trauma now than he did just a couple of days ago, more to worry about, more stress, more pain, Stan’s inflicted a new and unnecessary misery upon him, a terrible burden, a—

Stan needs some air.

He slips as quietly as he can out of bed, tip-toes across the room, closes the door behind him with a soft click. His lungs fill anew when he makes it outside, the sound and gentle rocking of the waves soothing him. Still, the water calls him. He just has to look. Then he can go back inside. He’s not going to do anything. Ford would be devastated.

Actually, he should probably stay away from the railing, just in case Ford’s awake somehow and comes on deck. Seeing Stan up here will likely give Ford a heart attack either way, but it’ll be a bit milder if he’s not inches away from the imminent danger. When did Stan get this close to the railing, anyhow? He takes a few steps back and sits on the wood floor of the deck, feeling the coarse grain beneath his fingertips and the soles of his feet— damn, he didn’t even put on his slippers?

A few deep breaths of salty sea-air help, but aren’t enough. He wants to swim to the bottom of the sea and find his damn rock and he doesn’t care if he lives or dies in the process— in fact, the second would be better. He wants to jump overboard. He knows he can’t. He won’t. But still.

Footsteps to the side should jar him, but they don’t. Maybe he doesn’t have it in him to be startled. He just looks up with surprise and guilt and misery as Ford approaches. The man doesn’t even say anything, just looks at him with a concerned, loving attempt at a smile, then settles down next to him. One arm swings gently around Stan’s back. The hold is a comfort, but a sickened part of Stan’s stomach knows it’s also there to keep him safe, to stop him if he tries to go anywhere.

When did Stanley start crying?

“I’m so tired, Ford.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Alright.”

Slowly, Stan leans more and more of his weight in towards his brother until he’s fully collapsed against the other man’s side, head down on his shoulder.

“I’m so fucking tired.”

“I…” Ford shakes his head, struggling for what to say, what could possibly mean anything,

“I hear you, Stanley. I hear you and I care. This matters. And I’m going to help you.”

Stan sobs, arms wrapping loosely around his brother’s shoulders. It matters.

Ford rubs soothing circles into his back, speaking softly,

“Can we go inside? I would feel safer if you were inside.”

Despite having nothing in him with which to accomplish such a movement, Stan nods, allows his brother to guide him to stand. It’s hard, almost impossible, and Stan has to lean just about all of his weight on his companion, but together, they walk back inside. Ford doesn’t even try to lead Stan to the second bed, collapsing them both on his own and wrapping Stan safely in his arms.

“You’re sleeping by my side now until this is over. Alright?”

“M’kay.”

“Thank you. Go to sleep, Stanley.”

“M’kay.”

Using his brother’s chest as a pillow and with soft fingers carding gently through his hair, Stanley does, in fact, fall back asleep. When he wakes a few hours later, Ford is still by his side, one arm around him and the other holding a book. Nothing needs to be said. Stan breathes even better than he did above deck.

On one day, in late morning, Ford emerges from his little office to find Stan rummaging around in the kitchen. Specifically, the silverware drawer. The one Ford recently kid-proofed a little.

“Stanley?”

Stan startles, cursing under his breath and slamming the drawer shut, then flinching at the sound it makes,

“Yea?”

“What are you looking for?”

Stan doesn’t have the energy to consider lying; he knows it was probably obvious.

“Knife.”

Ford forces his expression to remain mostly calm and collected,

“What for?”

Somehow, miserably, Stan doesn’t have the energy to lie about that, either. He doesn’t even have the power to resist answering, he just looks at the floor.

“T’ cut myself.”

“I see.” Ford bites his lip. Takes a deep breath. For a brief moment, they’re both silent, but Stan can only wait for the rest of his brother’s response.

“I won’t allow you to do that.”

Simple, straightforward, calm. Stan weakly shrugs,

“Okay.”

Ford manages a hesitant smile and reaches out a hand,

“Let’s go sit down somewhere, and you can rest for a while. Alright?”

Stan nods, and that’s all he’s got left in him. His hand makes it maybe halfway extended before Ford leans forward to grab it, then Stanley is gently pulled into the bunk room where they sit on Ford’s bed together, side by side.

More silence. But it doesn’t last long— Ford’s getting better with this,

“Have I told you about the time I broke into a 200-story tall research building to steal their textbooks?”

He has, but he tells it again anyways. It’s a good story. Stan relaxes, and the itchy feeling that craves a knife goes away.

When they have fish later that day, Ford cuts Stanley’s food up for him, and then that knife is tucked away again.

Another day, Stan’s fishing— with clear rules about not touching the boat’s railing, and with Ford right next to him for supervision— when he looks out at the water, really looks, and a realization hits him like… well, like arctic-cold water.

He could’ve died.

This whole thing could have actually killed him, and he would’ve been gone forever. The childhood dream he’s achieved with his twin would be permanently over. He could have lost everything. He could have died.

“Stanley?” Ford asks softly from beside him, “Are you alright?”

Stan’s not sure how to answer that. He’s not alright. He’s… what exactly is he feeling?

Ford swiftly and securely grabs his bicep. Safety reasons, obviously; he’s worried Stan’s going to try to jump off the side. Into the deadly freezing ocean. He’s probably—

Oh, he’s exactly what Stanley’s feeling right now.

Terrified.

Stan drops his fishing rod and leans all the way back in his chair, gasping for breath, and Ford leaps up to stand in front of him, a hand on each arm now,

“Stanley? Can you hear me? What’s going on?”

“Sixer—“ he manages, “I can’t— I almost— holy shit, I actually could’ve—“

“Could have what?” Ford scans his face in frantic confusion, trying to put together the pieces. Stan grabs him back, clenching fistfuls of his shirt,

“I could’ve died!”

Ford just blinks at him.

“Y…yes, Stanley. That is what’s been happening here. For the past few weeks, you’ve been in near-constant danger.”

His answer’s almost sarcastically dry, describing something obvious, but to Stan, it’s just now hitting. At least, it’s just now hitting as a bad thing.

“I almost killed myself, Sixer!” Stan laments, “Multiple times! Like, a lot of times!”

Ford grits his teeth,

“Yes, Stanley; I don’t particularly like thinking about it.”

Eyes on the ocean, Stan tries to stand, but Ford’s hesitant to let him, applying just enough pressure to keep him in his seat,

“Now, hold on—“

“I gotta— goddamn, we… I…”

With another scrambled push, Stan is allowed to rise to his feet, but Ford immediately walks him several steps back towards the center of the deck. Stan’s perfectly willing to allow this; in fact, it’s ideal.

“Stanley, what’s going on?! Spit it out!”

Now, with the slightly safer distance, Stan’s able to tear his gaze away from the ocean to look into his brother’s eyes,

“We should get me inside.”

“You think we need to?” Ford asks, “Are you experiencing—“

“Help me!” Stan cries out. Ford’s jaw snaps shut.

With a familiar, well-practiced concern and determination, Ford nods and wraps an arm around Stan’s middle, leading him inside. It’s faster than usual because Stan’s trying to dart forward instead of being tiredly half-dragged.

Without any further information, Ford consoles his brother through an entire panic attack in the bunk room, bundling the man securely in his arms and doing his best to stay calm and to soothe. Stan blubbers and stammers and doesn’t manage any more words for a while, struggling for breath until Ford walks him through it and they take slow, deep breaths together.

Shoes and coats come off, anything that could contribute to overstimulation goes away, a lamp stays on for clear vision but no bigger lights are on so it’s not too much, and Ford never leaves physical contact with his brother for a moment. Even when he stands to get the bottle of water on his desk, he keeps hold of Stanley’s hand and has to lean and reach to grab the bottle. He wraps them together loosely in a blanket— warm, comforting, but not constricting. Despite being horribly alarmed and uncertain, Ford is a rock, a force of stability and calm and comfort. Even with how deeply terrified Stan is, the panic attack doesn’t last all that long. He doesn’t even get sick from it, which is impressive considering,

“I almost died.” Stan whispers once he’s back to himself enough to form words, “So many times in, what, three weeks?”

“Three and a half since exposure began, yes.”

“I coulda died anytime. Especially before you knew. One slip-up, one day a little worse than the others, one convenient opportunity, and I’d be dead right now.”

Ford grimaces. He really doesn’t like to think about this, and his own mind is swimming, but this isn’t about him.

“Yes.”

Stan runs out of words again, so Ford takes the moment to really analyze the situation and take a good look at Stan’s face. His academic resolve falters and softens when he sees the blatant fear there, and understanding slowly fades in.

“It’s just now hitting you, isn’t it?”

Blotchy-faced teary-eyed Stan looks in his eyes again and nods before looking away and shrinking into his shoulders. Ford starts rubbing his back again, softening his voice to be warm and soothing,

“You’re afraid, is that it? Because it’s settling in, what’s been happening to you recently. It clicked, the impulse you’ve felt.” He softly gasps, “Does that mean it’s fading? That you don’t feel— that you won’t—“

Ford runs out of words, so he takes a deep breath and gently tips Stan’s chin up to face him. Before he can figure out how to ask what he needs to ask, Stan answers, sounding small and afraid,

“I don’t wanna die.”

All of the air exits Ford’s lungs in a single push, like he’s been punched in the chest in a good way. Relief floods his body, settles into his spine, loosens his shoulders. An instant later, he sobs and pulls Stan all the way in for a hug, face-in-shoulder style. Stan easily reciprocates.

“Good.” Ford declares. “That… that’s good. That’s so good to hear, Stanley.”

Stan whimpers and buries his face deeper into Ford’s sweater, his voice so quiet it’s barely a whisper,

“I don’t wanna die I don’t wanna die I don’t wanna die I don’t wanna die,”

He chants it like a mantra, he repeats it like a prayer, he mutters it like a curse, he doesn’t stop saying it. Every time it’s said, Ford feels a little better, a little freer.

As Ford’s tension loosens, Stan’s grip tightens until eventually, he sounds far too scared again. Ford has to pull back just enough to speak, supporting Stan’s head and just about cradling him; it takes a moment to get his voice solid and confident again,

“You’re not going to die. Do you understand? I won’t allow it. I will keep you safe. I’ve been keeping you safe since the moment I knew I needed to, and I’ll continue until the threat is completely over. You are safe with me, Stanley, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

Stan cries just a little more before it’s over and he’s able to pull away. He wipes at his face and sniffles and groans,

“Damn, I can’t believe that just hit me. ‘Cause obviously, I’ve been… but wow, my life has been in real danger, and I do not wanna die.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Yikes.”

“This is a very, very good sign, Stanley.” Ford offers, still keeping physical contact, “It means the effects are wearing off.”

Stan nods agreement.

It’s quiet for a moment.

“Hey…” Stan starts, looking down and fidgeting with his hands, “could you, uh… go grab my fishing rod? If it’s still there?”

Ford snorts. Stan smiles at him sheepishly,

“Don’t want some fish draggin’ it away, y’know? I kinda like that thing.”

“Yes yes, I understand.”

“And, uh, I don’t really wanna go back up on deck right now.”

“Of course.”

“So, can you…”

Ford’s already standing. He ruffles his brother’s hair and goes for the door.

“And—“ Stan calls behind him, earning a single quirked eyebrow, “can you be quick? Just, y’know. Don’t take too long.”

’Don’t leave me alone for too long.’ Ford understands. He nods decisively,

“Of course. I’ll be right back, Stanley.” He points at Stan, “Stay put.”

Stan nods goofily and scoots back on the bed until his feet don’t reach the floor. He grins at his brother and relaxes in his spot, clearly not going anywhere.

Oh, Stanley’s actually going to allow himself to be helped. To be taken care of.

Ford never thought he’d see such a day. He smiles warmly,

“I won’t be long, I promise.”

Stan nods as Ford leaves the room.

For the first time since this started, he’s not scared to leave his brother alone. He still hurries.

The fishing rod is saved.