if you know my writing at all then you know sick ford is my fuckin jam so obviously i had to write smtn
also, because of subject matter i want to put this first- pls don’t tag as stancest, as it was not written in any way to be ship work.
anyways here’s cuddlebug slopdrabble (but i sort of went the direction of ford sending a vague ass letter because he’s embarrased LMAOOO)
“Ford?” Stan knocks harder. “Ford, open the goddamn door.”
Christ. Fuckin’ figures. Ford’s the one who sent him that cryptic ass note, asking him to come here, no indication of what the hell he needs help with, and now, he won’t even open the door.
“Ford, you don’t open the door in ten seconds, I’m goin’!”
An empty threat, and he knows it. He just hopes that Ford doesn’t know it. Ford, who asked him to come here after ten years of absolutely no contact.
It’s stupid to hope that it’s simply because he misses his brother. That he wants to… make amends, maybe? Stupid. Stan knows better than that. He doesn’t hope. He doesn’t.
“Ford, you asked me to come!!”
He’s interrupted by a thud sound, along with the sound of plastic hitting wood.
“Ford?! Everythin’ okay?”
The words on the postcard come back to Stan– please come!
He rams his shoulder at the door. It wobbles. He rams his shoulder again. Again, again, again, and his heart is fucking pounding, and he’s not worried, he isn’t, he shouldn’t even care at all–
The door breaks off the hinges.
Ford is on the ground. He’s slightly curled up, a blanket and plastic bowl nearby on the ground. His face is upturned, one arm stretched out, almost like he’s searching, crawling forward.
“Hey, woah, Ford, you– you okay?”
Ford coughs and twitches. “Stan– Stanley…” He coughs again.
“Shit.” Stan kneels down beside him. “What’s goin’ on? Are you sick?”
A weak, pitiful nod. Any anger Stan held against his brother fades away, surely to be felt some other day. For now, he’s just fucking terrified. The pieces immediately fit together in his brain– please come!
“What happened? What can I do?” God, it must be bad if Ford called him. It must be really, really bad– something terminal, maybe? No, no, no, that can’t– no– “Ford, say somethin’.”
“Stan,” Ford mutters, hoarse. “You came.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. I came. How can I help?”
“Need–” Another nasty cough. “Sick–”
“I can see that. We should get you to a hospital, why– why didn’t you–”
“Don’ need hospital, n-now that you’re here–”
Suddenly, with strength Stan could’ve in no way assumed Ford had at the moment, Ford lunges at Stan and sends them both tumbling to the ground. He gasps as his brother, his older brother, buries his head into Stan’s chest and wraps his arms tightly around Stan’s waist. Stan is shocked and frozen for a moment, afraid to move, afraid to speak, to breathe, to do anything.
Of all the ways he expected to go, all the scenarios he played out in his mind, this was never, ever one of them.
Ford must be really, badly sick.
“Ford, we need to get you to a hospital.”
“No–” Ford coughs. “No, can explain–”
“No, listen, you’re sick.” He starts to pull away. “You need–”
“NO!” Ford clings on tighter, like a damn koala. “I can explain. I-I will, but just– you have to stay. Please.”
He sounds so desperate that Stan can’t move. He ruined his brother’s life, how could he ever deny Ford’s first request in ten years?
“I will explain,” Ford says, hoarse, but suddenly sounding a bit more lucid, “P-Promise.” He sniffles loudly. “Don’t move. Don’t– don’t move.”
“I won’t,” Stan breathes. “I won’t.”
Slowly, he scoops Ford up and pulls him in closer, keeping his arms securely around him, like he might fall apart at any moment. Ford hums softly and shivers.
“Good.” Another sniffle. Stan is pretty sure his nose is running onto Stan’s shirt, but he can’t really be bothered to care. “S’ helping.”
“Okay… that’s– that’s good, I guess.” Stan clears his throat. “Wanna… wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
Sniffle. “Studying– studying anomalies. I found out about– this sickness.”
“Wait, wait, you’re tellin’ me you got some fuckin’… science fiction disease?”
“Kind of. Mutated oxycontin is released into your body.”
“S’ a hormone. Makes you want physical closeness. But this kind isn’t meant for humans.” He yawns. “Makes you sick. You can recover if you satiate the oxycontin.”
“I’m gonna need you to put this in simpler terms,” Stan deadpans.
Ford makes a frustrated noise, as if it’s so obvious. “I don’t know how much clearer I can make this.”
“Jesus. Typical,” Stan mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you know, just nice to see you haven’t changed. Still an arrogant–”
“That’s not–” Ford growls. “You’re the one who wrecked–”
“If you’re just gonna throw shit in my face, I’m leavin’.” He starts to get up, slightly afraid of what might happen if they go down this road. He knows, ultimately, the blame is his to take. It just feels a little bit like admitting defeat to pick it up. “Nice to see you–”
“NO–!” Ford scrambles after him and clings on tighter, at this point curled up in Stan’s lap, and coughs harshly. He chokes on the air for a few moments as Stan rubs his back.
Then Ford looks up at him.
“Please stay. I-I need–” he inhales deeply. “I need you here right now.”
Stan can’t speak, at that.
“To satiate the oxycontin, and ultimately– er, use it up, essentially” Ford mutters, “you have to give it what it wants.”
“Physical closeness,” Ford says, sounding ashamed. “A-And I didn’t… I didn’t know who else I could’ve–”
Stan bursts out laughing. “Ford– y-you’re kiddin’!”
“I’m not.” Ford sniffles. “And, actually, it’s rather serious.”
“Cuz you let it be,” Stan fires back, still wheezing out laughter. “Cuz you were too– too embarrassed to ask someone to–”
“CUDDLE!” Stan cuts himself off with laughter, but he doesn’t dare hold his twin any more loosely.
Jesus. A fucking… cuddle bug.
This just might be the funniest thing in the world.
Obviously, yeah, he wants Ford to get better, and he’ll do everything he can to make sure he does.
“Stanley, it’s not funny,” Ford pouts.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Stan wipes a tear from his eyes then wraps his arm back around Ford. “Whatever you say.”
Ford huffs, then sniffles.
Stan feels a very small, but still amused, spike of pity. “Feelin’ any better yet?”
“Mhm… less dizzy. Room isn’t spinning. N’ I haven’t thrown up yet.”
“You throw up on me, I drop you.” Stan presses his hand against his twin’s forehead. “Shit, you’re burnin’ up.”
“Feelin’ like you can maybe stand? Might help if we go to the couch or somethin’. Better on the old back.”
Ford nods, exhaustion seeming to overcome him all at once. Still, he does his best to make the task of getting him to his feet as easy as possible. He leans heavily against Stan once they’re standing.
Stan clears off the couch– it was covered in books and clothes, how does Ford live like this?– then eases Ford down and crawls up next to him. Ford grumbles but clings on again, curled up against his side with both arms securely around Stan’s stomach, and his head nuzzled into Stan’s chest.
Stan can’t think about it too much. He might freak out.
He can’t help but wonder how long it’ll last. He also wonders, a little bit, if Ford is just fucking high or tripping or otherwise incapacitated in some way. That might make more sense than a weird space disease.
But, he supposes, what about Ford has ever made sense?
“I don't…” he shakes his head. “It’s good to see you. I mean it. I– you know.”
As Ford drifts into unconsciousness, Stan answers him, voice choked.
Stan just hopes this shit isn’t contagious.
