The follow-up, where Ford decides to be a scientist (and an annoying little shit). @aroace-get-out-of-my-face thank you once again for blessing us with this au.
Stanâs working on pancakes, Fordâs attempting bacon. Except, thatâs not really why theyâre both in the kitchen, and Ford didnât really just want them to cook together âfor funâ. No, this is about to be a test.
Stan turns, then yelps when he sees the whoosh of flame from the pan on the stove.
âWhat the hell, Ford?! Put it out!â
Incredulous isnât profound enough to describe the look Stan gives his brother.
âAre you kidding me? Youâre the magic one!â
âYou can do magic too, youâve proven that! Youâre perfectly capable of putting this out!â
âAre you seriously arguing with me while thereâs a fire next to you?! Either put it out or get away from it!â
Ford looks his brother in the eyes and takes one large step back. Stan growls.
âYou want it out?â Stan grabs a potholder, grabs the pan by the handle, and places it in the empty side of the sink. Now itâs on fire in a different, slightly safer location. âFine. You got a damn fire extinguisher?â
âYou canât be serious.â
âWhat, you want me to pour water on it? Itâs a goddamn grease fire!â
âI want you to put it out with magic, Stanley!â
When the edge of the curtain catches fire, the house promptly opens the window, sending in a gust of wind that puts out the curtain and dims the fire down to a pathetic smolder. Stan picks up the pan again and, glaring at his brother, blows it out like a candle. Ford huffs.
âAlright, Sixer; get outta the kitchen.â
Maybe, Ford decides, it needs to be more imminent, more immediate, more reflexive.
Thatâs his justification when his brother is sitting innocently in the armchair and Ford, entering the room sneakily from behind, hovers a book directly over his head. He drops it.
Stanâs hand flies to his head as he whips around,
âWhat was that for?!â
Ford winces a bit, but doesnât back down,
âI wanted to see if youâd deflect it.â
âHow could I âdeflect itâ if I didnât even know you were doinâ it?â
Stan scoffs and sits right back down in his chair, arm over his head like an umbrella.
âAsshole.â He mutters. Ford scowls and raises another one. Drops it. It bounces off of Stanâs arm.
âOw.â Stanâs voice is much more deadpan, this time. Simply unamused.
With a frustrated sound that might as well be a snarl, Ford storms around into his brotherâs line of sight and raises yet a third book into his hand,
âYouâre not even trying!â
âYea, I never said I would!â
Ford hurls the book at him. It goes wide. Stanley jumps to his feet, angry and amused,
Another book. This time, Ford mumbles himself an incantation for guided aim. He sees and feels the spark of it working as he throws the book, this one harder than the last, aimed directly for Stanâs foreheadâ wait, maybe he shouldnât have done that, thatâs probably going to hurtâ
In a redirection of motion that you wouldnât notice unless you were looking for it, the book turns in the air and flies right by Stanâs head. Stan grins wide,
Ford makes a triumphant noise and points,
âHa! You deflected it!â
âWhat?â Stan snorts, âNo, ya just missed.â
âNo, you deflected it, I saw.â
âNo way, poindexter.â
âI used a spell to guide my aim, Stanley; that was going to hit you and you deflected it!â
âYou used a spell and still missed?â Stan crosses his arms annoyingly, âWow, I knew you had bad aim, but thatâs impressive.â
âI didnât miss! You deflected it!â
They argue like children for nearly an hour.
Ford grabs his arm and shoves at the space around the fun new gemstone artifact he foundâ a ruby carved into a knickknack of a donkey. It slides a few feet away across the floor under his command. The sizzling slash on his arm starts bleeding anyways. He clamps his hand over it.
Right. Where are the healing bandages?
On his search, he passes through the living area and pauses. Stanleyâs sitting on the armchair, looking up at him with a quirked eyebrow,
âUh⊠you good, there, Sixer?â
An opportunity. Ford chuckles, then winces at another throb of pain from his arm,
âA magical investigation of mine hasnât quite gone as planned.â He takes a few steps closer to Stan, who sits up as he seems to spot the blood dripping down Fordâs forearm. Stan then flinches and blinks when Fordâs arm is suddenly held out in front of him, injury brandished almost teasingly,
âWould you mind attempting some healing magic?â
Stan blinks a few more times, looking between Fordâs injury and his face like Fordâs going insane,
âSeriously? Me? Canât you do it yourself?â
âHealing is notoriously difficult to perform on the self. Come onâ if youâd like, I can find you the appropriate spell in my journal.â
Ford whips out his journal. It hovers in the air between them, flipping through pages until Ford finds the right one and turns it to face Stanley. A healing spell, complete with rune and incantation, is displayed in front of him. Stanâs nose scrunches up as he squints at it,
âSixer, I, uh⊠I mean, I agree you should teach me this shit at some point, but right now? I donât know how to do this, and youâre bleeding. Like, a lot.â
Ah, so he is. Well, thatâs fine, he can stand it for another few minutes.
âCome on, Stanleyâ itâs not as though youâve never performed healing magic before.â He ignores Stanâs uncomfortable grimace at the reminder, âAt least try.â
âAlright, alright, fine.â
With a roll of his eyes, Stan squints at the page again,
âFuck your rune, that never does shit for me. Uh⊠Cone-acker on a sandy, uhââ
âConiuna-caro nodsanguis proplendiqum, Stanley.â
âPropane-dick? Nice.â
âProplendiqum.â Ford seethes.
Stan rolls his eyes and, not thinking or trying half as hard on the next try, pronounces almost everything correctly. His hand hovers over the wound and creates a few gold sparkles. For a moment, the decrease in pain makes Ford think Stanâs actually done it, but no; when he looks at his arm, the wound looks pretty much the same.
âDoesnât look like it worked.â
âIt helped with the pain, at least. Thatâs something. Go on, try again.â
âFord. It ainât gonna happen. Quit wasting time and go use your magic stuff on it.â
With a defeated sigh, Ford sets his journal on the side table and turns around. If it werenât for the concerning rate of this blood loss, heâd be much more insistent, but⊠he really ought to fix this.
He fetches his medical kit from a kitchen cabinet. Opens it.
The roll of healing bandages is all but empty. The a tattered strip left could heal, at best, a bad paper cut.
How had he managed to forget that?
He grabs the roll of regular bandages and returns to Stan somewhat sheepishly, not quite thinking straight anymoreâ yep, heâs getting a bit lightheaded now. It doesnât help that heâs been performing magical investigations all afternoon.
âGot your magic healing stuff now?â Stan asks without looking.
âWeâre out of healing bandages.â
Fordâs voice is so blunt, so deadpan that Stanâs head whips towards him on a swivel,
âWhat, seriously? Buddy, thatâs gonna need stitches, then.â
Ford scowls and rolls his eyes,
âAbsolutely not. No, I just need to stop the bleedingââ
âYou mean like stitches do?â
Stanâs interruption is bored and unamused and Ford doesnât even pause,
ââor at least slow it down enough that I can heal it myself. Unless youâd like to try again?â
Stan rises out of the armchair and practically drags his brother into it, seeing the manâs face get pale and watching his weight wobble back and forth unsteadily,
âNot really. I thought you said healing yourself is too hard?â
âItâs extremely difficult and inefficient, but possible, and I really just need to heal it enough that I wonât bleed out.â
âWell, tell me when and Iâll bandage it up.â Stan sighs, pulling the second, far less comfortable chair nearer so he can fret over his brother properly. âOr I can stitch it, if ya want; thatâll hurt like hell, though.â
He looks at the journal, draws the rune in the air over his injured arm,
âŠand immediately gets tunnel vision so bad he almost passes out. He releases the rune with a deep gasp for air, and Stan tenses his grip on the arm of the chair,
âFine, justâŠâ Deep breath. âIf youâre not willing to try healing again, go get my glucose tablets from the kitchen. This will take more magical energy than I have available to me at the moment.â
Stan mutters and grumbles and Ford closes his eyes to focus on breathing. Heâs so focused he doesnât even hear Stan get up.
Or, he doesnât hear it because Stan doesnât get up. With some very dissatisfied grumbling, Stan grabs Fordâs arm and twists the journal to face him.
âConiunacaro nodsanguis proplendiqum.â
Ford pries his eyes open just in time to see the golden glow around his arm, Stanâs eyes screwed shut with focus, one hand with a firm grip just below the injury and the other hovering over it. Ford watches the skin knit itself back togetherâ not completely, not perfectly, but more than enough. More than he wouldâve been able to do for himself right now, even with his glucose tablets.
When Stanâs eyes open again to look over the semi-healed wound, he humphs with what sounds like amusement, then looks at the roll of regular bandages and rises from his seat,
âYa didnât even grab disinfectant, dipshit.â
Fordâs too impressed, confused, and lightheaded to comment the entire time that Stanâs cleaning and bandaging his arm. He eventually passes out watching something meaningless on the TV. He doesnât even remember to say âthank you.â