synopsis: Bruce was no stranger to taking in kids and raising them as his own, but this one was different. It was biologically his. He expected the child to bond with Dick more (because let's be honest, he could be kind if he wanted), but not Jason. Never Jason.
The rumor spread fast. Gotham had a new Wayne. It wasn’t unheard of, Bruce adopting another child was practically a yearly headline, but this one wasn’t adopted. This time, the kid was his.
His biological son.
A toddler. Barely two.
Jason wasn’t supposed to care. He really wasn’t. But after three texts from Dick, a phone call from Alfred, and a voicemail from Bruce himself asking him to “come by if you have time,” he was curious enough to drag himself to the manor.
The house felt the same: cold but familiar. The kind of silence that made you feel small. Except this time, the silence was broken by the sound of soft sniffles echoing from the sitting room. Stepping inside, Jason found Bruce, seated on one of those massive armchairs like a painting come to life, and, on his lap, sat a tiny boy.
The kid was cute in that fragile way newborns were: delicate wrists, long lashes, rosy cheeks that still had the fullness of babyhood, but instead of wonder in his eyes, there was fear. He flinched at the smallest sounds. The tick of the clock, the creak of floorboards, even Tim whispering softly to Alfred made him whimper and hide his face in Bruce's suit jacket. Damian stood in the corner, arms crossed, glaring like the toddler had personally offended him.
Jason leaned against the doorframe. “So the rumors are true.”
Bruce looked up, shoulders tensing. “Jason.”
“Relax, B,” He said, holding up his hands. “I didn't come here to fight.” He gave a low whistle, eyes flicking between the billionaire and the trembling bundle in his lap. “But I will say I'm surprised. Didn’t think you had it in you to make another one. What’s his story?”
Bruce exhaled, slow and heavy, the kind of sound that already carried too many sleepless nights behind it. His gaze fell to the little boy—who clung to him tighter as if he understood he was being talked about—and something in Bruce’s expression cracked.
“He was left here.”
Jason frowned. “Left. What do you mean, left?”
Bruce’s tone was low, steady, but there was a tremor beneath it: anger, regret, maybe both. “She showed up three nights ago. Came right to the gate.” He paused, eyes unfocused as if still seeing it. “She had him in her arms. No car seat. No bag. Just him. She said it was mine.”
Jason blinked. “And you just believed her?”
“She gave me the DNA test that confirms he's mine. After that, she handed me his birth certificate and..." He trailed off, eyes hardening. "Told me if I didn't want him, she'd 'let the system deal with it.' Her words, not mine.”
Jason looked at the kid properly then. And yeah, he could see it now. Underneath the cute cheeks and soft curls, the boy looked worn. There were faint bruises along his arms, the kind you got when you were grabbed too hard. His hair was uneven, like someone had cut it in a hurry. His eyes—those big, dark eyes—were dull in a way no toddler’s should be.
“Christ, B…” Jason muttered, disbelief flickering to disgust. “He looks like he’s been through hell.”
Bruce didn’t disagree. He adjusted his hold, careful not to jostle the child, who whimpered when the fabric shifted. “The doctor said he’s underweight. Mild dehydration. Nothing permanent, but—he doesn’t like noise, or touch. And he doesn’t speak. They think he might’ve stopped trying to because no one ever answered him.”
Jason’s chest tightened. “How old is he?”
“Two and a half,” Bruce murmured. “His name’s Y/N. I don’t know if she gave it to him or if it was something a nurse chose.”
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the clock. Y/N peeked up from Bruce’s jacket, eyes darting warily toward Jason.
Seeing this, Jason crouched down, resting his arms on his knees. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, voice gentler than anyone in the room expected. “You gonna keep hidin’ in there forever, or you gonna say hi?”
Y/N blinked at him. His little chest rose and fell fast, uncertain, but when Jason gave a small, exaggerated wink, something flickered behind those tired eyes. A spark. Jason smiled faintly. “Yeah, that’s it. I see you.”
And then, out of nowhere, a tiny giggle.
Everyone froze.
Tim looked up from the corner of the couch. “Did he—?”
“Yes, Master Timothy,” Alfred said softly, wonder slipping through his composure. “He did.”
Y/N giggled again, like the sound surprised him, too. Then, to everyone’s shock, he reached out, small hands stretching toward Jason.
Jason blinked, then chuckled. “Well, can’t say no to that.” He moved closer, slow, like approaching a wild animal, and let the boy grab at his jacket sleeve. Y/N's fingers curled around the leather, knuckles still pale, but his breathing steadied. He tugged, weak but determined, until Jason was close enough to touch.
Damian scowled. “Clearly, he has no taste.”
Jason shot him a look. “Don’t be jealous, demon spawn.”
“Why would I be jealous of a—”
“Damian,” Bruce interrupted before the bickering could start, still watching the toddler with wide eyes. “He likes you.”
Jason glanced down at the kid still tugging curiously at his jacket zipper. “Yeah, I’m getting that impression.”
The little boy laughed again when Jason exaggeratedly tugged the zipper up and down, making a ‘vroooom’ sound. Soon, the boy was giggling so hard he had to hide his face in Jason’s chest. And just like that Jason was done for. From that day forward, the toddler followed him like a shadow.
If Jason sat on the couch, there he was, crawling up beside him.
If Jason tried to leave the room, tiny footsteps trailed behind.
If Jason disappeared for more than a minute, there’d be little sniffles echoing through the hall until he came back.
Jason swore he wasn’t good with kids. He wasn’t soft, not like Dick or Alfred. But every time the little guy hid behind his jacket when strangers came around, or reached up for him to carry him instead of Bruce. Jason couldn’t say no. Everyone noticed this, but that didn't mean they approved.
“Jason,” Dick said one morning, watching as the boy waddled across the living room straight to Jason’s lap, ignoring everyone else. “You’re good with him, but maybe don’t encourage too much attachment.”
Jason’s smile dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He needs stability,” Tim added carefully. “And you—”
“Are what? The screw-up? The ‘bad influence’?” Jason’s tone sharpened. “Y/N's not scared of me. He’s scared of everything else. That kid flinches when someone raises their voice or moves too fast. You think me hanging out with him’s the problem?”
Damian, ever blunt, muttered, “He shouldn’t get used to people who might leave.”
Jason turned, jaw tight. “I ain’t leaving."
Dick’s expression softened, but his voice stayed careful, the kind that made Jason want to throw something at him. “We’re not saying you’d do it on purpose, Jay. But you know how it goes. You’ve got your own life, and Bruce—”
“—can barely keep up with one kid, much less five,” Jason snapped. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I remember.”
Tim flinched. Damian frowned, about to say something sharp, but one small sound cut through the tension like a knife: a quiet whimper.
The boy had pressed his face into Jason’s shirt, tiny fingers fisting the fabric. Jason’s anger melted instantly. He shifted the kid higher into his arms, murmuring, “Hey, hey. It’s okay, little man. I’m not mad.”
“Jay…” Dick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’re just worried about him.”
“Then be worried about the right things,” Jason said, voice low now. “He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t laugh unless I’m around. You don’t see the way he shuts down when people get too close. He needs someone who won’t scare him off just by existing.”
Done with this conversation, Jason stood up with Y/N in his arms and began to walk in the direction of the kitchen. He didn’t need to look back to know the others were staring: Tim with that furrowed brow like he wanted to apologize but didn’t know how, Dick chewing on guilt, Damian pretending not to care but clearly affected.
In the kitchen, the air was quieter. Alfred glanced up from the stove, calm as ever. “Argument, Master Jason?”
Jason huffed a humorless laugh, settling the kid on his hip as he opened the fridge one handed. “You could say that.”
“Ah.” Alfred didn’t press. He rarely needed to. “Would the young master care for some warm milk?”
Jason looked down at the boy, who was still half hiding in his jacket. “You want that, kiddo?” The toddler peeked up, gave the smallest nod, and whispered yes. Something in Jason’s chest went soft and tight all at once. “You got it, champ.”
Alfred’s eyes warmed, though he kept his expression composed as he poured milk into a small cup. “He’s quite attached to you.”
Jason leaned back against the counter, bouncing the kid gently in his arms. “Yeah, I noticed. Guess I don’t exactly mind.”
“Nor should you,” Alfred said, handing over the cup. “Children often know far better than adults whom they can trust.”
Jason gave a small, crooked smile. “You saying I’m trustworthy, Alfred?”
“I’m saying,” Alfred replied, with that dry fondness only he could manage, “that perhaps Master Bruce isn’t the only one capable of fatherly instincts.”
Jason nearly choked on a laugh. “Fatherly? Me?”
But then the toddler reached up, tiny fingers brushing against Jason’s jaw, smiling sleepily as he sipped his milk. The laugh faded, replaced by a look he didn’t let anyone see—something gentle, almost protective. “Yeah, well,” he murmured. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
The grand halls of the Woodland Realm were filled with the soft glow of torchlight, and Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves, sat on his carved throne.
His posture was poised, and his expression distant but sharp, as if his mind wandered the ages of Arda while still monitoring the world around him.
"Grandfather!" Your voice rang out, shattering the peaceful air.
Thranduil's brow twitched, no matter how much he corrected you about using the sindrin elvish 'Adarharn' instead of the human 'grandfather', you still call him that.
He could never wrap his head around what your father saw in your human mother.
"What is it, child?"
"Do dragons sneeze fire?"
The Elvenking froze, then slowly raised his gaze to meet yours.
"What nonsense is this?"
You strode closer, full of chaotic energy.
"I mean, they breathe fire, right? So if they had a cold and sneezed, would it be like a tiny firestorm? Or do they just sneeze normal air like boring creatures?"
Thranduil's face remained utterly impassive, though his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"You disturb my affairs to ask if dragons, beings of immense power, sneeze fire?"
"Yes!" you replied with an unflinching grin.
"It's important! What if one sneezes near Mirkwood? Are we prepared for fireproof defenses? Have you thought about this, Grandfather?"
He leaned back in his throne, fingers steepling as his piercing gaze bore into you.
"I have ruled this realm for centuries, faced Smaug himself in his prime, and dealt with matters of grave importance. Yet never, not once, has anyone dared to ask such a ridiculous question."
"Ridiculous or brilliant?" you countered, tilting your head.
He sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that seemed to drain the weariness of millennia.
"Dragons do not sneeze fire. Their fire is an intentional act, not a byproduct of a cold. Now, if you value your continued residence in this realm, you will refrain from asking such hollow questions."
"But what if they do sneeze fire when they are babies?" you pressed, eyes wide with mock innocence.
"Imagine a baby dragon with the sniffles-"
"Enough," Thranduil cut in, his voice stern and final.
"Legolas shall hear of your antics."
"Great!" you chirped.
"He will want to know about sneezing dragons too."
Thranduil pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I regret that I ever allowed him to leave you in my care."
"Grandfather, if you are immortal, how old are you? Like really old? Old enough to know dirt personally?"
Thranduil gave you a long-suffering stare. "I am far older than you could comprehend, and I have no acquaintance with dirt."
"Are you sure?" You tilted your head, looking at him critically.
"You have got that ancient vibe. You know, wise and mysterious, but also a bit crusty?”
"Crusty?" he repeated.
"Yes, like bread that has been left out too long. Still good, but definitely needs some butter."
Thranduil rose from his throne, towering over you with an aura of icy authority.
"Child, you are testing the limits of my patience."
"Really, how close am I?"
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
By the end of the week, the Woodland Realm had descended into mild anarchy.
You had declared yourself "Princess of Fun" and commandeered half the guard to organize a deer race through the palace gardens.
Thranduil found himself standing at the edge of the chaos, arms folded as he observed the scene.
Guards chased deers, elves tripped over hastily made obstacles, and you stood on a table, yelling encouragement at the animals.
"Faster, Mr. Nutkins! You’ve got this! Believe in yourself!"
Thranduil cleared his throat loudly. The table you were standing on wobbled as you froze, realizing you were caught.
"Oh, greetings, Grandfather," you said sheepishly, hopping down.
"Did you see Mr. Nutkins? He’s the fastest-"
"You have dishonored this realm, disrupted my court, and terrorized the guards with your absurd antics." He stepped closer, his stern glare boring into you.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
You grinned up at him. "You smiled a little when Nutkins won, didn’t you?"
Thranduil blinked, caught off-guard.
"I most certainly did not."
"Did too."
"I did not."
"Did too."
The Elvenking sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose once more.
"You are relentless."
"Thanks, Grandfather!" you chirped, taking it as a compliment.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
When Legolas returned from his quest months later, weary but victorious, he found his father seated on his throne, looking strangely serene.
At Thranduil's side, at the end of his throne's stairs, you sat cross-legged on the floor, gleefully teaching a group of guards how to make flower crowns.
Legolas raised an eyebrow.
"Did she... behave?"
Thranduil took a long sip of wine before answering.
"Define behave."
"Did she make you mad?"
Thranduil's lips twitched.
"She did not succeed."
You beamed. "I'm his favorite now."
Legolas groaned. "I'm never leaving you here again."
Thranduil smirked, swirling his wine.
"Good."
You grinned, handing your father a crown made of wildflowers.
"That's for you."
"She is to remain here," Thranduil interrupted smoothly, before adding "Permanently."
"What?!" Legolas exclaimed.
"Ada, we have agreed that once the ring is destroyed, she will return with me."
Thranduil descended gracefully from his throne, each step deliberate and regal.
Stopping before his son, he reached out and lifted your small form into his arms
"She is now under my care. Seek another child if you must, for this one shall not leave my side."
forming a strong platonic bond with yuu ! reader headcanons for divus crewel
or; how crewel’s strict nature eventually gives way to a more paternal side when it comes to his favourite pup
featuring divus crewel and a gender neutral reader
requested by atleastthisnamewasnttaken
see my pinned post or my staff masterlist
now while crewel may be a notoriously strict teacher when it comes to how he treats his ‘pups’, he is also far from heartless and does always do what he can to make sure all of his students are set up for success. both in his class and, begrudgingly to an extent, in all of their others. tough love, with a lot of lectures on proper lab safety and plenty of detentions sprinkled in because why in the sevens’ names did you think it was a good idea to throw your potion at your seat mate, trappola?
and your particular case — being dragged in from an entirely different world, being forced to rely on crowley for survival and a way home which you both know he’s trying to get out of helping you with, being entirely devoid of magic in a magic-centred school and society at large, and having absolutely zero knowledge basis for everything you’re being forced to learn at night raven college — when combined with your endless enthusiasm to learn about your new home is one that softens his heart the most, even if he doesn’t exactly show it in how he treats you in class. he’s always had a thing for the helpless ones, and the ones who fight against all the odds to succeed, but he also refuses to show any unearned favouritism so good luck catching onto his soft spot if the only time you see him is during class hours
but that’s not to say that his favouritism towards you doesn’t ever impact how he treats you. because, in fact, it really, really does and you don’t even need to look all that far to see that
because it shows in the way he frames your ‘punishments’ compared to your friends and classmates even if you’re all in trouble for the exact same incident — assigning you simple tasks that allow you to better memorise the names and appearances and scents of the various ingredients utelised in alchemy in a safe environment, while your friends get assigned cleanup duty after his most messy class on record. not to say that painstakingly gathering plant matter or reorganising his surprisingly sizeable walk-in ingredients cupboard is easy, per se, as you’re still gonna come out of it with an awful crick in your neck and some lingering pain in your joints, but it’s still worlds better than the other option
it shows in how much kinder his written feedback is phrased whenever you get handed back an essay or exam or homework assignment for his class — his words less sharp, his spelling corrections softened with an unspoken understanding of how foreign these concepts and terms all are for you, his critique given with some praise sprinkled in when he can tell you’ve clearly understood the subject at hand but can’t quite figure out how to describe it on paper, and so on. he doesn’t grade you any kinder than your classmates, as that would be terribly unfair of him and he wants to treat all of his pups equally, but there is a clear air of leniency in how he writes and corrects you, even in the fact that he offers more written feedback on your work than most of your fellow students (because, after all, he wants to make sure you fully understand the grade you received and he wants to cover his bases to try and bridge the gap between your experience back home and here as much as he can… and this was his best solution)
it shows in how much more patient he is with you when you’re struggling with the very basics of his subject — offering his corrections patiently, warmly encouraging your enthusiasm for alchemy (and being internally very proud and very smug that it’s his subject that caught the interdimensional traveler’s eye over trien’s, even if he won’t say as much to you due to the sheer unprofessionalism of it), and offering additional lessons for you to attend just to make sure you’re able to fully grasp what you’re doing. leniency provided that no other student could dream of, if only because he knows you would have had no way of learning all of this before ending up in his class (you didn’t even know about the great seven at the start of the school year, for their sake!)
it shows in how he goes out of his way to provide you with what you need to get by, all while disguising it with either sharp critique or blatant dismissal. e.g. throwing new clothes at you with a comment about how you need to better represent your institution, directing you towards the textbooks you need and pretending it’s just homework (despite him never assigning it to the other students), making sure you always have enough food on your plate under the guise of making sure his students don’t collapse mid-lab because that could be very dangerous, and so on
and it shows in how much attention he gives to you after and between lessons. small conversations where he encourages you to be honest no matter what, where he makes sure to check in on how you’re doing mentally and physically and makes mental notes of how he and the other staff members can better help you. and that’s not even to mention the very long one-to-one he has with you right before and immediately after any school breaks as he wants to ensure you have everything you need to tide you over until everyone comes back
all signs of affection and favouritism that come across as borderline paternal sometimes in ways that, frankly, crewel had never even imagined himself being, that you don’t really need to look all that hard to see. and that some of your close friends may even pick up on if they bother to look beyond the surface of your interactions with him
but who can blame him for taking a liking to a wayward pup who he can tell is both eager to learn and consistently trying their best? after all, isn’t that precisely the mindset any good teacher should be reinforcing from their students? crewel certainly believes so. and it really, really, shows — and you, lost and out of place and alone in a world so far beyond your own, get to reap the benefits of that. lucky you!
Child Hybrid!wolf reader x tf141 Part 2 Part 1 also reader has selective/situational mutism. I put the translations for the Spanish in quotes after it was said (I hope its all right, and still easy to read)
Alejandro damn near bought you everything on the menu, you sat on one side of the booth while Alejandro and Ghost sat on the other side. You knew they were watching your every move, you also knew they were whispering about you, they weren't nearly as quiet and discreet as they thought they were. You didn't mind though, you like knowing more than you should, and it meant you got to eat as much as you wanted, although you did make a point to sneak some food into your pockets for later.
“She went missing a few years back, the home wrecked and her parents dead. Fue un baño de sangre” (it was a bloodbath) he said the last part more quietly, like he was remembering what it looked like. “Her body was never found, we just assumed she was also killed, never would have imagined this” you noticed how ghost didn't react, he didn't say anything, you liked that about him. Alejandro turned to you “¿Puedes decirme qué pasó?” you just froze “¿Qué recuerdas?” (can you tell me what happened? What do you remember?) you remembered a lot, but still you didn't say anything. Alejandro just leaned back against the booth, he turned to Simon "hasn't said a thing, not sure she can”
Simon stayed quiet, they both just sat there trying to watch you without making it obvious. You stayed completely still, that was till Alejandro got a phone call, which definitely made you jump slightly but you don't think they saw, Alejandro got up and pointed at Simon “seguro” (safe) before walking outside to take the call. When you looked back at Simon he wasn't looking at you, he was looking over the menu. Slowly you started eating again, after a moment Simon slowly turned the menu over so you could see it. He pointed to a picture of a churro at the bottom but he didn't say anything.
It was Simon's way of showing you it was okay not to talk, you nodded slightly, Simon smiled before getting up to get you the churro. He placed the churro along with a small bag on the table in front of you. When he sat back down he made a point not to look at you, giving you privacy, Simon knows what it feels like to not have food, even now he doesn’t take it for granted, and he knows how uncomfortable it can feel around food. It took you a moment to understand what he was letting you do, you slowly took the small bag, you filled it to the brim with food, you still kept some food in your pocket just in case. You tucked the bag behind you before grabbing your churro, only then did Simon turn forward and look at you.
Alejandro came in just as you were finishing your churro, you looked at you eating, then at Simon, then at the table with no food left on it, he went to say something, probably asking how you managed to eat everything in the short time he was gone, but he decided against it. “We need to head back to base, and interrogate Valeria” her name made you freeze, you absolutely did not want to be anywhere near her again. Alejandro tried to calm you down, telling you that you would be nowhere near her, but he had failed you once, even if it wasn't intentional. Simon was the one that found you, you turned to him and he said in his softest voice “Todo saldrá bien. Te mantendré a salvo” (everything will be alright, I’ll keep you safe” it was said with the heaviest British accent, but it was clear and understandable. You nodded, slowly getting up, hiding the bag behind your back so Alejandro wouldn't see, and following Simon. As you guys were walking out he leaned over and whispered to Simon “I knew you spoke Spanish” Simon shrugged, if him speaking Spanish made you more comfortable that's what he would do.
You have only been working at the office for *checks notes* only two weeks and already Chase is feeling more like a grandfather than a senior coworker.
Examples of this are:
Has your favorite snack in his desk drawer because you got hungry during a shift once because you missed lunch at school
Speaking for lunch he has tried multiple times to get you to eat "real lunch" that he made because he believes "you would get more nutrients from eating our parking lot than you would from the food your school is giving you".
Gives you questionable advice if he hears you complain about school stuff
Even though you technically don't work enough to get a legally mandated break, Chase makes you take one anyway
Always asks if you're ok and how your school life is going
Hounds you about people who bother you
Calls you "kiddo" to anyone else and to your face
You know how he would buy kid Robert Twinkies, he does that for you with your favorite snack
If your internship time overlaps with your birthday (you start in January during semester change) then you'll find a treat on your desk
If any of the Z Team gives you a hard time he'll step in (not that the Z Team is mean, they're ex villians not monsters)
Actually this applies to anyone who gives you a hard time
Because you're now are putting a target on your back by working at the SDN office, he worries
Constantly checks if villians are acting or planning to act against you
Shares his Beef time with you
In fact he'll take Beef and hand him to you if you look like you're having a bad day
Gives advice to your problems that are sometimes insane and not possible, but other times its actually useful
Offers you a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear
Might tell you about stupid stuff he's done at your age to make you laugh or make you rethink a choice
Treats you like an adult and will fight anyone who condesends you
These are only the regular things he does routinely. There have been times where he becomes ultra grandpa figure, such as when you came to work upset, looking like you'd been crying and when you tried to lie about it he asked you.
"Just got yelled at in traffic is all. I know, I shouldn't let it get to me because people are stupid," you say with a slight sniffle.
"Well, why were you being yelled at?" Chase asks.
"I was making a turn and some lady sped by, and yelled 'watch where you're fucking going to dumb shit' and I guess it just scared me," you tell him.
Chase is just about ready to find out who dared yell at his unofficial grandbaby and make them cry over their own bad driving. Chase calms you down, making sure you know you crying in this situation was very much not stupid. He even bought you five dollars worth of vending machine snacks and checked on you throuday, just making sure you were ok.
When the day ends, Chase stops by your desk on last time, seeing you pack up.
"Yeah, I'm fine, Mr. Chase. I promise I'll pay you back for the snacks," you say
"Nonsense. You don't need to pay me back, I was just making sure you're ok," he says.
"But I feel bad for eating your money away!" You tell him.
"Consider it a gift. Plus, I'm not taking a kid's hard earned money even if you give it to me," he says with a chuckle.
You smile softly as you throw your bag over your shoulder and wave goodbye to him, walking towards the elevator and getting in, side stepping Waterboy in the process.
"Are you going soft, Chase?" Robert asks, smirking at his friend.
"Shut up, you," Chase says, chuckling anf going back to his desk, watching out the window to make sure you make it to your car.
This was actually my first time drawing April! I need to draw her more she was fun to draw 💖
🔻close ups and headcanon notes down below🔻
Mimi in this au definitely sees rise April as his little sister! 😔💚 Even added a green bead to his necklace to rep. April!
Idk why but I have this little headcanon that, the disaster twins in particular, are VERY protective over Angelo. Look at bro wrong and they'll throw hands.
based on this art here by @artsymeeshee (hope you like the fic by the way; I said I wanted to write smth--took a hot sec but here it isss)
Late Nights
The Stan O' War II was silent.
Too silent.
Stan's snoring was absent, Ford noticed after only a minute. He shot upright in bed, climbing down the bunkbed ladder as quickly as he could and, sure enough, Stan wasn't in his bed.
Ford put on his sweatshirt and decided to search the boat even though his head was still foggy from sleep.
He walked around the bedroom and kitchen, but quickly assumed that Stan was on deck.
"Stanley?" he asked, looking around as he climbed up on deck. "Are you here?'
There was no answer, but Ford spotted a silent shape standing next to the far railing.
"Stanley?" Ford said softly, walking foward. "Do you wanna come back to bed?"
"Go back to sleep, Ford."
Stan's voice was thick, like he'd been crying. Ford was immediatley concerned.
"Stanley, what's wrong?" he asked, walking the rest of the way to stand next to his brother. Stan turned his face away.
"Go away, Ford," Stan muttered.
Ford sighed. "Not until you tell me what's up."
"Had a bad dream. That's all. I don't wanna sleep right now. Ya happy?"
"No, I'm not happy," Ford replied immediately. "I want you to be able to sleep. Come on, it's cold out here. Let's go downstairs and talk."
"I'm good," Stan replied coldly.
"No, you're not," Ford told him firmly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "But you will be. Just let me help you."
Stan's muscles relaxed beneath Ford's touch and he surprisingly nodded, apparently too tired to be as stubborn as usual.
Ford kept an arm around Stan's shoulders and guided him back down below deck. They took up a spot on their window seat in the kitchen, Ford sitting down first and then patting the spot next to him. Stan sat down, stiff, hesitating, still upset.
Ford smiled, winding his arm beneath Stan's and threading his six fingers through his brother's five.
Stan immediately relaxed, falling onto Ford's shoulder heavily.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Don't be. It happens," Ford whispered back, planting a kiss on Stan's head. "It's gonna be okay. Do you wanna talk about the nightmare?"
"No," Stan replied. "It's too real right now. Can we talk in the morning?"
"Sure," Ford agreed.
There was a long pause.
"Do you want anything?" Ford asked. "I could make you some tea or warm up some milk or something?"
"Milk sounds nice right now," Stan sighed, leaning even more heavily against his brother.
"Alright," Ford said softly, gently repositioning Stan so he was resting against the window seat. He removed his hand from his brother's and went about heating up some milk, which he laced with honey to make it sweet.
After handing the mug to Stan, he sat back down, took his brother's hand again, and Stan immediatley fell against him once more.
They stayed like that for a while until Stan had finished his sweet milk and was sleepy enough to go to bed. It was completely silent, but there was no need to talk--they were both exhausted.
Ford led his brother back to their room, and before he could climb up to his own bed, Stan had yanked him onto the bottom bunk.
"Sleepover," Stan told him firmly, lying down next to him and immediately wrapping his arms around Ford to snuggle.
Ford chuckled, wrapping his arms around Stan in return. "Maybe we should do this every night."
"That sounds nice," Stan agreed, voice slurred. He was quickly fading, falling asleep. Ford let him, gently running a hand through his twin's hair until Stan's breathing had evened out and he was completely relaxed.
Then Ford rested his head atop Stan's and closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall asleep as well with a smile on his face.
The waves of the sea lapped quietly at the hull of their boat, and snow fell outside on the icy waters. But inside the boat it was warm, dim, and cozy, and Stan and Ford Pines were both fast asleep.
The End
---XXX---
wanted to write smth and its 2 AM and this is nice. Didn't have energy to make it dramatic, but I hope its lovely all the same. I feel very content right now and wanted to shove that into a lil story based on this sweet artwork.
All of this is platonic. proshippers are blocked on sight.
