Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanley Pines leans forward against the cold, wet metal rail of the Stan o’ War II, peering with narrowed eyes into the surrounding mist. It’s incredibly foggy, so much so that all he can make out is the water directly in front and around the bow. The gray waves lap against the hull in a lazy fashion, and it’s chill and damp.

Stan pulls his coat tighter around his body and shivers. He’d rather be below deck on an evening like this, but given the circumstances he’d probably be too anxious to actually do so. Being inside right now is too much like being buried alive with his hands tied behind his back—something he, sadly, more or less knows something about. Letting the boat sail blind is fraying his nerves as is, he doesn’t need the added mental weight of not being in control to make matters worse. At least this way he can serve as another pair of eyes. It isn’t much, but it’s a false reassurance he’s willing to believe.

Small chunks of ice emerge from the mist and into view. They make soft thunks as they bump against the bow, and Stan eyes them warily. He might not have graduated high school, but even he knows about the Titanic. He saw the movie, in all its tragic ending glory. Which is enough to understand that ice and boats don’t mix.

Stan grunts in displeasure, then turns his head slightly to call over his shoulder; all without his eyes leaving the waters below. “Any luck?”

Ford is in the wheelhouse, leaning over his instruments, arms braced against the panels and brows lowered in a frown as he tries to wrangle his tech back under control. The Stan o’ War II is unique in that it has been completely refitted with both Ford and McGucket’s array of original inventions, from navigation and tracking to devices for weather, recording, documenting, and communication—all wrapped up in one big mess of technical lingo Stan can’t even hope to understand. He doesn’t mind, though. If it did it’s job, that was all that mattered.

Only it isn’t doing its job. Because no matter how many geniuses you get together to whip up something groundbreaking, Murphy’s Law is bound to throw a wrench in the works eventually. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. It’s a phrase Stan feels they’re beginning to live by. The navigation system had been off point for a few days without them noticing, and now they were way off course, coasting who-knows-where with a busted GPS.

Ford is soaked through with damp mist and rain—even in the wheelhouse he isn’t safe, seeing as they’d removed all the glass in the windows some time ago. When you battled sea monsters on a daily basis, having anything on deck that could easily shatter was just asking for trouble. But it comes with a downside, and Ford looks miserable as he squints through his wet, gray bangs that hang limp and dripping in front of his eyes. He continues to struggle with the faulty equipment, his fingers slipping and faltering over the metal pieces, stiff from the cold and making his task infinitely more difficult.

“Not yet,” Ford calls back. “Just keep a lookout, Stanley. Let me know if you see anything.” He dives back into his gadgets, fiddling with metal, and wiring, and coils; fully immersed in his mission.

Stan growls and holds up a hand to shield his eyes, as though that will help him pierce the heavy fog. “It’s not a matter of seeing anything, it’s a matter of seeing nothing at all.” Louder, he calls back, “Shouldn’t we cast anchor? Keep us grounded so we don’t accidentally run in to something?”

There’s the harsh clang of metal on metal and Ford hisses out a soft yelp of pain and an alien curse. Stan jumps, turning around fully to make sure his brother is okay, but Ford’s already moved on from the copper paneling he apparently just dropped on his finger.

“Gah…Ngh. We can’t. We’re in too deep here, the anchor would be useless.”

Deep down, Stan knows his brother is right. According to their old school maps and charts, they’re probably a good two-hundred miles south of the lower tip of Iceland—leagues away from where they’d wanted to be. Still, they need to be vigilant. Just because some musty old map says there isn’t any land nearby doesn’t mean there isn’t something out there you can run into. Like the tip of some massive underwater volcano, a pod of whales, or a kraken out looking for a midnight snack. So the water might be too deep to use the anchor, but they are far from being able to simply relax and enjoy the ride.

The misting rain is starting to turn to sleet as it gets darker, closer to full nightfall. It’s coating the deck and rails—and even their clothes and hair—in a thin sheet of ice, making everything terribly slippery and the cold all the more bitter. Stan tightens his grip on the railing and strains his eyesight to see through the darkening haze. He should have grabbed his gloves, his fingers twitching numbly against the slick, metal bar.

He sighs. To think, he and Ford should have been below deck by now, safe inside and warm for the night, sipping hot cocoa while chatting with the kids on Ford’s laptop. It was something they tried to do regularly, typically once a week, often on a Friday after the twins got home from school. That way they could talk far into the night without worrying about classes the next day. It was a chance to swap stories and keep each pair up to speed on what they were all up to, Stan and Ford on their anomalous excursions, and Dipper and Mabel in their day to day adventures. Fridays were a cherished part of their routine, something they all looked forward to. The kids video called like clockwork, seven o’clock, right on the dot, every Friday evening, and the older Pines were always there to answer.

Until tonight.

A fuse had blown somewhere aboard, all electricity on the boat going out in one dramatic pop. Or, at least, that had been what Ford thought was the cause, but it wasn’t. And it seemed the longer they spent racing around looking for the true issue, the more things they found that weren’t working, and the more guesses as to what was wrong Ford came up with and tried to fix. Which, in turn, made it more and more obvious that they had no idea what they were doing, and that navigation had been screwed the last few days on top of everything else. They were likely miles and miles from shore, and probably even greater a distance from anywhere that would have the supplies they would need for repairs.

So, for the moment, all they can really do is hope that Ford can fiddle around with things until something clicks into place and restores full power, preferably before something worse can happen. In the meantime, the trawler drifts, at mercy to the waves and the surrounding fog and darkness.

Dipper and Mabel are probably worried, having called by now and not received an answer.

Stan grips the railing harder, momentarily caught up in how thin ice cracks and slips from his fingers. They fall to the deck, where they shatter with a soft, fairy-like tinkle. He and Ford will have to go in soon, regardless of success. Stan’s had frostbite before, and it isn’t an experience he’s eager to revisit. It’s an old memory, one he hasn’t thought of in a long, long time. His memory can still be a bit spotty, and was, especially immediately after Weirdmageddon—which, honestly, wasn’t surprising. You don’t just get your mind wiped and not expect it to have a few unsavory complications. Still, it’s an annoyance that Stan finds burdensome, while also finding it fascinating—it’s like continually rediscovering himself.

Huh. He rather likes that. Continually rediscovering himsel—

A shift of shadow through the mist snaps Stan back to attention, a thrill of fear ramming up his spine as he realizes he’d let his mind wander. But, by then, it’s already too late. Like a waking nightmare, something dark rears out of the fog in front of them, so suddenly that it takes Stan a full blink to realize it’s truly there and not just a figment of his imagination.

Stan only has a moment to drag in a sharp gasp and shout out a desperate, choked, “Ford!”

His brother’s head snaps up in alarm, just before the Stan o’ War II comes to a crashing halt. Stan’s pretty sure he hears the splintering of wood and the rusty grind of metal on rock, but it’s a fleeting observation. The force is enough to send Ford sprawling right out the wheelhouse window and down onto the deck head first, sliding on the thin sheen of frost and ice like a penguin. He only goes so far, though, as the sleeve of his coat gets snagged on a sharp piece of metal siding. He swings back and slams into the side of the wheelhouse with a gasp, his coat ripped and spilling downy fluff all over the place. It pulls Ford up short with a painful jolt, but, other than a little dazed, he seems unharmed.

Stan is not so lucky.

With the violent lurch of the boat Stanley is sent forward, gut slamming hard against the rail with enough force to sock the wind out of him before he’s tumbling over the side. He has a split second to think just how bad that is before he’s plunging down into freezing cold water. It’s an instant shock to his system, like a million icy pin needles piercing into every inch of his skin. His weight carries him down a bit, and he’s vaguely reminded of how his gym teacher had taught him to swim by throwing him in the deep end. What air he has left in his bruising chest is lost in a yelp that comes out in bubbles. It’s stupid, and he should know better, but nothing really makes sense at the moment, the world upended in a sea of confusion and panic.

Stan’s back slams against something rigid, and a burning sensation rips down his leg. He stills for a moment underwater, stunned and dazed and in roaring pain that almost darkens his vision completely. He’s not really sure which way is up and which way is down, but he doesn’t pass out through shear force of will. He blinks, salt water burning his eyes, but the darkness to his left talks of deep, fathomless depths so he starts clawing his way toward the lighter gray to his right—or upwards really. It’s a frightening few seconds that drags on for what feels like forever, and for a moment he thinks he won’t make it to the surface before his lungs burst, but then he breaks free with a gasp, coughing on water he’d managed to swallow or inhale in his frantic efforts.

He’s right next to the hull of their boat, the chipped paint and familiar curve an instant comfort. Stan latches on the best he can, hands scrabbling shakily against the metal and wood for purchase. He shakes the water and hair from his eyes, treading water to the best of his ability, but it’s hard because he’s half sure his throbbing leg is either broken or shorn right off. He can barely use it at all and that hinders him. That and he’s breathing way too hard, very fast and very deep, and all Stan can do is hold on out of fear of slipping back down below the waves. He’s not sure he could control himself enough to not inhale more water with every gasping breath.

Stan glances frantically, shivering, over his shoulder to take in the damage to their vessel—their home. Even through the fog he can see it, see the way the Stan o’ War II is listing against a huge outcrop of rough, black stone. It almost looks volcanic in nature, all rounded edges like it had once been a bubbling mass of magma, and now it stood there solid and menacing. From this angle, Stan can’t make out the damage to the trawler’s bow, but he can just picture the large, gaping hole that ramming something that nasty would cause.

But, in all honesty, that’s not the greatest of Stan’s worries at the moment. He’s hyperventilating, and that makes no sense. Something in his brain is spiraling in a slow panic, but it’s dulled and lazy, like he can’t think straight. He knows it has something to do with the water, and the fact that it’s unbearably cold and he’s in it. But that’s about it. The rest of his thoughts swim around in his head, ice cubes swirled in a drinking glass.

“Stanley!”

A cry of his name breaks the eerie silence around him, and Stan blinks, frowning. He knows that voice.

“Stanley, where are you?!”

Oh.

Right.

That’s Ford calling.

He should probably call back.

It’s difficult. Stan’s chest and throat feel painfully tight, air rushing in and out of his lungs in shuddery bursts that are quickly leaving him dizzy and tired. But he manages, reaffirming his precarious grip against the boat’s side.

“H-h-here!” Stan’s voice crackles and breaks like he’s an awkward teen all over again.

There’s an uncomfortable silence wherein all Stan hears is the now pouring sleet on the surface of the ocean around him and the forlorn groans of the Stan o’ War II’s hull against the rocks. And then—blessedly—Ford appears over the railing above him, and Stan sags slightly in relief.

Ford’s eyes are wide and wild, hair wet and dripping into Stan’s eyes as his twin leans out over the space between the rails, six fingers reaching for Stanley’s five. Ford has a small cut on his forehead that’s oozing a thin trail of red down the bridge of his nose, but otherwise he seems fine. His coat sleeve is ripped, fluff spilling out in a little tuft that looks incredibly soft.

“Come on!” Ford barks, voice strained with worry and discomfort. “Reach!”

Stan doesn’t need to be told twice. He tries, putting everything he has into lifting one arm upward as far as he can physically manage. But the sides of the boat are higher where he is, on the right side but up near the front, making the stretch not impossible—but difficult. As Stan bobs back down into the freezing water right up to his neck, Ford adjusts his position, lowering himself until he’s lying flat on his stomach under the bottom rail and hanging his arms over the edge.

Stan only then realizes that his breaths have begun to even out, and his coordination is starting to get…weird. He huffs in frustration as his arms and legs start to feel weak and numb. He’s been in the water too long. What has it been? Eight minutes? Ten? The water’s too cold. He feels like it’s sucking all the warmth out of him, like it’s pressed right up against his organs and bleeding into him. And that’s bad, Stan thinks. He knows, deep down, that’s very bad.

“F-Ford-dd-d…”

“I’ve got you, Stanley,” Ford shoots right back, straining. “Try again. Please, try again on my mark, alright? Ready…”

Stan isn’t sure what his brother is waiting for, but he does as he’s told, waiting on the other’s signal, his teeth chattering slower and slower.

“Now, Stanley!”

And then Stan understands. With the next swell of the waves and with what remains of his quickly failing strength, he kicks out with his uninjured leg and braces himself against the hull, creating just enough force to leap out of the water as far as his waist. It’s just enough. Freezing cold fingers brush against twelve that feel almost hot in comparison. Ford has to lurch down to make up for Stan’s poor aim, being sure to grab for Stan’s wrist as a stronger hold. Stan grunts in pain as his weight is suddenly supported all in his shoulder, and, though Stan can’t see him, Ford releases an echoing noise of discomfort. For a moment there’s just their ragged breathing.

Stan grits his teeth. His body’s starting to slip out of his control, becoming more and more limp even as his mind screams for him to keep moving. His hazy thoughts are punctuated by what sounds like Ford murmuring soft encouragements, but his brain’s decided to stop translating and Stan doesn’t pick up on any of the words. He’s just too pained and drained to understand. He’s hanging uncomfortably against the side of the boat with his legs still knee deep in the frigid ocean. His arm feels like it’s going to rip out of the socket soon, if they don’t get going—

Then Ford is pulling, and that hurts so much worse, but it’s also better than dangling motionless. The tugging sends fire all through his spine, and it’s almost welcome after so much numbing cold. And, in what feels like a few sticky blinks of his heavy eyelids later, Stan finds himself on the deck of their precious vessel, lying on his back, limp and aching. Ford is leaning over him, brow furrowed and lips moving as he pats Stan down in worry, and Stan just sort of lets him. He doesn’t have the energy to do much more than lie there and breathe. Ford’s hand brushes against his leg and agony burns like an infection all along the limb—Stan can’t even flinch. But oh, he’s shivering again. That’s good. Somehow shivering is good…

Ford is murmuring again, more urgently this time, but Stan’s reached his limit. He can feel himself fading, suddenly so incredibly exhausted…

“Hey hey, wait! Stanley, stay awake—!”

Despite his pleas, Stan’s brown eyes flutter weakly shut, and Stanford just about loses his mind. His analytical brain takes all the factors stacked against them, reading in Stan all the symptoms he can see. All of which point to the fact that Stanley is well on his way to hypothermia.

Guilt roils in Ford’s soul, berating him for taking so long to realize that Stan had fallen overboard, that he should have gotten to him sooner. But there will be time for self loathing later. Right now Stan needs Ford to act.

The scientist latches on to the front of his brother’s coat and gives him a rough shake. It’s a bit harsh, maybe, but he can’t afford to be gentle. He moves one hand to slap Stan, gently but insistently, on the cheek, and after a moment his efforts are rewarded. Stan comes back to semi-consciousness with a soft, pained noise, and Ford doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry when Stan’s eyes flicker back open, dull and confused, to refocus on his worried face.

“That’s it, Stanley,” Ford praises quietly. “Just stay awake. I’ve got you, it’s alright. I just need you to stay awake. We’ve got to get you below deck and warmed up. Stay awake.”

Stan gives a hoarse grunt of acknowledgment, but Ford’s not fully certain Stan knows what he’s agreeing to. The scientist’s mind flicks through his extensive knowledge and experience regarding first aid, laying out the symptoms on a metaphorical table. Intense shivering; bluish tinged skin; confusion and trouble with coordination—Stan is exhibiting all of these.

They need to hurry.

“Alright, it’s alright. Let’s get inside.”

Ford tugs his brother against his chest, bringing Stan’s arm up over his shoulder with a flinch of his own. Stanley is covered in icy water, drenched and dripping, his hair and clothes already beginning to stiffen as they freeze in the cold air. As are Stan’s extremities it seems, to Ford’s immense concern, his bare fingers twitching stiffly against the scientist’s coat sleeve.

Mindful of the slippery ice on deck, Ford stands, forcing Stan up with him.

“Sh-Shi—” Stanley bites off a weak, hoarse swear, latching onto Ford with what little strength he has left.

“I’m sorry,” Ford murmurs in apology, but he doesn’t stop or pause. They can’t afford to. “We have to get inside, I’m sorry.”

Stanley isn’t much help in the process of making their way back to the wheel house, all weak kneed and wobbling sways, but that’s hardly his fault. He does try to hold up his weight to some degree, but his legs stubbornly refuse to cooperate, leaving Ford to try and navigate them across the dark and icy deck. The journey only becomes more difficult when they try to descend into the belly of the boat, stumbling shakily down the steep, wooden steps into the living space below. But finally, after a few heart-stopping staggers and near missteps, they reach the cramped space of their kitchenette.

It’s ill-lit, all power and electricity down with the rest of their tech, the room illuminated only by a few waterproof emergency lanterns. The pale light casts stark shadows around the interior, giving their usually welcoming home an overall eerie and surreal atmosphere. This is made all the more so with how the boat is listing, Ford finding the central deck uneven and inclined, though not so much that he can’t navigate it with his brother in tow.

Using one foot, Ford manages to slide some cushions off of the table booth benches, arranging them the best he can on the floor without the use of his hands. As soon as that’s accomplished he’s gently leading Stan into a sit, mindful of his brother’s injured leg. Stan is barely with him, his eyes lidded and unfocused. His shivering has become a bit more pronounced, but that’s good. It’s if he stops shivering that they’ll have to truly worry. Keeping a hand on Stan’s shoulder so he doesn’t fall over, Ford kneels in front of his twin, snapping his fingers in front of Stan’s face to gain his brother’s sluggish attention.

“Stanley?”

Stan groans, swaying where he sits. “Mmh…?”

“Stanley, we have to get you out of these wet clothes and see to your leg,” Ford says, worriedly trying to keep Stan’s listing gaze. “I’m sorry, I know you’re cold, but damp fabric won’t do you any good. It’ll only continue to sap your body heat.”

Stanley doesn’t respond beyond a few muddled blinks.

Ford winces, regretful, because he and Stan have an agreement. A silent sort of promise, never spoken but very much there all the same. It’s that, unless the need is absolutely dire, they’re always to give each other space in regard to privacy. They’ve both lived rough lives, and there are some things that one didn’t want his brother to see. Though, at this point, most of their life experiences and stories had been told. Still, Ford feels uncomfortable as he moves to divest Stan of his wet clothing, feeling oddly invasive.

Stan becomes more and more like a rag doll as Ford assists him, and by the time the older twin is finished and gotten Stan piled high with every spare blanket on board, he’s all but unconscious. Stan’s still shivering, skin a pale bluish white, but with just the slightest hint of color returning to his nose and cheeks. Stan’s eyes are thin, hazy slits that watch Ford distantly, all energy lost and lucidity quickly fading. But he’s warming now, free of anything wet or clinging and wrapped up snug by the little wood stove Ford’s managed to fire up.

That taken care of, Ford moves on to the next most pressing issue—Stan’s leg.

Stanford had left the limb peeking out from under the comforters, knowing he’d have to gain easy access. Despite his best efforts, he’s still managed to get blood on the blankets, drying smudges, tinging crimson to crusty brown. And there is a lot of blood. Ford hurries for some washcloths, a bucket of clean water they keep for emergencies, a bowl, and the first aid kit, before then swiftly kneeling back down to take proper stock of the injury.

It’s…not favorable. There’s a deep laceration in Stanley’s calf, the blood flow extensive, welling up in the wound and running down Stan’s heel in bright, red rivulets. The wound itself is jagged, raw and pink in the middle and white around the edges from the salty, freezing water. It was most likely caused by Stan hitting his leg on the ledge of the dark rocks they’d run aground on. And it most definitely needs stitches.

Ford reaches for the first aid kit with one hand, while his other takes a rag and attempts to staunch the flow of blood. Stan’s already lost a considerable amount, and while it’s not so serious a wound that Ford has to worry about his brother bleeding out too quickly, the scientist knows that blood loss could still be a factor if he doesn’t get the wound under control as soon as he can. The first aid kit, sadly, is not as fully stocked as it should be, and that is mostly due to the fact that they had been due for a stop in port to pick up new supplies a week ago. Their occupation came with some risks, and that meant that medical supplies never lasted particularly long. Ford’s gaze flits over the meager contents, shoulders slouching as he realizes he has very little to work with. Finding no thread or needle, he berates himself when he recalls Stanley asking to borrow some to use to stitch a tear in one of his Mabel sweaters. Heaven knew where the needle and thread was now.

Distressed and worried, Ford tosses the first aid box aside and focuses fully on getting the bleeding to stop. Stanley makes a soft sound of pained protest as Ford bears down as much as he dares on his brother’s leg, but besides a small twitch of his other limbs Stan doesn’t move. Other than his shivering, of course.

Red soaks through the fabric immediately, staining Ford’s fingers, warm and sickeningly vibrant. But with a bit of patience and persistent pressure, Ford finally gets the bleeding to stop. Or, at the very least, it is no longer seeping through the sixth towel he’s used. Carefully peeling the now matted material away from the wound, Ford takes another look, wincing in sympathy.

The cut is deep. Ford stares down at the mess of torn skin and muscle, trying to gauge the severity in the poor light of the lamps. The wound is swollen and bruised, and while it isn’t bleeding profusely, like before, it’s still leaking a sluggish discharge of watery pink. Ford bites his lip, wishing he could see better and hoping that his efforts will keep infection at bay.

“You’ve really done it to yourself this time, knucklehead,” Ford mumbles sadly.

He shakes his head and reaches for the bowl of fresh water he’d kept to the side. Taking a clean cloth, Ford dips it in the bowl and then proceeds to try and clean around the injury without causing it to bleed again. Thankfully, the injury having been acquired while in the water, there’s very little grime or dirt, just a bit of salt and sand which washes away easily enough. When that’s done, despite his care, the gash is bleeding again, just the smallest bit. It wells up from where it’s the rawest, filling in the cuts and tears like ink on crumpled paper. It could still really use stitches, but all Ford can really do right now is flush it out and bind it. Thankfully they’ve still got enough bandages.

Ford gets to work. It’s almost nostalgic, in a way, the familiar motions of wrapping an injured limb. After all, Ford’s had lots of experience with jury-rigging himself back together, in some pretty nasty conditions, too.

It takes a while, Ford wanting to be as thorough as he can. Even then, he can’t be sure how well he’s cleaned the wound, paranoia and worry a feral beast prowling on his consciousness. So far from civilization, with an injury this severe, it wouldn’t take much for things to go from bad to worse. And while Ford is fairly experienced in first aid, he’s a scientist not a doctor. The risks to Stan’s currently precarious health rest solely in Ford’s shaking hands.

Finally, Stan’s leg is fully bandaged. With that finally done, and Stan’s condition having seemed to stabilize as much as it can, Ford lowers the blankets to cover the limb and sits back on his heels. He takes a shaky breath, running red stained fingers through his wet and disheveled hair, surveying his questionable handiwork.

Stan, in all honesty, still looks dreadful, but at least he’s not shaking quite so hard and color has started to return to his face. He’s asleep, or unconscious, Ford’s not really sure which, but Stan seems to be breathing easier and with his leg tucked back under the covers he’s fully covered and on his way to being warm. The cabin of the Stan o’War II is a fair bit better heated than out on deck, but it’s hardly at a comfortable temperature. There’s a damp chill in the air, cold seeping in through the hull from the icy depths below. It reminds Ford quite quickly that he is also soaked to the skin and in need of dry, fresh clothes. He’s shivering too, the ice and sleet that had encrusted his hair and clothing having long since melted and dripped chillingly down his back. His hands are stained crimson, and with a twist of nausea he uses the remainder of their reserved sterilized water to scrub himself feverishly clean.

He takes his brother’s vitals, finding Stan’s pulse to be slow but steady, and his core temperature rising. Convinced Stan won’t go into hypothermic shock in his absence, Ford staggers off to their shared bunk room. He finds some dry clothes, not particularly caring of whose he grabs, and changes, motions quick so that he can rejoin his brother as soon as possible. That accomplished, he returns to the kitchenette and does his best to stoke the small stove into a hotter flame. It helps a little, but it’s still far from ideal.

Ford sits down heavily next to where Stan lies wrapped in blankets. Still worried, and hoping to speed along his twin’s recovery, he starts rubbing some warmth back into Stan’s arms and shoulders, a rather difficult task with all the blankets but it seems to do Stanley some good at least, the retired con-man resting a bit easier. Ford, himself, feels exhausted. The kind that usually means he hasn’t been sleeping well, and now stress on top of it is making him feel like death warmed over. He tries to ease the tension he’s feeling by addressing his brother, even though Stanley is nowhere near conscious enough to be truly listening.

“I should probably…go and check the boat over. We seem to have run aground on a rocky outcrop. Perhaps we’re closer to land than we realized…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “We don’t seem to be taking in much water, which is good. We’re not sinking. She’s stuck tight, so as long as the tide isn’t enough to shift her…”

He trails off, lost in thought. It’s too foggy right now to see beyond the boat’s bow, and the weather is too dangerous for either of them to be out in without somewhere warmer to go afterwards. Sleep is already tugging at Ford’s consciousness, a stubborn haze trying to claim him. Reluctantly, Ford huddles down, slipping beneath the nearest blanket to give himself some warmth—and perhaps lend a bit of his own body heat to his brother.

“I…think we’ll just have to wait until morning. Wait and see what we’re dealing with.”

Stan, of course, doesn’t answer. Ford feels that kindling of guilt again. He holds Stan’s hand and continues to try and rub warmth into the pallid skin, head bowed.

Time passes, slow and sluggish. The Stan o’ War II, as Ford predicted, doesn’t sink any further, propped up and steadfast against the rocks that snagged them. There’s nothing more to do than to sit tight and ride out the storm until morning. All through the night there is the creaking of timber, metal, and the crackle of the little stove, as well as the hiss of sleet up on the deck.

Despite the pull of persistent exhaustion, Ford doesn’t sleep a wink.

Chapter Text

Morning light trickles in through the kitchenette porthole, lighting upon the dull and motionless scene within. The fire in the stove has burned low, only a glimmer of flickering embers and a few wisps of curling smoke into the now cold, stale air. The lanterns have run out of charge, having winked out sometime around four in the morning, their pleasant hum having given way to oppressive silence.

Ford winces as he achingly shifts, feeling stiff and sore from being curled up on the floor for so long, cramped between his still-unconscious brother and the cupboards beneath the sink at his back. His head throbs in a pulsing migraine and his eyes feel sticky and hot, a result of staring into the dark through the dragging moonless hours. It’s marginally warm beneath the shared blanket, but white puffs float out with each of their breaths, the internal temperature of the Stan o’War II having dropped during the night. The stove had gotten them through until morning, barely, but they are now nearly out of fuel. They won’t be able to stay aboard the boat much longer. Not unless they want to succumb to the frigid elements.

A glance down at Stan shows that he isn’t much better than the night before. If anything, he’s worse. His skin has gone deathly pale, and despite the heap of blankets Ford has piled on him Stan’s still worryingly cold to the touch, clammy. His breathing has become rapid but shallow, little gasps that sound strained and hoarse, wet and congested. And when Ford rests his fingers against his brother’s neck he finds his pulse distressingly weak and thready.

Blood loss, most likely. Or, Oracle forbid, infection. Ford curses their misfortune. He’d thought he’d done fairly well at treating the wound, quick and panicked as he’d been, but the cabin had been ill lit, and the priority had been trying to get Stan warm before he froze to death. Ford had done his best, but there is always that looming dread that his best may not have been enough. Stanley had been in the water for at least five minutes—which Ford is trying very hard not to think about, because his brain is going over all those tidbit little facts about cold temperatures and freezing water. Hypothermia is extremely dangerous. Five minutes could have well been enough to kill Stanley, if not for Stan’s seemingly never ending strokes of bare minimum luck—but yes. There is a high possibility that his brother has lost more blood than Ford had originally thought, up on deck or even in the water itself.

Regardless of the hows and whys, the fact still remains that Stanley is doing poorly, and Ford needs to think something up quick.

First things first. Ford does what he can for his twin with what he has available. Stan had started shaking again during the night, even as he fitfully slept, a sign that he was either not warm enough or still fighting off some form of shock. Neither option is good, and both are equally likely. Ford can tell by Stan’s pinched expression that he is in a considerable amount of pain.

Wincing from stiffness, Ford rises up from the floor where he’d spent the majority of the night lying at Stan’s side. It had been an uncomfortable and awkward vigil, mostly due to the fact that the Stan o’War II was still listed just slightly to the side, forcing Ford to always have to sit at a minute incline no matter his position. He stretches out his back and shoulders, shakes the pins and needles out of his legs, and then stands with a hand braced against the counter to think.

They need a doctor, and that means trying to make it to land and, hopefully, some form of civilization. The rocks they’ve run aground on mean that the waters here are shallow by ocean standards, and if that logic is sound then they can’t be all that far from shore, whatever their maps might say.

Ford takes a shaky breath as he stares down at Stan as he sleeps. His brother isn’t a small man, even with all the weight he’s lost since they’d gone out to sea, but somehow, bundled up and shivering on the floor, he looks distressingly small and pitiful. Ford runs a trembling hand through his hair, murmuring to himself in an effort to keep his mind from spiraling.

“One thing at a time, Stanford. One thing at a time. Scout out the possibilities, weigh the options, make a plan, then act. You can do this. Just like you have before.”

Only ‘before’ hadn’t involved Stanley. It had been cold, dull wastelands in worlds far beyond this reality. It had been lonely journeys by the cover of darkness, limping his way from one sheltering outcrop of stone to the next. Of wounds he could treat and feel whether he’d done it right or not, with alien pills and potions to take care of the rest, thrum through his veins and fade pain down to nothing so he could walk on broken bones and torn muscle without so much as flinching.

It’s one thing to drag yourself ever forward on the brink of death’s doormat, forcing yourself to persist until salvation is reached.

It’s quite another thing to drag someone else.

Afraid to leave Stan alone, but convinced that he has very little choice if he’s going to make headway in their predicament, Ford idles for a moment longer before carefully making his way to the flat board ladder and up onto the softly groaning deck.

It’s very early in the morning, only a little after dawn, but the sun is casting plenty of light as it rises in the east, unobstructed by anything but the ocean plain and the curve of the earth. It’s colder out in the open, considerably, the breeze bitter and chilling to the bone as it whips across the expanse, harsh and strong with all that room to gain so much speed. Ford shivers and regrets having not grabbed his coat, having been too occupied with his vague plan of action that was still forming in his mind. He hugs himself for warmth and sets out across the weathered wood, mindful that nearly everything is still coated in a thin sheet of ice.

The fog continues to be a present shroud, though it’s obvious by the haze of light filtering through that it will soon burn off. Ford thinks he even catches a glimpse of sky, orange-blue overhead. It would have been beautiful if his mind weren’t so heavily cloaked in worry.

After almost slipping twice in his trek across the deck, Ford inches his way over to the railing, hoping to steady himself enough to check out the condition of the bow. His gaze automatically falls on the part of the rail he’d pulled his brother up under, half expecting it to be coated in blood, but of course the sleet or stray waves would have washed most, if not all of it, away. Ford sees nothing, and that’s probably for the better. His tired mind probably couldn’t take much more evidence of his brother’s suffering…

He needs to stay focused.

Ford edges himself along the rail until he reaches far enough that he figures with a bit of position testing he should be able to see the bow. Craning his neck and directing his gaze toward the front of the ship, he grunts at the uncomfortable angle, but is rewarded for his efforts. In the soft morning light, Ford can now make out the damage to the Stan o’War II, or as much as his limited viewpoint can lend. Just as he’d predicted, their vessel is lodged up tight on a pitch black outcrop of craggy stone sticking up out of the ocean. Driftwood with chipped paint scattered on the rocks below also tells Ford that there is likely more damage that he can’t see, beneath the metal skin of the boat itself. Probably some gaping hole in the bow as a result of the impact. The boat itself is indeed listing, even more visible from up on deck, but it isn’t drifting or rocking in any way, completely immobile. Even with the change of tide—which Ford had kept careful note of all night long. So of that Ford is numbingly grateful. If the ship had sunk they surely would have gone down with it.

Ford shifts his gaze out beyond the wreck of their bow. The fog thins beneath a cold breeze and he squints, catching sight of darkened shapes on the near horizon. A moment longer and he can just make out a line of tall, jagged clifftops, characterized by typical Icelandic typography. He’s hit with twin waves of relief and confusion—relief in that they really are a reasonable distance from land, and judging by the plumes of gentle smoke rising into the air from behind the ledges, it’s inhabited. However, Ford had been certain that no land existed anywhere near where they were. Not on his charts or in any of his navigation books that he poured over regularly. It doesn’t make any sense, but Ford had hoped for a miracle and he had gotten one, and he isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Encouraged by the hope of getting his brother the help he so sorely needs, Ford slips and stumbles his way back toward the boat’s cabin as quickly as the icy deck allows.

Everything hurts.

That’s the first thing that Stan registers. But it’s a distant thought, oddly removed, like it’s being experienced by someone else. It ebbs and swells like soft waves against a pebbled beach, dragging over his nerves in a numb, hazy trickle. It has the potential to become a storm, though, angry and raging if he lets it. In that case, he’s grateful for the disconnect. He’s not sure he could handle that kind of discomfort right now. Not all at once. But this slow, gradual consciousness? He can deal with that. Even then, with every drift of his mind, the numbness starts to lose its grip and the pain becomes a little more real.

He feels like he’s got into a fight with a gremgoblin and lost. He feels stiff and tired, his back aches and his shoulder feels tight and sore, but the majority of the pain comes from his leg. It feels like fire racing through his veins. That, more than anything, is what finally brings Stan around to full wakefulness.

It’s a monumental task just to open his eyes. And when he does finally manage it, he instantly squeezes them shut again as the room seems to spin all around him. Stan moves to weakly raise a hand to his head, but finds his arm weighed down by something soft and heavy. In fact, his entire body save for his head seems to be covered in the stuff. Breathing through the dizziness and subsequent nausea, Stan eventually tries to open his eyes again. He gingerly succeeds.

It’s relatively dark, and that, at least, is a relief. Stan’s not sure he could take anything too bright at the moment. His head is pounding. But there is some light, filtering in through the small porthole windows—dawn maybe? Or overcast. Maybe both. Stan’s nestled too far down to be able to see anything through them, but he can see the soft glow trying to peek through.

Moses, he feels so exhausted. And sweaty. Really sweaty.

Suddenly fully aware of just how uncomfortably warm he is, Stan starts to shift groggily. The fire in his leg increases and he can’t stop the sharp yelp that escapes him, the bone-shattering pain causing him to fall back against the makeshift bed on the floor he’s apparently been laid in. He lies their panting for a moment, the room doing its whole spinning gig again with a passion. If it keeps whirling like that he’s going to throw up. Hopefully not. Stan always hated being sick.

When his body finally stops freaking out so much just from him trying to move, Stan very carefully starts to lift just his arms, snaking them up his chest and out through the fabric tucked around his neck. Then he’s able to start shucking the blankets off of him a bit, though not too much. He’s already become aware that he’s wearing very little under the quilts at this point, and while the warmth is uncomfortable, so is the chilliness in the air—there’s no happy in between.

With his shoulders and upper chest free Stan feels like he can finally breathe. He lets his head tip back into the nest of comforters with a shivering sigh and rests a hand on his chest. He can feel the beat of his heart beneath his palm, steady but a little faster and weaker than it should be. And Stan can’t for the life of him remember why he feels so—

A sudden clatter makes him jolt, followed by Stan giving another choked cry of pain as the movement causes his leg pain to flare once more. But this time he doesn’t surrender to it completely, shaking it off quickly so that he can focus back on whatever had made such a commotion. He’s rewarded with the sight of Ford, half sitting on the step ladder and half clinging to the wall rail with a startled look on his face. His legs are all sprawled and his glasses eschew, but he seems relatively unharmed if not a little spooked.

Stan blinks, the puzzle pieces slowly clicking into place for his weird and distant brain. Ford must have slipped on the ladder coming down, saving himself from what probably would have been a nasty fall by latching on awkwardly to the railing. Stan might have laughed outright if he’d had the energy. As it is, he can only manage a weak smile.

“E-Easy there, Six—” Stan cuts off with a wet cough, surprised by the state of his own voice. He sounds like he’d been gargling with razor blades. “W-Wha—uh?”

At the croak of Stan’s voice Ford is scrambling up and over to the conman’s side. He falls to his knees, hovering his hands over his brother’s arm like he’s afraid to touch him. Which is ridiculous. Stan’s never been fragile. Not by a long shot.

“Stanley! You’re awake!” Ford babbles. “How do you feel? Are you hungry? Is your leg bothering you?”

Stan winces at the barrage of questions and volume. Ford’s probably not even talking all that loud, seeing as he’s always been more soft spoken than Stan, but with Stanley’s head feeling like a balloon getting ready to pop, Ford’s frantic tone isn’t helping matters.

“Ngh…Answering in order: peachy, no, and, uh, yeah…?”

Ford settles. He sits back on his heels with a shaky sigh. “That’s to be expected, after what’s happened.”

Stan gives a weak chuckle with no humor in it. “Yeah, uh. See, funny thing is, uh…what happened? E-Exactly?”

Ford goes a little pale, probably about ready to dig Mabel’s scrapbook out of their bunk room.

“I haven’t forgotten who I am, brainiac,” Stan quickly adds. “M’just…Last night’s a little fuzzy is all.”

Ford relaxes again. He gives a careful nod. “We ran aground of a crop of black stone. Not your fault. I doubt even the finest watchman would have been able to spy something so dark in all that fog. When we hit, as far as I can tell, the sudden standstill threw you over the side and into the ocean. It was a near thing. I…I took too long getting you out, and by the time I had you up on deck you were already in danger of suffering hypothermia.” Ford grimaces at the memory. “You also received a somewhat serious laceration on your leg. I can only surmise that you must have landed on the rocks when you fell.”

Stan nods weakly without lifting his head. He’s starting to feel cold again, and just generally crappy, to be honest, but he’s too tired to do anything about it. Whatever energy he’d woken with is fading fast. Now he can feel just how hard he’s shaking, how dizzy and nauseous he is. But, yeah, the cold is the worst part. That little stove isn’t nearly enough to chase away the chill permeating Stanley’s bones. Is it even running?

Like Ford knows what he’s thinking, his brother reaches up and re-covers Stan’s chest and shoulders with the blankets again, tucking him in before reaching for Stan’s still exposed wrist. Stan lets him, watching with bleary eyes as Ford takes his pulse.

After a moment, Stan mumbles, “M’glasses?” Because that’s probably why his vision is so wacked.

Ford pauses before shaking his head. “You must have lost them in the fall. They’re likely at the bottom of the ocean by now. If you can wait a bit longer, I can go and get one of your spares.”

They’d each packed multiple pairs, knowing that in their line of work broken, cracked, or misplaced glasses would be more than a common issue.

Stan’s really too tired to care. “…Yeah…Take yer time…No rush. Not really…much to see anyway.” He’s silent again for a moment before he gives a hoarse huff of amusement.

Ford looks up sharply from his task. “What is it?”

Stan grins back, with what little playfulness he can dredge up. “Just imagine some weird deep sea creature swimming around with…with my glasses on its stupid face…”

Despite an exasperated sigh, Ford smiles. He gently tucks Stan’s arm back under the blankets, covering it and then giving Stan’s shoulder a pat.

“Perhaps it will land on a particularly foul tempered angler and take on the appearance of our father.”

At that mental image Stan releases a startled laugh, before immediately falling into a fit of rough, body-wracking coughs. Ford winces at the sound, and Stan can’t blame him. He sounds downright awful. The coughs come from deep in his chest, raw, wet, and rattling. A sign that Stan may have breathed in some water last night, leaving it to collect in his lungs. Not much, but enough that Ford now looks worried, probably about the possibility of pneumonia. Great.

Stan grimaces when the coughs finally recede, his voice even more shredded. “S-Sor-ry,” he grates out, weak and out of breath.

Ford shakes his head, fussing. “It’s not your fault that you fell in.”

Stan frowns, catching the unspoken admittance. “S’not yer fault e-either.”

“Mm.” Ford doesn’t look convinced. “Either way, you are still in need of medical attention. And our supplies have run rather low.” He runs a hand through his hair. “However, we are very near to shore and what is likely a town of some sort. It stands to reason that they would have a doctor on hand that could take a look at you and tend to your leg properly.”

“Ugh.” Stan’s not a fan of doctors, but the look Ford gives him tells Stan he’s not going to be able to talk himself out of being checked over.

Ford nods to himself. “Which is why my next course of action is to try and locate that inflatable raft we packed. The boat isn’t going anywhere, and staying will do more harm than good for the both of us.”

He fussily tucks Stan even further into the blankets. “As for you, I want you to rest. It shouldn’t take me more than half an hour to get everything we need together. But all the same I want you using that time wisely. Stay still and quiet. Sleep if you’re able.” Ford’s brow furrows. “What is your pain level?”

Stan gives a dry chuckle and closes his eyes with a wince. “If we’re talking about a smiley face to frowny face ratio I’d say my eyebrows are so low they look like a mustache.”

Ford blinks. “So you’re in a lot of pain.”

Stan tries to shift and whimpers at the fire in his leg. “Y-Yes, Stanford, I am in a lot of p-pain. Sheesh, what’s a guy gotta do, speak plain English? Ngh—” Stan grunts, trying to keep from squirming further. “We got any Tylenol in there?” And he nods toward the first aid kit.

“I’ve already looked, and I’m afraid not. Between your backaches and my migraines, we’ve used up pretty much all of our painkillers.”

“Great…” Stan pauses. “Wait…Pretty much?”

Ford sighs, found out. “I have a bottle of medication that I have had in my possession for quite some time. It’s rare and…not entirely from this world.”

“You mean…?”

Ford nods. “It was given to me by an acquaintance in the multiverse, during a particularly…unpleasant time in my travels. It is extremely strong. Think morphine…times ten.” Ford pauses, considering, but he looks a little uneasy. “I could give you some if you wa—”

“No.”

Ford rolls the word around on his tongue, frowning. “No?”

“That stuff is rare right? And it’s all we got left. Let’s try to get to shore before we start trying something risky. We don’t even know if I’m allergic to the stuff, and I’m in pain but not that much.”

“I wish I could fully believe that,” Ford grumbles.

Stan ignores him. “Either way, I can last until we get to shore and go crawling up to some doctor’s front d-desk. He’s bound to have something to help without us using that last resort stuff. Save it for when we really need it.”

Ford considers, then nods in reluctant agreement. “For if things become more desperate. Not that I hope they will, of course. I would say that you’re probably safe from hypothermia by this point. If you weren’t, you would have died during the night.”

“Wow, way to break it t’me slow, Sixer. Gah…Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.”

Ford continues, undeterred. “The biggest danger to your health now will be blood loss and infection. I cleaned the wound the best I could, and wrapped it in clean linens, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t still any danger. And then there’s that cough. Pneumonia can be fatal if not properly treated.” Ford looks to Stan imploringly. “Your pulse is a bit fast, but what other symptoms do you have?”

Stan tries to wave off Ford’s concern out of habit, but Ford interrupts him. “And don’t you dare say you’re fine. You are explicitly not fine, that is an unquestionable lie.” He sighs, and Stan only just realizes how exhausted his twin looks. “I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me, Stanley. Now, please, answer me truthfully. How are you feeling?”

Stan echoes the sigh and goes even more limp against the blankets and booth cushions. “Alright, alright…M’dizzy, that’s a big one. Feels like the whole room’s on a merry-go-round. M’tired. Not much energy. Everything hurts. My head and leg especially.”

Ford frowns. “Do you remember hitting your head when you fell?”

“Don’t think so. Doesn’t feel like a bump, just a bad headache.” Stan pulls the blankets tighter around his shoulders. “I’m also going back and forth from being overheated to f-freaking freezing.”

“Oh?” Ford quickly leans forward to place the back of his hand on Stan’s forehead. Stan grumbles something inaudible, and Ford’s frown deepens. “You have a fever. Low, for the moment, but still concerning. Do you have any nausea?”

“Some. Mostly when I first woke up, but it’s still kind’a there…”

Ford glances down at where Stan’s leg lies beneath the covers. “May I look at your leg again?”

“Tch. A little late t’be asking now.” At Ford’s nonplussed stare Stan gives a fatigued, lying-down shrug. “You’re the doctor, Doctor. Knock yourself out.”

Ford gives a curt nod and moves to remove the lower blankets, chilly air kissing at the now bare skin of Stan’s legs.

Stan doesn’t need to be able to see to know it’s bad. He can tell just by the way Ford turns a little bit paler and pinches up his brow in concern. Weakly, Stan tries to dredge up a fake chuckle.

“H-Heh. Not pretty, huh?”

“It’s…not ideal, no.” Ford growls under his breath, berating his own stupidity. “I should have checked sooner. By the Oracle, I’ve botched this left and right. Stupid, overconfident fool that I am—”

“Hey, now.” Ford knows Stan doesn’t like to hear him devolve into that sort of self down-talk. They’ve had conversations about it. Multiple times. “That’s enough of that.”

“Stanley, I’m sorry. I was afraid of causing more bleeding—you’d already lost so much—and I figured that once it had clotted that this wouldn’t be an issue. I didn’t think that it would—”

“Ooookay, and that’s the cue to take a deep breath and take a step back.”

Ford stutters to a stop, going still and silent. He’s upset, that much is clear, but working himself into a panicked frenzy isn’t going to do either of them a lick of good. Stan sighs, running a shaky hand down his face.

“Whatever’s up, it ain’t your fault. Things happen. We live a rough and rugged life, almost as rough and rugged as we are. No matter what we do or don’t do, stuff’s gonna happen. Now stop beating yourself up and tell me what’s going on down there without freaking out. And freaking me out along with you.”

Ford obediently takes in a slow, deep breath and looks back down at Stan’s leg with a wince. “It’s…becoming infected, and rapidly. I’d hoped I managed to clean it out well enough to avoid any complications, but it was fairly dark at the time and I hadn’t been able to see well with only the light from the stove and the emergency lanterns.”

“Flashlight?” Ford gives Stan a helpless look. “Okay…It’s okay. So, now what?”

“This will need to be cleaned professionally,” Ford surmises. “And you’ll be needing antibiotics. The infection was probably caused by bacteria in the water. Once properly flushed out and re-wrapped, and with the addition of medication, you…should be alright.”

Stan gives a small nod. It’s getting harder and harder to stay awake, fatigue draining him quickly. “So…either way, our plan doesn’t change. We need to get to shore before I start to feel the effects of the…the infection. How long before I start feeling, ya know, worse?”

“A typical infection would take two to three days to take root,” Ford recites, then wilts. “But seeing as you’re already showing signs of inflammation and swelling, it seems you may have contracted an accelerated species of pathogen.”

“Excuse me?”

“A fast-acting sickness.”

Stan groans. “Great. Leave it to me to catch anomalous germs.”

Ford continues. “At the rate the infection is spreading, and with the symptoms you’re already displaying, I would guess we have a few hours at best before your condition becomes more severe.”

“Fantastic.”

“It will take me at least an hour to accumulate what we’ll need to make it to shore.”

“Double fantastic,” Stan deadpans. He attempts a disgruntled look, but it falls short, lacking any true fire. “Even better. So…how can I help get us out of here a little faster?”

Ford’s expression immediately hardens. “You will sit there and rest. The more you move around and exert yourself, the faster the pathogen is likely to spread. That, and I’d rather not have you staggering about the deck, endangering yourself to another fall.”

Stan sinks down into the blankets around him, properly chastened and, guiltily, a little relieved. “Geez, ask a guy a simple question…”

“I,” Ford goes on, “will go find the raft and rush together some supplies. Then we’ll set out for shore and find you a physician.”

“Fine,” Stan nods tiredly. He’s only been awake for a very short time, and already he feels like he could close his eyes and never open them again. Maybe Ford’s right, he’d be better off sitting tight and taking it easy.

“Please, stay still,” Ford pleads, already rising to his feet, ready to get to his task. “And don’t go anywhere.”

Jokes on him. Stan’s eyes are already closing of their own accord. The blankets are warm, and the last dregs of what little energy he had is slipping from his grasp like sand between his fingers. If he were a little more lucid he might have found the gumption to feel alarmed at how quickly he’s fading out.

Sleepily, Stan hums. “Not…counting on it…”

He’s out again before Ford even makes it back up on deck.

Despite Ford’s best intentions, it takes a solid two hours before he’s ready to start putting their plan into action. This is mostly due to the fact that the raft itself had been stored in the bow of the Stan o’War II, not all the way in the front where most of the damage was, but close enough that it had gotten snagged underneath some splintered timber, ice cold water, and a few sheets of caved-in metal. It took Ford nearly an hour and a half just to get the blasted thing free without getting overly soaked, and even then he could only hope that the raft hadn’t been ripped. The outer lining didn’t seem broken in any way, but still, Ford couldn’t be sure until he’d inflated it and could properly determine if it had been damaged.

Finding the supplies should have been the easy part. Ford only needed a few things after all, but with time pressing and his brother beginning to stir again in discomfort, he decided that all he needed was some cash, a knife, his blaster, and his compass. Food could be purchased on the island—at least he hoped. He and Stan had collected a rather impressive store of all kinds of currency, so they should have enough krónur for a meal and to pay a physician whatever fee was required.

Waking Stan turns out to be fairly difficult, which is concerning. Ford’s brother is sluggish and definitely less coherent than he had been before. Still, he’s not fully incapacitated, but certainly not doing well. When Ford finally manages to get Stan to open his eyes, and explain that they are all set to leave, Stanley is too tired to fight or question as Ford starts peeling off the layers of blankets from the younger twin’s trembling form. Getting Stan dressed is far less than a graceful, simple task, but they manage it, and then Ford is carefully helping his brother to his feet.

“Easy, Stanley. Take it slow. That’s it.”

“Nph…S-St’p coddlin’ me…”

Stan staggers like a drunk, and when prompted he weakly admits to further dizziness, nausea, and what is likely a higher fever. His steps are shaky and uncoordinated, like the deck is swaying beneath his feet when in fact it’s as still as it’s been since dry dock. It might be comical, if not for the dire circumstances.

Together they make their way up onto the deck.

The ice and fog has melted away and the sun is warm despite the cold chill in the air. Even then, Stan relies on Ford’s strength almost the whole way. What few steps he tries to take unaided only make things harder for Ford, and in the end the scientist is supporting nearly all of Stan’s weight. After several moments of strenuous work, Ford eases Stan down into a sit near the still deflated life raft, propping him up against the side of the wheelhouse.

Stanley winces in discomfort but slumps there without protest.

Breathing heavily, Ford crouches down beside him. “Now…Stanley, my plan…is simple. We will use this raft…to make it to shore and then…then I will assist you in making it to the nearest physician. They should be able to fix you up and give us shelter…until we can figure out a solution to our unfortunate circumstances…”

Stan blinks stickily, probably only having understood about one third of that in his hazy, sickening state, but he must pick up on the betraying quiver in Ford’s voice because he huffs softly and reaches out. Cold, shaky fingers find Ford’s shoulder, giving a single, small squeeze of encouragement. Just enough to let Ford know that Stan has unwavering trust and belief in his ability to save them. Stan’s hand slips back to his lap a moment later, breaking the tender moment. He sways, dizzy, and gives a soft groan.

They need to get going.

Ford gives a firm nod to himself and stands, putting his plan into the next stage of action.

He approaches the raft and crouches down beside it. It’s one of those self inflating types, the kind you wouldn’t want to accidentally trigger while inside the cabin, though Stan would likely find it hilariously funny to witness should such an event transpire. Especially if it happened to Ford. He’d be sure to never let the scientist forget it, right up until their dying day. Possibly longer.

Now, though, all Stanley does is watch Ford with dull, pained eyes. His head is probably starting to feel fuzzy and slow, like the world is moving in slow motion and him along with it. Knowing his brother, Stan is trying to fight the feeling, but that will take energy he simply doesn’t have. By the look of things, he’s just sort of accepting it now, surrendering to the weakness, letting himself drift. Which, for the record, Ford finds utterly terrifying. Stan isn’t usually one to lie down and take it when it comes to feeling under the weather. The fact that he’s just allowing himself to exist, quiet and still, is the biggest sign of his overall poor health at the moment, and it does not bode well.

With cold-numb fingers, Ford hastily pulls the tab on the bundle, and to his relief the raft inflates as it should, quickly and with no sign of damage. He steps back, lets it finish its function, before he’s getting it in the water and shoving what little supplies they have into the space between the seats. Finally, progress.

Satisfied, and feeling the press for time, Ford makes his way swiftly back to his brother, crouching down once more and laying a hand on Stan’s shoulder.

“Lee?”

“Mmh?” Stan blinks, looking confused and dazed. “Whas…s’up?”

Ford’s brow furrows in concern and his guiding hand is gentle as he murmurs. “Come on, the raft is ready. Do you think you can make it?”

Stan gives a bitter chuckle, lost and distinctly unsteady. “L-Like ya’could c…carry me if I couldn’…make i’.”

Ah. He’s slurring now. That is far from a good sign. Ford tries not to panic, leveling a sad smile at his brother’s wandering gaze. “You underestimate me. And you underestimate what a few months at sea have done for your weight.”

“E-Easy fer y-you ta…ta say…Yer jus’ one big…big walkin’ muscle.” At that Stan outright giggles, but it tapers off into a cough and a groan, his eyes slipping shut in discomfort. “Aaaaan’ I f-feel…awful…”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Ford sympathizes, but they don’t have time to take things slow. He merely moves to get Stan standing with his arm thrown around Ford’s shoulders.

“Aw geez…ugh…” Stan sways instantly, and for a moment Ford thinks he might lose the contents of his stomach. Somehow, he doesn’t.

“Alright. Easy now, Stan, just take it one step at a time. Okay?”

“M’kay…”

Ford grunts, and then they’re hobbling over to the side of the deck, where the obnoxious yellow mass of the raft lies in wait.

“Nnnnh, gonna puke…”

“Please don’t.”

“All..All over…y-you.” Sick as a dog and still Stan manages to smirk at him, teasing even as his eyes water with pain and his skin turns another shade paler.

Ford plays along, if only to help keep Stan conscious and talking. “I would very much rather that you refrained from doing that, please.”

“N-Nerd…”

It’s a complicated couple of minutes, trying to ease themselves over the side of the boat and into the raft. Stan’s out of it enough that he’s no help at all, and there’s only so much Ford can do to keep them both from falling into the water, but he manages, somehow. Eventually they’re both in the little vessel and Ford makes sure Stan is settled before taking a seat himself on the opposite end, facing his brother. He takes up the plastic paddles and attaches them to their sockets on the sides of the inflatable craft. With a grunt, the scientist begins to row, slowly easing them away from the grounded hull of the Stan o’War II and toward the distant shore that looms on the horizon.

As he rows, Ford’s gaze is left to wander over the lopsided edifice of their boat. It sits behind them, growing smaller and smaller as they slowly make their way, distance between them gaining bit by bit. It looks so lonely and forlorn there against the stark, black rocks, like the stones are sponges soaking all the life and color out of the vessel. It sinks a strange sort of sadness in Ford’s heart that they have to leave it behind at all. Not for forever though, he reminds himself. Ford will get back and fix the Stan o’War II, as soon as he is certain that Stan will be alright.

Family comes first.

A boat could be replaced.

Stanley could not be.

.

.

.

About halfway to shore, Stan’s overall condition takes a turn for the worst.

Ford watches his brother warily, taking note of every nuance of misery. They’d really been quite lucky, Stanley had more or less seemed numbed to most of his symptoms while he was warm and stationary, but now, with the ocean spray damping his clothes and the frigid arctic wind tugging at them mercilessly, Stan’s health is deteriorating in front of Ford’s eyes. Guilt threatens to bubble up in the scientist’s chest, but he cuts it off with a firm dose of logic. They couldn’t have stayed onboard the boat, as dangerous as this all is for Stanley’s condition. The infection worsening had been inevitable, even warmth and being immobile would only have done so much good for so long. Still, there’s a certain amount of regret that comes with having had to make the decision to leave.

Not for the first time, Ford thinks of the unique pills in his satchel, tempted to give one to Stan despite what he had stated earlier. But no. The pills are merely for dulling pain, they would do nothing for Stan’s injuries or fever, and numbing his brother to it all, while a mercy, would also make it hard for Ford to tell just how poorly Stan was fairing. And that could be dangerous. Ford has seen death sneak up on larger, stronger beings with brutal, fatal intent.

So he does the only thing he can. He rows harder. Even though he’s shivering and cold, and rowing makes his muscles burn. They’re almost to shore, and then they can get Stanley some proper help.

Stanford nearly passes out with relief as he feels and hears the raft run aground on soft, wet, gritty sand. A wave picks them up and deposits them a little higher than the shoreline and Ford quickly climbs out and takes hold of the lead, pulling them up higher still, until the waves have no hope of dragging them back in. Stanley’s hunched over in his seat, shivering and absolutely silent, which Ford takes as a bad sign. The scientist stumbles his way around the side of the raft, shaking out the muscle exhaustion in his arms as he goes.

It’s turning out to be a fair day, now that the sun has burned away the fog, revealing vibrant blue sky. The beach they find themselves on is a balanced mix of rocky and sandy, a small cove at the bottom of a steep half circular incline. Above them, cliffs tower, majestic, barren, and beautiful. It would be a lovely place to take in and enjoy if it weren’t so cold, and death weren’t literally chomping at the backs of their heels. Normally, Ford would be taking in his surroundings with more enthusiasm, but right now he only has eyes for his brother.

Ford moves to crouch at Stan’s side beside the raft, not caring how the next wave splashes onto his pants and sloshes down the edges of his boots to soak his socks. He gently lays a hand on Stan’s arm, half afraid that his twin is too far gone to even know he’s there. But Stan continues to surprise Ford, as he’s managed to do a thousand times over since Weirdmageddon. With a small flinch, his soft brown eyes open a bit wider and move sluggishly to meet Ford’s own.

“H-Hey…”

“Hey.” Ford swallows and casts his eyes wearily toward the looming slopes. “Stanley, we need to try to make it to the nearest home or place of business. From the boat I’m almost certain I saw signs of civilization further inland.” He looks back to Stan worriedly. “Do you think you can make it?”

“Mmm’ya asked tha’ ‘efore…”

“I did. But I want to ask you again. Because, if you can’t make it…” If Stan can’t make it, Ford isn’t sure what he’ll do. “Do you think you can?”

Stan peers blearily in the direction of the slope, swaying slightly in his seat. His eyes dizzily trail back to Ford. “D-Don’ know…‘til we try…”

Ford nods solemnly and moves to help his brother up and out of the raft. The beach is sandy but filled with hidden stones, and Ford can’t count the number of times the two of them almost topple over as their ankles keep twisting. Stan hisses in pain each time, his breathing becoming more and more labored. By the time they reach the base of the slope, Ford’s certainty of success has diminished drastically. They’d barely traversed the beach, never mind the staggering incline before them. But Stan squeezes his shoulder and takes a weak half step forward to stubbornly say he’s ready, and so Ford grits his teeth and starts up once more.

They do alright, at first. But it doesn’t last. And it was almost foolish to have thought it ever would. A third of the way up the incline, what little strength Stan has finally gives out. He stumbles and falters to the ground, taking Ford down with him. The scientist manages to slow his twin’s fall enough that he doesn’t hit his head, but it’s as good an omen as any that this is as far as Stanley can go.

“S-S—orr—ry,” Stan slurs. He lays on his side, panting weakly, Ford leaning worriedly over him. “Ah jus’….j-jus’ need ta c-catch…ma b-breath…”

“It’s alright,” Ford attempts to soothe. “Just breathe. It’s alright.”

He casts his gaze down the part of the slope they’ve already climbed, and glances up with increasing despair at just how much further they have to go. Stan looks about ready to pass out, eyes half lidded and gaze unfocused. This is all too taxing on him in his current state. But they can’t just sit here, there’s a deadly chill in the air, even more bitter now that the slope is blocking the sun. Frostbite is a complication they certainly do not need, and neither is another brush with hypothermia.

And so, after murmuring a few comforting words to Stan, Ford gently pulls his brother into a sitting position. Stanley groans, but manages to stay upright long enough for Ford to turn and crouch down with his back facing the retired conman. Disoriented though he may be, Stan catches on fairly quickly, allowing himself to flop forward onto Ford’s shoulders, trembling arms locking weakly around the scientist’s neck.

“One…two…three.”

Ford tries to lift with his knees and not his back, a task made all the more difficult with his standing on uneven ground. Stan is by no means light, all dead weight and muscle, but he really has lost quite a few pounds since they’d begun their adventures on the Stan o’War II. Certainly enough for Ford to get a good hold on him and lift Stan in a wobbly, staggering piggyback.

The issue ends up being Ford, not Stan. Functioning on no sleep and no food since the morning before, Ford’s not at his best. It’s another several yards up the incline before Ford realizes this is not going to work. His legs are killing him, as are his arms, and he feels weak and ill. He stumbles a bit, and comes to a reluctant conclusion. He eases Stanley back to the ground, Stan giving a soft sound of question, little more than a whine.

“N-Nnn…?”

Ford is panting hard, legs shaking from fatigue. “I-I can’t carry you, Stanley, I’m… I-I’m too low on energy…But I…should be able to make it alone…Fetch help and bring them back…back here…It’s the only way I can think of that…doesn’t end with us both passing out.” He shakily takes in a calmer breath. “I’ll be…right back…Okay? You…You understand?”

Stan doesn’t reply. His eyes are barely open now, his body gone back to shivering and breathing in shaky, shallow breaths. Ford waits as long as he can, but then decides he’s not going to get an answer, which is concerning but predictable. They’re running out of time.

Feeling far from reassured, Ford launches back to his tired feet and starts scrambling up the steep incline, using his hands to dig into the sand and dirt to help him move faster. Leaving Stanley behind feels like the ultimate betrayal, but there’s no other way. He reaches the top of the incline, shaking with effort and feeling dizzy and weak-kneed. He really should have forced himself to sleep and eat if even just a little bit, but regrets bear him nothing right now. He straightens and casts his gaze about him to get his bearings, near frantic.

A blessing of this particular landscape is that it is very sparse. With the cliffs now mostly behind him, Ford can survey a fair distance unhindered. He can spot, beyond the rise and fall of the sloping hills covered in prickly grass, chimney smoke rising lazily into the sky, like he’d seen from the boat. He knows some town or settlement is there, the proof an immense relief, even if the village is mostly out of sight, likely a mile or more away. Closer, and far more within Ford’s current reach, a cottage stands out among one of the nearest nulls. It’s old, but beautiful—picturesque, like something right out of a fairy tale book, but a little less warm and cozy. The cottage is almost as sparse and bare as the landscape it’s nestled in, all tan and brown with gray stone sides and a black slated roof covered in moss. A white picket fence, half swallowed up by grass clumps and dirt, hedges the premises, painting a scene of a cold but quiet and peaceful haven midst the harsh landscape. To the side of the structure, working in what likely constitutes as a garden, is an older man with a white beard and wearing black pants, a white shirt, and suspenders. With him are two women, one older and well aged, while the other stood perhaps in her mid-forties. The three seem to be in the middle of some menial task, tilling the soil, and the sight of them launches Ford into further action.

Desperation that has been welling up all morning finally bursts forth. Ford stumbles forward with a loud shout. “Hey!”

The three persons startle and look up.

“Please!”

The intensity in his eyes and expression on his face prompts the man to push the older woman behind him slowly, while the elder female gestures the younger ever closer to the house. They’re frightened, and some part of Ford’s panicked brain understands that. He must be a sight, a wild, salt-crusted man stumbling out of the landscape with a day and a half’s worth of stubble and a torn and muddied jacket. Shouting out things that probably make little to no—

Ford blinks, faltering before he mentally berates himself for being so stupid. He slows and takes a deep breath, trying to calm his mind and digging through his knowledge for a very old set of memorized Icelandic phrases. Ford has learned a lot of languages in his lifetime, thirteen of which aren’t even from this world. And after learning that many, he’s found it has become easier to pick up just about anything when he puts his mind to it. There are patterns in everything, after all.

“Bróðir minn!” Ford calls out. The words feel odd in his mouth, and he knows he’s likely butchering the pronunciation, and the grammar too, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Hann er sár! Hjálp!”

However bad it is, it seems to get his meaning across—his brother is hurt and he needs help. The man’s eyes widen. He drops his tools and starts making his way toward the gate of the cottage, toward Ford with real, honest concern in his gaze. He’s chattering, saying things much too complex and fast for Ford to comprehend, but it’s clear that it’s a question, sharp and sincere. So Ford takes a leap of faith and gathers up the dregs of his oldest linguistic skills.

“I…I-I can’t recall the Icelandic word for beach…but water. Water is far more basic.” Louder, he shouts, “Vatn!Vatn! Bróðir minn!”

Convinced that the man is following him, Ford takes off back the way he’d come. He pauses just above the slope to let the older fellow catch up with him, and they share a hurried glance before Ford takes the lead back down the incline.

Stan is right where Ford left him, collapsed on his side and breathing shallowly. Ford does his best not to kick and dislodge loam and sand down on his brother as he descends, but his movements are panicked, so he still manages to do so. The man behind him follows without any complaints and a moment later they’re both crouched at Stanley’s side. The scientist takes note with a thrill of fear that Stan is now fully unconscious.

The inhabitant, a farmer, perhaps—or so Ford deduces by the soil on his pants and the callousness of his hands—kneels down across from him, a hand tucking up along Stan’s side as though gauging the other’s stinted breaths. A pause, before the man eases the downed American over enough that he can open one of Stanley’s eyes. The pupil is normal from what Ford can see. Then again, it would be with only a fever.

Ford is becoming impatient, anxious to get his brother somewhere warm and dry. Gaining the man’s attention, Ford gently exposes Stan’s leg, earning no reaction from Stanley but a widening of the eyes from the stranger. The farmer gestures back up the slope the way they had come and Ford merely nods. Together they ease Stan up between them, each with an arm thrown around their shoulders. Stan remains distressingly unresponsive, deep in the spell of his feverish state. Ford would have done anything for a thermometer, but going by the terrible heat radiating from his twin’s body and the sick sheen of sweat that covers Stan’s skin despite the cold, Ford can only guess that his temperature is quite high.

It’s a difficult journey back up the rest of the slope, even with assistance. Made all the harder with the added task of hauling a full grown man between them up the muddy incline. Neither Ford nor the stranger are young, but they manage.

By the time they reach the cottage, the two women are waiting anxiously out by the picket gate. A somewhat rotund man with a kind, focused face is standing at the ready beside them. Apparently, one of the women had already fetched a doctor, Ford would recognize one anywhere with that calm demeanor and little black bag. Though, how they had managed to fetch him so quickly is beyond Ford’s comprehension. Not that he has a spare thought to care about that at the moment.

As soon as they reach them, the doctor takes over Ford’s spot at Stan’s side. Ford gives the position up willingly, though as soon as he has he can’t quite say why. Maybe because he’s shaking so hard; or because he subconsciously knows that, in another minute or so, they’ll have another unconscious man on their doorstep if Ford doesn’t ease up on himself a bit. The younger woman rushes ahead of the farmer and the doctor, opening the cottage door and leading the way inside.

Ford is left to the older woman, who clucks and fusses over his damp clothes in her native tongue, but Ford is far too exhausted to even attempt translating. He stares after Stan with worried eyes, taking a few weak steps to follow before he stumbles and has to brace a hand on the fence. He’s dizzy, drunk on exhaustion and hunger. The old woman’s chattering increases, and the next thing Ford knows achingly cold fingers are wrapping around his wrist, gently leading him by the hand toward the cottage, up the steps, and into the comfortable indoors. He doesn’t fight it, relieved to no longer have to put thought into his direction, letting himself be led.

The home itself is an older model than Ford would have expected. Or, at least, it seems to be. Perhaps passed down from generation to generation, looking more like something out of the early 1800s than anything modern. The front threshold opens up into a wide, spacious room. The floors are dark, polished wood, bare but for the occasion rectangle of time-worn carpeting. The walls and ceiling are made of a lighter wood, some areas slanted, others not, but all fairly low. A single whitewashed square of pillar rises in the center of the room, the dark metal piping kinking out of it down to a wood stove, steadily burning and doubtless heating the entirety of the house. To the left is a desk with a lamp and a chair, and to the right is more open space with a door leading to what appears to be a kitchen. Beyond it all, further to Ford’s left through yet another doorway, lies a bedroom, probably a spare. From his point of limited view Ford can only make out a window and a quilted bed. It’s here that the cottage’s occupants have taken Stanley, evidenced by the flurry of activity from within and the muddy trail leading to the room itself.

Ford makes as if to follow, but the kindly old woman has other plans. She leads him over by the fireplace in the main part of the house, easing him down into a soft, upholstered chair. Part of Ford wants to argue, to go to his brother’s side regardless of what he’s obviously being told to do. But the chair is warm and well cushioned, and Ford sinks into it with a shuddering sigh. He’s damp and chilled, and his boots and pant legs are encrusted with dirt and salt. He’s likely left a fair mess in his wake, but no one seems to mind. The elderly lady starts urging him to take off his coat, and Ford’s too tired to make a fuss. He needs to get warm and dry. He won’t be surprised if he catches cold, regardless. Drowsily, Stanford slips one arm free, then the other, and watches numbly as the woman takes his jacket over to the stove where she hangs it up to drip and dry.

Ford’s eyes trail back in the direction of the bedroom his brother has been led to. Anxiety and paranoia creep up another fraction when he discovers that the side room’s door has since been shut. Ford launches himself back to his feet, but he’s caught by a hand against his chest, pulling him up short. It’s the younger woman this time, her ice blue eyes pinning him just as steadily as her hand, a gentle yet firm command. He’s not even sure how or when she appeared at his side.

With a sigh, Ford gives in. These people are surely trustworthy, an Icelandic family living on the edge of some small settlement. They fetched a doctor, took in two strange men. The least he can do is sit still and follow their wishes, however badly Ford wishes they’d just let him see his brother. But, deep down, he knows he would just be in the way, so Ford settles back down into the chair, eyes still locked with the young woman’s, his cold hands shakily curling around the ornate bulbous ends of the chair arms. The exhaustion finally overtakes him and Ford slumps, eyes falling to stare tiredly toward the door to the bedroom. He’s vaguely aware of the young woman leaving his side, headed to the kitchen, but feels too drained to consider it beyond a fleeting thought.

Time passes.

He’s not quite sure how much, but it does.

Ford may have dozed off, which is concerning. He’s usually not so weak as to fall asleep in unfamiliar surroundings. He jolts back to wakefulness, blinking blearily and not knowing exactly what woke him. It’s good timing, however, as just as he does so the older woman re-enters the room from the direction of the kitchen. She pauses, notices that he’s awake, then disappears before returning with a cup and saucer in hand. She approaches him slowly and offers what looks like some kind of tea.

Ford gives her a tired smile and accepts it. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

The woman nods and then heads for Stan’s designated room, slipping in and closing the door behind her.

Leaving Ford to wait once more, anxiously sipping at his beverage.

Chapter Text

Everything in and around Stan Pines… drifts . He drifts, the world drifts, his thoughts drift. Nothing makes sense, and yet he doesn’t care whether it does or not. There’s a vague idea that he should care, that it should bother him that he doesn’t, but something strong, dark, and heavy won’t let him. It clings to him like tar, robbing him of every conscious notion, leaving him detached and lost.

Drifting… drifting …

He’s on a boat. Or…No, a raft. With Ford. His brother rowing and rowing and rowing toward…somewhere. Somewhere important. Stan vaguely wonders if they reach it, wherever it is, or if the trek is eternal, never ending. All he can recall is the oozing feeling of illness slowly claiming him, weaving into his joints and chest, into every cell in his body. His leg burns, a hot poker of pain, throbbing in time with the sluggish beat of his heart. He tries to focus on the ocean waves, the rise and fall of the raft, Ford’s ceaseless chattering—but soon that all fades away, too.

Time drags , until it doesn’t exist anymore. Drifting… drifting …

Oh. Ford’s here, asking questions like he always does, a chilly hand on Stan’s shoulder. He wants Stan to do…something. Try something. Well, Stan can do that. He can give it his best. He’s helped into a stand, and they’re moving. And, Moses , that’s so much worse than sitting still. He feels like an intruder in his own skin, unable to get his limbs to obey the way he feels they should. And when Stan inevitably falls, he somehow keeps inching onward, something warm and shaky beneath him. Holding him up. Carrying him. Though not for long.

“I-I can’t carry you, Stanley, I’m… I-I’m too low on energy…But I…should be able to make it alone…Fetch help and bring them back…back here…It’s the only way I can think of that…doesn’t end with us both passing out…I’ll be…right back…Okay? You…You understand?”

Stan understands. Maybe not what’s happening, or where he is, or why he can’t be carried any further, or even why he has to be carried in the first place, but he understands the wobbly devastation and guilt in that voice. The need to be heard, for Stan to give his consent, extend his belief. So he does. Or thinks he does. His lips don’t move, so maybe he can’t, but shortly after that Stan senses that he’s alone.

Good. The voice must have gotten what it wanted. Stan can just…drift…

This time the darkness drags him fully under.

.

.

.

Stan breaks the surface an eternity later. He flails, limbs twitching, uncoordinated and numb, as drifting gives way to anxiety, and fear, and an awful sense of dread, all wrong wrong wrong—!

Cold, foreign hands maneuver him, tug at him, hold him down. Words echo above where he lies, muffled and equally as alien as their touch, and Stan thinks he should run. He needs to run, needs to hide , needs to find his brother before it’s too—

Ford.

A blue flash of light, the feeling of weightlessness, Ford screaming for Stan to do something, anything —The portal. The symbol branded into the skin of Stan’s shoulder, emanating pain like a beacon. With the recollections come all-consuming guilt and regret and self-hatred, its claws familiar and horrible, almost more than he can stand.

A sob catches in Stan’s throat. Speaking feels like a monumental task, but he forces the stuttered name out anyway, stubborn and very, very afraid. “F-F’rd…Wh’re’s—”

“Hann er vakandi.”

Stan flinches at the senseless words that echo around him, simultaneously too soft and too loud to bear. His eyes, which have been closed until now, snap open, but the scene before him is too blurred and whirling to make any sense. There are only hazy figures, too close, too unfamiliar, too nameless—He’s supposed to be alone here, deep under the Shack with only his failure for company. Who are they? Who—What do they want?!

Again he tries to move, tries to run, and again his body betrays him. He feels out of sync with himself, like every movement lags behind, glitchy and faded like an old cassette tape. The commands from his brain get lost somewhere along his veins, leaving him sluggish and useless. Stan doesn’t manage much more than a weak attempt to sit himself up, but even that doesn’t get him far. Cold hands tighten around his wrists, keeping him pinned. The voices of the figures sharpen slightly. Angry, maybe, and that can’t be good. Anger means punishment, and punishment means pain. And he’s already in so much pain.

Against his will, Stan lets out a whimper. He’s not expecting it to accomplish anything, but for the slightest instant, everything pauses. He can feel eyes on him, and it sets his teeth on edge.

“…Ekki alveg. Hitinn er hár. Hann er ekki alveg með okkur.”

Another man’s voice. So there’s two of them, maybe. Deep, husky. Aged. Stan pants as he tries to focus, wondering which of his enemies has managed to catch up with him. In decent fighting shape he might have been able to take them, but he’s hurt. He’s hurt and feels so, so dizzy. He’s at their mercy, and that isn’t something they’re likely to give him.

“Ég get ekki meðhöndlað hann ef hann heldur áfram að reyna að hreyfa sig,” the second man continues, tone disapproving.

That isn’t Spanish. It isn’t, Stan would know. Or maybe his mind is more broken than he thought, and even the languages he’s learned and used for most of his life no longer make sense to him.

“Hann verður að róa sig.” There’s a shift, and then the same voice speaks in English. It’s such a shock that Stan jolts a little, reeling. “It is alright. You are safe. Please, rest. We are taking care of you.”

Taking care of him. Right . Like Stan will fall for that old trick. No one helps Stan Pines; Stan Pines helps himself. And where has that got him—homeless and sick, hunted like a dog through the streets. He’s messed up. He always messes up. And Ford— Ford . Wasn’t he here? Wasn’t he—Stan can’t remember. All he can recall is blue light and weightlessness.

“F’rd, m’sorry—Wher’s ‘e…? I need…” His voice gives out, cracking pitifully.

He gives up, allowing the hands to press him back into the…mattress? A bed. Something softer than he deserves. At his compliance, the hands gentle their hold, though they don’t leave. The fingertips are like glaciers, frigid blocks of persistence. There’s a few moments of buzzing silence, the only sound Stan’s ragged, tired gasps for air.

“Hver er þetta…Ferd?” someone murmurs. A softer, more feminine voice. It’s caring and kind, soothing, like a balm against skin on a hot summer day. Nothing like the other voices. Nothing like the men who’d want Stan dead.

“Kannski er það hinn maðurinn. Bróðir hans,” one of the first men replies, then sighs. “Ég ætla að gefa honum eitthvað til að róa hann. Haltu honum kyrrum, Embla.”

A pause. “Hvernig?”

“Talaðu við hann. Á ensku. Í örfá augnablik…”

Whatever these people are saying is lost to Stan’s flickering consciousness. He restlessly shifts against his captors’ hold, chest heaving, breaths choked and wet. He feels terrible. He’s scared. He doesn’t know what’s happening and—

A cold, gentle hand settles on his cheek, and Stanley Pines stills . It’s different than the drifting. More grounding, like latching onto a branch in a flood. He freezes, a deer in headlights, every muscle stiffening and oxygen catching in his throat. Through bleary eyes he sees a slim figure, petite and graceful, lowering down to sit at his side. A woman, her tone sweet and concerned, every contour of her being brimming with something warm and genuine.

“Shhhh….Shhhh, it is alright. You are safe here. It is alright…”

“F’rd,” Stan pleads weakly, hoping this new stranger will understand, make up for Stan’s mistakes and save his brother where he can’t. “I n-need…Stanf’rd—he’s—”

“Your brother is also safe. He is in the next room. We will let him in once you have been treated.”

Stan shakes his head, the motion delirious and weak. “A-All m’fault…p-portal’s broke, can’t—can’t reme’ber…”

“Shhh, rest. Please…Please, let us help you.”

She doesn’t get it. Doesn’t realize what a screw up he is. And he doesn’t have the words right now to tell her. Stan’s strength is waning even further, draining out through his feet and fingertips. The woman continues to utter assurances, but Stan no longer listens. That dark, heavy feeling is returning. It wants to drag him back down again, and he barely has the energy to keep holding on.

Another someone steps to his side, a chilly hand running over the inner crease of Stan’s elbow. He can’t pull away. He’s not sure he wants to. There’s the slightest prick, a mere drop in his ocean of pain, and that does it.

Stanley sinks back under, lulled to unconsciousness by the soft, gentle whispers of the woman at his side. And this time…

…he stays there.

Though, the last thing he thinks he hears is the sound of a child, crying.

Time passes, crawling forward in a languid, silent way. It’s maddening; a metronome set to life and yet going far too slow for Stanford’s taste. Especially when his brother’s well being is in question. He tries to remember that he asked for the help they’re being given, and that he had reached out because he had concluded that Stan’s condition was out of his skill set to treat. He should be grateful. He should be relieved.

He isn’t.

Paranoia, so it seems, is a thorn in his side that he will have to endure until his dying day. It laces his every unconscious thought, keeps him tense and on edge. It isn’t that he mistrusts these people, per say, but he finds himself not wholly assured of their intentions. This comes, of course, from thirty years beyond the portal of not being able to take anyone at face value. Everyone had an angle; everyone had a motive—and more often than not it was not one in Ford’s favor. Here, back on earth, his home dimension, he is slowly learning to trust again. But that doesn’t mean it comes naturally. Or easily.

And so Ford sits. He watches from his chair, leg bouncing anxiously, fairly full teacup and saucer clutched in stiff fingers. He sips it occasionally, but mostly he just holds it, the brew long since gone cold. His eyes are glued to the door wherein Stanley and their hosts reside, never once looking away. The old woman comes and goes a few times, leaving to fetch a water basin and some cloths on occasion, but other than that Ford is alone. Left to sit in the silence and wait.

How long it has been is uncertain, but much longer and Ford might just make a spectacle of himself. His anxiety has been slowly climbing, reaching toward a breaking point he’d rather not meet.

“Er í lagi með þig?”

Ford flinches back to awareness with a jolt when delicate fingers graze his shoulder, jumping hard enough that the teacup clatters roughly against the saucer, and some of the tea spills over onto his lap. His eyes flick up to meet ice blue, the younger lady of the household staring down at him in concern, her gaze a piercing intensity that steals his breath away. He stutters and shifts away from her touch, spouting an embarrassing jumble of English and Icelandic that he’s fairly sure doesn’t amount to anything coherent. The woman pulls her hand back with a gentle frown, not angry, but studying.

“I-I am sorry,” she says, in heavily accented English. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Ford blinks, mouth agape, then stands as curiosity gets the better of him. “You can speak English?” Then to himself, in an admonishing mutter, he adds, “Of course she can. Iceland’s education often includes a secondary language, English among the most common—” He frowns and looks back at her. “But if you could speak English all along, why didn’t you…?”

“You frightened us,” she explains with angelic patience. “All we could see was that a stranger had run out from the slopes, yelling and looking uncommonly wild. By the time I realized what language you were speaking, you had already switched over to our local tongue.”

She gives him a somewhat rueful smile. “Your íslenska is rather thick and hard to understand. Particularly when it is being shouted across the clifftops. Your grammar is also —How do you say it? A messy?”

“…A mess.”

She nods. “Já, það er það.”

Ford wonders if she is disapproving or offended, but all he sees in her face is sincerity and amusement. Stanford rubs the back of his neck with a tired nod and a shy half smile.

“Well, to be fair, I am very, very out of practice.” He nods toward the door on the other side of the room. “Your parents, I assume. Do they speak English?”

The woman shakes her head. “Mother and father are rather old fashioned. They never had any interest in learning a tongue other than their own.”

Ford nods. “Yes, that is certainly within their right…” He pauses, thinking. “Your husband? Children?”

“Oh, no, herra. I have neither.” A sad expression flits over her face. “It is just my father, mother, and myself who live here.”

“Ah…I’m…terribly sorry.”

He’s not fully sure why he feels the need to apologize. Maybe it’s the sorrow in her eyes, like he’s prodded an old wound, or the way her gaze seems to un-focus, pained and distant. Seeing as the woman is likely in her mid forties, unwed and having no children, that’s likely a sore subject indeed.

“Þannig er lífið,” she shrugs, all hint of sadness brushed aside as she smiles again. “Such is life. Would you like more tea to drink?”

“What? Oh. Oh, no, thank you. I am…still working on this cup.” It’s a weak attempt at an excuse, but it’s all he has at the moment. “How is my brother? Is he alright?”

The woman hesitates. “He is…I do not know the word. He says things that do not make sense. He is confused and frightened.”

Ford stiffens. He sets his cup and saucer on the nearest flat surface, taking a step toward the door, but the woman carefully blocks his path. She meets his glare with nothing but gentle understanding.

“I know you are worried, but you must stay here for now. The room is already very full, and Doctor Oluffson needs space to work.”

“You said he was scared,” Ford states, a quiver in his voice despite his best efforts. “I could help calm him.”

“He has already been eased. The good doctor gave him a sedative. He is alright. I am sorry I alarmed you, but everything is fine.”

Bristling anger fades from Ford almost immediately, too worn and weary to keep it up. The fatigue from earlier still persists, and Ford finds himself feeling shaky on his legs once again, standing more of a chore than he’s up to entertaining. Discarding any form of etiquette he might have held, he sits back down in his chair, stifling a small groan of discomfort as it makes his temples throb.

The hostess tilts her head in concern. “Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Stanford lies, because very little about this whole situation is right at the moment. He runs a hand through his hair, an increasingly frequent habit. “Just a little tired, I suppose…”

“We have another spare bed upstairs. If you like, I can show you the way, and you can lie down?”

“Mmm,” Ford hums, now running a hand down his face. His head hurts, that lingering migraine from before threatening to drag him over the edge. “I appreciate the offer, but I would really prefer to be…nearby.” He nods to the room Stanley was taken to. “In case I’m needed.”

“Ah…I understand. Please, let me know if you need anything, then? I will be happy to help in any way I can.”

Ford nods, tilting his head back against the chair and slumping in relief. He’d been afraid she would put up more of a fight to get him to go rest. He expects the woman to leave, the conversation over, but she leans in, closer, brow furrowing as she looks at him. Before Ford can decipher her actions, she reaches for his forehead, unnaturally cold fingertips brushing feather light above his left eye. It catches Ford off guard, and he jolts away from her touch like a startled rabbit.

“What are you doing?” he demands, wary.

If she is upset by his tone, she doesn’t show it, that look of gentle worry still plastered to her china doll features. “…You’re hurt.”

Confused, Ford raises a hand to his head and hisses at the sharp sting. When he lowers it again, his fingers come away slightly red—not much, but enough to likely contribute to his sore and aching head.

“Oh…It appears I may have hit my head when our ship ran aground. I hadn’t noticed.”

The woman looks alarmed. “Ran aground?”

“Yes. That’s how my brother was injured. We were lost in the fog, unable to anchor. Or, at least, we hadn’t thought it would do any good. But before we could do anything about it, we wrecked upon some of the rocky outcrops in the cove. Our vessel is tightly wedged, so no fear of the tide dragging it out to sea. Even then, it needs repairs. My brother fell overboard when we hit. He was in the water far longer than was healthy. I believe that is also how he injured his leg. By falling on the rocks, or partially.”

Ford sighs, slumping back against the chair. “I did all I could to help him, but…it wasn’t enough.”

Familiar guilt swirls in Ford’s mind like a pit, deep and dark. He doesn’t try to fight it, he knows it’s well deserved, and without Stan there to bat his depreciating thoughts aside, he’s left to stew in them in peace. Or so he thinks. To his surprise and discomfort, the woman gasps and lurches forward to take his hands, startling Ford into freezing completely, before he tries to pull away yet again. She holds tight, however, her hands like ice against the warmth of his own.

“I wish you wouldn’t—” he starts, a little sharply, but her voice drowns out his own, drying his protest up to nothing.

“It is not too late,” she encourages, breathless. “Your brother is in good hands. You have my word. Please…Please do not blame yourself for what has happened. It was not your fault.”

She’s so heartrendingly earnest that Ford has a hard time not believing her, which is a first. They stare at one another for a long moment, Ford stunned dumb and she with an intense stare that feels like it’s peering right into his very soul. It’s like her words are trying to smother out the guilt in him, tear it up by the roots. Ford finds himself drowning in the strange, foreign sensation, lost and set adrift, unable to look away.

“I-I—”

The otherworldly moment ends abruptly when the door to Stanley’s quarters swings open and the older woman peeks her head out into the common room. Her eyes trail down to where the younger is squeezing the feeling out of Ford’s hands, before she glances away, speaking in a low, commanding tone. She beckons for the younger woman to follow. Ford’s hostess murmurs something back firmly in answer, moving to gently release his hands, fingers sliding out of his numb grip. As she hurries toward the door, she calls back over her shoulder, voice strong and sweet like a canary.

“You should take care of that cut. There is a bathroom down the hall. You should be able to find some linen strips and disinfectant in the mirror cabinet. I laid out a face cloth and dry towel for you, along with a fresh set of dry clothes. They are my father’s, so they may be a little big, but it will be far better than you staying in something damp.”

And then she’s gone, inside the room, the door softly clicking shut behind her.

Ford sits in his chair with his hands still held out in front of him, dazed. Slowly, he blinks and looks down at them, spreading his fingers in a baffled trance.

Women have always been somewhat of a mystery to Stanford. He isn’t fool enough to think of them as any less important, strong, or brave than a man, but they certainly hold a higher flare toward…emotion. They are observant beings, clever in the way of feelings more often than not, and that has always unnerved Ford to some degree. As an individual who has more or less run from his issues for most of his life, the very idea of expressing any potent emotion in front of strangers is uncomfortable. This, of course, means that connections with people are rare for Ford. Outside of Stanley and the children—and a few of Gravity Falls’ inhabitants—he prefers to keep himself a tightly closed book.

But…just now, here, Ford feels raw and open. It’s unsettling. It might just be his weariness, or the migraine still lurking behind his eyes, but for an infinitesimal moment he thought…

Well. Perhaps he really should take care of himself. It won’t do Stanley any good if Ford is dead on his feet, bleeding and chilled to the bone by the time his brother wakes. He stands, looks back up at the door in bewilderment, lets his arms drop to his side, and heads off to find the aforementioned washroom.

It feels good to get cleaned up, to wash his face in the sink-like basin and pat down the cold chill still clinging to his skin. Ford takes care of the cut on his brow, hissing at the sting of disinfectant before pasting on a few linen strips with some form of medical tape he finds available. The wound itself isn’t bad at all, but for the sake of caution Ford gives himself a quick once over and tests himself for a concussion. He is relieved—and perhaps a bit guilty—to find that he managed to escape the previous night’s incident more or less unscathed. Other than the cut and a few dark bruises, he’s fine.

Patched up, Ford turns to the neatly piled stack of clean clothes set out for him by his hosts. He hadn’t realized how uncomfortable his own wardrobe had become, soaked and crusted with spray from the sea. His pant legs cling to his skin, wet and gritty with sand, and the sleeves of his shirt and jacket are smudged with dirt from the cold, muddy slopes by the shore. It’s a blessing to be able to peel them off and get dressed in something warm and dry. The clothes are very…historic, more like what Ford would expect to be worn during Icelandic holidays or festivals, more classic than modern day sweaters and jeans. Then again, from what he had already seen, that was the norm, at least for this household. Perhaps they were traditionalists of some sort, living life outside of modern trends. It isn’t unheard of, and Ford finds he rather prefers the novelty of it.

He pulls on the black, woolen breeches, using his own belt to cinch it tighter around his trim waist. This he follows up by shrugging into the provided blue, wool lopapeysa—a finely crafted sweater with unique Icelandic designs woven in an even darker shade of blue across the shoulders. Over this he dons a black peysa, a jacket with a single row of buttons lining down one side, meant to be left open, if Ford isn’t mistaken. A tail cap is also provided, but Ford declines it, never having liked how headgear dampened his ability to hear and be alert.

He stands in front of the full body mirror on the inside of the bathroom door, blinking in amusement at his own appearance. The woman is correct, the clothes are a little over-sized, but Ford remedies that somewhat by rolling up the sleeves and legs to just above his wrists and ankles. It looks a little silly, but it’s comfortable and warm, and Ford’s never particularly cared about standard fashion anyway. This will do quite nicely.

There are no boots or shoes provided, and his own are caked with mud, but there are a pair of thick woolen socks that he’s able to slip on. Later he’ll take his own boots outside and try to knock the dirt and muck off the soles.

Clean, dry, and finally warming up, Stanford makes his way back out to the common area, setting his dirty boots by the door and returning to his designated chair. He’s barely sat down when the door to Stanley’s room opens with a faint click of the latch, and Ford quickly stands again, straightening his borrowed sweater and jacket out of nervous habit. He’s both relieved and uncertain when he sees it’s the younger woman yet again. She slips out to join him, this time staying near the now open door. Her continence implies he’s meant to come forward, and so Ford does so, a few steps on thickly socked feet.

“Is he…?”

“He is sleeping,” the woman assures gently. “The sedative is keeping him calm. Doctor Olufsson is trying to lower the fever, though it is still present. But your brother’s shivering has died down some. He is far from well, but he is on the mend.”

Ford lets out a shaky sigh of relief and runs a hand through his hair. “Good. Good, that’s…Good.”

The woman cocks her head to the side, giving Ford an odd look. “You share the same face,” she murmurs, half to herself.

“…Pardon?”

“You and your brother. You share the same face, the same looks.”

“Ah.” Ford gives a small nod, understanding. “We’re twins, he and I.”

“Twins…” The woman seems intrigued. “I had thought so…Though I’ve only read about twins in books as a child. In fairy tales and bedtimes stories.” She studies him, curious but harmless. “I’ve never met one in real life…Then again, there are many things I have never seen…”

She trails off, eyes losing focus like before as they slide to the side in thought. Ford feels a little lost. He shuffles his feet a bit, and that seems to draw the woman back to herself. She gives Ford a shy, apologetic smile.

“I am sorry. We do not get many visitors to our island, and I am not used to customary greetings and such.” She holds out her hand in a delicate, fluid motion. “My name is Embla Bjornsdóttir.”

Ford blinks, hesitating, before he extends his own hand to take hers, shaking it awkwardly. Her skin is terribly cold, despite the warm coziness of the cottage. “Uh, Stanford. Stanford Pines.”

Miss Bjornsdóttir smiles. “Stanford? What an unusual name…” Her eyes widen almost immediately. “Oh, I’m sorry, I meant no offense—”

He raises a hand, gently cutting off her apology with a tired chuckle. “No, no, that’s quite alright. It is a rather unique name, especially for this region of the world.” Ford hums, considering. “Embla…That’s from Nordic legend, if I’m not mistaken. The name of the first woman on earth.”

Miss Bjornsdóttir nods, beaming. “You know much,” she praises.

Ford blushes at the compliment, but finds he doesn’t have anything to say to that, so instead he coughs into a fist and changes the subject. He glances at the door, nodding in its direction. “May I see my brother? It’s not that I don’t trust your doctor’s skill, but I’m worried and wish to see him for myself.”

“Mm? Oh! Yes, of course.” Miss Bjornsdóttir ushers Ford closer to the side room’s entrance. “He is not likely to wake for some time, but the doctor believes he is out of danger for the time being.”

“Thank you,” Ford sighs, sincerely relieved. And he moves to head inside, Miss Bjornsdóttir carefully following behind.

He enters the room slowly, taking in everything at a glance. The bedroom is obviously a spare, as he had guessed, white walls slightly yellowed with age and almost no personal memorabilia to be seen. There’s a small hearth, too dust-covered to be used regularly and topped with a clock and a few candles on the mantel. The bed is simple, headboard and baseboard braced with a thick, sunken mattress between them and dressed with a faded patterned quilt. To the right, notched in the corner by the door, is a small waist-height table with a wash basin, and to the left in the opposite corner sits an old upholstered chair. A single window is set above the head of the bed, allowing warm sunlight through, but not to the point of being overwhelmingly bright. Ford vaguely notices that the window faces east.

His main focus, however, is his brother, Ford’s eyes settling on the bed and it’s single, silent occupant.

Stan looks better. Even if that means he still looks awful. He’s pale as a ghost, almost as white as the sheets he’s tucked into, the color telling of just how ill he’s become. Dark shadows hammock under his closed eyes, and his skin still has a sheen of sweat to it from the fever. He looks unnaturally frail tucked into such a large bed, but the rise and fall of his chest is steady and rhythmic, peaceful and deep, asleep but not unconscious. His body is otherwise still, no convulsing shivers wracking his form and for that Ford is numbingly grateful. Stan is wearing what looks to be a nightshirt, large even on him, probably donated by the older, larger man of the house. Stan’s actual clothes are hanging on portable racks by the hearth, drying before the low crackling flames, and Ford makes a mental note not to tell Stanley that these strangers undressed him.

Ford himself is just grateful for their hospitality.

The doctor—Doctor Oluffson, apparently—is just putting his things back in his bag over by the bed stand. He’s a solemn looking fellow, but nice enough if those soft eyes have anything to tell. As Ford enters, he turns, and the other man—who Ford now knows is Miss Bjornsdóttir’s father—stands from the cushioned chair in the corner. The doctor gives Ford a kind smile and holds out his hand. Ford tries not to blanch, old memories of deals and pain a brief flash in his mind. Still, he manages to shake the doctor’s hand like he had with Miss Bjornsdóttir without seeming too avoidant. Like the woman’s, the doctor’s hand is surprisingly chilly.

“Do you speak English?” Ford asks, straight to the point.

The doctor nods. “I do. You are Americans?”

Ford nods in return, his gaze returning to Stan. “We sailed out from California. We’re…adventurers. Our boat’s equipment malfunctioned and we became lost in the fog. We ran aground some rocks in your cove.”

“Mmm.” The doctor sighs and looks to Stan as well. “Well, you were lucky to have landed so close to town. Your brother here was in bad shape. He’s lost a considerable amount of blood, and the fever indicates he’s down for enduring either pneumonia or infection, possibly both. The infection, as I’m sure you know, had already set in to some degree before you arrived.”

Ford winces and takes a step toward the bed. His brother looks so weak and limp. Lifeless. It’s unnerving and frightening. “What…What are his chances?”

“Oddly enough, not too bad,” the doctor chuckles. “He’s very ill, don’t misunderstand me, but he’s strong. And stubborn. Even in his current state he tried to put up a fight while we were treating him. He’s fairly fit and has a good constitution. My guess is he may get a bit worse before he gets better, but all things considered he’ll most likely make a full recovery.”

Oh, thank the Oracle. Ford’s legs nearly buckle with relief. He turns to the doctor and takes his hand again, this time voluntarily, and shakes it thoroughly with both his own. “Thank you, I just…Thank you.”

The physician laughs heartily, returning the gesture readily. “All I did was clean and re-wrap the leg and give him some pain medication and antibiotics.”

“All the same,” Ford presses. “I’m not sure what I would have done without your help.”

The man tilts his head, accepting Ford’s gratitude before continuing. “He should sleep for quite some time, but that’s good for him. It will help with the healing.” He takes back his hand and moves to grab up his bag. “Please have someone come fetch me if I am needed. I live just inside of town, barely a ten minute run at best.”

Ford nods gratefully.

“Hm.” The doctor looks Stanford up and down, professional. “As for you, I prescribe some rest and warm food. You’ll do your brother very little good if you fall ill yourself. I’ve left more antibiotics and such with Helga, for when your brother needs it. I will return to check on his condition tomorrow.”

“Payment,” Ford mutters, reaching for his pocket before remembering he’s not wearing his clothes, and therefore without his wallet. He’d stowed his few personal belongings in the washroom, hidden tightly in the corner of the cabinet under the sink. The stress must show on his face, because the doctor is quick to wave his hand in dismissal.

“We can discuss that at a later date. For now, as I said, rest. And watch over your brother. You can do that, yes?”

Ford nods, only half listening as he moves closer to Stan’s side, reassured. It isn’t that he and Stan are short on funds. In fact, Stanley had earned quite a hefty sum during his years at the Mystery Shack, but Ford only has so much money on him at any given time, and he doubts that credit or debit cards would be of much use here. Now, they can work that all out later, thanks to the doctor’s kindness. Maybe Ford could do something in exchange for the physician’s services.

Feeling tired and a little ragged, Ford doesn’t bother to try and translate as the doctor turns and says something to the other natives in Icelandic. Instead, he lowers himself to sit on the mattress beside Stan, gingerly reaching out to lay his hand over his brother’s own. He frowns worriedly, sensing the feverish heat radiating from Stanley’s skin. Stan’s still far, far too warm. He’s going to need something more to cool him down. Perhaps some wet towels or—

Ford nearly jumps out of his skin when Miss Bjornsdóttir’s father steps up beside him. Ford looks up and the man smiles kindly, holding out a couple of cold, wet face clothes and a small basin of water. The scientist blinks, then smiles weakly back, murmuring a soft ‘thank you’ in the man’s native language as he accepts the items. The father nods, then leaves the room, following his daughter and the doctor out into the common room. They shut the door softly behind them, likely for privacy, and for the first time since arriving at this remote little cottage Stan and Ford are left entirely alone together.

Releasing a shuddering sigh, Ford looks back to his brother’s simultaneously pale and flushed face. He re-wets and folds one of the facecloths before laying it on Stanley’s forehead, then reaches down and turns Stan’s wrist so it’s facing up, placing the second cloth there. He could use a third for his twin’s other wrist, but for now this will do. The doctor’s prognosis is better than Ford had hoped for and thankfully less than he had feared. Stan isn’t out of the woods yet, not by a long shot, but Ford knows he’ll live. Few things in this world could knock Stanley Pines off his feet, and never for long.

For once, Ford can’t be more grateful that his brother is as stubborn as they come.

Stan’s fever doesn’t break before dinner, much to Ford’s worry and disappointment. Maybe it had been a foolish notion, but the scientist had been hoping for faster improvement after the doctor left. Stan sleeps on, that nasty heat broiling his body alive despite the painkillers and antibiotics swimming in his veins. The fever is high, but not high enough to warrant any emergency tactics—no stripping Stan down and shoving him in an ice bath—though Ford remains watchful and alert, ready to jump to action should the need arise.

The sun is setting, warm light fading to dull gray in the window, when the mother of the household knocks and joins Ford in the spare room. He’s learned that her name is Helga, and she’s a shy but pleasant woman, getting along in years but still very much on the move.

“Langar þig í mat?” she asks, and Ford has the vague understanding that she is asking him if he is hungry. “Komdu, komdu og borðaðu með okkur.” She gestures and motions for Ford to leave the room with her, a motherly glint to her eyes.

“I…I don’t know if I should,” Ford hesitates. “Um…G-Get ekki farið…Bróðir minn rúm. Sárt.” He’s afraid that if he leaves Stanley’s side, his brother may become worse in his absence. “I’d rather stay.”

But Helga frowns and shuffles forward to tug at Ford’s sleeve and shoulder, tone persistent. “Hann mun hafa það gott. Hann er öruggur. Þú þarft mat, komdu nú. Komdu með mér.”

Ford sighs, glancing back at his still brother with a sense of unease. Logically, Stanley isn’t likely to worsen if Ford steps away for ten—twenty minutes at best. Especially when he’s plateaued physically for so many hours in a row, fever steady but more healthy than not. It’s his body’s way of trying to heal and fight whatever infections are trying to take hold.

Ford, on the other hand, feels trembly and weak, blood sugar low and he’s likely dehydrated, too. If he doesn’t get something in him soon, he might end up in as bad a state as his brother. The scientist’s stomach gives a timely grumble and he winces.

“I…suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” he mutters to himself. “If I’m quick.”

Decision made, he stands, giving Helga a nod of concession that sends the old woman beaming. She leads the way out of the room, Ford being sure to leave the door open so that, should Stan wake, he might hear him more easily. Helga leads him out into the main part of the house, then beyond that and into an informal dining room, where Miss Bjornsdóttir and her father—Bjorn— are already seated at a small, round table. The surface is covered in a fine, clean tablecloth, and upon it sits a traditional Icelandic meal, steaming hot and smelling, in all honestly, very good.

A little despite himself, Ford slowly sits. The little family smiles back at him, encouraging, and he smiles shyly in return.

In hindsight, he might have declined the meal— cultural etiquette be damned—had he considered what it would entail. Dinner with their hosts is everything Stanford dreads in human interaction. It’s quiet, and awkward, and while the food is delicious there’s only so many times one can say so before it becomes just plain redundant. The language barrier doesn’t help, and while Ford does his best to murmur and understand small phrases, he’s running on an overtired brain and over forty years rusty Icelandic syntax. He’d only studied it casually in college, after all, and he couldn’t be expected to be fluent in any capacity.

Thankfully, Miss Bjornsdóttir seems to realize this and steps in as translator, bringing in conversation and asking questions until the awkwardness melts away somewhat.

“You said to Doctor Oluffson that you and your brother are…adventurers. What does that mean? What do you do exactly?”

Ford bobs his head, trying to keep himself from scarfing down his food too quickly. Both for his own sake and the appearance of dignity. He’s eager to get back to Stanley, torn between his worry and his own body’s need for sustenance. He’s ended up staying longer than his allotted twenty minutes, tucking in and eating a decent amount, contrary to his usual ‘pecking’, as Stanley likes to call it. He’s served baked fish and steamed cabbage, in generous amounts, with a glass of something called Brennivín, a beverage not all that unlike German schnapps. Ford has never been much for alcohol, but he sips politely as he eats his meal, a warm, fuzzy feeling calming his frayed nerves. As he becomes a little more at ease, he finds it easier to talk, to open up and share bits and pieces of he and his brother’s life.

“We track down and catalog anomalies, mostly,” he says around a small bite of cabbage. “Creatures…or mysterious beings. Things most people would not believe to exist. Oh, what is the word…”

“Þjóðsögur,” the younger woman breathes in understanding.

Ford nods as he takes up another forkful, missing the strange glances his hosts exchange between themselves. “Myths and legends, yes. Often time folktales are based in truth. It’s our job to determine which are true, and either put an end to them or relocate them, depending on their level of hostility.”

“That…sounds rather dangerous,” Miss Bjornsdóttir says carefully, after translating her parents.

“It can be. But, for the most part, the pros far outweigh the cons.” Ford chuckles. “Besides, Stanley and I are hardly the type to settle down in retirement.”

“Yes…Yes, I suppose so.”

Ford sips his drink. “Though, I must admit it’s nice to have a home cooked meal. Please tell your mother and father how thankful I am, not only for the food, but for supplying Stanley and I with a place to stay. Their generosity and kindness in taking us in is far beyond anything I had honestly expected. And far more than we can ever hope to repay.”

Miss Bjornsdóttir nods and relays his gratitude. Message received, the elderly couple merely smile and nod, Helga bobbing her head and pushing the bowl of steamed cabbage closer to Ford’s elbow, urging him to eat as much as he likes.

Oddly enough, Ford eats the most out of all of them. Which isn’t as great a feat as it sounds. The scientist vaguely notes that, while Miss Bjornsdóttir and her parents have full plates that are slowly depleting, he never actually sees them put food in their mouths or chew. Of course, they were probably doing so when he wasn’t looking. Either way, Ford doesn’t think much of it, outside of a small twinge of confusion. The meal has been pleasant, and he’s far too tired to try and decipher what his exhausted mind is making up to mess with him.

And, of course, he’s anxious to get back to Stanley. So, as soon as he has stayed as long as is generally respectful, he excuses himself to go back to the spare room.

Stan is just as Ford left him, still and silent, sleeping peacefully. Stanford checks his vitals, sighing in relief when he finds nothing has worsened. The cloths on Stanley’s brow and wrist have gone room temperature by now, and despite Stan doing a little better than he had been, there’s no harm in being extra careful. Ford re-wets the cloths and settles them back against his brother’s skin.

Stan doesn’t so much as twitch.

And Ford…well. He settles in for what he expects to be another long night.

An hour goes by, and then another. And another and another. Miss Bjornsdóttir comes in at some point, just before turning in for bed herself, offering to show Ford to his room once more. When he expresses his wish to stay with Stan she doesn’t look surprised, and brings Ford a chair from the kitchen so he can sit directly at his brother’s side. He accepts it gratefully and wishes the woman a pleasant sleep, Miss Bjornsdóttir nodding before she leaves once more, closing the door behind her.

The cottage is unnaturally silent after that, providing a sense of solitude and isolation that Ford finds he doesn’t mind. He prefers the quiet, left to think in peace with no distractions. It’s very different compared to the crickets and other night sounds of Gravity Falls, or the creaking of boat timber and rope that Ford’s now used to, but it’s soothing enough. Outside, the howling winds lick against the home, causing walls and beams to groan and crackle ever so softly. Occasionally, when the direction of the wind hits just right, a cold breeze trickles in through the cracks around the window frame, cooling the air ever so slightly. It leaves a stale, bitter scent in its wake, a blend of harshness and frigidness. It urges Ford to wrap the spare blanket he was left around his shoulders, hunkering down in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. Thankfully, the low embers of the fireplace are still burning, combating the worst of the chill.

Ford remains steadfast at Stan’s bedside, lost in his own thoughts and reapplying the wet cloths whenever they grow warm. Darkness falls on the island like a shroud, not even the moon visible through the gathered clouds. After a time, Stanford vaguely thinks it might be raining, or sleeting, the sound of slush pelting against the roof and window pane a steady, soft rhythm. But, being moderately warm and dry, he doesn’t really pay it much mind. Eventually, sitting still becomes too difficult. He spends the majority of the late night hours pacing and thinking, then returning to his chair to sit with Stanley—a pattern that keeps him active and feeling useful without fear of waking his hosts.

And there’s quite a lot to think about, what with Stanley’s recovery and the Stan o’War II in drastic need of repair. He’s not even entirely sure where they are, or whether he can find the supplies and material they’ll need to fix the boat and get away. He hasn’t seen a phone anywhere in the cottage, so he has no way of calling anyone for help. He’ll have to see if there are any telephones in the nearby town, along with an ever growing mental list of items needed to fix the damage to the boat…Mm. Yes. A lot to think about.

Ford keeps at it for a while, trapped in the quiet cycle. At least his migraine had dispersed after he’d eaten, lack of nourishment having apparently been a part of the issue. But even Ford can run low on energy after a time, and eventually he finds himself stuck to his seat, body heavy, mind sluggish, and eyelids drooping. He drifts, comfortable and tired, dozing on and off, until—

Stan shifts slightly beneath the sheets.

It’s a soft, gentle movement, barely making a sound, but Ford snaps immediately to attention. He reaches out on instinct, fingers just brushing Stan’s shoulder, his voice hoarse from remaining silent so long.

“Stanley…?”

There’s a moment of no response, no further movement, and then Stan shifts again, restless. And then Stanley wakes. Or, perhaps, half wakes. His eyes barely open, but his breaths quicken, distressed—small, half mumbled words that make little sense while sounding confused and broken enough to squeeze the scientist’s heart.

“Oh, Stanley…” Ford moves without hesitation, stepping over to sit on the edge of the mattress once more and taking up one of Stan’s trembling hands in both his own. “It’s alright. You’re safe. Everything is just fine.”

Ford reaches out a hand, laying the back against Stan’s forehead, gauging his temperature once more. It’s better. Still uncommonly warm, but not nearly as severe as before. That’s good. It’s progress.

Stan’s fingers twitch against Ford’s before latching on weakly, catching the scientist a bit by surprise. Bleary, brown eyes settle on the older twin’s face.

“F’rd…?”

“Yes,” Ford nods, quietly elated. He gives the warm hand in his a gentle squeeze. “Yes, Stanley, I’m here. I’m right here.”

“Ngh…” Stan struggles to stay conscious, but it’s a battle he’s destined to lose. His eyelids keep trying to close on him, sleep a ruthless captor. “S…Safe…?” the con-man mutters, almost too soft to hear.

Ford swallows, throat tight. “That’s right. We’re both safe. We’re on the island. Some of the people here have given us shelter. You can rest. Heal.”

Stan gives a weak nod and another shift, a whimper slipping out when the movement jostles his leg. “Wh-Wha—”

“Hey…Hey, just rest,” Ford hushes him, laying a hand against his brother’s chest in case Stan tries to sit up. As if he were capable of that, currently. “I’ll stand watch, it’s alright. Fall back to sleep, Stanley, and I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning…”

The scientist has no idea what time it is, but he imagines it’s closer to morning than he’d want to admit. Stan, thankfully, doesn’t even fight him on it, just goes even limper against the mattress, breathing out a sigh. His eyes mere slits, slumber already dragging him under, or nearly.

“Wher’s da…cryin’?”

Ford frowns. “Crying?”

His brother nods, ever so slightly.

“No one is crying, Stanley.”

“Kid…li’l kid…”

That must be the delirium talking. “I…We’ll worry about that later, alright? For now, just rest. Sleep, Stanley.”

Stan hums, voice a low rumble, eyes already closed. “M’k, S’xer…L’ve ya…”

Ford blinks back the moisture gathering in his eyes, a mix of relief and pained amusement stretching a thin smile across his face. He opens his mouth to return the phrase and chokes a little, but giving a soft cough he clears his throat, smile widening gently. He pats Stanley’s arm.

“Love you too, knucklehead. Now, sleep.”

But by then Stan is already truly out, sunken down into the bed and breathing peacefully. Ford sighs fondly and tenderly lowers Stan’s hand back to his brother’s side, giving it a final squeeze before rising to sit back in his chair. Ford’s mind feels quieter, his heart a little lighter, knowing that Stanley really is okay—or okay as he can be for now. As for his recovery, how long it would take and how they would get their boat all fixed up…

Well.

That would have to wait for tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Click…

Creeeeeeeeek…

Stanford’s eyes snap open, his instinct-honed ears picking up the soft sound of a door’s latch and hinges. His entire body stiffens, tense and coiled, still as stone and ready for a fight. It’s an innate reflex at this point, as natural as breathing. Something has begun to approach, and it could be dangerous, or hostile—likely both. It could kill him, or worse, hand him over to Bill Cipher’s eager whim. Ford’s fingers twitch, mind already mapping the movements he’ll need to reach for his blaster. He’d been sleeping—Why had he been sleeping?! He knows he can’t afford to rest, he knows he can’t lower his guard, and if he stops running he’ll be found. Foolish, idiotic, weak—

And then there’s the soft morning hum in a woman’s tone and Ford’s mind finally kicks into proper gear, logic trickling in where instinct raged, and he remembers. He recalls Weirdmageddon. Bill’s defeat. The kids. Sailing the world with his reconciled twin. This is immediately followed by images of more recent events—the accident on the boat, Stanley’s condition, stumbling up the slopes of some nameless island, getting help—It all comes flooding back in a rush, and Ford tries to convince his muscles to loosen before they snap from stress.

He is on Earth. His Earth.

He is not in danger.

Bill is dead.

Their hosts mean them no harm.

It’s alright.

It’s okay.

Relax.

Ford closes his eyes again with a shaky sigh, trying to drive the facts into his reeling mind and pounding heart. It takes a few moments, barely any time at all, before he calms himself and blearily blinks his eyes open once more, this time to assess his surroundings properly.

He finds himself partially seated in the chair beside his brother’s borrowed bed, slumped forward against the mattress with his head resting on his folded arms. Not the most comfortable position, in all truthfulness, but he’s survived drastically worse. Still, it’s likely he’ll have a crick in his back once he gets moving, a downside to the relentless advance of aging. For now, he stays motionless, allowing the world to come into focus without alerting his apparent guest that he is awake. He only moves his eyes.

From over the steadily breathing lump of Stanley’s chest, Ford can make out Miss Bjornsdóttir carefully trying to make her way into the room, presumably without waking either of them up. However, with her arms full with a tray balancing clacking chinaware, she’s not quite succeeding. Her barely audible huffs and hums of exertion only add to the overall lack of stealth.

Ford gathers himself and lifts his head, telegraphing his conscious state as smoothly as he can. “Good morning.”

“Oh!”

The woman startles, and Ford winces as the tray nearly tumbles. Miss Bjornsdóttir, however, with the skill of a domestic goddess, manages to keep disaster from taking place. She counteracts gravity and corrects her stance, saving the dishes from meeting a sorrowful fate.

“Heavens, you nearly scared me to death!” she chides, not unkindly.

“I-I’m terribly sorry,” Ford mutters, flustered, his voice low and scratchy from sleep. He’s already half standing before he’s left with nothing to help her with. Instead he idles there, beside the bed, feeling stiff and rumpled. “I assure you that was not my intention.”

To that the woman smiles. She sets the tray down over by the water basin while Ford slowly starts to coax his joints to their full range of motion as inconspicuously as possible.

“No harm done,” she says, before the smile fades a little. “I too am sorry. I was trying not to wake you. I am sure you are exhausted from yesterday.”

“That’s quite alright. I think I would have woken up on my own before too long, regardless.” Ford grimaces as his sore back gives a twinge. “I’m a naturally early riser.”

Miss Bjornsdóttir frowns in concern as she watches him straighten himself out. “Did you spend the whole night sitting like that?” She nods to the chair and the bed.

“Not…the whole night.”

It’s not strictly a lie. He’d spent a good deal of the night wearing a path in the floorboards rather than sitting. It had been early morning when Ford had finally worn himself out enough to fall asleep, or so the last chime of a nearby clock had told him just as he drifted off. But the hostess doesn’t need to know how poorly he’d rested, it would only serve to make her more upset. And Ford had survived on much less sleep in the past. It would take a few more consecutive sleepless nights to have any true negative effect on him.

Ford nods to the food-laden tray. “What’s all this?”

“Mmh? Oh, yes! Just a bit of breakfast, nothing special I am afraid. I have a few fresh eggs and some toast for you, and some plain toast with butter for your brother.” She sends Stan a soft, pitying look. “Should he wake and feel up to it.”

Despite not really being hungry just yet, Ford gives her a sincere smile. “That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

Miss Bjornsdóttir blushes and looks away shyly, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. She’s wearing much the same outfit as she’d worn the day before, a deep green dress that stretches down almost to the floor, only the tips of her shoes showing from beneath the hefty fabric. The hem is embroidered, colorful patterns that tuck all along the bottom, swirling vines and intricate flowers. The dress itself hugs her frame, carves out her small, thin body, very little skin showing as the sleeves ride right to her wrists and the collar closely laces her neck. An apron, pristine but frayed from use, is tied around her waist.

The woman’s ice blue eyes fall on Stan again, and after a moment of hesitation she takes a small step closer. “Your brother, what is his name?”

“Stanley.” At her questioning glance, he shrugs. “Our parents weren’t terribly creative.”

“Stan-lee…” Miss Bjornsdóttir sounds out, savoring the name. She smiles and looks back to Stan, a fondness in her gaze. “Stanford and Stanley…No, I think those are very good names. Do they mean anything?”

“I’m…not entirely sure. I imagine they probably do, but I’ve never looked into it. And I doubt our mother and father put much thought into choosing our monikers, or the meaning behind them.”

Their hostess nods, seemingly deep in thought. “My name is old speak for ‘elm’. My father had given me the name in the hope that I might forever take root on the soil of this island.” A sadness flickers in her gaze. “It seems he will get his wish.”

Ford frowns, moving closer to the bed. He folds his hands behind his back, for lack of knowing what to do with them otherwise. “You can’t leave?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” Miss Bjornsdóttir chuckles, snapping free of her momentary sorrow to fix him with a patient and weary half smile. “My place is here, with my people. I cannot go and chase the dreams I had as a child, traveling beyond where the sun sets into the waters. I have unfinished tasks to attend to here.”

Ford gently lowers himself to sit on the mattress. “Then, perhaps when your tasks are accomplished. It’s never too late to travel, to pursue dreams. My brother and I are perfect examples of such an instance.”

“Perhaps,” the woman concedes with a small tilt of her head. But there’s a despairing lack of enthusiasm that says she doesn’t put much hope in the suggestion. “You wished to travel as well as a child?”

“Mm.” Ford carefully takes Stan’s pulse, glad to find it steady and strong. “Ever since we were children. Sadly, life…did not go how we envisioned it would. We grew apart, for a time. It’s only within the last few years that we’ve become close again.”

“I think that is wonderful.”

Stanford huffs, bemusedly wistful. “It is. Though, I would be lying if I said we never disagree. My brother is exceedingly stubborn. As am I, I suppose. Something we doubtless inherited from our father…”

Filbrick had been a strict, frustrating man, set in his ways and cheap to a fault. When he saw things in a particular light, nothing on earth could change his mind. Not that he was all bad, but…Well, he had kicked Stanley onto the streets at the tender age of sixteen, and had only praised Ford’s career efforts as long as his golden child was willing to send checks in by mail, to ‘give back a little in their old age, for all their hard work in raising him’. The moment Ford had decided to use his grant money to move to Gravity Falls and pursue his research, Filbrick had condemned him, treating him to the same level of disdain and contempt as he had Stanley. Pa didn’t care about them, only about what he could achieve or acquire through them.

Ford supposed there was a special place in hell for men like that.

Pushing all thoughts of the past aside with a sigh, Ford reaches up and brushes Stanley’s bangs away from his brother’s forehead, pressing the back of his hand to the flushed skin. He frowns.

“Hm. He’s still a bit warm…”

“Is it the fever?” Miss Bjornsdóttir inquires worriedly.

“Possibly. Or he may just be overheated at this point. These quilts seem quite heavy. Other than that, I think the fever has more or less passed. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

He sighs again in relief and runs his hand down Stan’s arm to gently squeeze his twin’s limp fingers. Overall, Stanley is looking far better this morning than he had even a few short hours ago. His face is less pale, cheeks almost rosey, and his breaths are slow, steady, and deep. Mindful to be gentle, Ford fingers the edge of the top quilt and peels it back, giving Stan one less layer to swelter under. Their hostess watches, silent and smiling softly.

“You care about your brother very much,” she observes.

Ford looks up with a smile of his own. “I do.” His shoulders slump a bit and he lowers his gaze back to Stan with a hint of regret. “It’s the least I owe him, for all he’s never given up on me.” Ford tightens his grip on Stan’s hand ever so slightly. “He’s…my hero.”

The woman tilts her head. “…Hero?”

“Mm.” Ford nods slowly. “Stanley…resolved something in my life that had done me far more harm than good. I was trapped in my own mistakes, and didn’t have the ability to fix things. He did. And, in doing so, he saved a lot of people.” Ford rubs a thumb over Stan’s knuckles absently. “And me. He saved me.”

“He sounds like a very great man,” Miss Bjornsdóttir whispers, awed.

“He is. Greater than he thinks he is…and certainly greater than myself.”

Their hostess furrows her brow. “We all have our strengths and weaknesses. I have only known you for a very short time, but I can tell you are far from a bad person.” When Ford doesn’t look at her or answer, she presses. “From where I stand, I see two great men.”

Ford huffs, tone turning just a little bit bitter. “Thank you, but you don’t know what I’ve done. If you did, you wouldn’t say that.”

He startles a little when cold, slim fingers rest against his shoulder, bringing his attention up to finally meet those mesmerizing, ice-blue eyes. Her pupils quiver, flit to peer within his own, searching for something deep inside. There’s pain in her gaze, a sorrow, a regret. It speaks to Ford without words, like a reflection in a cool, damp pool, and he finds his breath catching a little at the intimacy of it.

“Mmmm,” Miss Bjornsdóttir hums, soft and sad. Understanding and compassionate. “Neither do you know what I have done,” she murmurs back.

“W-What…What do you mean by th—”

The words die in Ford’s throat, cutting off as the hand in his twitches ever so minutely. His focus is immediately on Stanley’s face, watching with baited breath as Stan frowns in his sleep, shifting slightly against the mattress. And then, like a blessed miracle, clouded brown eyes flutter open.

“…Stanley?” Ford gives his brother’s hand another gentle squeeze, trying to coax him to full wakefulness. “Are you with us?”

Stan blinks a few times, as though trying to clear his vision, before he raises his free hand, shakily bringing it to his face. He traces pale, trembling fingers against his jaw, looking confused and dazed.

“S-Stanfer’?” he slurs.

“Yes!” Ford leans a little more into his twin’s line of sight. He’s still holding Stan’s hand and has no intention of letting go. “Yes, it’s me. I’m here,” he breathes in relief. “Everything is going to be alright.”

“Wha….’appen’d?”

“An accident. We ran aground off the coast of an Icelandic isle. You were injured and became ill. Do you remember any of that?”

Stan grunts and lets his hand drop weakly to the side of his head. His eyes are more alert now, more lucid, though there’s still some glaze to them. The exhaustion, however, is still very much present.

“D’nno…kinda…?” He trails off, trying to shift a little. His breath hitches, a strangled yelp dying behind clenched teeth. “Ngh!”

“Easy! Careful, Stanley, easy…”

“L-Leg…hurts?”

“Try not to move,” Ford urges, firm and worried. He fusses with the quilts, anxious for something to do with his hands. “You’ll only injure yourself further.” He looks down at where he knows his brother’s leg to be under the covers. “You gained a rather deep laceration from falling overboard onto the rocks. It became mildly infected, and I wasn’t equipped to properly care for it.”

Stanley must hear the guilt in Ford’s voice, because he weakly reaches out, patting the the scientist’s arm clumsily. “N’yer fault, Six…” he murmurs. “Stup’d rockss…”

Ford chuckles, amused despite himself. He lays a hand over Stan’s own. “Let’s just be thankful it was your leg and not your head.”

Stanley gives a wane grin. “Yeahh…p’or rocks m’ghtv’e nev’r r-recovered. Heh!”

He lets loose a bark of weak laughter that almost immediately sends Stan into a fit of coughing. He somehow manages to lean up and onto his side, over the edge of the bed, as he hacks and gasps, the sound worryingly hoarse and wet. Ford winces, doing his best to steady his brother until the fit finally abates. Stan lists against Ford’s hold, completely spent, prompting Ford to ease the other back down into the pillow. Stan gives a soft, exhausted swear, and Ford nods sympathetically in silent agreement.

“…You alright?”

Stan nods, barely. “Jus’…tir’d…”

“You can go back to sleep if you want,” Ford assures. He gently presses a thumb above Stan’s left eye, pulling the lid higher to peek at the pinker flesh beneath before releasing. He tries not to feel uneasy when Stanley doesn’t even complain. “But I’d really feel better if I could get something in you. I’m sure food doesn’t sound appealing…?”

Stanley goes a little green. “Ugh…N’thanks…”

“Mm. I thought as much. Do you think you could handle some water?”

A pause, and then Stan nods again, giving his throat the smallest of clearing noises, like he’s only just noticing how thirsty he is. What little color Stan had regained has faded, his eyes moist and shiny with traces of pained tears. The coughing has left him panting, breathes measured—Stan is likely afraid of setting himself off again. And then there’s that wet rasp cusping every other breath that Ford doesn’t much like the sound of. Stan has noticed it too, his brow furrowing.

“N’monia?” Stan croaks, voice shredded.

Ford wilts a little. “There…is a possibility. However, the doctor on this island gave you antibiotics and pain medication to help ease whatever consequences come of your little…dip in the arctic. As for the possibility of further infection due to your leg…Well. The infection is well under control for the moment. You’re warm and dry and medicated. And if you continue to rest and not move around, we could get lucky. You may feel weak for a few days, and I wouldn’t recommend walking on that leg for at least a week. You lost a lot of blood on top of everything else, but you’ll…you’ll be alright.”

Stan closes his eyes and nods, apparently more reassured by Ford’s words than Ford is.

Bleary irises reopen and list to the side a little, taking in the room with sluggish curiosity. They trail the aged ceiling, the rafters, the curtains and window above his headboard, then they sweep a bit lower to explore the barren walls and sparse furniture, before Stan’s gaze lands on their hostess. He blinks a few times, processing what he’s seeing, and then charm spreads across his face like a familiar friend.

“Y-You…You didn’ tell me we ‘ad….company, Sixer,” Stan slurs weakly. He gives his eyebrows an uncoordinated wiggle. To Miss Bjornsdóttir, he smiles. “Wha’s yer name, swee’heart…?”

The kind woman blushes, folding her hands in front of her with all the patience of an angel. If Stan’s harmless grin bothers her at all, she doesn’t show it. If anything, she looks almost fond in a way that takes Ford by surprise. She moves closer, continence gentle.

“Stanley,” Ford says sternly, falling back on his typical, warning tone saved for instances just like this. “This is Miss Embla Bjornsdóttir, one of our current hosts and inhabitants of this cottage.”

“Whoa, tha’sa mouthful…”

“Oh, please,” the woman chuckles, “just Embla is fine. It is nice to finally meet you properly, Stanley.” Her expression is warm and sincere. “I am glad to see you awake. We were quite worried about you.”

Stan sports a dopey, lopsided grin, probably going for roguish but only succeeding in looking more pitiful. “Aw, ya don’ gotta…worry ‘bout me…Takes more’n a few ol’ rocks ‘n col’ water ta…ta take down Stan Pines.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Ford interjects with feeling. He turns to Embla. “Could I trouble you for some water, please? I’d like to see if he can take the pills Doctor Olufsson left.”

“Of course. I will grab those as well.” She turns and heads out of the room, pausing at the door to look back with a reassuring smile. “I will be back in a few moments.”

Ford feels comforted by her willingness to help. “Thank you,” he says, wholeheartedly.

Embla nods, and then in a swirl of embroidered skirt she’s gone, leaving the brothers alone.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Stan’s hand fumbles out and weakly grasps Ford’s sleeve, startling the scientist, making him jolt. There’s a look of pained distress in Stan’s eyes that takes Ford completely by surprise, especially with how calm he’d seemed but a moment before.

“B-Boat,” Stan pants. “Is it—?”

The tension bleeds out of Ford at that. He gives Stan’s hand a squeeze and treats his brother to a comforting quirk of his lips. “The Stan O’War is in need of some repair, but it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

Stan relaxes a little.

“You take precedent,” Ford adds, firm. “If worst came to worst, a boat can be replaced. You cannot be.”

Stanley huffs, matching smile for smile. He pulls his hand from Ford’s grip, letting it fall limply to the bed. “H-Heh…Sap.”

“Besides, I’m more concerned about Dipper and Mabel. With no radio, and the generator down on the boat, there’s no way to reassure them that we’re okay. This house doesn’t seem to have electricity, not that I’ve seen, and I’ve yet to learn if there are any phones in town, but we can—Stanley? Stanley, I’m sorry, but you really should stay awake a bit longer. If only to get something in you.”

Stan flinches, having just been beginning to drop off again. He whines, batting feebly at Ford’s sudden light grip on his shoulder. “M’fine—M’awake…Kids, r’ght…Th’ll be…worried ‘bout us.”

Ford chews his lip, then nods. “Then maybe that should be our first priority. While you recover I’ll see what I can do. There’s a village nearby. Someone there is bound to have internet access, or a telephone at the very least. Anything I can use to get into contact with them and reassure them that we’re alright.”

Stan agrees, his eyes starting to droop again, but he hangs on to consciousness valiantly. “Y’gonna…need ‘elp?”

“Not from you,” Ford responds, very pointedly. “Leastwise, not until you’re a little stronger. Your body will need all the rest you can manage. The blood loss alone, depending on the amount you lost, can take anywhere from four to eight weeks to completely replenish. And that’s not taking into consideration any possible complications.”

Stan opens his mouth to protest but Ford cuts him off.

“It will take at least that long to repair the Stan O’War, so you had better not rush this. If you push yourself, you’re much more likely to injure yourself or make yourself sicker. Take your time healing. This is home for the time being, or until I can find us a motel or something. We’re safe.”

Ford reaches out and lays a hand on Stan’s forehead, clinically taking stock of his temperature again. Stan glares a little, from behind his six fingers, but lets him. Satisfied, Ford pulls away.

“Fever seems to be at its most minimal. That’s good. I think I was correct, the quilts were a bit too much.”

Stan huffs and rolls his eyes to the best of his ability. “Since when’d ya b’come sucha…ch’mother hen…eh?”

Ford shakes his head. “Since you started tossing yourself into the arctic ocean.”

“Heh…” Stan struggles to keep above the lulling call of sleep. He licks his lips, sending Ford an apologetic glance. “M’not…n’sure I c’n stay ‘wake much longer, Six’r…”

“Do you feel ill?”

“No…jus’…jus’ really wanna sleep…”

“Alright,” Ford murmurs, disappointed but not uncooperative. “I would have preferred you take something, but rest can be just as helpful as medication when it comes to recovery. If you can’t last right now, Stanley, that’s…that’s okay. You can sleep.”

“Wh’a ‘bout th’ pretty babe wi’ m’water…?”

Ford grunts. “I’ll have her set it on the side table, for next time you’re awake.”

“M’kay…” His eyes trail a little to the right, before they flutter shut. “Take da kid…kid wit’ ya…she’s…creepin’ me out…”

“…What?” Ford huffs, confusion warring with mild amusement.

But Stan’s already sunk further into the mattress, letting go, all the lines of stress and focus easing out of him. And then he’s out, body lax and breathes becoming even, sounding a little less strained in sleep. It’s a more natural slumber than the unconsciousness of before, healthy and healing in all the right ways that Stanley needs. And for that they can only be grateful.

Ford smiles fondly to himself and pats Stan’s arm before he stands from the bedside. He hovers a moment, unsure what to do with himself, before the tray in the corner catches his eye again. He walks over, giving the bland meal an ill-enthused glance. He may not be terribly hungry, but he’s appreciative, and feels it would be rude not to at least try something of what’s been provided. The eggs are surely cold by now, a texture he doesn’t much relish the thought of, but cold toast isn’t too nauseating a prospect. Out of obligation and courtesy he picks up a slice of toast and sticks it in his mouth, before taking up the tray and moving to carry it from the room. No sense letting the food go to waste. Perhaps some of it could be set aside for Stan later, or given to one of the other occupants of the house.

He’s nearly to the kitchen when Embla emerges, a glass of fresh water held carefully in her slender grip. They nearly collide, and Ford freezes, feeling caught in a rather comical position, breakfast tray in custody and a slice of toast sticking out of his mouth. Without a free hand to remove the obstruction, he’s left to blink owlishly as the woman gawks, then raises a hand to her lips to stifle a laugh.

“Here, let me help you,” she hums. Embla sets the glass of water down on the tray before gently lifting the platter from his palms. “I take it I took too long, and that Stanley has fallen back to sleep?”

Ford is quick to remove the toast from between his teeth, mildly embarrassed. “A-Ah, yes. I’m afraid so. I tried to keep him awake, but…I believe at this point rest is something he needed more urgently. I apologize that your errand was for nothing.”

At that, Embla laughs openly, and it’s a warm, musical sound. “Not for nothing. It gave you two a moment alone to talk and reassure one another. It is my fault, the pump to the well was being difficult.”

“You don’t have running water?”

Embla turns back toward the kitchen, motioning for Ford to follow. “Our island is somewhat…old fashioned. We prefer a more traditional lifestyle.”

Ford follows the woman, watching as she sets the tray down on a counter top. “Mm, I can understand the appeal. Many cultures and communities have adopted a similar stand when it comes to modern conveniences. The Amish, for example. Or the Tarassoon.”

Embla tilts her head. “The…tarah…shoon?”

“Yes, a small interplanetary alliance that—” Ford catches himself, blinking in self surprise as he breaks off his explanation. He is usually far more mindful of sharing Multiverse factoids with people outside of their circle of close family and friends. He quickly amends. “A-A traditionalist group quite some distance from here. Very little known in these parts, I’m sure.”

“Ah. Well, regardless, I am sorry I was unable to give Stanley his water in time.”

Ford waves the apology aside graciously. “Like I said, rest seemed to be more conclusive to his needs at the moment. He can always have his water next time he wakes. Thank you, though, for your kindness.”

“Of course,” Embla beams, blushing once more. “You are our guests. We would treat you no other way.”

Ford doesn’t pipe up and explain how much more there is to it; how, without their help, Stan might have never lasted the night—but he wants to. He’s so intensely grateful that it hurts, a heavy lump in his throat that he’s not used to navigating. So, instead, he swallows, and gives a noncommittal nod.

“As for this,” Embla speaks, and she gestures to the tray with her chin. “You know you really should eat more than a slice of toast. Why don’t you come into the dining room and you can have a proper sit down for breakfast. And I will get you some tea.”

“Oh, there’s really no need—”

“Nonsense. You need food and drink just as much as Stanley. How can you expect to hold him to your care-giving if you ignore your own rules, yes? Come. I will get you settled.”

“But Stanley—”

“Is sleeping. And will likely sleep for a while. Come along.”

And that was that. The next thing Ford knows, slender fingers are curling around his own, leading him from the kitchen and into the adjoining living space. Stanley would have laughed, at the way he caved in the face of that gentle, feminine touch. He’d likely tease and rib Ford relentlessly. But Embla is right; Stanley is in the other room, fast asleep. Resting like he should be.

And so Ford is nodding dumbly and following at Embla’s heels into the small dining room he’d eaten in the night before. She picks a chair and pulls it out, waiting with strict patience until Ford sits, and then she bustles out again, leaving him to stew in his mildly bemused befuddlement. He’s still clutching the cold piece of toast in one hand, palm covered in gritty crumbs. He sets it on the table and brushes the particles off to the side, surrendering to his fate.

Chapter Text

Miss Bjornsdóttir—Embla, Ford reminds himself—is gone for a short while, but Ford can hear her moving around easily enough; can catch the soft clatter and scrape of cast iron on a stove top, the woman doubtless cooking him another set of fresh eggs. He takes the time to survey his surroundings, having not really done so much the night before, too riddled with social anxiety and worry for his brother’s condition. Now that he is much more at ease, he finds himself appreciating the quaintness of Embla’s family home.

The dining room is small and cramped, but no less homey than the rest of the cottage. Its walls are a deep shade of blue, indigo, perhaps, or a hue of heavy navy, while the window frame, ceiling, and trim is painted a clean, striking white. A small upright piano sits to one side, adjacent a worn, wooden dresser, both antiques by the looks of them. A modest lamp sits on a small table by the instrument, a red felt lampshade with gold frills adding just a touch of class. Tall, white candles jut up from fixtures on the walls, and a few embroidered flowers in frames take up every available space of plaster. At the center of it all stands a small, round table, complete with a tablecloth, doilies, and four wicker chairs, upon one of which Stanford now sits.

It’s charming and comfortable, and Ford finds tension in his shoulders he wasn’t even aware of slowly bleeding away to something softer, more relaxed. He allows his posture to loosen, leaning forward to fold his hands in front of him, letting his gaze wander and weave its way over the pleasant accommodations. He breathes in the slight musty-dirt scent of old wood and stone, typical of homes of this kind, finding it both foreign and surprisingly comforting.

Miss Embla returns, a full plate in hand along with a mug of steaming hot tea, thin wisps curling up from the liquid to dissipate into the air. With the offering there comes a delightful smell, fresh and warm, stirring the rare hunger in Ford’s stomach. Embla sets both down in front of him, all smiles and a bubbly continence to her behavior.

“There you are! Fresh off the stove and piping hot, so mind yourself, do not get burned. I hope you do not mind salted goat’s butter. Cows do not fair well on our island for lack of enough fine grass to eat.”

“That is perfectly alright, and this looks wonderful,” Ford assures, then frowns, noticing the lack of a second plate. “Are you not going to eat as well?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t bring anything out for yourself,” he observes. “Aren’t you hungry?”

She blinks at him, uncomprehending at first, before it seems to strike her what he means. “Oh! Oh, no, I have already eaten this morning.” At his continued concern she quickly adds, “But I will sit with you and keep you company, if that is alright?”

“O-Of course. I would—” Ford gathers himself. “I would appreciate that very much.”

After a full night of standing watch over his ailing brother, Ford feels that rare tug of loneliness that he’d learned to stomp down on while traversing the Multiverse. Now, with the absence of Stan’s usual gruff and sarcastic commentary, he finds himself longing for companionship. And while strangers are not typically his go-to for such things, Miss Embla is far from an unsuitable candidate.

Wanting to prove he was being genuine when he said the food looked adequate, Ford takes up his fork, cuts off a delicate portion of egg, and smoothly scoops it into his mouth.

He nearly melts off his chair with how unexpectedly good it tastes. Ford immediately finds himself to have been far hungrier than he’d originally thought. The eggs are warm and thoroughly cooked, sunny side up but the yoke more solid than runny. It tastes like home and comfort, like sitting at the kitchen table above the pawn shop on a Saturday morning when he was a boy. They are well seasoned with salt and pepper, and what tastes like just a pinch of sage. The toast is lightly browned and spread with what surely must be homemade butter and jam—nothing from a store would taste this good.

“This is spectacular,” he praises, somewhat in awe, scooping up another mouthful.

The woman shies away with a smile. “It is just a simple meal. Nothing special.”

Ford swallows, relishing in the lingering taste in his mouth. “All the same, it’s marvelous. Out at sea, there’s only my brother and I to cook. And neither of us are…particularly skilled in that area. This is a delightful change of pace, thank you.” And he means it.

Miss Embla tilts her head in humble acknowledgment. She watches him continue to eat, settling down in the chair across from him. Close, but not too close. A respectable distance that gives him company, but doesn’t crowd. The room descends into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft crunch of toast and a clock somewhere in the cottage chiming seven o’clock. Which means it has been over an hour since Ford’s waking.

They stay like that for a time, the quiet not uncomfortable but begging to be something more with each passing minute. Feeling the need to speak up, and finally caving to the social pressure, Ford swallows again, glancing around the room for a conversation topic to latch onto. It isn’t difficult to come up with several, Stanford’s insatiable curiosity a well from which he can draw an unending supply of inquires, so long as his host is willing to indulge him.

He makes sure his mouth is empty before he speaks. “I hope you won’t mind if I ask you some questions. Nothing too personal, I assure you. Historical data, mainly. I’m quite curious about your family, and this island as a whole.”

Embla hums, looking a little uncertain, but no less eager to please. “I will answer all I can. There is really not much to tell. We are a simple people, in a very simple place.”

“Mm, but your island isn’t on any of our maps or charts,” Ford explains. “As far as the rest of the world is aware, you don’t exist.”

“My father says that we were a part of the world once, but found the island to be far more peaceful. We separated ourselves. After a time, I suppose the world forgot us altogether.”

She says it so casually, like one might discuss the weather or a passing season. As though becoming estranged from the modern world were but a lifestyle choice and not an anomaly in itself. Ford hums and takes a bite of his food, forcing back the urge to point out that civilization doesn’t just forget about a settlement over the course of a few years. A few centuries, maybe, but certainly not within the last few decades that Embla and her family had likely lived on the island. It’s an explanation, but not a very sound one.

“The doctor mentioned a town nearby?” is the next subject the scientist decides to breach.

Miss Embla perks up in interest. “Yes, it is called Sorgarströndin. It is the only town on the island, and is less than a kílómetra west of here.”

“Is it a large population?”

“Mm?”

Ford tries again. “Does it have a lot of people?”

“Oh. No, not many. There are fewer than a hundred of us altogether.”

He nods, taking in that information and cataloging it away for later use. “Ah, I see. Likely to have only the most important necessities then, I’m sure. A store, a smithy?”

“We have a metal worker, yes, and a shop. A church, as well as a parish. The doctor, of course. A tailor, a butcher, as well as a few farmers and other residents. All that we need is here.”

“Mm.” Which means that the likelihood of someone having the supplies and materials Ford will need is greater. Not fantastic, but he’s certainly worked with less. “I should like to visit the village,” he announces, maybe a little too abruptly.

Embla blinks. “You would?”

Stanford plows ahead. “Yes. Our boat is in need of…considerable repair, and I’d like to meet with your metal worker. See if he has the parts I might need, and review his prices. Even more importantly, however, I have need of communication services.”

“Com…munication…?”

“Yes. Stanley and I have family that will doubtlessly be worried about our sudden silence. With our trawler un-powered and extensively damaged, we have no way of letting them know that we are alright.”

Embla’s gaze drifts to the side, murmuring softly to herself. “You have family…Yes, of course you would, it only makes sense.” She turns her gaze back to Ford and addresses him directly. “I am sorry, I did not consider.”

The scientist finishes off the last of his toast. “They’re our grand-niece and grand-nephew. We tend to converse with them on a regular basis, either by radio or video call.”

“Video…call?”

“Yes. Though, I must admit, Stanley and I have much to learn still of modern technology.” He finishes the last of his eggs.

Embla gives a brittle smile. “Of course. I would be happy to take you to the village, though I would suggest….perhaps, not today?”

Ford pauses, frowning. “Why not today?”

Stanford has never been one to put off to tomorrow what can be done today, preferring to tackle a list of tasks head-on, rather than dragging his feet. His responsibilities gnaw at him, make him restless.

“Your brother is still in great need of you here,” the woman presses gently, almost chiding. “While he is recovering, or beginning to, he is still only barely out of danger. He will need you at his side a bit longer, I would say.”

Ford considers, torn between the mental image of the younger twins’ worried faces and Stanley’s own, pale, pained, and weakened condition. Both are unfavorable and concerning circumstances, but in the end, it’s an easy decision. Stan had woken earlier, conversed, but he’d still looked and obviously felt terrible. When he thinks about it, truly, Ford isn’t ready to leave Stanley’s side yet either. Not for any longer than he has to. The thought of putting off his to-do list for longer doesn’t sit well with him, but neither does leaving Stanley alone.

Dipper and Mabel would be worried…but they could wait. Just long enough for Stan to grow a little more stable. A day or two, at most, if all went well.

Ford hums, still conflicted, even as he makes his choice. “Mmh…I suppose you’re right. Your friend, the doctor—”

“Doctor Olufsson.”

“—Yes. Doctor Olufsson. He said something about stopping in to check on Stanley this morning. I can ask him how long until Stanley can be left on his own for more than a meal’s length of time.” He sighs. “I hate to leave the children waiting for our call, but…You’re right. Stan’s stability takes priority.”

Embla somehow manages to look both understanding and relieved.

“Where are your mother and father this morning?” Ford decides to ask, suddenly realizing their absence. “I-If I may ask, of course. I haven’t seen them since last night. Are they feeling well?”

Embla is quick to answer. “Oh, they are quite fine, and nearby, I assure you. Pabbi often has work to tend to outside, and mamma has gone to the village for a few things. They will return home, likely just before dark.”

“Just before dark?” It’s still fairly early in the morning, and, at Embla’s own admittance, the village is only about a kilometer away from the cottage. “It’s an all-day trip?”

Embla nods. “Yes. Or, well, it can be, if one wishes. The village is not far from here, but far enough that mamma likes to visit friends while she is there. And pabbi works out on the moors with a few of the other men. They are…working on a project together.”

In land as barren and rocky as this place has shown itself to be, Ford can only puzzle at just what the menfolk could be doing, but he feels asking might be a bit too pretentious. They are likely building a new home or perhaps a barn, though the cold, wet, icy weather would make construction difficult. His curiosity will just have to live with that assumption for now.

“Ah, I see.” Ford glances out the small dining room window, taking note of the stormy skies. “Though, by the look of things, the weather may affect their plans. It looks like it might rain.”

“Mm?” Embla follows his gaze, nodding. Her tone is one of both adoration and a longing for change. “It often does this time of year. We are used to it. It’s a rather rough land to live in around the damper, colder months. The sun does not kiss this corner of the world as often as others.”

Stanford nods in sympathy. Having fully finished his food, he reaches for his slightly cooled tea, taking a cautionary sip. It’s just as soothing and homey as the rest of the meal. The tea is sweet and earthy, obviously herbal, with a generous mixing in of sugar. Honestly, just the way he likes it. Ford huffs his approval.

“This is very good. What is it? I don’t believe I’ve ever had this blend.” He’s more of a coffee man, typically.

“We call it Blodberg tea. It is made from a small pink flower that only blooms during the two weeks of spring. It is somewhat of a delicacy, I suppose.”

Ford blinks and glances back down at the tea in his cup. His face is reflected back at him, wavering slightly in a warm, amber liquid. With a soft frown he looks back up at Embla. “I appreciate you sharing such a rare treat with me, but surely there are more traditional events or holidays this could be saved for? Are you quite certain it is alright that I—”

“You are our guest,” Embla insists, not for the first or last time since their arrival. “It is customary to share what we have with visitors such as yourself. There will always be another spring, whereas who can say when next we will have the pleasure of company.”

Her eyes drift again, a little, dulling slightly as they lose focus to stare just over Ford’s shoulder.

“Besides…we really have no use for such things…anymore.” She trails off, leaving Ford to gaze at her with worried confusion, before she blinks back to the present once more. She shakes her head, dislodging whatever somber thoughts it had held. “But that is of no concern! Just be assured that it was saved for a special occasion, of which your visit qualifies.”

“Well, if you are certain…”

Embla smirks, playful. “I can hardly poor it back in its container now that it is brewed,” she chuckles.

“Huh. I suppose not.” But he will certainly drink the tea slowly, savoring every drop. “Thank you.”

“You are very welcome.”

She reaches out to place a soft hand on Ford’s arm as it rests on the table, and the man freezes. It’s likely meant as a gesture of camaraderie, but Ford finds himself startled by the willful contact, unaccustomed. He looks down at the slim fingers, pale and dainty as a china doll’s, carefully placed, achingly gentle against the sleeve of his borrowed clothes. He can feel the chill of her touch even through the hefty fabric, and yet it also fills him with a flutter of warmth. It’s strange, both uncomfortable and pleasant in a way he can’t quite name. It leaves him feeling adrift and confused. His eyes raise slowly, uncertainly, to meet Embla’s, the woman unaware of just how much she has thrown him. Those beautiful ice blue eyes, like crystal. They’re enchanting, alluring…haunting in a way. He feels spellbound by her gaze.

Embla smiles and pulls her hand away, going back to staring out the window, none the wiser for the absolute fluster she’s left him in. Ford blinks, pupils shrinking slightly as he comes back to himself, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He swallows and clears his throat, suddenly finding his own tea very interesting.

“S-Still. I…I cannot express how grateful I am to you and your parents for taking in two complete strangers,” Ford presses ahead. “Your family has been very kind to my brother and I, despite knowing essentially nothing about us.”

“We have a saying here on the island,” Embla replies. “Snúðu engum frá, taktu í hönd allra. Roughly translated, I believe it would be—turn no one away, shake hands with everyone.”

“An admirable motto.”

“It has not always been, but we strive toward it now more than ever.”

“Well, again, we are immensely grateful. And rest assured that we will not overstay our welcome. I plan to inquire about an inn or hotel as soon as possible.”

Embla tilts her head, eyes lighting back on Ford with a flare of curiosity. “Oh, you will find no such thing in town.”

Ford mentally stumbles. “…No inn?”

She shrugs. “Not here. As I said, visitors are few and far between. Managing any sort of stay or layover would be a sorry business.” She worries her lip. “But why do you not stay here with us? We have the room and food. It is what we expected, as you rest and your brother recovers.”

“That…could take some time,” Ford says, not wanting to sugar coat it. “Two or three weeks, possibly more.”

“And?” Embla responds, perhaps a little testily. “Here, we open our homes to those who need them. You are no different. We should like you to stay as long as you need to.”

“And I appreciate that,” Ford assures. He slumps a little. “But I’m afraid that we have very little in regards to currency.”

Embla tilts her head again, in that way she seems to do often, like a delicate winter bird, curious and small. “Currency? Oh, you mean krona. Money. What for?”

“To repay you and your family for what you’ve done for Stanley and I, of course.” Ford would have thought that was obvious.

The woman blinks and then she laughs, and it’s that musical sound again, like clear chimes, or like what Ford might imagine light filtering through a prism might sound like.

“I’m perfectly serious,” he intones, a little gravely. “We carry very little with us, at least in a form that would be of any use to you here, but I’m sure we can—”

“Your being here is repayment enough,” Embla interrupts. She gives another, smaller laugh. “We get so few visitors to our island. Hardly any in my lifetime. Your being here is quite honestly one of the more interesting things that have happened here in many years.”

Ford frowns. “But…supply ships? Fishermen? Merchants?”

Embla shakes her head to each. “All we need resides on this island. We are rather…removed from our homeland, or any outside ports. It is just us. Always has been. As you said, the outside world has forgotten us. That includes even the nearest ports.”

“Ah.” He nods, still finding that odd. But then his brow furrows further in concentration. “But surely there is something I can do in exchange. Stanley and I may be here for a while—if you and your parents truly don’t mind us staying—and I can’t stand the thought of not doing something in return for your hospitality. I am more a man of science than any particular craft, but I can fix things, build things, work outdoors. You mentioned your father is collaborating with some men on a project? Perhaps he could use another set of hands?”

Embla seems startled at that. “I—Oh, well, I—I would have to speak with him about it. I can, if you like. Whether he agrees or not, I am sure we can find something you can do to help out if it will make you feel more at ease.” She smiles. “If you are really so set on lending your services.”

“I am,” Ford breathes, relieved. “I find it difficult to sit idle for any length of time.”

The woman nods, firm. “Then I shall see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

They relapse into yet another stretch of silence, Ford finishing up the last of his tea before it can grow cold. The wind is picking up outside, causing the timbers of the cottage to creak and groan with every gust. While the home is relatively warm overall, there’s the slightest draft here, away from the stove or fireplace, and Ford shivers a little. Not enough to be bothered, but enough to wonder if Stan may need that second layer of quilt again. He’ll check in on his brother, right after he finishes his tea.

“Does your island have a name?” Ford ventures after a bit.

Embla considers, staring down at the table, finger nails lightly tapping against the surface. “The island has no official name, at least none that would be found written in any script or drawn on any chart. We who live here call it Steinhjarta…Stone Heart.”

“Steinhjarta,” Ford savors.

It’s a mouthful, but not nearly as complicated as some of the names of planets and races he’d crossed paths with in the Multiverse. It’s also not a particularly cheerful name, but somehow it fits. The island is cold and uninviting, rocky and barren and inhospitable. A harsh name for a harsh home, alone and desolate from the mainland.

“And you have always lived here?”

Embla nods. “All my life. My parents came from Ísafjörður, but that was long before I was born. They sailed here when the town was founded, one of several young couples looking to start a new community.”

“They must be very brave,” Ford extends, honest. “That sounds like a very tough life. But I thought you said you don’t get traffic between here and the other ports.”

“We do not, at least anymore. Not for quite some time.”

It’s a hollow answer, vague and with many missing components. Ford knows that an island such as this could never fully sustain itself, but arguing that fact with his host would hardly be polite. Instead, he nods, deciding to change the subject yet again.

“What time do you suppose Doctor Olufsson will come to check on Stanley?”

“Mm. He is an early riser, much like yourself. My guess is that he should be here before too long.”

“Then I suppose I should get ready for his visit.” Ford stands, Embla moving to follow. The scientist takes up his empty plate and finishes the last sip of his tea, handing them over when the woman reaches out, offering to take them. “Thank you for the meal. It really was very good.”

Embla smiles softly. “You are welcome. Please, if you should need anything else, do not hesitate to ask.”

“I will keep that in consideration.”

The woman nods and turns, leaving the small dining area for the kitchen. Ford watches her go, feeling unusually resistant to parting, but Stanley is waiting, conscious or no, and the doctor might show up at any time. Ford needs to get his head back in the game, shift gears. The small respite was nice, though, and his posture doesn’t feel quite so trembly-tight as it had. He feels refreshed, and a bit more at ease.

Taking a deep breath, he turns, and heads back the way he’d been led, heading for the small spare room that houses his sleeping brother.

Ford is only halfway across the main living space of the cottage when he hears a sharp knock at the door. Hesitating for only a moment, casting an uncertain glance toward the kitchen, he moves to answer it himself. With the metal clack of the latch and a creak of old hinges, Ford opens the door to find Doctor Olufsson standing out on the stoop.

He really is a pleasant looking fellow, solemn but kind, all rounded angles and stocky build. His beard is trimmed close to his chin, giving him a distinguished air about him, along with a form of professionalism. His clothes are much like everyone else Ford has seen of this island so far, traditional and hefty, ornate in its own way while also supplying warmth against the harsh environment. He’s older in age than Ford, though not by much.

The doctor looks up from under the brim of his hat, coat collar flipped up to shelter his neck from the wind, and smiles. “Ah, Mister Pines! A pleasure to see you again.”

Ford steps to the side, allowing the man to enter. Outside, the breeze has picked up, the air restless and bitter. “Likewise. But please, just Stanford or Ford is fine.”

“Of course, of course.” The newcomer shuffles his feet against the mat before removing his boots entirely, leaving them beside the door. “Is Helga home?”

Ford closes the door, shutting out that bone-chilling cold. “She went into town, I’m told. And Bjorn is out working….somewhere. Embla is here, though. She’s in the kitchen.”

“Aaah, very good. It’s Sunday, I should have known. Even after all these years, I sometimes forget the habits of my fellow islanders. A curse that comes with age, I suppose.”

He makes his way further into the main living space, removing his coat and hat, laying them to the side. He seems very familiar and at home with the place, and Ford imagines the man is more than just a professional family doctor to Embla and her parents, but a dear and trusted friend. Feeling acutely like the stranger he is, Ford steps further into the room, idling close to the wall.

Doctor Olufsson claps his hands together in a getting-down-to-business sort of way, turning his full attention back to Ford. “And how are you feeling this morning, eh? Vision alright? No aches or pains? Headache?”

Ford’s mind stutters at the sudden onslight. “I’m…perhaps a little sore, but I imagine that’s to be expected. I’ll live.”

“Mm. I’ll be the judge of that.” The doctor lowers himself down on the nearest piece of furniture—an antique ottoman—with a grunt, setting his medical bag on his knees. “Come, sit, let’s have a more thorough look at you.”

“…I thought you were here to check on Stanley.”

“I am. But looking you over won’t do any harm, either, now will it?”

Ford remains stubbornly where he is. “I’m not injured.”

“No, perhaps not. But running aground is a rough bit of business. And not all injuries are the visible sort.” At Ford’s continued hesitance, the doctor’s voice softens, coaxing. “Please. I’d feel much better knowing that I have one patient to worry about instead of two. I’m sure your brother would agree, were he asked.”

Ford’s resistance crumbles at that, the scientist too exhausted to truly put up a fight. His shoulders sag, and he huffs a tired breath. “…Fine. Then we can check in on Stanley?”

The doctor smiles sincerely. “Of course.”

Stanford nods jerkily, idling uncomfortably for a half-moment more before he finally shifts to take a seat in front of Doctor Olufsson. He sits down in the upholstered chair stiffly, rigid and tense, perched right on the edge. All the ease from his time with Embla slips from his grasp, leaving him tight and drawn in. If the physician notices, he doesn’t say anything, simply opens his bag and pulls out a harmless looking instrument.

Ford still feels his muscles tighten even further against his will.

“Alright. Let us check the vitals first, yeah?” The doctor slips the stethoscope earpieces into his ears. “Unbutton the top few clasps of your shirt, please. I’ll listen to your heart.”

Ford levels the man with an unimpressed stare. “You realize I have very little money to pay you for your services. I’d rather you focus on Stanley.”

The medical man clucks his tongue. “Nonsense. Money means very little to me, I’d much rather know I’d helped than not help at all, for payment or no.”

“But—”

“Please,” the physician presses. “It won’t take but a few minutes.”

Ford sighs. Reluctantly, he begins to do as he’s told, undoing a couple of buttons on his borrowed shirt, revealing a small stretch of his chest to the open air. It’s barely anything at all, but it still makes Ford vastly uncomfortable. He does, however, leave the very top buttons fastened, unwilling to let the doctor get a good look at the scarring beneath the collar.

Doctor Olufsson doesn’t waste any time, leaning in, deftly sliding the stethoscope bell into place. The metal is cold against bare skin, though not anywhere near as cold as the doctor’s hand.

“Mmm, yes. Yes.” The physician listens intently, shifting the bell here and there to get a good read on the heart beating a little too fast in Ford’s chest. “Healthy. Incredibly so. I’m rather envious.”

Ford isn’t sure how to respond, so he doesn’t. Instead, he follows Doctor Olufsson’s instructions to shift to the side, so that the islander can listen to his lungs through his back. Cold presses up against his spine, shifting here and there.

“Deep breath.”

Ford complies.

A shift of the stethoscope. “Another.”

Ford inhales, holds, and exhales.

Another shift. “One more.”

Breathe.

“Mm, very good.” Olufsson finally pulls back, removing the earpieces and letting them hang around his neck. “Your lungs sound a little congested, but overall quite healthy. You may have the beginnings of a cold, but with rest and warmth you may escape the worst of it. Now, let’s see about—”

Ford can’t help it, he flinches. The touch against his wrist had been unexpected, prompting him to pull away with a violent jerk of his arm. The silence that follows is very loud, and Stanford feels like his skin is crawling, breaths a little shakier than before. Immediately after he realizes what he’s done, he regrets it, eyes slowly rising to meet the doctor’s own. He expects questions, frustration, maybe even anger, but all he gets is a reassuring smile and understanding patience.

“I’m sorry,” Doctor Olufsson murmurs, genuine and kind. “I should have warned you. I simply wanted to take your pulse.”

Yes, well. Ford’s pulse was likely through the roof now. He feels foolish, like a skittish animal with his back to a corner. The cottage walls are closing in around him a bit, making him feel claustrophobic. Trapped. And Ford doesn’t do well trapped. There’s a reason he never let Stan drag him to a hospital after Weirdmageddon. There’s a reason he doesn’t want a doctor to see, or—Oracle forbid—ask questions. He can’t explain away the awful burns and scars, can’t make an outsider understand just what happened—

“Stanford.”

Ford winces, realizing how ragged his breaths have become. The doctor remains steadfast, and very, very still. Waiting. Patient. Understanding in a way that makes Ford feel so horribly, horribly transparent.

“I did not mean to unsettle you. If you wish, we can move on. I can try for your pulse after you calm a bit, this time with a better warning beforehand, yeah? Or skip it altogether, if you wish.”

“Why do you have to do this at all?” Ford hisses, volatile and humiliated. “And why now? If it’s so important, why not last night when I first got here?”

The doctor doesn’t so much as blink at Stanford’s seemingly baseless aggression. “Mm. A fair question. And, perhaps, the easiest answer is the most shameful. I’m…a bit out of practice. It was not until I returned home last evening that I realized that perhaps I should have looked you over as well. Then again, I did not realize it would be so stressful for you.”

“Just get on with it,” Ford finds himself gritting. And he feels like a monster for it. These people have been nothing but kind to him and Stanley, and yet here he is, causing problems over essentially nothing.

Doctor Olufsson hums, in that way he seems to do quite often, but he doesn’t argue. “May I remove the bandage on your forehead?”

Ford nods stiffly.

“Thank you. I want to take a look at that cut. Might sting a little.”

Compensating for his loss of composure, Ford keeps himself utterly still and expressionless as the islander moves to carefully peel back the small square of bandage on his brow. It does indeed sting, especially once the cut is left to the open air, but Ford refuses to acknowledge it. Instead, he focuses on getting his fluttering heartbeat and shaky breaths back under control, chiding himself for letting such behavior slip.

“Mm. That must have been a nasty tumble you took,” Olufsson observes, running a cold thumb under and around the laceration. “Cut doesn’t look infected, so that’s good. You’re keeping it clean?”

Ford nods, just enough to answer.

“Good, good. It should heal in a week or so. You’ve shown no signs of a concussion. All the same, I want you to continue taking it easy, for a few more days, at least.” He sits back and starts fishing around in his medical bag.

“…How did you know about the cut?” Ford finds himself asking.

“Embla told me. Though, when you first arrived I thought I caught a glimpse. But with the urgency to treat your brother, I’m afraid it slipped my mind again shortly thereafter.” The doctor pauses. “I’d like to disinfect this again, if you’re willing. I’ve got a clean bandage as well. Is that alright?”

Ford resists the urge to simply shrug, giving another small, curt nod instead. Doctor Olufsson accepts that as answer and continues to dig around in his little black bag for a small blue vial, a rag, and a small roll of clean linen. His movements remain slow and careful, and Ford finds himself both grateful and terribly embarrassed. They go on in silence for a moment or two, Ford tensed up like a bowstring while the doctor remains smooth and gentle as he works. There’s the further sting of disinfectant in the open cut, then the slightest burn of it working its magic, and then the island doctor is taping on a new bandage.

“Are you a military man, Stanford?”

“No.” Ford feels exhausted all over again. “Why?”

“Just wondering. You seem very…guarded. Reminds me of some of the men I used to treat, back in the day. Soldiers, mainly. Good men, if not a little skittish. Though, never more a right to be so than them, I’d say. There’s no shame in having dealt with the unspeakable.”

Ford doesn’t have anything to say in answer to that. He recognizes the gentle prodding of a therapist when he hears one. Even if Doctor Olufsson is technically a medical physician, he likely also looks after the mental and emotional health of his patients, doubling as a psychologist. And Ford has no desire to be psychoanalyzed by a stranger. He knows he has issues, oddities and quirks that are concerning, even to himself. But it’s not like he can go and spill his life story, get the help he likely needs. Not when it all begins with a dream demon and a portal to other dimensions. He’d be shut up in an asylum faster than he could blink.

Doctor Olufsson grunts softly as he finishes up and sits back, treating Ford to a careful look. “Think we can get that pulse? No pressure, I will not force you.”

He’d like to agree, if for no other reason than to prove the doctor’s assumptions wrong, but Ford shakes his head, resolute.

“That’s fine. We can conclude this visit without one.” Olufsson begins packing his things back in his bag, even if he’ll need to pull them out again in the next room. “What do you say we go and check in on your brother now, eh?”

In response, Ford stands and begins leading the way to the spare room without a word. On the way he fussily re-buttons his borrowed shirt, not feeling any better for having refused, skin still crawling uncomfortably.

Stanley is still sleeping peacefully when they enter the little side room. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have moved at all, and Ford isn’t sure whether to be relieved or worried—Stan is usually a fairly active sleeper. The room, as Ford had feared, is chillier than when he’d left, the frigid air outside having somehow managed to seep in through the old walls.

Doctor Olufsson seems to notice the draftiness as well, the man setting down his bag at Stan’s bedside and stepping over to the small fireplace against the wall. There’s a meager stack of firewood there, and he starts to feed the flickering embers, coaxing them back into flame. In almost no time at all he has it going fully, heat bleeding back into the stale air.

“There we are. A bit more warmth will do you both some good.” He rises from his crouch and moves back over to the bed, where Ford stands, waiting patiently. “Let’s see now. Has he woken at all?”

“Once last night, and again this morning.”

“And how did he seem? Lucid? Coherent?”

Ford watches as the doctor sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly. “This morning he was able to make conversation. Last night, much less so. I’d say he’s gotten better.”

“Mm. Well, healing can be a bumpy road, with ups and downs. It’s good to hear he woke up, and that he seemed better, but let’s not get too excited just yet.”

The physician leans forward and starts unbuttoning the first few clasps of Stan’s borrowed nightshirt, pausing only to brush his palm against warm skin. “Fever broke, that’s a good sign.”

“During the night,” Ford confirms. “Not sure exactly when.”

Olufsson hums and reaches for his bag, pulling out the stethoscope again. He follows the same motions, placing one end in his ears while pressing the bell of the device to Stanley’s chest. He leans forward with an expression of concentration on his face, listening intently.

It’s at that point that Stanley shifts, then stirs the smallest bit, eyes opening into blurry slits. Cloudy pupils lock on Ford immediately, before moving sluggishly to the doctor hovering beside him. Stan’s eyes open just a little bit more in weak surprise.

“Yer…not th’ pretty lady from b’fore,” he croaks, sounding a little indignant and treating Olufsson to a glare with no real heat.

The doctor startles, looking down before his mouth curls in a pleased smile. “Well, hello there. Stanley, I believe, yes?”

“Th’one an’ only…” Stan takes stock of the situation, of Ford’s hovering and Olufsson’s stethoscope to his chest. The gears of his brain are still turning a bit slower than normal, but he gets there in his own time. “…Y’a doct’r?”

“Yes. My name is Doctor Olufsson. I’ve been your physician for the last day or so.”

“H-Huh…Nice t’meet you…”

The doctor’s smile spreads wider. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Now, do you think you can answer a few easy questions for me, Stanley?”

“C’n try…” Stan shifts again, trying to pull himself up against the headboard. He doesn’t quite make it, before giving up. Brown eyes float back to Ford, voice weak. “Hey, Sixer…”

Stanford gives a worried smile in return. “Hello, Stanley…Do you need anything?”

It takes a few moments before Stan slurs back an answer. “I-If tha’ cute babe wi’ th’ water is…is still ‘n option…”

He doesn’t finish, but Ford huffs a chuckle at the open-ended joke. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s the right thing to say, Stan’s crooked grin making a shaky appearance in return. He seems lucid, no mention of weeping or disturbing children, to Ford’s relief.

“Alright,” Olufsson starts. He’s given up on the stethoscope for the moment, more interested in making conversation while Stan is awake and able to respond. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Tir’d,” Stan answers immediately, then adds, “N’sore…Mos’ly tir’d.”

“Where are you sore?”

Stanley huffs, the sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “Ev’rywhere…”

“But most specifically?”

“…M’stomach n’chest, I guess.”

“This chest pain, how would you describe it? Sharp? Or more like a tightness or pressure?”

“Tight. N’pressure…Both…”

“Mm.” The doctor doesn’t seem surprised. “I can give you a few more pain relievers. They should help.” He turns to Ford. “Has he taken anything yet this morning? The antibiotics I gave you?”

“Not yet,” Ford is a little ashamed to admit. “We tried earlier, but he fell asleep before we could get him to take them.”

Olufsson nods. “That is quite alright, but best to get them in him now that he’s awake. Could you fetch a glass of water, please?”

“I c’n take ‘em dry,” Stanley pipes up weakly, body hiccupping with a single, untimely cough.

The physician frowns, sharing a quick glance with Ford. “I’d rather you didn’t, actually. We have to keep you hydrated, and the antibiotics might be a bit harsh on an empty stomach. Stanford, if you would, please?”

“Of course.” Ford meets Stan’s gaze. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

“Don’ hur’y on m’account,” Stan jokes with very little energy.

“Regardless,” Ford smiles, “I’ll be right back.”

With a nod to Doctor Olufsson, Ford turns and heads back toward the kitchen, intent on accomplishing his task as quickly as possible. However, he barely makes it into the living area before Embla appears from around the corner. Her eyes light up when she sees him, the two moving to meet half way. There is a glass of fresh water in her hand.

“I heard the doctor come in,” Embla explains, approving. “I thought he might want Stanley to take some medication. This time, I did not wish to be too slow.” She holds out the glass, smiling sweetly.

Ford takes the vessel, grateful. “Thank you, this is exactly what was needed. Where are the pills?”

“Mamma put them in the washroom cabinet. I will go get them, if you like.”

“Thank you, yes, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. Go ahead in, I will be but a moment.”

She moves to gracefully make her way toward the bathroom, long skirt giving the appearance of gliding, as though she were floating just above the floorboards. Ford nods to himself and heads back to the spare room.

As he enters, Ford hears Stanley chuckle over something the doctor had said, before he launches into a fit of coughing like before. It sounds worse, rattling and moist, like his lungs are full of water. Which, given what had happened, they very well might be. Ford winces in sympathy and steps closer as Olufsson frowns in concern, the islander doing his best to help Stan sit up enough that he can properly ride out the fit. By the end of it, Stanley is wheezing, pale, and trembling.

Doctor Olufsson eases Stan to lie back against the pillows. “Now that doesn’t sound good at all.” To Ford he asks, “When did this cough start?”

“This morning,” Ford guiltily admits. “I’d hoped it was just temporary but…”

“Temporary or no, I should have liked to have been made aware of it.”

The physician shakes his head as he goes back to pressing the chilly stethoscope piece to Stanley’s heaving chest. Stan doesn’t move, staring dully up at the ceiling and breathing raspily, trying to catch his breath.

Olufsson listens attentively, then he hums and looks to Ford. “Help me sit him up a bit. I need to listen to his lungs.”

Stanford moves to do so, and between them both they get Stanley sitting up all the way, Ford deciding to sit in front of his twin on the bed while the doctor moves to his back. Stan grunts, teeth gritted as his leg doubtless protests the new position, and he grips Ford’s arm to steady himself. The pain sharpens his consciousness a little, and he looks to the scientist, blinking. Ford does his best to give Stan a reassuring smile, however brittle.

Behind him, Ford hears the door to the spare room creak open, and sees Stanley’s gaze flit to stare over his shoulder—Embla must have arrived. Ford’s guess is proven correct as Stan shakily grins and murmurs “Water babe’s b-back—” before his breath hitches as the cold stethoscope slides up the back of his shirt. The doctor pauses, exchanging another quick look with Ford, but Stan goes right back to breathing the best he can and doesn’t pull away.

Embla comes to stand beside Ford, looking down at Stanley with a soft, gentle look. In her hands she holds the small bottle of pills.

“Well, h-h’llo again,” Stan smarms, somehow finding the energy to flirt.

“Hello, Stanley,” Embla says softly in return.

“Don’t speak, just breathe, please,” Doctor Olufsson requests, and for several long moments the room descends into relative silence.

After his initial jolt, Stan remains very still. When the doctor asks him to take a deep breath, he does so, carefully, and Ford doesn’t need a medical instrument to hear the wet rattle in his lungs. Olufsson hums again with a shake of his head, which is far from promising, and shifts the bell here and there as he listens. Ford tightens his hold on Stanley just a bit, though whether it’s for Stan’s comfort or his own, he isn’t sure.

Finally, satisfied, the physician removes his earpieces and leans back. “Alright. Let’s set him lying down again. Pills and water first, though.”

The glass is quickly snatched up from where Ford had placed it on the bedside table, and the pain reliever and antibiotics are precisely counted out and handed over. Stan swallows them with little difficulty, other than that his hands are shaking terribly, and then they ease him back down into the pillows and quilts.

Stan huffs and puffs like he’s just ran a marathon, skin shining with a thin layer of sweat. He swipes a wrist against his mouth, wiping the moisture from his lips. “…How I lookin’, Doc?”

Olufsson rubs his chin in thought. “Well, it’s not as bad as it could be, but that isn’t to say you’re doing particularly well either. You’ve got the early symptoms of pneumonia.”

Ford frowns. “I thought you said the antibiotics would keep that from progressing.”

“I did, in essence. But these things take time. As I said last night, he may get a bit worse before he gets better. The antibiotics should do their job, but the symptoms that have already taken hold will try to run their course. All we can do is continue to treat him, and hope that the medication will chase off the worst of it.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “My prescription hasn’t changed. I want you to stay in bed, rest, and take the pills I’ve given you regularly. With luck, you’ll be heading in the right direction, medically speaking.”

It’s as good a prognosis as they’re going to get.

“Now…” Olufsson moves to the end of the bed. “Let’s take a look at that leg.”

Stanley’s hands tighten into fists at his sides as the doctor peels back the covers, gritting his teeth to hold back whatever strangled sound tries to escape from his throat. His leg must be incredibly tender, if even that small disturbance causes him so much pain. Ford winces in sympathy and reaches out, laying a hand on his brother’s shoulder, giving a comforting, careful squeeze.

The linens cradling Stan’s injured limb are splotched with red, areas where the blood has soaked through. Not a lot, but present enough. Worrying, especially when he’d already lost so much the day before, but the physician doesn’t seem concerned. He eyes the bandages with a critical eye, not touching just yet, gauging how well the linens had held up. After a moment, he nods to himself and rolls up his sleeves.

“I apologize for this next bit,” he murmurs, and then he starts to unwrap the leg.

Stanley gives a flinch and a hiss despite the warning, fists pressing down into the mattress as his back arches the faintest bit. But he doesn’t try to squirm or pull away, facing the pain with determination and control that somehow makes Ford’s heart hurt a little more even as he quietly cheers his brother on.

“You’re doing just fine, Stanley. Breathe…You’re doing fine.”

Stan sends him a pained, annoyed look, but doesn’t respond. Too occupied with keeping himself from clawing his way up the nearest bedpost.

The bandages are removed as carefully as possible, until finally Stan’s leg is revealed in all its nauseating glory. The wound still looks irritated and inflamed, white rimmed and pink, jagged and stark against Stan’s pale skin. It still looks terrible, but there are some improvements. For one, it isn’t oozing pus or other concerning discharge, which is a great relief in and of itself. Doctor Olufsson seems to agree.

“This looks better. Still hurts like the devil, I’m sure, but the infection seems to be subsiding a bit. A nasty wound, but nothing that should leave the leg permanently damaged.”

Stan and Ford breathe twin sighs of relief. There had been the distinct possibility, however small, that the laceration had been deep enough to cause muscle or nerve damage. In that case, providing the leg became useless and Stanley lame, they would have had no choice but to return to Gravity Falls, indefinitely. Their adventures on the high seas would have been over, hardly before they’d even begun.

“I’m going to give this another cleaning and then re-wrap it,” the doctor explains, already reaching for a rag and signaling Embla to fetch more water. He smiles warmly at Stan. “Then you can go back to sleep. It’ll do you good.”

Stanley doesn’t argue. In fact, before the island physician is even finished wrapping his leg in clean linen he’s starting to nod off, despite the pain, exhaustion winning in the end. Ford is glad, giving his twin’s shoulder a final, light pat before finally pulling away. Stan’s breathing is still wheezy and strained even in sleep, but he seems peaceful enough, antibiotics and pain relievers weaving through his veins and doing their job. He’ll likely be out for some time now, worn out from the doctor’s ministrations.

Embla leaves to go and dispose of the dirty bandages, and Doctor Olufsson quietly goes about packing his little black bag. Ford is left standing rather awkwardly, watching, a pit of guilt slowly eating him alive until finally he can’t stand it anymore.

“I want to apologize,” he starts, sudden and a little rushed.

The doctor pauses in his task, glancing over with a furrowed brow. “What for?”

Stanford swallows. “For…earlier. I know you were only trying to help me.”

“Aah,” the physician says in understanding. He cinches his bag closed with a click, before standing to give Ford his full attention. He smiles, just as kind as before, no resentment in his eyes. “Apologies are not necessary.”

“They are to me,” Ford presses. “I was not…I am…” He holds back a sound of self-frustration, struggling to find the words. “I do not do well with…examinations of any kind. Or, perhaps, touch in general. Not all individuals I have known in the past have…had my best interest at heart… and I—”

Olufsson holds up a hand before Ford can go into further detail. “Say no more, friend. You are not the first man to wrestle with such things. I will do my best to help you as you need it, while respecting your personal space.”

“Thank you,” Ford breathes, feeling a little sick at just how grateful something that simple can make him feel. “I…appreciate it.”

“Of course.” The physician stands, taking up his bag. He gives Stan a final look, nodding in the ex-conman’s direction. “He’s far from recovered, but he’s well on his way. It’s the next couple of days we’ll have to be most diligent and watchful. In case he worsens or relapses unexpectedly.”

Ford grunts softly in agreement, following the doctor to the door and out. They make their way to the front of the cottage, Embla meeting back up with them at the entrance, the doctor’s hat and coat in hand, as Olufsson works his boots back on his feet.

“Again, in regards to payment—”

The doctor chuckles, waving Ford’s concerns aside with a smile. “As I said, money means nothing to me. But if you are set on repaying me for my services, perhaps we can come to an agreement or trade later on. We’ll discuss it then. For now, rest assured I will do all within my power to heal your brother, with no expectancy in terms of compensation.”

“But I—”

“Later,” Olufsson huffs, then turns to Embla. “Greet your parents for me. I will be back tomorrow.”

Embla nods, bobbing her head as her eyes sparkle. “Thank you, Læknir.” She opens the door for the man, skirt swirling around her ankles as it lets in the wind. “Megi ferðalagið verða hratt og öruggt.”

“Þakka þér fyrir.” To Ford he gives a tip of his hat. “Stanford.”

Ford returns the gesture with a tilt of his head, and then a moment later and the physician is gone, vanished out into the heavy rain and fog like a specter in the night. Embla watches him go, and then she shuts the door with a creak of old hinges.

Chapter Text

The next few days are difficult, to say the least. As Doctor Olufsson had rightfully feared, Stan worsens later that night, infection and pneumonia flaring up and dragging him back down into a sickened state. It’s disheartening, for all involved, especially after the improvements Stanley had seemingly made, but Ford strives to remember that healing is not a linear process by any means. There are bound to be setbacks and relapses; there are bound to be bumps in the road to recovery. And so, as Stan grumbles and shivers in his bed, skin warming again under a persisting fever, Ford does his best to head the symptoms off before they can get too serious.

His ‘best’, as it turns out, is not nearly enough.

By late Sunday night, Stanley’s fever has climbed with a terrifying vengeance, leaving him sweaty, flushed, and slurring like a drunkard, barely coherent yet again. He mutters deliriously, repeatedly trying to get out of bed and getting distraught when he can’t quite manage it, or when Ford pushes him back down into the mattress with despairing ease. Stan is weak as a kitten, infection and sickness bleeding him of all but an ounce of his usual strength. Stanford refuses to leave his brother’s side, wiping too-hot skin with cool, wet cloths and changing the sheets whenever they get too soaked with sweat.

“No, no, Stanley,” Ford whispers, insistent. “You need to stay in bed. Come on, now…”

It’s the sixth time that night that Stanley has tried to slide his trembling legs over the side of the mattress, and the sixth time that Ford’s had to dissuade him. Stan whines, restless and pained as he’s manhandled with care, and Ford’s heart aches for him even as he’s forced to pin his brother to the bed, keeping him from leaving the safety of the covers.

“Need’ta…n-need’ta go…somewh’re, gott’a—” Stanley pants, disoriented and confused. He sounds appalled, voice wrecked and strained.“F’rd? What’re…Wh’t’re you doin’ ‘ere…?”

As if Stanford would be anywhere else. “I’m trying to help you. I’m sorry, Stanley, but this is for your own good. Just…Just rest. You have to rest. I’m right here, it’s alright.”

“I-I can’t, I—” Stan gasps, fighting back weakly. Confusion turns to panic and fear so quickly, it’s an emotional whiplash. “¿D-Dónde estoy? ¡Déjame ir!…Necesito… ¡R-Rico está aquí! He’s c-coming!” His attempts to escape increase, and Ford has to double down, hold Stan harder.

“No no, he isn’t, I promise.”

“He’ll find me! H-He’ll—Why ‘re y-you—”

“That man is gone, Stan. Come on, breathe. Breathe with me.”

Stan does no such thing. He bucks and twists, eyes cloudy with fever as they flit around, never landing, ceaselessly scanning for a danger that no longer exists. It simultaneously breaks Ford’s heart and boils his blood. ‘Rico’ is a name he’s come to know all too well—a phantom shadow from the darker days of Stanley’s past. A name whispered in confidentiality under the cover of night, between one twin and the other, during the early days of their reconciliation. It means Stan looking small, shaking, too ashamed to meet Stanford’s eyes. It means horror, and grief, and guilt, and fear. It means yet another hardship Ford failed to save his brother from, all because of his own foolish pride and the dream of some puffed shirt college he never got into anyway.

Its utterance now fills Stanford with regret and shame, but he pushes past his own emotions, for Stanley’s sake.

“No one is coming. No one will hurt you, not while I’m here. Shh shhh. It’s alright…”

“No! I—please…” Stan gives in, falling limp and shivering, wrists stilling under Ford’s firm hold, and somehow that is so much worse. “Please…please…”

“I know…I’m sorry…It’s alright…I’m sorry…”

The scientist chokes on a shuddering breath, leaning forward until his brow is pressed to the quilts covering Stan’s heaving chest. He can hear the wet rattle of sickness at Stan’s every gasp for air, can feel the unnatural heat exuding from his brother’s skin.

“It’s okay. I’ll keep watch. Just rest. You’re safe. You’re safe…”

Things don’t get much better from there. Monday comes and goes, then Tuesday. Miss Embla assists in Stanley’s care, coming and going, a constant help, a quiet but determined hand on Ford’s back ready to fetch whatever he needs. She’s a wonder, never tiring, never disappearing for too long at a time. And though Ford may not have the words to express the extent of his gratitude, he feels blessed beyond measure for her aid. Her presence is surprisingly calming, her voice a soothing balm to Ford’s every rattled nerve. She keeps him focused, asking questions to keep him sane, and telling stories during the long hours when nothing more can be done.

Ford feels his defenses weaken and fall away. Those walls erected around his heart and soul, which he’s always guarded so precariously, slowly melt under the woman’s shy smile and ice blue gaze. He finds he trusts her, more than he’s ever trusted all but a small handful of people. Ford finds himself looking forward to their time together, even during this long, frightening ordeal. With Miss Embla there, at his side, it’s a little more bearable.

Not to say that their younger host was Ford’s only source of support. Helga and Bjorn offer their services too, whenever they’re home—which isn’t often but is appreciated all the same. Embla’s father is always off working on that mysterious, unnamed project, gone from sunup to sundown, returning covered in dirt and looking…resigned. But he always stops in, eager to see how Stanley is getting on. He’s a quiet man, of few words and dulled facial expressions, but his worry and interest over Stan’s recovery is genuine. He stokes the fire, chops wood—all ways he finds to contribute to keeping Stan as comfortable as possible. Ford is appreciative, finding his own hands too full of delirious twin to do those tasks himself.

Like her husband, Helga only shows up in the evenings, often for dinner, cooking broth for Stanley that they all pray he can stomach. She has a way with Stan, even in his muddled state, coaxing him to eat in her high, trembling, Icelandic lilt. It’s nothing short of a miracle when Stan actually swallows, further success than Ford or even Embla had been able to accomplish. And so, from then on, Stanford lets Helga do the honors of feeding his brother, delegating tasks to those best suited. It’s assistance sorely needed, as Stan’s constant need for supervision slowly drains Ford of energy. It’s taxing, in all the worst ways, both physical and emotional, and Stanford is sure he never would have been able to handle the trial on his own.

Doctor Olufsson visits frequently, sometimes twice a day, offering advice and helping Ford force antibiotics and other medication down his ailing sibling’s throat. His check-ins are welcome, giving Ford someone to bounce his brother’s fluctuating vitals off of, asking for advise and receiving much needed encouragement. Stanford isn’t a medic, by any sense of the word, but experience has lent him a fair amount of medical knowledge. Thirty years traversing other worlds and dimensions had exposed him to a plethora of alien diseases and ailments, some he’d had no choice but to struggle through treating on his own. Luck, it would seem, had always been on his side, otherwise Ford would surely be dead by now.

Olufsson seems impressed with Ford’s methods, and is a patient teacher where Stanford’s experience fails. He tweaks where it is needed, but commends Ford for his efforts, assuring them all that things will be alright, that Stanley’s condition is normal and simply needs to be ridden out. Ford tries to be just as positive, but it’s a hollow comfort when Stan is lying there, gasping and wheezing, pale as death and twice as weak.

In the worst of it all, Stan starts calling out other names, a handful of which Ford can recognized—people from their childhood, their family, and those residing in Gravity Falls. Those are a bit easier to swallow, yelled with worry though they are, at least they aren’t laced with hopeless terror like with Rico’s foul moniker. Stan mutters something about a weeping child occasionally, in the midst of his confusion, which Ford notes but soon forgets in the whirlwind of everything else going on. And then the fever decides to truly take a cruel turn, and like the proverbial cherry in this nightmarish hell the name of Bill Cipher is uttered with utmost hatred and fear, and Ford nearly collapses under the weight of it. Had it not been for Embla’s soft encouragements and steady presence, he might have dissolved into a hopeless puddle on the floor right then and there.

“I am sorry,” she gently murmurs, when Ford has to leave his brother’s side and gather his wits in the main living room. She watches, sad and humbled, even as Ford tries desperately not to fall apart. “It will be alright…”

She doesn’t know what’s hurting him, and yet she’s there, ready to pour on encouragements and understanding, even without any sort of context. And that comes with its own guilt, because some part of Ford wants to tell her why he’s such a mess, drop-kicked into near hysterics over a simple name. But the remaining pride in him, the part that feels sick and trembly with fear and hurt, even after all this time, can’t allow her that tidbit of information. It would feel like dying, to let her see that worthless, shameful, pathetic side of him.

So Ford pulls himself together, and charges back into the battlefield that caring for Stanley has become.

Without a working thermometer on hand, it’s hard to know when things truly reach their most severe, but Ford finally calls it when Stanley’s skin burns beneath his fingertips, heat simmering through his brother’s veins with startling intensity. Stan lies limp, breathes thin and wet, barely conscious. Whatever his temperature, Ford realizes Stanley won’t survive it for much longer, not if they can’t bring his fever down.

Embla, as always, is at his side, an infallible comfort. She lays a firm hand on Ford’s shaking shoulders, ready to do whatever he asks of her. “What do we do?”

Stanford feels lost, self-hatred running deep, blaming himself for having let his brother’s condition deteriorate to this degree.

“R-Run a cold bath,” he stammers, already peeling away the soaked quilts, letting them pile on the floor. Stan doesn’t react, even as Ford forcibly pulls him into a sit, trying to wrangle Stanley into a position suitable for carrying. “I need to lower his fever. Quickly!”

Lugging his ill twin to the washroom is no easy task. Stan remains unresponsive, utterly senseless in Ford’s arms; a dead weight—Don’t think like that! Don’t! He’ll be fine, this will help— but with Helga and Embla’s help, Ford manages to do it. Destination attained, he’s left to strip Stan down on his own and get him into the large basin that serves as the cottage’s bathtub. The womenfolk fetch buckets of cold water from the well, handing them to Ford through the door, and leaving the scientist to pour the chilling liquid over and around his twin’s searing flesh.

As expected, Stanley does not like that. At the first sensation of icy water pummeling his overheated body, Stan yelps and struggles, trying to escape the whole unpleasant—and likely painful— experience, soaking Ford thoroughly in the process. Stanford, however, is stronger than his weakened brother, and has no qualms about forcing Stan down if it means he can prolong his twin’s life. It’s horrible, and draining for the both of them, but in the end the fever gets lowered enough that Stanley isn’t literally boiling his insides any longer, and once dried, dressed, and returned to his bed he fells into an senseless sleep. Real sleep, not the hazy, fever-induced delirium of before.

And so it is that those nightmarish seventy-two hours come to a shuddering close. The antibiotics at last start to truly kick in and the fever cools to something far less dangerous, the ordeal leaving Stan finally out cold, sleeping peacefully, and Ford dead on his feet. The worst of it is finally over, the infection in Stan’s leg flushed out and the symptoms of pneumonia finally lessening. It’s the calm after a raging storm. A much needed reprieve from a truly frightening situation.

Stanford stumbles his way out into the main living area of the cottage and collapses into a chair, feeling numb and boneless. He’s just said his goodbyes to Doctor Olufsson, the man having stopped in for a final late-day check-in on Stanley’s health. It had been he who had declared Stan finally through the worst of it and on his way to fully recovering, news that did their hearts all good to hear. The physician had clapped Ford gently on the shoulder, commending his persistence and devotion, before ordering the scientist to now turn to taking care of himself.

“You’ve run yourself ragged these last few days, watching over your brother when you haven’t been in the best health yourself. I prescribe a simple meal and then some sleep. I’ll be back in a few days to look over you both. I expect you to look less dead on your feet by then.”

Easier said than done.

Every fiber of Ford’s being is strung tight, heightened reflexes and instincts keeping him perched on the edge of high alert and focus, even now that the danger has more or less passed. His knees feel shaky and his head spins a bit, probably from lack of food and sleep, despite his hosts’ best efforts to keep him nourished and rested. He’d simply been too worried and busy with Stanley to eat or close his eyes, even for a moment.

Now, he runs a shaky hand down his face, working through the immense relief that threatens to bring moisture to his eyes. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but his reactions are going a bit wild, stretched to their limit, wavering back and forth like a serpent in the throws of death. He bites lightly at his knuckles, staring at the far wall as exhaustion threatens to physically pull him under, but his mind whirls around and around in anxious circles. He feels a little hysterical, maybe, like there’s an emotion a bit too big for his chest trying to break free, and it leaves him feeling brittle.

Outside, night has fallen on a chilly Wednesday evening, the island plunged into the cold, foggy veil of twilight. It’s raining again, Ford can hear it on the roof of the cottage, hear it dripping off the eves outside the windows and doors. The wind howls like a living thing, a mistress lost to the moors, wailing pitifully. The very sound of it makes him shiver, only furthering the sensation of his every nerve on edge.

Somewhere, a door creaks open lowly. There’s the soft shifting of familiar rodskor-covered feet on wood flooring, and then Embla is standing in front of him. Ford looks up, trying to smile but failing miserably, managing to look more pained than anything, he’s sure. He must look a sight, unwashed, clothing rumpled, stubble on his face and dark shadows under his eyes. It’s a wonder Embla can stand to look at him, and an even greater wonder that Ford can’t find the energy to care. He can only stare dully back at the woman who has become his companion, a friend he can both trust and respect.

Despite having to be worn as much as he is, Embla returns his effort with a shy smile and a knowing look, one that shares the worry and weariness from the last few days. There’s understanding there, too, the sort that comes from facing difficulties side by side, a fact the scientist will be eternally grateful for.

“Stanford,” she greets.

Ford nods, slumping back further against the upholstered chair. “Miss Embla,” he returns.

His eyes lower to the small, wooden bowl in her dainty hands. It steams slowly, the by now very familiar scent of broth in the air, tickling at Stanford’s senses and turning his stomach the slightest bit. He’s either very much not hungry, or overly too hungry, and too exhausted to determine which.

He weakly gestures to the vessel, sluggish. “…What’s that?” His voice sounds terrible, raspy and dry. As drained as the rest of him feels.

“Soup,” the woman answers quietly. “I took the leftovers from mamma’s broth and added some vegetables to make it more filling.” She holds the bowl out to him, delicate fingers cupped around the base. Her tone brooks no argument. “It is hot and hardy. It will do you good, my friend.”

“Ah…” Ford winces as his stomach gives another unpleasant twinge. He holds up a hand, trying to decline as kindly as possible. “I appreciate that, but I’m fine. Perhaps you should have it.”

Embla frowns, not backing down so easily. She’s gotten used to his more stubborn streaks the last few days, navigating his moods like a well-seasoned first mate. Something Stan would likely say she deserved a medal for enduring.

“I have already eaten. This is for you. It will help you feel better,” she insists. She offers the bowl further forward, firm. Those ice blue eyes are piercing, while, somehow, still incredibly kind.

Too tired to actually put any effort into arguing, Ford sighs and takes the bowl, Embla making a sound of approval as he does so. She doesn’t go far, moving to sit on the nearest ottoman, adjusting her shirts to cover her shoes, all while watching him expectantly. And Ford can’t remember the last time someone bullied him into eating like this. His mother, maybe, all those many years ago. Stanley, surely.

The china is warm against his cold, stiff fingers. Looking down into the bowl he sees the familiar milky-brown broth they’ve been feeding Stanley the last few days, along with a pleasant array of colorful oranges and reds—vegetables; carrots, peppers, and what looks to be some sort of spinach or other leafy green. It looks delicious enough, even to his somewhat dulled appetite.

“Þakka þér fyrir,” Ford murmurs automatically. He’s been learning the occasional phrase from his hosts here and there, his mind naturally inclined to adapting to their first language. He’s still incredibly rusty, but his attempts make Embla smile, which he finds he likes. “Thank you.”

Embla nods in answer, hands folding gently in her lap as he settles a little and starts to eat, slow and careful, in case his stomach doesn’t take kindly to the meal after going so long without. All it takes is a single bite for him to realize that won’t be an issue. The soup is very good, light enough to not be a burden on his shaky digestive system, but enough to slowly coax his hunger into full bloom. The broth is hot, so he’s mindful of burning his mouth, but it feels good going down, warms his throat and insides, and the pleasant feeling bleeds steadily into the rest of him, even into his cold, sore arms and legs. Ford hadn’t realized how chilled and stuffy he’d become until the steam opens up his sinuses and clears away the heavy pressure in his chest.

Doctor Olufsson had been right about Ford developing a cold, and, though minor, it had only added to the discomfort and misery of the last few days. He’s doing better, though, and perhaps the soup will chase off the rest of his ailment. It offers some relief against his own begrudging symptoms, at least enough that he can breathe a little easier.

Embla watches him worriedly, the kind woman and him having grown so much closer since that early morning breakfast three days ago. Ford has found Embla to be a smart and intuitive individual, filled with fascinating interests and a knack for learning new things. Much like himself, to be honest. She enjoys botany, and astronomy, though her knowledge comes from some outdated books she’d owned as a child. Ford had been only too eager to share with her the world’s more recent discoveries, of which she absorbed with bright, twinkling eyes and an awe-struck smile. It had been the only glimmer of enjoyment they’d had since Stanley fell sick again, a way to pass the time while waiting for Stan to wake for his next round of medication. Even then, through the worst of it, they’d worked well together, a well oiled machine that took care of Stanley’s every need, purpose driven and determined. Embla seemed to have a boundless energy to her, a kind strength that went beyond what Ford could fully comprehend.

Even now, as Ford finds himself buckling under the weight of stress and sleepless nights, Embla remains as fresh and elegant as ever. It’s a miracle she’s still able to stand, in Ford’s opinion, and he feels a little silly, a full grown man, barely able to raise the spoon to his lips without his hand trembling from fatigue.

As if to further drive home that point, Embla notes Ford’s pale complexion and shaking hands, and her worried frown deepens.

“…You should get some sleep, Stanford.”

Ford huffs, a small, humorless noise. “As unlikely as it may seem, I’m not tired.” At her stern look, he bristles. “Worn, but not tired. I assure you, I would sleep if I thought I could.” He’s too wound tight, too alert. There’s a point where exhaustion no longer requires sleep, but only a quiet, dull brooding.

Embla, it seems, does not agree. She shakes her head, equally stubborn.“Should you not try, at the very least?” At his hesitation she quickly pleads. “Please. I worry about you, my friend.”

And isn’t that just the funniest thing? Because Ford’s lived so many years of his life without anyone giving a damn about him, and now he has Stanley, and Dipper and Mabel, and Soos and Wendy, and Fiddleford, and so many others—all looking after him. All poking him in the right direction when he isn’t taking care of himself. All insisting that they want the best for him, and it’s just…funny. And a little sad. And a tad frustrating, and maybe secretly terrifying, because Ford—intelligent, stubborn, inventive, and so, so incredibly foolish Ford—doesn’t know how to respond to that level of fondness. That level of love and care.

It’s foreign.

And he isn’t sure he deserves it.

He knows he doesn’t deserve it.

It’s a wonder he’d survived the multiverse at all, in that respect. When he so often needs reminding to do just the little things in life, like eat or sleep. And now, here he is again, with yet another person to add to the ever growing mob of Stanford Pines’ little support group. It feels wrong and uncomfortable, while also somehow warming him down to his very soul.

Ford sinks a little further into his chair, knowing he’s fighting a losing battle. “I can take care of myself,” he murmurs in weak protest.

Embla laughs, but it’s not amused. “I have no doubt of that, but if you wear yourself down to the point you cannot stand, then what good will you be to your brother?”

Stanford grunts, annoyed because he knows she’s right. He glares down into his half eaten bowl of soup. “I need to keep an eye on Stanley.”

“Mamma can keep watch of him tonight. She has already offered. And I can do so after her.”

“I…” Ford pauses, taking that into consideration. Embla takes that as a good sign and continues, voice gentling.

“There is an empty bed upstairs. You need not sleep for the whole night if you choose, but I ask that you try. Even if you lie there and sleep does not come. You are exhausted. Your body needs rest.”

“I could sleep in Stan’s room again, in the chair,” he tries to compromise.

Embla huffs. “That will only serve to make you sore and even less rested. No, you need to lie down properly.”

Instead of going into a long, weary list of all the strange and uncomfortable places he’s slept over the years, Ford sighs, a long shivery breath that leaves his chest feeling hollow and his joints achy. Maybe that cold of his has taken more out of him than he’d originally thought. Giving in, Ford closes his eyes and nods. If worst comes to worst, and he can’t sleep, he can always sneak back down during the night to check in on his brother.

Embla looks relieved as she stands, offering her hand to him and Ford doesn’t fight it. He grabs hold, gently, and allows her to lead him to his feet. The kind woman smiles and turns, keeping hold of a few of his fingers so that she can carefully pull him along, and they make their way to the kitchen. Ford abandons his bowl in passing, as she leads him up a staircase he has yet to explore, having only traversed the ground floor of the cottage during his stay. It’s a little ominous; a dark, gaping maw at the far end of the kitchen.

“Are you sure it’s alright for me to take one of your beds? I don’t want to leave one of you without a place to—”

Embla gives a fond, musical laugh. “No, no, we are fine. This room was set aside for you from the day you arrived. You are not leaving us wanting, I promise.”

Ah. Well, then that’s that. Another effort at dissuasion batted aside with ease.

Embla leads him up the stairs—old, creaky, with soft, spongy wood—and it empties out into a small, narrow hallway. It’s pitch black here, and Embla takes a moment to release Ford’s hand and light a mildew covered candle that sits in a fixture on the wall. Once lit, it bathes the hall in a pale flickering light, not quite chasing away the shadows in the corners or further down the passage, but it’s sufficient to see by. The boards of the old cottage bend slightly beneath the weight of Ford’s careful strides, though not enough that there’s any immediate need for concern. What is even more noticeable, however, is how incredibly dusty the hallway is compared to downstairs. Ford can feel the grit clinging to his borrowed socks and grinding beneath his every step, like the hallway hasn’t been swept in a long, long while. There’s an abundance of cobwebs, too, thankfully void of inhabitants, hanging low enough he has to dodge them, the thin wisps shifting ever so slightly in the stale air as they pass. It reminds Stanford of the ‘haunted house’ caravel attraction Stanley had dragged him into when they were both children.

“Do you…not use this part of the house much?” he ventures carefully.

“Hmm? Oh, no, not often. After my parents gained a certain age, they no longer cared for climbing the stairs each night. We still come here, pass through, but, as you can see, it is in need of some cleaning.”

That is an understatement, but Ford keeps that little tidbit of thought to himself. While the explanation is relatively sound, it still leaves an uneasy feeling in the back of Ford’s tired mind. Maybe it’s the lack of care or intent in which Embla says those words, like cleaning up the dingy corridor is so low on the list of tasks that it’s barely there at all. Or maybe it’s that familiar feeling, like Ford’s being watched—not necessarily by anyone with malintent, just…regarded. Like curious eyes are following his every move.

Had Ford been less exhausted, and the candlelight a little stronger, he might also have noted the lack of footprints in the blanket of heavy dust.

They pass a few doors, closed, and Ford can only assume they lead to Embla and her parents’ respective bedrooms. Their current destination, however, is a third door at the very end of the hall. It’s where the shadows hang the heaviest, peeling away reluctantly as the candlelight spreads, pale and weak.

“Here we are.”

Embla pulls up short and releases Ford’s hand again, her palm reaching out to grab the latch of the worn and weathered door. Ford notices that it too is dusty, untouched for quite some time, if he had to make a guess. The door creaks open slowly, and rust crumbles from the hinges. He’s half expecting the room within to be just as neglected as the hall, but Ford is pleasantly surprised to find the little chamber already lit by warm, soothing lantern light.

It’s a very small room by most standards, ceiling low and the plaster walls fairly bare but for a few hung items. There’s an elaborate, woven tapestry and a very faded picture, so damaged by age that only a few lines of yellowed faces sticks out among the white. One wall is completely overtaken by the bulge of the fireplace flu, and while there is no opening, Ford can feel the warmth coming off the stones as it makes its way up the chimney to the roof. There is very little furniture—a desk, a table and chair, a wardrobe—and, of course, a bed. All of which are perfectly and freshly cleaned, tidied recently, likely with the hope he’d use it. It smells of homemade soap and lemon grass.

Embla stands to the side as Ford enters, his eyes slowly taking in the new space with tired interest. The woman smiles, somehow relieved by that glimmer of Ford’s natural curiosity.

“I spread clean sheets and quilts on the bed for you this morning. But if you need more, there is a few extra in the wardrobe.”

Ford nods in understanding, a little numbly, still eyeing the room. The tapestry is beautiful, a woven masterpiece of abstract shapes mixed with floral clustered designs. The colors are striking, an assortment of reds, yellows, greens, purples, and whites—all on a stark navy blue background and hung by a metal-worked rod at the top. It looks old, an antique, something passed down through the generations.

The faded photo beside the tapestry is equally ancient, the product of nineteenth century photography, if Ford had to hazard a guess. It’s of a couple, a man and a woman, standing in front of a cottage much like the one Stanford stands in now, but the details are so worn away that he can’t depict their faces or anything about them. They remain expressionless ghosts of a time long forgotten.

The air is so warm in this room, a cozy, pleasant heat that is already lapping at the chill that has seemed to settle within Ford’s very bones. Going off of the flue’s placement, Ford deduces that his room is directly over the spare chamber his brother occupies below.

“—if you think you may need it.”

Ford blinks, turning his attention back to his host. “I—Sorry? I’m afraid I missed…” And he can feel himself blushing, embarrassed for having completely missed being spoken to.

Embla isn’t the least bit offended. She chuckles and repeats herself clearly. “My room is a few doors down, should you need anything.”

“Ah, yes,” Ford nods. “Of course. Thank you. I will…try to get some rest.”

The woman beams, pleased. “There is a bed pan beneath the mattress, should you need it,” she says, already exiting the door, preparing to close it.

“A…Ah. Um, thank you.”

“Verði þér að góðu. Goodnight, Stanford.”

“Goodnight. And, thank you.”

Embla tilts her head in a silent farewell and, slipping out of sight, closes the door gently behind her.

Ford is left standing in the middle of his assigned room, blinking in the warm lantern light and feeling oddly out of place. He stays there for a few moments, listening as Embla’s quiet steps grow faint and then finally fade altogether, before he drags in a shaky breath and sighs. His hand still trembles from fatigue as he raises it to run through his hair, before he lets his arm drop limply to his side.

The urge to go back downstairs is strong. Stanley has only just recently become stable again, his breathing steady, his fever down, and his mind blissfully wrapped in exhausted slumber. Ford feels like he should be at his brother’s side regardless, like being anywhere else right now is nothing short of betrayal. He’d spent so much of his life away from Stan, missing so much of his twin’s needs and wants, that any time away from him now feels like valuable time being wasted. Time Ford could be using to repay a debt too big to put into words.

But, Embla is right. Ford is nearly useless now, body aching and mind wandering from one dull thought to the next. It’s like back in his college days, when he’d pull a whole week of all-nighters, only to crash and burn the hours following whatever test he’d been studying for. This, now, comes with that same sickening, dizzy, drooping exhaustion, like a poison in his veins, and Ford knows he’s reaching the end of his endurance.

It…wouldn’t hurt to try, he surmises. Sleeping, that is. He can sense how much his body craves it, how every muscle feels as though gravity is pulling him down, down, down. His thoughts, however. His thoughts feel like a whirlwind and his nerves hum with that on-edge feeling he despises so much. Embla had calmed it a little, her hand in his, fingers entwined as he was led, but now it returns full force, a roaring buzz beneath his skin, a vibration in his bones.

“This is ridiculous,” Ford hisses to himself, because it’s true. Need equals action; he’s tired, so by all logical conclusion he should rest.

Why is it always so hard to rest?

The sound of Ford’s footsteps is muffled and soft in the small space as he slowly makes his way over to the bed. Each board creaks a little, settling beneath his weight like the rest of the upper floor. The wind blows outside, buffeting against the roof, wailing out on the moors, but not so much as a draft makes it into the room. There’s not even a window for it to slip in between the cracks. In that respect, he feels safe, boxed in on all sides, like a mouse in a hideaway hole.

Ford stops beside the bed and stands there a moment, taking the antique in with tired, but ever curious eyes. The frame appears to be carved oak wood, delicate, smooth, light tan in color and adorned with the shapes of tree branches and floral swirls. It’s beautiful craftsmanship, dust free despite its age and smelling only the slightest bit of mildew. The mattress itself rests on the frame somewhat sunkenly, though not so much that it would be a problem, particularly for Ford, who has slept on far worse. Atop it all are a number of color-faded quilts, well used, but clean. The sight beckons to that part of Ford that is yearning toward the call of sleep, tugging at him until he finally relents.

The bed creaks loudly as Ford gingerly lowers himself to sit on the edge. He tests it, giving a few cautious bounces, the ropes that serve as the springs creaking but not snapping—strong; resilient. He scoots back, and turns, dragging his legs up onto the quilts as he settles in.

Lying down brings out all the aches and pains Ford had been ignoring up to that point, as though his body, given the moment to catch up with the last few days, is suddenly eager to remind him of his mortality. Stanford holds in a groan as his spine and shoulders cinch and twinge, joints crackling as they conform to the shape of the mattress. His muscles feel tight and tense, and he lies there a moment, breathing through the discomfort, folding his hands over his stomach and staring up at the wood thatched ceiling above him. He likely looks like a stiff corpse, laid out on a slab after death, with how rigid he feels.

He tries to convince his body to unwind, for the stress and worry to bleed away, to un-tense his every tendon, but he’s not quite successful. Not with his mind still reeling with the seemingly endless list of things needing to be done.

Stan will need time to recover, that much he’d already known, but they’d been on the island nearly a week already, and still Ford hasn’t had the time nor the resources to contact anyone back in the states. Dipper and Mabel must be worried sick by now. They’ve probably called Soos and Wendy and Fiddleford, spreading their concern like wildfire. The anguish their silence is probably causing is shameful, and yet here Ford is, lying on his back, all but useless. And what if Stan doesn’t recover at all? Lesser men have fallen to pneumonia. Lesser men have fallen to a wound half the size of the infection slowly being chased out by antibiotics in his brother’s calf. What if Stanley gets worse again? What if this time Ford can’t drag his twin back from the edge?

Stanford’s breathe catches in his throat, chest starting to feel tight and the hands on his stomach clench and tremble with agitation.

And the boat. The Stan O’War II is a wreck, cast out upon the black rocks, a hole smashed in her bow. She’ll need a complete assessment. He’ll have to make a list of every board and every scrap of metal he needs to repair her. To scrounge up from Oracle-knew-where. He’d have to find someone in town to sell him the parts, if there was someone who even could.

If Ford could afford it.

IF Stan was even stable enough to allow Ford to go and accomplish any of that—but not before he contacted the kids and—

It’s only at this point that Stanford realizes he’s panicking. He’s stretched out on his back on the mattress, his quivering hands having moved to grip the now wrinkled quilts either side of him. Nausea churns in his stomach, rising and falling like anxious waves. There’s a sense of impending doom he hasn’t felt in a while, rising out of the exhausted, dark corners of his mind. He’s shaking, gasping for breath far too quickly, and logically he knows he’s hyperventilating, logically he knows he’s having some sort of panic attack, that if he could just calm down and breathe this terrible, whirling feeling of losing control will stop, but he can’t!

Ford used to get these all the time when he was younger, when his life was filled with school bullies, a stern father, and an irrepressible need to prove himself. Stanley had been his anchor then, that quiet, firm presence at his side, holding his hand, squeezing, breathing with him until the world cobbled itself back together.

But Stanley isn’t here now. He’s downstairs, weak, ill, hurt—all because Ford dragged his brother into a life fraught with danger. What did he think would happen?! Why couldn’t he see this outcome?! Stupid, idiotic, waste of—

The room reels before his eyes, edges darkening a little as he fails to get the proper amount of oxygen to his brain. He feels like he’s dying, so far out of control now that he’ll shake away to dust. He wants to stand up, to run, but his body won’t obey him and—oh, God, it’s like Bill Cipher all over again. Watching from inside his own mind as something else, something cruel and dangerous, takes hold of his body, twists away every tether he has to his will and person. Terror burns through what little of Ford is left in the devastating aftermath, waiting to finally be released so he can discover just what atrocities he’s been forced to perform in his absence.

He’s made a terrible mistake.

He can’t trust anyone.

He’s scared, and pained, and so, so alone—

But even then, he deserves this, doesn’t he? He deserves to crumble to the demon he’d summoned. Deserves to lose it all, even his very life, for what he’s done. For who he’s unleashed. He deserves it, right? Right?

The answer is a resounding, damning yes.

A harsh, strangled sob drags from deep inside Ford’s chest, the man staring up at the ceiling of this small cottage bedroom with tears of shame and terror he can’t stop, but he doesn’t see. To Stanford, he’s somewhere else, in another time, another place. Hope all but wrung from his soul, and he’s fading, fading. Losing himself—

But then, from beyond the veil of his panic and desperate self-hatred…something cold touches Ford’s forehead. It’s so incredibly real, chasing away the memories and illusions, and his eyes snap open, bleary, still panicked. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. Irrational fear chokes him further, threatening to strangle him, but there’s nothing there. Just the ceiling above him, the room warm and aglow with lantern light. No one there but Stanford Pines, a scientist, an explorer, a multiversel outlaw, lying on a bed and drowning in terror like a child.

—but Bill’s gone—that’s right. That’s right. He’s dead, and Ford survived. He escaped a fate he more than deserved to suffer, because he had a brother who would move heaven and hell to save him—

The cold feeling persists, a point of gentle ice right above his brow; careful, cautious. It slowly starts to spread, like frost, across his brow, down his neck and shoulders, down his arms and legs. A sweeping bleed against his skin, and it focuses him, knocks his spiraling thoughts so far off the rails all he can do is blink and pant in the shock of it. He can feel himself slowly settle back into his body like a lost spirit come home. Ford might be dreaming, delirious from exhaustion, and he’s not sure if what he’s feeling is even real, but by the time the soothing cold coils around and settles against his pounding heart, he feels every muscle in his body go lax. He drags in a hiccuping breath, more like another sob, really—very unbecoming of an adult man in his sixties—but air floods his lungs and he drags in another ragged gasp, and another, and another.

Until finally his frame isn’t trembling quite so hard, and his thoughts aren’t lashing out like a glass knotted flail, and his wheezing breaths have calmed to shaky little inhales and exhales. Measured. Controlled.

Panic conquered and eased away.

A flashback, he can now logically pinpoint. A flashback, mixed with a panic attack derived from a mind far too stressed for far too long. It’s been a while, but he gets them still. Even after all this time. It leaves Ford feeling thoroughly hollowed out, tipping him over the invisible finish line. His exhaustion grasps hands with that mysterious, gentle cold and welcomes him toward a blissful slumber.

Before Ford can even fathom what might have just happened—he’s fallen asleep.

Stanley Pines wakes up with a startled jolt.

His brain does that weird thing where he feels like he’s rolling off a precipice, and his fingers latch like claws into the something-soft beneath him in a desperate gamble to stay, stay, stay from falling— But just as fast as it happens, the feeling disappears, leaving only an old man clinging to his mattress, heart hammering in his chest and gasps rattling out of still-sore lungs.

Sheesh.

Stan lies there a moment, catching his breath, mind slowly oozing back into the real world. He feels…funky. All floaty and lost, achy and stiff. Above him yawns a whitewashed ceiling, complete with little cracks and splotchy water stains. He stares at it, letting the sight soak in for a long, silent moment before he can finally place where he is.

Right.

The island.

The island they’d run aground on.

Where they’d been taken in by some native islanders, welcomed into their home…

Right…Right, okay.

He doesn’t really remember much after the whole abandoning ship thing, other than a muddled whirlpool of pain and confusion. He’d been sick, and hurt, he remembers that much, though the last thing he can truly recall clearly is meeting that doctor fellow from the nearby town. Everything after that is just pure hell, laced with scenes and people that, deep down, he knows can’t have been real. Not here. Not on this little Icelandic island in the middle of nowhere. They have no place among the cold waters of the arctic.

So. He’d been delusional, then. Great. Hopefully he hadn’t said anything too embarrassing. Or upsetting.

Ugh.

Fantasy mixes with reality, and Stan is a little too worn out to try and separate the two right now. Instead, he lets his gaze wander on their own accord, following the shifting shadows and flickering light of the fireplace to his left. The embers are low, barely there, leaving the room in a dim glow. Stan tilts his head back against his pillow, and catches sight of a full moon in a cold, navy blue sky, speckled with stars and the occasional cloud.

It must be really late. Or early, depending on the exact time. The earth always has that soft, lonely feel to it when the rest of the world is deeply asleep. It’s silent as the grave, a tomb blocked off from the land of the living, void of anything but the soft crackle of dying embers and the persistent beat of Stan’s own heart.

Stanley frowns, dragging a weak hand up over the quilts to rest against his chest, tracking the steady thump in his rib cage, taking stock of himself.

He feels gross. His skin clammy and crusty with dried sweat, and probably in high priority need of a shower—he smells pretty ripe. His injured leg burns, in an itchy-twitchy sort of way that probably means it’s starting to heal, but absolutely sucks to deal with now. It adds to the slow-creeping discomfort Stan’s only just becoming aware of, and it’s far from pleasant. Despite having only just awoken, he feels exhausted. He thinks he could sleep for a hundred years and still be tired. Staying awake feels like a chore, his eyelids sticky and his lips dry—thirsty. His chest aches, but no longer feels tight like it had, the soreness just a lingering phantom pain. His breaths come easier than they have in a long while—an eternity, maybe, as far as he’s concerned. And it feels good just to lie there and exist. To drift, just a little, back toward the sleep that had held him captive only shortly before.

For a few scant seconds longer, Stan forgets why he’d breached consciousness to begin with, and he allows his eyes to close.

And then, with a thrill of uneasiness—eyes flying back open—he remembers that something had woken him up.

What, exactly, he isn’t sure. But something had yanked him from the deep, blissfully painless sleep he’d been cradled in. Something had pulled him from drifting in that pleasant sea of nothingness and warmth. Something had stirred the waters of his mind and coaxed him to consciousness.

Something that wasn’t Ford.

Something that wasn’t that pretty babe with the water.

Something unknown.

Stan stiffens against the mattress, all semblance of sleepiness gone in an instant. He remains there, flat on his back and staring up at that dull, whitewashed ceiling with its jagged cracks and messy water stains. He forces himself to take in a long, careful breath through his nose, before letting it out slowly through his mouth.

And then.

He sits up.

And maybe it’s not a great idea. His weak, ragged body screams ‘not yet! not yet, you idiot!’, but he ignores it, grimacing, pulling himself upright on shaky arms. And maybe he should have just assessed the situation from where he lay, so he wouldn’t be left as he is now, blinking away a heavy, nauseating dizziness, but Stanley Pines is nothing if not stubborn. It’s a struggle, but he makes it, left panting and trembling, but with his back pressed against the headboard, moderately upright.

Shoving back the urge to wince at the twinge of fiery pain in his leg, Stan surveys the room like a watchman, slow, methodical, with a sweeping scan of his gaze. At first, there’s nothing. The room appears just as empty as he’d thought it was all along.

But then he hears a sound…

A crying; soft, muffled; echoey—like it’s coming from another plane of existence. It’s faint, but there, and it draws Stan’s eyes to what he had thought was a patch of moonlight in the far corner of the bedroom. It’s barely visible, almost transparent, but sitting in the wedge where the two walls meet, crouched down with her back crammed to the plaster, is a child.

—A child. A child. He’d noticed her before, hadn’t he? In his dreams—in his delirium—there had been the sound of crying, a little one weeping, never ceasing, desperate and filled with sorrow—

She’s small, no older than nine or ten years old, and she’s terribly thin. Malnourished; starved until her wrists and ankles are snap-twig slim. Her dress is dirty and torn, one sleeve ripped enough that her bare shoulder peeks through, bony and smudged with dirt. She’s hunched in on herself, weeping pitifully into her frail looking hands, her sobs quiet, but heart-wrenchingly deep. She looks like she hasn’t got a friend in the world, and every aspect of her soul is crumbling under the weight of that aching loneliness.

It’s enough to melt away any fear Stan might have had and replaces it with sorrowful pity and concern.

And, yes, Stan knows she’s a ghost—he’s not as dumb as some people think he is. He and Ford have seen enough unbelievable things by now that Stan doesn’t hold skepticism for any entity’s existence. That, and he’d read Ford’s journals, back in the day. He knows about the classes and categories his brother had organized spirits into, determining their threat level and characteristics. Some, Stan knows, can be dangerous, but he has a hard time imagining this small, frail little girl as anything but harmless. She’s sobbing her spiritual little eyes out…

And Stan has never been able to stand the sight and sound of a child crying.

“H-Hey,” he stammers out, and his voice is so weak and scratchy from disuse it’s little more than a ragged whisper.

Still, it catches the girl’s attention, her head snapping up, hair floating like she’s under water or in a gale, treating him to a pale, thin face and wide eyes. Her hollow cheeks are streaked with tears—it’s harrowing, and so, so filled with grief. The sight tugs at Stan’s heartstrings, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s throwing the quilts aside and shifting his legs over the side of the mattress.

Pain flares in his injured calf and his grunts, but otherwise ignores it. The child stares at him, her gaze widening further, her thin legs unfolding as she startles to her feet, obviously afraid. And then, like a wisp on the wind, she disappears into thin air. There one moment and gone the next.

Stan jolts to his feet, a hand held forward, like he can stop her from leaving. “W-Wait, it’s okay, I—”

His shaky legs give out the second he puts any true weight on them, the pain in his leg becoming agony shooting all the way up to his hip. With a sharp cry, Stanley falls to the floor, sprawling out across the grainy floorboards. It knocks the wind from his already aching lungs, and leaves him gasping on the ground, stunned and bruised.

The sound of his hefty body hitting the ground must have been loud enough to be heard from beyond the closed door of his room, because a half moment later it opens, and the older woman—Helga—comes bustling in with a candle. Her eyes widen as she spots him on the ground, a hand rising to cover her mouth as she rushes forward, chattering in distressed Icelandic.

“Hvað gerðist? Af hverju ertu fram úr rúminu? Ertu meiddur?!”

Stan grimaces, trying to lever himself back into a more dignified position. And fails miserably. “I-I’m okay, it’s fine, I just—”

“Embla! Komdu fljótt! Bandaríkjamaðurinn er fallinn!”

Despite his weak protests, the old woman calls over her shoulder, her cold hands—Moses why were these peoples’ hands always so cold?!—gripping Stan’s arm gently, trying to ease him up from the floor and guide him back to bed. But it looks like that will need to be more than a one person job. Stan’s body isn’t cooperating, every inch of him buzzing unpleasantly, like pins and needles all through every fiber of his being. His legs are useless, and not just his injured one. Days of lying immobile have taken their toll on his strength, leaving him lame.

As Helga does her best to get him sitting up, that younger woman appears, Embla something-or-other, if Stan remembers right. Neither she nor her mother are dressed for bed, which is kind of strange. Especially if it’s as late at night as it feels.

“Oh, Þú greyið!”

Embla doesn’t waste any time, clucking her tongue as she moves to help her mother, taking up Stan’s other arm and helping him to his unsteady feet. It’s embarrassing, the amount of aid he needs just to stand and keep his balance, but it’s a dishonor he’ll have to bear for the time being, unless he wants to stay on the floor, looking like a puppet with his strings snipped. The women steer him back toward the mattress that has become his semi-permanent home and prison, easing him down to a sit.

Stan can’t help but sigh in relief. “Eghh….Thanks…”

“Stanley,” the younger woman chides, gentle but firm. “You should not be standing or walking around on your own. You have been very ill.”

Stan hisses in discomfort as he tries to shift his feet against the floor. “I—ugh—I just thought I saw—”

A spirit? A specter? A ghost? A demon? Yeah, sure, he considers opening up his big mouth and laying the truth out for all to see…

But then he thinks better of it.

“Saw…?” Embla presses, ice blue eyes worriedly searching his own.

“Nothing,” Stan blurts back, a little too quickly, before repeating, more easily. “N-Nothing. Sorry, just…startled myself, that’s all.”

No sense making more of a scene than he already has. After all, most folks wouldn’t take kindly to the news that they had a dead child roaming around their home, if they’d even believe him at all. And then there was always the possibility that his brain was still fried from fever. Stan would like to be able to say with confidence that he’d seen what he saw, but there was still that small niggling of doubt. So, instead, Stan lets his hosts lift his legs back into the bed and cover him with quilts. Helga leaves to go get him some water and Embla sits down carefully by his ankles.

“That was quite a fall. Did you injure yourself?” she asks with worry.

Stan grins crookedly. “Only my pride, sweetheart.” He settles back against the pillow with a groan, more relieved to be lying down again than he’d care to admit. “Guess I had a dream or somethin’. Uuugh…Sorry for all the fuss…”

“Mmh.”

Embla reaches out a delicate hand and lays it on Stan’s forehead, and Stanley tries not to flinch back in surprise at the casual familiarity with which she does so. She holds it there a moment before she lowers it again with an encouraging smile, bright and clear as the sun.

“Your fever seems to be gone. Oh…though, you look a little flushed—perhaps you are still—”

Stan is quick to shake his head, wrangling the obvious blush back under control—or, at least, to the best of his ability. He just hadn’t been prepared, is all, for any physical contact, no matter how small or clinical. He’s always been one to appreciate beauty—he might be getting old, but he’s certainly not dead—and this Embla chick isn’t exactly homely. No red-blooded American man could fault him for getting a little flustered.

“No no! I’m—I’m fine. Just…still waking up, I guess. Quilts are a bit toasty. I’m alright, thank you.”

Embla nods, seemingly satisfied with his bumbling explanation. “Stanford will be pleased to find you better.”

Oh. Which, yeah, brings up a very important point—where is Ford? Usually, in situations like this, the pointdexter wouldn’t leave Stanley’s side. Not for a moment. Not when they’re stuck here, in a strange room, in a strange house, on a strange island, in strange waters. If you looked up ‘paranoid’ in the dictionary, Stanford’s mug would be staring right back out at you. The guy was wound tighter than an eight day clock. So, to have woken up without his twin’s looming shadow hanging over his face—Yeah. It’s kind of concerning.

Ford’s absence could really only mean one of two things. Either something had happened and he had abandoned Stan to face a bigger threat…Or Ford felt safe enough in this environment to leave Stan under the care of others. People they hardly knew. Strangers.

Honestly, both options are equally hard to believe.

Stanley clears his throat, trying not to sound too alarmed. “H-Heh. Uh, about that. Where is my dear brother, Stanford, anyway? Not getting into trouble, I hope.”

Embla smiles fondly, using pale fingers to smooth out the wrinkles in the quilts, a soft look in her eye. “Stanford is upstairs, sleeping.” More firmly, she gives Stan a glance. “As you should be. It is the middle of the night, and you are still healing.”

“Sleeping, huh?” Stan laughs, a little incredulously. But the woman’s unwavering gaze in return morphs his disbelief into awe. “Wait, you serious? Like, he’s actually, actually sleeping?”

She nods, uncertain by his reaction. “Yes, of course.”

Stan isn’t sure whether to celebrate or demand proof, because—Ford? Sleeping? That’s almost more impossible than any other scenario he could dream up.

“How’d you…” Stan feels mentally off balance. “How’d you manage that?”

Embla shrugs, a near mirror to Stan’s own from before. “He seemed very tired. He was hurting himself by refusing to rest when he needed to. I talked to him, and he agreed.”

“Huh. Yeah, but…Even Mabel can’t get that nerd to take a load off. Heck, no one ever has, not even Ma!”

Stanley can distinctly remember a hundred different school nights back in Glass Shards Beach where their mother had no choice but to confiscate Ford’s library books, just so the genius would get a decent amount of sleep. And even then Ford had backups, extra texts hidden under his pillow. He’d sit up far into the night learning Lord-knew-what. Ford would always be so tired the next day, falling asleep at the lunch table or against the lockers between classes, but he never looked like he regretted it. Stan knew he didn’t.

“Mabel?” Embla tilts her head, questioning.

Ah, right. “My grandniece. Lives back in the states. Sweet kid, I think you’d like her. She’d love your outfit.”

God, he misses the kids. He misses Dipper’s sweaty, anxious muttering and Mabel’s laughter and energy. He misses Soos’ dumb face and Wendy’s calm, chill attitude. He and Stanford have only been out at sea for a little under a year, but, somehow, it feels like so much longer. Back home, Gravity Falls would be just starting to thaw, working toward spring with all its usual lethargy. The smell of wet snow and pine needles. The creak of trees and the chirp of new birdsong…

“Aaah,” Embla says, knowingly. “The one that lives in…Cally-forn-ya, yes? With her brother, Dipple.”

“Dipper,” Stan corrects, chuckling. “But yeah…Yeah, those’re the ones. Ford tell you about them?”

“A little. They seem to mean a great deal to him.”

Stan smiles fondly to himself, something warm blooming in his chest. “Heh. They’d better.”

Helga finally returns with his glass of water, and Stan eases himself up enough to drink it without spilling it all down his front. It feels really good, washing away the dryness in his throat. He sucks it down with a desperation he knows Ford would get after him for.

“Ertu með verki? Viltu fleiri pillur?” Helga murmurs, obviously addressing him.

Stan lowers the empty glass, gasping for air after one too many gulps in a row. “Uh, s-sorry. Wh-What she say?”

“She wants to know if you are in any pain,” Embla translates. “If you want any medication.”

“Oh, uh. Nah, I’m fine. Just tired. How do I say no in…?”

Embla chuckles kindly, eyes sparkling. “Nei,” she supplies.

“N…Neigh?”

“No, nei. A bit sharper and shorter.”

To Helga, Embla whispers something and the woman nods and leaves, taking the empty glass with her. The younger woman, however, stays. Stan’s rather glad, he’s a little too high strung right now to fall back to sleep immediately on his own. He finds his eyes repeatedly drawn back to the corner of the room, searching for even the slightest hint of that pale, transparent child. If Embla notices, she doesn’t say anything. For a moment, they sit in silence, the embers in the fireplace crackling softly.

“You are not as familiar with our language as your brother,” Embla observes, shifting her full attention back to Stanley.

“Eh. S’not really my thing. Ford’s more of the linguist guy. He’s got a thing for words and phrases I’ve never been able to match. He’s the scholar, not me.”

“I see.” She frowns, tilting her head to the side once more, like a curious puppy. “Why do you call Stanford by that name?”

Stan lies back down with a wince. “What name?”

“Ford.”

“Oh.” Stan huffs, amused. “Ford is short for Stanford,” he explains. “It’s a nickname.”

“A…nick…name?”

Oh, for Moses’ sake. “A…smaller, shorter version of someone’s name. Like, my name is Stanley, but a lot of folks just call me Stan. My brother’s name is Stanford, but Ford’s just…less of a mouthful.”

“Nick-name,” Embla confirms, and it looks like she gets it. “Gælunöfn,” she adds, likely as close to ‘nickname’ as her language allows.

“Sure.” Stan shrugs and smiles.

Embla beams back, kind and genuine. She shakes her head in amusement, before going back to fussing with his quilts. “Is there anything else you need before I go? Anything more I can get for you?”

Stan thinks about it, and can only really think of one thing. “Some company’d be nice.”

She fixes him with a chiding, but friendly, look. “It is very late. You should be asleep.”

“Aw, come on,” Stan whines, all show. “But I’ve been sleeping for ages, lady.”

“And a little more will not harm you.”

He knows she’s right. Especially if things went as rough for him as his sore, achy body suggests. He could probably use all the rest he can manage. Ford not being in sight puts Stan on edge, but Embla seems nice; trustworthy. He has flashes of memories bouncing around in his head, hazy with fever but there all the same. Memories of Embla wiping a cool cloth across his brow…Of warm broth being coaxed into his mouth…Of a small, delicate hand landing on Ford’s shoulder and squeezing in comfort when Stan couldn’t do a thing to sooth his brother’s stress himself.

So, yeah, okay. Maybe he can trust this pretty babe. Ford apparently did, leaving her to watch after Stan—that’s practically the worrywart’s seal of approval. Sure, she’s still a stranger, and her hands are damn cold as ice, but her eyes are clear and her smile gentle, and Stan feels like she wouldn’t hurt a fly.

She can be trusted, he decides. And Stan prides himself on his people-reading skills. He’d made a living of it, after all.

“Okay, okay,” Stan relents with a rough chuckle. He holds up his hands, placating, amused. “Hey, mind if I ask you something first?”

“Mmh?”

“Why’re you up so late? I mean, it’s gotta be, like, three or four in the morning.” He looks around for a clock to confirm his guess, but can’t find one. He gives up, too worn to care about accuracy.

Embla stands, straightening her dress out of habit it seems. “Stanford insisted that we take turns watching over you through the night. Mamma took her watch earlier. She had just come to me so that I could take her place when we heard you fall.”

“Oh,” Stanley huffs, then frowns. “Wait, she wasn’t in here starin’ at me while I was sleepin’, was she?” And the mortification must stand out clearly on his face, because Embla laughs, the sound soft and light.

“No, no! She was reading out in the cottage den, as will I, when we finish speaking. We keep you in hearing, but do not endanger your privacy.”

All of Stan’s muscles relax, relieved. “Ah. Yeah, that’s…I appreciate that. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“And Ford’s really sleeping upstairs somewhere?” He’s still having a hard time believing it.

“Yes. He was…distraught, and exhausted. I am afraid your ill health was very weighing on him.”

“Yeah,” Stan murmurs, a bit guilty. “That’s Stanford all right.” He grimaces. “How, uh…long was I down for the count?”

“Mm. Three days,” Embla replies solemnly.

“Three—” Stan blanches. “Yikes…” No wonder Stanford was exhausted, reduced to a sleepy lump somewhere in the cottage. He probably hadn’t slept a wink in all of those three days. “You…You sure he’s actually sleeping, though? My brother’s a bit of a menace when it comes to really getting him to sleep.”

“I am certain,” Embla assures, and she reaches for the candle that her mother had left behind, cradling the flame as she moves toward the door. “I went to check on him, and he was still and peaceful. Sleeping deeply.”

“Huh.” Would wonders never cease. “Well, good. Thanks for, uh, doing that, I guess.”

She nods once, a gesture of respect. “You are welcome. Rest well, Stanley. We will speak more when next you wake.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Stan watches her as she goes. She pulls the door open, the wood swinging inward with a creak of rusty hinges. She steps through, taking hold of the outer latch with smooth, habitual grace. But before she closes the door, she pauses. Embla turns back, her lovely frame a shapely silhouette in the doorway. The candle illuminates her face with sharp highlights and shadows, a question in those chilly, blue eyes. Stan gives the woman a reassuring, though tired, smile and a weak wave of his hand just barely above the covers. Somehow, that seems to be what she was waiting for, and the door creaks shut.

Stanley finds himself alone once more.

He lets his hand drop back to his chest, cheeky smile fading and his brows lowering as Stan drags his eyes back to the far corner of the room. Moonlight still floods in to that part of the space, casting white beams and inky shadows, just barely enough to still see by.

“Psst,” Stan tries, as quiet as he can manage. “Kid, you still here?”

No answer. Which doesn’t necessarily mean he’s failed in being heard. Ghosts are tricky things—Stan has met his fair share of them at this point. The child could very well still be in the room with him, and he’d never know if she didn’t want him to. Which is fine. Creepy, but fine.

Stan knows kids, and despite his self-made image as a gruff old man, he likes them and knows how they tick. That knowledge and instinct surely extends to ghost children too, right? And this one had been sad. Kids could be shy when they were sad. They could hide. Huh. To turn invisible is something Stan kind of wishes he’d had on his side as a little boy. Especially when he’d done something wrong and knew Pa was coming up the stairs to learn him a painful lesson.

So for there to be no answer from the weeping-ghost-child? Yeah, that was fair. But, still. Just in case she was listening…

“I’m not mad. I didn’t mean to scare ya. You can stay here as long as you like. I won’t bother you, okay? Everything’s alright.”

Well, probably not, because if she’s a ghost then she is absolutely, almost definitely dead, and it doesn’t get much worse than that—but. It’s the least he can do, to try and assure her he isn’t about to call the Ghostbusters on her or whatever.

Stanley keeps watch for a bit in silence, part of him hoping she’ll reappear. But she doesn’t. The corner stays despairingly empty, and Stan’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier and heavier—until finally he gives in and they flutter closed. He sinks into a blissful sleep, dreamless and relatively pain free…

Chapter Text

Between one peaceful breath and the next, Stanford drifts awake from the clutches of a deep, dreamless sleep. No jolt, no panic—just a smooth, floaty transition from one state to the other, as natural as stepping through an open door. His mind takes a moment to catch up with him, pale, gray-blue eyes blinking open to stare up at a dull, unassuming ceiling. Air drags gently in and out of his lungs, flawless and kind in a way he hasn’t experienced in a while. He’s grown so used to arising in a panic, or at the very least some form of confusion or tension, but—

Right now, Stanford feels incredibly tranquil. Groggy, yes, but in a warm, hazy, heavy sort of fashion. It’s rather pleasant.

And then his brain starts drawing together the pieces of his exhaustion-fogged memory, and the details of the last week seep into a pool of consciousness, and Ford finds that ignorant bliss tensing back up into his usual wound-up tightness he’s grown so familiar with.

Stanford blinks a few times, hard, doing his best to chase away the sleepy blur in his vision. It works, and with some reluctance he eases himself up into a sit.

Or, at any rate, he attempts to.

“Oh, by the Oracle,” Ford groans, letting his head flop back against the pillow.

Gone is the pleasantness, replaced with a sluggish hangover, a signature sensation of sleeping too much after having not slept at all for far too long. He feels drugged—though he knows he’s not—weighed down and dizzy, a little ill. What only moments before had felt warm and peaceful, now feels feverish and stuffy. Apparently, a good night’s sleep had only succeeded in coaxing his cold to its full strength.

Robbed of the contentment of being oblivious, Ford sniffs miserably, debating whether he would rather suffer lying down or on his feet. The answer, of course, is easy, and, gritting his teeth, he slowly gets his arms under him and lifts himself up into a sit. This time, he’s successful.

Stanford gingerly swings his legs over the side of the mattress, closing his eyes for a moment as the room spins. A glance down reminds him that he’d gone to bed fully dressed, which somehow manages to make him feel worse despite the fact he’s been doing so for years now. Ford runs a hand over his eyes and down his face, attempting to rub away the muzzy shroud of sleep and sickness, with minimal triumph.

Ford takes a slow, careful, deep breath.

Being sick has not been an obstacle in Stanford’s life for…quite some time, and it feels oddly foreign. As a child he’d been more susceptible to falling ill than Stanley, even contracting a rather frightening case of polio. But now, since the portal, his immune system is ironclad, reinforced by countless alien viruses, vaccines, and remedies. And yet, still, somehow, he’s managed to catch the common cold.

It might have been humorous if Ford didn’t feel so drained and indisposed. But how he feels can hold no sway over the intense need to get up that simmers within him. He may feel like death warmed over, but he has far too many things to worry about to let that stop him. And, most pressing on his mind, is Stanley.

Stan had been doing better. That was the only reason Ford had allowed himself to be led to bed without more of a fuss than he had given. But that didn’t necessarily mean that Stanley was out of the woods just yet. He’d relapsed before, and, with their luck, it could certainly happen again. And Ford needed to be there to help.

With that thought, Ford stands.

It’s only by shear force of will that he remains that way. The room spins again, and Ford sways on week-kneed legs, but after a few tense moments the sensation clears. Relieved, and not wishing to press his luck by dawdling, he draws himself up and strides to the door with far more confidence than he feels. He grasps the doorknob, gives it a sharp turn and a tug, and steps out into the hallway.

The corridor is still as dark, dusty, and desolate as it had been the night before. Well, perhaps a little less dark, seeing as there’s a window at the hall’s furthest end letting in just barely enough light to see by. Ford pauses, taking it in, feeling oddly reverent. Cobwebs drift like forgotten garments, wisps in the stale air, fluttering slowly. There’s something so forlorn about the place, as though he’s standing in a temple, or a mausoleum. It’s unnatural and unsettling. More like an abandoned estate than a lived in home.

Ford allows himself to linger, unmoving, though not for long. His quiet, stuffy breaths sound muffled in the tight, enclosed space. Suffocating, and thick with the smell of mildew and dust.

And, speaking of dust, Ford frowns. His eyes catch and stare down at the floor, where, just barely visible in the frail and dim light, he can see footprints in the dirt gathered on the floorboards. Familiar. His own. Likely from his previous journey up to bed. But that’s not what truly catches his notice. It’s the fact that the prints are alone. Only a single pair.

Odd.

Perhaps Embla had simply walked in his exact steps, masking her own unwittingly.

Still. The sight sends a chill up Stanford’s spine he can’t explain.

When Ford descends the stairs he finds the kitchen empty, but the scent of something sweet and warm lingers in the air. The griddle over the stove is still warm, dirty from recent use and yet to be cleaned. A glance out the window forecasts another somewhat dreary day, cold and gray. It’s hard to tell what time it is, and the clock on the kitchen wall doesn’t seem to be working, stuck on midnight. Or noon. Ford slows for only a moment, having no interest in the prospect of food when his brother’s well being is on his mind. He passes through and makes his way toward the little spare room at the far side of the cottage.

Before he even reaches it, Ford detects voices. His shoulders tense, anticipating the worst—that Stan has taken a bad turn and the doctor has been called in Ford’s absence. But just as that strangling panic starts to grow in the scientist’s chest, it’s chased away by a great, booming laugh that is unmistakably Stanley’s. Stanford lets out a relieved breath and closes the remainder of the distance, easing slowly into the room through the half open door.

He’s greeted to the heartwarming sight of Stanley Pines, his brother, his twin, sitting up in his borrowed bed, grinning like a Cheshire and eagerly tucking into a tray of food. His brown eyes are clear and lucid, and there’s a healthy pink to his skin again, rather than that dreadful pale-flush of fever. His movements are strong and animated, more like Stanley than Ford has seen him in nearly a week.

Beside Stan, sitting in the chair Ford had occupied for several long, worrisome nights, is Embla. In all her kind, sincere, genuine glory. Her ice blue eyes glow in merriment as she laughs along with Stan, likely at something the aging conman had said. Stanley has always been quite the charmer. She seems at ease, not so much as a hair out of place, and there’s a deep satisfaction at seeing her and Stanley getting along so well.

Relieved beyond measure, Ford slumps slightly against the door frame, bumping the door itself with his shoulder on accident. It shifts, releasing a long creak in betrayal of his presence.

Stan glances up, his face lighting up even brighter the moment he catches sight of Ford loitering in the entrance. Mouth full of food, he whoops, waving for Ford to come in.

“Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living! Mornin’, Sixer! Or—Well, afternoon, I guess.”

Ah. Well, that confirms that he had slept longer than he had anticipated. Stanford tries not to feel displeased with himself, a notoriously early riser.

“Good—” Ford’s throat burns unpleasantly, and he has to clear it into his fist before trying once more. “G-Good afternoon.”

Now that he’s aware of the time, Ford can see it. Through the window in Stan’s room he gains a better view of the sky outside, dark with stormy clouds and a persistent fog. It hides the sun, limiting it to a hazy patch of light trailing toward the west. Mist clings to the glass panes, pressing in like a living thing, close and personal. From what Ford has been able to track during their brief stay, that is more or less the norm on this forlorn little island.

But, despite the somewhat dull weather and antique surroundings, Stan manages to maintain a peppy attitude, broadcasting his cheer like a lighthouse on a craggy peak.

Embla starts to rise from her seat, but Ford quickly gestures for her to remain where she is. He gives her a shy, tired smile before returning his focus to Stan.

“It’s good to see you awake and lucid again,” Ford offers, trying not to sound as shakily grateful as he feels. “It was pretty touch and go, for a time. How are you feeling?”

Stan smiles from the relative comfort of his bed. The tray on his lap balances both a mug and a plate, both of which are too empty to truly identify what he consumed, but proves he obviously enjoyed it.

“Not bad, all things considered.” Stanley gives Ford a teasing, narrow-eyed look. “You, on the other hand, look like shit.”

Ford blinks, before letting his worried expression morph into an unimpressed, deadpan glance. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Stan chuckles. “No, but seriously, you okay? You wanna come sit down?”

“It’s nothing moving about won’t fix,” Ford dismisses, finally stepping fully into the room. He ignores his body aches and cold-related symptoms, far more concerned with his brother. “While I am glad to find you doing better, surely you’re still feeling a bit under the weather. Rate your pain for me?”

“Oh my god, really—”

“Stanley.”

Stan huffs, sending Embla a ‘see what I have to deal with’ look, before glaring at Ford. “Fine. I’m at a…five maybe? Leg smarts, that’s the most of it. Body and joints ache. Which sucks when paired with my usual arthritis, thanks for asking.”

“And your memory?” Ford presses, still on edge.

Stan must sense his anxiety, because his expression softens a little and the sass disappears from his voice, turning more reassuring.

“All there. As much as can be expected from a guy who just survived a fever of a hundred and three or whatever.” Stanley gently raps his knuckles against the side of his head. “Stan Pines is all here. In the slightly bruised but undefeated flesh.”

Ford sighs, mind finally starting to settle. “Good, that’s…wonderful, actually. Perhaps with an adjustment to your pain medication we can bring that rating down further. All in all, I’m rather pleasantly surprised. You’ve made a lot of progress in just a single night.”

Stanley’s cheeky expression falters, and he shares a not-so-discreet glance with their host. “Single night…Right. Yup. Absolutely.”

For a professional conman, Stan can be an exceptionally poor liar at times. Ford feels his chest tighten as dread bleeds back into his stomach. “Stanley? Stan, what do you mean by—”

Stan winces and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeaaah, so, about that. Try not to freak, but, uh. It’s actually been…about a day and a half…since you went to go lay down.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in, Ford blinking comically before he gives an indignant squawk. “I—What?!”

“—Oh, Moses, here we go—”

“I slept for an entire day?!”

That can’t be right. Surely, Stan is joking. Because that would mean Ford has wasted so much time—squandered precious hours he could have spent looking for ways to contact the children, or planned repairs for the boat. Not to mention that, if it were true, Ford had been away from his ill brother’s side for at least thirty-six hours.

“An entire day?!”

“And a half,” Stanley adds, unhelpfully.

“Wha—I—” He’s overreacting. He knows he’s overreacting, but. Butbutbut. “Why wasn’t I woken up?!”

“You were resting so peacefully. We did not have the heart to wake you,” Embla implores, a little desperately. “I am sorry, Stanford…”

She looks startled, perhaps a little uneasy. And Ford knows she’s trying to justify his need to tend to his exhausted state, but still. A day and a half? A day and a half? That was—That was unacceptable.

“Now, now, no need to apologize, you did nothing wrong,” Stanley assures the woman, before sending Ford a disapproving scowl. “The dumb-dumb needed it.”

“I—”

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” Stanley asserts. He reaches to the side, stretching his arm out over the edge of the mattress, and manages to snag Ford’s wrist, giving him a sharp and surprisingly strong tug. The scientist stumbles, ending up sitting on the bedside. Stan gives him a very stern glance.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about Stanford, Emmy. He’s not mad, just a little shook up. He never did like sleeping too long—thinks it’s a waste of time.”

Stanley knows him too well.

“And you,” his brother seconds, giving Ford a light slap on the arm. “Stop thinking so hard, you’ll sprain a brain cell. From what I was told, you were real strung out after my fever finally broke. Putting me first, like you always do, even when that means suffering yourself. Honestly, Sixer, you never change.”

“Stanley, I—“

“Nope! Sounds to me like you needed the rest, so.” He shrugs. “Deal with it.”

“Stanley, I can’t just ‘deal with it’ when I’ve—”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

“Because you think you could’a gotten a million and one things done while you were dead on your feet? Tch. Not likely.” Stan sighs. “Look, I get it. But what’s done is done. So stop freaking out over something trivial and let’s work with what we got. Okay? Okay.”

Ford slumps, defeated by his illogical brother’s surprisingly sound logic. “…Very well.”

“Great!” Stan claps his hands together and rubs them eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. “So, you gonna just sit there and watch me eat like an ol’ buzzard, or you gonna come and have a bite? Emmy made this up special just for us.”

Ford still hesitates, though he tilts his head in question. “…Emmy?”

“Short for Embla,” Stan beams, sending the woman sitting beside his bed a proud smile.

“It is a nick-name,” Embla intones sagely, accent thick and broken over the obviously unfamiliar word. “Shall I bring you a tray of your own, Stanford? Stanley has eaten most of his.”

“I—”

“The next words out of that brainiac mouth of yours better be ‘yes, ma’am’, or I’ll boot ya right back to bed, bad leg be damned.” Stan gives his brother a threatening glare. “I know you haven’t eaten nearly enough the last few days, mostly on account of me.”

“Stanley—”

“Ah bah bah! Want to make your ol’ injured twin happy? Shut up, sit down, and shove food in yer face.”

Ford huffs, a mix of fondness and annoyance. Turning back to Embla, he repeats robotically. “Yes, ma’am.” Then, softer, gentler. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Embla beams, standing from her chair and heading for the door. She stalls at Ford’s side, reaching out a hand to lay it on the scientist’s shoulder, just barely touching. “I will bring some more jam and butter as well. I shall be back in a moment. Please, sit down on the chair and rest, my friend.”

Ford smiles back, tired, and a little apologetic. “Thank you. And I apologize, I didn’t mean to sound angry, before.”

“It is alright,” she forgives, oh so quickly. “I am glad to see you up and moving again. Still, please sit. I will return in a few moments.”

She steps away and moves out of sight, disappearing with a flutter of home woven fabric and the delicate scuff of shoe-laden feet.

Stan watches Embla go, shaking his head in appreciation. “What a doll. If I’d married her instead of Marilyn, I might actually have been hitched longer than twenty-four hours.”

“Mm,” Ford acknowledges distantly.

Stan notices his brother’s gaze lingers on the now closed door for a few extra moments, before he rises and moves around the contour of the bed to sit in the chair Embla had vacated. He settles down with a valiantly concealed wince and a soft grunt, but Stan’s on to him.

“Sore, huh?”

Stanford’s wince turns to a grimace. “Just some slight joint stiffness, nothing major.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Says the guy who looks like he might pass out on the floor despite sleeping for a full day and a half.”

Ford groans, running a hand down his pale face. “Don’t remind me.” He sighs, giving in. “I believe I may have contracted a mild case of nasopharyngitis, that’s all.”

“A case of what-now?”

As expected, Ford can’t help but chuckle. “The common cold, Stanley.”

Ah. Well. Stan doesn’t doubt it, with how Ford looks. His clothes are all ruffled and his eyes are still bleary from sleep. Shadows hammock beneath red rimmed peepers, puffy from sickness. He’d stumbled his way into the spare bedroom of the cottage like a wind blown owl late for a lecture, wrinkled and tousled. It’d be funny if he didn’t look so out of it. The guy could barely even walk straight, having shoulder checked the door frame on his way in and not even noticing. He’s pale, and a little thinner than Stan last remembers him being. Proof he hasn’t been sticking to any sort of normal sleep schedule or meal plan long enough for it to show. Stan surmises it’ll take a good two or three more nights of proper sleep to chase away the exhaustion clinging to Ford’s frame.

Stanley feels a pierce of guilt and gratitude, a dizzying mix, which he quickly shoves down deep inside himself to deal with later.

“Mm,” he says, unimpressed. “Don’t look so common to me.”

Stanford huffs, letting his hand drop to his lap. “You wouldn’t know the difference between Arcavian Flu and Boreem Virus if you were hit in the head with a medical textbook.”

“Excuse you, I know all about your nasal-far-ignite-us, and raise you a dose or two of DayQuil.”

Ford’s shoulders sag, worn. “If only.”

Stan feels his heart ache, all teasing leaving his tone as genuine worry sets in. “Really, Sixer, I know you hate that you were asleep for so long, but if you’re feeling like crap you can always lay back down for a little longer. Rest up until you’re better.”

“No…No, I really can’t. There’s far too much to be done.” At Stan’s look of disapproval, Ford relents. “I realize I’m not…fully capable of solving all our problems currently—”

“Good, because if you did, I’d call you delusional.”

“But,” Ford stresses, “I do believe that I can, at the very least, do something to better our situation. I admit I’m feeling a little under the weather, but it’s just a cold. I’ve had far worse.”

“Forgive me if that isn’t exactly reassuring,” Stanley growls. “Ugh. Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I can stop you when I’m laid up like this.” He gestures to the lump beneath the quilts that he knows to be his injured leg. Then he raises a stern finger. “But you’re gonna tackle one thing at a time. None of your usual work-until-you-drop nonsense. And you’re gonna sleep at night. And eat three meals a day. Got it?”

“But—”

“Got it?”

Ford folds like a house of cards, sighing. “Got it.”

“Good.” Stan eases back to rest against the headboard and pillows again. He feels a little out of breath, his lungs still sore and weak from his bout of pneumonia. “So, with that decided. What you gonna try for first?”

Ford takes a moment to consider. He stares down at his fingers in his lap, lost in thought for the moment. Stan doesn’t rush him. He, better than anyone, understands Ford’s mental process. He can wait while his brother sorts his thoughts.

“I believe I mentioned before,” Ford begins, “during one of your more lucid moments, that I thought the first thing to do would be to find a way to contact the children. I still hold that opinion.”

“Mm, yeah, okay. I think I sort’a remember you saying that. And I agree. Poor kids are probably worried sick. It’s been, like, what? A week since we went radio silent?”

“Precisely,” Ford nods. “The sooner we can allay their fears, the better. There may be a radio or proper telephone in the nearby village. Sorgarströndin, I believe Miss Embla said it was called.”

“Yikes, that’s a mouthful.”

“Indeed.”

Stan sets his empty breakfast tray to the side, brushing any crumbs from his nightshirt and quilt. “Okay, so, that’s, what? A few miles away, or…?”

“A little less than a mile, actually. The path that runs by this cottage goes on along the bluffs, I’m told. If followed, it will lead to the town.”

“Swell.” Stan crosses his arms over his chest, knowing the answer even as he asks the question. “And when were you thinking of taking this leisurely little stroll?”

If Ford detects the obvious disapproval in Stan’s voice, he doesn’t let on. He still looks pale and wilted, sick, but there’s that familiar gleam of stubborn excitement and determination in his eyes.

“Today, if possible,” he says, without hesitation. “I see no reason to wait any longer. I was previously occupied with attending to you during the worst of your illness. Now that you seem to be on the mend, I will feel less anxious about leaving you for any given length of time to try and solve our situation.”

“Yeah, but now you’re sick. So.” Stan frowns. “Could you at least wait for a day that doesn’t look like it’s gonna monsoon on us any minute?”

Even from his place in bed, Stan can see out the window at his back in his peripheral. Enough to see the fog and mist, and those dark, stormy clouds. There’s a draft too, seeping in from the window frame. What isn’t immediately chased away by the warmth of the room’s fireplace is like an icy tongue on the back of Stan’s neck. Every now and then it makes him shiver. Outside, it must be terribly damp and cold.

Ford huffs, giving the outdoors little more than a displeased glance. “My observations of this island’s weather patterns mostly consist of days much like this one. The last sunny day I can recall is the day we arrived.”

“Huh. The time of year?”

“Possibly. According to Miss Embla, that’s more or less the norm.” He pauses, hesitating for the first time in their conversation. Ford looks lost in thought, words coming out slow and uncertain. “Though, there…may be other factors at work.”

And that catches Stan’s attention, because, yes. Thank you. There is something very much strange about this cottage, much less the surrounding island. And if Ford can sense that, maybe Stanley isn’t losing his mind after all. He thinks back to the little, transparent child, folded up and crying in the corner of his room. It leaves him feeling uneasy.

“Oh?” Stan presses, trying not to sound too eager to have his suspicions confirmed. “Such as?”

“I have…noticed some things. Oddities. Occurrences that don’t quite line up. Timeline inaccuracies, the weather, the fog, the state of some aspects of this home…Nothing sinister, or even outright wrong, but…”

“Things just feel off,” Stan finishes.

“Exactly.” Ford tilts his head, eyes meeting Stan’s in sudden, sharp curiosity. “Have you…?”

Stan gives his brother a wan grin. “I haven’t been awake long, but yeah. This place is kinda weird. Getting anomaly vibes?”

“Maybe. Something does seem amiss.”

“Yeah. Heh. Wait ‘til I tell you just how weird I’ve seen it get.”

And there he is, the magnet to the unexplained that Stan knows as Stanford Filbrick Pines, his twin brother. Ford’s gaze sharpens even further like a fox on the hunt. Interest chases away some of that hazy exhaustion from his eyes, and every line of his body perks up.

“What do you m—”

“Here we are!”

The strong, cheery voice of Embla returning makes both Pines flinch. The conversation instantly cuts off, both wordlessly deciding that it isn’t one they’d like to continue with a spectator. Ford worries at the hem of his sleeve, sending Stan a quick nod, one that Stan gives in response a little more slowly.

They’ll talk more later.

Embla uses her hip to carefully nudge open the bedroom door, sweeping back in with all the grace of an angel. In her arms she holds yet another tray of breakfast—or, lunch, really, piping hot and smelling heavenly. She pauses as she enters, doubtless sensing the slight tension in the air, but Stanley is quick to slap on a grin and call out in a boisterous greeting.

“There she is! Bring that good stuff right over here, Emmy, that’s it. You are gonna love this, Ford. Wait ‘til you see.”

Stanford holds his hands up in a placating gesture, eyes full of apology even as Embla moves to settle the tray on the mattress in front of him. “I…I’m really not all that hungry. I can do my best, but I doubt I can manage all of—” He cuts himself off, eyes widening. “Is that…?”

“Yup!” Stan chirps, popping the ‘p’. “Pancakes, done the ol’ New Jersey style, just like Ma used to make. Or, well, as close to it as our dear girl here could manage.”

It’s a treat from their days in Glass Shards Beach, when life was simpler, and there was gritty sand between their toes and salt in their hair, and summer vacation was a time for dreams and adventures. A time when Pa was busier in the shop, less likely to come up to the apartment early and spoil nights in front of the TV watching monster movies. A time when Ma was all done with her calls earlier in the day, so she’d start later in the morning and always have time to make a proper breakfast. God, how could a time of their lives be filled simultaneously with so much fond nostalgia and yet so much childhood dread.

Ford looks gobsmacked. “But…how?”

“Stanley told me stories of when you were children,” Embla explains sweetly. “He talked of these round, flat cakes with such fondness and care, I felt I should try my hand at the recipe.”

“Which I,” Stan adds, gleefully, “so generously provided. Because, eh, well, I’ve gotten pretty good at making ‘em over the years, but they never really had that crucial, feminine touch.” He grins, nodding to Ford’s tray. “Turns out that makes all th’ difference. No syrup, of course, but some jam and butter do the trick just as well.”

“That’s…”

Ford blinks repeatedly, and for a moment Stan wonders if his twin is about to get all emotional over some stupid substitute pancakes. But Ford swallows, and sends their host a soft expression Stan’s not sure he’s ever seen on his brother’s face before. It’s soft, and grateful, and just a little bit shy. If Stan didn’t know better, he’d say his brother was—

Oh…

Huh.

“That’s marvelous,” Ford finally manages, and he pulls the tray a little closer to himself. He servays it like it’s a gift from the edge of the universe. “Thank you, Miss Embla.”

“You are very welcome, Stanford.”

Huh. Well, shit.

Embla turns to Stan, gesturing with delicate, slim fingers at his near-empty tray. “Are you finished, Stanley? I can take that for you.”

“Ah.” Stan shakes his head, dislodging his thoughts, before handing over his tray with a warm smile of his own. “Yeah, thanks. Gee, this place has the best service, Sixer. Full five out of five stars.”

Their hostess chuckles, though Stan is fairly sure she doesn’t get his little joke. Still, she seems to find just about anything he says amusing, and Stan’s never been one to turn down an easy crowd. Even if it’s a crowd of one. He gives her a grin and a wiggle of his eyebrows, before her next words wipe the smile right off his face.

“Are you feeling any better from your fall, Stanley?”

Ford immediately stiffens, forkful of pancake forgotten halfway to his mouth as his eyes snap to Stan. “Fall?” he repeats sharply.

Dammit. Stan should have articulated more clearly to Embla that he didn’t want Ford knowing about that. In all honesty, he’s still a bit sore from the tumble he took to the unforgiving floorboards, but that holds nothing to the embarrassment he feels for it having happened at all. Stan feels his face heat under Ford’s sudden, razor-edged attention.

“I—Uh. Yes. Yes, I’m feeling much better.” He chokes out as sincere a gratitude as he can manage. “Thank you.”

Embla, none the wiser to the target she’s just painted on Stan’s back, smiles sweetly, takes the empty tray, and once again leaves the room. Abandoning Stanley Pines to the fate of his overprotective brother, who’s gaze he can already feel burning a hole in the side of his head.

Stan gives a tired sigh. “Go ahead, before you blow a gasket or somethin’.”

“A fall?” Ford hisses without hesitation. “When? Recently? How bad? Never mind, let me look for myself—”

“Uh, no, will you—Will you stop! Sheesh!” To Stan’s relief, Ford listens, pausing in his attempt to stand and search Stan over for wounds. “It wasn’t that bad a fall. Just sort of…flopped to the floor like a sack o’ flour. A few bruises at most. Relax.”

“You tried to get out of bed,” Ford accuses, a bit poutingly.

Stan nods slowly, relenting. “I did. But it was because I…saw something.”

Ford blinks, anger instantly exchanged for curiosity. “Saw something?”

“Yeah. Something…” Stan pauses. Considers. “You know what? Let’s just keep it at that for now.”

“Stanley—”

“I know, I know, but look. You’ve got enough on your mind with the boat, and trying to reach the kids. You focus on that, and I’ll look into some of the weird goings on around here. Maybe we’re just a couple of old men with anomalies on the brain…Or maybe there’s something happening here.”

Ford sits back in his chair a little bit heavily, arms crossing in agitation. Twelve PhDs and he still frets like a child. “I don’t want you moving from that bed. Not until you’ve recovered sufficiently.”

Because he is also a child at heart, Stan mirrors his twin’s pose, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. “Agreed. And I won’t. I can do some digging without so much as sticking a toe out from under these sheets.”

Ford narrows his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I know you will.”

They hold each other’s hard gazes for a moment before Ford gives an amused huff and shakes his head. “Fine. Though you know my insatiable curiosity will suffer, not knowing what it was you saw.”

Stan smirks, letting his arms and shoulders fall loose again. “Yeah. But I’ll tell ya, soon. Once I’m a little more sure what I saw myself.”

Ford nods, relenting. And that’s the end of it, for now. They wait in comfortable silence until Embla returns again, the younger woman carrying a glass of water and some more of those pain meds Stan’s been on since he woke up. He takes them wordlessly, without any of his usual fuss, and sets his half empty glass on the bedside table for later. He tunes back in to Ford and Embla talking, his brother already having made his plans to go into town known.

“—said it wasn’t that long of a walk, and I’m feeling a bit restless. The trip will do me good. Do you suggest I look for anyone specific in town who may be of help for Stan and my situation?”

Embla tilts her head in thought. She doesn’t look particularly pleased with Ford’s decision, but she’s not putting up any argument. “We have a man, his name is Gunnar Aronson. He works metal, and sells pieces he finds. He may be able to help you with some of the repairs needed for your boat.”

Ford perks up considerably. “Excellent. Yes, that sounds very helpful. I’m sure his shop is open on a Friday.”

Embla nods. “Yes. Would you perhaps…permit me to join you? Gunnar can be a rather…I do not know the word in English. He has sharp feelings toward strangers. He finds them…" She struggles for a translation, but gives up with a weak gesture. “…ótraust.”

“Ah.” Ford considers. “Well, I suppose having someone along who he recognizes and trusts would be an asset.” Ford turns to Stan. “Will you be alright, with both of us gone for a few hours?”

Stan huffs. “What am I, a baby? Get outta here an’ give me a bit of a break from all your mother-henning.” He gives Embla a wink, just to ensure she knows he’s kidding. If her bright smile means anything, he’s succeeded. “Besides, Ford needs someone to keep him out of trouble, and I think you’re just the woman to do it.”

Ford chokes, then clears his throat, and Stan could swear his twin brother is flushing the slightest bit. “I…Yes. I suppose I do. It will take me a few moments to get ready, does leaving in an hour sound acceptable?”

Embla smiles. “It does. I also will get ready. Stanley, I will make you a snack and leave it in the kitchen for mamma to give you later. I expect that we will be gone for most of the afternoon.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

“You are very welcome.”

She gives a nod, and sends Ford another smile, before she heads out of the room once more. A silence stretches, and Stan waits the appropriate amount of time before he grunts, sending Ford a very suggestive smirk.

“Is it me, or is it getting a little hot in here?”

Ford’s glare is hilarious. “Stanley, you are insufferable.”

Stan laughs, wincing as it jostles his hurts. “Eheh! Ugh…Yeah, well, can’t say as I blame you. She’s a pretty little thing."

“Whatever you’re implying, I can assure you that it’s meaning is lost on me.”

“I’ll say.”

“Stanley.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan waves a hand dismissively, still amused. “Go get ready for your date, you emotionally constipated two-by-four.”

“It’s—It’s not a date!” Ford squeaks, indignant and just a bit too panicked. He rises from his chair, back ramrod straight and legs stiff, and marches himself right out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

Stan just laughs.