Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hunger carves a pit inside Ford’s abdomen. It feels bottomless, his stomach cramping painfully around nothing the longer it goes without sustenance. The pain gets a little worse every single day, a moaning, groaning, painful thing that won’t let Ford forget the fact he underestimated his food supply.

He hasn’t eaten in days. His blood bag supply has since long run out, leaving him prowling for scraps. He refused to let him or his brother stop off on any detours on their journey to a market, knowing he wouldn’t have the strength to explore, let alone hunt for more blood.

He knows his insistence to continue moving and not explore or document uncharted lands is freaking his brother out, garnering long looks when he thinks Ford isn’t looking. Somehow, explaining his faults and admitting that he overestimated himself and underestimated his blood supply is worse than starving.

He knows they should be more open with each other — honest. But if he can just make it a few more days he knows this can just go down in Ford’s memory. In a perfect world, Stanley would never find out.

His brother isn’t stupid, though. Ford knows he’s noticed things. The pallor of Ford’s skin, sickly and gaunt in a way even a vampire’s shouldn’t be. His exhaustion has been commented on in a roundabout way, asking why he’s sitting around like a lug.

To be known so fully is terrifying, and so Ford tries to pull away.

Stanley makes it very hard. He’s possessive in a way Ford understands, wanting to sink in his claws and teeth and never let go of what he now has in his grasp. Ford understands, feels that possession in his own way, but he can’t just let go of his tried and true method of isolating himself — a sick animal trying to find somewhere warm and safe to die.

Not that he actively wants to die anymore. He kills and eats fish when he can, when his hands don’t shake so badly that he can’t hold a fishing rod. He grabs the necks of birds that fly too close, perched on the railing of their ship.

But these are small animals, and Ford’s rising appetite isn’t pleased with the morsels he’s offered. He knows he won’t lose control on Stanley, he just cannot allow that, but it’s certainly safer if his brother stays away.

Not that he really wants to explain anything right now, so keeping Stanley away from him is in his best interest anyway.

They’re still a week away from port, and his growing sluggishness has made it nearly impossible to catch any animals. He’s too loud, and sneaking up behind perched birds is no longer resulting in any food. Fish have less blood, so he’d have to eat a barrel full of them in order to even count as one course meal.

Stanley notices his listlessness, asking him what’s wrong in that gentle way of his, keen eyes watching Ford intently. It’s a strange feeling, feeling so cut open and easy to see through, and it just makes Ford want to hide more.

He weakly explains away his current state, saying he’s just been rather busy documenting their travels. That feeding himself hasn’t quite been at the forefront of his mind.

Stanley doesn’t look particularly convinced — Ford hasn’t picked up his journal to properly write on in days — but he does clap Ford on the back, telling him to take care of himself. It feels like Ford dodged a bullet when Stan doesn’t push, even if he knows, realistically, he’s simply putting off the inevitable.

If Ford could take care of himself, he absolutely would. As it is, he’s stretched thin, desperately trying to hang on to his sanity, to convince himself he can make it another week even if he can feel his body breaking down underneath its weight.

It’s evening, twilight. The sun, just over the horizon, has dipped beneath the sea. The last dregs of purple sunlight in the process of disappearing, the moon hanging like a singular eyeball in the sky. There are still birds out, and the Stan o’ War II has been anchored for the night. Ford’s belly aches at the thought of stopping, but in fear of bringing attention to himself, he says nothing.

The ship sways, rocked by the gentle waves of the ocean, rather calm tonight. No storms are on the horizon, just open sky and twinkling stars. Above, just eastward, is an especially bright star; Jupiter. A familiar planet from a familiar galaxy he had grown to miss during his time spent in the portal. He likes to look out for the Milky Way's planets. It always feels more personable to see them hanging in the sky, glimmering like cat eyes. A passing friend.

He sighs into the cool air, appreciating the quiet for what it is. The cold helps him ignore the grumbling of his empty belly; a skin-surface sensation that helps him, mostly, ignore his body’s needs.

But that’s exactly why he’s out here — to sate his body’s needs.

He makes slow, quiet, creeping rounds along the deck, the sea itself doing great at covering up his footfalls and the creaking of floorboards. She likes to sing, but Ford knows he’s in no danger of stumbling through rotted wood.

He’s in greater danger due to his own clumsiness and poor decisions, if anything. The emptiness in his body is a testament to this.

It takes him a few rounds around the ship before he spots anything that he can feed from. A seagull, out a little later than it should be, perched on the railing of the bow of the ship. It’s busy preening itself, white feathers whipping around due to the chilly, salt-soaked wind.

Prey.

Ford locks onto it, a little worse at his stalking due to the amount of shaking his body has taken on. He hunches downwards, putting his all into making his footsteps as quiet as possible.

The bird itself isn’t the smartest — when Ford does make a rather loud noise the seagull pauses, then simply resumes its preening, beak buried within its feathers. Ford pauses, quietly huffing an exasperated breath to the side, adding to the wind billowing around both him and the bird.

He ends up just going for it. Once close enough to lunge, Ford does just that.

He kills it fast and brutally the second his hands fall upon the warm body of the seagull. He barely feels in control of his own actions. Desperation and ravenous hunger takes the forefront of his brain, forcing him to act on auto pilot with food so close at hand.

The seagull barely manages a surprised squawk before Ford’s teeth are upon its throat and its jugular has been ripped out.

It goes limp in his hands, cradled by desperate, clawed fingers, pressing the warmth of the new wound firmly to his lips. Ford’s legs refuse to hold him, and so he allows them to carry him to the ground, knelt on the hard wood, desperately trying to suck as much life as he can out of the small thing.

It’s warm and thin — watery. It pours down his throat and settles lightly in his body, warmth seeping from his abdomen and into other parts of his limbs. The seagull’s blood, being used as his own life-force.

There’s already not enough blood in such a small body, and adding thin blood into the equation makes for a very bad meal. This is the best he’s going to get, however, and he knows that. Every droplet that spills down the side of his mouth physically pains him, so clumsy and desperate to feed that he ends up losing a lot more of the blood than he’s gaining.

It’s always messy to feed from a live vessel, but most of the mess he’s making is certainly his fault.

By the end, there’s a sizeable pool of blood resting on the hardwood. He’s knelt in it, his pants becoming soaked from the liquid. It’s lost its warmth by the time it soaks his clothes, leaving him feeling more like he pissed his pants rather than anything pleasant.

Slowly, the gush of blood Ford had been receiving slows down. He has to squeeze at the poor body of the bird in a desperate bid to get out just one last drop, little bones breaking inside its body at his strength.

He has to intermittently spit out wads of feathers before he latches back onto the neck wound, curling over himself with squeezed eyes. There’s blood over his face and hands, he can feel it caking on his skin.

He’s so desperate in fully bleeding the poor animal that he barely finds himself caring about the mess all over the deck or approaching footsteps. He knows Stanley doesn’t usually follow him out here, knowing sometimes he needs a break from human interaction, but today Ford left without saying anything which is often a bad sign.

As such, he’s not on the lookout for Stanley, nor is he expecting to hear any footsteps. He registers the odd rhythmic thudding far too late.

“Stanford?” A familiar, gruff voice rings out, a little higher-pitched with its confusion.

Ford jerks, eyes widening, looking up with the bird still attached to his mouth. Stanley stands on the deck, staring at him with his own wide, surprised eyes, ticking side to side slightly to take in the entire gruesome scene he had walked in on. He doesn’t look horrified, per se, but Ford recognizes the fact Stanley is one wrong move away from assuming Ford has succumbed to his instincts.

Ford realizes how horrifying this must look. Stanley’s brother, covered and kneeling in a pool of blood, the crumpled body of a bird hanging from his mouth. He spits it from his lips immediately, letting it hit the deck with a thud.

“Stan-” he tries to speak up with a tremulous, placating tone, sitting back on his heels. The blood squeaks underneath him as he moves, prompting a wince from the vampire. His explanation is cut off by Stanley shoving his hands onto his hips, soft lines of a frown etching into his face.

“You got blood on my deck!” He laments, the chosen topic to complain about shocking Ford into silence. “Do ya even know how bad blood stains wood, Poindexter?”

Ford, shocked into silence, glances down at the pool he’s knelt within, then slowly back up to Stanley. A beat passes that he silently offers to let Stanley use to complain about something else, but he’s only met with a raised, bushy brow, an almost-pout settling across Stanley’s features.

“I, um… my apologies?” Ford manages after a moment, having expected Stanley to be mad about something else. “I didn’t- I’ll clean it. O- Of course.”

Ford neatly folds his hands in his lap with open anxiety, covering one with the other, fiddling with the six fingers of his right hand. A nervous habit, though one Stanley likes more than Ford nibbling at the keratin of his nails. Sometimes he reaches where his nail meets nail bed, and Stanley really doesn’t like that.

Not that he really does either, it just sort of happens without his knowledge. Right up until there’s stinging pain in his fingers and there’s his own blood in his teeth. Bitter and unpleasant.

Stanley falls silent, but his gaze shows that he’s mulling over the situation. Ford barely represses a wince as his brother’s heavy gaze slides to the crumpled, dry bird body, then to the pool of blood, and finally back to Ford himself. Stanley’s gaze lingers, critically eyeing his hunched body.

Ford drops his eyes, unable to stomach the disgust that, while he can’t yet see it, is surely there. He’s never truly gotten over the shame he feels over his biological demands to kill things just to feed. Even if his brother has voiced his opinion on preferring his brother alive over shrivelled and dead, Ford still hates himself for creating such a situation.

He tries to keep it away from Stanley, as a result. Drinking in his room, or hidden in a darker corner where Stanley isn’t likely to find him. He hates the animal he sees in the mirror; his brother doesn’t need to be bothered by it, too.

“Don’t ya have any more blood bags?” Stan asks, dragging Ford forcibly out of his thoughts and into the conversation. He’s visibly keeping distance from Ford, though that might be more because of the creeping pool of blood rather than genuine fear. “Did you just, what, feel the need to hunt a bird down?”

He chuckles at the absurdity of his question, trying to use laughter to lessen the possible blow of his words. There’s a strained quality to the lines of his face, but he’s trying to be friendly.

And yet Ford can do nothing but shamefully stare at the floorboards, staring at his reflection mirrored within the blood below. He doesn’t answer outright, but his responding, deafening silence is an answer in its own right.

“Stanford,” Stanley says harshly, prompting a wince from Ford who’s struggling to his feet. Blood drips from his soaked knees. “You do have some blood bags left, right?”

“I… I, uh,” Ford mumbles, looking down at his clasped hands, his belly already growling. The bird barely kept him sated for five minutes. He works his jaw in thought, but he knows even if he says he has enough blood bags then Stanley will make him prove the claim. He’s stuck.

He sighs, finally shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t.”

Stanley is in his space then, paying no heed to the blood soaking his own shoes as he takes to raising his voice with palpable anger. “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me!?”

Ford opens his mouth, but he’s given no opportunity to defend himself, his brother on a roll.

“We’re still a week away from port, and you’re telling me you’ve been starving? Ford!”

“I didn’t- I didn’t want to bother you,” Ford protests weakly, feeling young all over again and making stupid decisions. “I thought I’d be fine, but—”

Stanley steps a little further into his personal space, close enough that Ford visibly wobbles, unsure whether to move backwards or stay in one place. Hands reach out, grabbing him gently by blood-caked cheeks, paying no mind to dirtying his own calloused palms. His hands are warm and gentle, cradling Ford’s cheeks firmly enough so that he can’t pull away. They’re squished together, tugged upright to let Stan stare meaningfully into his eyes, desperation there that Ford blanches at seeing.

“You are my brother,” Stan snarls into his face with heartfelt intent, holding him tight by his cheeks to ensure he can’t slip away. “You are never a bother. Especially when it comes to your health. Do you hear me, Stanford Pines?”

The words ring in Ford’s brain, pinging around his cranium like a screensaver. No matter how many times his brother says it, it will always take him off-guard that his brother loves him despite everything.

He’ll need to hear it again in a few weeks time, but, for now, this is enough.

His shoulders hike up to his ears, effectively cowed.

“Okay,” Ford says quietly, nodding the best he can with Stan’s hands on his face. The tension in his shoulders slips away for the most part with the acknowledgement, but they remain hiked up, knowing he’s not out of the woods quite yet.

Stanley doesn’t look particularly convinced, but he is obviously satisfied by Ford’s answer. He nods in return, releasing Ford’s cheeks to face the cold, salt-spray wind alone once more. He steps away, blood droplets falling from his moving boots, though he doesn’t even seem to have noticed.

His attention remains focused on Ford, making him squirm. He shuffles about, unsettled under Stan’s searching gaze, obviously thinking tremendously hard on the subject. Before he can swallow his anxiety and inquire, Stan answers.

“We need to find a blood source for you,” Stanley hums, an arm crossed across his chest, the other’s elbow resting upon it to scratch at his stubbled chin. It sounds a little distant, like he’s talking to himself more than he is to Ford, though his words are loud enough to be audible.

Stanford clears his throat, forcing himself to say something with his zipper-locked throat, trying not to let himself lock up after being reminded that he’s cared for.

“Do… do you have any ideas?” He asks, because Stan is smart too, because Stan sometimes has solutions that Ford himself would never have thought of. It’s worth asking, and Ford is trying to get better at bouncing ideas off of other people. He’s not alone anymore, he has to remember that.

His younger brother hums, rubbing at his chin that he’s cradling. He smears a little blood across the skin, something Ford pointedly ignores. “Is werewolf blood filling enough?” Stanley asks, regarding Ford curiously.

Ford blinks, a little surprised by the oddly specific question.

“Well, yes,” Ford says, foregoing explaining the logistics of such a thing more or less because he’s not feeling great. There’s a headache beginning to mine into his skull, and thoughts are already hard enough. “But I don’t know where you expect us to find a werewolf in the middle of the sea—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, blinking blankly at his brother who’s started sporting a knowing little grin. The grin is not appreciated.

“Oh!” Ford says, momentarily excited before the true meaning of the words set in. “Oh. You mean you,” Ford stresses, his brows furrowing together to create a bushy unibrow of horror. “Absolutely not, Stanley. I will not hurt you like that just to— to feed myself. That is out of the question.”

To drive in his point, Ford takes a wary step backwards as though Stanley could force him to drink from him. He finds himself terrified of himself, of his abilities, within seconds. Of what he could do to his brother.

Stanley doesn’t look surprised in the least by Ford’s reaction, just raising an unamused brow at Ford’s hunched stance.

“Yer dyin’, numbnuts,” Stan points out, like that gives Ford an excuse to drink from his brother. “You don’t really have a choice.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ford argues, shaking his head vehemently. Under no circumstance will he hurt Stan again. Not willing, not unwilling.

It’s not happening.

Stan seems to realize this, visibly shifting gears.

“You would never,” Stanley says sternly, dragging Ford’s panicking and diverted attention back up to his eyes. “Besides, ain’t I lettin’ you? Surely that makes it okay.”

“It— it doesn’t!” Ford yelps, his voice raising with his fear. He’s wild-eyed, staring at Stanley warily, teetering back and forth on unsteady, shaking legs. “Stanley, I don’t want to.”

“‘N I don’t want you to die,” Stanley replies evenly. “So get your ass over here.”

Ford doesn’t move, his panic slowly rising to unmanageable levels as he glances around the dimly lit deck of their ship. There’s nowhere he can go, however. Not with them anchored in the middle of the ocean, the nearest island too far to swim to despite being visible on the horizon.

He gnaws at his bottom lip, digging teeth into plump flesh as he tries to figure out a way out of this situation. His hands wring together, sliding against each other with the blood coating his hands making it a slick glide.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to hurt Stanley, he didn’t want to get caught, he doesn’t want to be dangerous. But he knows if he doesn’t do it right now, while he hasn’t been driven mad with hunger and instincts, then he’ll really hurt Stan.

He’s trapped.

He’s fit to work himself into a panic, heart thundering inside his ribcage like a roaring stampede and hoof beats. He wishes he could just throw himself into the sea, be done with it.

Stanley must realize he’s working himself steadily towards a panic attack, hands rising in a placating gesture that Ford’s frantically flickering vision locks in on.

“Hey,” he calls, so tender and soft. When Ford looks up, fully meeting his dark, familiar eyes, he smiles. It’s kind and comforting, like he knows things will be okay. His surety hurts Ford’s chest. “I promise it’ll be fine. Let me help ya, Sixer.”

Ford can’t rightly say any of the words themselves make him feel any better, but being talked to in low, soothing tones is certainly doing numbers. The lack of anger, while expected, is something he knows he doesn’t deserve. Stan’s continued forgiveness makes Ford hate himself all the more.

He inhales deeply, allowing salty oxygen to reach as deep inside his lungs as he can get it. With the first deep breath, he physically feels his brain start to unclog — still reeling, but no longer about to panic.

He needs to trust Stanley. He always knew, no matter how optimistic he tried to remain, that he wouldn’t make it to port. His trend of barely scraping past each day would fall apart, and he’d fall prey to his own mind. Maybe Stan would, too. Maybe he’d come back to himself, to the still-warm figure of his brother at his feet, sucked dry.

Ford has no choice.

“Fine,” he says quietly, eyes averting from Stan’s too-trusting gaze, hating himself for still hurting his brother. Even if Stanley says it’s fine. It wasn’t fine when Ford pressed that memory gun to Stanley’s head and it’s not fine now.

He sees tension deflate from Stan’s shoulders at his agreement, sighing an exhausted, tremulous, “thank you.”

Ford reluctantly allows his brother to get closer to him again, grabbing him gently by a clothed wrist and guiding him back inside the cabin, haughtily declaring that he’s not letting Ford drink from him on the deck where he might pass out.

An unwarranted fear. Ford will not take enough to make Stanley dizzy.

He must stay in control. There’s no other option for him.

As he’s led into the cabin, it feels like he’s marching to the gallows, shoulders remaining hunched even as he puts no effort into fighting Stanley’s loose grip.

First, he’s directed to change his clothes, mostly because, “I ain’t letting you get more blood on the wood, Six. I’ll need to replace them and the person who does it is gonna think I killed someone.”

So he gets changed into something different, more casual, and exits his and Stanley’s shared bunk to find his brother patiently waiting outside. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s obvious Stanley had been waiting outside for any sign of Ford attempting to escape.

It doesn’t hurt all that much, especially considering Ford had a good full minute of debating over whether or not to escape out the back window. Now he’s kind of glad he didn’t.

He’s guided once more, though this time they end up in what could be considered the lounge or living room. He takes a stilted seat under Stanley’s command, hands cradled stiffly in his lap, watching Stanley disappear into the kitchenette. A rush of water through the pipes, and then he’s back, a damp cloth in hand.

Stanley sits next to him, a hand reaching up to gently use his rough fingers to turn Ford’s head towards his own. Ford remains averted, but he allows the gentle touch, even humming slightly when a warm, damp cloth touches his cheeks.

“I thought you were insisting upon me feeding from you,” he murmurs, unintentionally leaning into Stan’s soft, considerate touch, feeling his face be left tingly and wet as the blood is scrubbed from his skin. It feels unfairly good to be touched like this, especially when he’s been purposefully avoiding his brother. With his body becoming so reliant on touch, so expecting of it, it hurt even more to avoid Stanley.

But now it feels even better to be touched. Enough to threaten to make his brain all foggy and pleasant. He’s safe.

“Yer just gonna get messy again,” Stanley snorts, wiping a little harder at a tougher bit of dry, oxidized blood, though not enough to hurt, “but I think it’s the principle of not allowing you to walk around with blood stains all over your face.”

Ford just kind of hums, fighting to stay above the fog threatening to drag him under. He swallows dryly, trying to ignore the rush of blood in the veins so close to his mouth. He’s fucking salivating.

Thankfully, Stanley doesn’t take much longer, pulling away just as that itch in Ford’s gums becomes downright unbearable. The cloth is set aside, and, just like that, all of Ford’s relaxation is gone. He watches, curled in on himself tightly, as Stanley rolls back his sleeve, baring his wrist, his water-fat radial artery bulging from the skin.

Already, Ford’s hind brain is screaming for him to take what he needs. His human brain screams, much louder, to not hurt his brother. He swings between them both, his inner ears becoming deafening with their roaring.

Stanley shifts, leaning back against the couch cushions leisurely, and Ford adjusts accordingly, sitting cross-legged, facing his brother head on.

Stan juts out his wrist and, with a smile that betrays no worry, says, “well, here. Bon appetit.”

Ford clears his throat as he’s torn from his thoughts, managing to send Stanley a look in hopes to communicate just how unfunny that was, even as he feels himself slowly unravelling. A larger piece of clothing being reduced to one, endless thread.

“Yeesh,” Stanley rolls his eyes, taking the initiative to press his wrist insistently to Ford’s hidden hands when Ford makes no move to do so himself. “Tough crowd.”

Ford, with violently shaking hands from both nerves and unkempt bodily needs, slowly untangles his hands from each other to take Stanley’s proffered hand. Meal. Warmth kisses his own ice-cold, pale skin, even chillier with no source of blood rushing through his body. He shudders a little at the feeling, finger pads pressing into the veins underneath his palm, eyes tracing their blue pathways.

He stares down at the thick column of Stanley’s wrist in his grasp, trying desperately not to think about the blood he can hear rushing through untouched veins. His head pounds, a side-effect of his hunger, but he just can’t make that final leap.

He’s terrified of himself, of his abilities. Terrified of hurting his brother.

The buildup of saliva in his mouth makes itself known. He forces himself to swallow, though it sounds more like a gulp.

“Yer not gonna kill me,” Stan’s voice rings out when the moment drags uncomfortably, when Ford makes no move other than to sit there, staring beseechingly at tendons and ligaments. At the sweet nectar within.

“But what if I lose control?” Ford stresses, finally looking up. He looks so distraught with the thought that it kind of hurts Stanley’s own heart.

Ford tries not to shy away when his brother reaches out with his free hand, gently cupping Ford’s chilly cheek. He chuckles a little when Ford, despite his reservations, tilts his head into the hand, seeking more warmth and contact.

A shudder trembles up his spine, like spindly little fingers playing piano keys, at the warmth that seeps into his face. It takes everything he has to not fully throw himself into Stanley’s arms, practically vibrating with the amount of self-control he exerts. A thumb gently rubs over the ridge of his cheek, and, as their eyes meet, Stan speaks.

“You won’t,” he says assuredly, looking at Ford with nothing but unearned trust in his eyes. “And, even if you do, I can hold my own against you. Don’t you underestimate this old man.”

Ford smiles weakly at the attempt of humour and comfort, pressing his face a little harder into Stanley’s hand. Stanley takes it in stride, holding him up with no complaint.

His resolve is weakening, and fast. He’s exhausted and hungry beyond belief, a deep pit in his belly that makes him ache. He’s so hungry, in fact, that his belly is no longer even rumbling, his body likely going after whatever reserves he has in store.

There’s not much fight left in him, not with a tantalizing meal just centimeters away.

He’s excited to get a good mouthful of blood, he can’t help it. Stanley is offering, and Ford believes Stanley could hold him off if he really had to.

He definitely has to try to keep his head, even if Stanley can hold his own. It can’t come to that, anyway.

The hand on his cheek slips away, taking its warmth with it, and Ford barely catches himself from falling over, having been using Stanley for support. His head swims, eyes blurry with hunger.

His reservations are breaking — and fast.

Stanley makes it worse, lifting his bare wrist to push the offered meal closer to underneath Ford’s nose. He’s playing a dangerous game, crooning, “go on, then. Take your fill.”

Ford licks at his fangs behind his lips, feeling them beginning to elongate, spurred on by the scent of a fresh meal right in front of him. It hurts a little, but it’s nothing compared to his aching belly.

Wrapping his hands a little more securely around Stanley’s arm, he keeps his eyes on the pale, unblemished flesh. With a final, ragged inhale that fills with a metallic, fresh tang, he opens his mouth. His fangs elongate the rest of the way with a little unsheathing noise, needle sharp at the tips and ready to be used. A wash of warm, trembling air exhales over Stanley’s wrist.

He avoids Stan’s watchful eyes as he leans inwards, shaking very slightly with his nerves. He’s as gentle as he can be when he digs the points of his fangs into Stanley’s flesh. Besides the littlest of sharp inhales, Stanley doesn’t jerk his hand away at the pinch of pain.

Ford doesn’t sink his fangs in very deep, just the littlest of puncture wounds made into his brother’s vulnerable wrist. He retracts his fangs, tasting metal on the tips of the canines. Considering the wounds he made were not very deep, the subsequent blood flow isn’t very fast. A thin trickle of blood that, once it makes contact with his tongue, explodes like fireworks inside his mouth and behind his eyes.

He presses his lips a little more firmly around the twin puncture wounds, squeezing his eyes shut as he focuses on not losing his mind at the first taste of sweetness.

It’s heavenly.

Sweet and filling like nothing else, the liquid settles heavily in his belly when he swallows a tiny, tentative mouthful. He’s already getting hazy with the first touch of blood on his tongue, in his throat, in his body. It’s warm, heating him up from the inside out as it hasn’t had the chance to properly cool in the air.

He squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, fighting the growing urge to take and take in order to keep up the slow pace, keeping his fangs well away from making new wounds. It’s agonizing, leaves him wanting more as he takes another, terribly tiny, gulp.

He feels his grasp on himself already slipping, hands tightening around Stanley’s wrist as a thick, terrible fog begins to envelop his brain. It’s not the fog that clouds his judgement and makes him a feral creature, no, this one will make him downright insufferable.

His brain thinks he’s safe, that he’s being fed by a pack member, someone who will care for him. He’s not sure why his instincts are hitting him, a sixty year old man, so hard, but he needs to put a stop to it before it’s too late. Stanley shouldn’t be tasked with having to care for him. Ford should be taking care of him. Being a good brother to Stanley to make up for all the years he missed.

This isn’t about him, he needs to control himself.

Making an executive decision to tear himself away from this pleasant fog, Ford takes maybe another two tiny sips before he unlatches from the wounds. Stanley has already given him far too much, almost making him feel a little sick with how long he’s gone without proper food. What he has in his body will last for at least almost a day.

He knows, however, that the hunger pains will come back, worsened by a taste of fullness. He dreads their return. He’ll manage with what he got.

He tries to pull away, opening his mouth to thank Stanley, trying to ignore the blood spilling down the sides of Stan’s wrist. He refuses to look at the ruby liquid, knowing it’ll just make him yearn more than he already is.

Stanley, however, beats him to it. He tsks, muttering, “you’re not done, you liar,” as he reaches up with his free hand. Before Ford can get too far away, this new hand cups him around the back of his head, pressing down hard enough that he can’t easily wriggle away. He’s forced back down to Stan’s wound with wide eyes, the hand on his head pushing harder when he tries to move away.

He unwittingly opens his mouth as he’s pushed back to the still-bleeding wound, and the rush of blood over his tongue, more plentiful than before, gives him a head rush. It’s worse than earlier, somehow, fogging up his head and thoughts, having him sink into it without fully realizing.

Gradually, that fogginess slowly takes him over, swallowing him whole. It seems to affect him even worse when he tries to fight it, making it that much sweeter to give in. His eyes hood, sinking into Stan’s arm with the fight lining his being being siphoned out with every swallow of fresh blood.

There’s still raging anxiety in his skull, even as his body moves on its own and he barely even realizes he’s properly drinking from Stanley. Even when he does realize, it’s far too late. Pulling back now is nearly impossible, clutching onto Stanley’s arm with the childish fear that it’ll disappear.

“There ya go,” Stanley mutters, voice low and soothing, only aiding Ford in sinking deeper into his instincts. The hand holding down his head lightens, instead cradling his skull in a soft, protective grip, thumb rubbing just under the jut of his head. “Wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

Ford is barely aware of what the words mean. He’s hearing them, but he’s basically in bliss. His eyes crack open, blurry and fuzzy, the lights in his skull dimming with each passing second. The more of that sweet-tasting liquid he slowly gulps down, the further he drops. The deeper he sinks into satisfied instincts. His brain is beautifully quiet for once, though worryingly stuffed with fluff.

He thinks, distantly, he hears Stanley coo at him. His voice takes on a softer, higher pitch, and Ford quite likes how the words curl around and through his ears. He’s a little busy, so the actual words themselves don’t register.

Without Ford’s knowledge, a little purr starts up in his body like he’s a fledgling again. In his chest, then crawling to fill the back of his throat as well. It’s soft and fluttering; a healthy motor that has Stan’s heart swelling with fondness and warmth. So much so that he feels sick with it.

The sound would be downright embarrassing if Ford had the brain power to properly register the sound, but he doesn’t. It just feels good to do, a satisfied fledgling showing his appreciation through rumbling. It really isn’t a surprise it happened, not with how safe he feels, warm and full with his brother next to him, feeding him.

Honestly, the purring should have happened sooner.

“Oh, yer just adorable,” Stanley purrs back, words practically trembling with the honesty in his words.

Ford, drunk on instincts and simply enjoying the pleased tone his brother is coloured with, preens under the gentle words. He soaks up the positive attention like a sponge, absorbing both blood and affection.

As he continues slipping, it soon becomes obvious Ford is losing his balance, he’s wobbling, clutching onto Stanley’s arm with tight hands to try and stay upright. Even though he’s sitting, he’s threatening to tip over. He doesn’t even seem aware of his peril.

Well, Stanley just can’t have that, can he?

All without disconnecting the vampire from his wrist, Stanley manhandles Ford to sit sideways in his lap. He’s gentle and slow with his movements so as to not spook the feeding vampire, but once they’re situated with Ford sideways across his lap, leaning back against his chest, Ford practically snuggles into his hold. Wrapping his free arm around Ford’s back, Stanley comfortably slots them together.

The new position allows him to hold up Ford while properly feeding him like a fledgling. Something about the position makes Ford’s head swim, fully sinking into this new head space he’s fallen into, cradled like he’s something precious, something to be protected. He hasn’t felt like this in so long, it’s no wonder it’s hitting him so hard.

His brother hums something he can’t quite parse as he rubs at Ford’s side with his cradling arm, the other satisfied with being drunk from.

Ford’s hands around Stanley’s wrist, that had previously been holding on tight enough to bruise, lessen their firm hold the more full Ford becomes. He’s almost sleepy, eyes half-lidded as he mindlessly drinks down the slowing flow of blood infiltrating his mouth.

Considering the wounds made are tiny and there’s not much blood coming out, Ford is allowed to drink for quite a while. He suckles without thought at the wound like a newborn, Stan thinking it’s just downright adorable as he watches Ford’s eyes hood, eyes glazed over and terribly distant.

The purring is just as adorable, rumbling through Ford’s muscled build and into Stan’s body, a sign of a pleased vampire. Stanley feels absolutely honoured that Ford let himself slip, even if it wasn’t entirely something he wanted to do.

The moment is soft and quiet, but it does, eventually, have to end.

Stanley can feel himself becoming light-headed, slowly but surely. He decides he’ll give his brother some more, tomorrow. Once his blood count is back up and he’s well-rested. He uses his free hand to carefully unwind from Ford’s back, giving a flushed, healthy cheek a little tap with his thumb.

Ford’s eyes flicker, squinting a little in an attempt to make his eyes focus as he glances up to meet Stanley’s eyes, questioning.

“All done,” Stanley whispers, giving a light tug to his wounded arm. He watches Ford carefully for any signs of a feral vampire, prepared for anything. Instead, and to his absolute delight, there’s barely any fight.

Immediately, Ford unlatches from the efficiently drained wound, thought not without the slightest whining noise. It’s so tiny, though, it’s barely there.

Ford slumps back into Stan’s chest once his meal is relinquished, burrowing his forehead against Stanley’s sternum. With a chuckle, Stanley reaches up to play with the fluffy strands of his hair.

“And you were worried you’d hurt me,” he mumbles adoringly, achingly soft, feeling so much fondness for his brother, cradled in his arms. Ford had been so up in arms about it, terrified of going feral and taking, but he turned out to be the sweetest vampire Stanley’s ever had the pleasure of feeding.

He’s practically talking to no-one, with how out of it Ford seems to be. The lights are on in his eyes, but there’s no one actively roosting inside his head. He’s blinking fitfully, seemingly desperately trying to process Stan’s too big words.

Exceedingly gentle, Stanley deposits Ford onto the couch, slumped between where the armrest and the couch backrest meet. Grabbing a nearby blanket, he tucks his brother in, smiling when he meets Ford’s dazed, slowly blinking eyes. He looks satisfied where he is, cozily tucked in and with a full belly. There’s a little bit of smeared blood at the corner of his lips, but that’s an easy fix.

It’s nice to see Ford with a little bit of a healthier skin tone, momentarily pink with the blood rushing through his veins. Much preferred to the gaunt sallowness Ford had been allowing to consume his body.

“I’ll be right back,” Stanley assures the elder, even if Ford doesn’t truly understand him. He gets a humming noise; an acknowledgement that Stan said something.

Stanley disappears for a few minutes, taking a moment to care for his wound since Ford himself is out of commission. If he weren’t, he’d certainly be all over Stanley, desperate to help. The wound itself isn’t that bad, though, since the anaesthesia in vampire saliva made the process virtually painless, but he knows it’ll start aching by tomorrow. He wraps it to his standards and grabs a glass of ice water to nurse.

Ford, meanwhile, waits patiently for his brother to return. His instincts are all screaming at once about needing physical contact, manifesting as a physical itch just underneath his skin. He’s warm and full, but the whole process won’t be complete without some bonding or cuddling.

That’s usually what happens in vampire covens after a fledgling feeds from their sire. Ford, with his brain in shambles from drinking from a nurturing werewolf who’s part of his blood family, really feels like he needs some contact.

He’d go looking for Stanley, but he knows it’s best to stay still.

As time passes however, and there’s no sign of Stanley, that anxiety becomes impossible to smother. Little cheeps and peeps escape his throat, high-pitched and terribly upset. They grow louder when his brother still refuses to show up; a fledgling calling for its pack member.

Then, there he is. Stanley comes tearing around the corner, eyes wide and worried, though he calms a little when he finds Ford where he left him.

The despairing noises Ford had been making soften to nicer calls at the sight of his brother, immediately perking up and calming. He’s sluggish, but the immediate, fast chirping and peeping he emits is a good sign he wants his brother. He reaches for Stanley, making grabby hands as he beeps needily, desperately hoping his message is being received.

The momentary surprise etched across Stan’s face quickly leaves, replaced with fondness.

“Oh, you little thing. You scared me,” Stanley sighs, picking up what Ford’s putting down. He sets aside his half-drunk glass, and returns to Ford’s side.

Stanford cheeps and coos happily as he’s bundled up in his brother’s arms. He’s laid down with the blanket from before covering them both, body comfortably wedged between the pillows of the couch and Stanley’s chest, arms wrapped tightly and protectively around his body. He dips his head forward, nuzzling into the junction where Stanley’s shoulder meets his neck.

A hand pets at his head, curling through oily locks that Stanley doesn’t seem to mind. The petting motion helps kick start Ford’s purring again, deep and rumbling and audible without Ford’s insecurities dampening the sound.

He’s set on sleeping, clutching at Stanley’s shirt in a feeble attempt to keep his brother in place. He’d rather not be alone right now, but it doesn’t seem like Stanley has any intention of leaving.

“How ya feelin’, Sixer?” Stanley asks, though the question is rather pointless. Ford still doesn’t have the brain power to understand, let alone answer, any sort of question. His head is foggy, thoughts too slippery to grab a hold of.

He whines plaintively in response, burrowing his head further into Stanley’s neck. Trying to escape the questioning.

“Alright, alright, ya big baby. We’ll talk later. Get some sleep,” Stanley chuckles, grossly affectionate as his fingers work on untangling any knots in Ford’s hair.

Ford hums, his purring returning in full as he drifts off into a pleasant, warm sleep.

The endlessly comforting noise drags Stan into drowsiness as well, though the blood loss probably has something to do with that. They fall asleep together, warm and comfortable. When they wake up and Ford is back to his normal head space, he knows there’ll be some things to talk about, but right now things are calm.

Stanley wakes up hours later, in the exact same position he had fallen asleep within. The ship remains silent, allowing him to wake up rather pleasantly. Well, semi-pleasantly. Distantly, his still-sleepy brain picks up the outside audible stimuli of a small, mumbling voice.

It’s worried, fast words blurring together into a sort of soup that Stanley can see giving him a headache if it is allowed to persist. Along with the mumbling, he registers the feeling of his mildly aching hand being cradled within someone else's palms, fingers pressing into his tendons and ligaments to manipulate the bones and movement.

It would be a soothing motion, if not for the worrying mumbling Stanley cannot make out.

He blinks open eyes crusted with sleep, blurrily blinking at the red fabric of the couch backrest. He looks down to the vampire he had protectively cradled in both arms, and finds Ford already awake. He’s still pleasantly wrapped close, not that he likely could have escaped Stanley’s grip at all, though he’s taken to needlessly fussing over the messily bandaged result of his feeding.

Stan sighs internally at spotting the deep furrow of Ford’s brows, the upset frown etched over his face. He’s sure Ford is beating himself up about the whole situation worse than anyone else could.

Stanley isn’t even that worried about the wound on his wrist. It’s aching slightly, but not to the point of excruciating. The wounds weren’t that big either, barely larger than the individual points of pencil tips. He knows, though, it’s unrealistic to expect his brother to think the same way. Even if Stanley volunteered willingly, Ford is practically incapable of not beating himself up.

He yanks his cradled hand away from Ford’s rather loose hands, so focused on his worrying he hadn’t noticed Stanley’s open eyes.

In a smooth movement upon removing his wrists, Stanley quickly wraps Ford up tightly with two arms and rolls them both over to the sound of Ford’s yelp. There’s no time for Ford to react, so it’s remarkably easy to half-lay down across his brother, pinning him down against the couch. Trapping him there also means his hands can’t gain access to Stanley’s wound.

Still sleepy, Stanley gets rather comfortable with how he’s draped across his brother, chin resting just above Ford’s shoulder. “Wasn’t yer fault,” he says simply through an ill-timed yawn, cutting off Ford’s indignant demands to be let go.

His brother pauses, then tenses up a little.

“What— it quite literally was,” Ford argues, his voice much more awake compared to Stanley’s. He’s been fussing for a while.

“I let you do it,” Stanley sighs, just going more boneless when Ford makes a single attempt to try and push him off. He’s gained muscle mass, but Stanley is still certainly heavier. He’s not getting out of this that easily. “You didn’t lose control in the way you thought you would, you were exceedingly gentle, and very sweet on top of it all.”

He grins into the pillow, the soft words leaving him easier with his face hidden. Next to his face, he hears Ford make a choked, surprised noise, alongside the warm heat of a flushing face in response to his words.

“I- I am not sweet,” Ford protests with an audible strained quality to his words, twisting a little under the unrelenting weight of his brother. An attempt to escape the situation that Stanley isn’t going to allow.

“The sweetest,” Stanley hums in return in a tone that suggests arguing is futile. He just goes a little more boneless at Ford’s struggling attempts, refusing to allow him to escape. “Go back to sleep,” Stan advises, eyes threatening to close again. “I’m not getting up yet.”

Ford makes a small, protesting noise, but no words come out alongside it. He seems to realize he’s not going to be able to escape, going rather still underneath Stanley. He’s been cowed by Stanley’s words for now, falling blessedly silent.

Stanley assumes the conversation is done, that he’s momentarily won. He returns his focus to drifting back off, eyes fluttering fully shut. He assumes Ford will fall asleep soon after him, especially if he has nowhere to go.

Alas, the silence barely lasts for a full two minutes.

“I… I’m sorry for how I was acting last night,” Ford apologizes quietly, forcing Stanley to strain to hear him. It takes him right out from his drowsy state, newly awake and aware at the needless apology. “It— that was entirely inappropriate of me. I promise I won’t allow it to happen ag-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Stanley cuts off Ford’s apology attempt that had been well on its way to becoming a ramble. He squirms a hand underneath Ford’s back to rub at the jut of his brother’s spine, still a little too prominent to be healthy. “It was fine, Ford. You slipped, that’s okay. In fact, I’m honoured you felt safe enough to do something like that around me.”

“Well— of course I do,” Ford returns, offended by the words. “You’re my brother.”

Stan lifts himself up just enough to meet Ford’s eyes, finding his brother staring right at him, evidently serious. He’s determined to be believed, previous embarrassment disappearing in favour of staring Stanley down.

“And yer mine,” Stan says simply, having the pleasure of getting to watch Ford’s brain entirely short-circuit. His mouth drops open a little, as if it’s that surprising. “I love ya, Sixer. I don’t mind doing things for you, especially when you get so nice when you go all ‘vampire-mode’.”

“‘Vampire-mode’,” Ford chooses to scoff about, not visibly blushing that badly, but the heat radiating from his cheeks proves otherwise. “That’s not as intimidating as I’d like.”

“You can be scary,” Stanley offers, flopping back down rather abruptly and tearing a wheeze from Ford’s diaphragm. “Just not when yer actin’ like a little fledglin’.”

“I’m not feeding from you again,” Ford declares, physically relaxing onto the couch, finally. He’s done fighting for now. The words are used like a joke, but it’s obvious he’s serious. That he really thinks Stanley will let him escape from semi-regular feedings now that he knows of Ford’s blood bag status.

“Tough shit,” Stanley scoffs, fully easing his way onto Ford’s body, covering him with his bulk. Much like a bird incubating their eggs. He snorts a little at the thought. “A week away from port, Poindexter. I’m not letting you starve yerself, so get used to it.”

He can tell Ford is inwardly fuming, brain running wild through different options and ideas that might work in order to dodge Stanley. It won’t work, whatever it is. Stanley is determined, and Ford doesn’t get to starve himself just because he’s scared of hurting Stanley — especially when he’s proven that won’t happen.

They’ll talk again about it later, but right now Stanley is on the track for more sleep.

Chapter Text

It’s the next day, and Stanford is definitely avoiding Stanley.

It’s not the most obvious of avoidance, but Stanley can tell that that’s what’s going on, even if his brother is trying so very hard to be inconspicuous about it. It’s like he thinks he can give Stanley the slip that easily. Which he can’t.

It is, despite everything, mildly amusing to watch Ford duck out of sight and try to hide behind corners when he sees Stanley coming, even if it is because Ford is avoiding taking care of himself. He just reminds him a little of a nervous cat; ducking and running when a threat comes a little too close. A threat that it doesn't know is actually quite harmless.

Even with that, because Ford ate in the earlier morning, Stanley’s much less worried than he would be if Ford hadn’t eaten. His body isn’t running on just fumes anymore, and that means there’s less of a likelihood of him completely collapsing. So Stanley allows the elder to get out all his fluttery energy, obviously believing himself to actually be avoiding Stanley.

It’d be rather endearing if, well, if the circumstances were a little bit different.

Through most of the day Stanley allows Ford to dance around him, acting like he hasn’t once noticed Ford’s shiftiness and quick darting. He deigns to not inform Ford that he’s being quite clumsy, knowing that would make him try harder and then burn more energy and subsequently put Ford’s health in danger quicker. It would also make him harder to find.

As the hours pass, Ford seems to believe Stanley has entirely forgotten about his eating habits, likely proven by Stanley’s lack of ambush attempts. Additionally, that energy Ford had been using to dart out of sight seems to have worn off, appearing more sluggish during the quick glances Stanley gets of him.

This means it’s Stanley’s time to strike.

Ford sits at his desk inside his and Stanley’s shared room, poring over his newest journal — journal 6 — that he has spread out in front of him. The pages rustle with every shaky scrawling movement he makes with his charcoal pencil, smudging some of the dark grey colour over his skin. His hand trembles as he writes, causing the lines he makes to be quite jerky and erratic, but legible.

They still haven’t diverted from course to explore any landmasses, so Ford has more or less returned to one of his theories regarding the Arctic Circle. It’s on the topic of the large, frozen serpentine figure they found in one of the deeper caverns, and his theories of if it's still alive, what it ate considering its mass, and if he could perhaps get a piece of its blubber-like skin next time they stop by. Granted he has the right tools to do so.

They didn’t stay for very long due to the cold and twin desire to map out the surrounding area, but there’s been talk of returning. Likely to happen when they’ve finished charting and exploring other areas of interest and they’re both fully stocked on supplies.

Speaking of supplies, Ford’s blood bag situation is still well and truly dry. The feeding he got to indulge in from earlier in the day certainly helped, but his desperate body made quick work of the vitamins and nutrients, leaving him with an even deeper pit within his belly. Just like he knew it would.

He has his right arm draped loosely over his abdomen, finding it to feel a little better with applied pressure. It’s not as effective as it had been before Stanley forced him to feed from him, likely due to the fact his body got a taste of fullness, and now it craves more.

Despite the painful discomfort he finds himself in, he doesn’t want to ask his brother for anything else. No matter how nice it felt to be cared for, or cradled close or well fed or gently comforted. Stanley did what he needed to, and now Ford has to do what is required of him; surviving the last five days to port.

It’s confusing, to want Stanley to corner him and yet actively avoiding the younger man. He wants to be caught, yet he doesn’t want to go to Stanley on his own accord, which is what he’s worrying is what Stanley is trying to make him do.

Stanley hasn’t cornered him once the entire day. Contrary to Ford’s belief, he’s been entirely left alone. The lack of confrontation leads him to believe yesterday was a one-time thing, despite Stanley’s contradictory words when Ford woke up.

He' never known his brother to give up on something so easily, but that's simply what all signs are pointing towards.

At least this means Ford doesn’t have to duck behind corners anymore.

He can’t quite smother the embarrassment and disappointment that twist and turn against each other like snake scales, clawing at him from the inside.

He doesn't even know why he feels so disappointed. Maybe he was looking forward to having a full belly once more, even at the cost of his brother's health and safety. What a selfish thought. Of course Stanley wouldn’t want to go through that again. It must have been uncomfortable — painful — for his brother. It’s better this way, for Ford to go back to batting seagulls out of the sky for consumption.

Perhaps avoiding Stanley is still in his best interest, considering the shame in his gut. It’ll make interacting with the man a little harder, and he’d rather not get snappish and defensive all because he feels made a fool of.

Before that thought process can dig itself any deeper inside his brain, three sharp raps come from behind, echoing through the thin wood of the cabin door.

It can only be Stanley.

Ford would prefer to stay isolated in here, and he briefly debates over yelling through the door to be left alone, but he gets no chance. Despite a lack of response, the knob clicks and the door swings open upon creaking hinges. Ford’s hand tightens around his pencil.

It is his brother's room, too. Ford has no right to lock him out.

“Yes, Stanley?” Ford mutters quietly as he hears footsteps enter their room, dismissive and humming. He returns to scribbling in his journal without glancing behind him, trying his hardest to quell the shaking within his extremities.

He’s worried about what Stanley would see if he were to turn around. Surely he doesn’t look well.

Stanley doesn’t answer, his warm and encompassing presence coming up behind Ford. Ford can’t help how he tenses with every creaking step that gets closer. He just barely avoids flinching as a warm hand lands on his bony shoulder.

“It’s feeding time,” the man finally speaks, patting Ford’s shoulder twice, “let's go, ya big lug.”

Ford feels his brain short-circuit at the words, blinking down at his smudged writings with uncomprehending shock. He sets down his pencil, twisting his torso around to find Stanley standing beside his shoulder, peering down at him with an easy-going smile.

“We- we’re still doing that?” Ford asks, a high note of slight panic making its home in his voice, hoping he doesn’t look too caught off-guard.

“Sure are,” Stanley hums, one corner of his lips up-ticking to show off a couple of his gold teeth. “C’mon, let’s get goin'. We need to get some dinner in ya.”

He’s lazy and languid with his movements, all inviting and relaxed, like he’s not letting Ford drink his blood. The lack of nervousness in his brother honestly makes it seem better than it is, but it doesn’t stop panic from warming Ford’s blood.

Stanford wracks his slow brain for a way out of this, blinking wildly, newly alert yet with his senses and reaction times still slowed. It’s disconcerting, being unable to work at 100% efficiency, and leaves him more shaken than before.

He had assumed Stanley had let it go. He was foolish to think such a thing. He knew it was unlike his brother to give up on something like family so easily, and yet he still assumed otherwise. Despite the warmth in his chest, Ford finds himself wishing Stanley had let it go.

“Well— can’t we just do it here?” He asks after a pause of slogging through a marsh made of panic. He turns around a little more in his chair so he doesn't have to uncomfortably turn his neck, staring up at his brother with what he hopes is a disinterested mask. He knows, however, that despite his best efforts, he’s visibly far away from calm.

“Nah, I want us to be comfortable,” Stanley replies, jerking his chin over his shoulder in a gesture for Ford to get moving. His fingers that press small indents into Ford’s shoulder flex, a secondary urging. “To the couch. Let’s go.”

Ford gnaws at the insides of his cheeks, scraping as much flesh off as he can as he mulls it over. He doesn’t have a choice, that much is clear in the way Stanley towers over him, hand almost threatening where it’s perched upon Ford’s person.

There’s not much he can do to get out of this, at least nothing that won’t leave their relationship jagged and requiring further mending. This isn’t worth hurting his brother over, no matter how much he’d utilize harsh words to get him out of here.

He sighs heavily through his nose, but relents.

It’s not worth getting into a fight over. It’s not. It’s likely just better to get it over with. Take what he needs, and not fall prey to an annoying, vulnerable headspace. He can do that.

He closes his journal, leaving it where it lays, and shuts off the small lamp on the corner of the desk. Under Stanley’s watchful eyes, he stands and begins trudging his way out of the cabin. He tries not to drag his feet, wanting to remain dignified, but he still can’t quite help the hunch of his shoulders.

Stanley tails him, almost silently corralling Ford to the couch despite the elder knowing where he’s going. He’s rather close behind, as if worried Ford will duck into some hidden doorway or cubby if he allows too much space between them.

Ever since Stanley found Ford’s self-made attic that he stashed with weapons, Stanley’s been much more watchful during these types of situations.

Honestly, Ford was thinking about ducking into a hidden doorway — made in case the ship is ever infiltrated with them on it — but he has enough forward thinking to understand that to be a bad idea.

Stanley, for his part, allows the huffing and puffing and dragging feet. He understands this is difficult for his brother; needing to depend on someone in order to survive. Forced to hurt someone he cares about for his own safety. Stanley can understand how that is a problem, so he doesn’t take Ford’s attitude to heart.

They get set up on the same couch, sitting together just like last time with Ford criss-crossed at Stanley’s side. Without much probing, Ford picks up Stan’s proffered wrist, staring down at the previous bite wound wrapping with a sour pucker to his lips. His expression reminds Stanley of a kid being forced to eat a dinner he doesn’t want to.

Ford glances up from Stanley’s hand, taking one last moment to make sure his brother is okay with this, though he doesn’t get the chance to ask.

“Go on, Poindexter. I ain’t gettin’ any younger,” Stanley encourages, nodding at his held wrist.

Ford scoffs, eyes rolling, but he does begin to tentatively move. He leans down at the same time that he lifts Stanley’s hand, hesitating just before his mouth. Just like last time, he can hear Stanley’s blood rushing through his body, the tempo of his heart picking up pace very slightly. It has his mouth watering despite himself, a small part of his mind excited to get more of that good tasting blood on his tongue.

It’s not an ill-intentioned thought, just instincts that are excited to feed once more. It always tastes a little bit sweeter when the prey is willing.

He swallows the influx of saliva in his mouth, brought on by both nausea and hunger, and bares his canines. They slide free of his gums with a mildly painful deep itch, and he leans in a little closer. He remains hesitant and as gentle as he possibly can as he touches the tips of his fangs to fresh flesh, perhaps even more tenderly than last time.

The resulting pinch barely sets off Stanley’s pain receptors, which, instead of being a relief, just makes him worry that Ford hadn’t made the wounds deep enough.

Ford draws his fangs back into his mouth, satisfied with the shallowness of the wounds, and watches as a light beading of blood begins pooling at the twin surfaces. It takes a little while because of the tiny wounds, which just rubs Stanley the wrong way.

This is supposed to be a meal, not a snack.

“Hey,” he calls before Ford can lean down. With his brother’s attention, he nods to the bite marks and directs, “make ‘em a little deeper.”

“What?” Ford asks, blinking his confusion to the bite marks and then back to Stanley’s face. He sees nothing wrong with the depth of the wounds. In fact, he had assumed Stanley would appreciate the shallowness. “Stan, I don’t want to take too much.”

“And I want you to be full. Don’t make ‘em too deep, obviously, but make ‘em deeper than that,” Stanley directs, still remarkably calm and collected. Not that there’s any reason for Stanley to freak out, but Ford finds the relaxed demeanour of his brother to help keep him calm in turn.

Ford stares at the bubbling wounds with nothing short of anxiety, biting at his bottom lip with sharper-than-most canines. “Stanley, I don’t—”

“C’mon, Sixer. Don’t make me make ‘em bigger myself,” Stanley sighs, his brow raised when Ford chances a glance upwards.

He frowns deeply, upset with the light threat Stanley has made towards him. “I hate you,” Ford informs the man, re-elongating his fangs and worsening his lisp. He gets an eyeroll for his troubles.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm the worst. Get to it,” Stanley jerks his arm within Ford’s hands, verbal urging to ‘hurry up’.

Ford swallows the tightness in his chest, leaning in once more to re-sink his fangs into the wounds. Stanley reacts this time when he prods the sharp tips a little bit deeper, then a little more. When a good portion of the tips of his fangs are sunk into warm flesh, Ford ensures a little venom is injected as well to help with the sting, then he finally backs off.

His fangs sink back into his gums, the slightest taste of metal making itself known as his tongue laves over the tips. He peers down at the deeper wounds, watching as blood beads faster, more plentiful.

When there’s enough blood threatening to pour over the sides of Stan’s arm, he finally and gingerly seals his lips around the marks. He draws a tiny gulp of blood into his mouth, shaking slightly as he does so.

Just like last time, there’s an immediate wash of desperation over his body at the taste of juicy, metallic blood hitting his tongue. In front of open eyes, he sees static-like fireworks.

The effect is immediate, perhaps made worse after he had gone so long again without feeding, his brain becoming worryingly foggy. Serotonin and dopamine zips and zaps through his blood, only worsening the fog. This time, however, Ford is a little more prepared. He puts up a much bigger fight against the haziness that he can just barely feel setting in, squeezing his eyes shut to help him focus on keeping his head.

He wants to walk away from this encounter with a properly working mind and a normal headspace. This is something within his reach, he just needs to focus.

This focus on keeping himself in check leaves his entire body uncomfortably tense. He’s lined with thick tension, like a wire pulled taut enough to warrant snapping, eyes aching with the force he’s exerting to keep them closed. He’s trying so hard to ignore the bursting flavour across his taste-buds, leaving behind sweetness and settling heavy in his belly.

He wants to be selfish, but he just can’t. Not with his brother’s safety on the line.

This immense focus keeps him from noticing any movement from Stanley, which is certainly the beginning of his end.

Unable to react with no visual stimuli, Ford only realizes something is wrong when he feels the specific sensation of weight placing itself against the back of his skull. It hits Ford’s struggling brain a second later that that’s a hand resting against his head, not yet applying any weight.

His eyes fly open the second he notices, drinking momentarily pausing in order to peer questioningly at his brother. He finds Stanley much closer, having leaned forward in order to reach Ford’s skull with his free hand. His eyes are already watching Ford by the time Ford meets his eyes.

“Keep drinking,” Stan coaxes instead of offering up any explanation, fingers rubbing through fluffy hair to massage Ford’s skull. It’s unfairly relaxing, though Ford refuses to sink into the touch, knowing that could be his undoing.

Caught off guard and left wary, Ford keeps his eyes open to watch Stanley, though this makes it a little bit more difficult to focus on keeping himself in control. He can’t multitask like this, finding himself pausing in his drinking in order to focus. He has to forcibly drag himself away from that comfortable fuzz hovering at the edge of his mind multiple times, leaving his entire body prickly and uncomfortable.

It’s not a nice feeling, forcing himself away from that edge. It feels wrong to go against his body, against something that he knows would feel so good if he’d just give in. But he can’t, not again. It’s shameful to be reduced to something lesser, and Ford would like to avoid it.

He’s rapidly deteriorating the longer he sits there, sucking down heavy blood that coats his insides in dark red. Making an executive decision, he takes two more tiny, trembling sips, and deems himself full.

He’s not full at all, in reality. The gaping pit in his belly hasn’t been filled even ⅓ of the way, leaving him voracious in a way that honestly terrifies him. He can feel the blood sloshing around the empty cavity when he shifts, and the quiet grumbling in his body threatens to get louder at the mere thought of even stopping.

He has to. He has to stop. For his own good, if anything.

Pursing his lips tightly together to forcefully cut himself off from the flow, Ford begins to try and raise his head again. But before he can even make it an inch away, Stanley strikes, lightning fast, like a cobra.

The hand that was resting previously innocently against the curve of his skull springs to life, applying gentle pressure to press his lips back to the wound. Ford releases an outraged noise at the forceful holding, pressing back against the weight and achieving nothing.

“Ah, ah, none o’ that,” Stanley chides, watching Ford’s eyes that flutter with uncertain panic. “Nice try, but I don’t need ya dyin’ on me, bud.”

Despite his light struggling, Stanley doesn’t let up. He simply raises an eyebrow at Ford’s scowling, as if to ask if he’s done with his tantrum. It’s unfairly demeaning, even if it comes from a place of good will, and has Ford’s cheeks flushing with discomfort.

Ford manages to hold out with his lips pursed tightly together. Blood slides past his lips, down his chin, staining the chair and their clothes. Every lost droplet has an unexplainable pain wracking Ford’s chest, as though his body understands just how precious the red liquid is.

With one last struggling push against the warm hand curving around the base of his cranium, Ford slumps back into Stanley’s arm. He holds himself up with aching abdominal muscles and clutching hands.

He lasts for a full minute before the act of denying himself becomes far too much work. With a pathetic noise of defeat, he closes his eyes and tentatively drops open his bottom lip, wincing badly under Stanley’s encouraging croon. Blood once again fills his mouth, and it feels so right despite how badly he wishes it felt wrong.

Shoulders threaten to sag under the weight of heavy fog, a pool of blood filling his mouth and washing down his warming throat. The hand plastered to the back of his head loosens as he obediently drinks, back to massaging his scalp with warm, calloused fingertips. Hands grip Stanley’s proffered wrist tightly, as if merely holding on would be enough to keep him above water.

Losing focus, feeling himself slipping, Ford squeezes his eyes shut tight once more, enough to warrant little barely-there colourful patterns behind his eyelids that he’s not entirely sure are actually there. He basically hands himself over without realizing, no longer keeping his eyes locked on Stanley’s movements.

All of his flimsy concentration is put into beating back the swelling fog encroaching upon his person, feeling it hunting him down, warping the edges of his thoughts like melting glass. He’s one slip up from giving in, he can feel it. Allowing himself to relax will lead to loss of control, and Stanley cannot be expected to deal with his brother acting like a fledgling again.

To Stan’s perspective, it’s becoming more and more obvious as Ford feeds that his brother is very valiantly trying to fight off his vampire headspace. He looks physically pained to be doing so, held tense and taut enough that Stan is sure he’s not enjoying this nearly as much as last time.

It’s kind of depressing to witness, actually.

“You can relax, ya know,” Stanley hums, keeping his voice soft and soothing, purposefully trying to get Ford to slip. “Don’t fight it, Poindexter. It’s not worth it.”

Blunt nails scritch and scratch at Ford’s scalp, slowly moving up and around to evenly lay out the massaging motions. Ford unwittingly leans into the touch, unfocused eyes trying to cobble together a believable scowl. The edges are softened by a wide margin, and the expression keeps falling apart as he dedicates his focus elsewhere.

He’s giving in, even if he’s trying to do the opposite.

“C’mon, honey,” Stanley urges, not even sure where the pet name comes from, but it does wonders.

Ford shudders like a rubber band finally snapped from being held too taut, scowl completely falling apart as his eyes flutter. A tiny, muffled noise, high pitched and needy, sounds from the back of his throat, shoulders hitching. He presses closer, to safety and warmth.

His brain has nearly been completely submerged, having been practically shoved underneath by the soft endearment Stanley had thoughtlessly uttered. It scratches an itch in his brain he didn’t know he had, and leaves him wanting more.

“Good, good, Six,” Stanley quickly coos, wanting to reward Ford’s surrender. “You’re doin' such a good job, I’m so proud of you.” His voice is gruff, but comes out as more of a low rumble, rifling through Ford’s skull and knocking loose any coherent thoughts he was still capable of making.

The softness he’s exhibiting, while uncomfortable, proves to be worth it for the obvious effect it has on his elder twin. He whines, high and confused, his grip around Stanley’s arm sporadically tightening and loosening, unsure about the situation. He slumps a little further, slightly cracked open eyes showing off the resulting haziness that’s nearly completely taken him over.

“That’s it,” Stanley croons, watching Ford slip in real time with fond fascination. “Doing so well, hun.”

With his brother nearly completely limp, Stanley deems it safe to move his hand from the back of Ford’s skull to slip around to his warm cheek. He coos wordlessly in surprise when his brother leans into his warm, worn palm without conscious thought. Seeking warmth or comfort, he’s not sure, but happy to provide.

“You’re doing just what I want, makin' sure you ain't gonna starve,” Stanley hums again, achingly soft, a calloused thumb pad swiping over the ridge of Ford’s cheekbone. “Thank you.”

That seems to be the last nail in the proverbial coffin. Ford almost fully drops at the spoken gratitude. That wonderful purring noise starts up once more, a little more choked-down than last time’s, as he almost fully returns to full fledgling mode. He’s feeding robotically now, working entirely on what he needs and not what his thoughts or biases demand.

It’s so obvious there’s no one home, his eyes appearing hazy and unfocused when Stanley catches glimpses at blown out pupils. The brown of his irises have been swallowed, much like a cat’s eye dilating during play.

The purring he had been choking down slowly seems to shift into a hiccuping noise. Little warbles that make his body and ears jerk a little. The noises are much quieter and less rumbly, obviously holding back.

“You gonna purr for me, bub?” Stanley asks quietly, finding the hiccuping to be rather cute, but he misses the rhythmic purr. The noise has the same relaxation and anxiety-reducing effect that cat purrs have, which could be why Stanley wants to hear the noise again so badly. That and it being a good sign Ford is completely lost in the sauce.

Another whine escapes his brother, muffled against Stan’s wrist. Despite his headspace, it’s obvious he’s protesting, somehow managing to find some shame despite being neck-deep in instincts.

“Oh, c’mon, you wanna make me proud, right?” Stanley asks, maybe a little manipulatively. It’s harmless though, so he doesn’t feel too bad. “Go on, honey. Give it your best shot.”

Deliberation causes the hiccuping to fully stop, lasting a good few seconds. Long enough that Stanley almost believes he won’t get what he wants, though he assumes too soon.

Quiet at first, a slow, stuttering rumble takes over the hiccuping’s empty slot. It’s hesitant, a breathy little sound that’s prepared to hide away at the slightest hint of judgement.

Instead, Stanley encourages. He calls Ford adorable and sweet, the words coming easy due to their obvious effect on his brother and the fact his brother isn’t in his right mind. The praise helps the purring pick up speed, getting louder with the more sweet words Stanley pelts his brother with.

Stanford is fully gone at this point, further than before. It’s obvious in his eyes, faraway and no longer squinting, the fight inside of his body long forgotten.

Gently scratching the skin behind Ford’s ear, Stanley slowly moves those fingers up and over the top of his skull, muttering mindless little praises and sweet words as he goes. They’re coming more plentiful now, a constant stream of nicknames and appreciation that he can no longer keep down, bubbling out of his mouth like the lip of a volcano.

Slowly, Stanley’s attention is drawn to the light straining sensation in his fed-upon arm. It’s starting to ache a little, likely from holding his brother’s old man weight up. Ford is practically relying on his arm, clinging to the muscled limb that he finds stability within.

This calls for a position change.

Very easily, Stanley gently pulls his wounded wrist from weak, grabby limbs, hushing Ford’s resulting distressed whimpers. He uses his other hand to prop Ford up by the shoulder, cooing wordless comforts as he guides Ford to turn around.

Clumsily, Ford does as directed, sounding seconds away from vomiting up those distressed peeps and cheeps Stanley had the displeasure of hearing yesterday. Despite not being a vampire himself, the palpable upset he could hear from Ford’s beeping had him nearly up in arms. He can already hear the tiny peeps welling in the back of his brother’s throat.

“You’re okay,” Stanley assures the vampire, using his voice to let Ford’s unraveled brain know that he hasn’t gone anywhere.

Before any vocalising can happen, Stanley carefully lays himself down across the chair, and then resumes contact with Ford’s shoulders, gently tugging at the bones he can feel. He guides Ford backwards, heart swelling when the vampire goes without a single ounce of fight. Thankfully, he doesn’t just flop himself down, and keeps pace with Stanley’s guidance.

The process is relatively smooth sailing as Stanley collects Ford to his front, back-to-chest. Stanley shuffles him over a little to rest a little more between the crook of his arm and chest, holding him close with an arm wrapped securely around his waist.

With Ford situated, Stanley carefully hands him back his still-bleeding forearm. Grabby hands are already reaching out when he starts to lower his hand down, grabbing around the column of his wrist and arm, drawing the limb close like a carnivorous flower.

“Okay, okay,” Stanley chuckles, allowing his wrist to be entrapped once more, drawn clumsily up to a blood-stained mouth. “Careful, there. Try not to spill.”

Lips latch back onto the wounds immediately, resuming in his feeding with that healthy motor purring beginning to pick back up as well. Those sharp ears of his move up and down with his nursing, his hands clutching onto Stanley’s arm tightly. Well, as tightly as he can manage. It’s barely enough to bruise.

The new position is far more comfortable than sitting up, allowing Stanley’s back a break as he relaxes into the cushions. It’s almost soothing, if he ignores the sensation of his blood being forcibly drawn out of his veins. Ford is warm where he lays, satisfied as long as he has an arm to gnaw on.

With a hum, Stanley’s other hand brushes through and over the floppy curls atop his brother’s head, reminiscent of petting a dog. Truly, he doesn’t mind this — helping his brother. Feeding him. His only real gripe is the fact Ford let it get to this point; gaunt and hollow, skin hugging tightly to sharp, angular bones, with a pallor that is abnormal for those of his ilk. Though, if Stanley hadn’t caught on when he did, he doubts Ford ever would have turned to him for help.

It hurts a little, but Stanley thinks he understands. Ford is still getting used to relying on others, to allow family and friends to take some of the weight of the burdens he carries. Oftentimes, he still doesn’t reach out, but sometimes he does. And that’s still progress, no matter how tiny.

Surely Stanford knows that Stanley isn’t going to let this slide. He’ll be checking on Ford’s blood bag supply himself, at least until he knows Ford will be trustworthy enough to do it on his own. It’s not that he thinks Ford did this on purpose, he wouldn’t put himself in danger at the subsequent risk of his brother, but it’s going to be more for Stanley’s peace of mind than anything.

They’ll get through this. They always manage to pull through, even if it does take 3 decades.

With that musing, Stanley registers the slowness of his thoughts, the slight dizziness he feels setting in, and the tiniest of tingling in his extremities. He’d like to give more blood, but if he wants to keep Ford fed, he needs to take care of himself too.

Pausing in his petting, he reaches down a little and taps at Ford’s nose, feeling Ford’s mouth stop moving immediately. “Alright,” Stanley grunts, nudging at Ford’s shoulder with his own. “Times up, buttercup. I needa have some left over.”

To his delight, and just like last time, Ford pulls away immediately with nothing but a mild grumbling of complaint. The wound by itself feels cold in the air, wet with both spit and blood, two substances Stanley can’t help wrinkling his nose at. He needs to clean that up.

Before he can even flex a muscle in preparation to stand, Ford starts moving instead. Stanley watches with raised brows as his brother lifts himself up, then starts rotating his body. He wiggles around for a good minute until they’re resting chest to chest, his head pillowed above Stanley’s still-beating heart and arms hugging his sides. His continuous purring reverberates into Stan’s body, actually rather pleasant.

With a hearty, long sigh of deep satisfaction, Stanford goes completely limp, weight sagging into Stanley’s body. It’s not unbearable, especially since Ford’s lost some weight because of his recent starvation, and instead feels like a bony, breathing, and warm weighted blanket.

Hesitantly, as if Ford would erupt with movement even after sighing like that, Stanley’s own arms come up and around his brother’s body. His fingers interlock over Ford’s back, pressing down against the individual knobs of vertebrae beneath a thick turtleneck, holding them together.

Well, it seems like cleaning up his arm is out of the question. He tilts his head up to peer down at Ford, only able to see a tiny portion of his face. His eyelids are closed, looking rather pleased with where he lies. There’s still a smear of red across his lips and chin, but it doesn’t at all take away from the adorable picture.

Yeah, no. Stanley ain’t moving for shit.

He resigns himself to taking a nap, honestly not too against the idea. He’s still dizzy despite laying down, the sensation of movement encroaching upon him when his eyes close. It’s a little nauseating, and Stanley really wants some water, but his desire to stay cuddled with his elder brother is far stronger.

Lulled to sleep by Ford’s warm weight and purring, Stanley manages to drift off. He just hopes waking up is uneventful.

Ford wakes up snug and cozy, his cheek smushed against something firm and warm. As awareness slowly sinks its claws into his body, Ford slowly pieces together his surroundings.

He’s cuddled with Stanley, cradled to his side where he’s wedged between his brother’s body and his arm. He’s got an arm thrown over Stanley’s abdomen, and a leg thrown over Stanley’s right leg. Apparently he’d gotten remarkably clingy while asleep. There’s a line of drool slipping down his chin, dribbling into the patch of fabric on Stanley’s chest that his head is resting upon, and a fuzzy blanket has been pulled mostly over his person.

On the other side of the room a TV channel plays — something funny, by the sounds of canned laugh tracks. That and Stanley’s belly-deep laughter that simultaneously shakes Ford as well as the couch. The earthquake-like movement has Ford wondering how he hadn’t woken up earlier.

There’s a distinct lack of hunger in his gut that he only partially recognizes. The feeling of warmth and fullness feels so right in this moment that he barely gives it a second thought, ignoring the slight sense of wrongness that prods at him.

He blinks half-blurred eyes at the wall opposite of him, across the valley of Stanley’s chest and the floor. He can’t really see yet, a layer of film proving to be stubborn despite his blinking. There’s no reason to be worried, however. Stanley is here, and things are warm and safe, leaving Ford feeling content and satisfied for once in his life.

He could go back to sleep, if he wanted. He can’t see properly and the last dregs of the sleep he had woken from are still clinging onto his brain, leaving his thoughts muddled.

He debates upon this, stretching a little whilst he does so, blissfully unaware of anything and everything. Stanley is here, keeping watch over things. Ford can leave the role of protector to him for the time being.

The long arch of his back and slight pop of his spine alerts his brother to his wakefulness, however, and a hand migrates to Ford’s head of hair immediately. Fingers nestle within the fluffy strands, and Ford nuzzles back into the body beneath him as his hair is played with.

He took too long, he’s waking up now. His vision slowly clears as he stays where he lies, humming a little at the sensation of fingers buried within his hair. He’s still floaty, the last bits of fuzziness from just waking up slowly ebbing away, though taking its sweet time.

Stanley’s voice rings out, much softer compared to his previous laughter, asking a respectively quiet, “you back with me?”

His fingers travel to behind Ford’s ear, prompting the elder man to tilt his head in order to allow better access to the spot. It’s done completely out of instinct, his half-awake brain not even registering the movement until it’s done. Stanley obliges the quiet urging, snorting quietly at him.

Ford hums back noncommittally, heavy-eyed and tired, yet sated and full. It’s a lovely feeling, and one he wouldn’t mind replicating. For the scientific benefits, of course.

His rapidly focusing eyes catch sight of Stanley’s wrist, draped over his belly and nearby Ford’s head. He squints at the appendage, slowly finding the wrapped portion of the wrist, and the untreated wound a little further up the forearm.

The untreated wound he caused.

It comes rushing back, abruptly. It’s spotty and hard to piece together, but from what Ford can tell, he fed from Stanley and somehow kept him from treating the wound. The wound which has been left unwrapped for what must be hours now.

God, there must be so many tiny microbes in there.

He shoves himself upwards and away from his brother’s body like he had been zapped, ripping himself away from that gentle hand in his hair. “Stanley!” He yelps, startling a flinch from the younger as Ford flies to his feet, wobbling dangerously from the unexpected height-change, “you should have pushed me off sooner!”

A steadying hand is outstretched towards him, though he evades its grabbing fingers. He might be dragged to sit down, and he knows, with how his head is spinning, he won’t get back up for a few minutes.

A few minutes too long. Stanley’s arm needs to be treated now.

Twisting on his feet, Ford dances for the med-kit they have stashed in this room, courtesy of Ford himself. It’s good to have multiple med-kits hidden all over the boat, even if it feels excessive. Despite rolling his eyes at Ford’s behaviour, Stanley obliged, and now the sporadic placement is coming in handy.

Stanley sighs, easing himself back onto the couch with a frown, watching Ford dive for the med-kit stashed in the floorboards. Well, so much for relaxing.

Ford’s shaking hands rip apart the loose floorboard with ease, plunging his arm inside and fishing around, and then retracting with what he wants. Not bothering with sliding the floorboard back into place, Ford stumbles back upright with the med-kit clutched in hand, and returns very quickly to his brother’s side.

“Sit up, sit up,” he urges insistently, tugging at Stanley’s shirt and shoulders to accentuate what he wants. It’s times like these Ford rues his brother’s bulk.

“You were layin' on me, Ford,” Stanley tries to say, pulling himself up mostly to calm down Ford’s pulling that’s bordering on frantic. “I couldn’t exactly move.”

So it was his fault. This news, while not surprising, has Ford’s expression twisting even further, evidently distraught. Breath escapes him in rushed, short, sharp bursts. He’s not breathing well, leaving his brain itself fighting to receive enough oxygen to operate on.

Stanley gives up his arm easily when Ford reaches for it, allowing him to turn it over to bare the two little puncture marks Ford’s fangs made. His gums itch at the sight, turning his head away to watch his other hand rifle through the med-kit.

“You should’ve pushed me off sooner,” repeats Ford, a little quieter though no less tremulous. Hands remain unsteady even as they’re used to clean out the rather shallow flesh wounds, his eyes refusing to lift from his given job.

He just can’t look at Stanley. Shame disallows this, and cleaning out wounds gives him a good excuse to not look up.

“What if —” Ford starts with, feeling as though he’s descending a spiral staircase, tumbling ungracefully down the stone steps. Hitting every tread. “What if this got infected? Or, or if it started bleeding again and it set me off and I hurt you? Then— oh, Moses, Stanley I’m so sorry, I should’ve have even allowed—”

Okay, yeah, Stanley has to put a stop to that.

“Hey,” Stanley snaps, perhaps a little too aggressively.

It does the job, however, and has Ford flinching a little, mouth snapping closed with a click from his teeth. Head remaining angled downwards, his movements stop, so still he appears frozen in time. Shoulders hike upwards, threatening to meet his ears.

“Look at me,” Stanley requests, tone exceptionally softer.

Gently this time, Stanley’s voice reaches Ford’s ears once more. They no longer snap, newly sounding coaxing and calming. It doesn’t help very much.

Eyes stay locked to Stanley’s wrist as Ford slowly tilts his head up and in his brother’s general direction. He can feel Stanley’s eyes burning into the sides of his own, and god if that doesn’t make him want to continue looking away.

“Look at me, Ford,” Stanley presses, just like Ford knew he would. He’s insisting, arm muscles flexing in Ford’s hands, a subtle warning that he’s thinking of forcing eye contact.

Ford squeezes his eyes shut briefly, just enough to prepare himself for whatever awful expression Stanley is wearing. Apprehension constricts his chest, legs jittery with anxious nerves. Terribly carefully, Ford cracks his shut eyes back open, gingerly looking upwards; to his brother’s face.

To his surprise, Stanley doesn’t look angry at all. Not like he should be. His lips are a little twisted, but his eyes remain open and soft, something like worry drenching his pupils. There’s no sign there that Stanley blames him one bit, which just isn’t right.

It’s physically painful to keep eye contact with Stanley, his chest aching with an emotional pain that hurts worse than heartburn. In a bid to try and meet Stanley’s standards, Ford allows his eyes to flick away from time to time, all around Stan’s face, and then back to his eyes. Each glance is short, just enough to catch a glimpse, and then he’s moving onwards.

His jaw remains tight, like there are screws holding it closed, and his hand subconsciously tightens around Stanley’s hand.

“There you are,” Stanley says in a way that indicates he’s proud, lips quirking a little into a smile. “Now, you listen to me."

“None of this was your fault. I let you feed from me, Ford. In fact, I insisted. You didn’t do anything but what I wanted, and you did it well. Keeping me down was a good thing, I think, since I was a little dizzy—” Ford opens his mouth to argue at this point, stricken, but he’s completely steam-rolled over, “—It’s only been a few hours, so I really don't think anythin' has infected my arm. Stop yer worryin’.”

“I should’ve realized you were hurt,” Ford argues, tiny and tentative in the wake of Stanley’s hard words, designed to keep rapt attention. “I shouldn’t have just— just gone to sleep like everything was okay.”

Realistically, Ford knows it’s impractical to wish his earlier self worked correctly. When he gets like that he becomes incapable of any sort of rational thought aside from emotional. He couldn’t have taken care of Stanley in that state, which is why he wanted to stay out of that headspace, but he failed.

He clutches at his chest that pangs, wishing he could reach in and soothe his own aching heart.

“I’m glad you did,” Stanley replies, giving Ford pause. He looks up slowly, brows furrowed in doubt, wondering why Stanley still doesn’t look angry. “I liked havin' you there with me, Sixer. I could’ve gone another couple o’ hours with you layin' on me, honestly.” As he talks, the arm Ford had been working on shakes off his hands, reaching up to slowly cradle Ford’s cheek. Stanford allows it, if only because he’s caught off guard.

He’s stared at meaningfully, thumb swiping across his cheekbone. Ford could cry.

“You ain’t got a damn thing to be sorry for, okay?”

Ford swallows, loud in the resulting, thick silence that he’s sure only he’s feeling. Stanley really doesn’t blame him, even after Ford fed from him, hurt him, kept him trapped on the couch. He seems to have even liked it.

It doesn’t make any sense, but, the more Ford thinks about it, the more he realizes how Stanley that is. Of course he doesn’t hate Ford, of course he offered himself up as food, and of course he doesn’t blame Stanford despite having all the right in the world.

Eyes suddenly stinging, Ford blinks them numerous times, feeling like his throat is clogged.

“Stanley—” he attempts, sounding a little strained. His cheek is deftly tapped at by the hand still on his cheek, stopping him.

“If that’s an apology I don’t wanna hear it.”

“No, no,” Ford rushes to clear up, shaking his head with a watery little laugh. The hand falls away with the movement, and though he misses the warmth, it’s good it’s gone. The easy touch was making him terribly emotional. “I just… I wanted to say thank you. For putting up with me.”

Stanley’s brow raises in a way that tells Ford that was a stupid thing to say, but not because it’s sappy or gross or anything of the above. “Ford,” he starts, shaking his head, “if this is me 'putting up with you', then I think I could do it forever.”

Ford’s heart flutters in his chest, feeling remarkably like butterfly wings brushing up against the interior of his ribcage. He feels almost sick with it, and, for lack of anything better to say, just hums, “thank you, Stanley.”

He’s allowed to return to his brother’s wound at that, obviously done with the sappy talk. Busying himself with wrapping the wound, Ford gets it done quickly and deftly, fingers still shaking but getting easier to use. “Let me know if that’s too tight,” he says quietly, wriggling the tip of his finger between bandage and skin.

The bandages aren’t too tight, and they shouldn’t cause any problems, but just in case.

He sits back on his heels as Stanley moves his arm around, fingers flexing normally. The werewolf looks rather satisfied with this, humming, “nice wrapping.”

“Well, I’ve had practice,” Ford chuckles, and deems this situation finished. He gathers the remnants of the supplies he hadn’t used, and struggles his way to his feet, ignoring the way Stanley’s eyes snap to his figure immediately. “Let me know if you feel any sort of burning sensation, or other signs of infection, if you please,” he hums, tottering on his feet.

“Sure, Ford. We have antibiotics, ya know,” Stanley informs him, as if Ford doesn’t keep inventory of their supplies at all times.

“I am aware, but just in case.”

Nodding with a sort of finality, Ford begins turning around, about to splutter an excuse of putting away the med kit in order to disappear and isolate himself. He’s still not feeling entirely himself, and, despite Stanley’s words, he’s sure his brother would like some personal time.

Mid-step, his wrist is snagged by a warm hand, keeping him in place. He twists with a slight spark of irritation, though it’s immediately smothered upon witnessing the look Stanley has adopted.

By all accounts, his brother is using puppy-dog eyes. Wide and purposefully glassy, his bottom lip jutting out very slightly in a pleading pout. The expression looks a little silly when worn by Stanley’s face, but it’s just sad enough to tug on Ford’s heartstrings.

“Stay?” Stan asks, tiny and purposefully pathetic. He makes sure his eyes are wide and glassy, blinking up at Ford like he can't handle the thought of being alone. Bastard knows just what he’s doing, that he’s got Ford hook, line and sinker.

Ford swallows harshly, trying to look away even as he feels his resolve start to dissolve. “Stanley, I have to-” he tries, only to be tugged at once more.

“Please?” Stanley asks when their eyes meet, a little plea that Ford just cannot ignore.

With a long, suffering sigh that’s mostly for show, Ford relents. “Alright,” he mutters, stooping to set aside the supplies in his arms, “only for a little while more. I was just asleep.”

He’ll stay until Stanley falls asleep, then sneak off. He’d prefer to not fall asleep himself, as he might wake up hungry and attempt to suck Stanley’s dried blood out of the dirty tissues he had used. His hunger makes him act on instinct when he’s not completely aware or awake enough to fight it, so that’s damn well something that could happen.

At his agreement, Stanley’s grin broadens, tugging newly insistent at Ford’s wrist as he lays back down. “Uh-huh. C’mere,” he invites eagerly, patting at his chest.

A little embarrassed, Ford merely hums and keeps his eyes averted, carefully climbing his way over Stanley’s body. Once he’s at Stanley’s side, the grip around his wrist tugs, and he goes tumbling down.

Stanley scoops him close with an arm thrown around his back, pinning his body between the couch cushions, his arm, and his chest. When Ford blinks he finds himself in the exact same position as he was when he woke up.

Tentatively, as Stanley busies himself with tucking them both in with a discarded blanket, Ford lays his head against his brother’s chest, finding himself much more reserved and careful than he was when he was high on instincts. It leaves him a little too tense, unwilling to let Stanley take his full body weight. For fear of hurting his brother or his own insecurity, he’s not sure.

With the blanket tucked in, Stanley’s hand goes for his head again, pressing him down with a low, “relax, Ford. Yer not that heavy.” He struggles minutely, then carefully allows himself to go limp when Stanley’s hand refuses to move.

In what might be a reward, the hand in his hair begins to massage his scalp, coaxing the last bits of tension from his body. He goes boneless, sinking into Stanley’s protective hold, carefully winding an arm over his body to hug him in return.

“There ya go,” Stanley coos, effectively pleased. He hums like a radio signal as he turns his attention back to his show that had been playing as idle background noise, and Ford busies himself with trying not to fall asleep.

He’s surprisingly tired, even though he’d just woken up. It would be concerning, if the answer weren’t so obvious. Sure he wouldn’t fall asleep, Ford allows his eyes to close with the intention to rest them, which may be the beginning of the end.

He ends up falling asleep despite his best efforts. Somehow.