Chapter Text
Stanford had made a mistake.
He should have paid attention; the signs had all been there, staring him in the face with glassy eyes, and he hadn’t bothered to recognize them for what they were. Stanley was sick.
Stanley was sick and Stella was sick, and Stanford had dragged a sick man and a sick child out all day and then had the audacity to make them suffer through furniture construction, of all things.
He hadn’t known.
He’d taken Stanley’s huffs and grumbles as more of his own, special brand of self-involved annoyance, and, if he was honest with himself, Ford welcomed the thick, heavy ropes of annoyance that draped across him in reaction to his brother’s piss-poor attitude. It served as a reminder of the way Stanley used to be.
But Stanford had loathed that attitude when they were younger and had been willing to be rid of it. He had no right to welcome it now.
For Stella, however, the fussiness seemed decidedly uncharacteristic. It was a far cry from the gentle, sweet little girl he’d met nearly a week prior. He’d chalked it up to the child feeding off of her father’s ever-souring attitude and emulating it with one of her own. He didn’t fault her for it, he couldn’t have; she was only a child.
She’s only a child. It was a phrase Stanford found himself spouting out as an excuse often. It was an excuse he’d never have accepted before. What made Stella so different as to merit the use of such an excuse? What about her made him mean it?
The toddler had spent the afternoon perched in her father’s lap, in the midst of a number of small screws and wooden slats.
“Trust you to pick out the most convoluted baby gate there is,” Stanley had grumbled, “one with lots of tiny pieces for a baby, and not only did you buy one of these multi-piece pieces of crud, you had to get two. Two. ” The man had been horrible since they’d left the store and had complained about everything and nothing under his breath for a good part of their trip.
Stella, for her part, had fallen asleep almost as soon as Stanley had thrown the car into gear. It was with a white-knuckled grip that he had nosed the car back to the cabin. Ford hated to admit, if only to himself, that the seething anger dripping off of the man had stung. It was uncalled for, and surely both of them knew it.
There were more pressing concerns at hand.
Ford turned his attention back to his brother and his near-permanent scowl and offered the man a glare of his own, His niece wriggled in her father’s lap and eventually curled in against him, her face half-buried against Stanley's shoulder. Ford sent the child a soft smile, only to receive a small, yet scalding glare in return. Oh. That was unexpected. He scoured his mind to recall any slight that might have warranted such a compact display of ire. The little girl stared at him for a while longer, then flopped and flailed against Stanley doing her best to curl herself around Stanley’s arm. Half of a gate slipped from his hands, followed by a huff of his own.
“No, sweetie. If you’re gonna sit with me, I need you to sit up.”
“No.”
“…You want some milk? Let’s get you some milk.”
“Yeah.” The pair lumbered up, making an uneasy march to the kitchen. It wasn’t long before footsteps shuffled closer. Stanley’s face was a surprise; his uneasy-strained look felt out-of-place with the abrasive rapport that had built between them.
The milk seemed to placate the child if only for a moment, and she quickly settled back into a compact ball, furled into her father’s lap. A thick silence coated the room for a while.
“Is… Is everything alright?”
It took Stanley a moment to respond. “I… Yeah.” He paused to worry his lip. “Yeah, she’s okay, Ford.” It was the third time Stanley had gotten up to pace with his young child, before finally lowering himself back down to the floor with Stella in his lap. They sat quietly for quite some time.
“Sit up, sweetie, my arm’s fallin’ asleep.” Stanley mumbled, earning himself a whine as he shifted a listless Stella and propped her against his chest. Ford watched his brother sigh as the child burrowed down, nestling against him in a way that further impeded his movement.
“Why don’t you just put her down?” As much as the man complained about constructing the gate he needed for his child, he seemed willing to draw the process out into an intolerable exercise in testing both of their patience. Ford returned Stan’s baleful look with one of his own.
“I can’t, Ford. She won’t let me.”
“Nonsense.”
“Really, now?”
“She’d be far more comfortable elsewhere, and you know this.” Ford’s cabin wasn’t that terrible; the child could stand to sit by herself for an hour or so. Stanley refused to break eye contact as he let his screwdriver clatter to the floor and slipped his hands under his daughter’s armpits. He didn’t flinch as the child immediately began to screech, her little fingers clawing for purchase at his borrowed shirt. He lowered her back into his lap and earned himself a raspberry for his troubles.
“But sure, I can move her, though, can’t I?”
“There’s no need for obstinacy.”
“Just. Stop talking.” Ford had little incentive to continue any conversation and settled for tuning his brother out.
It was an ordeal putting together a child-proofing gate, it turned out. It was as if the concept itself existed purely to spite Stanford. Stella, small as she was, seemed hell-bent on spiting the process and thwarting his and Stanley’s work with two small, pudgy hands. Ford glanced at the child sprawled across the floor, one foot on her father, the other between her balled fists. She was lying across the slat he needed.
He wasn’t sure if he should disturb her; Stanley simply leaned over and across her as needed, with the occasional muttering under his breath that Ford knew for a fact was a series of complaints lobbied against him. He’d hold his tongue for now.
Stella let out a sigh and rolled over, one little hand flailing out to capture a pack of screws.
“Sweetie, no. Don’t play with that.” Stan dwarfed the tiny hand in his to work the packet out of the child’s grip, earning himself a series of vocal complaints. “No, sweetie. It’s not a toy, okay?” He received a flail in response. “I—Okay, sweetie.”
With a huff, Stanley labored to his feet and scooped Stella up to deposit her into a nearby chair. Stella responded in kind by latching on to Stanley’s arm with a whine.
“Oh, honey.” He sighed. Ford could see the hesitance etched across his brother’s face. He himself wasn’t certain of his place in all of this. He watched as Stanley eased himself back down to the floor, cradling his daughter in the crook of one arm. “We can sit for a little while, sweet pea, but Daddy’s gotta finish puttin’ the thing together, okay?” The small child burrowed down in her father’s arms. “I…alright.” His shoulders fell slack, and Stanford found his own body doing the same.
There was something so…unnervingly docile and sweet about the way his niece clung to his brother, yet all the same, it left him ill at ease.
Stanley said nothing, barely moved, even, save to rock the child while a tiny six-fingered fist crumpled his shirt and an errant lock of hair together. The little eyes lolled closed; Ford couldn’t help but wonder why she fought so desperately against the sleep she so surely wanted. Wordlessly’ Stanford turned his head and dropped his attention back to his lap. This moment was not for him.
And so they sat, Stanford silently wishing himself elsewhere, while Stanley seemed decidedly absent. His haggard face was flat and distant as he stared down at the child struggling to doze in his lap, his eyes unfocused.
Surely it wasn’t the best of expressions he’d ever found crossing his brother’s face, but Stanford found himself almost afraid to break the trance Stanley was in. He resolved to finish the child gates. If anything, he could take the discomfiting moment as a respite from Stanley’s mumbled complaints.
It turned out, as it was, that any gripes from Stanley were significantly better than the tears and wails from his niece.
His brother had changed. He’d never known the man to be so patient.
No, he reminded himself, Stanford had never known the man at all . He’d cut ties with him when he watched him get forced out was seventeen. There was no trace of that child anymore.
It was a thought for later. There was work to be done.
For a few blessed moments, Stanford had his respite before it was broken by a child’s whine and a crumpled bit of plastic to the face. “ Ford! Geez! Will you listen, or what?”
Ford was tempted to lob something far more substantial in return. “What could possibly be so important as to warrant you throwing things like an overgrown child?”
“You’re doing that upside down , genius.”
Stanford’s eyes dropped down to the perfectly square wooden frame balanced across his leg. Upside down. He was attaching a square piece of wood to another square. He had built an inter-dimensional portal that functioned, and here he was, listening to his brother call him incapable of attaching one wooden square to another. “You’re shi—Stanley, it’s a square. ”
“It’s upside down. It’s not gonna fit right.” Stanley’s sullen scowl didn’t budge as he shifted the seething lump that began to stir in his lap. An absent hand moved to rub Stella’s back. “It may be a square, but it’s still got a right ‘n a wrong way.”
“Mm. I’m assuming you garnered this after you finished putting your gate together.” Stanford drawled. Stanley could barely pick up a sheet of paper before Stella would begin to fuss. There was no way he’d figured out a part of the assembly he hadn’t gotten to yet.
“I’m tellin’ you, it—”
“Daddy, shhh! ”
Stanley paused, holding his tongue long enough for the child to quiet. His tone was even and hushed as he rifled in his pocket and pulled out a pacifier. “It’s a square, yeah. But it’s still got a right way up.”
“I daresay I understand the basics of simple engineering and construction, but I appreciate your concern all the same.”
“Y’know what? Screw it. Do what you want.”
“Stanley, don’t turn something asinine into an ordeal.”
“ Ordeal? Me trying not to—”
“Shhh!”
“…You wasting my time is an ordeal. Get over yourself.”
“I’m merely stating that this is a child-proofing gate, sold to the masses. There is no reason for it to be a convoluted endeavor.”
“And it isn’t. There’s nothin’ hard about you just listenin’ to what I’m tellin’ you.”
“And how would you know which direction it faces? You’re nowhere near that step, Stanley!” Ford’s eyes briefly scanned Stella as she sat upright in his brother’s lap.
“Because I have eyes, Ford.” Whap. “Ey!” Ford watched Stanley frown as he lifted his daughter to eye level. “That wasn’t very nice, sweetheart. That’s really mean.” Stella let out a croak of a whine. “No, sweetie. Don’t do that. I don’t hit you, ‘n you don’t hit me. Alright?” His voice was surprisingly stern.
Ford was stunned. His docile little niece was a ball of unbridled, unadulterated anger wrapped in such a small package. When had that happened? Her little hand reared back, and with all the strength she could muster, she shoved six pudgy fingers into her father’s face Ford couldn’t help the expletive that tumbled out of his mouth. He hadn’t expected that.
“ Stel-la! That hurt! ” Stanley’s eyes were watering as he held his child at arm’s length, and his voice was something Ford had never anticipated from him. That Stanley could sound so… parental was baffling. Disconcerting, even. It was a shock to see him as a father. But to see him actually parent? “You do not hit people. Do you understand me? ” the two stared off for a brief, uncomfortable moment before the pacifier dropped from Stella’s mouth and her eyes began to well. Stanley’s entire body seemed to crumple. “C’mere, sweetheart.” His broad arms pulled the toddler against his chest, muffling the keening wail that warbled out. “Oh, sweetie.” Stella’s little body shook and Stan pushed wooden pieces aside, one by one, and shoved himself to his feet.
“I know. I know, sweetie. I know. You’re tired ’n you want Daddy ’n you also want daddy to shut up.” The keening whine the child struggled to snuffle back pitched surely upwards into a full-bodied wail.
“Oh, baby. My sweet girl. I’m sorry. Daddy’s sorry. I know you’re tired.” Broad hands rubbed circles across her small back as Stanley began a bouncing pace back and forth. There was something heavy in his eyes that Ford wished he hadn’t noticed.
His brother wasn’t supposed to look this resigned.
“Oh, sweetie. Oh, sweetie .” Instead of muffling her cry, Stanley’s neck seemed to cause an echo of the shriek as Stella’s face wormed its way against him.
Ford didn’t know what to do. It was painful enough to watch without the added ringing in his ears as an unwanted bonus. What soothing words could he offer that wouldn’t end up spoiling on his tongue? What was he supposed to do in a moment like this?
Soon enough, Stanley tiptoed his way through the disarray strewn across the floor, past Stanford, and soon enough, the hiccupping wails and gentle shushes trailed up the stairs with Stanley’s heavy footfalls.
Ford dragged his eyes down to his lap. All of this, and for a simple piece of furniture? What was it that made the pair of them react so poorly to something so simple?
Why did something for Stanley’s benefit create a reaction so damned acrid?
Why did Ford even bother?
Because you know you need to fix it. It wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t. But was it Stanley’s? He shook the thought from his head. Culpability aside, it was an issue that needed resolution, and Stanford was a grown man. He was capable of finding a way to resolve whatever problems lay stark between himself and his brother.
Just as he was capable of putting together a damned child gate. He hoisted the frame against his knee as he fiddled with the latticework. Upside down my entire ass. He was a scientist. Finding solutions comprised the breadth of his expertise. Finding resolutions to his and Stanley’s issues should prove perfectly reasonable. Difficult, yes, but doable.
He just needed to find a way to stop creating more in the process. Ford was beginning to believe any action he took, regardless of intent, would be perceived as a slight by Stanley out of sheer spite.
Surely Stan wouldn’t. What reason did he have not to? Was that not what Stanford himself had done?
No. It hadn’t been intentional, Ford’s reaction. He’d never intended for things to sour so horribly between him and his brother. Stanley’s behavior had been spiteful itself, or so he felt. It was only a natural response. But had his own spite been warranted in response? He gave the wood in his hands a shove, only to have the material spring upwards to nearly hit him in the face.
Ford wasn’t sure what he felt as Stanley dragged himself back down the stairs and into the living room. He watched with unease as his brother stood in the center of the room, Stella draped across his arms as he swayed.
“I… You were right.”
The look on Stanley’s face was somewhere between apprehensive and baffled. “…What?”
“The lattice. It didn’t fit.”
“Hmm.”
The simple quiet that hung unsettled Ford. “Somehow, improbable though it remains, I had my… square of wood in an incorrect position for the frame provided.”
Another long pause sat between them. “I fuckin’ told you.”
“So you did.”
Stanley pressed both thumbs against the bridge of his nose. “Fuck it. Whatever. This shit just needs to get put up.”
Ford struggled to fight past the dirt and dust drying out his mouth to spit out his tongue.
“Eh.” He paused, clearing his throat for the sake of it, “That was…surprising.” He couldn’t say he’d expected that from either of them.
It wasn’t as though he knew either of them.
Stanley cut his eyes towards Ford but otherwise did not move. After several moments, he heaved a sigh through his nose.
“She’s little, Ford.”
“I am aware, yes.” That wouldn’t have stopped Filbrick.
“No. I mean, she’s little. ” Stanley sat forward.
“And you’re not…upset by her lashing out like that?” Filbrick would have knocked the two of them into next week for that.
Stanley’s voice neared a rasp. “She’s tired, Ford. She’s small, ‘n she had a long day. The lil’ gremlin needs to sleep.” He eased himself down to the floor with a worried glance down at the child in his arms. He was quiet long enough for her to settle again. He continued. “Put it this way. Y’know the feeling when you’re just too tired to function, ‘n you probably just feel bad in general ‘cause of it?”
He wished he didn’t.
“Imagine that, but you’re too small t’ do anything about it. You’re upset. You wanna be comforted, but there’s too much goin’ on, ‘n even that’s botherin’ you. There’s too much light in the room. Somebody keeps movin’ ‘n makin’ noise. Maybe your head hurts.
“You wanna go to sleep, but the things you can’t control won’t let you. She’s too little to really go, ‘hey, I’m exhausted ‘n I need you to take me home ‘n put me to bed right now,’ or ‘I need you t’ hold me so I can feel better, but stop movin’ around ‘n talkin’ so much, ‘cause it’s botherin’ me ‘n I really need t’ sleep.’ That’s a lot t’ ask.”
Stan’s head wavered side to side. “I mean, yeah, she can talk, but still. She’s just a baby. Things get to bein’ too much a lot easier when you’re little.” He stared down at his daughter. “I mean, it’s hard for adults to get stuff off of their chests when they’re frustrated. Y’ can’t really expect a tiny person still figurin’ all this stuff out to get it right.” He gave a half shrug. “She doesn’t mean t’ act out like that. She just can’t help it.”
“That’s… That’s very insightful of you, Stanley.”
“Eh. Doesn’t mean we won’t have a talk about hitting.” He mumbled. “That actually hurt.”
Ford worried his lip for a moment. “You’re quite good at this, Stanley.” Where had all this patience come from?
“…Yeah. I hope so.”
A few hours’ time saw the gates finally put in place. In the meantime, Stanley had put Stella upstairs to bed after she’d fallen fully asleep. He’d assured Ford that she wasn’t likely to wake with the noise of the drilling, but he wasn’t inclined to agree, and instead installed the gates in short bursts, listening for any signs of an upset child. No such signals came.
“’M gonna go check on her.” Stanley mumbled, his feet shuffling slightly before he trudged his way past Stanford.
“Of…of course.” Ford found his feet pulling him in line behind his brother. He lingered in the doorway, peeking in at the small lump Stanley perched over. His brother shook his head. “Is…is everything alright?”
A pause. “Yeah.” Stan mumbled. “I’m sure she’ll be fine in the morning. Don’t worry about it.
“Right.” Stanford worried his lip for a moment. “Well, good night, I suppose.”
“Yeah.”
That night, like many before it, left Ford sleepless.