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Stanley leaned back into his folding chair and threw the fishing line back into the ocean. "That's a good idea, but how about something that can cook food? By itself." He didn't know how, why, or when, but at one point in their convesation, the topic had drifted to inventions, of all things. Mostly inventions that can do things for you. Stan had the sneaking suspicion that Ford was the one behind it. He still went along with it.
"Like... ovens?" Ford said, throwing his own line back in. "And microwaves? And—"
"No, you're not getting it," Stan replied. "See, you have to actually click buttons to get those things working. But I'm talking about something that can cook by itself."
Ford furrowed his brows in thought. "I guess," he said, clearly humoring his brother. Oh well. Stan's genius was not for the masses. "What do you think about a chair that can follow you around?"
"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Stan snapped his fingers, smiling wide. They've been bouncing ideas off each other for a while now, but that might've been the best one yet. "Okay, okay, hear this. A boat that can sail itself."
"I'm fairly certain those—"
"Wait, wait! A fishing rod that catches fish," Stan paused. Paused long enough for Ford to throw him an annoyed glare. "By itself!"
"By itself?" Ford made a show of thinking about it, like he wasn't expecting this at all.
"Yeah. Imagine you're just sitting—" Stan gestured at himself and grinned, "—y'know, just relaxing after a day's worth of work, or something like that. Too tired to fish." Then, he pointed excitedly at the fishing rod in his hand. "And the rod just fishes for you! Can you imagine?"
When Stan heard no response, he glanced at his twin, questions ready on his tongue. Ford was watching him with a strange look that made Stan feel all rainbows and sunshine inside. "Earth to Poindexter."
Ford blinked. One, two times. "Uh. Yes, I can imagine that." He seemed to consider something, and then his eyes got that dumb look again. "And you like it?"
"I mean, sure?" Stan said, all of a sudden embarrassed. He averted his gaze back to the sea. "What's there not to like, y'know? It's— well. " It might not have been a moving chair or an intelligent boat or anything like that, but... "It's cool."
He heard Ford hum in agreement. "One might say it's... radical."
"It's what—" Stan wheezed out, barely managing to catch his fishing rod before it could drop. He whipped his head to stare at his brother, bewildered. "Ford. Ford. Don't ever say that again."
"Is that outdated?" Ford tilted his head, voice curious. He couldn't quite hide his smug smile, though.
"Oh, shut up! You definitely knew that."
"What? Of course I didn't."
"You obviously did!"
"Did not."
For a while, they just bantered back and forth, before Ford changed topics again. Stan, of course, went along. Even if Ford had the look of someone who was up to no good.
Ford stayed up.
So that was the no good that his twin was up to. Sure, it was pretty obvious Ford had been thinking something up in that brain of his; after they were done fishing, Ford had seemed distracted. More than usual, anyway.
Stanley hadn't thought much of it, back then— it wasn't that rare for Ford to get lost in his own head. And even if Ford did pour himself one cup of coffee too many, and kept mumbling to himself, and—
Okay. In hindsight, Stan should've seen it coming.
It's not like he could do much about it now. Except annoy his brother to sleep, which had yet to work.
"Stanford," he groaned, loud enough to hear from the other side of the ocean. "Quiet down." Because that was the reason Stan wasn't sleeping. Not because the bunk bed was short on one person. Nope. Not thinking about that. "Go to sleep."
Papers rustling, followed by a series of loud noises. "Sorry," Ford yelled from wherever he was. "Give me a moment. I'll be heading to bed soon."
"Yeah? And when'll that be?"
Silence. Stan groaned again and dragged a hand down his face. Soon had better meant in about an hour, or so help him.
It turned out that soon meant never. By Ford's standards, anyway (which were always very, very bad).
Stan felt anything but rested the next day. He had either gotten thirty minutes of sleep, or no sleep at all. He didn't know about Ford— could never know, not when the man practically lived off caffeine and could somehow function on two hours of sleep— but his brother had to have been a little tired after that. Hopefully tired enough to actually go to bed tonight.
Ha.
Stan rubbed his eyes, trying to prepare himself for the day, and groggily got out of bed. He spared a glance into Ford's study room, in case his brother was working (or sleeping, but it's not like that was much better). Empty. Stan had half a mind to snoop around and find out what, exactly, warranted staying up the whole night. As appealing as it sounded, he'd learned his lesson about hanging around Ford's stuff a long time ago. Also, something smelled really good. Maybe Ford had finally learned how to make proper food. Stan found his way into the kitchen.
"Good morning, Stanley," Ford said from his seat at the table. Stan leveled him with a stern look, although it probably wasn't as effective as it would've been if he didn't feel like death. Ford had the decency to look half-guilty. "I made breakfast."
Sure enough, there were two plates of pancakes on the table. One had sour cream on it, and the other had honey. Stan's glare wavered. Damnit. Of course Ford was going to butter him up with his favorite meal after that whole stunt. He absently wondered how Ford hadn't burned them to ashes. Damnit. Damn pancakes. Stan plopped into the chair across from his brother. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Ford said. They ate in relative silence, with Stan sending the other irritated looks every now and then, to which Ford pointedly paid no attention to. Stan weighed the pros and cons of starting a fight right now. In all honesty, he would've loved to argue and let out some steam, but they could do that when it wasn't so early in the morning. That left the option of civilized, mature conversation, with both parties being respectful.
"The hell was that all about?"
Off to a good start. "Don't talk with your mouth full."
Stan rolled his eyes, but swallowed the pancake. "You told me you'd go to bed."
"I did."
"Your desk is not a bed." Unlike the last time this happened, Ford wasn't trying to defend his point. Improvement was in the small things. "What were you even doing?"
Ford, in favor of answering, stared at his plate. Surely, the pancakes couldn't have been that interesting. Unless Ford had made some magical paranormal pancakes, which would explain why they were actually edible. Stan spared a glance at his own and— nope. Normal pancakes. "Working."
"Right." Stan stifled a sigh. So they were going to play the prompting game. "On what?"
"You know," Ford said in a tone of voice that meant no, he was not going to elaborate on this, and stop asking me things, Stanley.
Well, now he definitely wasn't going to stop. "No, actually." Stan propped his chin on a hand. "I don't know. Mind sharing?"
He couldn't help but smirk when Ford puffed out an annoyed breath. "Something."
"Something more important than sleep?" Ford opened his mouth. "Don't answer that."
Ford didn't. Instead, he started poking at a pancake with a fork, moving it around the plate. To the right, then the left. This was weird; Ford always told him what he was working on, sometimes even asked for his thoughts. Right, left. Was it something he did? Right. There was another reason Stan could think of, but he didn't like it one bit. Left again.
"Don't play with your food," Stan mocked into his palm. That got Ford to glare at him. "You sure you can't tell me what it is?"
And there went the eye contact. "No."
"Why not?"
"Ah." Ford's mouth set into a tight line. "No reason."
His brother must have really not wanted to talk to him. Which was just great. He just wished Ford would actually say it to his face, but that was too much to ask for, it seemed. Stan stabbed through a pancake with much more force than necessary. Well. If Ford wasn't going to tell him anything, then neither was Stan.
"Okay." Stan got back to eating.
And if he ignored Ford's worried glances and attempts at conversation, only giving away half-answers, that was only fair.
Apparently, Ford was not tired enough to sleep tonight.
Which meant it was another restless night for Stan. And he did try his best to get in an hour or two, mind you. It should've been easy; usually, after skipping a good night's sleep like that, Stanley was out like a baby the next night. Not this night. Not when the bed above him was absent of it's owner.
Once morning arrived and it became clear that Stan was not going to get what he wanted, he came up with a foolproof plan. Lie in bed all day. Sure, when he'd done that before, nothing good came out of it. In fact, it might've had made things worse. But he had an actual reason to do it now. This was bound to work— Stan would just stare at a wall and, one way or another, bore himself to sleep. That's when he realized that's what he's been doing all night already, and look how that worked.
Stan threw an arm over his face. There was no winning in this life. Fine, then. He'd do something else, something productive, like a good person.
Making breakfast sounded like an okay idea. Kind of. Stan didn't quite have the energy to spare for it. Or he could go fishing. That always managed to get his brain to stop thinking— relaxing outside, enjoying the cold sea air. And fishing required minimal effort (if he wasn't planning on actually catching something). With that settled, Stan crawled out from under the covers and stretched, popping a bone or two. He scanned the room for his fishing rod.
Which should've been right beside the doorway.
Just his luck. He didn't put it somewhere else and forget, did he? Stan looked over everything one more time for good measure. Nothing. He scratched at his cheek lightly, thinking. Ford couldn't have taken it— he had his own rod, and there was simply no reason for him to do so. Although, Ford seemed to not have reasons for anything he did these days. Maybe he did take it. Stan searched, both for his brother and his fishing rod. Checked Ford's study room, the kitchen. No fishing rods here. Some more rooms he didn't know the purpose of. No brothers, either.
There was one place left. Stan made his way on deck and, sure enough, there Ford was. Leaning over the railing, seemingly enjoying the sunrise. His head kept bobbing down towards the water.
"Keep that up and you're gonna fall overboard."
"What?" Ford immediately perked up, turning around to face him. "Oh, Stanley. Good morning."
Stan put his forearms on the railing, beside his brother. "Do you want to go fishing?"
"No," Ford said, a little too quickly, and glanced back to the sun. Like that was just a normal thing people did. "I— We'll do it another time, alright?"
Stan tried not to let it get to him. Ford didn't have to fish with him all of the time. He probably had a reason. Or not. Not like Stan knew (not like he was going to know). "Yeah, okay," he said quietly. "I couldn't find my fishing rod anyway."
"Is it gone? That's strange." Ford drummed a rhythm with his fingers in a nervous habit. "Do you need help finding it?"
And then what, go fishing, just like Ford had so obviously wanted? Stan pushed himself off the railing, trying for casual. Instead, he almost toppled backwards, but quickly got his balance back before anyone could notice. "No. Don't really want to fish, anyway."
"Are you sure?"
"It's whatever, Ford." Stan walked away, trying to pretend that he wasn't acting like a five year old. Because he wasn't. Ford's rejection wasn't getting to him, not at all. He was handling this. "I'm going to make breakfast."
"Stanley—"
"See you."
"Are you mad?" Ford called out after him.
Stan stopped. Was he mad? Tired, without a doubt. Bitter, sure. Hurt, maybe a little. But mad? Him? Over what, Stanford avoiding him? "No," he said. "It's fine."
He felt his brother's stare bore into the back of his head. Though before Ford could say anything else, Stan entered back into the cabin. If he slammed the door with a lot more anger than he usually did, well. He might've lied about not being mad. So what? Stan didn't feel bad about it.
It wasn't like he was the only one lying in that conversation.
The rest of the day was... tense, to say the least. It was like Stan went back in time, when they had just gotten on board, with both of them walking on egg shells around each other. Except now it was Ford doing that, and Stan not being mad and definitely not acting like a five year old. Point being, he probably deserved some sleep after an awkward day like that. Right? Wrong.
Stan grumbled into his pillow. He might've contemplated the meaning of existence one too many times out of sheer boredom. He was losing it. His brain was melting, probably. It might've been the sleep-deprivation talking, but he was one inconvenience away from committing fratricide. The empty top bunk was not helping.
He was exhausted.
He couldn't take it anymore. So he wasn't going to. No, Stan was putting his foot down. Ford staying up one night, he could deal with that. Two nights, thin ice. Three nights was where he drew the line. He wanted to sleep. And Ford wanted that, too. He was just too stubborn to understand that.
Well, Stan was going to make him understand. He was going to get his brother to sleep even if that meant dragging him to bed. Stan stood up, swaying slightly, his joints grating in protest. He walked out into the hallway, and there it was— light coming from Ford's room. Stan slammed open the door as loudly as possible.
"Morning," Ford muttered, not even bothering to stop writing. Like Stan barging into his room just happened every day. If Ford didn't go to bed this insant, then Stan was going to make sure to do just that. "Breakfast already?"
"I don't know," Stan said, voice dripping with sarcasm. He crossed his arms. "Do you have breakfast at three in the morning?"
The sounds of pen on paper paused. "What do you..." Ford trailed off, slowly spinning around in his chair. Somehow, he looked even worse in the dim lighting. His hair was ruffled and messy from a hand that had ran through it far too many times. The bags under his eyes could rival Stan's. "It's not..."
"C'mon," Stan said, leaning on the doorframe. Ford had better hurry up, or Stan was pretty sure he was going to fall asleep standing. "You can work on this thing at day."
Ford raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm busy at day."
"Really?" Stan mimicked his brother's expression. Ford wasn't running after anomalies the whole day. That was only half. "How?"
"By spending time with you."
The way Ford said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, left Stan blinking in surprise. Unfortunately, it was not enough to extinguish the spark of anger in him. "Oh, because you've been so busy doing that."
Ford's features shifted into a frown. "You're mad at me." It wasn't a question. "For not sleeping. Aren't you?"
That was only part of it, but Stan wasn't going to let Ford know that. He was not feeling up to any serious emotional talks, not one bit. "Doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does."
"No—"
"It matters to me, Stanley!" Ford all but shouted. Then, he flinched, and lowered his voice. "I— I don't want to make you mad. I don't want us to fight."
Stan's face softened. "Then let's go to bed, Sixer. I'm—" As if to prove his point, he let out a long yawn. "I'm tired."
"You haven't been sleeping," Ford said, gaping at Stan.
"What, like it wasn't obvious?"
It wasn't. Not to his brother, apparently. "Why? Have—" Ford ended up yawning, too. His tone turned apologetic. "Have I been keeping you up?"
Stan was not about to have a conversation about why he hadn't been sleeping. Not at whatever-hour of the night. Preferably never. "Listen. Listen, whatever it is you're doing, you can do it later." Ford seemed ready to interrupt, either to argue that he can't do it later or to come back to their previous topic. Stan wasn't a fan of both options. "Please, Ford. I could even help—"
"You can't!"
The world came to halt.
"Because," Ford hastily continued, eyes darting around the room, with his hands held up in a stopping gesture. "Because, um. Uh."
"I can't, huh." Stan tried to keep his composure, tried to listen to the rational part of his mind. But the ugly feeling that had been building up inside of him ever since their talk over breakfast exploded. At least he could say he tried. "Of course."
His brother had the audacity to look confused. "What?"
"Just say it, Ford," Stan spat. His forearms hurt from how hard he gripped them. He didn't care. "I'm not stupid!"
"I don't think you're stupid."
"Sure you don't."
"You're not stupid, Stanley!" Ford cried out, shooting up from his chair and making it roll backwards. "Where is all of this coming from? I— I don't understand."
Stan couldn't believe this. There was no way anyone could be that dense. Even Ford. "Sure you don't."
"I don't!" Ford threw his arms up. "I don't know what I did." He started pacing around the room, running a hand through his hair again. The desk was no more obscured from view by Ford's body. Stan squinted as he saw something familiar lying on it. "It's not just me skipping sleep, is it? There's something else. Stanley—"
"Is that my fishing rod?"
It was a little difficult to spot in the dark, but the shocked silence only served as confirmation. So Ford had taken it after all. Stan pushed past his twin, despite any objections, and approached the desk to get a closer look. Papers and other junk littered the surface, including blueprints. One of them read Automatic Fishing Rod.
Ford seemed to visibly deflate, all the fight suddenly drained out of him. "It... It was supposed to be a surprise."
Stan stared. His fishing rod. Automatic. A memory made itself known, of an evening spent fishing and laughing. All these nights spent sleepless, Ford had been working on something for... him. Was that why Ford hadn't—
Told him.
Oh.
"Don't think this means our conversation is over," he heard Ford speak. His voice barely registered, like it was coming from somewhere far, far away. "Whatever I did wrong, I want to make it up to you. And— Stanley?"
A giggle escaped Stan, barely audible. It grew in volume until he burst into laughter, loud and harsh and filled to the brim with relief. He brought a hand to his forehead. This was so ridiculous. "I really am stupid."
"You're not!" Ford grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing Stan to face him. His brother's expression of utter bemusement only made Stan laugh harder. "This isn't funny. I never meant to make you think that way. I'm sorry."
Stan tried to form a reply, but his hysterics left him gasping for breath. He took a moment to calm down (it was hard, what with Ford practically pouting at him). "I thought," he managed, "that you didn't want my help because of, well." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Because of what happened." Because I'm a screw-up.
Ford's face scrunched up in concetration. It only took a moment for it to change into the face of someone who had just had a terrifying realization dawn upon them. "Oh." Ford let go of Stan's shoulders. And dropped his head into his hands. "I'm an idiot."
That's when it really settled in; that his brother really hadn't been avoiding him, that Stan hadn't done anything wrong, that they were okay. Stan barked out another laugh. "We're both idiots," he said with a grin. Ford chuckled into his hands, before letting them drop and full-on going into a fit.
Stan would've loved to stay like that, laughing with his brother until they were both breathless, but there was still one question nagging at his mind. "Why this?" He looked back at the fishing rod, the papers, the blueprints. "Why not the moving chair, or— I don't know."
"What, the glorified microwave?" Ford deadpanned. When he went on, though, the snark disappeared from his voice, replaced with something gentle and warm. "You looked... very excited, talking about it. As if it was the coolest thing in the world. And I thought..." Ford bowed his head down. "I just wanted to make you happy."
His voice sounded so quiet, so sad. In any other situation, Stan would've turned it into a joke, or given his brother a good punch to the shoulder, or done something that wasn't as sappy as what he did next. "I don't need some intelligent fishing rod to make me happy, Ford."
"I— I know that," Ford stammered. He lifted his head back up, looking regretfully at Stan. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to get so invested in it, it just— I couldn't figure out how it would even work. I didn't have the proper materials for it, too." He let out a resigned sigh. "Fiddleford was always better at this."
Stan bit down on the Fiddleford probably gets his sleep at night. Instead, he spread his arms wide, and beamed when Ford practically slumped against him. "You going to keep working on it?" Stan wouldn't have minded (with the condition of Ford not staying up, of course). Still, the only answer he got was the smallest shake of a head. "Alright."
With Ford safe in his hold, finally with him, Stan felt like he could sleep for the first time in three days. He almost let himself close his eyes right then and there. Almost. "Yes, good night, very funny. We're not snoozing here." No response. "Sixer?" Ford only breathed deeply, completely limp. Okay, when Stan said he was going to drag his brother to bed, he wasn't actually being serious. He wasn't even sure if he had enough strength left in him for that. "Ford. Ford, wake up. I'm not carrying you to bed."
He carried Ford to bed.