Ford didn’t remember falling asleep, and yet still he blinked his eyes open against the blinding light of midmorning sun. He scrunched his eyes closed for a moment and took stock of himself, flexing his stiff muscles with a pained groan. His head was swimming, and the sun beating down on him just exacerbated his already present headache. As he furrowed his brow, he felt the barest pull of a sunburn forming on his forehead and cheeks. He could hear the squabble of a couple gulls, and could smell the salt on the air; And with it, he knew what was important. He was still in his home dimension, Bill was still dead, and that where he was sprawled out was on the deck of the Stan O’War.
What he didn’t know was why he was in so much pain. His back was seizing in fitful jolts, and being flat on the hard deck was doing him no favors. He could feel dried blood on his wrists, making them stick to the frayed edges of his sleeves. And his knuckles were in no better shape. Upon closer inspection, Ford noticed jagged cuts now littered his hands and dug into the still red shackle scars on his wrists. One set of cuts in particular, swollen and angry on the meat of his palms, looked eerily like bite marks. They were large, oddly circular sets of cuts that felt deepand were bleeding sluggishly.
He’d been in a fight. That much was clear.
But he couldn’t remember why. He could account for most of their morning just fine. It started calmly enough. The weather was fine, they were something like 340 miles west off the coast of Vancouver Island, close enough to home to spark musings of a trip back to Oregon.
Ford had just finished updating his journal from last week’s investigation through Kodiak Island off the southern coast of Alaska. Their National Wildlife Refuge was teemingwith abnormal readings that they were lucky enough to investigate. Ford managed to help the Wildlife Biologists design a system to keep some of the more intelligent creatures out of their garbage in exchange for permission to install some sensors and trail cams around the refuge. It was an absolute goldmineof a research opportunity. Luckily for them, the trip between Kodiak and Oregon was relatively short in the grand scheme of things, so they can check back in whenever they need to. It was as productive a trip as they could have hoped for.
And Stan decided to celebrate with a lazy day of fishing.
Ford had shut off the engine, and they were content to drift for the time being. The water was calm enough, neither of them had seen any harm in it.
He had been just about to leave the wheelhouse when he heard something ahead of him. Coming from the main deck. It was overwhelming, as if coming from every direction. A cacophonous screeching cry that he could feel in his teeth, layered and frenzied. It had him sprinting to the main deck, buzzing with nervous excitement. He remembers swinging open the wheelhouse doors, stepping out to the deck–And then nothing. Just waking up barely a foot away. The door was still sitting ajar, creaking slightly with every gentle sway of the ship.
Ford hummed curiously, That’s certainly concerning,
Aside from the noises one would expect living on a boat, everything was silent. Whatever creature they had encountered, whatever made that fascinating sound, it was long gone. That should be a relief, but Ford felt a wave of unease pass over him as he eyed his bleeding hand. Over the course of their travels, he’s found that many anomalies can be goal-driven and opportunistic. Particularly if their first instinct was violence. If this creature had a victim–or in this case maybe even a meal–unconscious and at the ready, why would it have just left?
That’s even more concerning.
Not that Ford’s necessarily upsetthat he didn’t get eaten. But the question still remained.
Sufficiently confused, Ford sat up quickly, regretfully wincing at the wave of nausea that followed him. The familiar deep, throbbing headache that pressed incessantly behind his eyes confirmed what he was already afraid of.
Another concussion. Shit.
He’d woken up feeling sluggish and confused, but was hoping to chalk that up to dehydration or caffeine withdrawals. Unfortunately, he’s been concussed enough times to recognize the signs. Vertigo, light sensitivity; He could only hope his fuzzy and distorted vision was only because he wasn’t wearing his glasses, and not another cumbersome migraine.
For many years, though much worse after Weirdmageddon, he’d had been experiencing periodic ocular migraines. Anything could bring one on: bad sleep, too much stress, perhaps the slightestoverindulgence in coffee that day, or even a light that’s too bright. Whenever that was the case, he’d end up spending most of the day with the curtains drawn, hopelessly trying to blink away the vivid blind spot that would make even the act of reading nigh impossible.
Needless to say, he’s had a lot of them.
Truth be told, Ocular Migraines may be unpleasant, but it could be much worse. Brain trauma adds up, and if migraines are virtually all he has to show for it, he’ll consider himself lucky. Unfortunately, it seems that whatever happened today just added to his running tally.
He exhaled harshly and brought his hands up to rub at his throbbing temples. They came away free of any new blood, a small relief. His glasses were strewn out next to where he sat; some cloudy, unrecognizable grime was smeared across the lenses, and his wire frames were bent. Nothing that he couldn’t fix. He cleaned them off with the edge of his damp shirt and flinched with a hiss at the immediate pain when he put them back on.
He had found the source of his concussion. His nose was absolutely broken. It was slightly off kilter, and swollen around an angry cut across the bridge, with some drying blood crusted just inside his nostrils. Ford sighed. Yet another familiar injury that, even after all these years, has never gotten any less unpleasant to deal with.
Gently adjusting his glasses on his tender nose, he felt his nerves sharpen and start to turn in his gut when he finally got eyes on the deck around him.
The ship was a mess. One of their folding deck chairs was crushed. The aluminum framing was twisted back onto itself; as though someone or something had fallen on it. Bits and pieces of broken equipment littered the deck along with a couple small navigation buoys.
Despite the chaos on the deck, there was still the same eerie stillness.
Ford continued to scan the deck but stopped to frown at a vibrant smear of orange and teal that left a large spot on the deck, going up one side of the deck railing. He blinked at it dumbly. He didn’t know of any creatures in this dimension that produced anything of that pigment, or viscosity; Blood, venom or otherwise. One arm bracing his aching back, he carefully stood and made his way gingerly towards the railing to investigate further; But froze when he felt the grit of broken glass beneath his boot.
Glistening in the same bright orange and teal were the shattered remains of their fishing bait. Whatever this creature was, it must have crushed the jars at some point before smearing the bait up and over the railing as it left. He followed the trail down the railing to the deck where their fishing tackle box lay upturned and in disarray. Hooks of every size were scattered together, lure weights were rolling to and fro with the sway of the ship. Even their fishing poles were snapped in two. The fine strands of fishing line glimmered in the sun, swaying in the imperceptible breeze.
Ford sighed at the sight. It had been a labor of love for Stan to get all their fishing gear set up. While Ford may not be the biggest fisherman in the world, it was something that Stan had really taken to while living in Gravity Falls. It makes sense. They had the beach right at their doorstep growing up, it’s no shock that Stan would find the one body of water the town had, and find a way to enjoy it. That said, piece by piece, one port at a time, Stan had been perfecting their tackle box. In fact, the process of getting new lures had become somewhat of a novelty to Stan. The only way he could justify purchasing any tchotchkes when in port. It’s become a part of their routine whenever they’re in a new town.
Rate of success aside, Stan was truly a businessman at heart. With that, Ford has realized, came certain standards. Stan couldn’t stomach the cheap tourist traps they’d come across whenever they’d walk the main streets. He’d pretend to ignore the tacky storefronts, but still grimace at the cheap iron ons and leaking snowglobes. Inevitably, some fool would always try and peddle some shoddily made bric a brac to them, and Stan would always take affront to it at a personallevel. As though they should have known that he spent years in the trade. Somehow.
Ford still sees it as an overreaction, but he has to admit it’s impressive–Watching Stanley puff out his chest at the owners, delivering what Ford could only describe as ‘Expert Ridicule’.
“You expect to win anyone over with these flimsy, plastic bobbleheads? What, couldn’t shell out for Balsa wood? Also, the graphics on these shirts are already peeling. Good quality control, pal.”
Inevitably, once the offending shopkeep was truly and fully mortified, Stan would go one street over, “Away from the tourist traps”, He’d claim. He’d find some cluttered marine supply shop, and immediately be won over by the lures and hooks that Stan sworewere unique to the region.
“This spoon is specifically made to lure Arctic Char, Six! You can’t just find these at any standard bait shop.”
It didn’t take long for Ford to realize that this was how Stan justified buying souvenirs. Little mementos that help remind him where they’d traveled together. Ford could tell it put his brother at ease. Especially on those days when Stan’s memories weren’t stable, when the confusion and fog would make him anxious. On those days, Stan would organize their tackle box, carefully inspect each lure, and tell Ford the stories that went with each one. By the time he went through them all, his eyes would have a spark of recognition back, more confidence. It was a grounding method that Stan had devised all on his own.
That tackle box had lures from nearly every port they’ve been to in their nearly 9 months at sea.
Hopefully most of them are still there, Ford frowned,Stan would be devastated if they went missing. He–
Ford froze as his thoughts, as well as his breathing, came to a screeching halt. Eyes widening, he slowly turned towards the stern of the ship where Stan had been fishing.
He wasn’t there. Ford felt the pit in his stomach threaten to swallow him whole as his eyes somehow widened even further.
Stanley was just fishing a minute ago. He was just here. Where-?
His head whipped back to look across the whole deck again. But this only made his nausea worse, and he had to drop his gaze again. The synthetic wood grain of the deck beneath him had started to tilt and blur, stopping Ford dead in his tracks as he tried to right himself. He swallowed thickly against the sour taste coating the back of his tongue. He took a deep breath and waited a moment, just long enough to let the deck stop spinning.
Confident for the time being that he wasn’t going to gag, He cautiously looked back up at the deck before him, morbidly hoping Stan was just knocked out like Ford was, sprawled out behind the destroyed lawn chair or something. But he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
Something’s wrong. Stanley would never have left you out here unconscious. He must be hurt. He could have hid, passed out somewhere maybe. But—no. He wouldn’t have. He would have dragged you downstairs with him. Unless he was too hurt—he’s got to be somewhere. Find him.
“S-Stanley?” Ford whispered, fear locking his throat tight.
Ford took another breath and shook the tremor free, voice coming out louder,
“Stan?” The deafening silence that followed his call was unbearable.
You should’ve noticed the second you woke up. Find him. He could be hurt.
Fear starting to give way to panic, Ford stiffly made his way up the wheelhouse steps, hoping with everything in him to find his twin sleeping, or on the phone, or some other fairy tale notion that would keep his current reality from being what it was. “Stanley? Are you alright?”
He braced a trembling hand on the doorframe of the wheelhouse and scanned the room. The seats were empty. The lights on the dash were blinking, but the engine was still off, still fully adrift, and Lord knows for how long. More importantly, Stan wasn't there either. Ford blinked quickly as he felt his already compromised mental state start to completely unravel. His breath hitched.
You heard that creature. Whatever it was, Stanley had to fight it alone.
Ford was running now. There were only so many places that he could be. He hurried down the stairs from the wheelhouse that led to their Galley, their small home at sea. Outside of expeditions, it was where they spent their days. The Galley was also the last place Ford hadn't checked. The last chance for Stan to be ok, and for nothing to be wrong.
If Stan isn’t in the Galley, then he isn’t on board. Plain and simple. And If he isn’t on board–
Ford banished the idea before it could take shape. He took the final step from the stairs into the Galley below, and was met with the same bone crushing silence. The Galley looked completely unchanged to how it had been just a moment ago. The half full pot of coffee was still out on the counter, and the documents and sketches from their latest expedition were still strewn out over their Galley dining table. Their beds remained unmade.
Something took him. He’s gone.
Ford couldn’t hear the aborted whine beyond the ringing in his ears. He glanced at their bunk and suddenly he was lifting Stan’s mattress, tossing it to the side with a loud clatter as he checked underneath. A pointless gesture. Stan would never have hidden somewhere like this and Ford knew it.
The space is too small. Too much like the trunk of the car. He wouldn’t have been able to stomach it.
Ford looked up from the floor by Stan’s bunk and saw the lumpy little block of wood that sat on his brother’s nightstand. It was still only a vague roundish shape, no real detail added yet, but Ford knew the end goal. It was going to be a little wooden paperweight of Waddles. A gift for the kids the next time they came up to Oregon. Ford doesn’t think he’s ever seen Stan this excited over a crafting project, save for fixing up the original Stan O’War as kids.
The domesticity of it seemed cruel now.
He’d only been working on it for the last few days. They had just docked at Kodiak Island, had barely tied off their mooring lines, when Stanley had whooped with excitement and scrambled down from the dock to the rocky shore. One would think he’d found a mermaid, or a treasure chest with how fast he had moved. But instead it was a large piece of driftwood. A dark– nearly black–hunk of smooth wood that Stanley had draggedback to their boat like an excited dog.
“It’s Ironwood!” Stan had told him with no small amount of glee. He must have picked up on Ford’s confused expression, because he immediately started rambling, honest to God rambling, about his idea. Apparently, Ironwood made for beautiful carvings. It was durable, with a fine grain, and known for its distinctly unique color variations. Some had streaks of reddish brown, others had flecks of white from naturally occurring silica deposits. Completely unbeknownst to Ford, Stanley had been looking for this specific kind of driftwood for months.
It was incredible, listening to him. His eyes had that spark that Ford had grown so fond of. The look that Ford, in the past, had so naively assumed was pure mischief, or ill-intent, and not what it really was: Passion. Determination.
Ford had blindly encouraged the project from then on. Anything to keep him that excited. Stanley had been unsure whether a paperweight would even be a good present or not, but Ford egged him on. Told him any child would be thrilled to have a small facsimile of their pet holding down their paperwork. Stan looked so proud of himself.
At this moment, the unfinished project only soured Ford’s stomach. The thought of that figure never being finished–of him never being able to give it to the kids–
Ford slapped a trembling hand over his mouth to stifle the ragged gasp that tore from him.
The kids. You’d have to tell them. Not just them–Everyone. Everyone in town. Anyone who’s ever known him. They’d ask why, and how–”
Ford just couldn’t bear it. He tore his gaze away from Stan’s bunk and back tracked through the Galley once again, ‘inside voice’ be damned, Ford was shouting.
“Stan! Where are you!?”
You’re wasting time. If he isn’t on board, then he went over. You don’t even know how long–
Ignoring the way his body was screaming at him, the way his legs burned and his abused back was threatening to give out, he grabbed his binoculars and stumbled back out to the main deck.
His eyes were beginning to burn, but he blinked it away the best he could,
“Lee!” Ford was practically screaming now, a frenzied, grief to it. His still bloody hands cupped around his mouth in a futile attempt to carry his voice even a foot further, but the silence of the placid water was the only reply. His hands were shaking violently as he worked one roughly through his frizzy hair.
The entire situation had Ford dumbfounded. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Even if they got attacked, they were supposed to handle it together. Have their big last stand side by side, on the boat they loved. If they failed–If something bested them–
They were supposed to go down together.
Ford had never verbalized this hope. He knew Stanley wouldn’t have liked it. But Ford always assumed that it was obvious. He wouldn’t have allowed any alternative. Nothing was going to take Stan away from him again if he could help it. Not while he was standing.
But you weren’t standing when it happened. You were out cold.
And wasn’t that just the kicker.
Ford all but threw himself against each railing of the ship, binoculars scanning the horizon. He nearly stumbled on a loose buoy as he went, catching himself on the railing and hissing when he irritated his bloody hands. He shot a glare down towards the offending buoys when something caught his eye.
Their mooring line. Normally they would stow it away when not in port, but they had left it spooled in the cleat when they left Kodiak Island. They had both been excited. Ford with the new trail cams he got to install, and Stan finally being able to start his wood carving. In any case, they must have forgotten to stow it. While Ford was knocked out, it had gotten partially unspooled from the cleat that sat at the stern of the ship. Now the unspooled section of rope hung down limp, just close enough for it to dip beneath the water when a wave lapped against the hull. What truly concerned Ford the most was that the end of the line was frayed and worn.
Ford grabbed the end of the rope and inspected it closely,
It didn’t make sense. Mooring lines–or more specifically these polyester braided ropes—were sturdy. They had to be. They were the only thing keeping the Stan O’War secured to port whenever they dock. But they weren’t made to withstand this sort of thing. In fact, it looked as though they’d been gnawed on. Chewed right through. He thought back to the size of the bites on his hand and took pause,
None of this makes sense
The state of the ship. All the damage, the chaos, it was dramatic, but it was only surface level. Whatever this creature was, it did no discernable harm to the hull, and the top deck was still intact. He’s never known leviathan level anomalies to be delicate. He’s sure that this creature did whatever it possibly could to attack them. Which meant what Ford could see was the extent of it.
This was all it could do.
Ford released the deathgrip he had on his hair as some air finally made it to his seizing lungs. This makes more sense. Yes. Even him getting knocked out made more sense in hindsight.
It was a lucky hit.
Ford nodded to himself as he took in the deck with fresh eyes. The creature couldn’t have been large enough to drag Stanley overboard. Not a chance. The fluorescent trail it left over the railing from the fish bait wasn’t even a foot wide. The state of the railing alone was a good sign; It withstood the weight of the creature climbing over it without buckling. Stanley’s overall health and fitness may not be as good as it should be, but it would take more than that to wrestle him clear over.
Not dragged, then. But he still fellsomehow.
Ford returned to the side of the ship where the rope had hung in the water, and leaned further over the railing to inspect what he could see of the hull. He watched closely, waiting for the next wave to recede. When it did, that’s when Ford saw it,
A distinct black scuff mark on the side of the ship.
It was subtle, but Ford recognized that kind of mark. This wasn’t something that was caused by the attack itself, or a creature. It was scuff marks from a pair of rubber boots.
Stan wears those annoyingly squeaky rubber boots
Despite the brain fog and bone crushing panic, Ford was starting to piece it together. Stan went over the railing, but was able to grab the mooring line. He tried to pull himself back up, but the line was cut before he could.
He tried. Whatever pulled him over, it cut the rope and took him. You left him behind aga—
No. Ford tried to focus on the facts. This was good news. This was progress. Ford had answers, even if just a few. Stanley went over the side of the ship, right by the stern. But he was conscious, alive, and alert enough to grab the rope and try to climb back up. That means there's a better chance that he can be rescued.
Ok. Remain calm. What was Stanley wearing?
Ford remembered that red knit hat of his, a gift from Mabel for “Maiden Voyage Day”. A completely real and not made up holiday, she had assured them both. But what else did he have on?
His Nylon Fishing Pants. Good. Lightweight, wouldn’t pull him under when waterlogged.
A blue, button up fishing shirt, That’ll undoubtedly blend in with the water.
There was something else. Something bright. But amidst the brain fog, Ford couldn’t place what it had been.
Why didn’t you think to commit it to memory? You should always have someone’s appearance memorized in the event of their disappearance. It’s like you didn’t even try. Was it yellow? Or Orange? Like a–
Ford’s head snapped up with a gasp and looked towards their wheelhouse, a glimmer of hope making his heart race.
“Please.”, He murmured to no one. His voice was thick,
He quickly made his way back up to the wheelhouse, reaching for the cabinets that sat right beside the door. He took a steadying breath and swung it open.
In it sat one orange life vest, the name Sixeremblazoned on the right breast in a stunning green.
What he didn’t see was the one that accompanied it. Also bright orange, matching in every way, except for the nametag; Which had Leestitched onto the vest in bright red.
It’s not here.
Ford felt a breath leave him in something between a laugh and a sob. He sagged with relief and fell to his knees, his face in his hands.
Stan was wearing his life vest.
He shouldn’t have been too surprised. This was one of the few instances where Stan was more reliable in following safety procedures. Everything else could be such a fight. Seat belts, stretching, wearing sunscreen. But life vests? Stanley was normally the one reminding Ford to wear his. For whatever reason.
Ford would always have some excuse in the heat of the moment, but his brother’s stressed insistence always managed to wear Ford down until he caved and wore his.
Ford took a shaking breath and returned to his feet. He took a second to wipe the wetness from his eyes, carefully avoiding his broken nose.
You haven’t found him yet. Focus.
Ford put on his own vest and ran back to the wheelhouse console. Their life vests were state of the art; A gift from Fiddleford, though it wasn’t one of his own designs.
Not nearly enough weaponry installed for that.
While it may not have been ‘battle ready’, Fiddleford had ensured that he bought them the best.That said, so long as it wasn’t damaged, both vests should have a tracker installed. Something that seemed like an unnecessary addition at the time, but he couldn’t be more grateful for it now.
It wasn’t anything too extravagant. They couldn’t track each others vitals or communicate through them,
“Yet”, Ford grumbled to himself. After this, he had half a mind to chip them both like dogs. Whatever it’ll take to never go through this again.
Though unfamiliar with it at first, Ford caught the gist of the tracking software fairly quickly. It utilized Geofencing; A program that sends alerts when the tracker leaves a predesignated area. In this case, that area was the Stan O’War. If the tracker was still operational, he should be able to get Stan’s location in real time.
Modern technology remains such a marvel.
While the program ran, Ford turned on every other scanner they had. From sensors of his own design, to Fiddleford’s sonar he perfected while building his–frankly impressive while also over dramatic–robotic sea monster; Whatever it took. Wherever Stanley is, Ford would find him.
He watched the tracker’s screen while he started the engine, chewing on the inside of his cheek while it loaded. There were so many variables in play. He didn’t know how far the boat had drifted, how long he had been knocked out for, or even how far Stanley himself had traveled. He braced his hand on the throttle, steeling himself.
A Pingfrom the tracker. It found him.
5 miles east, and the signal is live.
Easy.
Ford gunned it. The StanO’War lurched forward and he winced at the distant sound of something breaking. With his luck, it was probably the coffee pot that had still been sitting out.
Ford didn’t let up on the throttle, at this speed he should reach Stanley in less than 8 minutes.
As he settled into his seat, maintaining a safe speed, his mind started to wander.
There’s a good chance Stan is going to be hurt when you find him.
Ford glanced over his shoulder for the briefest moment, making a mental tally of their current stock of medical supplies.
We’ll be ok. You can take care of him. Whatever it is, you can fix it.
3 miles to go.
Ford grabbed the binoculars still hanging from his neck with one hand, keeping the other firmly on the wheel. Scanning the horizon ahead, he could swear he saw something in the distance.
Stan wouldn’t be sticking out of the water that far.
As they crept closer, even with an unsteady view from the now choppy waters, he could finally make out the shape.
It was a buoy. Not a small fishing one, but a large, stable, meteorological surveyor that stood against the horizon a few meters above the surface of the water. More of an anchored metal structure than a typical crab pot marker or mooring buoy, the sensor towers jutting out the top made it almost resemble a miniature oil rig. As the uncomfortably yellow structure grew, Ford began looking for a small shock of Orange, Stan’s vest. But for a painful moment, he didn’t see it. Until the ship crested one particularly large wave and he got a full view.
There, a flash of color, moving in the water at the base of the structure.
It was Stan. He could cry in relief.
As the boat lurched closer, Ford could make everything out. Stan seemed to be lashed to the structure itself. The sheared off length of rope from the cut mooring line had been looped around one of the floating sensor’s large metal masts. The ends of the rope were tied off, and it was looped impossibly tight around Stanley’s forearms and hands, as many times as it would go. Ford knew what prolonged blood restriction could do to a limb, and the harsh purple and red in Stan’s arms elicited an anxious curse out of Ford.
Finally, Ford brought the ship in and idled, 10 feet away. As much as Ford wanted to bring the ship directly to him, to reach out and pluck his brother straight from the water himself, he kept his head. He had to be mindful to not get too close.
All it would take was one rogue wave, one slip up, and Stanley could get pinned between the two vessels,
Crushed, his mind traitorously added.
Stanley didn’t react to his arrival. In fact he seemed wholly consumed by the sole act of holding onto the rope. He was soaked to the bone, glasses and beanie long gone. His head was hung low, making him appear almost limp, but at closer inspection, Ford could see desperate rigidity in his shoulders.
Suddenly, seemingly coming from nowhere, a wave curled up out of the depths and came crashing into the side of the buoy. Stan didn’t see the wave coming and couldn’t brace himself, taking the brunt of it full force. Stan slammed into the structure, and his head bounced heavily off of the thick metal siding. When the wave receded, Stan was facing him. He still hung from the tied off rope, though now by only one arm, which was shuddering from exertion.
Stan looked exhausted.
Ford grabbed the ship’s life preserver from where it was still secured on deck, and quickly tied their still unspooled mooring line to it, ignoring the way his hands sharply protested. Once secure, he tucked it under his arm and cupped his hands, and shouted at the top of his lungs,
“Stanley!”
Ford watched his brother flinch and try to crane his head towards him. Stan’s wet hair was plastered to his forehead, and dripping into his squinted eyes. Ford noted with a sickening lurch in his stomach the red streak that trickled from his hairline down past his chin. His lips, pulled into a tight grimace, had an unhealthy grayish hue to them. If Stan called back out to him, Ford couldn’t hear it. His voice was completely absorbed by the crashing waves.
Ford nodded urgently anyway, and gestured widely to the life ring in his hand while yelling, “Yes! Yes, I’m right here, you’re ok. I’m going to throw this to you. I need you to grab it, ok?”
Stan flinched as another wave drenched him, rinsing the blood away from his face for a moment, before the bloody saltwater slowly crept down his temple again. He squinted at the life ring in Ford’s hand and nodded, face still twisted in pain,
Ford nodded too, taking a steadying breath, and threw the ring.
Blessedly, it landed only a foot from Stan, who glanced between it and the rope wrapped about his arm with unease. Like he was afraid of leaving the safety of it behind. When the ring had just started to get sucked back with the pull of another wave, Stan relented. He unspooled his hand from the mooring line and grabbed onto the ring heavily. It took a moment for his heavy arms to grip onto it, exhaustion making his movements clumsy. But only for a moment. Then he stilled, secure.
Ford felt a weight lift off of him. His heart was still in his throat, but he tried to force as much encouragement into his tone as he could. “Well done Stanley! I’m right here. I’m going to–I’ll start pulling you in, so stay right there! Hold onto it tightly!”
Ford knew he was babbling, but truly didn’t care. He focused on pulling the rope in carefully to the transom ladder at the back of the ship. The ladder wasn’t long, only a few steps up. But at this point, with Stanley exhausted as he is, heavy with waterlogged clothes, and likely experiencing mild hypothermia, it still could be too much for him.
He’s so close.
“The ladder’s right here, Stan. Try to pull yourself up, and I’ll help you the rest ok?”
Again, Stan didn’t respond, but silently obeyed, to the best of his ability. His arms shook as he pulled himself onto the small ladder. Every step, every rung he climbed, seemed to take longer and longer. Finally, his body was fully out of the water. Not close enough for Ford to reach, but far enough along that he no longer had the buoyancy assistance the ocean provided. His water laden clothes and heavy boots bore down on his numb, uncoordinated limbs with full force. It was at that point that Stan’s momentum petered out and he stilled; heaving wet, hacking breaths into the back of his pruning hands.
Ford filled the silence immediately, voice slipping from gentle encouragement to something more urgent. More desperate. “You’ve got it Stanley. You’re so close. Just one more rung, and I'll get you the rest of the way. Ok? I promise. No more climbing, just one more step. You can do it.”
Stan pressed his bloody forehead into his hands and gasped for a moment more before visibly tensing. For one terrible moment, Ford wasn’t sure if he was going to lose his grip altogether.
Suddenly, with a ragged inhale, there was motion. He threw himself into the movement, dragging his body up the rung, pulling his quivering legs up onto the next rung before bracing and trying to step up. He pushed again. Shaking, panting, and finally letting out an agonized yell as he managed to straighten his legs out under him. The second he was within arms reach, Ford seized hold of his brother’s drenched life vest and pulled.A moment later, Stan was collapsing heavily into his brother’s arms back onto the deck of the ship.
Ford gripped onto him fiercely, breathing heavily and pulling Stanley backwards, further onto the ship. Away from the railings, the water, and whatever lurked beneath it. Stan did nothing to stop him. In fact, he didn’t make a sound, but continued to shake violently. Ford didn’t care that his clothes were rapidly getting soaked through. He didn’t care that he could smell the blood that was sure to stain into the shoulder of his sweater, and he didn’t care that he gripped onto Stanley like his whole life depended on it. Stan still hadn’t said a word, and could only pant shallowly as he lay crumpled in Ford’s arms.
Ford felt another whine rattle out of him, and scrambled up to his feet to half assist, half drag Stan back to their cabin. Stan kicked feebly against the deck in an exhausted attempt to help push himself along. It was all he could do. But even then, his legs barely moved. The weight of the boots, of gravity itself appeared too much for Stan to manage.
Get him inside, before the creatures come back. Get him warm. Move. Move.
Ford adjusted his grip on the underside of Stan’s armpits and managed to drag him all the way across the deck to the Galley. He practically slammed the latch behind him before turning to his brother, who was sprawled out on the floor, slumped heavily against Ford’s bunk. He appeared disoriented, his squinted eyes were glassy and wandering. His mouth was drawn tight, and he was gritting his teeth through the violent shivering that had taken over every part of him.
Ford dropped heavily to his aching knees and took Stan’s face in his hands. It was cold, ice cold, and clammy. There was visible irritation on parts of his face from being in the ocean so long. Small cuts from wiping his numb and sensitive face on his rough, salt crusted clothes. He had aggressive burns and small cuts up and down his arms and over his hands, where he had held onto the rope. A lazy line of blood dripped down from his wet temple down his cheek. Ford swiped at it with his sleeve before it could drip into Stan’s unfocused eyes.
He was hurt, but he wasalive.
That’s ok. You can work with that. You can fix hurt.
Ford smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes. He gently rubbed a thumb across Stan’s cheek,
“You’re ok, Lee. I’ve got you. You’re home. But we have to get you dressed. You’re freezing, and I need to see where you’re hurt. Ok?”
Stan let his eyes open heavily and stared at him. There was something in the gaze that was disquieting, but he still said nothing. A moment later, he weakly nodded.
Ford set to work. He was able to help Stan out of his shoes and pants with no resistance. However, his progress came to a halt the second he reached for the life vest; When a hand latched frantically and, if he’s honest, quite painfully around his wrist. Ford looked up sharply and saw a look of pure terror in Stan’s eyes. Bloodshot eyes wide, sucking in breaths that were rickety and wet sounding, far too wet. But while his breathing was worrying, the state of his voice was farworse.
“W-wait”
It was raspy, and had the barest wheeze behind it. Coughing up saltwater for who knowshow long has taken his brother’s already strained vocal chords and practically shredded them. Every spoken word was ground out and sounded agonizing.
Ford stilled, and brought his hands up slowly in a defensive gesture.
“I can wait. Yes. Ok. I–Right. Um. In a moment, can–can I put the vest right here next to you? You’ll still have it, I promise! I just need to get you dry. Once you have dry clothes on, you can put the vest right back on. You can wear it for as long as you want. Look–I’m wearing mine right now! See? I swear to you. I just,” Ford’s voice started to break, lip finally quivering as the adrenaline slowly started to fade, and his emotions started catching all the way up with him. He blinked rapidly and gestured at the vest again, “This vest kept you alive today, Lee. I wouldn’t dream of taking it away. I just–needto make sure you’re ok. Please.”
Stan took a breath and after a pause, he lurched forward. For a moment, Ford wasn’t sure if he was about to be sick, until he started unclasping his vest clumsily. His hands still seemed to not want to cooperate fully. Ford worried the inside of his cheek, but said nothing for now. Instead he waited, and let Stan take the vest off at his own pace. Give him at least a moment of autonomy. The second it was off, Stan let out a shaking breath and shut his eyes.
Ford gently laid it beside Stan on the floor of the cabin. Ford’s heart broke a little at the visible ease this brought him. The way his shoulders relaxed the second he realized he could still see it.
Whatever he needed.
Ford made quick work of the shirt, intervening when the buttons became too complicated for Stan’s exhausted hands, but stilled once the shirt was finally open. Stan didn’t notice his hesitation, and let the wadded up shirt drop heavily to the floor, before noticing Ford’s fallen expression. He followed Ford’s sad eyes and glanced down at his bare torso.
Where Ford had only a couple bites on his hands, it seemed that the creatures had gone after Stanley full force. Several large, circular bite marks, identical in shape to the one on Ford’s palm, littered just about wherever the vest hadn’t provided adequate padding. One in particular was deep,right between his neck and shoulder. The surrounding skin was swollen and an angry red. To Ford’s distress, Stan was also coveredwith friction burns; Where his wet clothes had rubbed his aged skin raw. Some were practically open sores.
How did these get so bad?
Stan seemed unsurprised, but still eyed the wounds with an unimpressed frown.
Ford, however, made a distressed, lost sound. He knew Stanley was going to be hurt. There’s no reason that he should be surprised. But seeing it, that’s a different beast altogether. He wanted to say something, to offer some kind of comfort. But he just couldn’t manage the words. Instead, regrettably, Ford caught his hands shaking, almost fluttering against the air in front of him. A stress response of his that their father had aggressively tried to do away with years ago; But had been a big factor in his stability after falling through the portal. When shouting would have gotten him killed, and he had to find a way to keep his head.
You don’t need that anymore. Get over yourself and move. The ocean is disgusting, these could get infected.
Ford forced his waving hands into balled fists at his sides and rolled his shoulders roughly, steeling himself,
This isn’t about you.
Ford gently inspected all of his bites and as he did It became quickly clear they weren't all from the same creature. The size of some of these bites were different. And even the bite pattern itself differed slightly. Ford felt his face heat with a new wave of shame,
He got swarmed, and you did nothing.
Ford stared at the deepest bite for another moment, but startled when Stan cleared his throat, “Can I get dressed?” He sounded so exhausted. So done with all of it.
Ford stiffened, quickly climbing to his feet and retrieving their first aid kits from the cabinet. His eyes were still cast downward, and his movements were rigid, mechanical.
“Yes! I’m so sorry Stanley. Just one more moment. I’ll get these cleaned and bandaged, then you can do whatever you need.”
They slipped into a tense silence after that, broken only by pained hisses and murmured apologies. By the end of it, Stan was bandaged and had on a clean change of clothes. Ford carefully sat Stanup in his bunk, leaning him back against their pillows and the bulk of their blankets draped over his legs. Ford had fetched Stan a mug of hot tea—it hadbeen their coffee pot that he heard break earlier—and sat on his bunk beside him, intent on watching his every move. By now, Stan’s hair was dry, though he’d need to shower later to rinse out the salt and dried blood that still clung to his now sunburnt scalp. His shivering had tapered off into just a periodic tremble, and some color had come back into his face. His face was still shadowed by fatigue, but the panic carved into his features was gone.
Ford took the liberty of drying off Stanley’s life vest the best he could, and left on his bunk with him. It wasn’t being worn, or even draped over him, but just close enough to be at arm’s reach. Stan didn’t seem as wild-eyed about it now, and didn’t really acknowledge it was even there, but that didn’t matter. If Stan said he wanted the vest with him, then Ford would ensure that’s what is going to happen until he’s told otherwise.
No longer frantic or begging, Stan’s eyes, while still bloodshot and watery, were more aware, more the right kind of alert. To Ford’s dismay, with that alertness came the return of his brother’s incredible sense of perception.
Stan was squinting at him now, eyeing him for some odd reason. Before Ford could mention it, Stan glanced at his bent nose and his brow creased, “Your head ok?”
Ford tried to scoff, to raise a hand to wave him away, but froze when they both caught a glimpse of the bandages around his palms.
Stan’s mouth twisted into a frown, and he started to sit up.
“Wait, please–” Ford rushed to stop his movement, carefully pressing his shoulders back gently against the pillows. At his frayed tone, Stan halted, and gave him another searching look.
Shit. Don’t lie. He’ll find out anyway. You have to be able to trust each other. Own up to it.
They’d promised, after Stanley got his memories back. No more lying. Not about health, panicked fears, injuries. None of it. Not anymore. They owe that to each other. Ford took a breath and gingerly adjusted his glasses, trying to flash a meek smile that came out more of a grimace, “Uh, no. Not really. My nose is broken again, and I am fairly certain that I have another concussion. It–It actually hurts, very badly, if i’m being honest.”
Stan’s face twisted into an irritated scowl, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes just looked tired, resigned. But still he nodded, and resettled himself against the blankets with a frustrated sigh. “I was afraid of that. Ok. What else? It looked like–”
Ford perked up and interrupted, hastily continuing, “My arms have also gotten decently lacerated and I was bitten on my palms by whatever the creature was that attacked us.” He looked away in thought, “...Yes. That’s all of it to my knowledge.”
Stan scoffed lightly, “This must’ve rattled you badif you didn’t even try to lie.”
Ford crossed his arms, effectively tucking his hands out of sight, and looked away with a pout, “We don’t lie anymore.” he muttered.
Stan hummed in affirmation, “That’s right. We–”, He paused, then jolted forward, “Wait! A minute ago, did you–You said ‘Whatever it was?’ You didn’t see the things?”
Ford clamped his mouth shut and ignored the embarrassed heat creep back across his neck, “Well, no. I certainly heard it, but it–I was promptly knocked out and didn’t quite get a good look.”
Stan reared back and barked a scratchy laugh, “Oh man, that explains it. I was wondering why those little parasites only went for me. Must’ve lost interest once you went down.” Stan broke off into a tired chuckle, but Ford remained silent, arms still firmly crossed, staring down at his feet miserably.
Stan slung an arm about his shoulder, “Hey, hey Ford, it’s fine. I'm alright. Yeah, I didn’t have the besttime out there, I'll admit. Things got a bit dicey, I had to get creativeafter a while. But you found me, didn’t you?”
There was a heavy beat of silence before Ford responded with a growing sense of alarm, “What is ‘a while’?”
Stan blinked, “Hmm?”
Ford was insistent, “You said you had to get creative ‘after a while’. What does that mean?”
Ford stared at Stan as a new, more horrifying realization began to take root. He turned to Stan fully, carefully shedding Stan’s arm from over his shoulder, “Stanley, how long were you in the water?”
Stan chuckled nervously and looked away, “Sheesh, How am I supposed to know? It was, y’know, so crazy and. . . all that.” Stan petered off, carefully itching his sunburnt face.
Ford wasn’t having it, and pointed to the watch on his nightstand, “You wear a water-resistant watch, Stan. You know damn well when everything happened. You were 5 milesaway from the boat when I found you.”
Ford inhaled sharply and let his gaze drift into the middle distance blankly. As he usually did when he got wholly consumed by his thoughts. His voice was still focused, but the tone went flat as he recounted the facts of the situation.
“The ship’s engine was off. The StanO’War was 5 miles away by the time I tracked your location.”
“Tracked?” Stan questioned lightly, trying to break the tension, but Ford didn’t hear him.
“You weren’t being actively pulled away by the creature when I found you, and by that point your level of exhaustion implies that you had been fighting the currents for some time. You were in the water long enough to develop chafing welts from your wet clothes and the salt water.” His gaze shifts back to Stan, “You have to tell me, Stan. How long were you out there?”
Stan’s eyes hardened, and his shoulders steeled, “You got to me as fast as you could. It doesn’t matter–”
“Just tell me.”
“You’d never let something happen to me if you–”
“Stan”
“I knew I just needed to wait, and you’d find—
“Lee!”
“Fine!” Stan snapped angrily, “An hour and a half! I was overboard for an hour and a half! Happy? Those little shits latched onto me, threw their weight around until I fell over the side railing.”
With an irritated groan, Stan scrubbed a hand over his face and avoided Ford’s gaze altogether. He settled on staring up at the ceiling,
“I tried to climb back in, I really did. But they dragged me far enough from the ship that I didn’t know what was where. The boat was probably drifting faster than I could have swam back anyway.” He gestured to the life vest with an angry jut of a finger, “By the time they realized they weren’t able to pull me under, and figured me too hard to deal with, they fucked off. At that point, the only thing I could see above the water was that stupid oversized life raft, so I thought ‘Hey, here’s a big neon metal thing in the middle of the ocean. Worth a shot!’ I figured if I held onto it, it would be better than just bobbing around. Maybe it’d be more visible. I don’t know.” Stan’s hands fell heavily into his lap, and he took a heavy breath. Clearly irritated.
Ford’s breath hitched and he shook his head. There was no way.
An hour and a half. 90 minutes of waiting for you. In the ocean. With several animal bites. Bleeding into the open ocean where predators could find him. If this had happened a week ago, when they were still in the gulf of Alaska–at those water temperatures, there would have been no chance. He’d be dead. Even with the life vest on. Not even taking into consideration his injuries and overall health, he wouldn’t have been able to stay awake longer than 50 minutes in that cold of water. And you would never have known how to find him if you didn’t think to check for the stupid life vests. No. Not stupid. It’s the only thing that saved his life. Certainly was more help than you. You just keep hurting him. Every time. What good are you? Stupid, Stupid–
Before Ford could manage to fully tip into a spiral, Stan’s voice cut through the noise, “Hey! None of that. Let go of your hair Six, you know that doesn’t help none.”
Ford blinked rapidly as Stan’s voice dragged him slowly back to the present. At some point he had sunk his bandaged hands into his own hair, gripping onto it and yanking painfully.
Another habit from their youth. Ford used to grab onto his own hair at times when they were kids. Not enough to hurt, but just something to focus on when he really needed to think. Solving crosswords, doing homework, anything challenging. But at some point during their lives, during their time apart, its utility changed. Stanley had been the one to notice. Suddenly the move had become more frenzied, more self destructive. A punishment.
Stan doesn’t let him do it anymore.
After a moment, Ford reluctantly let go, flexing his aching fingers in front of him and trying to take reasonable breaths.
Stan took a moment to look at Ford’s hands as they dropped limply back down, and frowned at the hastily patched bandages. Ford knew they were slapdash, applied with far less care than he had given Stan’s. Stan eyed them with a frown, but didn’t comment on it. Ford could see it though, and he knew that Stan would be watching him when it came time to rewrap his hands. Watching to make sure he took the time to do it right.
Stan knew him better than anyone, for better and for worse.
Ford sagged in his seat, and Stan put a hand onto Ford’s slumped shoulders, easing a knot with his tired hands. “It’s alright. This was a clusterfuck toe to tip, but we’re both ok. Now, do you wantto hear about the critters we fought today? I’d never seen them before and I really thought you’d be talking my ear off about them by now.”
Ford fidgeted, sounding put out, “Of course I do. I just–I didn’t want to put more stress on you.”
Now it was Stan’s turn to wave him off, “Nah. Besides, it ain’t too wild. Ready for this? Giant lamprey.”
Ford paused, Interesting. He leaned back to look Stan in the eye, “Really? Pacific lamprey?”
Stan nodded smugly, “Yup”, popping the ‘P’ obnoxiously,
Ford thought some more, considering the round, ‘cookie cutter’ shape to their bites, before nodding to himself again,
“And you said Giant?How giant are we talking?”
Stan smirked and held his hands up,
“I’m not being dramatic, and I'm not messing with you, but one of them was pushing 10 feet long.”
Ford gasped, scrambling up from Stan’s bunk and grabbing the nearest notebook to him. He was buzzing again, that wild eyed spark was right back to what it had been before the attack. Stan smiled warmly at the sight. Even if his vision was still awful without his glasses.
Ford plopped heavily back onto the bunk beside Stan and held the pen above the paper in anticipation, poised to start scribbling down notes. “Wait. How do you know the size for sure? You said yourself that there were several of them.”
Stan nodded, expecting the question, “I know I did, but listen. When I was in Colombia, this was before I went to prison mind you, I remember seeing a big ass snake while moving supply through the jungle. Naturally I freaked out. Who can blame me? It was the biggest fucking thing I’d ever seen in my life. But the guys I was ‘working’ with never let me hear the end of it. Went on and on about the American kid shrieking over what was ‘just a 10 foot anaconda’. ‘Just 10foot’! As though I was the weirdo! Unbelievable.”
Ford’s excited grin fell slightly. He hated thinking about Stan’s time when he was a desperate criminal, but it’s not like Ford was doing any better when he was in other dimensions. He nodded, urging Stan on.
“Well anyway, the biggest Lamprey, the one that got my neck? It was a dead ringer for that snake, size wise. The other ones were much smaller, probably, I don’t know, 5 or 6 feet? The one that got you was, at least.”
Ford winced with embarrassment, “You saw me get knocked out?”
“Yes.” Stan’s tone was grave, amusement gone in an instant. It took Ford off guard. Stan was staring at his face again, eyeing his swollen nose, and sighed deeply. “Yeah. I was fishing, you know that, but I actually caught one of them. By the weight of it on the pole, I was socertain I caught a Salmon or something. But, I reel it in, and it was that overgrown leech. I’m realizing now it was probably one of the babies. As you could expect, they didn’t take kindly to that. I barely got the thing off the hook before they just swarmed.They were everywhere. Leaping on board, biting me wherever they could manage. One of them came over the side railing and went right for you. You were fighting with it, trying to get it off your hand when it bucked back and clocked you with it’s back flap thing”
“Caudal fin” Ford corrected quickly, though Stan kept going,
“Yeah. You got popped good. Probably why you don’t remember any of it. I swear those things were pure muscle. Slimy, gross muscle. And the noises they made, ugh.” Stan shuddered at the memory.
Ford chimed back in eagerly, “Yes! I heard that from inside! That explains the Omnisonic nature of it. It sounded multi-tonal, so it makes more sense for there to have been several creatures at once.”
Stan shrugged, “A couple of those words missed me, but sure.”
Ford hurried to correct himself, “Sorry! Um, The sounds were ‘surround sound’ and sounded. . . layered? Yes.”
Stan golf clapped at him sarcastically, “Good job dumbing it down, Poindexter.”
Stan saw the sour look sent his way and it was suddenly his turn to throw his hands up defensively, “Yes, I know. ‘Not Dumb’. Fine. But seriously, those things were tough. One was fine, but when a few of them started throwing their weight around, it didn’t take long for me to stumble right over the side. I grabbed the rope, but they made quick work of that. Chewed right through it. Which worked out I guess. Made it easier to hold onto the, uh-–the thing.”
“That was a buoy.”
“Ain’t buoys foam or plastic?”
A tired chuckle, “No, not always. It was a meteorological buoy. They–They have sensors that monitor things like water temperature and currents. Data gathering and the like.”
Stan hummed, but said nothing.
There was a moment where neither spoke. The weight of the day sat on them heavily. There were so many things they’d have to unpack about today, it was just a matter of what was next.
Stan was the one who made that call and broke the silence, his voice heavy with concern, “You were out for a whilethis time, weren’t you?”
Ford stilled, but nodded mutely. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. Both of them had been knocked out here and there while on their voyage, sure. But Stan would only be out for a couple minutes at a time. He’s never been out for more than 10 minutes, and even then, that was bad.
But Ford hasn’t been so lucky. They’d have assumed that Stan’s traumatic past, or his boxing career, would’ve left him with more lingering effects than Ford. But it makes sense. Ford’s history of traumatic brain injuries–Explosions from failed experiments, 30 years of survival in the portal, and more recently the electrocution at Bill’s hand–Have taken a cumulative toll. Repeated shocks to the system are sure to have caused micro-tears to his brain tissue. His migraines and longer recovery times are practically nothing in the grand scheme of things.
Ford curled over himself slightly and fiddled with the edges of the bandages on his hand, avoiding Stan’s worried gaze. “Yes. It certainly appears that way. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. While the sensors on the vests were operational, they weren’t actually paired with either of our phones yet. Well, at least not mine -–Yours is likely broken now, anyway, but– I wasn’t able to access the Geo-fencing alert until I opened the program proper. I’m so sorry Stanley.”
Stan looked back down at the vest that still sat in a damp pile on the bunk with him, and let out a hum of amusement. “You were serious about the tracker? That’s neat! This one of Fidd’s projects?”
Ford smirked, “Very ‘neat’, but no actually! They just–exist! Isn’t that remarkable?”
“Very. Maybe you’ll be less stubborn about wearing ‘em now, huh?”
Ford’s face fell slightly, but he rallied, “You’ll be pleased to know that, tracker or no, today’s events have more than cemented the efficacy of our life vests. Had you not been wearing yours today–” Ford shook his head at the unrealized possibilities and sent a wobbly smile Stan’s way,
“Well, in any case, I am so grateful you did.”
Stan smiled warmly, and ruffled a hand through Ford’s hair, letting it frizz up into a dark gray cloud, “You kidding? I have to wear this. Don’t gota choice.”
Ford raised an eyebrow, and pointedly didn’t respond.
Stan shrugged, but there was a hard look in his eyes, “I ain’t riskin’ you being left alone because I go and bite it. Especially not from something as boring as drowning.”
Ford squirmed at that, but didn’t interrupt. Stan continued, the hard look in his eyes unchanged, “We’ve both been on our own for far too long, Ford. I can’t do it again, and I know you can’t either.”
Ford carefully adjusted his glasses and looked down at his hands in his lap. He couldn’t help the small flush of shame that came over him. What was he supposed to say to that? Was he supposed to admit that Stan’s right? That he just wants to spend his days happy? To fish on clear days, and argue the rules of card games on rainy ones? That of course he loves research and expeditions, but that there’d be no point in doing it alone? Or that he’d give it all up if it meant ensuring they have that peaceful day-to-day?
Should he just say that he’s tired?
He settled on a quiet nod and a wet sniffle, before leaning heavily into Stan’s shoulder. Ford could hardly bear to see the gingerly way Stanley’s limbs moved as he pulled Ford close, or the swath of bandages by his neck that peeked out from under his sweater. Ford tucked his face against his brother’s chest– mindful to not jostle his nose– and took one ragged breath after another. And if some of those breaths were closer to sobs, and if he had to wipe his eyes once or twice, neither of them mentioned it.
Stan made soft, wordless reassurances, rubbing circles into Ford’s knotted shoulders. Only once Ford had pulled away, when his eyes were as red as Stan’s, and his breathing had returned to normal, did Stan set a hand carefully on his shoulder, voice soft,
“Those trail cams we set up–the ones in Alaska–It’ll be a while before we need to go back and check on ‘em, yeah?”
A curious nod,
“Good! Good. Well in that case, how about we pay a visit back home while we plan our next trip, huh? We could take McGucket up on his offer to stay in that big mansion of his? It’s got what, 30 bedrooms?”
Ford felt a knot in his chest loosen at the idea, but it didn’t last,
“A-are you sure? I’m sure that Fiddleford would be thrilled about the idea but—It’s not like I don’t want to sail, Stan. I swear–I do! It’s just–I’m–” Ford paused and blew a hard breath out his swollen nose. He tried to find the words, but instead just waved his hands in front of himself in a frantic gesture, before fully deflating with a sigh.
Stan waited a moment, waiting to see if he’d pick back up. When it became clear Ford seemed content to wallow, Stan urged him along with a nudge, “It’s alright, you were doing fine. Keep goin’. You’re what?”
Ford gathered himself and furrowed his brow in thought. They’d put a lot of work into this: communicating how they do. Being comfortable and secure enough to speak up. Knowing that the other will understand if their first phrasing is clunky, or comes out the wrong way. That said, Ford was still focused, speaking in a stilted cadence, as though he was auditing it word by word, Intent on getting his feelings out just so.
He carefully brought a bandaged hand down onto his open palm, punctuating his thoughts with a careful tapof his hands as he stared at the wall.
“Today was . . . harrowing. And I have a distinct feeling that it will have lasting effects on sleep quality–for us both– for the immediate future. And I also fear that today’s events will impact my–our– ability to trust each other to stay safe. Not that you have done anything to lessen my trust in you! Of course not. You did exactly what you were supposed to, given the–you know.” He paused, “But I suppose, when it was just me, that was one thing. At least I knew that my mistakes could only hurt me. But nowI think–I think maybe it would be best to take some time to recover . . . emotionally? Not long term, by any means! Surely not, but just–”
Stan nodded, “Give us some time to catch our breath?”
Ford sagged in relief, “God, yes.”
“Perfect! I agree. Ok, It’ll take a few days to get back home anyway. So we’ll get the prep work going, make some calls, and get everything ready. But first!” Stan clapped and rubbed his hands together, squinting about the cabin.
“Could ya get me my spare glasses? I have a mind to get a certain wooden pig carved before we get back to the Port in Garibaldi.”
Ford felt a shaky breath rattle out of him. It was as though the weight that had been bearing down on him since he woke up on deck was finally ebbing away.
He fetched Stan his glasses, then settled back against the pillows beside him. Blessedly, he could finally shut his aching eyes. It was a tight squeeze, both of them on Stan’s bunk, but neither of them were going to be sleeping anyway. Periodically he could still feel some of the subdued panic clawing at his heart, threatening to steal the breath from his lungs, but feeling Stan’s warm presence beside him helped.The small noises of Stan’s woodcarving, his gruff voice quietly singing, “Carvin’ a pig, doo doo doo”; It all helped.
Stan still isn’t out of the woods quite yet. He definitely aspirated seawater, so they’ll have to watch for any signs of pneumonia. There’s also still a chance something could get infected. Either way, it's going to be a rough few days for them both.
Ford smiled.But we have time.
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