Archive of Our Own

Stanley isn’t sure what he expected to see on the other side of the half-boarded up door, what condition he expected Stanford to be in based on the uninviting exterior of the rundown cabin he arrives at, the one that made him double-check if he had the right address– but it certainly wasn’t this.

The crossbow in his face is one thing, along with the nonsense his brother spouted that Stan couldn’t really process over the crossbow in his face , but it’s Ford’s appearance that really has Stan staggering back to get a better look (well, not really– the crossbow is really fucking scary). Ford has full-on drops of sweat running down the sides of his face, his wild, unkempt hair sticking to his forehead in strings. It rules out the cold as the reason Ford trembles so violently that the crossbow parts rattle against each other in his shaking hands, his aim circling wildly around the general area of Stan’s face– and he breathes hard, like the one thing he’s managed to say– scream– has left him completely winded. His clothes look a week old at the least, wrinkled and covered in stains– some of which are a dark, near-brown color that Stan easily recognizes as blood, pulling his own from his face and leaving him pale with fear. Ford hunches in on himself like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible, hiding from some unknown threat– because it can’t be Stan he’s hiding from.

Before Stan can say anything, Ford’s face shifts from unreadable, but likely a mix of anger and fear, to surprise as recognition sets in. “Stanley?” He asks, voice wavering just as much as his hands as he lowers the crossbow. “You– you came.” He sounds shocked, like he can’t believe it, and Stan ignores the hurt that pangs in his chest. A small, relieved smile crosses Ford’s lips for just a beat before his face steels, serious once again, and he unnocks the crossbow, putting the arrow to the side, but still aiming for Stan like a contingency. “Stanley,” he repeats sternly, “Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?” He shoves the crossbow back in his face on random words for emphasis.

“Hello to you, too,” Stan scoffs.

Ford tosses the crossbow to the floor just behind the door, and before Stan can criticize him, probably hypocritically, for his lack of weapons safety, Ford grabs him by the front of his jacket and drags him inside, slamming the door behind him in the process of pinning Stan against it. Stan has no time to react and ask Ford what the hell he thinks he’s doing before there’s a light shone directly into his eyes, burning his retinas and blinding him forever (well, probably not, but it feels like it). Stan yelps and shoves at Ford, flailing his arms until whatever he’d been using to torture him clattering to the floor, sparing his vision. “What the hell?” He asks as he goes to rub his eyes, pausing to pull his gloves off so he doesn’t scratch his corneas in the process.

Ford staggers back. “Sorry,” he breathes, winded all over again. “I just– I had to make sure you– you weren’t–”

Any remaining anger directed at Ford leaves him in a single breath as Ford cuts himself off with a cry of pain, doubling over with his arms wrapped around his stomach. Not even a second passes before Stan’s frustration is forgotten and he’s rushed to his side.

“Hey, hey,” he brings a hand up to his brother’s upper back, attempting to comfort him through whatever pain has wracked him so intensely with gentle rubs, but Ford flinches away from the touch violently with a genuine growl. “Shit, sorry–” Stan tries not to dwell on what could cause that kind of instinctual, primal reaction to a simple touch in his brother– one he’s seen before in fellow street rats, ones who went through things his brother should never have to even imagine. Instead, he hovers as Ford breathes hard through his teeth and rocks in place with his hands on his knees for what must be a full minute before his tensed up body starts to relax, and he lets out a shuddering sigh of relief. A long moment passes before Stan whispers, “are you alright?”, not wanting to further disturb his evidently sick brother.

Ford doesn’t answer, simply rights his footing and stands up straight with deep, calming breaths. “There isn’t much time,” he finally says as he shoulders past Stan, who is still floundering over what he’s just witnessed, what Ford is pretending never happened. “I’ve made huge mistakes,” he continues, “and I don’t know who I can trust anymore.” As he speaks, he makes his way over to a cluttered, disorganized desk, picking up a book so big it can only be accurately described as a tome, knocking a few papers off the desk in the process. Stan catches a glimpse of the contents of said pages as they flutter to the ground– frenzied, barely legible writing, so far from the pristine cursive he once knew and envied, etched so forcefully that the pen had torn through the paper. Clutching the book tightly to his chest, he approaches Stan, walking past a model skeleton and, with a pointed glance, twisting its head to face the wall, awkwardly steadying the skull cap as it threatens to fall off.

“Hey, uh,” he stammers, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, only to remember his previous reaction to such a touch, instead leaving his hand hovering awkwardly in the air. “Easy there,” he tries, then cringes– he’s talking to his brother like he’s a scared horse and not a person. Great work. Luckily for his dignity, Ford doesn’t respond, and Stan tries again, “Let’s talk this through, okay?”

Ford just shakes his head. He comes to a stop in front of Stan and presses the book into his chest. “I need you to take this,” he says gravely, “and leave.”

Stan blinks, taking the book, since it’s right there. “Uh, what?” he asks dumbly.

“Stanley, you are the only person I can trust with this,” Ford continues, ignoring, or just not hearing the sound of Stan’s heart shattering. “It holds secrets that I cannot risk being exposed. Instructions for building something terrible. I need you to take it far away from here– to the ends of the Earth if you have to, where nobody can find it.”

Stan tries to stay calm, but when his heart broke hearing his brother’s little spiel, it released the near-decade’s worth of repressed anger into his chest cavity, filling it to the brim, and when he speaks, it comes spilling over the edge of his throat and out of his mouth. He couldn’t keep his voice from raising if he tried.

“That’s it ?!” he yells. Ford blinks, confused, but can’t get a word in before Stan continues, “You finally wanna see me after ten years, and it's to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?”

Despite the near decade apart, Ford manages to do the exact right thing to piss Stan off further– Ford scoffs like he’s being ridiculous. “Stanley, you don't understand what I'm up against! What I've– what I’ve been through!” He gestures wildly, completely incomprehensible to Stan.

“What you’ve been through?!” Stan laughs, because he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “What about what I’ve been through?”

Ford has the nerve to roll his eyes. “Stanley, I do not have the time to do this with you,” he snaps, then turns his back as if that were the end of it.

Stan just stands there for a moment, staring stunned as Ford attempts to walk away from him and the argument entirely. His jaw tightens, teeth clenching so hard it displaces his partials. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He growls, storming after Ford. He hasn’t gone far– he’s hunched over, one hand planted against the nearest wall, the other pressing hard into his lower back like he’s trying to claw the pain out from inside. Stan scoffs himself– illness or no, he isn’t getting out of this, not that easily. “If you think you can just walk away–”

“ Stanley .” Ford speaks through his teeth, and though he probably intends it to sound like a firm command, it comes out as a weak, pained, pathetic plea. Stan freezes, rage put aside for the minute to give way to concern. Ford breathes hard and heavy, in even breaths through his mouth, out his nose like he’s meditating, and begins to rock in place– the same way he did when they were kids and he would become overwhelmed to the point of tears. He visibly shudders, a little whimper of pain falling from his lips, before he takes a deep breath and manages to croak out, “Just– give me– a minute…”

Stan approaches, but keeps enough distance to respect Ford’s previous unspoken wish to not be touched. “Stanford?” he whispers, trying to look over his brother’s shoulder, as if his face would tell him everything he needed to know– Ford shakes his head and raises his hand from the wall, signalling for Stan to stop, to be quiet. Ford gags like he’s about to puke– Stan steps away from the splash zone, just in case– but it comes out of his mouth not as bile, but as a harsh gasp, the kind that hurts your lungs with how full they become too fast, his free hand coming to clutch his stomach. Before Stan can ask again what’s wrong, something– unexpected, to say the least, happens.

Despite the lack of puke, the sound of liquid hitting hardwood echoes throughout the large “living” room of the cabin after a lull of expectant silence. Stan’s gaze slowly drifts downwards, not sure whether he wants to know, but being compelled to find out either way. He finds a small puddle between Ford’s legs, steadily growing bigger as fluid seeps through the fabric of his pants and dribbles down to the floor. Stan may have dodged the splash zone for throwing up, but he certainly didn’t make it out of the way of… ahem . What’s just landed in thick droplets on his rain boots.

“Oh, god,” Ford says, to put it lightly, “oh, god. ”

“Uhm,” Stan provides helpfully. 

“ Oh, god, ” Ford says once more, each repetition more pained than the last. “Not now,” he whimpers, just loud enough for Stan to hear. “Please, not now…”

“Hey, it-it’s okay,” Stan tries.

“No, no it’s not!” Ford sobs, cutting off another lame attempt at comfort. “Oh, god–” 

And Stan stops listening, certain he’s not going to get anything helpful from Ford at this point. It’s quite an overreaction, if you ask Stan; he’s seen much worse than someone accidentally pissing themselves in front of him– he’s done much worse. Though, he supposes that because they’re brothers, it’s slightly more humiliating– especially for Ford, the proper academic he is now. Hell, when they were kids, Ford refused to even say the word “piss”, calling it crude and unbecoming , like some kind of grandma. In that context, then…

“Look, it’s fine,” he tries again, keeping his voice light to give Ford a sense of normality here, “I don’t care. We’ll get you cleaned up, yeah? And get you some sleep too. Your eyebags could carry a family of five’s groceries.” 

His joke falls flat– Ford doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even grace him with a response, too busy breathing, shallow, rhythmic, almost harsh in the quiet room, probably too loudly to hear what Stan just said. Stan might as well not have said anything, not be there at all.

Ford finally manages to pull himself upright a moment later, standing mostly straight, though it looks like it takes everything he has. He turns to Stan slowly– almost eerily, like something out of a horror movie– and lifts a shaking hand, and clutches Stan’s shoulder desperately, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise the muscle underneath his heavy coat. Stan fights not to flinch at the touch, instead focusing on his brother’s pale, sweat-slicked face as he struggles to keep himself steady.

“Stanley,” he says gravely.

“Howdy,” Stan replies, trying to force an awkward smile but ending up with something closer to a grimace.

“L-listen to me,” Ford stutters out, one hand still holding his stomach, the same death-grip as the other twisted in his shirt. He swallows. “I am– I’m in labor.”

Stan blinks. “You– huh?”

“I am in labor ,” Ford repeats, the last word coming out as another sob, like he’s only now realizing it and the implications himself. A tear leaks out of one of his eyes as he screws them shut, and Stan feels the pieces of his heart stab the inside his chest. “I-I’m pregnant, and now I’m in labor, and I– I need–” 

“Hey, hey.” Stan raises his hands and sets them gently on Ford’s shoulders, steadying him as he sways– this time, Ford doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in, head dropping to the crook Stan’s shoulder, burying his face into the worn fluff of his jacket’s hood. “I’m here,” he whispers, Stan murmurs, one hand moving up to run through Ford’s hair, fingers running through it with a tenderness he rarely shows. And then, with a decade of regret behind it, “I’m here now.”

Ford holds back another sob, sucks in another deep breath and looks up at Stan with intense determination showing through the tears clouding his eyes. “T-Take me to the bathroom.”

Stan blinks. “The– bathroom?” Ford nods, so he looks over his shoulder for a hallway leading out of the living room. He can see where Ford wants him to lead him, but– “Shouldn’t we be getting you to a hospital? I mean–”

“No!” Ford shouts, startling Stan with the sudden outburst. “No, no hospital!” 

The horrified look on this brother’s face at the mere suggestion leaves Stan furrowing his brows in confusion. He’s never been the biggest fan of hospitals either– especially once most of his injuries started coming from less-than-legal activities that doctors would be obligated to report to the police– but even he can admit when he’s out of his depth, that something is out of the scope of his abilities. Until he remembers that he’s talking to his brother – the one who wasn’t always his brother, but certainly is now, and in such a small town, would likely be getting more– worse – than just insensitive questions thrown his way if he were to show up to a hospital in such a state. Not to mention, when Stan glances out the window, he sees that the blizzard he heard reported through a heavy wave of back-road static on the radio on the way up here has more than arrived, white covering the landscape and a cascade of snowflakes blocking out any other color trying to peek through it.

Stan sighs, wiping a hand over his face, resigned to his new fate. “Okay,” he acquiesces, “no hospital.”

“No hospital,” Ford repeats, slowly losing the tension in his shoulders. “Just– help me. Please.”

He’s not sure where Ford got the idea that he wouldn’t.

It takes a bit of awkward finagling to get Stan’s arm securely under Ford’s shoulders so he can all but carry him down the hallway Ford guides him down. Stan rubs Ford’s arm gently as they move– half to calm his own nerves, half to offer comfort– but the gesture earns him an irritated scowl, Ford slapping his hand away. Stan bites back his frustration– now isn’t the time. When they finally reach the door, Stan has to push it open with his foot, his hands too full supporting his brother, who’s barely managing to stay upright.

Stan can’t suppress his gasp when he sees the interior of the bathroom. Shards of what had once been a mirror litter the floor and fill the sink that’s streaked with dried blood– splash patterns and smears of handprints. In place of the mirror, the wall is plastered with an absurd amount of sticky notes, little messages he doesn’t bother to read in two distinct handwritings. Not to mention that the bathroom is cold– freezing, actually. He starts to shiver at the cold seeping from the tile, nipping at his skin. Ford, to his credit, seems embarrassed by the state of the place as he extracts himself from his arms and slumps onto the toilet, not bothering to put the lid down. He leans his head back against the wall and tilts back so far that his spine audibly pops against the edge of the tank.

Ford shakily raises a hand to point to the cabinet under the sink. “Th-there should be clean towels in there.” 

Stan nods and steps over tiny pieces of broken glass to reach it. “When’s the last time you paid the electric bill?” he asks through chattering teeth as he kneels before the cabinet– he sees Ford flinch out of the corner of his eye.

“No time,” Ford mutters, not answering the question, before shucking his overcoat, dropping it to the floor beside the toilet. Stan stands there with a stack of probably too many towels in his hands, and now that Ford isn’t hunched over himself with a coat wrapped around his middle, he can see that Ford is definitely pregnant, and this isn’t all some elaborate prank or sick joke. His stomach is huge , the lowest buttons of his sweat-dampened shirt straining to stay in place, and where it peeks out from between the fabric, his skin stretches so thin he swears he can see veins underneath. Stan feels ill thinking about it– then feels worse when he remembers that his brother is actually experiencing it.

“Where, uh, where do you need the towels?” he asks, and Ford gestures vaguely to the counter before beginning to unbutton his shirt– Stan turns away to give him some modesty.

Ford scoffs. “I’m still decent . It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“I still don’t want to see my brother performing a strip-tease,” Stan grumbles. Ford actually laughs at that, and despite the strain in his voice, it’s a beautiful sound. After ten long years without it– and after seeing him break down in tears– it’s refreshing, something bright cutting through the dark. Stan smiles to himself, reveling in the moment of reprieve from the chaos, however brief it may be.

The smile fades as he turns to set the towels on the counter and spots a bloodstain– still wet, still fresh.

How long ago was that made?

He decides not to ask that question, not out loud, just covers it with the pile of towels– which might be stupid, but he doesn’t want to think about it, not anymore. Of all the pregnancy symptoms he knows of, bleeding isn’t, or shouldn’t be one of them. He swallows hard, putting on a fake calm before he turns back to face his brother, leaning back against the counter as casually as he can. 

Looking at Ford doesn’t make it any easier to pretend, but he’s a welcome distraction. Ford’s removed his shirt, though still “decent” as he’d said, with a sports bra keeping him covered, but his stomach alone is obscene enough to make Stan feel like a pervert for looking– there’s only one way that happened, and Stan has to shake his head to get that thought out of it. Lucky for him, Ford ignores the motion in favor of shucking his wet pants, pulling them down to his knees and shuffling them the rest of the way off, kicking them aside.

Ford attempts to push himself off the toilet, bracing his hands against the seat, only to hiss in pain and collapse back into the seat with a grimace. Stan rushes to his side, much to Ford’s chagrin, who begins to pant through his grit teeth as his fingers curl around the rim of the toilet seat. 

“Contraction,” Ford manages, face twisting in deep discomfort.

The term is aptly named, Stan realizes as he watches Ford’s stomach… move . The sides tighten and the bulk of his stomach pops out, just a little, but enough to be noticeable to someone really looking. Now he’s definitely in a horror movie, because something is inside of his brother and it’s fucking moving in there, trying to escape– he can practically see a little hand tearing its way through his stomach and crawling out. He’s not sure how to help, so he just hovers, watching Ford rock back and forth, eyes screwed shut as his body trembles. He inhales quivering breaths through his mouth and exhales in uneven bursts through his nose. Stan clenches and releases his fists uselessly at his sides, aching to reach out but afraid he’ll only make things worse, either by pissing Ford off or genuinely hurting him– they might as well be equally bad in this situation. Stan’s heart pounds in sync with the small, broken noises slipping from Ford’s throat. He wants to say something, anything, but the words get stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat, swallowed down like a shot at a greasy bar that doesn’t card.

More than a minute passes before Ford finally relaxes, body loosening with a hard breath that brings a few droplets of spit with it.

“Are you okay? Can I–” He’s cut off by Ford throwing a tired glare his way. Stan wants to roll his eyes, but holds back– now isn’t the time for being petty, even if Ford is being difficult. Afterall, he has just about every right to be upset– he can only imagine how he must feel.

After some time to recover, Ford sits up and allows himself to grab onto Stan’s shoulders and use him as support to struggle upright. Stan’s hands hover around his waist, not sure he’s allowed to steady him by actually holding him, since… well. Ford lets go once he’s standing, only to stumble on his own feet– they both reach to catch each other at the same time. An awkward pause follows with Stan holding his brother on either side of his torso, avoiding his belly and definitely avoiding his boobs– there’s a small window between the two he’s managed to latch onto. Ford drops his head and groans, long and bitter, but at least not in pain.

“H-help me into the tub?” Ford asks, voice cracking. 

Stan guides them in a slow, awkward shuffle, Ford’s steps coming a half-beat behind, just slightly out of rhythm. Carefully, Ford lifts one leg over the side of the tub, then the other, clinging to Stan as he does, fingers digging in hard– he’s damn lucky he was doing a manual labor gig before he got his postcard, because his arms are sturdy again and more than capable of bearing his weight. Ford eases himself down, Stan leaning in with him the whole way, subtly shifting to keep most of the strain off his brother’s arms– first into a seated position, then slowly reclines until he's lying flat in the tub, shivering at the cold porcelain on his bare skin. Finally, Ford settles and lets out a sigh of relief– Stan hides his own behind a grunt as he stands back up, rubbing a twinge out of his back.

Ford reaches down and begins to pull his underwear off, and Stan whips his head away from that faster than he can process it. ‘Decent’ , he said, ‘ nothing you haven’t seen before ’. Yeah, right (well, maybe when they were little, when two baths was too much on the water bill, but they’re adults now, they don’t need to be– ugh). 

“Do you, uh–” Ford tosses his briefs over the side of the tub, hitting the tile with the disgusting splat of wet fabric. Stan cringes. “Lovely,” he mutters, knowing without turning around that Ford’s got that damn smug grin he always got on his face when he made Stan uncomfortable on purpose. He tries again, not giving Ford any more satisfaction. “Do you need anything?”

Ford pauses a moment, eyes flicking around as he thinks. “We have towels and water,” he thinks aloud. “Something to clamp the cord–”

Stan stops listening because it hits him what exactly they’re in the bathroom for.

“W-wait, we’re– you’re giving birth here ?” 

Ford looks at him like he’s stupid and, you know what? Maybe he is, but that’s rude. He gestures around them. “Why do you think we’re in the bathroom?”

“I don’t know– to clean up?” And yeah, it sounds stupid coming out of his mouth. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says frantically, pitch rising further than he’d like it to. The closest he’s been to a birth besides the one that produced him is Shermie’s wife, and she refused to let the in-laws in the room (which Ma kvetched about for hours, but Stan thought was fair– he didn’t want to see all that anyway). He skipped class when they showed those tapes in home-ec, and he assumes the horror stories the other kids told at lunch after weren’t the most accurate.

“ I do,” Ford counters. “I just need your help.” 

Stan’s shoulders hunch with discomfort, trying to look anywhere but at his brother’s face, but his eyes flicker back without his permission, and the look on Ford’s face is familiar– the same one he would wear when he tried to talk Stan out of doing something stupid for his sake, like fighting his bullies after school. Back then, Ford would step in with a hand on his arm and that look in his eyes; desperate and scared. 

“Please, Stanley,” Ford whispers, voice so small it barely cuts through the thick air between them.

And just like all those years ago, Stan feels that old instinct stir in his chest, tight and aching and impossible to ignore. He sighs, resigned to his fate. “What do you need?”

Ford nods once, a single moment of thanks, acknowledgement that can’t be properly expressed through words, only the relief crossing his face. “A clip, I have binder clips on my desk,” he says, “And scissors.”

Stan’s blood freezes, but only for a moment before he remembers that they’d be used to cut the cord, not– he shakes his head, willing the image away. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says as casually as he can– Ford’s not buying it, giving him an odd look. “Just–” Stan huffs, turning to leave the bathroom before he embarrasses himself. “You lay down, okay? I’ll be back.”

It’s not hard to find these things– surprisingly, considering the absolute mess that is Ford’s house. The first drawer he opens has all the binder clips, which he shoves a handful of in his pocket– old habits of grabbing as much as you can, just in case– and the scissors are placed precariously on the edge of the desk. He does his best not to think too hard about the blood streaked across one of the blades, and dashes back to the bathroom with them facing down in his fist (because he remembers his first grade blade safety, and Ford would probably prefer his midwife isn’t missing an eye).

When he returns, Ford is curled in on himself, fingers clamped so tightly around the tub’s porcelain rim that the numerous scabs on his knuckles have split open, beads of blood welling up, and his breath comes in ragged hisses through clenched teeth– another contraction. Stan’s heart lurches, and he drops the scissors into the sink, already forgotten– they can be cleaned later– and rushes to his brother’s side, dropping to his knees on the damp floor beside the tub without hesitation. Before he can even ask what to do, Ford releases the tub’s edge and reaches for him, blindly fumbling until their hands find each other. He links their fingers and squeezes– hard . Stan’s eye twitches at the surprising strength behind the grip, practically crushing his bones and grinding them against each other, but says nothing. Not while Ford’s eyes are shut tight, face drawn and pale, every muscle in his body tense, trembling under the strain. 

Stan wants to say something to fill the silence, to ignore his fear, to forget the pain his brother is in, but nothing helpful comes to mind– nobody wants to hear “you’re doing great” while they’re in pain (plus, how would Stan know that? Maybe he isn’t). Instead, he squeezes back and stays silent, steady, something for Ford to hold onto while he weathers the storm passing through him.

It feels like he watches helplessly as his brother suffers for an eternity, only able to hold onto his hand like he did when they were kids and Ford needed reassurance or to be pulled along towards a bad idea. Every second stretches along painfully, like time itself has slowed to match Ford’s labored breaths and clenched jaw. But eventually, finally , Ford exhales in a long, wavering sigh as his body slackens, tension bleeding out of his muscles all at once. Stan doesn’t even realize he’s been holding his own breath until that moment. He lets it go quietly, shoulders sagging with relief.

It takes a second before Ford notices that his hand is still clamped around Stan’s like a vice. His eyes flicker open, glazed with pain but clearing slowly. He blinks, and there’s a flicker of embarrassment, perhaps the desire to apologize, but he doesn’t say a thing as he loosens his grip– not completely, just gives Stan the room he needs to breathe. 

He’s not letting go, and Stan would never ask him to.

“How, uh,” Stan clears his throat, trying to dislodge the knot of unsaid words caught there. For a second, Stan hesitates– maybe he shouldn’t ask. Ford already looks like he’s hanging by a thread– but it’s probably better to know what he’s getting himself into. “How long do these last? The contractions?”

Ford takes a moment, like the question has to fight its way through the haze in his brain before he can process it. Then, in typical Ford fashion, his answer comes steady and clinical, “Forty to seventy seconds, every three or five minutes.”

Stan’s stomach drops. “That long?” Ford nods. “And you’ve just been… dealing with that? How long’s this been going on?”

“Since yesterday afternoon.” Ford at least has the decency to look ashamed of that, eyes flicking away, and if his face weren’t already flushed from exertion, he’d probably be blushing. Stan’s mouth opens, ready to unload all the things he wants to say, starting with ‘ Are you out of your goddamn mind? ,’ but Ford cuts him off before he gets the chance. “They weren’t as bad at first,” he says quickly. “That was early labor. I-I’m in active labor now. They get worse.”

Stan stares at him, dumbfounded. “Worse,” he repeats flatly.

Ford nods. Stan sits before his knees make the decision for him. It takes a long time for him to collect his thoughts again.

“You could’ve–” Stan’s jaw clicks shut– he shouldn’t be lecturing his brother on all the things he could’ve done, not when they’re far beyond that. Ford sends him a dark look that tells him that’s the right idea. So Stan shifts gears, softens his tone and tries a question, “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

There’s a pause– then Ford exhales, almost a sigh, and his fingers tighten around Stan’s hand, just a little. “I didn’t want anyone to know,” he admits quietly, “Especially not you.”

Stan feels that sting sharper than he expects, but he doesn’t let it show. Whatever that means, he’ll think about it later. “I would’ve helped,” he says instead, sure of his words.

“I know,” Ford states matter-of-factly. “That’s why I called you at all.”

“You called me to get rid of your book,” Stan corrects flatly– at least, that’s how it looks to him. Ford doesn’t argue, just looks away, pointedly staying silent. Stan shakes his head, more tired than angry. “I’m here now,” he says, mostly for himself, “And you’re crazy if you think I’m gonna leave.”

“I expect no less from you,” Ford replies, and he can’t tell if he’s bitter or grateful.

It doesn’t matter, because Ford’s hand suddenly clamps down around his. There’s no clock in the bathroom, and Stan sold his watch for gas three days ago, but three minutes must have passed already, because Ford’s back arches and a raw sound catches in his throat, his whole frame tenses as the next contraction washes over him in a single wave that threatens to pull him under. 

Without thinking, Stan lifts his free hand and threads it gently through Ford’s hair, the same way he would as a kid, when Ford had nightmares or a fever, and he’d just lie there until Stan’s fingers scratching his scalp lulled him back to sleep. His curls are tangled and greasy now– as unpleasant as it is for Stan, Ford leans into the touch, a small whine, something he didn’t usually hear from him, coming through with the next heavy exhale. The bathroom is cold, but Ford’s glasses fog with his heated breath.

The moments between contractions seem to fly by in a blur, but each one feels glacial– slow and agonizing in comparison. Of course Ford would have the shortest time between contractions, and the longest contractions possible– because he’s just that efficient, right? Can’t even go into labor halfway.

Stan doesn’t get to laugh at his own mental joke– Ford gasps suddenly, a sharp, ragged intake of breath that sounds like it was yanked out of him by force. His body jerks, stomach tensing, knees twitching against the sides of the bathtub.

“Shit– Ford?” Stan scoots forward until his knees touch the underside of the tub. He hovers, unsure of what to do but desperate to help.

Ford’s head falls back against the cold tile with a thunk, eyes squeezed shut for one breath, then flickering open again, dazed and glassy but locked onto Stan with startling clarity.

“Stan,” he rasps, breath catching hard in his chest. “You– I– shit –” Another groan tears out of him, his body folding slightly forward, one arm braced on the sides of the tub as he rides out whatever’s hitting him now. “G-get in. I need–”

Stan doesn’t hesitate or question, simply kicks off his boots and clambers into the tub, which he realizes as the faucet jabs into his spine, is far too small– it’s barely enough to fit one person lying down, let alone two grown men. It takes a minute, but he manages to arrange himself semi-comfortably between Ford's open legs– which is very awkward and he is not enjoying being in such an intimate position with his damn brother, thank you very much. There is, quite literally, nowhere to look, unless he wants to make the whole situation even weirder than it already is. 

Instead of looking at the twisted expression on Ford’s face– or worse, down – Stan fixes his gaze firmly on the ceiling, tracing the patterns of water stains.

“Wh-what the hell are you–” Ford grunts, interrupting himself as he strains through the contraction, “–looking at?”

“The ceiling.”

A pause.

“I’m trying not to look at your–” Stan cuts himself off with a grimace. “ You know. ”

“ Sweet Moses .” Ford lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a groan, dragging a shaky hand over his face, smearing sweat with it. “Stanley,” he says with a dangerously flat tone, “you are the only one I can trust to help me give birth , and you can’t even say the word ‘vagina.’”

“Well, you just said it, so that covers both of us.”

Ford slams his hand onto the porcelain floor of the tub, the thud of it echoing through the bathroom. The look he levels him with is lethal. “Stanley,” he snaps, eyes blazing, “you are going to have to do much more than just look, so get over it! ” 

The last of the contraction crests as he finishes yelling, like it pulled the pain out of him, drawing with it a full-body shudder. Ford’s body uncoils and he slumps back against the edge of the tub, limbs trembling, chest heaving with exhausted breathing.

Stan raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! I’m over it. I’m good. Fully desensitized. All in. Just– tell me what to do.”

Ford doesn’t answer right away. His lips part like he’s about to speak, but then something shifts behind his eyes, and a sob comes creeping out instead. It all seems to hit Ford in the moment, exactly what’s happening and what position he’s in. “Oh god,” he breathes, the words barely making it out as his voice shudders. His eyes are wide now, brimming with panic that he’s been trying to suppress for too long. “Stanley–”

“Hey, hey,” Stan says softly. He moves fast, bracing a hand on the edge of the tub as he leans in, closing the space between them so he can pull one of his hands into his own and squeeze it tight himself this time. Ford immediately squeezes back, clinging to him like a lifeline. “I’m here, okay? I’ve got you.”

Ford’s breath hitches, sharp and wet, and he turns his head, pressing his forehead to the side of Stan’s arm and using his sleeve to wipe the tears from his face. He sniffles, pulling himself back together in a moment, something that always scared Stan when they were kids. “I-I need you to–” he cuts himself off to clear his throat.

“Anything,” Stan promises. “What is it, what do you need?”

“I need–” Ford’s gaze darts away, as if looking Stan in the eye might make it harder to say. “I need you to take your hand… and ch-check my cervix.”

Okay, maybe not anything .

Stan blinks, stomach twisting. “You want me to–?” 

He’s not squeamish by any measure– he’s cleaned up other people’s messes that would be better described as crime scenes, held pressure to stab wounds and ditched before the cops showed up, patched Ford himself up after all kinds of chaos when they were kids. And yeah, he’s been through a lot– living on the streets at seventeen, being chased out of perhaps hundreds of cities (he stopped counting cities, switched to states years ago), prison in a foreign country, multiple kidnapping attempts– but this? 

Well, it probably wouldn’t take the cake, but it’s certainly a different beast than he’s used to. 

“Yes,” Ford answers calmly, meeting Stan’s wide-eyed stare with one of complete exhaustion, either completely oblivious to Stan’s internal struggle, or not in the position to care about it. “I c-can’t reach myself.” Like that explains it all. Ford nods towards the sink. “Go– wash your hands. Cold water is fine, just– do it.”

Stan opens his mouth, then closes it again. There is no way to say, ‘I love you and would do anything for you, but I don’t want to stick my fingers inside of you’ that won’t end in permanent psychological damage for both of them.

Ford groans, impatient (which, fair enough). “Are you going to faint?”

“No, nope, I’m good,” Stan insists, shooting to his feet so fast he nearly slips on his socks. “I’m going.”

Stan steps up to the sink, rolls up his sleeves, and starts to wash his hands. He probably uses too much soap, and scrubs probably too long, too hard, like he’s trying to kill each individual germ slowly and painfully, until his fingers go numb beneath the freezing water. He does his best to ignore the rust-colored stains in the basin and the streaks of blood on the ends of the bar of soap and, instead, grabs the scissors from earlier and gives them a mostly-thorough cleaning too. Behind him, he hears a choked sound– Stan looks over his shoulder and sees Ford hunched in on himself, shivering against the cold porcelain. Their three minutes must be up.

He quickly twists the lever with his elbow and rushes back into place. Ford does him the favor of moving his legs to make it easier for him to position himself comfortably again, but it’s not much of a favor once Ford props his feet up on the rim of the tub, giving him a lovely view of– Ford is right, he can’t say the word vagina, let alone any other part of the body no brother should ever be getting so close to. There’s a wall that goes up in his brain the second he has to think about where , exactly, he’s about to be reaching, and what , exactly, he’s about to be touching. He distracts himself by placing one of his hands (he assumes he’ll only need one for the actual checking) on Ford’s calf, hoping the feeling will ground Ford rather than make him feel worse– it also grounds him a bit, the feeling of wiry hair under his fingers. He only notices now that Ford had taken one of the towels from the counter and placed it under his hips– it’s mildly damp.

Ford seems to be getting the hang of the whole breathing thing, managing to keep his breaths mostly even, even if every inhale still catches on the edges of a whimper, and low groans slip out between clenched teeth with every exhale. At the very least, he’s breathing, and that’s something.

“T-talk.”

“Huh?” Stan blinks, snapped out of counting each rise and fall of Ford’s chest, making sure he’s still alive (he’d probably know from other factors before the breathing, but anything to keep him grounded in the moment and not floating out of his body, going fully autopilot, as he had done many times before in hard situations).

“Talk to me,” Ford begs, face pale and sticky with sweat, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a scream, “s-say someth’n, a-anythin’. Distract me.”

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Stan scrambles mentally, raking through his brain for anything even remotely useful or comforting. All he can come up with is, “Do you have names?”

A moment of Ford processing the question passes– for a second, Stan thinks maybe he didn’t hear him– before he raises an eyebrow at Stan, like it’s a weird question to be asking. Either way, he gives a jerky nod. “C-Ceres,” he says, thinly, “F’r a boy.”

Stan nods back, thinking. “That’s a star, isn’t it?”

Ford barely manages to shake his head. “Planet. Dwarf.”

“Right, I knew that.” He tries the name out on his tongue and nods again. “Ceres. I like it. Unique, but not, like, hippie unique.” 

Ford lets out something like a laugh– more of a wheeze– before finally relaxing as the little-over-a-minute mark passes and the contraction releases its grip on his muscles, sinking deeper into the tub. Stan, not knowing what else to do, gives Ford’s leg a quick little pat– which is awkward. He can feel how awkward it was. Luckily, though, Ford can too, and laughs again, stronger this time now that the pain has mostly eased. A smile of his own tugs at Stan’s lips.

“You got one for a girl?” Stan asks, gently– not just to delay the inevitable a little longer, but also genuinely curious.

Ford’s expression softens. “Luna,” Ford says reverently.

“That’s the moon,” Stan states, proud to have that knowledge at least. Ford scoffs and rolls his eyes– fondly, the same way he used to when Stan copied his tests in class and didn’t even try to hide it. “You got a theme going, huh?”

Ford shrugs with only one shoulder, smiling faintly. “I like astronomy.” 

The moment holds, quiet, oddly warm despite the chill, until Ford finally sighs, a grimace crossing his face. Stan presses his lips together into a thin line– guess there’s no escaping it now.

“Alright,” Stan mutters. “How do I–? Tell me what to do.”

Ford sits up just a little and shakily, awkwardly spreads his knees, letting Stan get a better position between them– he would really hate for anyone to walk in on them like this, for multiple reasons, but mainly because this positioning must look absolutely rancid, and even in context, what he’s about to do isn’t much better.

“You’re gonna use two fingers to start.” 

Stan cringes as Ford raises his own hand to demonstrate. “Okay, yeah, no need for the visual,” he says quickly, waving Ford’s hand away. 

Ford ignores him. “You’ll feel something, uh, firm. Like cartilage. A ring– that’s the cervix.” Stan notes the usage of ‘the’ instead of ‘my’. Detached, deliberate– he probably feels more awkward about this than Stan does. “If you can fit your fingers into it, do it, and see how open it is.”

Stan looks down at his own hand like it’s name just got called for the draft. “Right,” he mutters, “Just cartilage. Inside my brother. With my fingers. Simple.”

Ford rolls his eyes and shifts again, trying to get comfortable– if that were even remotely possible. “Try not to make this weirder than it is.”

“Little late for that.” Stan rolls his sleeve back up to his elbow, having slipped down his arm since he washed his hands. He leans down and– hesitates. “Sorry in advance,” he mutters, “For literally everything about this.”

“Shut up and get to work.”

Stan takes a deep breath, steeling himself, then reaches in– slowly, carefully, like it might bite him. The heat of Ford’s body is the foremost apparent, then the wet, awful resistance of muscle– for a second, he considers passing out just to avoid continuing. Maybe he’ll hit his head on the faucet or lip of the tub on the way down and forget this ever happened. But Ford needs him, and he must be in his own hell right now– he can’t, and doesn’t want to, imagine how this must feel for him, especially as he hisses in pain (or perhaps just from existing in this moment) above him. Stan bites the inside of his cheek and continues as gently as he can until his fingers touch… something, and Ford flinches hard with a grunt.

“Y-you got it,” Ford pants, “Gentle, please.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles as he arranges his fingers and, as slowly as he can, with the grace of a man defusing landmines in the dark, eases them inside. The first, the second, and… he pulls out ever so slightly and slips (which might be a word that implies too much ease– it’s not easy) his third finger in. Ford lets out a noise that makes Stan feel like he just kicked a puppy, but he doesn’t stop– can’t, not with the three minute time limit looming in the back of his mind. The space is… bigger than he expected. Much bigger. He can spread his fingers almost completely before they touch the firm rim. “What the fuck ,” he breathes.

“What is it?” Ford asks in a tight, almost panicked whine, eyes screwed shut like he’s trying to will himself out of his physical body– Stan knows the feeling.

Stan cautiously pulls his fingers out, resisting the urge to recoil, and shakes his hand, both to try and rid himself of the fluid stuck to it and the sensation of his brother around it. He might need a bleach wash. Or an exorcism– Ford probably has a shofar laying around, knowing him. “Umm.” He's never been good with mental measurements, so figuring out how his fingers correlate to size is very confusing– too confusing to bother with. “Three fingers?”

Ford’s eyes flick open. “What?”

“I-I don't know the number,” Stan rushes, “I can fit three fingers, okay?”

His brows furrow. “H-how far apart?” Stan raises his hand and spreads his fingers roughly the same way they were inside. Ford’s head falls back against the wall with a thump and a groan. “Fuck. Okay.” He brings a hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow. “I'm about– nine centimeters dilated.”

“Okay.” Stan nods slowly, like that’s at all helpful to him. “What does that mean?”

“It means the baby's coming soon.”

“ Soon? ” Stan blanches. “How soon is soon ?”

Ford doesn’t get the chance to answer– his face and body tightens, hands flying to grip the sides of the tub like he’s trying to rip them off. A low, guttural growl vibrates in his chest, almost animalistic, like the stray dogs and feral cats Stan used to come across in alleyways.

“Shit, shit– okay, I’ve got you,” Stan tries, reaching for Ford’s leg again, palm flat on his shin, trying to offer something to anchor them both– but Ford shakily raises his own free hand to meet Stan’s. Without question, he laces their fingers and endures Ford’s squeezing, using the pain to ground himself as well, keep himself from panicking and becoming more useless than he already is here. “Just breathe, yeah?”

“I-I can’t–” Ford’s voice cracks. He’s shaking his head hard, eyelids desperately clamped closed, shoulders trembling, “I need t– I can’t!” 

“What do you need?”

“D-distraction–” he chokes out, “J-just talk .”

“Okay, distraction, um…” Stan looks desperately around the room, as if he’d find an acceptable icebreaker somewhere in there– perhaps the 2-in-1 shampoo has conversation starters on the label. His brain flips through useless trivia and unfinished jokes. Finally, he blurts, “Tell me about the father?”

“ I don’t know! ” Ford wails, tears finally spilling over his cheeks.

“Oh,” Stan says, intelligently. The following silence isn’t loud, but it is full. The meaning of those three words sit between them like another body in the room as Ford’s sobs rumble through his chest. He doesn’t have the time, nor the desire, to examine it right now (though the implications have already hit him square in the chest like a punch and left him a bit breathless), so he tries something else. “You, uh, have freckles now. Lots of them.” He mentally kicks himself, since that was a useless observation.

Ford huffs, but it gets caught halfway and turns into a whine. The line between his brow deepens as the pain crests again, but he fights to speak through it, “I-it’s–” Ford interrupts himself with a wavering, low moan. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “C-chloasma. H-hyper– Dark patches. In pregnancy.”

“Huh. Why?” Anything to keep Ford talking (though after all these years, he’d welcome a good science lecture from Ford).

“‘S caused by, ah– h’rmones,” he grits out, gesturing vaguely without his hands, since they’re balled into tight fists at his sides, “More melanin. Same thing with the– the line. On my stomach.”

“Ah, that.” Stan nods. “I noticed that too. I was just too polite to bring it up.”

Ford lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a whimper. “You’re a real gentleman.” He mostly relaxes, still tense, but his head lolls back, sweat trickling down his temple. He lets go of Stan’s hand so he can use the hand to cover his eyes, wipe the tears from them. “Fuck,” he says, and doesn’t that sum all of this up?

“Tell me about it,” Stan mutters.

“Stan, I–” Ford’s voice cracks mid-word, barely making it through the words that follow, “Th-the contractions, they’re– I need to push.”

Stan freezes, his stomach flipping the same way it does when he thinks he’s about to die. “Okay,” he says, definitely not okay. “Are you supposed to?”

“I-I don’t know–!” Ford snaps, voice breaking, the panic breaking straight through his exhaustion. His next words come out brittle and desperate, “You need to check m-my cervix again.”

“Fuck, really?” Ford doesn’t dignify him with a verbal response, instead throwing him a glare, more exhausted than angry, but it could still kill if he used it right– a glare that says ‘I don’t want this any more than you do’ , that says ‘I’d punch you right now if I wasn’t tub-ridden’ . Stan sighs, long-suffering and now defeated. “Okay, yeah, just give me a second.” 

Stan slides back into position, kneeling between his brother’s legs and ignoring the press of the faucet into his back. He forces his hand to stop shaking and gently slips them inside once again, doing his best not to look like he’s about to pass out– doing it once does not make doing it a second time any easier.

Warmth. Pressure. The awful, too-intimate feeling of muscle shifting around his fingers. 

And then– 

Stan might’ve yelped. He’s not sure. His eyes went wide as he felt it– hair.

He nearly yanks his hand out on reflex, but catches himself at the last second, going slow so he doesn’t hurt Ford– though he’s certainly already scared him.

“What?” Ford asks urgently, sitting up as much as he can as Stan wipes his hand on the towel, the feeling still stuck on his fingers like he’d been burned. “ What ?"

“Um,” he tries, just to let Ford know he’s going to respond, his brain is just still buffering. He swallows. “It’s coming,” he says, “The baby. It’s here.”

Ford’s eyes gloss over with something close to disbelief, or maybe the realization that disbelief wasn’t going to save him anymore. His lip quivers a moment before the rest of his body follows with no warning. “Oh– god –” he gasps, the words barely making it out of his mouth. Stan holds out his hand and Ford grabs it like a drowning man grabs driftwood, returning to the bone-grinding vice grip he had before– he doesn’t need his circulation, anyway. A deep, guttural sound that doesn’t sound at all like Ford tears its way out of his throat, different from the ones before it– like this isn’t just pain. Ford tries to speak, but words don’t seem to know where to go, “‘M– I’m–”

“Do what you need,” Stan assures him, hoping he doesn’t come off as unsure as he is because he doesn’t actually know what Ford needs, or even that he can do this. He’d heard somewhere before, probably from his father at some point, that the body just knows what to do during labor and will do it, but he’s not sure how true that is– at least, not with Ford’s big brain running interference, that’s for sure. It doesn’t matter, because Ford’s body seems to be doing it anyway.

Ford’s belly does the same tightening thing as before, stronger, tighter this time, and his whole body trembles with the effort, hips shifting almost imperceptibly back and forth. He groans deeply, a horrible sound that must be painful in itself, his chin dropping to his chest like he can’t afford to spare the effort to keep it up, teeth clenching hard enough Stan half-expects to hear one crack. 

“Are you–?” Stan starts, unsure what he’s even asking.

“Pushing,” Ford barely manages to grind out, breath coming fast, shoulders shaking almost violently. He stops, sagging back for a second, not relaxing but not so tense as before, and hisses out, “ Hurts ,” as he gasps like he’d come up from deep underwater.

“I bet,” Stan mutters, voice low, trying to keep himself steady as his heart beats faster in his chest with each noise of pain (and whatever is beyond it– pain-plus) Ford makes. He raises his free hand and brings it to wipe the sweat from Ford’s brow, keeping it from dripping into his eyes– just to do something. Ford leans into the touch. Stan whispers, “I’ve got ya, Six.” The nickname slips out unplanned, a piece of childhood surfacing through the blood and fear. It lands between them like an anchor.

Ford takes a deep breath and goes again, his body bowing forward under the pressure of it. The sound he makes this time is the pure force of his muscles tensing, somewhere between agony and survival. Stan squeezes his hand back, needing the comfort himself. He’s not sure how long they’ve been in here anymore– it’s probably dark out by now. It doesn’t matter– nothing outside of this room matters right now, not while his brother yells in pain and holds onto him like his lifeline.

He steels himself before looking down, not sure what he’s going to see when he does, and not particularly interested in finding out, but he needs to figure out where they are– and yeah, he really didn’t want to see that. There’s fluid Stan doesn’t know or care to find out the name of, and a not insignificant amount of blood (any amount coming from there is significant– well, except for– forget it), but the worst is the way his brother’s flesh seems to… bulge. Stretch around what’s trying to come out, enough to be slightly visible from the outside.

Ford doesn’t so much as relax as he collapses in the span of a second, all the air in his lungs being released into the air. Stan startles, jolted out of staring at the horror between Ford’s legs. He rubs his thumb along the length of Ford’s as he recovers– mostly. His arms tremble as he slowly pushes himself up– Stan does his best to help him along until he’s almost sitting.

“H-help me,” Ford wheezes, “H-help me change positions.”

“Sure, sure. What do you–”

Ford moves before he finishes, or tries to– he brings his legs down from where they were hooked over the sides of the tub without much issue, but if he thinks he can sit up on his own, he’s got another thing coming. Stan hurries to steady him, arms going around Ford’s shoulders to keep him from folding. “Hands and kn-knees,” he finally answers. Stan doesn’t need an explanation, but Ford continues, “The– the pressure, it’s– it’s all in my tailbone. I need to move, p-please–”

“I’ve got ya,” Stan assures, wrapping an arm around Ford’s back, the other under his ribs, supporting Ford as best he can in flipping over in the narrow space of the tub that definitely doesn’t lend itself to this much movement. It’s cramped and awkward, but he manages to help maneuver him, though it takes a few swears before Ford manages to prop himself up on his knees so they can support his weight as he buries his face in his forearms– and isn’t this a flattering position? Even better when Ford moans with relief, sagging fully into the new stance. “Better?” Stan asks through a held-back cringe, though he knows the answer from the way Ford has stopped twitching like he was being electrocuted.

“Much,” Ford breathes, muffled by the contained space his head is placed in. The word seems to come straight from his heart. Yeah, he definitely needed this. “H-how far– can you see them?”

“No,” Stan answers before he looks, but when he does, the answer remains the same. Stan gives a weak huff of laughter, more air than sound. Without any humor, he asks, “Gonna be here a while, huh?”

Ford doesn’t answer right away. His back rises and falls with shaky, uneven breaths– and then, with no ceremony at all, he says, “Th’ next one.” Stan raises an eyebrow. “I’ll probably crown,” he says simply.

Stan doesn’t completely know what that word means– has an idea of it, though, and that idea is not particularly pleasant. He sighs, wiping his sweaty hands on the towel now situated under Ford’s knees (which must not feel any better than him only having his hiking pants as a buffer). “What do I do?” he asks.

“Don’t faint.”

Stan barks out a laugh. “No promises.” Then, quieter, mostly to himself, “I’m not built for this, man.”

Ford doesn’t respond– can’t, because the next contraction hits, and it hits hard . Ford’s groan quickly morphs into a yell as the pain mounts. Stan places a hand on his lower back, hoping it’ll comfort him in the absence of a hand to hold– he can’t really do anything else, so maybe this counts for something. Ford takes a deep breath, then a painful sound of struggle claws its way up his throat as he begins to push, continuing to do so for longer than Stan thinks he can hold a note like that. When he finally relents, his back remains bowed and stiff.

“It’s–” He pants. “I-I can feel it. Th-them. Moving. Down.”

Stan leans back down to look, bracing a hand against the edge of the tub to steady himself, and holy shit .

He can see it. Not just some vague image in his head, not something Ford is talking about detached from reality, not theoretical– no, this is real. He can see it– the pale curve of a scalp just barely peeking out, flesh stretched taut around it, its dark hair slick and matted with fluid Stan, again, would rather not put a name to. Not far enough to be what he’s pretty sure is considered crowning, but enough that he can see it (and he knows he’s repeating himself, but holy shit , he can see it ), and that’s enough to make him wonder if he’s about to have a coronary, because he’s not entirely sure his heart is still beating. This is happening now .

Before the panic can freeze him in place, Stan moves– he reaches over the side of the tub and fumbles for a towel from the stack. He pulls one off of the top and doesn’t bother looking at the one beneath it that falls to the ground, too busy realizing that he didn’t think about this part before. He’s gonna have to catch it- the baby. Because he can’t just let it tumble onto the floor of the damn bathtub. 

He takes a quivering breath, staring at the head that feels like it’s staring back as it inches forward, then just as quickly retreats a few inches back inside with Ford’s loosening muscles, like it can’t make up its mind. Biting his cheek, Stan shifts lower, crouching with the towel bunched in his hands, prepared, or at least trying to be– he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. He’s never read a book about this or seen it done himself, only heard heavily censored stories their Ma told them about how they popped out of her (which, in retrospect, disgusting). He doesn’t know if babies are supposed to be sticky or slippery when they come out– probably slippery. He assumes slippery, just to better prepare in case that is the case.

Ford makes that awful, strangled moan again, and Stan has to plant his hands a little wider in front of him like he’s bracing for impact. He watches, helplessly and horrified, as the baby’s head starts to inch forward, slowly and deliberately, agonizingly , like it’s got all the time in the world to make a grand entrance– and just when it seems like they’re getting somewhere, Ford lets out a shaky breath and stops pushing, it retreats, sliding torturously back inside. Through Ford’s frustrated whine, Stan can almost hear it laughing at them– which he realizes sounds insane, but it’s justified in his mind.

“C’mon,” Stan mutters, as if the baby could hear him. His legs are starting to go numb crouched like this, but he doesn’t dare move, not as Ford starts to push again. A mix of disgust and horror passes through Stan, who swallows the taste of bile as the baby's head descends and slowly opens– ahem– its exit , looking like it might split the skin around it to fit itself through. He’s briefly glad he knows how to do some basic stitches, realizes that this might take more than basic, then discards the thought entirely, focusing instead on the damp curls clinging to Ford’s own like they belong together. This time, when Ford stops, the baby stops too, and stays where it is.

Ford curses under his breath, inhales deeply and exhales a low animal sound as he goes again. Stan doesn’t want to imagine the pain he’s in as the head slides out just far enough now that the top of its head is poking out of Ford’s body. He sees the curve of the forehead now, the faint shape of a face emerging– it’s somehow both awe-inspiring and completely horrifying. Ford’s skin stretches around it, tight and shiny like it’s about to tear, and Stan’s brain short-circuits for a second– how Ford hasn’t passed out already is a goddamn miracle because Stan isn’t sure he’s not about to do the same.

The baby’s head slips a few inches further, exposing its brow and stretching Ford to his limit around it– and Ford screams .

Stan flinches, nearly dropping the towel from his hands as his previously shattered heart crumbles into a fine dust– ash, probably. Ford’s not just grunting or moaning, he’s screaming , raw and ragged, torn straight from his throat and ringing in Stan’s ears like something out of a horror movie. 

“I can't do this,” Ford cries, muffled against his arms but echoing off of the porcelain all the same. His voice is breaking, unravelling into something small and childlike, something Stan hasn’t heard in decades now, not since– “I can't do this! I can’t–” 

Stan’s whole body locks up, palms sweating, mouth going dry. The towel in his lap feels useless. He feels useless. He feels like dead weight, the guy you throw off the back of the truck when the cops are coming– worse than useless. The instinct to run almost overtakes him, his muscles twitching in preparation to bolt– but there’s nowhere to go, and even if there were, he can’t leave. He’s the only one here– not a doctor, not a midwife, not even a parent– just him.

“You can ,” he blurts desperately, not sure he believes it himself, but the words fly out of his mouth before he can think about how hollow and useless they sound, “You can do this.” And then, voice cracking, he adds, “You have to.”

Ford shakes his head, “ No ,” he gasps, body tight like the bowstring of that crossbow he pointed at Stan’s face not even hours before. “Th-this is a mistake . I can’t– ’m not supposed t’–” He breaks off in a sob, choked and furious. Somehow the sobbing is worse than the screaming. 

Stan’s panic spikes, pounding at the inside of his skull. The air smells like sweat and blood and fear, and when Stan glances down again, sees the baby’s head, the widest part of it straining against Ford’s skin, its nose caught behind a layer of flesh, and he swears the edges of his vision start to go fuzzy. He forces himself to breathe. One. Two. In. Out. The kind of breathing exercise their hippie coach used to make them do before boxing, the kind he used to roll his eyes at but now clings to as a lifeline.

“I don’t– I don’t know what I’m doing,” Ford sobs to himself, which is a terrifying thing to hear from the person guiding you through something. Ford doesn’t know– the one who always knows. The one who always had a plan, read all the books in that tiny library, spent hours researching everything and anything he could get his hands on, who always has all of the answers. Now he’s panicking. Now he’s crying. Now he’s lost. “Oh God, ” he howls, as if to God himself, “I don’t know what I’m doing! I can’t do this!”

“Ford!” Stan barks louder than he means to, partly to catch Ford’s attention, but mostly because he can’t think or breathe when he’s screaming like that. His brain spirals in useless circles, knowing Ford is expecting him to say something, anything that might help, might get him through this horrible moment. He reaches down without thinking, finds Ford’s hand and pulls it toward him. Ford flinches at the touch, startled, but allows himself to be guided. “Here–” he places Ford’s hand on the baby’s head, still half inside, still struggling to emerge. “That’s your baby,” Stan whispers.

Ford’s hand stays frozen, hovering for a moment, uncertain– then, slowly, his six fingers settle over the curve of the scalp, slipping through slick curls. A sob catches in his throat, but this one is different– like grief and wonder tangled in the same breath. Stan’s hand doesn’t leave his– he keeps it there on top of his brother’s, over the impossibly big but still so tiny skull, a gap between his fingers where Ford’s extra one fits, anchoring both of them together.

“You’re doing it,” Stan says, softer now. “ We can do this.”

Slowly, with a shuddering exhale, Ford nods. “Okay,” he breathes, whimpers, barely audible, “Okay.” He shakily pulls his hand away and sets it down in front of him, settling himself on his hands and knees. His breathing hitches, and Stan can feel the tension course through him, every muscle drawing tight– another animal noise escapes his throat as he begins to push again. 

The baby’s head shifts, turns slightly, then, unceremoniously, pops free. Stan might’ve gasped– or maybe that was Ford. Hard to tell with his heart pounding so loud in his ears as that wrinkly little alien face is tilted up at him, eyes shut but somehow still looking at him. He moves on instinct, bringing the towel up with shaking hands to cradle the back of the baby’s weird, cone-shaped head– that’s normal, right?– unsure if he’s supposed to wipe the weird, cheesy white goo off of it or let it be for now. Before he can do anything more than stare in open-mouthed disbelief, though, Ford lets out another strained grunt and starts pushing again. Stan jolts back into position, back on catching duty.

The tension in the room is unbearable, and Stan barely blinks as, slowly, one of the baby’s shoulders begins to emerge, fitting through its exit much easier than the head did. Ford groans again, deeper now, shifting as if he could somehow make more room for himself inside of the tub. His body quakes with effort as he pushes against the second shoulder–

All at once, the shoulders slip free, and with it, the rest of the baby follows in a surreal, slippery rush, sliding straight into Stan’s hands with a gush of fluid that splashes on his pants, but he barely registers it. It’s heavier than he expected, but he manages, miraculously, to keep it from hitting the floor. He’s got it.

He carefully turns its little body around so it’s upright and cradles it in his arms like it’s the most fragile thing in the world– he’s pretty sure it is. For a second, it just lies there, unmoving in his hands, and time stops, the silence crushing.

No– he thinks, no, no, don’t you dare–

Then, a gasp– a little gurgling cry, followed by a much louder scream that bounces off the walls, far too loud for something so small.

Stan lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in the form of a stunned, relieved laugh.

“Holy shit,” Stan says, cracking into a grin, “Holy shit, you did it!” 

He looks up, and Ford’s trying to turn, face twisted with effort, clearly too wrecked to sit up properly. Stan fumbles the baby into the towel and holds her against his chest, her tiny fists flailing and smacking weakly against his chest, making his heart lurches in the weirdest way. Still holding the baby, he reaches over and helps roll Ford onto his side, then up, just enough to let him collapse, boneless and trembling, into a seated position in the bottom of the tub. His eyes are glassy, exhausted.

Stan crouches in front of him and peels the towel back just enough to check.

“It’s, uh–” his voice catches, “Girl.” Another laugh bursts out of him. “It’s a girl. You’ve got a Luna.”

Ford stares at him, dazed– then down at the baby. Then back up. “Luna?” he croaks.

Stan is smiling like an idiot. “You said it was Luna if it was a girl.”

Ford huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, might be the start of a sob. He shakily reaches out, and Stan leans forward to hand her over without making him do too much of the work. Ford adjusts the towel so her front is exposed and places her on his chest, her head flopping into the crook of his shoulder like she can’t hold it upright– and maybe she can’t, because that head is huge compared to her tiny little body. How the hell did Ford do that? Luna’s little fists twitch again, batting weakly at Ford’s chest just once before going still, as if trying to cling to him– and Ford, pale and drenched in sweat, holds her like she’s the first real thing he’s touched in weeks, his eyes wide and awed.

Stan sits as best as he can where he is, giving his surely bruised knees a rest as he fits himself between the faucet and the wall. He can’t stop looking at them, his brother and his niece– he has a niece now – pressed together, her body moving with the shaky rise and fall of his brother’s– her father’s chest.

Neither of them speak for a long time, just sitting there watching the little bundle coo as Ford runs his fingers gently down her spine. Stan’s brain is still trying to reboot, stuck in that frazzled, buzzing post-adrenaline fog where nothing feels quite real. His pants are wet and his body aches– but Ford is holding his baby and she’s breathing.

Stan jolts. “The cord,” he remembers, digging into his jacket’s pocket and pulling one of the binder clips out. 

Ford holds up a hand. “Don’t– don’t cut it yet,” he says quickly. He winces. “Wait for it to, ah, turn white.”

Stan froze, clip halfway open. “Oh. Okay.” He looks down at the cord winding over Ford’s stomach and leading into– well. A beat passes before Stan realizes something and cocks an eyebrow at his brother. “You’re gonna let me cut it?”

Ford blinks at him. “I mean, if you don’t want to–”

“No, I want to!” Stan says quickly, almost too quickly. His own eyes widen a little, surprised by his own enthusiasm. “I just… wasn’t expecting you to let me.”

Ford scoffs. “You’ve earned it,” he mutters sarcastically, turning back to his daughter. Luna starts to squirm with a wet little whine, shifting like her movements have purpose. She lets out a little cry and Stan watches, confused for half a second. Ford blinks, then moves like something just clicked into place. “Oh,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, barely there. Without ceremony, he slides the strap of his bra down his shoulder. 

Stan hurriedly looks away– then laughs at himself for it. He just watched him push an entire baby out of his pussy. A boob is the least of his worries. When he looks back, Ford is smirking at him knowingly as he adjusts Luna on his still-large stomach– Stan never really thought about it before, where the bump goes once the baby is born, but apparently the answer is nowhere fast. Luna fumbles for a moment, swinging her fists like she’s ready to fight the world the second she figures out how her limbs work, then finds what she’s looking for and latches on with a determined little grunt. Ford exhales shakily, tension draining from his shoulders in visible waves– though the occasional wince breaks through. Luna's breathing slows as she nurses, her tiny body curled into Ford’s chest like she belongs there– because she does.

The bathroom is still cold, the air sharp against Stan’s skin as the stress-blush dies down, but there’s a warm, gooey feeling in his chest that seems to keep him from freezing. 

He realizes quite suddenly that Ford is almost entirely naked.

Without a word, Stan shrugs off his jacket– it’s dirty and a little damp with sweat in places, but it’s been keeping him warm through this, so it should be fine. Ford raises an eyebrow at him as he holds out the jacket, seeing if he’ll accept it, one corner of his mouth twitching like he’s considering a sarcastic remark– instead, he leans forward, allowing Stan to drape the jacket around his shoulders and behind his back, so he isn’t laying against sweaty porcelain any longer. 

Stan watches the two of them in silence for a while, letting the gravity of the whole situation settle over him. His brows furrow as he thinks about the logistics– the blizzard might still be raging outside, so there’s no way they’re getting to a hospital or calling an ambulance any time soon. Do they need to go to the hospital? How else does a baby get a birth certificate? Can you just take them into the DMV or mayor’s office and say “look, they’re real, give me the papers”? What happens if a baby never gets a birth certificate– do they legally not exist?

He’s broken out of his pondering (and a short-lived scheme idea) by a yawn from Ford. Ford’s eyes are fluttering ever so slightly, and his head tips back against the fluff of Stan’s jacket, chin wobbling from fatigue.

Stan clears his throat gently, careful not to startle Ford or ruin the moment. “Hey,” he says softly, capturing Ford’s attention, “let’s get out of here, yeah? You should really get some rest–” He starts to rise, preparing to help lift them both out– but Ford jerks upright with sudden alarm.

“ No! ” Ford snaps, like reflex, making Stan flinch away from him. “I can’t,” he says, chest heaving, like one word took all the wind out of him.

Stan blinks. “What– what’s wrong?”

Ford doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls Luna tighter, trying to pull her impossibly closer despite her tiny, confused grunt and the way she squirms in protest. “I can’t. I can’t, he’ll–” A violent shudder rolls through Ford’s body. Eyes wide and staring past Stan like he’s not even there, he whimpers, “He’ll take her. If– if I sleep, he’ll take her.”

Stan’s blood goes cold. His mind fires off in all directions at once, but it all comes back to the same question– “Who?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even, but his brain’s already sprinting ahead of him. He’s been afraid of people before, for very good reason, and he can’t imagine his brother in any of those scenarios. He asks again, more forcefully this time, “Who?” 

In lieu of response, Ford squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head violently, like he’s trying to rid himself of a horrible mental image. “No, no–” Through grit teeth, “He’s waiting, I know he’s waiting–”

“ Who is waiting?” Stan demands. His heart races as he thinks back to before, when Ford was crying because he asked who the other father was– what the hell did that bastard do to his brother? What did he say ? What could he have possibly done to strike such fear in Ford?

Ford's face twists, still drawn tight, but the fear in his eyes slowly morphs into something like confusion.

“S-something's wrong,” Ford stammers, color draining from his face. Somehow, those simple words make Stan more scared than the previous– they’re not panicked, they’re certain .

“Talk to me,” he says quickly, eyes scanning Ford’s face. 

Ford doesn’t seem to hear him at first, his breathing sharpening again. “I’m– this isn’t right,” Ford mutters to himself, “I’m– I’m still having contractions–”

Stan frowns. “I thought those stop?”

Ford shakes his head, “N-No, I have to– to deliver the placenta, but–” he swallows, cutting himself off with a tight breath, like he did before when the contractions started. “This isn’t right,” he says with rising panic, “It’s– too strong.”

Stan glances down instinctively, like he might be able to see the problem if he looks hard enough. He doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s already down on his knees again, instinct kicking in like jumper cables to the brain. His hands work without permission– wiping his fingers hastily on the towel, pushing Ford’s legs apart for a clearer look. Ford lets it happen, and that’s confirmation enough that something is very wrong.

“Okay, let me just–” Stan mutters, mostly to himself, as he reaches between Ford’s legs again, pressing inward the way he did before, his fingers searching and quickly finding–

Hair. More hair.

“Oh god,” he breathes, then, louder, “Oh god, you're kidding me.” His voice cracks around the words, half-laugh, half-panic, fully unprepared for the realization crashing down on him like an anvil.

He looks up at Ford, who’s panting again, mouth slack, eyes wide with something between horror and disbelief– he seems to know without Stan even saying it.

“No…” Ford says, though it’s more of a plea than a statement. 

Stan doesn’t answer. He wipes his hand on the towel again, more out of instinct than any actual need for use, and gapes at his brother.

“Twins,” he says simply.

“No,” Ford says again, more forcefully now, his face contorting in horror as he continues, “No. No, no, no. ” 

His arms curl tighter around Luna, who squeaks out a high, confused wail, the sound slicing straight through the already fractured calm. Ford softens instantly, whispering breathless apologies, rocking her against his chest with jerky, frantic motions.

“This can’t be happening,” he whines as his hips start to rock just like they did before, like muscle memory taking over. “This can’t be happening.”

“Don’t panic, just–” Stan looks around wildly, because that’s apparently all he’s good for– looking around like he’s going to spot the manual for this situation just conveniently sitting on the bathroom counter. His hand darts out, grabs another towel from the stack like it might help somehow.  He mutters, “Okay. Okay. Twins. Makes sense. Runs in the family.”

Ford whips his head up and glares. “That’s not –” His sentence collapses mid-word as he doubles over, leaning over himself as best he can with his stomach in the way, a new contraction hitting him like a freight train. Luna lets out another wail as she’s accidentally squished against his chest.

Stan jolts forward. “Stop, stop–” Ford loosens his grip on her, but it takes visible effort. “Give her here,” Stan decides for him– Ford clearly doesn’t want to let go, but after a moment of heavy breathing and looking at her angry little face, he relents and lets Stan pry her from his arms. He sets the towel between them and nestles Luna against his own chest, one arm wrapped securely around her small, wriggling frame.

Ford leans back, panting, looking dazed and betrayed by his own anatomy.

Stan sighs, almost laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. “Alright. Round two.” His voice is shaky, in no way comforting, “Let’s do this.”

Ford groans, low, guttural, and broken, his spine arching as the contraction wrings his body like a soaked rag. His hands seem to remember their place on the rim of the tub, white-knuckling it as his stomach tightens, clenches. Stan adjusts Luna in his arm and takes another look to see the head of the second baby already pushing through. It seems to be coming much faster than Luna did– he thinks that’s normal, but he only really has his own birth story to go off of, and he lazed around for fifteen minutes before coming out.

The baby’s head, no bigger but definitely no smaller than Luna’s, pushes farther, emerging without any fanfare, the flesh around it stretching again, far too fast this time. Stan flinches as Ford cries out, a sharp, horrible sound of agony that bounces off the porcelain walls– Luna cries back, and it would be so adorable if they weren’t piercing his eardrums.

“Almost there,” Stan says softly, kneeling in close, hands trembling as he eases one hand under the towel. “Just breathe, Six. In and out.”

“ You breathe,” Ford snaps, face twisted with pain.

Stan would laugh if it weren’t for the second baby’s head popping out almost immediately after– one quick, slippery motion, making him lunge forward to stabilize it.

“Moses, it’s a slippery one–” Stan cuts himself off before he can say anything else to make the baby sound like a damn fish. The glare Ford throws his way tells him he’d appreciate it as well. He looks back down at the baby– it has less hair than its sister, but the same fierce, scrunched up expression. He hopes their spitfire now isn’t an indication of their future personalities, because he doesn’t think Ford could handle that– he certainly couldn’t.

There’s no time to think– with a grunt, Ford bears down again, and this baby doesn’t make him work for it. Its shoulders slip out in one smooth motion, followed by the rest of the body sliding free. Stan nearly fumbles the catch from how fast it happens, arms jolting as the weight hits them. He swears under his breath as he rights the baby, this one taking no time to let them know it's alive and screaming right into his face, somehow louder than Luna.

Stan laughs out loud, sudden and breathless. “Holy shit, there you are!” He peers down at the tiny wriggling thing and laughs again. “Another girl!”

Ford collapses back against the tub wall, shaking and wide-eyed, tears leaking silently down his face. Stan carefully wraps the newborn and leans over, gently pressing the little one into Ford’s arms– he also squeezes her sister in awkwardly beside her. Ford trembles with shock and exhaustion, cradling both his daughters like the world just tilted on its axis.

Stan stays close, breathing a little easier now but still wired. He watches Ford carefully, noticing how fragile and worn he looks as his body slowly relaxes and the tremor in his hands subsides as he holds both babies against his chest. The room feels impossibly small, heavy with the weight of what just happened– and what’s still to come.

“You did it. You really did it,” Stan finally says, voice softer now. 

Ford barely nods, his eyes locked onto the squirming newborns cradled carefully in his arms, as if sheer will could keep them safe. They’re so small, almost impossibly so, especially considering the agony they just put him through– when he looks at them, his expression softens in a way that should be impossible for the same reason.

Ford swallows. “The, um. The placenta will come soon.” His brows furrow, exhaustion tugging at his features. “Or placentas. I don’t know.”

Stan blinks, caught off guard. “You don't?”

“It, uh, depends. On a couple of things.” He shrugs as best he can, voice thick with fatigue and frustration. “I'm too tired to explain.”

Stan nods– fair enough. “Well, when it happens, you let me know, alright?”

Ford nods again, eyes flickering with a mix of relief and lingering dread, as if watching them coo at him and clench their fists is the only tether keeping him grounded in this surreal moment– it probably is. 

Stan lets the silence stretch for a beat before asking, “You got another name?”

“Uhm.” Ford hesitates, tilting his head to rub his neck on his shoulder awkwardly. “No. I, uh, only expected one.”

Stan chuckles dryly, shaking his head. “When we plan, God laughs, huh?”’

Ford offers him– or rather, the girls, still refusing to lift his head– a small, tired smile. A moment passes before he speaks again.

“...Solè.”

“Yeah?”

Ford nodded, eyes tracing the delicate curve of the second baby’s cheek. “Sol like the sun.” He carefully raises the arm holding Luna, as if introducing two halves of something greater. “To go with the moon in Luna.”

“Cute,” Stan says, the corners of his mouth twitching into a genuine smile. Then, teasingly, “Is it a real name?”

“Probably.” Ford shrugs, inadvertently jostling both of the babies, who shake their fists at him in tune with each other like little drummers. “I'll look into it later.”

“Well,” Stan shoves his hands into his pockets, accidentally scraping himself on the binder clips he forgot were in there– thank god for instinct, or they would’ve been down a clip for the cords, huh? “At least they actually have different names, right?”

Ford doesn’t respond. Stan raises an eyebrow, worried he’s said something wrong, until he notices– with an unreadable expression, Ford is staring down at their hands.

Luna has six fingers on her left hand, and Solè has six on her right.