Chapter Text
Ford wasn’t going to ignore Stan anymore—no, that phase was over. He made it clear he’d just be busy, focusing on his work, especially as he approached a critical point: defending his research to see if he could move forward with one of his… many… PhDs. Honestly, his lack of tact in situations like the one with Stanley was probably the reason he didn’t get the RA position when both he and Fiddleford had applied. Fiddleford had a knack for managing relationships, especially interpersonal ones, which Ford decidedly...
Did not.
He groaned inwardly, wanting to slap himself for not being able to provide even the briefest of explanations. He could’ve said he was avoidant because of academics—sure, Stan might’ve rolled his eyes, but at least it would’ve cleared the air. Then again, if he’d chalked it up to just that, the issue would have dragged on longer. Rubbing his neck absently, his mind drifted back over the last few days: the argument with Stanley, the revelation that they were both battling the same confusing feelings, the kiss, the way he’d tried to make it up to Stan in the library archives.
Though honestly, Stan deserved more than that. So much more.
"Communication is the key," Ford thought to himself, but inwardly acknowledged how hard it had been. Harder than any equation he’d ever solved, harder than understanding the complexities of quantum mechanics. His thoughts were pulled back to reality as a hand waved in front of his face.
His inner monologue was abruptly interrupted by Stan waving a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Stanford.”
Ford blinked, pulling himself out of his spiraling thoughts. “What?”
Stan stood before him, grinning, holding up something from behind his back. He whipped out a shark jaw—one of the many oddities Stan had picked from their library trip—and held it triumphantly.
“I was askin’ if I could hang this in the bathroom,” Stan said, his tone all innocence and feigned obliviousness.
Ford stared at him, deadpan. “Absolutely not.”
Stan’s face twisted into an exaggerated whine. “Why not?”
Ford flipped one of his study cards over, his mind automatically answering the question on it. Hans Bethe’s theories—child’s play. He grabbed the next one. “Because,” he said, not bothering to look up, “I already have to look at that seahorse you framed in there. The one with the googly eye you glued onto it.”
Stan laughed, a wide grin spreading across his face. “It’s funny, though. Admit it.”
Ford flipped the next card, feigning deep thought. “No.”
Stan, undeterred, sauntered over to the living room, holding the shark jawbone above the television. “Alright, what about here then? The living room could use some, uh, ambiance.”
Ford made the mistake of looking up. The sight of Stan, all bright-eyed and excited, holding up that ridiculous shark jaw with a smile that made him look almost boyish—it was endearing. The word "cute" echoed in Ford's mind, and that realization hit him like a freight train.
He was weak. He knew it. They hadn’t done much since their first kiss—talking, yes, lingering touches here and there, a brush of fingers, or a passing shoulder bump that lingered a bit too long. Nothing more. But right now, all Ford wanted to do was drag Stan back to the room and—
“You’re staring,” Stan interrupted, breaking Ford’s reverie with a smirk.
Ford quickly glanced back at his cards. "I... was thinking."
Stan gave a low chuckle, setting the shark's jaw on the coffee table. "I’m taking your silence as a yes, by the way. Glad someone appreciates my creative eye."
Ford sighed. "Sure."
Just then, the door to Fiddleford’s room opened, and their friend emerged with a suitcase in hand. Stan perked up immediately, smiling as he leaned back on the couch. “Heading out, Fidds?”
“Yup, got that robotics presentation. Gonna hit the road after. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
Stan grinned wider. “Just don’t bring back any creepy animatronics.”
Fiddleford laughed. "Wouldn’t dream of it."
Ford flipped another card. Equation of motion for Aμ, easy once again, where’s the challenge?
He couldn’t quite remember Fiddleford mentioning leaving today.
Stan seemed to read his thoughts, smirking. “He mentioned it a few days ago, remember? You were choking on pasta.”
Ford gave him a flat look but didn’t argue. Fiddleford approached, ruffling Ford’s hair. “Don’t overdo it, Ford. And, Stan, make sure he eats and sleeps.”
Stan gave a mock salute, and Fiddleford shot one last look at both of them, as if ensuring everything was in order. “And don’t forget to bring your shoes!”
As the door clicked shut behind Fiddleford, Stan turned to Ford with a raised brow. “He got you cowboy boots too, huh?”
Ford sighed, putting down his flashcards. “Sophomore year.”
Stan snorted, throwing himself onto the couch next to Ford, settling in far too comfortably. “Well, guess it’s just the two of us for the next few days.”
And that’s when it hit Ford: Fiddleford wasn’t going to be around. No buffer, no interruptions. It was just going to be him and Stan. And whatever might happen between them.
Ford wasn’t sure if the thought was exhilarating or terrifying.
“So,” Stan interrupted his internal spiral, “what do you want to eat? I’m thinkin’ I’ll whip up some brain fuel for ya.”
Ford thought for a moment, his mind still half-absorbed in physics formulas and the warmth radiating off Stan. “Do we still have salmon in the freezer?”
“Sure do,” Stan replied easily. “I’ll see what I can do with that.”
Ford nodded, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stan still staring at him with a small, almost tender smile on his lips. For a brief moment, Ford fumbled with the flashcards, his mind turning to mush as that same smile started twisting into something more wolfish.
“I’ll get started on that,” Stan said as he hopped off the couch.
Ford could only nod, flipping another flashcard, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. The next question might as well have been written in an alien language because his mind was far too distracted now.
Stan had been lazily flicking through channels, trying to find something to watch while his mind wandered, when he stumbled upon an old cooking show. The host, some guy named Paul Prudhomme, was enthusiastically talking about a recipe for blackened fish. Stan wasn't sure what it was about the way the man seasoned and cooked that salmon, but it had him practically drooling.
Before the show ended, Stan quickly grabbed the nearest sticky note from the wall and scribbled down what he could catch—"blackened fish," "paprika," "cayenne," "thyme"—the list was rushed, messy, and probably missing half the important steps, but he figured he'd wing it. He tucked the sticky note into his back pocket with a self-satisfied grin. Save that for later.
Well, later was now, he thought as he stood in front of the stove, salmon fillets thawed and ready to go. It wasn’t the exact recipe from the show, but he figured he could improvise. Stan carefully reached into the cabinet for the seasonings he’d bought earlier—paprika, thyme, cayenne pepper—dumping them into a bowl, trying to remember how the TV guy had done it. His mind drifted again as he measured out the spices, thinking about the past few days.
It had been three days since the kiss. Three days of what Stan could only describe as a strange, almost unsettling new “normal” between them. Ford had finally decided to stop playing the emotionally constipated robot, actually talking to him—talking, not grunting or dodging. He’d explained that he wasn’t going to ignore Stan or pretend nothing happened, but that he’d be busy for the next few days with exams and papers. Honestly, it was more than Stan had expected.
Stan sprinkled a little too much paprika into the mix, his hand pausing as he remembered Ford’s words. Not that he thought his brother was incapable of emotional honesty—Ford had always been complicated like that. But for once, he didn’t have to drag it out of him. Ford hadn’t put up a fight or acted like he was too busy solving the mysteries of the universe to deal with feelings. It had been... surprisingly pleasant.
He moved to grab the cayenne, but a small voice in the back of his mind started to nag at him. This won’t last long , it whispered. Ford’ll get tired of you, realize you’re too broken, and things will go back to the way they were. Maybe worse.
Stan stilled, his hand frozen over the bowl. Where the hell did that thought come from? He furrowed his brow, shaking it off. That wasn’t true… right? Ford had kissed him. They’d both felt it. And sure, things hadn’t gone beyond that, but a kiss like that meant something.
Right?
Lost in his thoughts, Stan didn’t even notice Ford until he felt a presence behind him, a warm breath near his shoulder.
“What’re you making?” Ford’s voice was curious, soft.
Stan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, and grinned. “Oh, uh, saw somethin’ on TV. Figured I’d try my hand at it.”
Ford chuckled lightly, glancing over Stan’s shoulder at the makeshift recipe in progress. “That can’t be good.”
Stan shot him a look and blew a raspberry right in Ford’s face, causing his brother to flinch back with a grin. “It’s gonna be great. I’m 97.5% sure it’ll be good. And 100% sure it’ll be edible. I’m putting my blood, sweat, tears, and other fluids into this.”
“That sounds delightful .” Ford asserted, nodding as he passed by to grab something from the fridge. His hand brushed casually against Stan’s lower back as he moved by—just a simple, fleeting touch, but it made Stan’s heart skip a beat.
Ford emerged with a Pitt Cola in hand, and without a word, he brought his study materials over to the dining table. Stan, busy rinsing the salmon fillets, called out after him with a teasing grin, “You just move to the table so you can watch me cook?”
Ford, not missing a beat, shot back, “Maybe. Can’t blame me for wanting to admire you.”
Stan nearly dropped the fillet he was holding, his brain short-circuiting. Is he…flirting ? It wasn’t that he didn’t know Ford could be sly when he wanted to, but this was different. And, hell, Stan wasn’t prepared for it.
He was snapped back to reality by Ford’s voice, calm but amused. “Stan, the water’s still running.”
“Shit!” Stan fumbled to turn off the faucet, the sound of Ford’s quiet laughter behind him not helping his sudden fluster.
He shook it off, focusing on seasoning the fish, rubbing the spice mixture into the fillets, and getting them ready for the pan. The whole thing took about twenty minutes—searing the salmon, preparing a quick side salad, and plating it all together with a squeeze of lemon for good measure. Stan wiped his hands on a dish towel and brought two plates over to the dining table, sliding one in front of Ford before sitting across from him.
Stan leaned back, watching Ford expectantly as he took his first bite. He tried to keep cool, but he couldn’t help holding his breath a little, waiting for Ford’s reaction.
Ford chewed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable for a moment before his eyes lit up. “100%,” he said, going in for another bite. “It’s good.”
Stan grinned, feeling a ridiculous amount of pride swelling in his chest. “Glad ya like it.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, Stan’s foot slowly nudging Ford’s under the table. He didn’t mean to be so obvious, but the contact felt... nice. Ford didn’t move his leg away, instead continuing to eat with that same intense focus he always had when he enjoyed something.
Stan smiled to himself as he chewed, thinking back to that nagging voice in his head earlier.
Maybe things were different now.
Ford had moved to clean up after their meal, despite Stan’s half-hearted protests that it wasn’t necessary. Stan had gotten used to being the one to handle things like dishes and cleaning up, but Ford, stubborn as ever, had waved him off and taken over the task anyway. Stan watched him from his spot at the table, smirking as Ford scrubbed the plates with an intensity that seemed more suited for a scientific experiment than simple kitchen duty.
Once the dishes were done, Ford dried his hands and grabbed one of his study sheets, scribbling something on it before stuffing it in a ziplock bag with a piece of tape over it. Stan shot him a puzzled look, eyebrows raised in question.
Ford glanced over, catching Stan’s expression. “I’m gonna shower and study—best of both worlds,” Ford explained with a ramble. “Some people get their best ideas in the shower, y’know. It’s all about how the brain works. I’ve been meaning to test the effects of focus in different environments, and considering you and Fidds keep mentioning I smell like I’ve been trapped in a lab for three days…”
Stan snorted, shaking his head. “That’s probably ‘cause you’ve been wearin’ the same shirt for three days straight. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”
Ford waved him off, heading toward the bathroom. “Washing clothes is a waste of time, I'm a busy guy.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Besides, I’m pretty sure the smell is more mental than physical.”
“Just save me some hot water,” Stan called after him.
Ford smiled faintly before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving Stan with a growing sense of warmth in his chest. It was small moments like this, the easy banter, that made Stan feel like things were almost normal. Or, at least, their version of normal.
With the kitchen now clean, Stan wandered over to their record player, flipping through their modest but growing collection of records. He snorted when his fingers landed on one of Fiddleford’s contributions—Frank Sinatra. Of course, Fidds had a soft spot for Ol’ Blue Eyes. Stan shrugged and plopped the record on the player, letting the smooth crooning of Sinatra fill the room as he wiped down the countertops and finished tidying up.
“And then I go and spoil it all by sayin’ something stupid like I…” Stan sang under his breath, swaying slightly as he wiped down the last of the counters.
He didn’t realize Ford had come out of the shower until he turned around, flushed from the warmth of the water, and caught Ford standing there, watching him with an amused expression. Stan’s face immediately flushed, heat crawling up his neck as he froze, mid-movement.
“Uh—how long you been standin’ there?” Stan stammered, feeling like he’d just been caught doing something embarrassing.
Ford’s lips quirked into a smile, his damp hair curling at the ends. “Long enough to see you butcher Sinatra,” he said, though his tone wasn’t critical. If anything, he sounded...fond.
Stan’s brain sputtered to a halt. A. Ford was a lot more fit than Stan had given him credit for, not nearly as bulky as Stan, but definitely toned in a way that was noticeable, especially with those stupid green shorts Ford insisted on wearing. B. Ford was wearing those green shorts again. His brain blanked for a second, lost in the sight before he snapped out of it.
The record player had stopped, and Stan quickly moved to turn it off, fumbling with the buttons. “I saved you some hot water if you wanna shower,” Ford offered, leaning casually against the counter.
Stan nodded, setting down the paper towel and spray he’d been holding. “Yeah, thanks.”
As Stan turned to head toward the bathroom, Ford’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Hey...will you come to bed with me after?”
Stan whipped his head around, eyes wide in surprise. Ford was looking at him expectantly, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Uh… yeah, sure,” Stan replied, the words leaving his mouth before he could really process them.
Ford blinked, as if he hadn’t expected that answer, but then he smiled, looking a little more relaxed. “Okay. I’ll be studying while you’re in the shower, then.”
Stan’s heart was beating a little faster than it should’ve been, but he played it cool, giving Ford a nod before disappearing into the bathroom.
The shower was quick, though Stan took a moment to let the hot water relax him, feeling the tension from the day melt away. When he was done, he changed into a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, his mind still lingering on Ford’s question. Come to bed with me—it wasn’t the first time they’d shared a bed, but its weight felt different now.
When Stan emerged from the bathroom, Ford’s door was open. Stan peeked in to see Ford sitting on the bed, his back against the wall, textbooks and flashcards scattered around him. Ford looked up when Stan entered, his face slightly flushed, though whether it was from the warmth of the shower or something else, Stan couldn’t be sure.
“I’ll probably be a while,” Ford said, gesturing to his study materials. “But I can dim the lamp if you want.”
Stan waved him off, grinning. “Nah, it’s fine.” He plopped down next to Ford, leaning slightly against his brother’s lap as Ford continued flipping through his flashcards. The warmth of Ford’s presence, combined with the soft rustling of paper, made Stan feel drowsy in no time.
He drifted off quickly, lulled by the comfort of being close to Ford. Just before sleep took him completely, he thought he heard Ford murmur something softly, something that sounded suspiciously like “Love you.”
Stan’s lips twitched into a sleepy smile as he sank deeper into the haze of sleep, feeling warm and secure in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Ford’s footsteps echoed as he walked back from campus, the last rays of sunbathing the road in warm, golden light. The final exam was over, and his oral defense was done. Yet his mind wasn’t settling like he thought it would. It was racing, filled with thoughts far removed from his research or academic goals. Instead, his mind circled back to Stan—constantly to Stan.
Ever since that first night when Fiddleford had left, they’d fallen into a strange, comfortable rhythm. Ford felt like he should knock on every piece of wood in sight, hoping not to shatter whatever it was they had going. It was domestic, Ford mused, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Certainly not with Stan, not since they were kids. It was bizarrely comforting.
Ford remembered that first night vividly. He hadn’t been sure what he was expecting. And judging by Stan’s reaction, neither had he. They had danced around each other, testing boundaries in a way that was cautious yet undeniably charged. Ford had decided to be bold. That’s what he kept telling himself. It felt like the right word, though, in hindsight, he wasn’t entirely sure. Asking Stan to sleep with him had felt risky—maybe too fast—but Ford had wanted to see if Stan would take the bait.
And to his surprise, he had.
Stan’s reaction had been genuine. The surprise in his eyes, the tentative agreement—Ford still remembered the way Stan had hesitated before slipping into bed that night. It was awkward at first, fumbling and unsure, but by now it had become routine. Almost every night, one of them asked to share a bed, as if they were both tiptoeing around something unspoken. Ford still held on with what Stan had teasingly dubbed a “koala grip.” For all of Stan’s complaints about it, he never once pushed Ford away.
Each night, whether they spent it in Ford’s room or lazily spread out on the living room couch, they coexisted in a way that felt effortless. Stan helped Ford study sometimes, sitting beside him and listening as Ford rambled on about complex theories and equations, talking through his notes. Even when Stan didn’t understand half of it, he still stayed, offering the occasional sarcastic remark or joke to keep the mood light. The company was all Ford needed.
But now, walking back to his car after his final exam, Ford realized that the semester was almost over. Soon, they would be heading to Fiddleford’s place in Tennessee, and as excited as Ford was for the trip, there was a growing knot of anxiety in his chest. What would happen after that? Would this strange, delicate thing between them continue? Or would it unravel?
He sighed, trying to push the thoughts away. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, not a time for overthinking. Ford decided to stop by town on the way home, figuring he could pick up something to mark the end of the semester. As he wandered through a liquor store, scanning the shelves, his mind drifted to Stan. He wasn’t sure what Stan liked to drink—hell, Ford wasn’t sure what he liked to drink, really—but the wine seemed like a safe bet. Classy enough, but not pretentious. Something that wouldn’t taste like punishment.
After picking a bottle that looked fancy enough, Ford stepped out of the store and caught sight of a toy shop across the street. Something in the window made him pause—a little something that brought a smile to his face. He chuckled to himself, tucking the idea away for later as he headed home.
By the time he opened the door to their apartment, the evening had fully set in. Stan was sprawled upside down on the couch, his feet kicked up over the armrest, and he was munching on a bag of toffee peanuts. Ford made a face.
“I thought they stopped making those.”
Stan grinned around a mouthful of peanuts. “They probably make ‘em just for me. I always manage to find a bag.”
Ford snorted, shaking his head as he moved toward the kitchen. “Or no one else buys them, so they’re always left on the shelf.”
Stan rolled his eyes, swinging his legs down to sit properly. “How was the exam?”
Ford shrugged, setting the wine bottle down on the counter. “Exams were fine. The committee still has to review my PhD research, so it’ll be a while before I hear back.”
Stan tilted his head, wiping his hands on a napkin. “I’m gonna pretend like I know what that means.”
Ford let out a short laugh, reaching for two glasses. “Well, to celebrate finishing the semester, I picked something up.” He held up the bottle with a small flourish. “Wine. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I figured this would be... fine.”
Stan gave the bottle a once-over, letting out a low whistle. “Can’t even pronounce that. Looks expensive.”
Ford waved him off, moving to open the bottle. “It’s just a little something to celebrate. Plus, it’ll go well with the leftover chicken. Unless you don't want...?”
Stan chuckled, leaning back on the couch. “I’m not gonna waste money. I’m stupid, not crazy.”
Ford shot him a pointed look, but he smiled as they settled onto the pull-out couch. Before long, they were both a few glasses in, leaning against each other as The Twilight Zone flickered on the TV. By their third glass, Ford was feeling pleasantly tipsy, his thoughts drifting lazily as Stan babbled on about the ocean’s midnight zone, throwing in random facts about Otis Barton and deep-sea exploration.
Ford nodded along, though he wasn’t really listening. Instead, his senses were hyper-focused—he could smell Stan’s scent, something warm and distinctly him: a mix of salty sea air, sun-warmed sand, and a hint of something that was just... New Jersey. It was comforting in a way that Ford couldn’t quite explain.
Then, something else hit him. A sharp scent cutting through the pleasant haze—tobacco.
Ford frowned, shifting slightly, which caused Stan’s head to slide into his lap. Stan glanced up, surprised, but kept talking, unbothered. Ford peered down at him, interrupting. “Were you smoking today?”
Stan immediately sat up, wiping his hands on his pants. “No,” he said, far too quickly.
Ford raised an eyebrow, leaning forward to poke Stan’s nose gently. It twitched under his finger. “You’re lying.”
Stan huffed, flopping back down on the couch and staring at the ceiling. “Though' today was supposed to be a good.”
Ford sighed, his hand resting on Stan’s chest as he lay beside him. “It is a good day. I’m not trying to ruin it. I just want to know why.”
Stan’s shoulders sagged, and he reached for his glass, downing the rest of the wine in one go. “I don’t know. Just felt… retrospective or somethin', I guess.”
Ford snorted. “That’s a big word for you.”
Stan rolled his eyes. “I know.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if searching for something. “I just… don’t know how long this lasts, y’know? Us bein’ good.”
Ford’s chest tightened at the vulnerability in Stan’s voice. His brother sounded almost… lost. Ford didn’t have an answer either. He didn’t know how long this could last, or what it even meant. But he knew one thing for sure—he didn’t want to lose it. Whatever this strange, confusing thing between them was, it felt like the first real connection they’d had in years, maybe even since they were kids.
Ford hesitated for a moment, then rested his head on Stan’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it too,” he admitted quietly, his words slurring a little from the wine. “It’s not… exactly normal. We can’t just pretend it’s okay.”
Stan let out a bitter laugh, his hand coming up to rest on Ford’s shoulder. “Yeah. I know.”
Ford paused, listening to the quiet rhythm of Stan’s heartbeat. His mind was a mess, spinning with thoughts he couldn’t fully articulate. How were they supposed to move forward from here? What did this mean for them? But at the same time, this—them—felt more right than anything had in a long time.
“It’s one of the few things that feel right',” Ford mumbled, pressing closer. “As right as a sierpinski triangle looks.”
Stan snorted, looking down at him. “You lost me.”
Ford chuckled, unable to resist the pull between them anymore. He leaned in, closing the distance and kissing Stan softly. It wasn’t rushed; it wasn’t desperate. It was deliberate, and slowly, it deepened, as if everything in the world clicked into place when they were together like this.
Ford’s hands found their way into Stan’s hair, pulling him closer as the kiss became more heated, more urgent. Stan’s breath hitched, and before Ford knew it, they were pressed together, a tangle of limbs, the heat between them rising with each passing second. It was as if everything Ford had been holding back came pouring out all at once.
But Stan was the first to pull away, panting slightly, his forehead resting against Ford’s. “Are we… drunk?” he asked, his voice raspy.
Ford nodded, still catching his breath. “Definitely.”
They both spoke at the same time: “Bedroom?
They grinned at each other, tipsy and breathless, stumbling off the couch as they made their way down the hall, their hands never quite leaving each other.
The wine was forgotten.