Chapter Text
Stanley Pines leans forward against the cold, wet metal rail of the Stan o’ War II, peering with narrowed eyes into the surrounding mist. It’s incredibly foggy, so much so that all he can make out is the water directly in front and around the bow. The gray waves lap against the hull in a lazy fashion, and it’s chill and damp.
Stan pulls his coat tighter around his body and shivers. He’d rather be below deck on an evening like this, but given the circumstances he’d probably be too anxious to actually do so. Being inside right now is too much like being buried alive with his hands tied behind his back—something he, sadly, more or less knows something about. Letting the boat sail blind is fraying his nerves as is, he doesn’t need the added mental weight of not being in control to make matters worse. At least this way he can serve as another pair of eyes. It isn’t much, but it’s a false reassurance he’s willing to believe.
Small chunks of ice emerge from the mist and into view. They make soft thunks as they bump against the bow, and Stan eyes them warily. He might not have graduated high school, but even he knows about the Titanic. He saw the movie, in all its tragic ending glory. Which is enough to understand that ice and boats don’t mix.
Stan grunts in displeasure, then turns his head slightly to call over his shoulder; all without his eyes leaving the waters below. “Any luck?”
Ford is in the wheelhouse, leaning over his instruments, arms braced against the panels and brows lowered in a frown as he tries to wrangle his tech back under control. The Stan o’ War II is unique in that it has been completely refitted with both Ford and McGucket’s array of original inventions, from navigation and tracking to devices for weather, recording, documenting, and communication—all wrapped up in one big mess of technical lingo Stan can’t even hope to understand. He doesn’t mind, though. If it did it’s job, that was all that mattered.
Only it isn’t doing its job. Because no matter how many geniuses you get together to whip up something groundbreaking, Murphy’s Law is bound to throw a wrench in the works eventually. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. It’s a phrase Stan feels they’re beginning to live by. The navigation system had been off point for a few days without them noticing, and now they were way off course, coasting who-knows-where with a busted GPS.
Ford is soaked through with damp mist and rain—even in the wheelhouse he isn’t safe, seeing as they’d removed all the glass in the windows some time ago. When you battled sea monsters on a daily basis, having anything on deck that could easily shatter was just asking for trouble. But it comes with a downside, and Ford looks miserable as he squints through his wet, gray bangs that hang limp and dripping in front of his eyes. He continues to struggle with the faulty equipment, his fingers slipping and faltering over the metal pieces, stiff from the cold and making his task infinitely more difficult.
“Not yet,” Ford calls back. “Just keep a lookout, Stanley. Let me know if you see anything.” He dives back into his gadgets, fiddling with metal, and wiring, and coils; fully immersed in his mission.
Stan growls and holds up a hand to shield his eyes, as though that will help him pierce the heavy fog. “It’s not a matter of seeing anything, it’s a matter of seeing nothing at all.” Louder, he calls back, “Shouldn’t we cast anchor? Keep us grounded so we don’t accidentally run in to something?”
There’s the harsh clang of metal on metal and Ford hisses out a soft yelp of pain and an alien curse. Stan jumps, turning around fully to make sure his brother is okay, but Ford’s already moved on from the copper paneling he apparently just dropped on his finger.
“Gah…Ngh. We can’t. We’re in too deep here, the anchor would be useless.”
Deep down, Stan knows his brother is right. According to their old school maps and charts, they’re probably a good two-hundred miles south of the lower tip of Iceland—leagues away from where they’d wanted to be. Still, they need to be vigilant. Just because some musty old map says there isn’t any land nearby doesn’t mean there isn’t something out there you can run into. Like the tip of some massive underwater volcano, a pod of whales, or a kraken out looking for a midnight snack. So the water might be too deep to use the anchor, but they are far from being able to simply relax and enjoy the ride.
The misting rain is starting to turn to sleet as it gets darker, closer to full nightfall. It’s coating the deck and rails—and even their clothes and hair—in a thin sheet of ice, making everything terribly slippery and the cold all the more bitter. Stan tightens his grip on the railing and strains his eyesight to see through the darkening haze. He should have grabbed his gloves, his fingers twitching numbly against the slick, metal bar.
He sighs. To think, he and Ford should have been below deck by now, safe inside and warm for the night, sipping hot cocoa while chatting with the kids on Ford’s laptop. It was something they tried to do regularly, typically once a week, often on a Friday after the twins got home from school. That way they could talk far into the night without worrying about classes the next day. It was a chance to swap stories and keep each pair up to speed on what they were all up to, Stan and Ford on their anomalous excursions, and Dipper and Mabel in their day to day adventures. Fridays were a cherished part of their routine, something they all looked forward to. The kids video called like clockwork, seven o’clock, right on the dot, every Friday evening, and the older Pines were always there to answer.
Until tonight.
A fuse had blown somewhere aboard, all electricity on the boat going out in one dramatic pop. Or, at least, that had been what Ford thought was the cause, but it wasn’t. And it seemed the longer they spent racing around looking for the true issue, the more things they found that weren’t working, and the more guesses as to what was wrong Ford came up with and tried to fix. Which, in turn, made it more and more obvious that they had no idea what they were doing, and that navigation had been screwed the last few days on top of everything else. They were likely miles and miles from shore, and probably even greater a distance from anywhere that would have the supplies they would need for repairs.
So, for the moment, all they can really do is hope that Ford can fiddle around with things until something clicks into place and restores full power, preferably before something worse can happen. In the meantime, the trawler drifts, at mercy to the waves and the surrounding fog and darkness.
Dipper and Mabel are probably worried, having called by now and not received an answer.
Stan grips the railing harder, momentarily caught up in how thin ice cracks and slips from his fingers. They fall to the deck, where they shatter with a soft, fairy-like tinkle. He and Ford will have to go in soon, regardless of success. Stan’s had frostbite before, and it isn’t an experience he’s eager to revisit. It’s an old memory, one he hasn’t thought of in a long, long time. His memory can still be a bit spotty, and was, especially immediately after Weirdmageddon—which, honestly, wasn’t surprising. You don’t just get your mind wiped and not expect it to have a few unsavory complications. Still, it’s an annoyance that Stan finds burdensome, while also finding it fascinating—it’s like continually rediscovering himself.
Huh. He rather likes that. Continually rediscovering himsel—
A shift of shadow through the mist snaps Stan back to attention, a thrill of fear ramming up his spine as he realizes he’d let his mind wander. But, by then, it’s already too late. Like a waking nightmare, something dark rears out of the fog in front of them, so suddenly that it takes Stan a full blink to realize it’s truly there and not just a figment of his imagination.
Stan only has a moment to drag in a sharp gasp and shout out a desperate, choked, “Ford!”
His brother’s head snaps up in alarm, just before the Stan o’ War II comes to a crashing halt. Stan’s pretty sure he hears the splintering of wood and the rusty grind of metal on rock, but it’s a fleeting observation. The force is enough to send Ford sprawling right out the wheelhouse window and down onto the deck head first, sliding on the thin sheen of frost and ice like a penguin. He only goes so far, though, as the sleeve of his coat gets snagged on a sharp piece of metal siding. He swings back and slams into the side of the wheelhouse with a gasp, his coat ripped and spilling downy fluff all over the place. It pulls Ford up short with a painful jolt, but, other than a little dazed, he seems unharmed.
Stan is not so lucky.
With the violent lurch of the boat Stanley is sent forward, gut slamming hard against the rail with enough force to sock the wind out of him before he’s tumbling over the side. He has a split second to think just how bad that is before he’s plunging down into freezing cold water. It’s an instant shock to his system, like a million icy pin needles piercing into every inch of his skin. His weight carries him down a bit, and he’s vaguely reminded of how his gym teacher had taught him to swim by throwing him in the deep end. What air he has left in his bruising chest is lost in a yelp that comes out in bubbles. It’s stupid, and he should know better, but nothing really makes sense at the moment, the world upended in a sea of confusion and panic.
Stan’s back slams against something rigid, and a burning sensation rips down his leg. He stills for a moment underwater, stunned and dazed and in roaring pain that almost darkens his vision completely. He’s not really sure which way is up and which way is down, but he doesn’t pass out through shear force of will. He blinks, salt water burning his eyes, but the darkness to his left talks of deep, fathomless depths so he starts clawing his way toward the lighter gray to his right—or upwards really. It’s a frightening few seconds that drags on for what feels like forever, and for a moment he thinks he won’t make it to the surface before his lungs burst, but then he breaks free with a gasp, coughing on water he’d managed to swallow or inhale in his frantic efforts.
He’s right next to the hull of their boat, the chipped paint and familiar curve an instant comfort. Stan latches on the best he can, hands scrabbling shakily against the metal and wood for purchase. He shakes the water and hair from his eyes, treading water to the best of his ability, but it’s hard because he’s half sure his throbbing leg is either broken or shorn right off. He can barely use it at all and that hinders him. That and he’s breathing way too hard, very fast and very deep, and all Stan can do is hold on out of fear of slipping back down below the waves. He’s not sure he could control himself enough to not inhale more water with every gasping breath.
Stan glances frantically, shivering, over his shoulder to take in the damage to their vessel—their home. Even through the fog he can see it, see the way the Stan o’ War II is listing against a huge outcrop of rough, black stone. It almost looks volcanic in nature, all rounded edges like it had once been a bubbling mass of magma, and now it stood there solid and menacing. From this angle, Stan can’t make out the damage to the trawler’s bow, but he can just picture the large, gaping hole that ramming something that nasty would cause.
But, in all honesty, that’s not the greatest of Stan’s worries at the moment. He’s hyperventilating, and that makes no sense. Something in his brain is spiraling in a slow panic, but it’s dulled and lazy, like he can’t think straight. He knows it has something to do with the water, and the fact that it’s unbearably cold and he’s in it. But that’s about it. The rest of his thoughts swim around in his head, ice cubes swirled in a drinking glass.
“Stanley!”
A cry of his name breaks the eerie silence around him, and Stan blinks, frowning. He knows that voice.
“Stanley, where are you?!”
Oh.
Right.
That’s Ford calling.
He should probably call back.
It’s difficult. Stan’s chest and throat feel painfully tight, air rushing in and out of his lungs in shuddery bursts that are quickly leaving him dizzy and tired. But he manages, reaffirming his precarious grip against the boat’s side.
“H-h-here!” Stan’s voice crackles and breaks like he’s an awkward teen all over again.
There’s an uncomfortable silence wherein all Stan hears is the now pouring sleet on the surface of the ocean around him and the forlorn groans of the Stan o’ War II’s hull against the rocks. And then—blessedly—Ford appears over the railing above him, and Stan sags slightly in relief.
Ford’s eyes are wide and wild, hair wet and dripping into Stan’s eyes as his twin leans out over the space between the rails, six fingers reaching for Stanley’s five. Ford has a small cut on his forehead that’s oozing a thin trail of red down the bridge of his nose, but otherwise he seems fine. His coat sleeve is ripped, fluff spilling out in a little tuft that looks incredibly soft.
“Come on!” Ford barks, voice strained with worry and discomfort. “Reach!”
Stan doesn’t need to be told twice. He tries, putting everything he has into lifting one arm upward as far as he can physically manage. But the sides of the boat are higher where he is, on the right side but up near the front, making the stretch not impossible—but difficult. As Stan bobs back down into the freezing water right up to his neck, Ford adjusts his position, lowering himself until he’s lying flat on his stomach under the bottom rail and hanging his arms over the edge.
Stan only then realizes that his breaths have begun to even out, and his coordination is starting to get…weird. He huffs in frustration as his arms and legs start to feel weak and numb. He’s been in the water too long. What has it been? Eight minutes? Ten? The water’s too cold. He feels like it’s sucking all the warmth out of him, like it’s pressed right up against his organs and bleeding into him. And that’s bad, Stan thinks. He knows, deep down, that’s very bad.
“F-Ford-dd-d…”
“I’ve got you, Stanley,” Ford shoots right back, straining. “Try again. Please, try again on my mark, alright? Ready…”
Stan isn’t sure what his brother is waiting for, but he does as he’s told, waiting on the other’s signal, his teeth chattering slower and slower.
“Now, Stanley!”
And then Stan understands. With the next swell of the waves and with what remains of his quickly failing strength, he kicks out with his uninjured leg and braces himself against the hull, creating just enough force to leap out of the water as far as his waist. It’s just enough. Freezing cold fingers brush against twelve that feel almost hot in comparison. Ford has to lurch down to make up for Stan’s poor aim, being sure to grab for Stan’s wrist as a stronger hold. Stan grunts in pain as his weight is suddenly supported all in his shoulder, and, though Stan can’t see him, Ford releases an echoing noise of discomfort. For a moment there’s just their ragged breathing.
Stan grits his teeth. His body’s starting to slip out of his control, becoming more and more limp even as his mind screams for him to keep moving. His hazy thoughts are punctuated by what sounds like Ford murmuring soft encouragements, but his brain’s decided to stop translating and Stan doesn’t pick up on any of the words. He’s just too pained and drained to understand. He’s hanging uncomfortably against the side of the boat with his legs still knee deep in the frigid ocean. His arm feels like it’s going to rip out of the socket soon, if they don’t get going—
Then Ford is pulling, and that hurts so much worse, but it’s also better than dangling motionless. The tugging sends fire all through his spine, and it’s almost welcome after so much numbing cold. And, in what feels like a few sticky blinks of his heavy eyelids later, Stan finds himself on the deck of their precious vessel, lying on his back, limp and aching. Ford is leaning over him, brow furrowed and lips moving as he pats Stan down in worry, and Stan just sort of lets him. He doesn’t have the energy to do much more than lie there and breathe. Ford’s hand brushes against his leg and agony burns like an infection all along the limb—Stan can’t even flinch. But oh, he’s shivering again. That’s good. Somehow shivering is good…
Ford is murmuring again, more urgently this time, but Stan’s reached his limit. He can feel himself fading, suddenly so incredibly exhausted…
“Hey hey, wait! Stanley, stay awake—!”
Despite his pleas, Stan’s brown eyes flutter weakly shut, and Stanford just about loses his mind. His analytical brain takes all the factors stacked against them, reading in Stan all the symptoms he can see. All of which point to the fact that Stanley is well on his way to hypothermia.
Guilt roils in Ford’s soul, berating him for taking so long to realize that Stan had fallen overboard, that he should have gotten to him sooner. But there will be time for self loathing later. Right now Stan needs Ford to act.
The scientist latches on to the front of his brother’s coat and gives him a rough shake. It’s a bit harsh, maybe, but he can’t afford to be gentle. He moves one hand to slap Stan, gently but insistently, on the cheek, and after a moment his efforts are rewarded. Stan comes back to semi-consciousness with a soft, pained noise, and Ford doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry when Stan’s eyes flicker back open, dull and confused, to refocus on his worried face.
“That’s it, Stanley,” Ford praises quietly. “Just stay awake. I’ve got you, it’s alright. I just need you to stay awake. We’ve got to get you below deck and warmed up. Stay awake.”
Stan gives a hoarse grunt of acknowledgment, but Ford’s not fully certain Stan knows what he’s agreeing to. The scientist’s mind flicks through his extensive knowledge and experience regarding first aid, laying out the symptoms on a metaphorical table. Intense shivering; bluish tinged skin; confusion and trouble with coordination—Stan is exhibiting all of these.
They need to hurry.
“Alright, it’s alright. Let’s get inside.”
Ford tugs his brother against his chest, bringing Stan’s arm up over his shoulder with a flinch of his own. Stanley is covered in icy water, drenched and dripping, his hair and clothes already beginning to stiffen as they freeze in the cold air. As are Stan’s extremities it seems, to Ford’s immense concern, his bare fingers twitching stiffly against the scientist’s coat sleeve.
Mindful of the slippery ice on deck, Ford stands, forcing Stan up with him.
“Sh-Shi—” Stanley bites off a weak, hoarse swear, latching onto Ford with what little strength he has left.
“I’m sorry,” Ford murmurs in apology, but he doesn’t stop or pause. They can’t afford to. “We have to get inside, I’m sorry.”
Stanley isn’t much help in the process of making their way back to the wheel house, all weak kneed and wobbling sways, but that’s hardly his fault. He does try to hold up his weight to some degree, but his legs stubbornly refuse to cooperate, leaving Ford to try and navigate them across the dark and icy deck. The journey only becomes more difficult when they try to descend into the belly of the boat, stumbling shakily down the steep, wooden steps into the living space below. But finally, after a few heart-stopping staggers and near missteps, they reach the cramped space of their kitchenette.
It’s ill-lit, all power and electricity down with the rest of their tech, the room illuminated only by a few waterproof emergency lanterns. The pale light casts stark shadows around the interior, giving their usually welcoming home an overall eerie and surreal atmosphere. This is made all the more so with how the boat is listing, Ford finding the central deck uneven and inclined, though not so much that he can’t navigate it with his brother in tow.
Using one foot, Ford manages to slide some cushions off of the table booth benches, arranging them the best he can on the floor without the use of his hands. As soon as that’s accomplished he’s gently leading Stan into a sit, mindful of his brother’s injured leg. Stan is barely with him, his eyes lidded and unfocused. His shivering has become a bit more pronounced, but that’s good. It’s if he stops shivering that they’ll have to truly worry. Keeping a hand on Stan’s shoulder so he doesn’t fall over, Ford kneels in front of his twin, snapping his fingers in front of Stan’s face to gain his brother’s sluggish attention.
“Stanley?”
Stan groans, swaying where he sits. “Mmh…?”
“Stanley, we have to get you out of these wet clothes and see to your leg,” Ford says, worriedly trying to keep Stan’s listing gaze. “I’m sorry, I know you’re cold, but damp fabric won’t do you any good. It’ll only continue to sap your body heat.”
Stanley doesn’t respond beyond a few muddled blinks.
Ford winces, regretful, because he and Stan have an agreement. A silent sort of promise, never spoken but very much there all the same. It’s that, unless the need is absolutely dire, they’re always to give each other space in regard to privacy. They’ve both lived rough lives, and there are some things that one didn’t want his brother to see. Though, at this point, most of their life experiences and stories had been told. Still, Ford feels uncomfortable as he moves to divest Stan of his wet clothing, feeling oddly invasive.
Stan becomes more and more like a rag doll as Ford assists him, and by the time the older twin is finished and gotten Stan piled high with every spare blanket on board, he’s all but unconscious. Stan’s still shivering, skin a pale bluish white, but with just the slightest hint of color returning to his nose and cheeks. Stan’s eyes are thin, hazy slits that watch Ford distantly, all energy lost and lucidity quickly fading. But he’s warming now, free of anything wet or clinging and wrapped up snug by the little wood stove Ford’s managed to fire up.
That taken care of, Ford moves on to the next most pressing issue—Stan’s leg.
Stanford had left the limb peeking out from under the comforters, knowing he’d have to gain easy access. Despite his best efforts, he’s still managed to get blood on the blankets, drying smudges, tinging crimson to crusty brown. And there is a lot of blood. Ford hurries for some washcloths, a bucket of clean water they keep for emergencies, a bowl, and the first aid kit, before then swiftly kneeling back down to take proper stock of the injury.
It’s…not favorable. There’s a deep laceration in Stanley’s calf, the blood flow extensive, welling up in the wound and running down Stan’s heel in bright, red rivulets. The wound itself is jagged, raw and pink in the middle and white around the edges from the salty, freezing water. It was most likely caused by Stan hitting his leg on the ledge of the dark rocks they’d run aground on. And it most definitely needs stitches.
Ford reaches for the first aid kit with one hand, while his other takes a rag and attempts to staunch the flow of blood. Stan’s already lost a considerable amount, and while it’s not so serious a wound that Ford has to worry about his brother bleeding out too quickly, the scientist knows that blood loss could still be a factor if he doesn’t get the wound under control as soon as he can. The first aid kit, sadly, is not as fully stocked as it should be, and that is mostly due to the fact that they had been due for a stop in port to pick up new supplies a week ago. Their occupation came with some risks, and that meant that medical supplies never lasted particularly long. Ford’s gaze flits over the meager contents, shoulders slouching as he realizes he has very little to work with. Finding no thread or needle, he berates himself when he recalls Stanley asking to borrow some to use to stitch a tear in one of his Mabel sweaters. Heaven knew where the needle and thread was now.
Distressed and worried, Ford tosses the first aid box aside and focuses fully on getting the bleeding to stop. Stanley makes a soft sound of pained protest as Ford bears down as much as he dares on his brother’s leg, but besides a small twitch of his other limbs Stan doesn’t move. Other than his shivering, of course.
Red soaks through the fabric immediately, staining Ford’s fingers, warm and sickeningly vibrant. But with a bit of patience and persistent pressure, Ford finally gets the bleeding to stop. Or, at the very least, it is no longer seeping through the sixth towel he’s used. Carefully peeling the now matted material away from the wound, Ford takes another look, wincing in sympathy.
The cut is deep. Ford stares down at the mess of torn skin and muscle, trying to gauge the severity in the poor light of the lamps. The wound is swollen and bruised, and while it isn’t bleeding profusely, like before, it’s still leaking a sluggish discharge of watery pink. Ford bites his lip, wishing he could see better and hoping that his efforts will keep infection at bay.
“You’ve really done it to yourself this time, knucklehead,” Ford mumbles sadly.
He shakes his head and reaches for the bowl of fresh water he’d kept to the side. Taking a clean cloth, Ford dips it in the bowl and then proceeds to try and clean around the injury without causing it to bleed again. Thankfully, the injury having been acquired while in the water, there’s very little grime or dirt, just a bit of salt and sand which washes away easily enough. When that’s done, despite his care, the gash is bleeding again, just the smallest bit. It wells up from where it’s the rawest, filling in the cuts and tears like ink on crumpled paper. It could still really use stitches, but all Ford can really do right now is flush it out and bind it. Thankfully they’ve still got enough bandages.
Ford gets to work. It’s almost nostalgic, in a way, the familiar motions of wrapping an injured limb. After all, Ford’s had lots of experience with jury-rigging himself back together, in some pretty nasty conditions, too.
It takes a while, Ford wanting to be as thorough as he can. Even then, he can’t be sure how well he’s cleaned the wound, paranoia and worry a feral beast prowling on his consciousness. So far from civilization, with an injury this severe, it wouldn’t take much for things to go from bad to worse. And while Ford is fairly experienced in first aid, he’s a scientist not a doctor. The risks to Stan’s currently precarious health rest solely in Ford’s shaking hands.
Finally, Stan’s leg is fully bandaged. With that finally done, and Stan’s condition having seemed to stabilize as much as it can, Ford lowers the blankets to cover the limb and sits back on his heels. He takes a shaky breath, running red stained fingers through his wet and disheveled hair, surveying his questionable handiwork.
Stan, in all honesty, still looks dreadful, but at least he’s not shaking quite so hard and color has started to return to his face. He’s asleep, or unconscious, Ford’s not really sure which, but Stan seems to be breathing easier and with his leg tucked back under the covers he’s fully covered and on his way to being warm. The cabin of the Stan o’War II is a fair bit better heated than out on deck, but it’s hardly at a comfortable temperature. There’s a damp chill in the air, cold seeping in through the hull from the icy depths below. It reminds Ford quite quickly that he is also soaked to the skin and in need of dry, fresh clothes. He’s shivering too, the ice and sleet that had encrusted his hair and clothing having long since melted and dripped chillingly down his back. His hands are stained crimson, and with a twist of nausea he uses the remainder of their reserved sterilized water to scrub himself feverishly clean.
He takes his brother’s vitals, finding Stan’s pulse to be slow but steady, and his core temperature rising. Convinced Stan won’t go into hypothermic shock in his absence, Ford staggers off to their shared bunk room. He finds some dry clothes, not particularly caring of whose he grabs, and changes, motions quick so that he can rejoin his brother as soon as possible. That accomplished, he returns to the kitchenette and does his best to stoke the small stove into a hotter flame. It helps a little, but it’s still far from ideal.
Ford sits down heavily next to where Stan lies wrapped in blankets. Still worried, and hoping to speed along his twin’s recovery, he starts rubbing some warmth back into Stan’s arms and shoulders, a rather difficult task with all the blankets but it seems to do Stanley some good at least, the retired con-man resting a bit easier. Ford, himself, feels exhausted. The kind that usually means he hasn’t been sleeping well, and now stress on top of it is making him feel like death warmed over. He tries to ease the tension he’s feeling by addressing his brother, even though Stanley is nowhere near conscious enough to be truly listening.
“I should probably…go and check the boat over. We seem to have run aground on a rocky outcrop. Perhaps we’re closer to land than we realized…” He drags a shaky hand down his face. “We don’t seem to be taking in much water, which is good. We’re not sinking. She’s stuck tight, so as long as the tide isn’t enough to shift her…”
He trails off, lost in thought. It’s too foggy right now to see beyond the boat’s bow, and the weather is too dangerous for either of them to be out in without somewhere warmer to go afterwards. Sleep is already tugging at Ford’s consciousness, a stubborn haze trying to claim him. Reluctantly, Ford huddles down, slipping beneath the nearest blanket to give himself some warmth—and perhaps lend a bit of his own body heat to his brother.
“I…think we’ll just have to wait until morning. Wait and see what we’re dealing with.”
Stan, of course, doesn’t answer. Ford feels that kindling of guilt again. He holds Stan’s hand and continues to try and rub warmth into the pallid skin, head bowed.
Time passes, slow and sluggish. The Stan o’ War II, as Ford predicted, doesn’t sink any further, propped up and steadfast against the rocks that snagged them. There’s nothing more to do than to sit tight and ride out the storm until morning. All through the night there is the creaking of timber, metal, and the crackle of the little stove, as well as the hiss of sleet up on the deck.
Despite the pull of persistent exhaustion, Ford doesn’t sleep a wink.