Goodnight, Moon
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words: 2976
“Where…am I?” Ford’s breath caught in his throat. It was exactly as he had expected, then. Fiddleford had warned him that this might happen; temporary lapses in memory, an unfortunate long-term effect of the memory gun. “Don’t worry, Stanford,” he had said the last time they spoke. “He’s not alone. He’s got you ta’ help him remember.”
--
A still, calm ocean met the dark sky on the horizon, littered with stars that reflected in the water below. If Ford took off his glasses, it was easy to blur the line between the two completely, like perhaps they were sailing along a star-studded sky instead, with a mission to land on the moon itself.
Ford almost scoffed at his own thoughts as he stood on the deck of the Stan o’ War II, his elbows against the railing. This wasn’t a thought an accomplished man with twelve PhDs would have. It reminded him of storybooks he used to have as a young child, the storybooks Stan and his mother liked to listen to him read aloud every Friday night.
Then again, he thought, smiling a little to himself as he removed his glasses, watching the sprawling blue in front of him blur into one big mess, his PhDs weren’t really his focal point anymore. And, perhaps, it wasn’t so terrible to think like a child again. With Stan by his side, it was hard not to feel like they were still ten years old, declaring themselves the Kings of New Jersey and sailing along the water. The only difference now was that they were actually fighting real monsters, not the ones they made up in their heads.
Ford placed the glasses back on his nose, feeling a shiver run down his spine. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing here, but the late night chill was relentless. Despite the fact that he would have liked to stand out here and stargaze for hours, he released a small sigh and turned around, stepping quietly back into their cabin.
The door slid shut with a soft click behind him, and he glanced toward the small living area, a fond smile easing its way onto his lips. Stan was asleep, a mess of limbs too long to fit on that old couch, more or less covered by a small knit blanket, his snoring quiet and steady. He’d fallen asleep watching Cash Wheel, and Ford had made sure the blanket was at least over his torso and the TV had been turned off before stepping out for some fresh air.
A month after Weirdmaggedon, and it was still quite a relief to see his brother. Ford often found himself thinking things were too good to be true, that he didn’t deserve Stan’s loyalty after everything that had happened, that maybe one day he’d wake up and Stan would be gone.
He sighed softly, still smiling a little to himself. The thoughts were unfounded, as silly as the childish thoughts he had earlier. Stan wouldn’t leave, because that just wasn't who Stan was.