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Stanley didn’t know much about anxiety. It's not that he hasn't experienced it, it's just that how he deals with it and how you deal with it are entirely different things.
And that’s ok, really, most of the time. He was always there with Stancakes on bad mornings and hugs on bad nights. He provided warmth whenever you needed it, even if he always mumbled something about not knowing what to do to see your smile again.
It was always enough.
So tonight, laying on Stan’s chest, your hands separated and held in both of his to stop you from peeling the skin around your nails as you worried and wondered, it was strange when you didn’t feel any better. You fought not to pull your hands from Stan’s grasp to pick at your fingers. You gnawed at your lip instead, the skin already raw, and Stan coughed a little.
“Ya ok, toots?”
You shook your head. Your thoughts were a whir in your brain. Worry seeped into every cell. It was stupid and illogical and you hated yours–
“Hey,” Stan said. You made slow, nervous eye contact with him and found only sweet concern and that fondness he always showed you thinking you couldn’t read it in his eyes. “You can uh…I mean. I know ya told me some stuff that helps. Distractions and order and stuff. I was thinkin’…you could count my chest hairs.”
The last part was mumbled gruffly and you almost didn’t catch it. Almost. But you did. And you burst into laughter, despite everything. It was short lived, born from surprise and such deep love for the man under you, but it was a laugh, and you could feel Stan’s chest puff up with pride.
“W-what?” You asked, partly just to hear him say it again.
“My chest hairs!” He said again, the corners of his mouth threatening to split his face into a smile. “Counting them might calm ya down.”
“Hm.” You rest your head on his shoulder again, your body half draped over his, and started running your hands through the rough hairs on his chest, close to his neck. You seperated them with the tips of your fingers, savoring the feel of his skin, this miraculous man that made you laugh when it was the last thing you wanted.
“I know I can’t take the worry away,” he said, softer, as you began to count.
One.
Two.
Three. Worry ebbing, like Stanley was the moon and sometimes he could banish the tide as he pleased.
Four.
Five.
“But me and my chest hairs,” he punctuated that with a little chuckle. “We’ll always be here for ya.”