He should have called the cops, sweet baby Moses in a basket, he should've called the cops because now he's got some crazy raving lunatic trying to do God knows what with his car and he could be armed and oh god he never prepared for something like this to happen -
Ford takes a half-step back, moving his hands out in front of him like he's trying to placate a wild animal - which he may as well be. That sure feels like what he's doing, dealing with this maniac.
"H-hold on, hold on." He begins, and damn if his voice doesn't waver a little in the middle. "Don't - let's not do anything crazy, okay?"
He can already feel regret welling up inside him as he takes a step forward, then another, each slow and cautious, like he's walking on eggshells. Or active landmines, more like. Four steps is all he manages before he stops dead in his tracks - not because he loses his nerve, but because something about the way the figure looks in the faint glow from the car's dome light stops him cold.
He blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust, for the image he's seeing to reconfigure itself into what it really is. Because what he's seeing now, it has to be a trick of the light, or his brain filling in the blanks in his vision by making up what he can't see. Yeah, it has to be that. It has to be. This is all just some great big fucked up coincidence, is all.
Ford tells himself that, tells it to himself over and over inside his head like maybe if he does it enough he'll believe it, and that gnawing feeling of dread rising up in his throat that tastes an awful lot like bile will go away. Preferably before the sick, queasy feeling in his stomach comes to a head and he empties it all over the crudely paved parking lot.
He stands there, stares unblinking at the shadowed figure raving like a madman, and feels the color drain from his face as his mouth moves of its own accord and asks a question he already knows the answer to.
"--W-wait. Stanley? Are you--my God, Lee, is that you?"
Don't be sorry for the run on be sorry for BREAKING MY HEART
Ford takes a half-step back, moving his hands out in front of him like he's trying to placate a wild animal - which he may as well be. That sure feels like what he's doing, dealing with this maniac.
"H-hold on, hold on." He begins, and damn if his voice doesn't waver a little in the middle. "Don't - let's not do anything crazy, okay?"
He can already feel regret welling up inside him as he takes a step forward, then another, each slow and cautious, like he's walking on eggshells. Or active landmines, more like. Four steps is all he manages before he stops dead in his tracks - not because he loses his nerve, but because something about the way the figure looks in the faint glow from the car's dome light stops him cold.
He blinks, waiting for his eyes to adjust, for the image he's seeing to reconfigure itself into what it really is. Because what he's seeing now, it has to be a trick of the light, or his brain filling in the blanks in his vision by making up what he can't see. Yeah, it has to be that. It has to be. This is all just some great big fucked up coincidence, is all.
Ford tells himself that, tells it to himself over and over inside his head like maybe if he does it enough he'll believe it, and that gnawing feeling of dread rising up in his throat that tastes an awful lot like bile will go away. Preferably before the sick, queasy feeling in his stomach comes to a head and he empties it all over the crudely paved parking lot.
He stands there, stares unblinking at the shadowed figure raving like a madman, and feels the color drain from his face as his mouth moves of its own accord and asks a question he already knows the answer to.
"--W-wait. Stanley? Are you--my God, Lee, is that you?"