This isn't how Ford imagined he and Stan would meet again. In the hundreds of thousands of scenarios he had run through his mind, over and over during those long sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling or the wall, wondering where his brother was and how he was doing, wondering if maybe he was thinking about him too - in all that time, not once did Ford ever think things would turn out like this.
He's not sure if that speaks to his lack of creativity, or the mercy of his mind for not plaguing him with something so fucking awful. Because that's what this is, all of it, it's all one great big heaping shitshow of a situation and there's no right answer to how to handle it. This isn't like an equation, where all the numbers will add up the right way so long as you know the algorithm. There's no A, B, C or All Of The Above, there's no graphs or diagrams or anything that would give him an idea of how to proceed, how to respond to all of this, how to fix it.
All he has to fall back on is his deductive reasoning, which would probably be a lot more helpful if he could get his mind to stop screaming and firing off a hundred different thoughts all at once, each of them set to the tone of Jesus Fucking Christ.
"Stan." Fuck, fuck there's so much blood, it looks like someone took a grater to his skin, it looks like his mouth got in a fight with a blender and lost, God, what the hell, what the fuck-- "Stan we need to get you to a hospital."
He's shocked by how calm his voice sounds, surprised that the voice he hears is even coming out of him. He sure as hell doesn't feel calm - he feels like screaming, like running till his legs give out and just having a goddamn meltdown wherever he drops. He can't do that though, he can't do any of that because Stan needs him, he needs someone who has their shit together enough to help him, so that's what Ford's gonna be.
"Come on, come on get up." He moves forward, one arm slipping over Stan's shoulders while his free hand moves to press against his chest, because God help him he looks like he's gonna pitch forward and land on his face any second otherwise. "We've gotta go, Stan, we've gotta get you in the car."
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He's not sure if that speaks to his lack of creativity, or the mercy of his mind for not plaguing him with something so fucking awful. Because that's what this is, all of it, it's all one great big heaping shitshow of a situation and there's no right answer to how to handle it. This isn't like an equation, where all the numbers will add up the right way so long as you know the algorithm. There's no A, B, C or All Of The Above, there's no graphs or diagrams or anything that would give him an idea of how to proceed, how to respond to all of this, how to fix it.
All he has to fall back on is his deductive reasoning, which would probably be a lot more helpful if he could get his mind to stop screaming and firing off a hundred different thoughts all at once, each of them set to the tone of Jesus Fucking Christ.
"Stan." Fuck, fuck there's so much blood, it looks like someone took a grater to his skin, it looks like his mouth got in a fight with a blender and lost, God, what the hell, what the fuck-- "Stan we need to get you to a hospital."
He's shocked by how calm his voice sounds, surprised that the voice he hears is even coming out of him. He sure as hell doesn't feel calm - he feels like screaming, like running till his legs give out and just having a goddamn meltdown wherever he drops. He can't do that though, he can't do any of that because Stan needs him, he needs someone who has their shit together enough to help him, so that's what Ford's gonna be.
"Come on, come on get up." He moves forward, one arm slipping over Stan's shoulders while his free hand moves to press against his chest, because God help him he looks like he's gonna pitch forward and land on his face any second otherwise. "We've gotta go, Stan, we've gotta get you in the car."