Nothing Stan is saying - not one single bit of it - does anything to dry Ford's eyes or make his throat loosen up enough for him to actually get air in without having to swallow hard a few times first. There are things implied there, ugly things Ford doesn't want to think about but does anyway because how can he not. Stan's been - god, Ford doesn't even know where he's been, or who he's been dealing with, but he has plenty of guesses kicking around inside his head and none of them are pleasant. Not a single one. He used to think - before now, he used to think Stan had found his niche somewhere out there. He used to imagine he landed himself a solid job, something involving the sort of unskilled labor even a high-school drop out could manage, and that he was doing fine. He probably had a girlfriend, maybe a dog, and a flat that he hardly ever cleaned.
In his mind, Stan had found a way to make it on his own, like he said he would. He went out and proved he really didn't need him after all, and everything was fine.
He knows now that that was just wishful thinking, that the life he imagined for his brother and the reality he was actually enduring could not have been further apart. It makes him feel sick just thinking about it, thinking about how wrong he was, thinking about how this entire time his brother needed his help and he let him down.
He wasn't there for Stan when he needed him, but for what little it's worth, he can be there for him now. And if that means getting involved in - in whatever godawful mess that tore Stan up like this - then so be it. He never thought he'd literally have to take a bullet for his brother, but if that's what it comes down to, if that's the sort of trouble that's following in his brother's wake, then he'll deal with that when it comes.
For now, he has a job to do. It's a job he hasn't done in a long while, but it's one that comes as naturally to him as breathing. Wiping swiftly at his eyes, Ford sniffs, clears his throat, and gets his shit together because it's time for him to suck it up and be a big brother.
"Y-yeah, yeah, well, you'll like the part where we get you patched up even better." He tries to sound firm, but also lighthearted, but all he really succeeds in doing is sounding stuffed up and quavery.
"Come on, Stanley." He gives Stanley one final, hard squeeze before breaking away, his hands moving to his brother's shoulders so that he can more easily guide him into the passenger seat.
"We can keep talking once your inside the car, alright? We - we can talk about anything you want. You mentioned books, right? Tell me about those."
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Stan's been - god, Ford doesn't even know where he's been, or who he's been dealing with, but he has plenty of guesses kicking around inside his head and none of them are pleasant. Not a single one. He used to think - before now, he used to think Stan had found his niche somewhere out there. He used to imagine he landed himself a solid job, something involving the sort of unskilled labor even a high-school drop out could manage, and that he was doing fine. He probably had a girlfriend, maybe a dog, and a flat that he hardly ever cleaned.
In his mind, Stan had found a way to make it on his own, like he said he would. He went out and proved he really didn't need him after all, and everything was fine.
He knows now that that was just wishful thinking, that the life he imagined for his brother and the reality he was actually enduring could not have been further apart. It makes him feel sick just thinking about it, thinking about how wrong he was, thinking about how this entire time his brother needed his help and he let him down.
He wasn't there for Stan when he needed him, but for what little it's worth, he can be there for him now. And if that means getting involved in - in whatever godawful mess that tore Stan up like this - then so be it. He never thought he'd literally have to take a bullet for his brother, but if that's what it comes down to, if that's the sort of trouble that's following in his brother's wake, then he'll deal with that when it comes.
For now, he has a job to do. It's a job he hasn't done in a long while, but it's one that comes as naturally to him as breathing. Wiping swiftly at his eyes, Ford sniffs, clears his throat, and gets his shit together because it's time for him to suck it up and be a big brother.
"Y-yeah, yeah, well, you'll like the part where we get you patched up even better." He tries to sound firm, but also lighthearted, but all he really succeeds in doing is sounding stuffed up and quavery.
"Come on, Stanley." He gives Stanley one final, hard squeeze before breaking away, his hands moving to his brother's shoulders so that he can more easily guide him into the passenger seat.
"We can keep talking once your inside the car, alright? We - we can talk about anything you want. You mentioned books, right? Tell me about those."