The thing is, okay, the funny thing, is that Ford - you know, this vision that looks like Ford, whatever - he looks like he needs more help staying composed than Stan does. Nevermind all that, you know, crying and shit. He ain't freakin' out, anyway. He's zen. That's easy right now for some reason, maybe he's just tired. Or maybe he knows, some part of him knows, that once he wakes up too much some little switch in his brain will flip and this happy little vacation where he's got someone here to freak out for him will be over.
First, though, he frowns and tugs at the seatbelt and focuses on getting it off, getting it off and away and off of him, and then he throws it back out of his sight and then, he's okay, he's zen, Ford is tearing out of the parking lot like the devil's tickling his asshole and Stan is getting out, he is getting away, he is closer to being safe with every second ticking by.
"Yeah," he says, because it does, it does sound like a plan, his brother is the man and his brother's got a plan and you know, Stan wouldn't of cared if he'd just heard that plan was teachin' gorillas to do the moonwalk, it's okay, he'd of gone along with it. Because Stan is the man, too, Stan is the man who has got his priorities in order. "Yeah, that's fine. You might, uh, might wanna' slow down there though, Dirty Harry, the cops pull this thing over for speedin' and we're, I'm just as done as if it was Jorge's guys, you know?"
He settles against the window again, watches the road, taps at the dashboard, then swallows his blood down and spits out the thought he's just been chewing over.
"You can slow it down on the worry, too," he mutters, real quiet, watching the ground fly by outside and feeling all his scabs itch. "It's nice and all but, uh, kinda' killin' the whole suspension of disbelief thing a little."
"Do you remember," he goes on, because you just try to keep Stan from talkin', you just try, it don't matter that the words - especially the ones with a lot of s's - make his tongue start yelling at him, every second he fills up with words is safe, and this is one more thing he wants to say to his brother, one more in a sea of things, things that matter, things that never did, things that used to. "You remember when I fucked up that boxing match and ended up havin' my jaw wired shut? And there was that stupid liquid diet an' you, you uh, I had to get you to stop goin' on it with me 'cause you were losin' too much weight, startin' to look sick."
He bumps his forehead against the window. Not hard, not fast, just gentle, just a few thoughtful taps, feeling the raw skin there sting against the glass. He's smiling, thinking of it, his whole face all faint and fond and warm and then it drains off, leaving something determined behind it. "I'll get that back one day, you know. Be someone you can worry about. I'll make it right. I'll make it big. One day. One a' these days."
Stan rubs his hand across his face because he's tired, the kind of tired where you need to rub your eyes some even if you know it won't do any good, but then he makes a face and a kind of faint, grossed out noise, because he forgot about the whole scab thing and now the one on the back of that hand broke open and he probably got blood over around his eyes, or something. Not really the look he's going for.
"Clothes. I'll make it one day but first I gotta' get clothes. That way people won't call the cops on sight, you know? And then I'll drive for a while, I think, uh, a couple states should do it. Jorge won't go any farther out of his territory than that. Then maybe I can sleep off the rest of this fucking comedown- Shit, uh, how much gas does this thing got? No way I'm gonna' be able to take someone else's gas with my mouth this fucked, might have to swap cars." Stan frowns out at the road and, hey, don't start feeling left out or nothin', friendly hallucination, it's just...
Remind him you're here, friendly hallucination buddy. Because the real world, it ain't lookin' half so friendly right now.
i assumed a heacanon here that we talked about once so let me know if i should change that
First, though, he frowns and tugs at the seatbelt and focuses on getting it off, getting it off and away and off of him, and then he throws it back out of his sight and then, he's okay, he's zen, Ford is tearing out of the parking lot like the devil's tickling his asshole and Stan is getting out, he is getting away, he is closer to being safe with every second ticking by.
"Yeah," he says, because it does, it does sound like a plan, his brother is the man and his brother's got a plan and you know, Stan wouldn't of cared if he'd just heard that plan was teachin' gorillas to do the moonwalk, it's okay, he'd of gone along with it. Because Stan is the man, too, Stan is the man who has got his priorities in order. "Yeah, that's fine. You might, uh, might wanna' slow down there though, Dirty Harry, the cops pull this thing over for speedin' and we're, I'm just as done as if it was Jorge's guys, you know?"
He settles against the window again, watches the road, taps at the dashboard, then swallows his blood down and spits out the thought he's just been chewing over.
"You can slow it down on the worry, too," he mutters, real quiet, watching the ground fly by outside and feeling all his scabs itch. "It's nice and all but, uh, kinda' killin' the whole suspension of disbelief thing a little."
"Do you remember," he goes on, because you just try to keep Stan from talkin', you just try, it don't matter that the words - especially the ones with a lot of s's - make his tongue start yelling at him, every second he fills up with words is safe, and this is one more thing he wants to say to his brother, one more in a sea of things, things that matter, things that never did, things that used to. "You remember when I fucked up that boxing match and ended up havin' my jaw wired shut? And there was that stupid liquid diet an' you, you uh, I had to get you to stop goin' on it with me 'cause you were losin' too much weight, startin' to look sick."
He bumps his forehead against the window. Not hard, not fast, just gentle, just a few thoughtful taps, feeling the raw skin there sting against the glass. He's smiling, thinking of it, his whole face all faint and fond and warm and then it drains off, leaving something determined behind it. "I'll get that back one day, you know. Be someone you can worry about. I'll make it right. I'll make it big. One day. One a' these days."
Stan rubs his hand across his face because he's tired, the kind of tired where you need to rub your eyes some even if you know it won't do any good, but then he makes a face and a kind of faint, grossed out noise, because he forgot about the whole scab thing and now the one on the back of that hand broke open and he probably got blood over around his eyes, or something. Not really the look he's going for.
"Clothes. I'll make it one day but first I gotta' get clothes. That way people won't call the cops on sight, you know? And then I'll drive for a while, I think, uh, a couple states should do it. Jorge won't go any farther out of his territory than that. Then maybe I can sleep off the rest of this fucking comedown- Shit, uh, how much gas does this thing got? No way I'm gonna' be able to take someone else's gas with my mouth this fucked, might have to swap cars." Stan frowns out at the road and, hey, don't start feeling left out or nothin', friendly hallucination, it's just...
Remind him you're here, friendly hallucination buddy. Because the real world, it ain't lookin' half so friendly right now.