Ford does not know who this Jorge character is, but he can already tell, from what very little he knows, that he does not like him. In fact, Ford isn't sure he's ever wanted to punch someone he's never even met quite this badly before. Something tells him that wouldn't end well for anyone, punching this Jorge guy. But it makes him feel better, thinking about it, thinking about how cathartic it would be to lay some hurt on whoever put so much fear into his brother's eyes.
It really gets his red up, hearing that, hearing how worried Stan sounds because someone made him feel that way. Ford's anger simmers inside him, burning at a low but constant temperature in the back of his mind. He pushes it down, keeps it in check, but he doesn't extinguish it. That's the thing about anger - it can be useful. It can keep you going, give you the extra push you need to accomplish things you never could have otherwise. Ford has 12 PHD's to prove that.
He's going to hold onto that anger, hold it tight and close to his heart and hope it burns on the way down when he rams it down this Jorge guy's throat.
Stan's question draws him back out of his own thoughts, and Ford realizes he had been holding the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. He relaxes, or at least tries to, and steals a look over at his brother.
"Yeah, yeah I remember." He replies, distractedly, his eyes fixing themselves more on the road as it becomes increasingly painful to keep looking at Stan. "How could I forget?" He adds quietly, speaking more to the open air than his brother, who-
God, God, he's a mess. Ford sees the fresh blood smeared over his eyebrow and cannot help but wince in a queasy mixture of sympathy and worry, his mouth thinning in a tense line. He turns his eyes back to the road, forcing himself to focus on driving. Just keep going, keep right on driving until you see the city lights. Everything will be fine once they make it into the city, to a hospital. At this point Ford would even settle for some shitty 24-hour gas-station. At least there they could clean Stan up a bit in the restroom and slap some cheap bandaids on him.
Stan needs a whole hell of a lot more than bandaids, though. He needs sitches, antibiotics, a good detoxing, some new clothes, probably a good meal, and - fuck it, Ford's including it because it's something he wants Stan to have even if it's not something he needs - a hug.
"I have clothes in the back." He's not - he's not gonna say anything about Stan not needing to steal another car, or siphon gas. Something tells him Stan won't believe him, and even if he did, breaking his delusion that this is all a vivid hallucination miiiiiight not end well for either of them.
He'll wait to press that particular issue, put it on the backburner for a time when he's not flying down the highway at 60 mph.
"They might be a little, uh, tight on you, but that's just what you get for deciding to have broader shoulders than me, you giant moose."
He's not really in a joking mood, not in the slightest, but he needs to do something to ease the tension in here before one of them snaps from the pressure.
Change nothing it's beautiful
It really gets his red up, hearing that, hearing how worried Stan sounds because someone made him feel that way. Ford's anger simmers inside him, burning at a low but constant temperature in the back of his mind. He pushes it down, keeps it in check, but he doesn't extinguish it. That's the thing about anger - it can be useful. It can keep you going, give you the extra push you need to accomplish things you never could have otherwise. Ford has 12 PHD's to prove that.
He's going to hold onto that anger, hold it tight and close to his heart and hope it burns on the way down when he rams it down this Jorge guy's throat.
Stan's question draws him back out of his own thoughts, and Ford realizes he had been holding the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. He relaxes, or at least tries to, and steals a look over at his brother.
"Yeah, yeah I remember." He replies, distractedly, his eyes fixing themselves more on the road as it becomes increasingly painful to keep looking at Stan. "How could I forget?" He adds quietly, speaking more to the open air than his brother, who-
God, God, he's a mess. Ford sees the fresh blood smeared over his eyebrow and cannot help but wince in a queasy mixture of sympathy and worry, his mouth thinning in a tense line. He turns his eyes back to the road, forcing himself to focus on driving. Just keep going, keep right on driving until you see the city lights. Everything will be fine once they make it into the city, to a hospital. At this point Ford would even settle for some shitty 24-hour gas-station. At least there they could clean Stan up a bit in the restroom and slap some cheap bandaids on him.
Stan needs a whole hell of a lot more than bandaids, though. He needs sitches, antibiotics, a good detoxing, some new clothes, probably a good meal, and - fuck it, Ford's including it because it's something he wants Stan to have even if it's not something he needs - a hug.
"I have clothes in the back." He's not - he's not gonna say anything about Stan not needing to steal another car, or siphon gas. Something tells him Stan won't believe him, and even if he did, breaking his delusion that this is all a vivid hallucination miiiiiight not end well for either of them.
He'll wait to press that particular issue, put it on the backburner for a time when he's not flying down the highway at 60 mph.
"They might be a little, uh, tight on you, but that's just what you get for deciding to have broader shoulders than me, you giant moose."
He's not really in a joking mood, not in the slightest, but he needs to do something to ease the tension in here before one of them snaps from the pressure.