Stan makes a quiet, amused noise, slumping a little more in the seat and rolling those broad moose-shoulders forward so they look rounder, smaller. It stretches at his back and he don't have so much practice at it, at looking small, as he woulda' had someday, but he's had some. A lot. He's good at it. "Yeah, well, they look better on me. That ain't the only part of me that's bigger, you know."
He waits a second, comedic timing, you know, he watches his brother with a smile that's kinda' hopeful, kinda' sad, then pats his belly because that's the part he was talking about, right? It'll be nice, if that makes Ford laugh just like it used to, or at least smile. It'll be nice, to make Ford smile one more time, while he still can. Doing it with a stupid dick joke just feels right, like old times. He looks away again and runs his tongue over a couple cuts on the inside of his cheek, thinking about how some of those cuts have started bleeding a little less and wondering about the ones that haven't, wondering again if it counts as blood loss if you swallow most of it, and definitely not thinking about the stuff he wants to ask. About how Ford's doing. Where he was driving to, anyway. What he's got going for him these days, because whatever it is, Stan's sure it's a lot.
Suspension of disbelief, and all that shit.
Okay.
He ducks his head, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his head again. "I can keep goin' for, uh, a couple state lines, like I said. After that you pull over some place, hide the car real good, and if I'm lucky I won't wake up i-in a body b-bag." He spits out a quick laugh but that goes off the rails too, just like that little joke-but-not-really did, because his voice decides it don't want to work with him and he ends up taking a few big, gulping breaths that, lucky him, ain't too hard to wrestle down.
"Okay. I'm okay. I'm fine, I, uh, I could uh, hah, I could outsmart those bozos any day of the week. Okay. T-tell me, uh, Ford, tell me-" It's real clear in his voice just then, how desperate he is to think of something, something Ford could tell him. Not how he's been since they last met, as much as Stan wants - doesn't want, hates, really fucking wants to hear - about all his brother's wild successes, he don't know how far he can push this hallucination thing, so he's got to talk about the past, but what, what-
"You remember the, the beach? Our beach? What a shithole, I always knew we only got the tourists who were too cheap to go anywhere else. I been to better beaches since, you know, nude beaches, even, and ones in uh, in real high-end parts of town, and none of 'em ever, uh, ever really match up. Do you ever, d-do you ever, uh, wish-" He squeezes his eyes shut again and starts tapping his forehead against the window again and doesn't finish that sentence and thinks,
no subject
He waits a second, comedic timing, you know, he watches his brother with a smile that's kinda' hopeful, kinda' sad, then pats his belly because that's the part he was talking about, right? It'll be nice, if that makes Ford laugh just like it used to, or at least smile. It'll be nice, to make Ford smile one more time, while he still can. Doing it with a stupid dick joke just feels right, like old times. He looks away again and runs his tongue over a couple cuts on the inside of his cheek, thinking about how some of those cuts have started bleeding a little less and wondering about the ones that haven't, wondering again if it counts as blood loss if you swallow most of it, and definitely not thinking about the stuff he wants to ask. About how Ford's doing. Where he was driving to, anyway. What he's got going for him these days, because whatever it is, Stan's sure it's a lot.
Suspension of disbelief, and all that shit.
Okay.
He ducks his head, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his head again. "I can keep goin' for, uh, a couple state lines, like I said. After that you pull over some place, hide the car real good, and if I'm lucky I won't wake up i-in a body b-bag." He spits out a quick laugh but that goes off the rails too, just like that little joke-but-not-really did, because his voice decides it don't want to work with him and he ends up taking a few big, gulping breaths that, lucky him, ain't too hard to wrestle down.
"Okay. I'm okay. I'm fine, I, uh, I could uh, hah, I could outsmart those bozos any day of the week. Okay. T-tell me, uh, Ford, tell me-" It's real clear in his voice just then, how desperate he is to think of something, something Ford could tell him. Not how he's been since they last met, as much as Stan wants - doesn't want, hates, really fucking wants to hear - about all his brother's wild successes, he don't know how far he can push this hallucination thing, so he's got to talk about the past, but what, what-
"You remember the, the beach? Our beach? What a shithole, I always knew we only got the tourists who were too cheap to go anywhere else. I been to better beaches since, you know, nude beaches, even, and ones in uh, in real high-end parts of town, and none of 'em ever, uh, ever really match up. Do you ever, d-do you ever, uh, wish-" He squeezes his eyes shut again and starts tapping his forehead against the window again and doesn't finish that sentence and thinks,
Suspension of disbelief, and all that shit.
Okay.