Ford takes his eyes off the road, stealing a glance over at Stan as he makes that terrible, ill-timed joke. This isn't a funny situation, not in the slightest, and the very last thing Ford feels like doing right now is laugh.
And yet laugh he does, because he needs to let Stan have this. He needs to let himself have this, because right now his only options are to laugh or to cry and he's not about to break his ten year streak just because his heart hurts too much to make that laugh sound real.
Stan, he's got the same problem. He keeps talking, which is good, saying things that make that hurt in Ford's chest dig in a little deeper with every word, which is considerably less good. Ford lets him keep talking, though. He lets him keep talking and laughing that not-real laugh, because so long as he's talking, as long as he keeps going, that means he's gonna be fine, right? He's still got all his mental faculties, he's not going into shock or suffering from organ failure or - or whatever the hell else all those chemicals in his system could do to his body.
So Stan keeps on going, because Ford's not about to interrupt him, not about to derail his train of thought for fear of him never getting back on the tracks again. It's not until Stan goes quiet on him again that Ford finally speaks up, and when he finds he has to immediately start over before he can even get the first word out - his throat is too tight to force out anything more than a croak, so he has to swallow a few times before trying again. Even now he sounds rough - a mixture sleep deprivation and the acute distress this mess is putting him under conspiring together to make him sound more like his nicotine-addicted brother.
"--Stan. Stanley, stay with me, okay? Don't - don't get quiet on me. I wanna hear you talk, alright? Let's - lets go back to the books, you said you liked those. Did you ever read The Old Man and the Sea?"
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And yet laugh he does, because he needs to let Stan have this. He needs to let himself have this, because right now his only options are to laugh or to cry and he's not about to break his ten year streak just because his heart hurts too much to make that laugh sound real.
Stan, he's got the same problem. He keeps talking, which is good, saying things that make that hurt in Ford's chest dig in a little deeper with every word, which is considerably less good. Ford lets him keep talking, though. He lets him keep talking and laughing that not-real laugh, because so long as he's talking, as long as he keeps going, that means he's gonna be fine, right? He's still got all his mental faculties, he's not going into shock or suffering from organ failure or - or whatever the hell else all those chemicals in his system could do to his body.
So Stan keeps on going, because Ford's not about to interrupt him, not about to derail his train of thought for fear of him never getting back on the tracks again. It's not until Stan goes quiet on him again that Ford finally speaks up, and when he finds he has to immediately start over before he can even get the first word out - his throat is too tight to force out anything more than a croak, so he has to swallow a few times before trying again. Even now he sounds rough - a mixture sleep deprivation and the acute distress this mess is putting him under conspiring together to make him sound more like his nicotine-addicted brother.
"--Stan. Stanley, stay with me, okay? Don't - don't get quiet on me. I wanna hear you talk, alright? Let's - lets go back to the books, you said you liked those. Did you ever read The Old Man and the Sea?"