goodguygrifter | (no subject)

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Good old Route 20. It starts in Boston and stretches all the way out to some-fucking-where in Oregon, and it's one of - if not The - the longest road in these great and United States. Stan knows that, because over the past few years Stan has learned a little thing or two about highways. Highways take you over state lines, they take you out of local cop jurisdiction, they take you toward your next big break. By this point highways and Stan are kinda' old friends. This one he don't know that well - not that he don't head up north sometimes, but he tries to stay lower, where the nights are warmer and he don't have to use up so much gas workin' the heater so hard.

Good old Route 20. Taking him away from - god, or more like God, the real big guns, upper case G-O-D 'cause there's been a time or two in the past, the past however long where Stan thinks he mighta' caught himself mid prayer, not that he's ever been a praying kinda' guy, especially not for a while, but sometimes shit just happens. He thinks a part of him might still be at it right now. If that feeling really is a part of him still praying he don't know why he's doing it or what he might be praying for but he don't stop himself, because oh, oh sweet baby Moses if there's a guy in a hundred miles who needs a miracle more than Stan Pines - or Stu Oakley, the latest in a long line of gen-u-ine home made fake IDs - then that poor bastard's earned it.

This rest stop might be the big break he's looking for. Not a huge break, but you take 'em where you can find 'em and he mighta' found it now because whichever armpit of the US he's tucked all snug into right now decided not to give their taxpayer funded state-welcome-and-rest-area working lamps over the parking lots. Stan hardly looks around, just keeps hobbling right over the curb and for once he ain't thinkin' about how he'd come off if anyone saw, he's not thinking about the extreme roadrash wide and red over his legs and his forearms and the backs of his hands, or the blood that dripped and dried from high up on his forehead where he didn't get his hands far up enough, or that one shoe he lost to who knows where, or anything. He just makes a beeline for the nearest car, yanks at the handle, and this sure is the big break because it comes right open, he stumbles back with how easy it comes open and kneels and makes a noise because fuck, what's left of the skin on his back really don't wanna' move like that and whatever's caked into the mess he's made of his knees sure don't want company, but this is his big break and he's not going to fuck it up and he's going to reach under the wheel and he's going to get those wires and he is gonna' go go go, and he is gonna' meet up with his good old friend the highway of Route 20 and he is going to be okay and he is going to be gone.

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Stanley's silent a second. Maybe a minute. Time's funny just now, so he ain't sure. He's looking at Ford, staring at him. He'd looked away when Ford - when Ford's voice - asked him why would anything ever go his way, because hearing that in Ford's voice, it was- but then Stan looked at Ford and didn't stop, he looked with all the emotion gone out of his face, just looking. Listening.

So he stares at his brother - at his brother's face - for a minute, or for a couple seconds. He blinks, takes a slow breath through his nose, leans back a little bit and turns over the fist of the hand that's holding that pill and he looks at his fingers, silently. Some kinda' expression might leak back onto his face eventually, but for now all he looks is thoughtful.

"I take back what I said about your sales pitch," he says finally, honestly, and depending on how tangled up the hand holding the pill is with Ford's flock of fingers, Stan's going to open up his fist and let his one way out of all this bullshit just sit there out in the open, at the mercy of god and everybody.

Or, you know, at the mercy of Ford. Which is worse.

There's no way things can go from here that ain't worse. Either the high fades off and so does the absolute worst trip of Stan's life and that's that, you know, finito, or the high fades off and his brother is here. Either his brother is gone and, to the surprise of no one, gives not one single solitary shit about any of this, or Mr. Perfect is here and stays here and he knows. He sees.

Either Ford never sees him again or Ford sees him like he was never supposed to, Ford sees him like this.

Like he really is. Stan can think that now, he can admit the truth to himself right now as long as he never thinks too hard about it again. Either he's lost Ford again, and that would be bad enough, but if he doesn't then Ford sees the guy his brother really is.

There is no way giving up this pill is going to end well. Not for the guy who, once upon a time, went by the name Stanley. But everyone has their price, and he knows his when he hears it.

"This is what you wanted, right?" His voice isn't empty but it isn't full of anything in particular, either. There's no reason to pour it full of anything. The deal's gone down, the rest of it's just details.

"Oh yeah, and that milk of yours. Wanted me to drink that too." He stretches out his fingers and then curls them in a few times, beckoning the milk closer. "Come on. Gimme. Gotta' get my calcium, or some shit."

Even with his eyes shut tight against the sharp, pricking heat building behind his lids, Ford can feel his brother's stare. He can feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet heat of it. It feels like being accused. No, more than that - it feels like being judged, sentenced. We the jury find the defendant guilty of being an absolute bastard of a brother.

Ford breathes out gently through his nose as he waits for the hammer to fall, for the court to be dismissed. He waits for Stanley to throw his apology back in his face like the worthless sentiment it is because there's no making amends for what he's done - for letting things come to this. For turning a blind eye while the world happened to his brother.

But, wouldn't you know it, the hammer never falls. That apology never comes back to hit him where he lives. Stanley just...turns his hand, uncurls his fingers. He doesn't hand over the pill, but he gives up on trying to keep it to himself.

Shocked, and maybe just a little hysterical with relief, Ford curls his own fingers tight around Stan's hand, trapping the pill between their palms. He could have just knocked the damn thing to the ground, snatched it up and put it in his pocket so maybe someone at the hospital could figure out what the hell it is, but no. No, this feels better. This feels more right.

"Y-yeah. Yeah, right. Right, right, ha-"

His smile is a shaky, unstable thing, and the amusement in his tone is nervous and forced. This emotional roller coaster just keeps throwing him for loops, and he's finally starting to feel the whiplash.

He fumbles for the milk, forgetting for a moment where he set it, before practically shoving it at Stan in a jittery fit of over-enthused nerves, as if Stan might just change his mind after a second's delay.

"Here, uh. You can drink it or just use it as a rinse. It, it doesn't really matter. Whatever makes you feel better."

A little bit of expression might be creeping in, now. Just a little. A little frown, a tiny pinch between those fuzzy Pines eyebrows, the look of a guy not seeing what he expected. It feels bad, too - there's this sort of heavy, inevitable feel behind the thought, there's another mark in the 'real boy' column. Heavy and inevitable like the anvil of Damocles, or- wait, sword of Damocles? Is it a sword?

Whatever.

He dismisses the thought, just watches Ford all jittery and maybe babbling a little, showing the kind of nerves he'd never imagine Ford having after a moment like that, not even in an uncontrollable hallucination, and he feels that weight hanging over his head.

"Thought about hearing you say that about a million times," he shares in a voice whose tone has started to slip over from 'bland' into 'dull'. He can't think of any reason not to share. It's too much work, anyway, to keep his thoughts from coming out his mouth. He lets Ford clasp their hands together, feels those six fingers against his like some lost and golden dream and tilts his head back to take a swig of that milk, making a face as he tries to decide whether it hurts his mouth.

It's not too bad. He swallows, and considers a second more. "I never figured you'd get all spazzy after."

He puts the milk between his knees so he can rub his forehead, eyes briefly closed, and he feels some vague sort-of regret at having had to trade off that last pill. Maybe that heavy feeling ain't all because of Mr. Friendly Hallucination waving that metaphorical Greek sword around, and the pill coulda' put that off a little while.

It was a good trade. A great trade. The best deal he'll ever make in his life, probably. But that don't mean it ain't a shame, sort of.

"Come on." He straightens up, swinging his legs inside the car and leaning back against the seat, leaning his head back, too, so no part of his body has to try and hold itself up and he looks up at Ford through eyes that don't want to stay all the way open. "I know those guys, uh, from before, I know they were real but I don't, uh, I don't really know how far I got. So we better vamoose while the vamoosin's good. Goin' until you run outta' gas is usually a good start, but I don't know when they woulda' noticed. Maybe on the road. Car woulda' been lighter, at least, and I mighta' made some noise..."

He trails off, eyes sliding off to one side of Ford's face and going out of focus as he tries to think about it. "Hey, Mr. Successful, you happen to know anything about spottin' tails?"

Okay, okay. Stan is cooperating. Things are going good. He just has to keep him distracted, keep him talking even though every other word out of Stan's mouth makes his stomach twist.

He's got this. He's got this situation under control. He is definitely, definitely not just hanging on by the skin of his teeth and hoping that will somehow be enough to keep this house of cards that is his fucking life from collapsing in on itself.

He flashes Stan a small, tight smile that he almost doesn't have to force and tries his damnedest to look encouraging, like someone who Stan could have even the slightest bit of confidence in.

"I don't think that's going to be a problem, Stanley."

Or at least he sure hopes it isn't, but if he can pretend for at least a little while that they have one less massive problem on their plate then maybe he can actually get them through this clusterfuck of a situation with his nerves intact.

"But just in case, why don't you keep an eye on the rear-view for me? Watch my six?"

Just like when they were kids, pretending to be soldiers or explorers or some other daring pair of adventures who were in way over their heads. Just like that, only this time the danger is real and they can't just avoid it by deciding they don't want to play anymore.

"The closest motel is about thirty minutes away, twenty if we ignore the speed limit a little. Think you can stay up that long?"

It's not a necessity, really, it's probably not even something that needs to be done at all, but if it helps Stan relax and it gives him something to do, to keep himself distracted, then Ford has no qualms with playing along and pretending it's important. Besides, having a task might help keep him awake, and Ford would very much rather be able to drive without having to take his eyes off the road every three seconds to make sure his brother is still breathing.

Even feeling slow and heavy as he does, Stan laughs a little. It's not really a laugh, kind of a huff, but whatever. "Your six, good one."

After a second, maybe a couple seconds, he realizes he hasn't answered. "Uh, yeah, sure. If you're real nice I might even watch your twelve."

Then he settles back, content to wait for Ford to hang around some more or start driving or whatever it is he wants to do.

"I never found out what you were like on road trips," he says after a little bit in a slow, musing voice. "Not real ones, long ones, you know. Guess it makes sense you'd be the kinda guy who plans out his hotel stops."

He hesitates. It's, like - okay. So if Ford's real- but the penny hasn't really dropped on that one yet. It isn't like Stan don't know how he looks, he probably looks like he feels and he feels like one giant, pulsing scab. And if Ford, genius college graduate grown man PH-goddamn-D Ford is actually here looking at the giant, pulsing scab that used to be his brother then he already knows, it's already too late to disappear and come back when he's finally made something of himself. But it doesn't feel too late. That's the weird part, and he's putting it down to that drug, whatever it was.

But if he asks after Ford's life, like this guy sitting beside him is a real guy with real travel plans and destinations and all that shit, then that makes him even more real, doesn't it? Or it makes him real sooner. Or something.

But if he doesn't ask about Ford's life now, before that penny finally drops and maybe shatters Stan's skull or something equally shit-awful, he's sure as hell not going to ask after. And he wants to know.

"So, uh, where you headed, anyway?" he asks, and realizes as he says it that he doesn't know how much time went by since he mentioned Ford's road trip habits in the first place, and doesn't know if Ford tried to say anything to him, and doesn't know if they even started driving. Maybe if he keeps the conversation going a little he'll figure some of that out. Turning his head to look out the window to figure out the rest he can do, but in a minute. Turning his head sounds like work. "Far enough from Backupsmore that you gotta' plan out your hotels and shit? Wasn' sure how I'd keep track of ya' after you graduated so I uh, I guess I was kinda' hopin' you wouldn't go that far."

He starts to close his eyes but then opens them again. Eyes on the road. Eyes on those rearview mirrors. Right.

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