goodguygrifter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goodguygrifter) wrote2016-04-10 06:11 am
goodguygrifter) wrote2016-04-10 06:11 am
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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.
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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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.
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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.