goodguygrifter (
goodguygrifter) wrote2016-07-12 08:09 pm
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Entry tags:
for sixfingerednerd
It's like a kid's book, the inside of his head, straight to the point, simple just like a kid's book is simple. There's a kid's book somewhere, probably, that starts like it, just like this: This is Spot. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run.
Except, with him, it goes a little more like this: This is Hal Forrester. This is Steve Pinington. This is Andrew Alcatraz. Yeah, good old 8-ball, he was a fun one. Depending on just how you define the word 'fun'. Andrew had to take his fun where he could get it.
Lots of 'em. He's got a suitcase full of names.
A long time ago, there were people who called him Stanley.
This is Stanley. See Stanley work. Work, Stanley, work.
It's dark in the basement. Lots of the lighting's broken. Stanley doesn't care. It's bright enough to work by, so that's alright. It's cold in the basement, but he forgot about that a long time ago, he even has to stop now and then to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. That's alright, too. He thinks he might be about to make a breakthrough. He thinks this might be the breakthrough that actually, you know, breaks through, this time.
This goes on his head, right, this stupid colander thing. It hooks up to a machine, the one that lines up the portal's coordinates, symbols he's been staring at so long he's been seeing them when he sleeps. When he closes his eyes, at least.
Okay. Hat on head. Other end of hat hooked up to machine. Think about Ford. Oh man, Ford. Ford trapped in some, god knows what, stuck in some monster's big toothy mouth or, or stuffed in some teeny tiny space by the space alien version of Jorge and his goons, or-
Shit, that's all Stan's got. He's empty, burned up, he can't think. The lights must be going again because the room's going all dark and light and dark again on him, and it's hot in here, his shoulder burns, oh fuck it burns, and Ford, think about Ford and the portal will read all those twin brainwaves or what the fuck ever, and then, then everything will be fine.
The man someone once called Stanley thinks of his brother. He thinks of Ford as he last saw him, older, all stress, all strung out five o' clock shadow and pervert's trenchcoat and stretched out arms, hands, Stanley! Do something! Stanley!
Stanley's big, clumsy fingers move over the dials of the machine. He doesn't have to think about it, which is probably a good thing. He's done it so often now that trying to start the whole thing up ain't tough. He thinks, hard, about Ford. That ain't tough either.
He thinks about Ford. He lets the thoughts burn him up. He does something.
He flips the last switch.
Except, with him, it goes a little more like this: This is Hal Forrester. This is Steve Pinington. This is Andrew Alcatraz. Yeah, good old 8-ball, he was a fun one. Depending on just how you define the word 'fun'. Andrew had to take his fun where he could get it.
Lots of 'em. He's got a suitcase full of names.
A long time ago, there were people who called him Stanley.
This is Stanley. See Stanley work. Work, Stanley, work.
It's dark in the basement. Lots of the lighting's broken. Stanley doesn't care. It's bright enough to work by, so that's alright. It's cold in the basement, but he forgot about that a long time ago, he even has to stop now and then to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. That's alright, too. He thinks he might be about to make a breakthrough. He thinks this might be the breakthrough that actually, you know, breaks through, this time.
This goes on his head, right, this stupid colander thing. It hooks up to a machine, the one that lines up the portal's coordinates, symbols he's been staring at so long he's been seeing them when he sleeps. When he closes his eyes, at least.
Okay. Hat on head. Other end of hat hooked up to machine. Think about Ford. Oh man, Ford. Ford trapped in some, god knows what, stuck in some monster's big toothy mouth or, or stuffed in some teeny tiny space by the space alien version of Jorge and his goons, or-
Shit, that's all Stan's got. He's empty, burned up, he can't think. The lights must be going again because the room's going all dark and light and dark again on him, and it's hot in here, his shoulder burns, oh fuck it burns, and Ford, think about Ford and the portal will read all those twin brainwaves or what the fuck ever, and then, then everything will be fine.
The man someone once called Stanley thinks of his brother. He thinks of Ford as he last saw him, older, all stress, all strung out five o' clock shadow and pervert's trenchcoat and stretched out arms, hands, Stanley! Do something! Stanley!
Stanley's big, clumsy fingers move over the dials of the machine. He doesn't have to think about it, which is probably a good thing. He's done it so often now that trying to start the whole thing up ain't tough. He thinks, hard, about Ford. That ain't tough either.
He thinks about Ford. He lets the thoughts burn him up. He does something.
He flips the last switch.
no subject
When Stanley flips that switch, he'll hear it, a little voice in the back of his head. It's quiet, hard to make out, but unmistakably there. The words are indistinct, they fade in and out as the inter-dimensional whatever-the-fuck machine tries to find a good signal. The words blur together, the echo of the first bleeding into the beginning of the next as they play over and over in an endless loop.
stayawakestayawakestayawakestayawake--
If he listens close, Stanley will notice something peculiar about the little voice in the back of his head. Namely that it isn't his own.
no subject
He really thought this was it, this time. He really thought this was it just like he thought the breakthrough before this one was it and the disappointment moves through him in a wave, weighs him down, and as he slumps, as his shoulder screams at him some more, there's not room for anything in his head except this familiar, this nasty familiar thing, an old honest friend, this sharp thing in his chest pulling at his stomach, pulling his shoulders all low and hunched. His old, honest friend pipes up and says, Hey, pal, you know, if you were anyone else - anyone else in this whole goddamn world, billions of people, any one of those stupid saps - Ford would be outta' there by now. He'd be out in a minute. In a second.
He's just about to add more, more from that asshole voice living in his own head, the one that knows how much he hates honesty, the h-word, and keeps trying to throw it at him anyway. But there's something else. There shouldn't be any room for anything but that sharp, heavy, honest voice, not right now, but there's something. What the hell?
stayawakestayawakestayawakestayawake--
That isn't his voice. He knows that voice.
"Shit! Holy shit, I did it! I really did it! Ford! Where are you, I, uh, these stupid nerd gizmos of yours can't make out where you are yet, I need, uh, coordinates!"
no subject
Then, without the slightest warning, Stanley's head fills with loud, garbled static - only it's not static, not really, it's the sound of a hundred, maybe a thousand panicked voices speaking over one another in a chaotic symphony of pure unbridled terror.
̫̲͚̼̣̮̍͐̃ͩ
ͩ҉̗͎̬͇̲O̓́̏h̏͑̃̔̌͆͏̟̖̝͓ ̷̭͖̫̪̹̣̼̐͆ͫͬͫ̅G̸̹͍̍o̸̜͋̄͋̚d͙ͯ̍͊ͨͭ
̸͆
̯̰̤̞͛͝H̉ͪo͓̳̜ͧͅw̄̍ͬͩ ̗͕̳͚ͣ͒ͨ͂d̘̲̱̓ͬͤ̋̏͛̏i͎̖͕̼̻͔̚ͅḍ̭̹̙͍͖̪̐̀ͯͮ̄ ̣͗͂h̞̘͓ͥ̑̎̏͞e͓͗̍ͭ͐ ̞͔͉̯͇̎ͯ̌̍̃͛f͈̮͈̥́ͤi͕ͮͪͬ̎̚͡n̤̝͑̒̿̀ͨͭ̅d͉͖̘̙͈̫̩ ̛̦̪̓͌ͧm͓̗̪͉̫̜̣ͫ͊̓͌̎̍e̋͏̙̻̙̟
͕͇ͫ̅͗ͬ̾̇
̳̟̻̰͕̮ͩͯͭ͘P̮̜̮̥̯͋̆̕ͅl͇̗͇̎ͭ͑̈̈̽e̫̗͔̺̦̮̼ͯ̂̓̓̽a͖͍͚͍̹̫̝̅ͩ͆ͣs̘̫͚͍͎̼̼e̮ͭ̉͠ ̧͕̗͙͈̖̒ͣ͑̇ͫ̃͛ǹ͎̖̻̊́̀ò̩̫͙̭͍̰͊̔ͭ̑͐̓ͅt̘̯̹͎̤̅͗̈̚ ̥̲̬͉̜͕͋ͥa̿͆̓ͯ̿ĝa̼͎͌i̤͎̩̹̝̘n͍̙̝͗ ͂͐̽̇͆҉̼͕ͅÏ̶̥̫̯̉ ̈͏c̵͑̏͊̓̽ͪaͤ͏̝̞̗n̢̰̪̭͔͈ͬͨͣͨ͆ͫ'̩̈̅̐̕t̳͛͌ͪ̃͐͞ ̹̉̐ͯ͑̍̐̏dͧͤ͐͛ͮ̊̾҉̦o̷ͦ͐ͮ ̴͉̳̔t̖̬̯̘̦̒̀h͚̰̞ͩ͝i̸̺̟̥͎s͇̆̊̌ͣ̄̈́́͝ ̫͓̠̜̈̉̐͂ͪ̄͢
̢̞̪ͮ͆́̍̾̐̋
̝͖̤͠T͙̣͚͇̦ͬͬ̽ͬ̃ͮ͜h̬̭͖̹͓͉̝ͭ̏͢ī̜̤͖͇̰͕ͪ̓ͬͤ̚s̵̠͖͔̔̉͌ ̴̳̗͎̦͍̼̰̎̔̚į̠̱̜̯̱̖̣͊ͭ́̚š͚̠͔̹̋̊͆̓̐ͅn̺͔̬̥͡'̙̦͉̠̥̩̯̅̑̑̌ͧ͠t̤́͋̓̔ͨ ͈̣̱̏r̭͔̬̱̮͔̃ͯ̾̔͋͐̓e̩͓̣͚͎͋a̩̬̹̮̥ͦ͒́̅ͮ̍̆l͍͉͌̈̓ ̤̜̤͈̬͊ͩͅt̸̞̘͛̔̍ḥ̺̬̠̬ͪ̋̑͒͛̐̆͝i̬̭͓̞͕͍͉ͨ̐͋ͬ͒s̄̃̓̑̈́̚ ͍̞̮͈̼̲ͧ̑ͤ͂ͨ̓ć̢̼̩̙̈́ạ̢̮̫̄̄n̼̖̘͓̰'̱̘̣̯̺͖̂͆͐̐t̖̳͍̹̳͒ͧͣ͌̒̈͑ ̝͚͓͋̊̍͆̌̚b̴͎̦͇͉̺͐̉ͦ̏̌̋̆e̖̿̈́͝ ̜͙̼̐̅̑h̩̼ͤ̈́̑a̙̭̼̬̗̙͑͂̈p̉̉̈̓̃p̧̬̖̣̱ͭͧe̖̼͕̤̥͈̰͒ͤ̿n̺̤i̒n̵̩̼͓͎̘̯̈́ͫ̄͋͐̎gͦͥ̎͏̬̘̹̖ ̢͉̥͖̹̥͕̱ͨ̉̂ͥ͂ͮ͂
͔͖̹͙̲͉̔ͥ
̏͐ͬN̥̈ͯͭ̓ͪo̲w̘̺̻̺ͩ̎ͫ̃̅͋̚h̺̥̮̼̠̹͗ͮe̓̚ŗ͎̲ͯe̼̪͕̘̯̊͛ ̰͕̯̇͑̏ͩ̚î̧̙͇̪̮̠̭̎͒͐͑̌ͅș̳̤͎̼̭͍̅ͣ̅ ̰̺̰͖͍̭͜s͍͙̖͕̓ͬͮ̄a͎̝̹f̉ͣ̊̿͜e̗͓͕͓̎̾͗̽̍̉͡ ͕̯̹͌I̧̹͎̗ͅ ̥̳͒̂̽ͫ̉̅̅c͎̀ͭa͕͕̮̗͑n̵͓̽̒ ̢̜͎͎̎ͣ̎ͬ̓n͔̦̄̾͊͌̍e̬͔v̗͎͋̔͆ͣͥ̀̚ẽ̼̫̱͚ͮ̿̾͐̓̅r̶̩̗̤̩̳ͥ̚ ͇̐̈́̿̐͒ͭe̪̻͇̗ͫͣ̈ͯͬ͒̍s͔̖̰̭͔͉̬͑͐͋̆͢c̙̥̩̯̲̜̕a͍̫͇̬̼͓ͩ̒̐ͦͤ͝p̨͓̰̠ͤ̓ͥ̚̚e͍̰͉̠̭͛̏̚ ̝̖͈̪̆ͅf̱̓͐̽ͫ̉̇r̎̾͋͌̀͋̂o̴̽m̳͍̭̠̻̋ͭͧ̿̓̊ ̶̳̝̭͇́̋̈́ȟ̙̫̲͎̦͢i͍͇̱̱̐̉̑m̛̥̖̪̹̺̙ͯͨͨ͒̆͒ͅ
that's really cool, it must have taken a lot of work to put all that in
"Fuck, stop it, Ford, stop!" It's gotta' be Ford, he thinks, and there's worry under that thought, a heavy and aching loneliness-guilt-fear trying to pull him under but this has got to be his brother, it's got to be, so no other thought that happens to be floating around in his head right now even gets the time of day. "Just talk to me! I got your freaky mindreading thing working right, I know I do," something's eating away at the soft white underbelly of those words, creeping acid, doubt-guilt-fear what if he doesn't, what if he got it wrong again, "so just talk to me, you gotta' talk to me before I know how to, uh, before I can rescue you!" Hope, belief, deep-down belief clear and hard as diamond, Stan's thoughts don't go too far into just what it is he believes in so strong but they ring out with it there, just at the end there, the words 'rescue you' echo around the shadowed, gaping space around him and his thoughts ring out bright.
no subject
He lurches to his feet, because he has to go he has to move, but he staggers, his vision turning gray in the corners as a sudden, stabbing head-rush reminds him that he doesn't have enough blood left in him to be standing up so quickly. He reaches out blindly, his hand pawing at air for a moment until it finds something for him to steady himself against. His free hand moves to his right eye, the heel of his palm digging in hard against a sudden phantom pain.
Fuck you, Bill
The thought is a violent one, it tears through his mind like a wildfire and burns everything in its path, overwhelming his panic and distress and cloaking it in a white-hot cloud of fury. How dare he. How fucking dare he use his brother against him like this. He thought it was impossible for Bill to sink any lower, but it looks like there really is no limit to the bastard's cruelty.
It doesn't matter. Ford isn't about to give him the satisfaction of a response. He's going to ignore it, he's going to ignore him, and he is going to keep on surviving until he has what he needs to wipe that psychopathic monster out of existence for good.
no subject
Today, he doesn't even realize it. Today he just lashes out, reaches out and tries to grip and tries to squeeze, because he's forgot for a second that this is his brother. For a second he's not Stanley Pines anymore, he's strung out and burning up and he's instinct, instinct that says hit back, hit back until the other guy can't even raise his fist no more and he reaches out, trying to close a big fist made out of desperate, vicious fight around the mind right next to his, a fist with little flashes of memory set into it like shards of broken glass. Big strong bruisers and small quick types with knives and tiny spaces, dark places, angry mobs in orange jumpsuits, fear and certain knowledge pressing in and one way out, just one way. For a second all he's thinking is got to put this down like I put them down and the guy in all those glass shard memories is Ford's brother, the guy who's Ford's brother was always in there somewhere and he's in those memories, too, and if it all gets close to that other mind, well, who knows what that other guy's gonna' feel? Not Stan. He's not thinking about that. All he's thinking about - all he is, for this one, half a second - is what he had to do, what he has to do, with the guy who was Ford's brother wrapped up and scattered around in there somewhere.
no subject
But now, he has to wonder. He has to wonder because he knows Bill, he knows his tricks, and this isn't one he's ever seen before. The demon bastard was good at telling people what they wanted to hear, twisting the truth to suit his own purposes, but he isn't a storyteller. He doesn't understand humans, how they think, how they feel. He wouldn't have been able to make up something like this, something like whatever the hell is flooding his head and making him stagger like a drunk.
He stumbles into something, hits it hard. He throws his hands out blindly, trying to catch himself, but he can't see a damn thing - his vision keeps shifting, the world around him has stopped being what it's supposed to be. He sees big concrete hallways, cracked tile floors, walls and walls of iron bars. He falls hard to his knees, head swimming, world tilting, and suddenly the ground is made of sand and the air is filled with sweet, bubbly laughter.
It's funny how dumb you are.
Ford grits his teeth against a sudden wave of nausea, his hand moving to his mouth while the other grips hard at the stone-sand-concrete-grass-mud beneath him. The laughter, sweet and light and familiar twists and distorts and suddenly the ground beneath him isn't sand, there isn't ground beneath him at all. He's surrounded on all sides by the cold darkness of space and there He is, there He is watching him lose his grip on the one thing He hadn't managed to take from him.
It can't be real. It can't be the real Bill. This is all just a fabrication, a product of his dying mind as it finally descends fully into madness. Not that it matters - real or not, in his head or not, Bill is still getting the last laugh.
no subject
Yeah. That's the first thing Stan says once he's shocked back to himself. Real deep, meaningful comment on events there, Stan. He's supposed to be helping Ford, ain't he, he oughta' start sayin' shit that's going to help. Because the guy clearly needs it. Stan was wondering, kind of, how bad things might have got for Ford but he'd had this little hope - and it's only now that he realizes it was there, once he's feeling it crash and burn - that Ford would be fine, he'd be doing great and just give Stan the rest of the instructions for this big dumb stubborn hunk of nerd junk filling up this basement here and everything would be fine.
People call him silver-tongued, right? A few people. They thought it was an insult when they said it and maybe it was, really hard-hitting stuff for the kinda' person who spits hoity toity bull like that like it's real and oughta' hurt, but Stan knows how to deal with all that shit, you take all those names they call you and make 'em yours, and he's never heard a better one. So he looks for some words that'll help Ford here, he really digs deep into that silver tongued crap for something that'll help now, when words have never been more important.
"What the fuck?"
Okay. Well, yeah. Really though.
"Look I, uh, I know you got a new favorite shape while I was uh, away, I found your little stash of freaky pyramid bullshit, but ain't this a little much, Ford?"
Not helpful, probably. Okay. Okay, behind that image-memory-real booger of a hallucination, Stan can feel his brother's - well, everything. All the awful shit oozing into Ford's brain now is stuff Stan can feel, it thrums all through every line of that whatever-it-is Ford's looking at, making even that top hat and bowtie combo, even those stupid cartoon hands and floating feet of that stupid image seem downright menacing. It goes deeper than that, though, deeper than dread, deeper than rage, deeper than hurt, and Stan don't try to dig too deep into all of that, he just lets himself feel, he feels all the shit Ford's feeling now and doesn't think twice before letting all his own feelings rise up, he don't even think about it once. Maybe he's a natural at this psychic shit but he ain't thinking about that either, he just feels Ford's dread-rage-pain and feels it refract inside him, or some stupid nerd bullshit like that, like he's some kind of prism and what goes into him gets bent and pushed out into all sorts of different colors and shapes.
Stan feels Ford's dread, his rage, his pain, go into him, and what comes out of Stan is feeling too, feeling riding on top of memories. There's one layer of something soft and warm and confident, something like reassurance, memories of a kid, really skinny and really small, gap-toothed, kneeling in front of this really skinny, really small kid and picking up one six-fingered hand in his own five-fingered ones and holding it more gently than he'd hold glass, holding it like he's comparing it to diamonds and gold and figuring the diamonds are about to come up short. Around that warm, confident feeling that he tries to wrap all of Ford in there's this hard candy shell of determination and fuck-you sitting dense and solid up against all that space and menace that's trying to cut into Ford, a layer of narrowed eyes, balled up fists, feet planted on the ground and spread wide, a big kid all heft and muscle setting those feet in front of another, still plenty skinny kid, setting himself right between that skinny, diamonds and gold kid and some big, round, blonde motherfucker and refusing to move.
All that between Ford and, and whatever this is, if Ford lets him, because the same instinct that tells Stan his feelings are weapons here, that feeling is the weapon and memory is the grip that lets him grab hold and swing, tells him this'll only wrap all the way around Ford if Ford wants it to, that it'll only be tough enough to separate Ford from whatever it is Ford's seeing here if Ford thinks it's tough enough. Here's where words are important, right? Yeah. Here's where that silver tongued bullshit matters. If he can make up the right words, maybe the rest of it'll get through.
"Ford, we'll figure all this out, okay? We'll figure all this out if you just, just let me do this one thing. I know things might not make a lot of sense for you right now-" A slice of memory flashbulbs up for a second, a guy huddled against a wall wild-eyed and rambling, a girl looking past Stan with bloodshot eyes and taking a hard swing at something that ain't there. Things ain't makin' sense for Ford right now, and Stan don't know why but he knows what that sort of confusion and fear feels like, what it feels like to watch it, anyway. "-but you just gotta'- Uh, you don't even have to trust me with everything, okay? Just trust me for a few seconds. Just let me get you through this and then, then we'll figure the rest out, okay? I promise we're gonna' figure out what to do, you just gotta' let me get you through this. Just for a few seconds. Do you think you can do that?" That's a lotta' words for someone feeling like Ford is, ain't it? Shit. Well, some of it got through, didn't it? Please, let at least one or two of those words get through.
no subject
He wanted to make a name for himself. He wanted to make a mark on history, to leave behind a legacy that would inspire some other lonely, bookish kid to follow in his footsteps and change the world like he had. Sagan had been that person for him, and Tesla too. He had wanted so badly to be like them, to make an unforgettable impact on the scientific world - and yet here he is, losing his mind on an alien world, having never done a single, worthwhile thing.
All that time, all that effort, and he's not even going to be a footnote.
His fingers dig into the nothingness beneath him, his nails cutting trails through the stardust as his shoulders shake and his eyes strain against heat flooding behind them. He makes a sound, small and raw and wavering, like a laugh with a stutter. So this is it. This is how he goes out - not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with the broken laughter of a man who's just been asked to trust again after losing everything to betrayal.
It's as pathetic as it is hilarious, in that dark, twisted way that Bill loves - the sort of humor that doesn't walk the razors edge between tragedy and comedy so much as equate the two as one and the same. Ford never had an appreciation for this style of humor before, but even he has to admit, it's almost poetic, in a way. Shakespeare himself couldn't come up with a tale of Dramatic Irony as cruel as this.
The best part - or the worst, he hasn't decided which - is that all of this is in his head. The riveting conclusion to this tale of fuckery and woe isn't being penned by Bill's hand, but his own. The memories flashing through his mind's eye, the sound of his brother's voice ringing in his ears, it's all him. It's all some great big fucked-up hallucination his mind's cooked up to cope with the fact that his life is over, that he's going to die on some alien world without ever seeing home again, without ever getting to say goodbye to his family, without ever making things right with the very person who he's looking to for comfort in the midst of his complete mental breakdown.
If he has any regrets, aside from absolutely everything that's lead him to this point, it would be that. It would be never telling Stanley that he was sorry, that he thought about him every day, that he still loved him despite everything and that he never stopped even during those ten years they spent convincing themselves they had ruined each other's lives.
He's not real, the Stanley inside his head. He's telling Ford everything he wants to hear, like a good little hallucination, but it's not really his brother. Stanley wouldn't have been able to find his old project, let alone reverse engineer it in a matter of weeks, no matter how persistent he was. It's a nice thought, it's the sort of thing he might have hoped for if hope was something he could still feel.
Real or not, its comforting – for a given measure of the word. No amount of warm feelings and gold-tinted memories are going to save him from this, from this nightmare that is his reality, but at the very least they make it a little easier to bear.
Pushing himself back onto his knees, Ford drinks in a deep, shaky breath and wills the world around him to change. If this is all inside his head, then maybe he has some modicum of power over how his own madness unfolds. Maybe he can shift the scenery, or at the very least, remove Bill and his hideous, mocking laughter from the equation.
Ford breathes out, and when he opens his eyes he sees – for the briefest of moments – purple, alien soil. Then he blinks, and beneath his bloodied knees he sees fine yellow sand. He breathes in, surprised that it worked, and he he swears he can almost taste the salt-sea air on the back of his tongue.
If this is madness, he'll accept it. If his mind is going to come undone, then let it be like this. He won't fight it. He's not going to waste what few lucid moments he has left trying to fend off the inevitable.
Instead, he's simply going to sit there on the too-familiar beach and watch the tide roll in. Maybe if he's lucky his brother will join him, despite everything.
no subject
You know what, it's real good that Stan is the way that he is because a normal guy, someone who ain't used to sticking his foot in every doorway it'll fit and wedging the door wide open, to taking an inch and grabbing himself a good solid mile, wouldn't know how the hell to react to any of that. And Stan's going to be honest here, if only to himself (or, maybe not only himself but- you know what, fuck it, whatever), he doesn't have the first fucking clue how he even feels about a big chunk of that. What he does know is an invitation when he sees one. Hears one. Feels one with fake ESP he got by putting a fucking spaghetti strainer on his head. That distinction, too, gets filed under F for 'fuck it' - the important thing here is that he knows he's got an invite, intentional or not. He's got an in, and Stan being the way that he is means he takes it instinctively, before he can spend too much time whining to himself about what the fuck to even say to all the rest of that, all that stuff he heard/felt/knew coming out of Ford's head just now.
So he finds himself with that old familiar feeling of sand hard-packed under his butt, sand shifting under the heels of his boots. You don't wear boots like this on a beach; he hasn't really spent much time on beaches in a long time. He wiggles his heels back and forth, getting used to the feeling of it again. He looks up from his shoes, up his pants, up past the arms he's got wrapped around his knees, and over to- Well, look at that. Over to Ford.
"Shit," he says, happy at the sight, grinning. "I really did it. It's you. Not that I didn't know that, but- uh."
His smile turns into a look that's maybe a little more appropriate, a look that's kinda' wide-eyed and nervous, because he's just reminded himself that the reverse isn't true. Ford doesn't know it's Stan, not for real. Ford thinks a lot of things about Stan, apparently, but not that. Does Ford know that Stan knows that? Can he feel Stan's thoughts the way Stan can feel his? Is that not how this mind-reader thing works, or is Ford just too out of it to notice, or what?
"Look, you know what, none of that matters. None of that other stuff. You don't know who I am, that's fine. I don't blame you for thinkin' it's uh, it's not realistic enough. It ain't the way I'd of spun this if I'd had a choice, I know uh, I know I couldn't of figured out all that mad scientist shit you got stashed under that house of yours in a million years, not if I tried to, to really get all of it the way you do. I'm kind of um, I'm just tryin' to get enough of a clue to throw some shit together and uh, nothin's blowin' up in my face yet so I guess- But I'm not gonna' try to tell you all that, I'm not gonna' try to convince you of anything. 'Cause that's what a hallucination would do, see?"
"But uh, that sure was a lot you threw at me at once just now, whether I'm real or not. Do you think you can, uh, can you straighten some stuff out for me, Ford? You said, um- It kinda' felt like you think you're dyin', or some, some stupid shit like that." Stan ducks his head and a nervous giggle stutters out of him, all disbelief, because Stan didn't get this far after ten goddamn years just to lose Ford to this stupid alien world his real body's trapped on, Stan didn't come this far to lose everything that matters, again, to the latest in a long line of fuckups, a lifetime of them Stan's dropped on the highways behind him like Hansel and fuckin' Gretel and their goddamn breadcrumbs, and he looks at Ford with this nervous grin, needing to hear that this latest fuckup ain't the one that stops him finding his way home.
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Ford really hopes he's changed out of that by now. Sure, Stan's a little bulkier than him around the middle, but he's got an entire closet full of coats and jackets and other things he'll never wear again - there's bound to be something in there that will fit him.
Looking down at himself, Ford can't help but appreciate how ironic it is that, at this point, most of his clothes back home probably fit Stan better than him, now. He's not sure how much weight he's lost since this whole nightmare started, but evidently its enough to make him drop a few shirt sizes. His overcoat practically hangs on him now, and you'd think that would make him feel small, but for some reason it comes as a small, familiar comfort. It reminds him of when they were kids, him and Stan. Puberty hit them both like a ton of bricks, and they were going through clothes faster than their folks could afford. So, to save cash, they wound up buying them one joint wardrobe they could share and grow into.
It was a thrifty idea, sure, but it failed to take into account the fact that one of the boys wasn't bulking up as quickly as the other. Ford could practically swim in everything they had to wear, except of course for the sweaters which Stanley had "accidentally" shrunk in the wash.
His brother had always been good at that sort of thing, at finding a roundabout way of getting what he wanted. Stanley never applied himself at school, he never had to bother when he could rely on someone else to do it for him, but that didn't mean he was stupid. He was clever in his own way - he was a doer. He made things happen. If he wanted something badly enough he was going to find a way to get it, logic, probability, and morality be damned.
This, though, this image of his brother pretending like he's real, talking to him like he's real - Ford can only suspend his disbelief so much. And that's the damnedest thing, isn't it? That Ford knows he's not real, that he can't be real, and yet the hallucination doesn't go away. It persists, even though he's known from the beginning that it's nothing but a figment of his imagination. Ford supposes he should take that as a sign, proof that he's lost control over his own mind. If he had any sanity left, he'd be able to stop this. He'd be able to pull himself out of his own head and bring himself back into reality, back into the real, alien world he's trapped on.
He's not so sure he would want to do that, though, even if he could. As far as insanity goes, he could think of far worse ways to completely detach from reality.
"At this point, I can't really say. I don't think I can be considered a trustworthy authority on what is or isn't happening anymore."
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It's kind of sinking in for Stan now that things aren't going like he thought they would. He did it, he really did it, Ford's here and - well, kind of sane, kind of making sense, that's fine, they can work on that - but he isn't handing Stan the keys to the kingdom. Metaphorically speaking. He's not jumping to fill in all Stan's missing pieces on how that damn stupid machine of Ford's works.
Stan's view goes a little blurry just then as his concentration goes, and some part of him can feel the basement around his body, his real body, going from hot to cold and he feels the sweat keep rolling over his skin.
But that don't matter. He shoves all that away and the beach comes back clearer than any TV picture, because the only part of this that really matters is sitting right here beside him. The settings on that mind-reading pasta strainer of Ford's are solid, so he's good here until all the power in the town runs out.
So he focuses on what's important. If Stan focuses enough he can kind of still get a sense for what Ford's thinking about: them as kids, feels like, which is satisfying, and... and about laundry, for some reason, which isn't. But it doesn't feel like Ford's thinking about what Stan wants him to. Gotta' fix that.
"That's fine, y'know, I've had those days myself." He grins at his brother and it's mostly real, because the rush from actually doing this thing hasn't worn off yet. He wipes some sweat off his forehead, doesn't feel anything, and looks at his hand, but- yeah, that's right. That part ain't real.
Well, it is. But it ain't real right now.
"Think I might be havin' one today," he adds, still grinning, and then tones the grin down into something more low-key and, with luck, reassuring. "So I guess I oughta' keep it simple, for both our sakes. You only really gotta' answer me this one thing: Do you wanna' go home?"
It's not the only thing he needs to know, of course it's not. But it's the hook. That's how you deal with people too confused to say no or just people who don't know what they want. You make it simple and obvious. It hypes 'em up. Ford feels like he could use some hyping up today, which is fine. Stan'll remind Ford why he needs to tell his brother everything and then Ford will do it and then things'll really get going.
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He blinks slowly, wondering if maybe he's just so out of touch that he can't tell the difference between a genuine question and a rhetorical one anymore, before deciding it doesn't matter either way.
Nothing does, really. Not anymore.
"This is as close to home as I'll ever be."
His house, his world, the life he lived there - it's all lost to him now. He'll never have any of that back. Home, though, that's something different. Home is a little less concrete, it's more a feeling than a place. It's a sense of warmth and belonging and safety. It's a familiar comfort, a nameless aura that somehow makes existence feel just a little less harrowing.
That house, that little town with all its wonders, it had been a wonderful place to live. It had been everything he had always dreamed of as a boy, everything he had aspired to have as a young man, but it had never really been home.
It's ironic, now that he thinks about it. Or maybe just sad. In all the years he's spent in Gravity Falls, in college, he's never felt quite at home as he does now with the wind at his back, the sun on his face, and his brother at his side - even despite knowing it's all in his mind.
...God, he's glad Stanley isn't actually here to see any of this, or anyone else for that matter. He sounds pathetic even to his own ears.
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Emotion floats into the air of their shared mental space like a smell, like Stanley hung up an old air freshener, or maybe let out a fart; the air pollution in this case smells like confusion, worry, like the sudden and dizzying nosedive of a sure thing gone sour. That should have been a simple question, but-
"Heh. Trust you to make the easiest question in the world sound all complicated." Stan's tone ain't happy, not really, but what it definitely is is fond. Okay. He takes a breath, and then he tries again. He can give this a second try. Stanley Pines is made of second tries. And sometimes third tries. And then sometimes fourth- Well. Yeah.
Find another angle. He can do that.
"You mean this is good enough for you?" Stan waves a hand through the air in front of him and, because he wants it to, for a second the air in the wake of his hand seems like it's tearing open to show a sight that's not a sight, shows a rip straight to the feeling/knowledge/being that makes up this place. This mindscape jazz ain't half fucked up, makes Stan's mind leak out a faint memory of a couple of his weirder trips, looking at/feeling it out there in front of him, but he can make it work for him. For both of them. Then tear fades quick and there's nothing but the sand and the sea and the long unreachable horizon out in front of them, which Stan makes a face at.
"I mean, to each their own or whatever, but it sure ain't good enough for me, and I wanna' go home as much as the next guy. Maybe see if any of our old spots are still open, would'ja' like that?"
He reaches out and gives Ford a tentative elbow nudge, grinning. Now on to the clincher. "But I can't get there without my bro. I mean, if this here is your thing that's fine, but why don't ya' wanna' try a little bit just to help me out?"
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But then, he supposes it says just as much about him, if not more, that the thing that actually gets him to jump a little is the gentle nudge to his elbow. He jolts slightly as though stung by an unexpected static shock, his eyes cutting away from the ocean to look at Stan, as though he only just noticed he was there.
That - he felt that. He felt that.
Recreating a memory in your head, painting a picture and putting in all the right textures and colors, that's one thing. Reaching out to touch the canvas and having something inside it touch you back is another entirely.
God, he really is losing his fucking mind, isn't he? He doesn't know why the thought suddenly scares him now, after he had been so accepting of it a moment ago, but it does. Maybe it just didn't seem- ha - real until now. Like watching a car-crash in real time, you know objectively that you're seeing something horrible, but it's not until after it's over that you begin to process the full brunt of the situation.
Ford takes in a short, steadying breath to curb his unrest, reminding himself that losing his mind is no reason to lose his cool.
Then, he listens. He thinks about what Stan is saying and why, tries to suss out the reason he's here at all, aside from the fact he wants him to be. He's clearly only here to say what he wants him to, and assuming this complex hallucination is going to follow a logical progression, then this is...
Ha.
The corner of Ford's mouth twitches upwards in a show of wry amusement, so quick and fleeting that one could easily mistake it for little more than a muscle spasm. This is all just an elaborate way for him to assuage his guilt before the end, to do in his mind what he never did in reality.
It would be funny, if it weren't so pathetic.
"You never asked." He begins, his voice quiet as ever. "I would have helped if you had, if you had asked me to. But you never did."
He pauses to wet his lips, the dull taste of copper sitting heavy on his tongue. He supposes that's what he gets for biting them all to hell.
"I thought you didn't ask because you didn't need it. I told myself if you wanted me, or my help, you'd ask for it."
He breathes out again, this time not to steady himself but to settle his stomach and the hot, twisting feeling tying it up in knots.
"I never stopped to think that maybe you didn't know you could."
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Okay. Shit. No.
Stan packs up the face he's making and puts it away, because getting ticked off ain't how you talk a guy down and he knows that. He knows that.
Now. Okay. Out comes the friendly, accommodating Stan, folding the angry, disbelieving Stan up and, poof! Making him disappear. Like he was never there. Okay.
"But what if I'm askin' now? What if there's somethin' I can't do without that big old brain of yours?" Stan raises a fist, wanting to knock on Ford's head for effect, but Stan didn't miss that whole reaction the last time he touched Ford and his fist freezes, turns around, and knocks on his own instead. "I mean, there's only so much goin' on up here. I can figure out a way to find you but I can't, uh, I can't do anything with that. Not on my own. I might not'a' asked before, but I'm askin' now. Help me."
He wants to let that sit - it's a good, dramatic finale - but a nervous smile comes out instead, an apologetic tone, a question he really, really doesn't want to hear the answer to but can't not ask. "The, uh. The offer's still good, ain't it?"