goodguygrifter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goodguygrifter) wrote2016-08-10 06:13 pm
goodguygrifter) wrote2016-08-10 06:13 pm
Entry tags:
stanbill drama for sixfingerednerd
So this little bastard's in front of him, okay, a kraken or some shit, and she's having a little tantrum, tentacles waving everywhere, that's fine. That would all be fine, if she wasn't waving them at his ship. His ship. One of those tentacles slaps between him and Ford and he hits the deck, rolls and looks over at Ford, wide-eyed. And that's it, alright? No one would disagree, right, there's nothin' wrong with trying to take a little control back, not for his brother, on his ship. His wide eyes narrow, and he gets to his feet.
"Aww, did we wake the widdle baby from her nap?" He stands there, feet set wide, arms on his hips, and his voice carries somehow, all the way from his mouth to that big slimy face, all high up. "Look, how old are you, not even a thousand? I know that first millenium's rough, kid, but life's gonna' go a whole lot easier for you if you learn to recognize the big leagues when you see 'em."
The kraken shrieks and flails, trying to smash the boat again. This time, the tentacle heads for exactly the place he last saw Ford.
She's not just trying to break his boat, he realizes. She's trying to break Ford, and Stanley feels something shift in him, his face is a scowl and he reaches out and his fist, closed over nothing, tightens. The kraken shrieks again and this time she ain't angry, and Stan's scowl turns into something with too many teeth in it.
"Warned you, didn't I," he asks, cheerful now that things are kinda' going his way. "Look, I'll make you a deal! Come back in another thousand years, try that again, maybe I'll even give you a free swing! But for now it's time to stop that little tantrum, okay?"
"Hey, Stanford!" He calls it over his shoulder, not turning his head to look. "You wanted to give this kid a little interview, right? Do a little of that research you like so much? Well, go ahead and ask all the questions you want, 'cause I think we got ourselves our first captive audience!"
"Aww, did we wake the widdle baby from her nap?" He stands there, feet set wide, arms on his hips, and his voice carries somehow, all the way from his mouth to that big slimy face, all high up. "Look, how old are you, not even a thousand? I know that first millenium's rough, kid, but life's gonna' go a whole lot easier for you if you learn to recognize the big leagues when you see 'em."
The kraken shrieks and flails, trying to smash the boat again. This time, the tentacle heads for exactly the place he last saw Ford.
She's not just trying to break his boat, he realizes. She's trying to break Ford, and Stanley feels something shift in him, his face is a scowl and he reaches out and his fist, closed over nothing, tightens. The kraken shrieks again and this time she ain't angry, and Stan's scowl turns into something with too many teeth in it.
"Warned you, didn't I," he asks, cheerful now that things are kinda' going his way. "Look, I'll make you a deal! Come back in another thousand years, try that again, maybe I'll even give you a free swing! But for now it's time to stop that little tantrum, okay?"
"Hey, Stanford!" He calls it over his shoulder, not turning his head to look. "You wanted to give this kid a little interview, right? Do a little of that research you like so much? Well, go ahead and ask all the questions you want, 'cause I think we got ourselves our first captive audience!"
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As it stands, he's having about as much luck talking with the beautiful abomination as he usually does with cycloptopi, which is to say - none at all.
She lets out an ear-piercing shriek and lashes out at him, one massive limb hurtling downward with enough force to crack the ship in half. Ford gets the hell out of dodge as quickly as he can by lunging to the side, using the momentum to propel him forward as he twists, instinctively turning his shoulder to the ground so he can roll off of it and get back on his feet without having to scramble and waste precious time he can't afford to spend.
He fully expects the boat to be split in half before he can find his footing, but to his shock, that doesn't happen. The boat doesn't even take a hit. Ford turns around quickly, wondering what in the hell is happening - only to immediately wish he didn't know. Over the roar of the ocean and the screaming of the kraken, Ford hears his brother's voice, he sees his brother talking and making words, but those words aren't his. Neither is the unholy force he's using to keep the kraken at bay - and God, just thinking that makes him feel ill, let alone seeing it in action.
It's been happening for a while now, Stanley knowing things he shouldn't, being able to do things no mortal man ever could. It's all been small things until now, though, little things that Ford could ignore or explain away or excuse. Lifting a few wallets out of the pockets of unsuspecting tourists with his mind was one thing; stopping a massive eldritch creature in its tracks through sheer force of will is another matter entirely.
The boat rocks violently beneath the torrential waves, and for the first time in a long while, Ford finds himself feeling unsafe in the water, unsafe in this tiny boat in the middle of the ocean with no one around for miles save for a monster and his brother.
And the kraken."Stanley." He tries not to sound as alarmed as he feels, and comes up a bit short. "You need to stop what you're doing. You need to stop right now."
It's not a request.
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His concern is honest, and it is total. The grip he doesn't think about, the one that comes from his inside and goes out, somehow, with no muscles or bones or fingers or anything to reach out with, Stan sort of expects it to stay tight around the kraken's more vulnerable meaty bits even if he's not paying attention. If it didn't he wouldn't know, though, because as it happens he ain't really paying much attention, because he turned, because he's taking a couple steps toward Ford and trying to look him over. Stan's hand isn't a fist anymore, it uncurls to reach out toward Ford, and then to reach out for the railing when the ship starts to rock, probably in those big waves. His voice don't lose that weird, flat quality, that feel like the sound waves are moving straight from Stan's lips to whatever ear he wants them to and just decided to skip that boring acoustics bullshit in between, but it's a little quieter, there's a little more actual voice behind it.
"Shit, sixer, she didn't really hurt you, did she?" What gets him is Ford's voice, something in it. It's something like fear- or pain? It's gotta' be pain. And Ford- hearing either used to be real rare, back when they were kids, and it's even rarer now. If anyone else sounded like that Stan might just think they were a little nervous, but Ford, hearing Ford like that shifts the gears inside him in some way he don't really understand or think about. If Ford sounds like that something's got to be up, that's all that's going on inside Stan's head for a second. Just that, and nothing else.
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His eyes follow his brother's hand, and there's another first for him right there. He's never felt afraid on the boat before, until now, and he's never felt afraid of his brother's touch either - and yet here he is, eyeing it like its some sort of unknown, potentially dangerous beast.
It makes him feel a little sick, realizing that, realizing he feels almost relieved when that hand reaches for the railing instead of him.
"No, no, I'm fine." He is most certainly not fine, actually, but that's not the fault of the kraken. "That's not why I -"
He makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his hand moving to catch the railing as another particularly violent wave rocks the boat. Behind them, the Kraken gurgles and flails, bringing Ford's attention back to it.
"You need to let her go. Whatever you're doing, however you're doing it - it has to stop." Before you get a taste for it, he thinks, but doesn't dare say.
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There's a screech behind him. He looks at his fist, kind of surprised it hadn't just magically continued to do its thing while he wasn't thinking about it, but that's all he has time for. An especially bad wave rocks the ship and Stan knows, doesn't question how, just knows, that it means the kraken's trying to get closer, in range to use more than just those tentacles. The beak, maybe. He knows that, but he can't do anything about it yet. All he's got time for is seeing the ship rock, and another tentacle - with all those barnacles crusted over it, sharp and deadly on their own, the huge suckers, the whole thing about as wide as his car, and that's the small end - it's heading straight for Ford. Again.
Well, who knows, there might be another one heading for him, too. He doesn't think about that. He just raises his hand again, "Oh no you don't," and tries something else. He tries to grab hold of Ford, this time. Maybe to move him out of the way, maybe just to protect him, somehow, he don't know. He doesn't know. He just does it.
(ooc: in the interests of not godmoding i think we can say bill's powers in a human body might be a bit wonky, so Ford can probably avoid the whole psychic grip thing by moving or getting behind something or any other way you like)
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That's not what scares Ford, though. That's not what makes his heart suddenly miss a beat. That honor goes to the pressure coming down on him on all sides, the one lifting him off the ground and pulling him through the air like he was a child's plaything.
He fights against its grip, he fights like hell even as it pulls him out of the Kraken's path, shoves him towards safety before that massive tentacle can come down and turn him into a bloody pulp. He fights until he wins and he falls, dropping back onto the deck like a stone, heavy and without any of his usual grace. That says something, probably, about how unfocused he is, about how unsettled that little trial-run as a ken doll made him, but he doesn't waste time thinking about any of that. He doesn't waste time worrying how he must look, scrambling to his knees and reaching for the gun at his hip before he's even on his feet, his finger on the trigger before he's even lined his sights.
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Stan's never been a gun kinda' guy. Even once he started wearing glasses on the regular and could actually see there'd never been any point in trying to get good at it, he always figured he probably still couldn't hit the broad side of a barn and holding one always gave him the creepy crawlies, anyway. Nothing good has ever happened after Stan Pines picked up a gun, and it ain't usually good news when other people start pickin' 'em up and wavin' 'em around, either. But here Ford is with his gun, the one he's so good with, and Ford got out of that cool new psychic grip thing Stan had been using to protect him, and here Ford is standing there like the big-deal hero he's been since he stepped out of the portal, using that stupid gun to protect their home.
"You know what, I can play too," he mutters, doing an awkward roll sideways and forward onto his hands and knees and then rubbing his hands together, watching the blue glow building between them, not really aware of the way that light plays off that satisfied smile building on his face. Sure, he's only done little shit with this before, pulling wallets out of people's pockets, moving ropes and rocks into people's way to make 'em trip, but there's no reason he can't do this too. He can do this, and then maybe Stan'll be the one to save their butts, for once.
"Hey Ford, I got a surprise for ya'!" Stan raises one hand in the air, gets to his feet, and pulls it sharp to one side, balling his hand into a fist. All the tentacles on one side of the shrieking thing start to glow a little and raise up and pull to one side. Stan does the same with his other hand and the tentacles on the other side go all bunched up and pulled out, too. "A little like pinnin' butterflies, ain't it? Go on, take another shot Ford, anywhere you want! You ain't gonna' get a better chance!"
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Stan doesn't mean anything by that. It's just a comparison, a harmless figure of speech - like shooting fish in a barrel. It's not like he chose those words deliberately, and with malicious intent. It's not as if he knew that they would hit too close to home, that they would dig under his skin and chill him to the very bone.
Ford stares down the sight of his gun, but his hand is shaking to badly for him to get a steady shot. He blames the cold - not only does it feel like his veins have turned to ice, but his vision has started to blur. His glasses must have fogged up.
He grits his teeth, brings his free hand up to swipe at his glasses, but his vision doesn't clear. His hand doesn't still either, not even when he tries to steady it by grabbing hold of his wrist. He can't get a good shot like this, he'll hit the kraken but it won't be a clean kill. He'll have to shoot it two, maybe three or even four times. It would only take a few seconds. The Kraken wouldn't suffer long -
He just has to pull the trigger. He just has to take his eyes off the harsh blue glow binding it in place and ignore the sudden heaviness of his wrists and the tightness around his throat and shoot.
And shoot he does - six shots, all in rapid succession. Each one misses the Kraken narrowly, leaving shallow surface lesions but nothing more. Ford lowers his gun, chest heaving, and raises his voice so that he can hear himself over the roar of blood in his ears.
"Let it go, Stanley. It knows what will happen if it attacks us again."
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Then he lets go and, despite everything, he's a little surprised when it runs off. Swims off. Surprised, yeah, and then gratified, and he watches it disappear into the horizon with a smile before turning back to his brother. He starts walking closer, glancing at the ruin of their ship and, as he goes, flicking a hand to pull some of the wreckage back into shape.
"What was that?" He lets the confusion float back onto his face while the fingers of one hand twist in complex patterns, melting the cracks and seams away from the broken wood like they were never there. They weren't. Maybe Stan should be thinking, wow, this sure is a big improvement for a guy who could only pick pockets with this whole power thing before, but he isn't. He's just thinking about his brother, and turning back time for all those little wrecked areas of their ship with about the same level of thought he'd give to tying his shoe. In a few seconds, if Stan isn't interrupted, the Stan O' War II will be just like it was before. Literally.
After a couple steps Stan looks down and up over Ford, and he frowns. "She didn't really hurt you, did she? You shoulda' told me, I woulda' kept her around to learn a real lesson."
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He moves without thinking, and he damn near steps right through that sizable hole in the deck of the ship before its suddenly stitched back together beneath his boot - the splintered wood melds back together seamlessly, all those broken and battered pieces fusing into solid, sturdy planks. Within moments the ship looks good as new, like it had never been touched.
Ford can't help but wonder if Stan knows he can probably do that in reverse, too. If he really wanted to, if the mood ever struck him, he could probably tear things apart and stitch them back together again, and again, and again and--
Ford Swallows hard against the sudden burning feeling in the back of his throat and grimaces against the taste of bile. It's nothing, probably just seasickness. Nevermind that he's never been seasick even once, not even when they were children with sensitive stomachs and weak constitutions. There's a first time for everything, right? Right.
"I'm fine, Stanley."
He doesn't turn around, he doesn't even spare a look over his shoulder. He just keeps walking forward, his gait tense and stilted as he makes his way towards the cabin and prays that his brother doesn't follow.
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"Oh yeah? Then why'd you end that so easy? You coulda' made that shot with your eyes closed." Just one more thing Ford's better at, but Stan's never been able to hit the broad side of a barn with anything smaller than, say, a car, let alone a gun. So you know what, he's almost used to the way Ford outclasses him with his body now, too, instead of just his brain, and if Stan can use that little factoid to prop his argument up he almost don't have to think about that almost or how much it still gets to him.
"You're not gonna' shut yourself up in the dark and pretend you're not licking your wounds all by your lonesome, are you? 'Cause I got to break it to ya', Sixer, this ain't the Shack, there's no creepy isolated basement on the Stan O' War and, you know, there ain't really any locks."
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Had it been any other time, Ford would have meant that as a compliment. He would have spoken those words with fondness and amusement instead of snapping like an intimidated dog masking its fear with aggression. He might have sounded a little proud, even, proud of his morally-dubious yet undeniably talented brother who could probably break into Fort Knox with nothing but a pair of bolt cutters and a mouthful of liquid courage.
God, what Ford wouldn't give for a drink himself right about now.
Shaking his head, Ford roughs a hand through his hair and tries to banish that thought from his mind before it can take root. He's not a young thirty-something anymore; he can't afford to keep putting his liver through the wringer, and if he falls off the wagon again God only knows when he'll be able to climb back on it.
"...I'm going to check the charter." He says belatedly, his hand resting heavy on the handle of the cabin door. "If we don't get back on course, we won't make it to the next port until midnight."
It's a horrible excuse. The scrape with the Kraken didn't last long enough to cause any significant delay, and Stan knows it. Ford knows he knows it, but maybe if he gets real damn lucky his brother will take the obvious hint for what it is and just let it go.
Yeah. Ford doesn't need to be a genius to know the probability of that happening is abysmal.
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But with Stan, surprise don't stick around too long. It usually moves out pretty quick to make room for something else.
"Oh come on," he says, not thinking about the blue hand-shaped rope of force he stretches out in front of him toward the handle under Ford's hand, wanting to flick the lock closed. "You're gonna' feed me a story like that? Look, I did everything right with that kraken thing, better than right, so you can't be that ticked off with me."