"I wasn't-" That last phrase is enough. It's plenty. It's more than he wants. Stanley opens his mouth. Stanley draws back. Stanley's eyes flick over to the sink, and over to the scalpel sitting there.
"Stanford Filibrick Pines!" That just comes out too, high and furious and panicked and nasal and god, he's never sounded so much like Ma but shit, maybe Stanford ought to be hearing her right now. Good thing she's not here, she shouldn't have to see this but shit, he wishes she was to help him deal with it. He's wished that a time or two over the years but never so much as he does now, with his brother bent over a sink saying 'you weren't supposed to see this' to him.
"What the shitting mother of fuck were you even- You know what, don't even wanna' hear it." He's closing one of his hands around Ford's wrist now, trying to twist the other around to grab the hand on his sleeve, and making every attempt at pulling both of Ford's arms away from whatever they're doing so he can fold them behind him. That kind of hold becomes instinctive after a while, when some crazy little motherfucker starts messing with shit he don't want you to notice.
"Have you ever seen the kinda' shit people do when they say people aren't supposed ta' see it? Do you got any fuckin' idea? Just show me this goddamn- What the hell is this, oy, fuckin'-"
If he is not interrupted, Stanley will continue in this vein. And if, after the initial rush of anger, that cursing starts to sound shaky, just a little? More than a little? Well, fuck, ok, Stanford is in no goddamn position to comment. Stanley continues to try and move Ford's hand and the fucking bloodsoaked rag and get a clear look, although the more little bits he sees the more he's sure he really, really doesn't wanna' know.
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"Stanford Filibrick Pines!" That just comes out too, high and furious and panicked and nasal and god, he's never sounded so much like Ma but shit, maybe Stanford ought to be hearing her right now. Good thing she's not here, she shouldn't have to see this but shit, he wishes she was to help him deal with it. He's wished that a time or two over the years but never so much as he does now, with his brother bent over a sink saying 'you weren't supposed to see this' to him.
"What the shitting mother of fuck were you even- You know what, don't even wanna' hear it." He's closing one of his hands around Ford's wrist now, trying to twist the other around to grab the hand on his sleeve, and making every attempt at pulling both of Ford's arms away from whatever they're doing so he can fold them behind him. That kind of hold becomes instinctive after a while, when some crazy little motherfucker starts messing with shit he don't want you to notice.
"Have you ever seen the kinda' shit people do when they say people aren't supposed ta' see it? Do you got any fuckin' idea? Just show me this goddamn- What the hell is this, oy, fuckin'-"
If he is not interrupted, Stanley will continue in this vein. And if, after the initial rush of anger, that cursing starts to sound shaky, just a little? More than a little? Well, fuck, ok, Stanford is in no goddamn position to comment. Stanley continues to try and move Ford's hand and the fucking bloodsoaked rag and get a clear look, although the more little bits he sees the more he's sure he really, really doesn't wanna' know.