"Mosesmotheroffuck," he breathes it out all in one word because listening to Ford means he's started looking at Ford too, at the rest of him, not just at the metal and, god, all that blood, and Stanley looks at his brother's glassy eyes and sees him wobble like he's about to fall right over and "S-shit," Stanley whispers to himself, puts a hand on his brother's back and tries to lower him onto the closed lid of the toilet, trying to lean him so he doesn't fall right off and split his crazy goddamn head open. Again. Fuck.
"Just, shut the fuck up, okay, shut-" All that frustration, that panicked anger behind Stan's yell a second ago, it's like seeing Ford about to pass the fuck out was a push only it pushed him back, and Stan's right back to plain old panic again. He turns in a circle a couple times, hand over his mouth, and has no idea where to look.
"I need a needle, I need thread," he mutters, and of course he's talking to himself now, who the fuck else is there here to talk to? "Do you even sew? Shit, how the fuck-"
He spins back around to face Ford, bending and putting the side of his hand to the idiot's face to try and turn it upward, make Ford see and hear him no matter what the idiot's done to his own brain. "What the fuck were you plannin' on doing, huh? Just wishing it all healed up again? Do you have anything? Do you even have tape?" Panic makes Stan's voice all thin and wobbly again, except now there's no anger to take it anywhere and nothing to do with it, just stand here and try not to fucking lose his shit.
His shit might be lost already. Just like Ford's brain, which is probably dug out all in little bits hidden in that blood puddle over there. Ha ha. Fuck.
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"Just, shut the fuck up, okay, shut-" All that frustration, that panicked anger behind Stan's yell a second ago, it's like seeing Ford about to pass the fuck out was a push only it pushed him back, and Stan's right back to plain old panic again. He turns in a circle a couple times, hand over his mouth, and has no idea where to look.
"I need a needle, I need thread," he mutters, and of course he's talking to himself now, who the fuck else is there here to talk to? "Do you even sew? Shit, how the fuck-"
He spins back around to face Ford, bending and putting the side of his hand to the idiot's face to try and turn it upward, make Ford see and hear him no matter what the idiot's done to his own brain. "What the fuck were you plannin' on doing, huh? Just wishing it all healed up again? Do you have anything? Do you even have tape?" Panic makes Stan's voice all thin and wobbly again, except now there's no anger to take it anywhere and nothing to do with it, just stand here and try not to fucking lose his shit.
His shit might be lost already. Just like Ford's brain, which is probably dug out all in little bits hidden in that blood puddle over there. Ha ha. Fuck.