Stanley looks at Ford, eyes wide, opens his mouth-
But what? What? There's no magicking up some damn thread and like hell he's going to leave the fucking room to look for it and let Ford finish carving his own head up like a fucking turkey. So Stan, Stan'll just-
Ford knows what he's doing, right? That thought should make everything in Stanley rise up in a howl of pissed-off protest. He's got no idea, for example, if he's ever gonna' get all this blood off of his fucking boots. (It seems like a stupid thing to think about right now but that sort of thing can get you in a whole lot of trouble, sometimes.) But the thing is, ok, the thing is that Stanley is scared. He's goddamn scared, alright, and when it comes down to it Ford is his brother. Ford is the smart one, the one with the plan. When they were kids he heard Ford's voice so often, sure and quick and confident, telling Stanley just what to do and it'd gotten them out of so much shit.
That's the thing about panic. The thing Stanley didn't know, because until now Ford's never been nearby, never been even a shadow of a thought in his head, when he feels it. But the thing about panic is that you go with your first thought, you go with your instinct.
Ford's voice is confident, for all he also sounds like he sorta' wants to pass out right here. It's Ford's voice, and it expects to be obeyed. And Stanley is scared.
He picks up the cauter.
"Tell me how to use it," Stanley says, and all the panic and fear is gone from his voice now, tucked away somewhere safe and familiar where no one else can see it. The only thing Stanley's voice sounds now is determined. "I don't care how many fingers you have, none of 'em are steady enough to weld your stupid head back together."
He lifts his chin to stare Ford down, trying to look more like someone who will wait until the idiot in front of him falls over from blood loss, if he needs to, than like a little kid who sorta' wants to break down and freak out and scream some more. Stanley's got to be honest with himself here, he doesn't think he really succeeds.
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But what? What? There's no magicking up some damn thread and like hell he's going to leave the fucking room to look for it and let Ford finish carving his own head up like a fucking turkey. So Stan, Stan'll just-
Ford knows what he's doing, right? That thought should make everything in Stanley rise up in a howl of pissed-off protest. He's got no idea, for example, if he's ever gonna' get all this blood off of his fucking boots. (It seems like a stupid thing to think about right now but that sort of thing can get you in a whole lot of trouble, sometimes.) But the thing is, ok, the thing is that Stanley is scared. He's goddamn scared, alright, and when it comes down to it Ford is his brother. Ford is the smart one, the one with the plan. When they were kids he heard Ford's voice so often, sure and quick and confident, telling Stanley just what to do and it'd gotten them out of so much shit.
That's the thing about panic. The thing Stanley didn't know, because until now Ford's never been nearby, never been even a shadow of a thought in his head, when he feels it. But the thing about panic is that you go with your first thought, you go with your instinct.
Ford's voice is confident, for all he also sounds like he sorta' wants to pass out right here. It's Ford's voice, and it expects to be obeyed. And Stanley is scared.
He picks up the cauter.
"Tell me how to use it," Stanley says, and all the panic and fear is gone from his voice now, tucked away somewhere safe and familiar where no one else can see it. The only thing Stanley's voice sounds now is determined. "I don't care how many fingers you have, none of 'em are steady enough to weld your stupid head back together."
He lifts his chin to stare Ford down, trying to look more like someone who will wait until the idiot in front of him falls over from blood loss, if he needs to, than like a little kid who sorta' wants to break down and freak out and scream some more. Stanley's got to be honest with himself here, he doesn't think he really succeeds.