Stanley hears the noises of his brother slowly waking up beside him and thinks about how weird this is. It'd be a dream if it weren't so real. It'd be real if it wasn't so much like a dream. Stanley listens and doesn't think and finds himself wondering: Was he always like this? Was he always like this and I just didn't know?
He thinks back a second, trying to remember how long it'd taken Ford to get out of bed, before. Being sure of that part, at least, isn't hard. He hauls himself up, swings his feet onto the floor, and ducks his head, ruffling his hair to distract himself from the way his head kinda' wants to float off his shoulders and up out a window somewhere. On the drive here he had a few breaks for naps and that woulda' been enough but then - well, fuck, life got in the way, didn't it?
So. Life happened, and after that there'd been the about-a-day he'd spent sure as shit not sleeping, and now he's not so sure he's set up the right way to deal with the conversation that's coming. Hey, why not be fair; he probably never will be.
But, hey, it doesn't matter. There's coffee. If Ford can just up and decide sleep is for other, lesser mortals, Stanley can can do it too. "Five fuckin' days," he mutters, facing the wall rather than his brother and not sure just which of them he's talking to. "Sheesh. The crazy probably helps, don't it."
Stanley laughs low and bitter and stands up, stretches his back out and feels a scar or two pull at their regular places and speaks, probably still addressing the wall ahead. What was it he used ta' say? Yeah, Stan knows this one. His lines in this part go somethin' like: "Did you get lost in there, poindexter? I think your big, strong brother might haveta' dive in to the rescue."
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He thinks back a second, trying to remember how long it'd taken Ford to get out of bed, before. Being sure of that part, at least, isn't hard. He hauls himself up, swings his feet onto the floor, and ducks his head, ruffling his hair to distract himself from the way his head kinda' wants to float off his shoulders and up out a window somewhere. On the drive here he had a few breaks for naps and that woulda' been enough but then - well, fuck, life got in the way, didn't it?
So. Life happened, and after that there'd been the about-a-day he'd spent sure as shit not sleeping, and now he's not so sure he's set up the right way to deal with the conversation that's coming. Hey, why not be fair; he probably never will be.
But, hey, it doesn't matter. There's coffee. If Ford can just up and decide sleep is for other, lesser mortals, Stanley can can do it too. "Five fuckin' days," he mutters, facing the wall rather than his brother and not sure just which of them he's talking to. "Sheesh. The crazy probably helps, don't it."
Stanley laughs low and bitter and stands up, stretches his back out and feels a scar or two pull at their regular places and speaks, probably still addressing the wall ahead. What was it he used ta' say? Yeah, Stan knows this one. His lines in this part go somethin' like: "Did you get lost in there, poindexter? I think your big, strong brother might haveta' dive in to the rescue."