Stan does catch, nonplussed, and takes a look inside the wallet, counting everything inside in seconds. Once that's done, though, he looks right back up at Ford because he can't believe what he just heard. He can't believe it.
"The- sleep? You think that's the worst thing goin' on here?" His mouth hangs open, because he's still working his way through that, that itsy bitsy little fact. That his brother - that any human being can be so fucking thick. His voice is rising slowly, sounding higher and louder, and he sounds like onea' them sitcom wives really workin' herself up to rip her hubby a new one because he threw his tighty-whities on her new flower arrangement, or whatever. But that don't matter. It really fuckin' don't.
"I called a couple loony bins while you were takin' your hundred year nap," he says, slipping the wallet into a pocket and thinking, yeah, guess that talk I didn't wanna' have is happening now. It's coming out of his mouth without him even thinking about it, and it's happening now. That's fine, it's just fine with him. "Told 'em I was a doctor callin' to consult. Know what they said? They said you're a danger to yourself and others, Ford. You know what happens when people start sayin' shit like that? You know where people go?"
That talkin' to the wall and not looking too close at Ford and sayin' all the right things shit, that plan's fucked off to parts unknown because there's a switch on Stanley's brain right now, one that switches his already scrawny self control right off and it feels like Ford went up to that switch and just fucking stamped on it.
"They go where I'll never fuckin' see 'em again! And that's if someone found you! If I hadn't walked in on you in that fuckin' bathroom you'd be-" It's meant to be a push a shove to Ford's chest because the idiot deserves it, because Stan is so goddamn pissed off, he is angry, but somehow his hands end up twisted all around in Ford's stiff, awful shirt, dried blood flaking off it over Stan's skin and he has to take a breath, swallow hard.
"You fuckin' son of a bitch. You didn't fuckin' th-think of that, did... did..." Stan's hands won't move from Ford's shirt and he stares down at them and swallows again, feeling big, heavy breaths moving through his chest.
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"The- sleep? You think that's the worst thing goin' on here?" His mouth hangs open, because he's still working his way through that, that itsy bitsy little fact. That his brother - that any human being can be so fucking thick. His voice is rising slowly, sounding higher and louder, and he sounds like onea' them sitcom wives really workin' herself up to rip her hubby a new one because he threw his tighty-whities on her new flower arrangement, or whatever. But that don't matter. It really fuckin' don't.
"I called a couple loony bins while you were takin' your hundred year nap," he says, slipping the wallet into a pocket and thinking, yeah, guess that talk I didn't wanna' have is happening now. It's coming out of his mouth without him even thinking about it, and it's happening now. That's fine, it's just fine with him. "Told 'em I was a doctor callin' to consult. Know what they said? They said you're a danger to yourself and others, Ford. You know what happens when people start sayin' shit like that? You know where people go?"
That talkin' to the wall and not looking too close at Ford and sayin' all the right things shit, that plan's fucked off to parts unknown because there's a switch on Stanley's brain right now, one that switches his already scrawny self control right off and it feels like Ford went up to that switch and just fucking stamped on it.
"They go where I'll never fuckin' see 'em again! And that's if someone found you! If I hadn't walked in on you in that fuckin' bathroom you'd be-" It's meant to be a push a shove to Ford's chest because the idiot deserves it, because Stan is so goddamn pissed off, he is angry, but somehow his hands end up twisted all around in Ford's stiff, awful shirt, dried blood flaking off it over Stan's skin and he has to take a breath, swallow hard.
"You fuckin' son of a bitch. You didn't fuckin' th-think of that, did... did..." Stan's hands won't move from Ford's shirt and he stares down at them and swallows again, feeling big, heavy breaths moving through his chest.