Luckily for Ford - for both of them, maybe - sepsis doesn't mean the same thing to Stan that it does to him. To Stan sepsis is something doctors say on TV, and he is so used to dismissing it as meaningless PHD talk that the word doesn't really penetrate, and he is too focused on keeping his shit something almost like together to notice Ford's 'oh shit' moment on saying it.
He's too focused on other things, too. On the thoughts floating around in his head, dangerous ones, because the plaster of normal Stan's tried to put over all this is cracking. It feels like the truth is about to spill out from behind it, at least some part of the truths they've been skating over since he got here.
"I ain't worried about your pretty face." He glances back at Ford, then down, and then, "I shoulda' been there," he says, real quiet.
"Whenever that happened. Wherever it was. If I'd been braver, if I'd called- I had your number, same way I got your address. You need to call that school a' yours, tell 'em to up their security, 'cause it really blows."
He swallows and turns around to sit heavily on the side of the bed, looking up at the ceiling. "Back when you lived there, in your dorm. I had your number, and I'd call it sometimes when things got uh, got rough, an' I had enough change. But I couldn't- I couldn't. You always sounded, you sounded normal. You were never meant to know about that stuff. You, you were meant to go to college and wow everyone with your big old brain and change the world, and I'd- Once I could come back- Then everything'd be fine. It woulda' been, if I'd done my part. But I blew it. I blew it again. God, I'm sorry. It don't change nothin', but-"
His chest moves with a couple big, quick breaths, and for about the dozenth time in the past twenty-four hours his eyes are less than dry. It's got to be somethin' in this room, dust or something. There's no other reason two grown men oughta' have to tear up so much.
no subject
He's too focused on other things, too. On the thoughts floating around in his head, dangerous ones, because the plaster of normal Stan's tried to put over all this is cracking. It feels like the truth is about to spill out from behind it, at least some part of the truths they've been skating over since he got here.
"I ain't worried about your pretty face." He glances back at Ford, then down, and then, "I shoulda' been there," he says, real quiet.
"Whenever that happened. Wherever it was. If I'd been braver, if I'd called- I had your number, same way I got your address. You need to call that school a' yours, tell 'em to up their security, 'cause it really blows."
He swallows and turns around to sit heavily on the side of the bed, looking up at the ceiling. "Back when you lived there, in your dorm. I had your number, and I'd call it sometimes when things got uh, got rough, an' I had enough change. But I couldn't- I couldn't. You always sounded, you sounded normal. You were never meant to know about that stuff. You, you were meant to go to college and wow everyone with your big old brain and change the world, and I'd- Once I could come back- Then everything'd be fine. It woulda' been, if I'd done my part. But I blew it. I blew it again. God, I'm sorry. It don't change nothin', but-"
His chest moves with a couple big, quick breaths, and for about the dozenth time in the past twenty-four hours his eyes are less than dry. It's got to be somethin' in this room, dust or something. There's no other reason two grown men oughta' have to tear up so much.