Stan doesn't think about the words as more than a casual phrase when he says them, he doesn't realize they might be a little too close to home until Ford says it and Stan hears I trust you. He stops in his tracks, stares, open-mouthed, at his brother's back. It's almost a relief when he realizes Ford's asleep, a guilty relief, because he may not have walked further than this room in the last, say, hour or so, but he is tired, in that way too much fear for too long makes you tired, only he ain't afraid this time.
Well, he is. But this ain't the same. This time he's relieved, too, worried in that old, reassuring sort of way that means there's someone other than his own self here to worry about. And tired.
He goes to the kitchen, just quick enough to get a can of the first thing he sees, a can opener, and a spoon, and comes back to set it all near the bed. He looks at the door a moment, but like hell is he going all the way to that guest room now. Like hell.
He settles himself on the mattress, leans against the wall, and there ain't no harm in sleeping now, is there? They're in the middle of nowhere, and he's been here a while and no one's come knockin' on the door. And he's right here. Stanley lets his eyes close.
-------
"Fuckin' shit!" There are worse ways to wake up than to a scream, even one of those raw, genuine screams that always stick with you, somehow, even if you don't know who made the noise or why, but not too many. Not very many at all, once Stanley looks around the room, remembers where he is, and realizes the voice that made that noise is his brother.
"Sixer?" The only parts of his brain that are awake right now are the instinct ones, all that fight-or-flight stuff jazzing up his system, and his first thought, one he doesn't question, is to put his hands on Ford's shoulders and try to pull him around so they face each other. "Hey, talk to me, what is it? What, what happened? Fuck, are you, are you okay?"
no subject
Well, he is. But this ain't the same. This time he's relieved, too, worried in that old, reassuring sort of way that means there's someone other than his own self here to worry about. And tired.
He goes to the kitchen, just quick enough to get a can of the first thing he sees, a can opener, and a spoon, and comes back to set it all near the bed. He looks at the door a moment, but like hell is he going all the way to that guest room now. Like hell.
He settles himself on the mattress, leans against the wall, and there ain't no harm in sleeping now, is there? They're in the middle of nowhere, and he's been here a while and no one's come knockin' on the door. And he's right here. Stanley lets his eyes close.
-------
"Fuckin' shit!" There are worse ways to wake up than to a scream, even one of those raw, genuine screams that always stick with you, somehow, even if you don't know who made the noise or why, but not too many. Not very many at all, once Stanley looks around the room, remembers where he is, and realizes the voice that made that noise is his brother.
"Sixer?" The only parts of his brain that are awake right now are the instinct ones, all that fight-or-flight stuff jazzing up his system, and his first thought, one he doesn't question, is to put his hands on Ford's shoulders and try to pull him around so they face each other. "Hey, talk to me, what is it? What, what happened? Fuck, are you, are you okay?"