Stanley realizes, watching Ford, that his own breathing's getting kinda' shaky too, and tamps it down. You didn't know? You couldn't just look at me and know?
He tamps those thoughts down, too, and after a moment - feels too long, like he hesitated too long and broke the old cool and easy face he's got on but hell, it's not like Ford will see, he's too far gone to see anything.
Okay. Put a hand on his back, good, and he can rub Ford's back a little too, that's something he can do. He knows how to do that. "That was, uh, it was a hell of a dream, huh?"
The cool and easy thing breaks a little again and because of his voice this time, because it wasn't just a dream, it wasn't, it was terror. Real, honest terror, the kind you feel if someone's out to kill you or-
Or if no one's in the room at all, just the guy you've known longer than you've even been alive. They said this, the doctors he called, and he's sounding like a broken record now even inside his own head but they did, they warned him, and he'd stopped thinking of it because Ford seemed so normal. He was fine when they went to sleep. He was fine.
Ford's crying now, Stanley thinks, he might be. He can't really tell, Ford's too hunched over for him to really see. His own chest is tight, too, still, like there's too much pressure on it, and it'd always pulled him in when Ford cried, back when they were little. When it happened Stanley always had to get closer, always had to do something. He can't do something now, can he? He can't do anything. He could have done something, once, when Ford was, before all this, but he didn't, and now?
Well maybe, maybe this is a one off. Ford seemed fine, maybe this is just, it's just a moment. He's just having one bad night. "Good thing that don't happen often, then you'd never uh, you'd never get any sleep at all."
That laugh he gives then don't belong here, not when Ford's- not now, but it's out before he can stop it, all thin and nervous because Stan knows a lie when he hears one, even if it comes from himself, even if he don't want to admit it.
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He tamps those thoughts down, too, and after a moment - feels too long, like he hesitated too long and broke the old cool and easy face he's got on but hell, it's not like Ford will see, he's too far gone to see anything.
Okay. Put a hand on his back, good, and he can rub Ford's back a little too, that's something he can do. He knows how to do that. "That was, uh, it was a hell of a dream, huh?"
The cool and easy thing breaks a little again and because of his voice this time, because it wasn't just a dream, it wasn't, it was terror. Real, honest terror, the kind you feel if someone's out to kill you or-
Or if no one's in the room at all, just the guy you've known longer than you've even been alive. They said this, the doctors he called, and he's sounding like a broken record now even inside his own head but they did, they warned him, and he'd stopped thinking of it because Ford seemed so normal. He was fine when they went to sleep. He was fine.
Ford's crying now, Stanley thinks, he might be. He can't really tell, Ford's too hunched over for him to really see. His own chest is tight, too, still, like there's too much pressure on it, and it'd always pulled him in when Ford cried, back when they were little. When it happened Stanley always had to get closer, always had to do something. He can't do something now, can he? He can't do anything. He could have done something, once, when Ford was, before all this, but he didn't, and now?
Well maybe, maybe this is a one off. Ford seemed fine, maybe this is just, it's just a moment. He's just having one bad night. "Good thing that don't happen often, then you'd never uh, you'd never get any sleep at all."
That laugh he gives then don't belong here, not when Ford's- not now, but it's out before he can stop it, all thin and nervous because Stan knows a lie when he hears one, even if it comes from himself, even if he don't want to admit it.