Ford doesn't get the chance to respond - Stan doesn't give him enough time to. One minute he's tripping over some lame excuse to leave the room, the next he's making a break for the door like the devil is on his heels. Ford watches him go, opens his mouth to call out to him and ask what's wrong, but he stops himself. He knows damn well what's wrong, and that's what makes him settle back against the wall rather than follow after his brother.
"Fuck."
It's not a word he says often, which is probably why it feels so strange on his tongue. He says it again, a bit more loudly, and then sinks his hand into his hair and drags it back over his scalp as he stares at the closed door and wonders what the hell he ought to do. He's gotta do something, right? Check on him, maybe, or try to apologize? No, it's probably not an apology Stan wants, it's assurance - something to give him some peach of mind about all of this.
The only problem is, Ford has no idea what to tell him. The truth is far from comforting, not that Stan would believe it, and Ford has never been good at lying to his brother so that option is out too. Frustrated, Ford worries his lip, sinking his teeth into the corner of his mouth as he tries to get his head in order now that he's finally starting to calm down.
It's not until he hears the tail end of that shout echoing through the hallway and passed the closed bedroom door that Ford realizes what he has to do. Spurred by the sound of his brother's distress, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and pushes himself to his feet, swaying a bit as all the blood rushes away from his head and his vision goes spotty.
He swings an arm out to balance himself and trudges onward despite the sudden vertigo, and makes his way towards the door just in time to hear that godawful clatter. Ford swears - something he's been doing a lot, recently - and picks up his pace. He swears a second time when, in his haste, he rams his knee right into a chair he had forgotten was there, and it's only because he remembers he's not wearing any shoes that he refrains from kicking the damn thing in retaliation.
He finally makes it to the door after that minor delay, but once his hand touches the knob he finds his resolve beginning to wane. Maybe this is a bad idea after all. Maybe he should just - just let Stan blow off some steam, or have a moment alone, or so whatever it is he feels he needs to do in order to not look at him like that anymore.
Ford shakes his head, dismissing that thought. He steels himself, sets his jaw, and takes a steadying breath as he turns the handle and opens the door to face whatever is on the other side.
"...Stanley?" His voice sounds smaller than he'd like, so he tries again, a little less meekly. "Stan, is--is everything okay out here?"
What an impressive sight he must be, Standing there in the doorway in a too-big sweatshirt that used to fit just right before stress killed his appetite, his hair going every which way, his face still a sickly pale save for the red splotches around his eyes.
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"Fuck."
It's not a word he says often, which is probably why it feels so strange on his tongue. He says it again, a bit more loudly, and then sinks his hand into his hair and drags it back over his scalp as he stares at the closed door and wonders what the hell he ought to do. He's gotta do something, right? Check on him, maybe, or try to apologize? No, it's probably not an apology Stan wants, it's assurance - something to give him some peach of mind about all of this.
The only problem is, Ford has no idea what to tell him. The truth is far from comforting, not that Stan would believe it, and Ford has never been good at lying to his brother so that option is out too. Frustrated, Ford worries his lip, sinking his teeth into the corner of his mouth as he tries to get his head in order now that he's finally starting to calm down.
It's not until he hears the tail end of that shout echoing through the hallway and passed the closed bedroom door that Ford realizes what he has to do. Spurred by the sound of his brother's distress, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and pushes himself to his feet, swaying a bit as all the blood rushes away from his head and his vision goes spotty.
He swings an arm out to balance himself and trudges onward despite the sudden vertigo, and makes his way towards the door just in time to hear that godawful clatter. Ford swears - something he's been doing a lot, recently - and picks up his pace. He swears a second time when, in his haste, he rams his knee right into a chair he had forgotten was there, and it's only because he remembers he's not wearing any shoes that he refrains from kicking the damn thing in retaliation.
He finally makes it to the door after that minor delay, but once his hand touches the knob he finds his resolve beginning to wane. Maybe this is a bad idea after all. Maybe he should just - just let Stan blow off some steam, or have a moment alone, or so whatever it is he feels he needs to do in order to not look at him like that anymore.
Ford shakes his head, dismissing that thought. He steels himself, sets his jaw, and takes a steadying breath as he turns the handle and opens the door to face whatever is on the other side.
"...Stanley?" His voice sounds smaller than he'd like, so he tries again, a little less meekly. "Stan, is--is everything okay out here?"
What an impressive sight he must be, Standing there in the doorway in a too-big sweatshirt that used to fit just right before stress killed his appetite, his hair going every which way, his face still a sickly pale save for the red splotches around his eyes.