The words stop him short. Maybe nothing else coulda' done that - it ain't like he's on a rampage or nothin', he ain't like some a' those other guys, he's not, but all the same-
From anyone else it'd just be his cue to look around, hearing that, check the situation out a little. Reassess. From Ford, though? From Ford it's a shock, makes his eyes go wide and his whole body feel cold. Not that last bit, no, there will never be anything more annoying than 'you need to calm down' and he takes a slow breath, feels himself bristle a little bit, squaring up his shoulders and shifting his whole posture, getting ready like he'd have to if anyone else were saying that. But Ford don't mean anything by it. Ford ain't trying to goad him into anything, don't want to test how tough he is. Ford's seen him weak, Ford's seen him cry. More than once, for shit's sake.
So when Ford says he's scared, scared of Stan- god, this ain't some chick sayin' it just to keep a couple guys from wrecking her place. This ain't some guy tellin' him to calm down just to try and piss him off more. When Ford says all that, it's because he means it. God. He flexes his fist and does it slow, lets the feeling of the wood and glass shifting around in there do what it can to ease the awful, tight feeling in his chest that hasn't had a chance to really get out of him yet. And won't, either, he doesn't think. He can't let it out.
"Fuck," he mutters, turning finally and taking a look around at the shit he'd swept off the table, at the glass on the floor and the way the top half of that cabinet kind of looks like it's getting ready to fall right over. "I think I ruined your uh, your nice little room, here."
"I," he tries, eyes darting up toward Ford and away again. He's trying to figure out how to apologize for even being here in this nice little house, doin' what guys like him do.
"Don't belong here, do I?" Stan says it real quiet, not really realizing he said it out loud. Then his voice goes all cheerful, his face follows suit, and he takes a couple hurried steps to his brother. "I'll just get a broom, get all this up real quick. You go sit down and uh, don't worry, I'll be careful around your stuff next time, huh?"
He doesn't give a single second thought to the impulse to try and give Ford's shoulder a little bop with his fist, because that's just what you do when you joke. And that's what this is, no worse than a dog leaving a little mess on a nice carpet. No worries, no problem. No need to be scared of a joke, Ford, everything's just fine. Everything is cool.
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From anyone else it'd just be his cue to look around, hearing that, check the situation out a little. Reassess. From Ford, though? From Ford it's a shock, makes his eyes go wide and his whole body feel cold. Not that last bit, no, there will never be anything more annoying than 'you need to calm down' and he takes a slow breath, feels himself bristle a little bit, squaring up his shoulders and shifting his whole posture, getting ready like he'd have to if anyone else were saying that. But Ford don't mean anything by it. Ford ain't trying to goad him into anything, don't want to test how tough he is. Ford's seen him weak, Ford's seen him cry. More than once, for shit's sake.
So when Ford says he's scared, scared of Stan- god, this ain't some chick sayin' it just to keep a couple guys from wrecking her place. This ain't some guy tellin' him to calm down just to try and piss him off more. When Ford says all that, it's because he means it. God. He flexes his fist and does it slow, lets the feeling of the wood and glass shifting around in there do what it can to ease the awful, tight feeling in his chest that hasn't had a chance to really get out of him yet. And won't, either, he doesn't think. He can't let it out.
"Fuck," he mutters, turning finally and taking a look around at the shit he'd swept off the table, at the glass on the floor and the way the top half of that cabinet kind of looks like it's getting ready to fall right over. "I think I ruined your uh, your nice little room, here."
"I," he tries, eyes darting up toward Ford and away again. He's trying to figure out how to apologize for even being here in this nice little house, doin' what guys like him do.
"Don't belong here, do I?" Stan says it real quiet, not really realizing he said it out loud. Then his voice goes all cheerful, his face follows suit, and he takes a couple hurried steps to his brother. "I'll just get a broom, get all this up real quick. You go sit down and uh, don't worry, I'll be careful around your stuff next time, huh?"
He doesn't give a single second thought to the impulse to try and give Ford's shoulder a little bop with his fist, because that's just what you do when you joke. And that's what this is, no worse than a dog leaving a little mess on a nice carpet. No worries, no problem. No need to be scared of a joke, Ford, everything's just fine. Everything is cool.