"So killing your liver is a plan, alright." Stan leans forward, chewing on the scars inside his mouth. He's not trying to be sarcastic here, and unlike Ford he isn't looking to make a joke out of it. What he is trying, and trying very hard, to do is keep a good face on for this. Which isn't something Ford makes easy, because sleep deprivation is a form of torture, and because you know what else is a form of torture?
Stan finds himself staring at Ford's neck, at the scars he can't see, and looks back down at the table. He smears circles onto the table with his finger, and thinks that he can guess how those scars got there, now. And he ain't gonna' ask. There's some shit, Stan knows, that just don't need to be talked about.
"You know, now that I'm here, maybe all we need for you to get a safe night's sleep is a bag of good sized zipties. Or, hell, a couple pairs of fuzzy handcuffs, but I don't guess we'd find too many of those in a dinky little town like this. But, uh, anyway, go on with your story. I don't think you got to the-" No matter how much of a good face he's trying to put on this he can't call any part of this 'the good part', he can't. "-the end yet."
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Stan finds himself staring at Ford's neck, at the scars he can't see, and looks back down at the table. He smears circles onto the table with his finger, and thinks that he can guess how those scars got there, now. And he ain't gonna' ask. There's some shit, Stan knows, that just don't need to be talked about.
"You know, now that I'm here, maybe all we need for you to get a safe night's sleep is a bag of good sized zipties. Or, hell, a couple pairs of fuzzy handcuffs, but I don't guess we'd find too many of those in a dinky little town like this. But, uh, anyway, go on with your story. I don't think you got to the-" No matter how much of a good face he's trying to put on this he can't call any part of this 'the good part', he can't. "-the end yet."