goodguygrifter | (no subject)

The house is still, eerily silent. There are no lights visible from any of the windows - in fact, most of them appear to be boarded shut, as if the windows had been broken out (or, perhaps, to keep something from getting in.) The snow-covered ground surrounding the cottage is completely undisturbed, save for the footprints Stan made on his way from his car to the front door. Judging by how deep the snow is, it seems no one has been walking around outside the house in days, maybe even weeks.

For all intents and purposes, the place looks abandoned, like a condemned building left to crumble over time.

Perhaps that is what makes it so surprising when the front door suddenly flies open with enough force to send it crashing against the house's outer wall with a jarring bang. That is all the warning Stan receives before he finds himself staring down the business end of a crossbow, the arrow pointed directly between his eyes. Should he look at the crossbow's stock or foregrip, Stan might just notice a familiar pair of hands holding the weapon in a white-knuckled grip.

"Don't move!"

He levels his bow, his shoulders straightening as he focuses his aim.

"Move, and I shoot!"

"Jeez!" Aside from Stan's initial reaction, he doesn't. A single step backward, a full body twitch, hands raised in the air near the level of his chest, and he is still. His eyes, of course, settle as much on the fingers holding the crossbow as on the thing itself.

"A bow an' arrow? Really? Trust you to go for a weirdo weapon like that." His hands are lowering, because in spite of everything - all his doubts, fears, all evidence to the contrary - it doesn't feel weird, standing in front of his brother now. It doesn't feel weird at all. And of course it's not even in question whether Ford's actually going to shoot him.

He glances at the house over Ford's shoulder and at its boarded up windows and his voice goes low and concerned, because he knows his brother wouldn't get into the sort of shit you usually find being made in shitty out of the way shacks like this but it looks bad. No one could deny it looks really bad. "Whadda you got yourself into, Sixer?"

"Don't. Move." He repeats it again, for a final time, before shifting the crossbow into one hand to free up the other.

He reaches into his coat pocket, hastily pulls out a flashlight, and clicks it on with a push of his thumb. He aims the light directly at Stan's eyes, first one, then the other, and all the while he keeps that arrow pointed right between his brows.

After a moment he falters, cringes. His shoulders slump then tense right back up as if whatever he just saw brought him both relief and trepidation.

"Stan." God, but it was really him. Actually him.

Ford doesn't know how he found this place, or why he even decided to come. He suspects it has something to do with that message he left him, and he finds himself regretting ever making that late-night call in the first place. If he had known it would bring his brother here, drag him into all of this, he never would have made it.

He realizes he's been standing there staring like a fool, and he shakes his head to clear his mind. In the process he makes his already unkempt hair even more unruly, but his appearance is one of the last of his worries right now.

"Stan, turn around. Get back in your car, and keep driving until you are as far away from here as possible."

He shouldn't be here. It's not safe. He shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be here.

"Like hell. Do you think I spent all that time and money drivin' halfway across the country to track you down just to turn around after two seconds?" He raises his hands, making pushing motions down toward toward the ground with them. Let's just tone this down for a second, the gesture's meant to say, and his voice follows suit. It's harder than usual to keep his voice all friendly and soothing - as soothing as it ever gets, anyway - but he's trying.

"Look, I know you must be feelin' bad right now. On edge, paranoid... Stop me if I'm gettin' it wrong here. But trust me, I've been in worse situations than this. Us together, hey, we can figure it out, right? Your brain, my fists. There's nothin' the Pines brothers can't tackle, you know that." Stan raises his fists, his face all full of playfulness and hope, and aims a little nudge of one fist at Stanford's shoulder.

Once, that gesture would have been welcomed, would have felt comforting. Now, Ford jerks his arm away out of instinct, taking a half-step back out of Stan's reach before his playful punch can reach his shoulder. He frowns deeper, first at Stan then at the woods behind him. His eyes dart between the trees for a moment, searching for something in the pitch black, before returning to Stan.

"Stanley, I'm serious. Get out of here now."

His jaw tenses, and he pauses to look over his shoulder. When he looks back at his brother his brows are furrowed, worry etched into every line of his face.

"Please. You don't want to get involved in this. I don't want you getting involved in this."

The scowl that started when Ford ducked away from his fist only deepens at the words. He's trying to be patient, still, but shit Ford you really aren't making it easy. "So you think I've spent the last decade, what, braidin' my mullet and talkin' about boys? You know me, Ford. You know I can handle myself. And if you're so sure you don't want me here, just tell me why. Let me inside outta' the cold for a second, and tell me why. That's not askin' much, right?"

As he speaks Stanley hunches his shoulders, rubs at his fingers as if trying to warm them. It is cold out here, it is in fact freezing, it's not that much of an exaggeration. Take pity on your poor brother, just for a few seconds. All Stanley needs is to get a foot in the door, he'll convince Ford the rest of the way from there.

For a moment, Ford looks like he's going to refuse. His brows furrow, his jaw tightens, and he stares down his brother for a painfully long moment. It's no more than a few seconds really, not even a full minute, but the hardness of his stare makes it feel like it lasts far longer.

The sound of something rustling in the brush somewhere in the distance breaks the silence that stretches between them before Ford can get the chance to speak. His head snaps up, his eyes wide and half-wild as he looks sharply to his right in the general direction of the noise.

When a beat goes by and nothing comes out of the woods, Ford warily turns his attention back to Stan, but not without casting a furtive glance back into the darkness beyond the trees.

"...Alright. Alright, I'll tell you, but after that you have to leave."

He steps away from the door, just enough to allow Stan to squeeze his way through. His grip on his crossbow hasn't relaxed yet, though at least he's keeping it pointed towards the ground.

"I mean it, Stan." He adds, a bit more quietly. "You can't stay here long. It's not--"

He trails off, cutting himself off before he can finish that thought. He can explain all that later. First, they need to get out of the cold and back inside where it's...well, Ford can't really call his home safe anymore, but at least in there they'll be somewhat less expose than they would be outside.

"--Nevermind. Get in, quickly, and for the love of God, don't touch anything."

Edited 2015-11-25 10:47 (UTC)

"Yeah, I know-" he starts, and then interrupts himself with a low whistle as he does get in and gets a good look around. "So you finally grew up to be the mad scientist everyone knew you would, huh?"

It isn't what he'd been expecting. And if he looks more like he's gaping and trying real hard to rubberneck at everything, including any rooms they pass, maybe Ford won't notice that he's doing a little more than some impromptu toursiting. Just because he hasn't seen what you'd usually find in a boarded-up, out of the way shack guarded by a twitchy, paranoid asshole with a gun - or, you know, a fucking crossbow - doesn't mean it isn't here. But he doesn't push his luck. At least, not with that. The first step, as it is in most areas of his life, is to trick the other person into wanting him to stick around. The same as with any other sap, right?

The fact that said sap is his brother still makes Stanley feel like he's about to crawl right out of his skin, but there's not enough time to freeze or second guess himself now.

Just have to find out what he needs. "Jeez," he tries, keeping himself easy and friendly and hoping to put the paranoid, armed man next to him at ease, "looks like you could use a hand around here. I thought you liked your shit all clean and neat, or whatever." He had, as Stanley remembers. At least, more than he himself ever did. For an opening gambit, he thinks it's not too bad.

Edited 2015-11-25 15:59 (UTC)

"I have more important things to worry about than keeping house, Stanley."

What those things are, exactly, he doesn't elaborate on. They must be pretty serious, though, if the state of his home is any indication.

There are papers scattered along the floors, and most of the furniture appears to be askew. Drawers are left half open, objects have been knocked off tables, and there are several piles of boxes and other miscellaneous items which have been covered haphazardly with tarps. If he looks closely, Stan might notice a few things obscured by the darkness - strange symbols, jars and vials filled with questionable substances, and a few stuffed and mounted creatures that look like an insane taxidermist's attempt at creating a chimera.

If he minds the complete and utter disarray, Ford doesn't show it. He simply continues leading his brother through his home until they reach their destination. Shouldering past his bedroom door, Ford waves Stan in and quickly shuts the door behind them. He sets his crossbow down on a nearby cabinet, next to a drink-mixer and a glass decanter that is...tellingly empty.

"Look, Stan." He begins quietly, without any of the hostility from before. "What I'm about to tell you... it's something you're not going to believe."

He holds up a hand to preemptively halt any protest his brother might be thinking of making, before continuing.

"But after I tell you, regardless if you believe me or not, you have to leave. Got it?"

Stan opens his mouth and then pauses that way, expression pained. His first impulse, naturally, is to agree and then insist on staying afterward. But this, this feels important. He closes his mouth, frowning.

"That's not fair," he says, and for maybe the first time in this whole conversation his voice's got none of that fake cheer or humor in it. "That message you sent - man, I don't even know how you found me in the first place, but I've read cheerier shit at funerals. You can't give me that after so much stinkin' nothing and then just tell me to turn around and leave."

He takes a step forward, hands out, palms up. "Look, just, let's make it a deal, okay? You tell me why you don't want me here, an' I prove it isn't true, and- and if I can't, I'll leave. Just like you wanted." One hand lowers and the other stretches out, waiting, hoping that Ford's about to clasp it. "Whadda ya' say?"

Ford frowns, his eyes darting from his brother's face to the hand being extended towards him. He hesitates, his expression twisting with uncertainty before his resolve wavers and he takes hold of Stan's hand.

It feels...different, than he remembers. Bigger, more calloused. Years of hard work have worn it down, but somehow, despite everything, it still fits perfectly in his own. Stanford's not sure how to feel about that, so he resolves to not feel anything about it at all and push it in the back of his mind to be dealt with later - or preferably never.

"Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you."

With that, he lets go of his brother's hand and then gestures to the couch.

"You're going to want to sit down for this."

Stanley is less than surprised that their hands fit together so well. That is, he's not surprised at all. It's the fact that Ford took his in the first place that he's paying attention to and when it happens a huge, delighted smile breaks over his face. It's the first time they've touched since- well. Yeah. Since that. Any smile that big fades naturally after a few seconds but it does linger on his face a while, giving him a pleased, relaxed look that couldn't contrast more sharply with his brother's hyped up paranoia and worry.

"I'll stand," he says, the back of one hand settling against his hip. "Look, Ford, stop pussyfootin' around and tell me. I've been in trouble you wouldn't believe - whatever this is that's eatin' you, trust me, I can handle it. It's you who oughta' sit down. Maybe have somea' that, while you're at it." His free hand waves at the drink mixer and decanter next to it. Those, for the record, are the one thing in this place that doesn't seem weird to him. Especially not with everything else he's still pretty sure his brother's gotten into. Some things just go together. Peanut butter and jelly, like.

Ford would have been mildly offended by the assertion that he and alcohol mix like peanut-butter and jelly, if not for the fact that he's been hitting the bottle pretty damn hard ever since...

Well, he'll get around to telling Stan about that, eventually.

He spares a glance at the decanter, grimaces, and shakes his head. As much as a drink would steady his hands right now, he doesn't want to indulge in bad habits with his brother around. After he leaves, maybe - and he's going to leave, whether he wants to or not. Ford won't let him stay and endanger himself on his account. All of this, everything that's happened...that's going to happen, it's all his fault. He's the only one who should have to suffer for it.

Sighing, Ford pushes his hand up beneath his glasses and rubs at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger as he gathers his thoughts.

"I've made huge mistakes, Stanley." He says haltingly, figuring that's as good a place to start as any.

"Whatever trouble you've been in, I guarantee it's not comparable to the mess I've gotten myself into."

He huffs out a breath, the sound not unlike the shadow of a laugh, and shakes his head at himself.

"...Turns out, I'm a bigger screw-up than you'll ever be."

To be honest if Stan hadn't found his brother in the condition he had, the drinking would surprise him more. But from the moment he drove up to this place, saw the boarded up windows and the way Ford's twitching, looking over his shoulder, holding onto that crossbow like it's a safety blanket, he's been expecting whatever this is to have something to do with drugs. And where there's smoke there's... more smoke. Or a better metaphor. Whatever.

All of that leaves his head at Ford's words, because they hurt. He can't argue with them, but they hurt, and the last of that satisfaction when Ford took his hand evaporates into a wide frown. "Just tell me already. The sooner I know what's goin' on the sooner we can make tracks."

Ford has made it no secret, his reluctance to discuss this subject, but now he's outright stalling. He sighs, drags a hand through his unkempt hair and crosses over to the other end of the room as be begins to pace, trying to buy himself some time to delay the inevitable.

"I've been conducting research, studying anomalous phenomenon. For the past six years, I've actively sought the the weird and the unexplained, and in that time I've encountered things that are not of our world."

He pauses, giving his brother a moment to take that in, before cautiously continuing.

"Mystical artifacts, cryptids, aliens, ghosts, mythical creatures, demons---they exist. They've bled into our world through a hole between our dimensions, and I..."

He trails off, unsure if he really wants to continue. He looks down at the floor, his hand moving up to rub at the back of his neck as he closes his eyes.

"...I nearly pulled the thread that would have unraveled the entire Fabric of Reality as we know it."

Stanley opens his mouth. He closes it, then opens it again. "I..." One hand rises, unconsciously mirroring Ford's gesture at the back of his own neck.

"...Alright," Stanley says, thinking, this sounds like one hairy hell of a hallucination. "Alright," he says again, and tries to figure out how he's going to handle this.

"And these, uh. These Great Old Ones from the Space Beyond, or whatever." Shouldn't've said it that way, too much chance Ford will think the Lovecraft reference means Stanley doesn't believe him. He doesn't. Ford isn't supposed to know that. It's too late to take it back now, keep going and hope he doesn't think about it. "You been doin' research on them? Like, takin' pictures and shit?"

And that shit about the Fabric of Reality (because you bet he can hear the capital letters as Ford says it)? Not important. Not nearly the most important part of that. Harder to prove wrong.

Stan needn't try to hide his skepticism - Ford went into this fully expecting to not be taken seriously. He knows full well how unbelievable all this sounds, especially to someone who hasn't been in this godforsaken town long enough to know the secrets it keeps.

Still, it hurts a little. Of all the people in the world who would take him at his word, he figured it would be his brother. Guess he was wrong - but then, he's been wrong about a lot of things recently.

"...I have sketches, mostly." He admits, as his hand drifts to his rib-cage, his fingers laying flat over something inside his overcoat.

"Most of the creatures I've encountered are elusive, difficult to capture on film. There's a reason they've gone undiscovered for so long."

He pauses, then casts a furtive glance at the boarded up window as if to make sure there was no one was peeking in through the cracks between the boards.

Stanley follows Ford's glance. This'll go better, he knows, if Ford's some place where he's comfortable. That's always a trick, with someone in a state like this. They're in Ford's bedroom, so that place should be this place, but. Guess not.

"Come on," he says, and makes to throw an arm around Ford's scrawny shoulders to lead him out toward the hallway. "You can show me some a' your experiments on 'em. I bet you got a bunch of those, right? A nerd like you?"

Ford's bedroom hasn't been comfortable in his room since the nightmares started...and his feelings toward the rest of his house isn't much better. There's no safe place here. He's not sure if any place is safe for him anymore, not when he carries his mind with him wherever he goes.

"Stanley..." He wants to protest, to shrug his brother's arm off his shoulders and demand he leave, but something stops him before he gets much further than flinching back a little as that familiar weight settles over him.

"There's no time for this. I've gotten myself in serious trouble and I don't want you getting dragged into it."

Despite this mild protest and the obvious worry in his voice, he still allows Stan to lead him from the room with ease. Funny, that.

Luckily for him, the man guiding Ford now knows very well how to take an inch and make a few good miles out of it. And with luck, he knows how to take a token protest and make that work out for himself, too. The fact that his motives are mostly generous here does not make those skills any less useful, and Stanley does not think twice about using them. He walks them slowly through the house, looking for any change in Ford's manner as they pass the different rooms. If he does see anything - a softening of that tension, maybe, or even just a moment where Ford looks a little less worried - he'll try and lead Ford toward whatever made him do it.

"Then hurry up and tell me why you don't want me here. Then you can prove that whatever it is is right, like we agreed, an' then you can just tell me to scram."

He clears his throat. His comfortable, just-us-guys tone fell off a little at the end there. Or a lot. That's fine, that's okay. Keep talking.

"So what, you think I'm gonna' mess up whatever you got goin' for yourself here? Am I close?"

Unfortunately for Stan, his brother seems tense and on-edge no matter where they go. His shoulders are stiff, his bruised-looking eyes dart wildly about their surroundings, and his brows remain perpetually upturned with worry. Whatever it is that's bothering him, whatever it is that has him so scared to let Stan stay here, it's bad.

"Not even remotely." He replies flatly, turning his head to glance over his shoulder.

"I already told you, Stan, it isn't safe here. There are malevolent beings out there, creatures with unimaginable power. I've made enemies with one of the worst, and I wouldn't put it past him to hurt you just to spite me."

He stops short, refusing to be gently guided any further. Instead, he looks to the floor, his hand moving to feel whatever it is that's hidden inside his overcoat. After a moment of thought he sighs, and casts a wary glance at his brother.

"Stanley, if I show you something, would you try to keep an open mind? I'm not asking you to believe me, just..."

He trails off, realizing just how transparent that lie is. He is asking his brother to believe him, almost pleading him to. He knows full well how unreasonable tat request is, given everything, but even so. As much as he doesn't want his brother getting caught up in this mess, as much as he fears for his safety....he doesn't want to be alone in this. It's selfish of him, he knows, but goddamn it he's scared. He's at his wits end, he has no one else he can turn to, no one else he trusts.

What a sad state of affairs he's found himself in: a nervous, paranoid wreck who has no one he can confide in save for his estranged brother who he hasn't spoken to in ten years.

Malevolent beings with unimaginable power. Strip the nerd-speak off of that, what do you get? Drug lords, maybe. When Ford stops Stanley drops the arm around his shoulders but doesn't move back, just kind of frowns at him for a second.

"I do believe you. I believe you're in a lotta' trouble. And if- I mean, if you're worried about me bein' safe, I had dicks like that on my ass before and come out okay."

He shakes his head. "It's about time you actually showed me some a' this. Go on. Show me."

For a moment, Ford doesn't respond. He simply looks at his brother, as if trying to gauge how much he actually believes him, before his shoulders drop with a heavy sigh. His hand disappears inside his overcoat, and when it comes back out it brings a journal with it.

The cover is weathered, its pages yellowed and torn in places. He hands it to Stan before he can think better of it, before he can come to his senses and refuse to let him look at it.

"This is what I've been dealing with all these years."

If Stan cares to leaf through the pages, he'll find a series of sketches and observations - both of which become darker and more disturbing the further he goes on. It's not until he gets closer to one page in particular, however, that Ford begins to fidget, clearly uncomfortable. He crosses his arms tight over his chest, tucking his hands against his sides where they're safely out of view. It's an old habit, one he hasn't really indulged in since he was younger and less comfortable with his extra fingers, but given the circumstances he'll forgive himself for the moment of weakness.

It's not until Stan gets closer to a certain page that Ford tenses up, his eyes darting from the page to his brother's face, switching to one when he grows uncomfortable with the other.

It's a little while before Stan gets to that last point. He spends some time flipping through the whole thing first, and every time he stops to look at a page his eyebrows rise a little higher. This book couldn't be more different from the battered thrift-store copies the thing'd made him think of when he first took it. He keeps his mouth shut, flips through, and only starts to speak when he finds himself looking at a certain sketch - a sailboat, simply drawn and scribbled out. He glances up at Ford, then down at the sketch, and keeps on with the flipping.

And of course, once Ford notices that Stanley's reached That Page then Stanley notices, too. He glances up at his brother, then looks back down at it, and swipes a finger across a certain spot.

"Stanford?" he asks, carefully. "Whose blood is this?"

And there it is, the question Stanford knew his brother would ask, yet still hoped in vain that he wouldn't. He visibly recoils when Stan looks up at him, his shoulder's hunching as he averts his gaze and drags a hand through his hair.

"...I told you, Stan, I've made a lot of enemies here."

That's as close to a direct answer as he's going to give; not that Stan likely needs the clarification. The fact that he refuses to meet his brother's eyes or give a solid, definitive response to his question says it all. His lack of an answer is an answer in and of itself.