goodguygrifter | (no subject)

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Well, Stan's been crammed deeper up the ass end of nowhere before, but that doesn't mean that creeping, uneasy feeling doesn't get worse the deeper he gets into this damn forest. It's dark, it's spooky, it's -

It's exactly like the kind of forest you used to see in those old monster movies, actually. The kind he and Ford used to sit in front of, enraptured, arguing over how many pieces the monster of the week was going to tear the ditzy teenage protagonist into.

Maybe it's not the forest that's giving him such a bad case of the heebie jeebies. He can admit that to himself now that he's almost there. His car rolls to a stop and he sits there while the engine ticks cool with his hands still in their old, familiar grips on the wheel. He gets out. He shuts the door.

"No problem," he mutters to himself, watching the door of that weird, creepy little cabin like he really is in one of those old movies and something's about to jump out and grab him. "It's only been nine years. And ten months. And fourteen days. And he doesn't even want you here. That's no, no reason to, to uh..."

The doorknob of that weird, creepy little cabin door is under his hand. If his hand moves a couple more inches, he'll open it. He'll open the door, and then he'll -

You'll what? he thinks to himself. You'll what, genius?

"Aw, shit," Stanley says, and takes one step back, and then another, still looking at the door like it's about to bite him.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ford may not feel like eating, but Stanley has no such problem. The stuff tastes... well, meat-like, as advertised, which is kind of more than Stanley was expecting. It ain't so bad. He eats quickly, chewing as he talks.

"Guess he's stayin' with his wife, huh? Unless they were only here for your science stuff?"

Fiddleford. That's weird enough to be a nickname, but even then it should be memorable enough that a few people in that little town might remember a couple things. And if he's not too obvious, Stan might be able to find out enough to track the guy down.

He's struck, for a second, by how wrong this feels. He's in the same room as fucking Stanford for the first time since he was a kid, and what is he doing? Fucking smalltalk. Smalltalk for a reason, sure, but it's nothing like anything he might or might not have played out in his head every now and then on the harder nights. But if he says the wrong thing, if he fucks this up- Yeah. Smalltalk it is. But smalltalk or not, Stan's still gonna' keep looking up at Ford every few seconds. He might be staring, even, but so what? That's not weird. The way his brother's been acting, he probably won't even notice anyway.

"He came down from Palo Alto, actually. Presumably he went back home, after we dismantled the...ah. Project."

He drums his fingers against the side of the can, too nervous to eat, to jittery to keep his hands still. This is all so weird, and not in the way Stanford usually enjoys. There's so much more they could be talking about, so much of each others lives they've missed and could be sharing, but instead here they are talking about inconsequential nonsense just to fill the silence.

It feels...wrong, somehow. Almost disappointing, like they're not giving this momentous occasion the bombastic participation it deserves. This is a reunion, after all. They should probably be celebrating or something, even if the mood doesn't seem right for it. Part of Ford is tempted to pop open a bottle of wine, though that's more to settle the gnawing, queasy feeling in his gut than out of any desire to celebrate his sudden reappearance in his life.

He shakes his head before that thought can develop roots, and distracts himself by prodding at the contents of the can experimentally. The last thing he needs right now is another drink.

"...At least I hope he did."

"Musta' been some breakup." Sure, Stan's parted ways with most of the guys he's worked with without a backward look, or even a backward twitch. Everyone understands it though, is the thing. No one he works with expects any different, and he don't expect it outta' them. Those science guys, though, he didn't think they were like that. Nerds are different. Nerds bond.

This Fiddle fuck musta' had a problem with whatever hole it is Ford's been digging himself into, but there's casual questions and then there's weird questions, and Stanley doesn't ask. No, the only way to go further with this now is to get a better look around the house itself, the kind of look said house's owner really shouldn't be around for.

But it won't hurt to talk for another few minutes, will it? He's reluctant to do it, call a halt to this when he can practically feel his twin standing there right in front of him. In the same room.

Stan sets his empty can aside, leans back, and wraps his arms around his chest. Starts tapping his foot. Glances up at Ford, then back down again, then opens his mouth and after a second closes it.

"Well, uh," he finds himself saying. "Guess I'll go set myself up in that room a' yours. Don't, uh, don't keep yourself up too long, huh?"

Ford wouldn't call what happened between himself and Fiddleford a "breakup", exactly. It was more like a catastrophic parting of ways that left them both irrevocably scarred for life. But hey, tomato tomato.

Once Stan goes quiet, it becomes painfully obvious to Ford just how very awkward this whole situation is - once upon a time, the silences between them were pleasant, companionable. But this...this is just uncomfortable. He doesn't know what he ought to say to fill the silence, yet at the same time he knows there's so much that needs to be said. He blames the late hour for his inner conflict - it's too late to be dealing with this shit.

Thankfully, Stan seems to be of similar opinion.

"I make no promises." It was meant to be a joke, a 'you can't tell me what to do, I'm older than you' sort of tease, but it falls flat at the end. Probably because Ford actually means it.

"If you need anything I'll be down the hall, third room on the right."

He sets down his untouched can on the nearby counter, his fingers drumming anxiously against his leg as he looks everywhere but in his brother's direction. He clears his throat again, unsure how to end this conversation when so much still needs to be said.

"Goodnight, Stan." He tries, figuring that's as good of a place to start as any. "I...guess I'll see you in the morning."

And isn't that a strange thought?

Edited 2015-12-10 03:14 (UTC)

"Yeah," Stan says, feeling something that's just close enough to deja vu to creep him out. I'll see you in the morning. Those words in that voice should be so familiar he doesn't even think twice about them. They aren't. They don't sound real.

"Yeah," he says again, and busies himself for a couple seconds pushing the empty can and its spoon toward the sink. Then there's no reason to hang around here and Stan bites the inside of his cheek, and shuffles out.

He does go to that spare room, to be fair. Even goes from the car back to it a couple times to give himself an excuse to listen for when Ford actually settles. It's weird, walking outside. There's no reason to be nervous, it's not like Ford's gonna' go to all that trouble and then lock him out. He keeps the door open, anyway, until he comes back in, having grabbed a couple pieces of junk to take back to 'his' room. Hey, look, he's settling in. This is how you do it, right?

And once he's sure it's safe, he snoops. Now Stan ain't big as some of the guys he's seen but he ain't small, and most people don't expect him to be able to sneak around so well. That's ok. There're some things people in general don't need to know.

Things get moved, searched through, put back. A couple times Stan swears, sticks stinging fingers in his mouth, and promptly wonders if he's just by accident got himself poisoned. But not once does anything Stan expected to find present itself.

He stands in the hallway, hands on his hips, and thinks, Well. Well, if I'm done lookin' anyway, why not? It's normal, right, to check up on your own brother? Wish him goodnight or good midnight or whatever-the-fuck time it is? Yeah. That's alright.

Stan pushes the door slowly, slowly open - and while the bedroom itself is exactly where Ford said it would be, Ford himself isn't. But there's another door nearby here, and this door's got a light under it.

Stanley stands in front of this new door, and eases it open.

(ooc: if he should do more than open the door here, let me know and I can edit)

It was a pity, really, that Stan mistakes his brother's silence for him settling in for the night. If he had their mother's intuition, then he'd know that when things are too still, too quiet, he should probably be worried. When her boys went silent on her, they were usually knee-deep in trouble or about to dive head-first into it.

It seems there are some habits you just never really grow out of.

He had retreated to his room, as he said he would, but he didn't make even the slightest effort to get some rest. Quite the opposite - falling sleep was the absolute last thing he wanted to do for as long as he lived, which incidentally wouldn't be long if he ever lost consciousness.

If Ford fell asleep, that was it. Game over. He would lose this harrowing battle of wills and his body would be forfeit until He deigned to give him back control. When and if that happened, who knew what sort of damage He could do to him - what horrible things He could make him do?

Ford knew there was no way things could end well for him. He knew right from the beginning, when he had to take all those measures to ensure He couldn't take over his mind during his waking hours as well. But returning to the dreamscape...it was inevitable. There was no way to avoid it. Once that bridge was made between his mind and His realm, he would be lost.

Unless...

Ford stared at the metal plate in his hands, wondering how things had gotten to this point. He never imagined he would find himself in a situation like this, steeling his nerves with a little liquid courage so his damn hands would stop shaking by the time he actually put his batshit insane plan into action. It probably wasn't a good idea, doing what he knew he had to do while severely sleep-deprived, but there was really no helping that. He had waited too long. Maybe if he hadn't put it off for so long, hoping in vain that some less drastic solution would reveal itself in time, he wouldn't be sitting here now- alone in the dark, nursing a glass of whiskey and praying to God that his hands stayed steady.

He couldn't put it off anymore: it was now or never. He wasn't the only person who who He could hurt now, and Ford would be damned if he let that son of a bitch get his brother too.

-------

...All things considered, that could have gone much better. Then again, they could have gone much worse too. Keeping his hands steady was hard; keeping himself quiet was even harder. He's somehow managed both with varying degrees of success, though he's ruined a perfectly good belt in the process. Those teeth-marks are never going to come out of it, and likewise those bloodstains are probably going to leave a permanent mark on his floor. And in the sink. And the wall. And his clothes. And -

God, he didn't really realize until now just how much blood had actually spilled out of him - was still spilling out of him, really. He's yet to seal up the incision, which follows right along his hairline. He has a cloth pressed up against it to stem the worst of the bleeding, but until he properly sutures it shut he'll continue leaking red into the sink he's hunched over.

He doesn't mean to delay it - he doesn't. The stitching will hurt no more than the incision did, so it's not a fear of pain that stays his hand. Rather, Ford finds himself given pause by a sense of relief so profound it staggers him and leaves him feeling foggy and dazed.

For the first time in a long, long while, the only voice in his head is his own.

And Stan's. His own voice, and now, Stan's. It should ring in his ears a little, anyway, especially since Stan is headed right to Ford's side as soon as he sees him.

"Holy Moses!" The words just come out. A couple guys have tried to laugh at him for that over the years, that phrase, but you know what, fuck them. And fuck whoever did this to his brother, too, but he doesn't have much room in his head for that kind of thought just yet. Right now, the only thing in Stanley's head is fear.

He's got one hand on Ford's back and one on his shoulder, and he's speaking before he even bends to get a better look at whatever the fuck it is going on on the back of his head there. "Ford! Shit, just, just move this hand, alright? Let me get a good look at it. Who the hell did this to you?"

Shit.

Ford isn't sure whether he thinks the expletive or says it out loud, but it doesn't matter - either way he's still cursing himself for not having the sense of mind to lock the damn door. He blames the alcohol. And the sleep deprivation. And the fact that he's never had anyone to lock out until recently.

"Stan--!" He sounds vaguely panicked, though there's definitely some shock mixed in there as well.

He tries to shrug off his brother's hand, to turn and take a step back, but his brother's grip is firm. Instead of retreating a few steps backwards as he desperately wants to, Ford instead reaches up to take hold of his brother's sleeve with the hand that isn't keeping a death-grip on the soaked-through washcloth pressed hard against his skull.

"Don't--Don't panic, this isn't--" He'd say "What it looks like" but to be perfectly honest he doesn't know what the hell this must look like to the outside observer other than a horror show.

"Goddamn it Stanley, you weren't supposed to see this."

"I wasn't-" That last phrase is enough. It's plenty. It's more than he wants. Stanley opens his mouth. Stanley draws back. Stanley's eyes flick over to the sink, and over to the scalpel sitting there.

"Stanford Filibrick Pines!" That just comes out too, high and furious and panicked and nasal and god, he's never sounded so much like Ma but shit, maybe Stanford ought to be hearing her right now. Good thing she's not here, she shouldn't have to see this but shit, he wishes she was to help him deal with it. He's wished that a time or two over the years but never so much as he does now, with his brother bent over a sink saying 'you weren't supposed to see this' to him.

"What the shitting mother of fuck were you even- You know what, don't even wanna' hear it." He's closing one of his hands around Ford's wrist now, trying to twist the other around to grab the hand on his sleeve, and making every attempt at pulling both of Ford's arms away from whatever they're doing so he can fold them behind him. That kind of hold becomes instinctive after a while, when some crazy little motherfucker starts messing with shit he don't want you to notice.

"Have you ever seen the kinda' shit people do when they say people aren't supposed ta' see it? Do you got any fuckin' idea? Just show me this goddamn- What the hell is this, oy, fuckin'-"

If he is not interrupted, Stanley will continue in this vein. And if, after the initial rush of anger, that cursing starts to sound shaky, just a little? More than a little? Well, fuck, ok, Stanford is in no goddamn position to comment. Stanley continues to try and move Ford's hand and the fucking bloodsoaked rag and get a clear look, although the more little bits he sees the more he's sure he really, really doesn't wanna' know.

Ford has not heard his full name used in that tone of voice since he was twelve years old and tried to sneak an injured raccoon he was trying to nurse back to health into the house. Quite honestly, it startles the hell out of him - both because it's coming from Stan and because you never quite get over that deeply-rooted "oh shit" response that's associated with hearing your full name spoken in an outraged tone.

That alone would have been enough to throw him off, but toss in Stan's colorful vocabulary and the near-manic sounding panic in his voice and Ford doesn't stand a chance. Maybe it's the bloodloss, maybe it's the fact he hasn't slept in 5 days, or maybe it's the fact that Stan is stronger than him - whatever the reason, Ford finds himself unable to keep that wound hidden for long.

His hair is wet and matted down, blood dripping down his scalp, past the nape of his neck, where it soaks into his shirt-collar. The washcloth Ford had been using to cover it falls to the floor as he tries to free the wrist Stanley has in a vice grip, to little success.

"Stan, please, I can explain--"

...But can he, really? Can he explain things in a way that his brother will understand? He's not so sure, honestly. There's...really no good way to word what he's done, even if he has perfectly valid reasons.

The world pauses.

Or maybe that's just Stanley.

"Didja' take some bad shit an' decide you're in a show a' the fuckin' Twilight Zone? Is that what's fuckin' happenin' to me here?" Stan's cursing's getting significiantly less colorful now, and his voice is high and stringy. His hand drifts toward that little edge he can see underneath the spot that hasn't been stitched up yet, the unmistakable shine of metal. If he were ten years younger, he might try to grab the shit and pull it right off here. He is absolutely freaking out hard enough to do that. But isn't Ford just so lucky that Stanley ain't? Stanley ain't ten years younger, and you don't go pulling shit out of people like that, he knows this almost instinctively. And when they're bleedin' like Ford is, or was because maybe if they're lucky the blood has started to realize it belongs inside of Ford's damned stupid head instead of - well, yeah, with that blood and all, you especially don't just reach in and yank.

"Go on," Stanley says, and he's earned a fuckin' trophy, he's earned a goddamn medal, because his voice may still be a little too high there and it may still kinda' shake but it almost sounds calm, ya' know, like it might wanna' be calm when it grows up, even if it's a calm that might very well break into something sharp and nasty at the smallest wrong movement. "You do that. You explain it to me, you goddamn son of a bitch, and it'd better be damn good but first tell me - how to take that shit - out of your HEAD!"

Okay. Maybe he lost the trophy at the end there. But it's fine. It's all fine. Depending on what Ford says now, it's all gonna' be just. Fuckin'. Fine.

"Stanley you don't understand!"

If Ford didn't sound panicked before, he certainly does now. And not in the way one does when they realize they've fucked up BIG TIME and are now in a heaping load of trouble. No, this is the other kind of panic, the kind that makes your voice crack and your eyes blow up wide like you're staring down a semi barreling towards you at 90 miles an hour.

His hand abandons its futile attempts to free his wrist from Stan's grip, and instead moves to cover that glint of metal in his skull.

"I know how this looks, I know. I, it's just---please, Stan, I had to do it. I didn't have a choice, He would have killed you."

He's rambling, he knows. Not making any sense. He's not sure if that's the fault of the stress, or the bloodloss, or the heavy adrenaline crash that's making him feel like Stan's grip on his wrist is the only thing keeping him upright. Probably a mix of the three.

"Mosesmotheroffuck," he breathes it out all in one word because listening to Ford means he's started looking at Ford too, at the rest of him, not just at the metal and, god, all that blood, and Stanley looks at his brother's glassy eyes and sees him wobble like he's about to fall right over and "S-shit," Stanley whispers to himself, puts a hand on his brother's back and tries to lower him onto the closed lid of the toilet, trying to lean him so he doesn't fall right off and split his crazy goddamn head open. Again. Fuck.

"Just, shut the fuck up, okay, shut-" All that frustration, that panicked anger behind Stan's yell a second ago, it's like seeing Ford about to pass the fuck out was a push only it pushed him back, and Stan's right back to plain old panic again. He turns in a circle a couple times, hand over his mouth, and has no idea where to look.

"I need a needle, I need thread," he mutters, and of course he's talking to himself now, who the fuck else is there here to talk to? "Do you even sew? Shit, how the fuck-"

He spins back around to face Ford, bending and putting the side of his hand to the idiot's face to try and turn it upward, make Ford see and hear him no matter what the idiot's done to his own brain. "What the fuck were you plannin' on doing, huh? Just wishing it all healed up again? Do you have anything? Do you even have tape?" Panic makes Stan's voice all thin and wobbly again, except now there's no anger to take it anywhere and nothing to do with it, just stand here and try not to fucking lose his shit.

His shit might be lost already. Just like Ford's brain, which is probably dug out all in little bits hidden in that blood puddle over there. Ha ha. Fuck.

Edited (had to renew stan's paid thingy real quick so I could use The Icon) 2015-12-12 23:21 (UTC)

At this point, Ford feels very much like a ragdoll, the way he's being manhandled and moved around all over the place. Normally he'd mind, but at this moment in time he's almost grateful for it because fuck if he knows if he could actually get anywhere under his own power without stumbling and bashing his already-fucked head on something.

So, when Stan moves him around and makes him sit the hell down before he crashes, Ford's almost grateful. "Almost" being the keyword, because Stan seems to be having a nervous meltdown and guilt and alarm are taking precedence right now. He should have locked that goddamn door - he's going to be kicking himself about that for as long as he lives.

"Stanley--" He tries to catch his brother's attention, but his voice has gone quiet on him and he can't very well reach out to snag his sleeve when he's over there pacing like a caged animal.

He tries anyway, doesn't even make it remotely close to reaching Stan's shirt, and gives up after the one attempt.

Thankfully, Stan is a panicky bundle of energy right now, and he's quick to spin back around and take hold of his brother's face just to make sure he hears every last terrified word said to him. This time, when Ford reaches to take hold of Stan's sleeve, he actually succeeds. His fingers curl around the careworn fabric in an attempt to bring comfort to them both - to Stan, by assuring him that he's still here, still aware of what's going on, and to himself because...well, his brother's hand is a bit occupied right now and it's the closest thing to a lifeline he has to hold onto.

"There's a - on the counter, there's an electrocauter."

As it turns out, he did have a plan other than hoping the wound fixed itself, though it's probably not one Stanley likes any better.

"It's faster than stitches." He adds in explanation, as if that somehow makes the prospect of scorching his flesh closed any more palatable.

Stan's distracted for a second, almost like he's the one who cut his fucking head open because he doesn't really hear Ford's words at first, he's too focused on the fingers curled around the cuff of his jacket. Just, the way they look there. He breathes out.

Then he straightens and looks on the counter and - well, that was a moment of something almost like peace just now, almost like relief, Stanly realizes it now that the feeling's gone, running away with its tail between its legs and never to be seen again, and his voice jags up and down like he hasn't heard since he was about thirteen and trying to mask his wimpy new voice with his cool new smoking habit.

"An- I'm not fucking electrocuting your head back together! Or-or melting it or w-whatever the fuck, I, shit!" Here Stan starts throwing open the cabinets, opens the mirror, looking for something better. Anything. Anything would be better. Anything even the slightest bit familiar and useful. "I'd ask if you got a first aid kit, but it's probably got nothin' but a fuckin' big ass knife and a sign, 'good luck, f-f-fucker!'" The clumsy, trembling noise Stanley makes then can not really be called a laugh, and thankfully it ends quickly. He just needs to find something he knows, something that isn't Ford's crazy bullshit, and then he can stop that loose skin on the back of Ford's head flappin' around like that and everything'll be just fine. Just fine and dandy.

Alright, on top of the guilt and alarm, Ford can feel the tiniest bit of frustration start to grow. Stan has every reason to respond the way he does, Ford can't fault him for that, but his panicky terror is really not helping the situation at all. But then, Ford supposes he would probably be scared shitless too if Stan were the one bleeding out all over his bathroom.

"Stanley, for godsakes just hand me the damn cauter!"

He means to sound firm, demanding, but more than anything he sounds tired - which he is. God, but is he tired. It probably isn't the best condition for him to be wielding what amounts to a surgical soldering iron, but it can't really be helped. He's not about to ask Stanley to do it for him, hell no. The poor bastard is traumatized enough as it is without adding "searing his brother's head closed" to the long list of Bullshit he's had to deal with since coming here.

Stanley looks at Ford, eyes wide, opens his mouth-

But what? What? There's no magicking up some damn thread and like hell he's going to leave the fucking room to look for it and let Ford finish carving his own head up like a fucking turkey. So Stan, Stan'll just-

Ford knows what he's doing, right? That thought should make everything in Stanley rise up in a howl of pissed-off protest. He's got no idea, for example, if he's ever gonna' get all this blood off of his fucking boots. (It seems like a stupid thing to think about right now but that sort of thing can get you in a whole lot of trouble, sometimes.) But the thing is, ok, the thing is that Stanley is scared. He's goddamn scared, alright, and when it comes down to it Ford is his brother. Ford is the smart one, the one with the plan. When they were kids he heard Ford's voice so often, sure and quick and confident, telling Stanley just what to do and it'd gotten them out of so much shit.

That's the thing about panic. The thing Stanley didn't know, because until now Ford's never been nearby, never been even a shadow of a thought in his head, when he feels it. But the thing about panic is that you go with your first thought, you go with your instinct.

Ford's voice is confident, for all he also sounds like he sorta' wants to pass out right here. It's Ford's voice, and it expects to be obeyed. And Stanley is scared.

He picks up the cauter.

"Tell me how to use it," Stanley says, and all the panic and fear is gone from his voice now, tucked away somewhere safe and familiar where no one else can see it. The only thing Stanley's voice sounds now is determined. "I don't care how many fingers you have, none of 'em are steady enough to weld your stupid head back together."

He lifts his chin to stare Ford down, trying to look more like someone who will wait until the idiot in front of him falls over from blood loss, if he needs to, than like a little kid who sorta' wants to break down and freak out and scream some more. Stanley's got to be honest with himself here, he doesn't think he really succeeds.

For a moment, one sweet, fleeting moment, Ford thinks Stanley is going to listen to him. His brother picks up the cauter, and almost instantly Ford's shoulders drop with relief. It looks like it took a lot more energy than he had to spend to keep them squared, to make himself look firm and authoritative. (He picked up that habit from their dad, though God help the poor bastard stupid enough to point that out to him.)

Unfortunately, Ford's relief is short-lived because Stan just has to go and make things difficult again by insisting he be the one to use the cauter. Ford forces out a ragged sigh, his eyes closing for a moment as he drags a hand down his face. Absently, he realizes he hasn't shaved in a few days, judging by the amount of stubble he feels beneath his fingers. It's not a thought that's important right now, not in the slightest, but it's one that occurs to him nonetheless.

He wonders if that should worry him, not being able to keep his thoughts in order. It's probably not a good sign, him not being able to keep his focus like this.

"Stanley..." He wants to argue. He wants to, but he bites his tongue before he can do much more than say his brother's name in protest.

Stubborn as he is, even Ford knows he's in no condition to be doing this on his own.

"You have to plug it in, let it heat up. It's just like welding a seam."

Only, you know, with your brother's flesh instead of metal.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's how I thought it might work," he says, quiet and worried and not liking this, but long past the point of protesting. Nothing you have to plug in should ever be used on people, not like this, but- Shit. It's going to be fine. That thought's taken Stanley through a lot and it'll take him through this too. He always told himself he'd see his brother again, for instance, right? And that did happen.

That thought, the thought of what happened after that - whatever the fuck it was that led up to Ford sitting there covered in his own goddamn blood - sends a shudder through Stan and to try and cover up the fact, try and look like he's handling this as calmly as Ford is, he walks to the towel rack and picks up an old towel, bunching it up and putting a part of it under the faucet to get it nice and wet. He said he could handle this shit, whatever Ford got himself into, and he can. He can, see? Look at him, being all productive and handling shit.

"Bend over," he says with a hand on Ford's shoulder, trying to push his face toward his knees. "Normally I'd take a guy to dinner before askin' that but your food sucks." And what do ya' know, his voice there almost didn't shake at all. You know why? Because he's fine.

"An' don't argue neither, I need to clean all this- all this s-shit off before I can do what you want and melt the back of your goddamn h-h-head off." It's a good joke, he thinks, swallowing. On topic, even. Funny, funny joke. Great.

Stan will be happy (or perhaps deeply worried) to note that Ford does not, in fact, put up a fight when he puts a hand to his shoulder and forces him to lean forward. Instead he just sort of allows himself to be manhandled, because resisting in any way (physically or even just verbally) takes far too much effort, and costs more energy than he has to spend. And so down he goes, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as his head bows, giving Stan ready access to the ugly mess he made just above the nape of his neck.

"You say that as if I'm going to enjoy this." See, he can joke too - though his false-cheer sounds just as forced as his brother's.

Sure as he is that this needs to be done, prepared as he is for the hurt that's to come, he's not exactly what you would call okay with the situation. Actually, "okay" is pretty far from what he's feeling right now. "Anxious" would be more accurate. "In need of a stiff drink or twelve" would be even moreso. Something tells him Stanley is probably feeling much the same right now.

Alas, Ford can't really afford to thin out his blood anymore than he already has, especially not when a cursory glance around the bathroom suggests he has more blood out of him than in him. Still, he needs something to help him through this, something to keep him from thrashing around while his brother melts his open wound shut by searing his flesh together with what amounts to a glorified soldering iron.

Wording it like that, well. It makes Ford a little more uneasy about all this than he was a moment ago. It seems the closer it comes to actually happening, the less enthused he is about the idea.

Silently, Ford reaches forward to take hold of the hem of his brother's jacket. He's not sure why, he doesn't see how it's going to help make any of this more bearable, but he holds tight to it all the same.

"Yeah," Stan says, looking down at that hand. It's not a response to anything Ford said and he isn't sure why he says it, but it makes him feel better. "I- Yeah. Okay."

Washing all that blood off takes work. It takes a lot of water, too, and by the time he starts to get anywhere a bunch of little red water droplets are scattered over the toilet seat, almost puddling down there and probably soaking into Ford's pants. Whenever he has to take that damn flap of skin and push it up and hold it in place he starts breathing a little harder, a little faster, but the key here is to forget whose head this is. It's a head. The back of a head. Could be anyone's head. Who the hell would put fucking metal in their own-

Wait. Wait, okay, back up. Not going there. Fuck, not yet. "That's clean, ain't it? Yeah. Yeah, that's, that should do it. Just gotta' dry it and then, then we'll be in business, huh?"

Business. Shit, that's one way to put it. It's the back of someone's head, that's all.

"Your, uh. Your belt." Stanley stares at it, sitting abandoned near the sink. He stares at the teeth marks. "You want it back? I mean in- you know. Before I start?"

Much like the man himself, Ford's hair has seen better days. By the time Stan's finished rinsing off all the dried blood, his head is a sopping wet mess. It's sad, really, that that's an improvement compared to what it was before. He might be cold and soaking wet, but at least his hair isn't caked down with sweat and blood and the antiseptic he'd doused the wound with in a token effort to stave off a nasty infection.

It stings like a son of a bitch, but Ford doesn't let his discomfort show outwardly. His brother is reluctant enough to do this as it is; the last thing he needs is yet another reason for his hands to go shaky on him.

Once the wound is as clean as Stan is going to get it, Ford allows himself a brief moment to close his eyes and force out a shaky breath through his nose. The hard part isn't even over yet, and already he's exhausted.

"No, just--just make it quick."

The sooner this can be done and over with, the better. For both their sakes. Ford's honestly not sure how much longer he can keep himself awake; already his eyes feel heavy, and even though he knows he's probably soaking Stan's shirt, he just can't help but lean his forehead against his brother's middle for support. The task of keeping himself upright is steadily becoming too challenging for him, and it shows.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shitshitshit-

No. No, just keep going, it's fine, his brother's just about two seconds from passing the fuck out from blood loss and probably about to get one hell of an infection unless he sterilized the everloving shit out of that metal which, hey, he probably did since he's a crazy nerd but he's still a nerd, Stan's nerd, Stan's nerd who's about to pass out and die right the fuck here leaning against him because sure, fun with dead bodies, that's the kinda' wacky memory Stan needs more of-

Stop. Fuck it. Stop. Come on. Stan grabs the cauter quick, before he can start freaking out again, stumbles a little over the sudden problem of how to turn it the fuck on, hears a noise and figures he's done it, and sets it against the back of Ford- against the back of this random poor bastard's head in front of him, quick quick quick, before he remembers who this is. It goes about as fast as welding usually does, or it would if Stan welded at the speed of fucking light which, hey, to see some a' the things he's welded over the years maybe no one would be surprised, oh fuck the smell.

He's shaking by the time he finishes, shaking in his whole body but his hands are steady, maybe, he hopes, and there's a new smell sitting over the familiar blood-and-booze scent of the room, the smell you get when you melt your brother's fucking head shut over a plate of goddamn metal, and speaking of, oh god, "Ford?"

He leans back a little, cupping Ford's face and trying to tilt his head back because more than anything right now Stanley needs to see his brother's face. "Ford, buddy, speak to me. Please."

He doesn't make a sound. Or at least, he tries not to. Aside from the occasional sharp hitch of his breath, or a hiss of air sucked between his tightly-gritted teeth, Ford keeps quiet. Sure, he has to clutch Stan's jacket so tightly that his knuckles turn white and his hand starts to shake, but he doesn't cry out. That's the important thing. He keeps himself together because goddamn it, that's the only thing he can do to prove he still has some kind of control over this situation.

So what if his eyes are watering as he shuts them tight against the pain, so what if he's sweating bullets. So what if the acrid smell of burned hair and singed flesh makes his stomach sour and twist in on itself because dear god, he's being cooked alive--

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because it ends ~~an eternity~~ shortly after it begins, and he comes out of it alive and intact and everything is going to be fine. Just--just fine. He's fine. Everything's going to be okay now. He's going to be okay.

Stan's here, and he's not going anywhere, and he's - he's lifting his head up and making sure he's okay and he's going to make things okay and fuck fuck fuck Ford wishes his eyes would stop watering already, this is pathetic.

He hasn't cried in ten years. Not since - not since they both know when. It's been so long that Ford almost doesn't realize it's happening till he tries to speak but the words get caught behind the knot forming in his throat. He swallows hard, blinks harder, and reaches with a shaky hand to scrub roughly at his eyes, angry with himself for this embarassing display.

"...Sorry." For putting Stan in this situation, for getting him involved in the horrible mess that he made of his life, for the goddamned wetness leaking from his eyes that won't fucking stop. "I'm sorry, Stan, I'm--"

He's sorry for a lot of things, really.

He freezes for a second, caught even now, after that, in this awkward gap he didn't know was there between facts of life he never knew he counted on. Women crying, sure, that happens all that time, but guys? Well, in front of someone? More than that, it's his brother. Ford always knows what to do. He doesn't cry.

It's his brother, and he's crying, and Stanley draws back just far enough to find a couple good places to wrap his arms around his brother's stupid, skinny self and pulls him close.

"You'd better be," his head ducks toward Ford's and the words tremble out, and he pulls his brother even closer and breathes. "You'd goddamn well better be, you stupid son of a bitch."

He stands like that for a second, but if he holds it any longer all that 'having it together' and 'handling shit' that Stanley worked so hard to paste over top of himself is going to fly right out the window and god knows what he's going to be then so he finds himself pulling back, rubbing at his brother's shoulders.

"Come on now, buck up, I only barbecued ya' a little," and then he laughs a kind of laugh that knows it's about ten different types of wrong and not particularly funny besides, but can't quite help itself.

"Jeez, take a look at you, huh?" he finds himself saying right on the heels of that and realizes he sounds like Ma again, a little. What would she do here? What now? What the fuck now? Ford's not gonna' tell him. Fuckin' genius didn't plan this far ahead did he?

Stan stops himself right there. This isn't the time to freak out, it ain't the time to go there. Just when it will be time is a question he realizes he can't really face right now. What would Ma do? Well, Ford needs a shower, and Stanley ain't the cleanest guy around and he knows that but every part of Ford right now looks like it pretty much screams to be scrubbed for at least an hour. But, you know, then Ford would fall over and split his head open and then they'd be back to this again and Stanley, he, he-

Okay. She'd put him to bed. That's what she'd do.

"Come on," he says briskly, giving Ford's back a few quick pats as if that's all he needs to jolt away all that blood loss and shock and whatever the fuck else and get the man up and moving. To be fair, Stan does wrap an arm around Ford's back after he does it, and spreads his hand against Ford's side. He's not gonna' make his brother do it all on his own. "It's bedtime for you, buddy. Hop to it. Up-up."

Edited 2015-12-14 12:14 (UTC)

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omfg ford's hand on his jacket why do you hurt me in this way

Because suffering Stantwins is my asthetic

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