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.

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It's weird, sittin' like this. There's somethin' there, something telling him not to get closer, but not to pull away, either. He wants to lean in, bump their shoulders together like he used to, and he doesn't want to, either. There's something pulling him in, something pushing him back. It seems like one of the types of forces all them science classes he'd never paid attention to probably tried to explain. Might be something Ford could explain, if Stan felt comfortable enough here to ask. If he could figure out the words.

"When did it happen?" Stan lets his hands sit in his lap not touchin' his brother at all, keepin' from making any gestures either, because then the two of them might touch accidentally. That feels dangerous now in a way it didn't before, with his hands twisted all into Ford's trainwreck of a shirt. Those old useless science classes might have an explanation for this, too, why he suddenly feels like there's something there. He doesn't have a clue what, but something, and there's no telling what'll happen to the two of them if Stan gets too close to it.

"Your uh, your-" And Stan is really trying here, he's trying, so he don't say 'weird shit' and he doesn't say 'tiny demons tellin' you to carve out your fucking brain, Ford, do you know what the back of your head even looks like', and he doesn't even say 'hallucinations'. What does that leave him?

"The stuff you see. The stuff you drew in your little book. When did that, uh, when did that happen?" How long has this been going on, Ford? How long since I coulda' come and saved you?

He had known going into this that Stan wouldn't be asking any easy questions, but even so, Ford hadn't expected him to hit him with such a hard one right off the bat. Dragging in a deep breath, Ford mulls over the question for a moment, before breathing out a hard sigh.

"About six years ago."

He doesn't look at Stan when he says it, he doesn't dare to. He just keeps his eyes fixed on the far wall, and pretends that keeping his attention focused on it helps him think.

"Six and a half, give or take a few...look, the exact number isn't important. The point is, ever since I moved here to Gravity Falls, my eyes have been opened to a world no one else has even noticed. I know it's hard to believe, but right here, right now, we are living alongside things that--things that don't belong in our reality."

He reaches up to try to smooth down his hair a bit, figuring it couldn't hurt to neaten himself up a little. Maybe looking less disheveled would help make him look more credible, instead of like a deranged lunatic.

He ain't a shrink. He never has been. Stanley knows what's in people's heads a little, you got to, you gotta' be able to read people right, but his brother needs a whole lot more than that. At the very least, his brother needs someone who went to school for this shit. But anyone who did would toss him into the nearest padded room and throw away the key, so it's Stan or it's no one. He takes a breath, reminding himself of this. He's all his brother's got, and that don't mean as much to Ford as Stan mighta' thought, but it's better than nothin'.

Then his eyes are drawn by the movement of Ford's hand, and he watches Ford's try at it for a moment before he snorts. "Don't bother. Ma never could keep that bird's nest a' yours straight, an' you got no chance. There's too much- Um, too, too much, uh-"

Blood. The word he's looking for is blood. Not something he normally goes all wimpy and stammery over, but it's Ford's blood, and Stanley was actually doin' a really good job forgettin' all the shit that led up to this moment until he thought about that shit dried all through what remains of his brother's hair. Stan waves his hand meaningfully instead of drawing any more attention to the word by saying it, stopping that hand abruptly when it gets too close to any part of Ford and settling with a frown it back onto his lap.

"And no one ever-" No, we're not mentioning that they're all in his fuckin' head, Stanley, not right now. We're playing along. "You were able to keep anyone findin' out you knew? Even your fancy nerd lab partner?"

It's odd, really, how Stan is somehow more torn up about that head wound than Ford himself is. You'd think it was just a nasty scrape and nothing more, judging by how little it seems to bother him. But then, it's likely the same cold, clinical sense of detachment that got him through the self surgery in the first place that's helping him stay calm now

The pain will ebb. The blood will wash out. The wound will heal. Its scar will fade.

These are the thoughts that are keeping him steady while he checks the urge to feel the scorched seam in the back of his head and make sure it's not leaking.

He very nearly does just that as he tries to fix his hair, his hand straying close enough to feel how warm the skin around the incision is. A little inflammation is to be expected, considering the less-than-stellar conditions in which the surgery was preformed. He'll have to take some antibiotics later, make sure he doesn't get an infection.

It's not until Stanley starts to trip over his words that Ford remembers that, objectively, his head-wound is pretty jarring. Even if he's psyched himself into being nonplussed about the situation, he still has sense enough to know that Stanley does not feel the same - and so he stops fussing with his hair and lets his hand drop back to his side where it can't draw any more attention to the ugliness at the back of his head.

Out of sight, out of mind, right? Right.

Thankfully, Stan recovers from his fumble and moves on to a new subject - one Ford would have preferred to stay away from. He can't help but grimace at the question, his expression twisting slightly as a cocktail of guilt and regret settles heavy in his stomach. He lets out a deep breath, deflates a bit, then bows his head and rubs at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

"If only."

God, but he wishes he were the only one who knew about all of this. He really does - but no. He had to go and drag Fiddleford into this ugly mess, and by doing so he's ruined the man's mind if not his life.

"There was an incident. Fiddleford... he saw things. Things the human mind isn't equipped to deal with."

He laughs, the sound pained and humorless. He didn't even know it was possible to fuck up quite this badly, that he could somehow ruin someone's life without even trying.

"After what happened, I doubt he'll be at peace with the world until the day he dies. Maybe even longer."

Ford himself certainly wouldn't be.

Edited (Oh gosh I'm so sorry I'm being so nitpicky about the wording) 2015-12-20 20:53 (UTC)

(ooc: no worries, I've been there with the editing and wanting to make sure it looks perfect, etc <3)

Yeah. It's just the scars and the blood that's makin' Stan trip over his words. Must be. What those scars and blood mean, what they mean about Ford, about what Ford's done, what he might do-

Yeah. That's small potatoes.

And the rest of this, what's he gonna' do with this? He still wants to talk to Fiddlesticks but he's starting to think he'd get even less sense outta' him than he's getting out of Ford. Maybe Ford's already been in a looney bin and doesn't remember it, maybe this mystery nerd got out with him. Maybe Stan's been watching too many weird late night movies.

Stan sighs. "So that was, what'd you say? A couple months back? What have you been doin' since then?"

He turns and leans back a little to look Ford over, and his expression can't be anything other than suspicious. No other freaky scars anywhere, at least that he can see. "Been fightin' any other, uh, demons lately?"

Stan is only trying to help, Ford knows. He's trying to be supportive by asking what's been happening - what he thinks has been happening - even though he doesn't believe a word of it. He's just trying to piece together what's been going on his brother's world, regardless if those things happened in reality or not.

Ford appreciates that, he really does. Stan is making an effort to be there for him, despite having every reason to just turn his back and walk right the hell out the door without looking back. It would serve me right, he can't help but think. It would serve me right.

That's what makes it worse, in his mind. Knowing that his brother is doing him a courtesy he doesn't deserve, and yet still finding himself frustrated with him anyway for being so damn skeptical. He knows it's rich coming from him, considering he just flat out told Stan that his ability to trust anyone - even him - has seen better days, but still. He wants his brother to take him seriously. He wants him to hear what he has to say, tell him what he's been though and not have his experiences invalidated by doubt.

He wants someone to tell him he's not crazy because he's scared out of his goddamn mind that maybe after all, he really is.

"...Have you ever had someone try to steal your eyes, Stanley?" It's oddly calm, the way he says it, though he he won't look at Stanley when he does.

He just keeps staring right on ahead, before glancing down at his hands and realizing he's been fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve, buttoning and unbuttoning it in a half-hearted effort to expel some nervous energy.

"Because I have. I know you don't believe that--"

He drags his eyes up from his hands, turning his head just enough to look at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

"--I know you don't. But it - regardless if you think it actually happened or not, it's real to me and I--I just."

He lets out a sudden, shaky breath that he can't quite pass off as a sigh, try though he might.

"...Do you think I'm crazy, Stanley?"

It's a question he already knows the answer to - the real answer to - but all the same he can't help but want to hear his brother say otherwise, even if it's just a comforting lie.

(ooc: I'm pretty sure I write these better when I haven't slept in a day or so. This post is proof.)

For a second, a solid, relieved rush of a second, Stanley's on familiar ground. He ain't had anyone after his eyes, nah, but guys have gone after other things - some which would've ended up with him waking up all groggy in a tub of ice, some which would've ended with him not waking up at all - and you don't have ta' look all the way to the little green men from planet x to find the kinda' guy who wants to do somethin' like that. But then Ford keeps going and, of course, the brief rest stop in the state of sane is shrinking far and farther behind Stan with no chance of turning back.

And, also of course, the next place his dear old bro steers the conversation to is some place worse, and some place almost terrifying. Something about that phrase, it's real to me, shakes him, maybe 'cause of all the vulnerability in there, and Stan doesn't know what to do here. Shrinkology, aka the fine science of payin' people to lay on couches and tell you about their mothers, seems to Stanley a very educated and very clever set of professional lies, but for not the first time in this conversation Stanley pleads with himself to come up with something because he isn't trained, he doesn't know any of that shit. Either something happened or it didn't, and if you do lie about it you decide how to do it based on that. He doesn't know anything about this 'real to me' shit.

In Ford's words are an unprecedented amount of vulnerability, the sort of thing people only say out loud if it's pitch black and dead still and you don't know if even the cockroaches are around to hear. Hearing it now from quick, clever Ford feels like his brother's just stuck a knife into him and started tryin' to carve out all the squishy parts, the ones that haven't been let out to the light of day in so long that they're startin' to grow mold and little spots of rust. Stanley stares at his brother, wide eyed, stuck.

"...I think you're the smartest guy I ever met," he says, faintly but with confidence. It's true, one of the truest things he knows but it is not enough. Because somehow that knife Ford stuck into him has pulled out all Ford's little squishy parts too, and Ford may not think of Stan as much of a brother anymore but Stan feels a rush of something, seeing all Ford's vulnerability and desperate need spilled out onto the bedspread between them, something that feels warm and powerful and pulls the lie right out of him.

"And the sanest, too. I think you're the sanest guy I ever met in my life. And I've known you, let's see, approximately one hundred percent of that time. I've known you since before we were people. If my own brother were crazy, don't you think I'd know it?" He grins, leans right over into Ford's space to look at him one face to another, and swings a fist around to try and cup Ford's shoulders in his whole arm, tries to pull him close because that force that held him together-apart from his own brother, it doesn't matter now. It will, Stanley knows it will, he can feel it lurking, ready to push that distant pull between them again and send Stanley to freezing each time he even thinks about bridging that couple inch gap, but for now it don't matter. The force of Stanley's lie, the full strength and momentum of his belief in it, has pushed that distance aside, if only for a little while.

Edited 2015-12-21 13:26 (UTC)

He thought it would make him feel better, hearing Stan say that. And for a fleeting moment, it does. Hollow though they are, those words ease some of the tightness in his chest and gives his tired lungs room to breathe.

But that's all they are, really. Words. Words that don't really mean anything because they aren't true, he knows they aren't, but they're still valuable to Ford because they're coming from Stan. They're coming from his brother, who despite everything - despite distance and the passage of time and all the bad blood left simmering between them for ten long years - is here by his side when he needs him most.

Ford holds tight to that thought, repeats it in his head over and over like a prayer as he tries to will away the heavy, heartsick feeling that's twisting his stomach into knots.

Hearing Stan tell him everything he had hoped to hear was supposed to make him feel better. It was supposed to, but instead it just confirms what he feared most.

Stanley is right, he knows Ford better than anyone. Better than Ford knows himself. The ten long years they've spent apart hasn't done anything to change that. But Ford, he knows Stanley too. He knows his tells, his quirks. How his voice changes when he lies.

Everything his brother is saying, everything he wanted so badly to hear him say, it's all a lie. A lie meant to comfort, one said for his own benefit, but a lie all the same. This isn't what bothers Ford, though. This isn't what makes him feel like he's going to be sick. Stan is only trying to help, to comfort him, to protect him from what he really thinks.

It's not the lie that bothers Ford. It's not what Stan thinks of him, either. It's that it's Stan who's thinking it. Stan, who knows him better than anyone, better than he knows himself. It's not the accusation that he's insane that's making his throat tight and his heart constrict painfully in his chest; it's the fact that if Stan believes that about him, then God help him, it's probably true.

His eyes close of their own accord, his head bowing as his shoulders wilt beneath the weight of Stan's arm. A wobbly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a short, shaky laugh that tapers off into something else entirely at the end.

"...Thanks for trying, Stanley."

He swallows around the knot in his throat, then sucks in a steadying breath before he can get away from himself again. Once was enough. He doesn't want to make a habit of crying in front of his brother.

No. No no no no no. It wasn't supposed to- It was supposed to work. Why didn't it work?

"You're not," he tries again. His voice sounds weak and whiny even to him, but he can't really stop it coming out. "Ford Pines acts crazy sometimes, but that's just 'cause he's so much smarter than anyone else. Everyone knows that."

But when people know you're lying, it's time to stop. Then, lying just makes things worse. It's gonna' make things worse now, that set of facts which a deep-down part of him insists in its stubborn little kid's voice is true, has gotta' be true, even though it ain't and it can't be because, fuck, just look at Ford right now. Just look at him.

It's gonna' make things worse, anyway, unless Stanley can run right over it with somethin' else, because if he talks fast enough he'll be able to distract Ford from the fact that he said it.

"Look," he says, his arm on Ford's shoulders still desperately, stubbornly in place, as if that'll help. "Everythin' will look better after a shower and somethin' to eat. Just- I cleaned up the bathroom a little. It was, u-uh- I mean, I've cleaned more blood outta' worse places, it wasn't even-"

Ford doesn't know about that part of Stan's life. He doesn't know, but he will if you keep talkin', Stan, stop talkin'.

"That'll help, I'm sure of it," is what he turns his words to, and jiggles Ford's shoulder with an easy-looking smile. "Come on. This day'll get better."

Edited 2015-12-23 12:47 (UTC)

...More blood out of worse places, huh?

Ford doesn't like the implications behind those words. He doesn't like it at all. He wants to ask, to find out what his brother meant by all that, but he doesn't. This isn't the time to be asking deep, probing questions that he more than likely won't like the answer to. There is a limit to how many sore subjects they can slice open and let bleed like an infected wound, and they've already hit it. Any more talk about difficult topics, and Ford might just lose the faltering grasp he has on his composure - or what's left of it, at any rate.

So Ford ignores that cryptic statement, tucks it away in the back of his mind where he can pluck at it later on when he's not already three steps away from tearing up again. Preemptively, he takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, as if to push back any errant tears that might try to well up when they know they aren't welcome. Then he drags in a deep breath, fills his lungs until they start to ache a little, and holds it for a moment or two before letting it out in a shaky sigh.

Okay. Okay, he's good. He's got this. He's fine.

"Yeah." He grimaces, not liking how tight his voice sounds. "Yeah, you're probably right."

He doesn't sound like he believes any of that, not really, but he can at least pretend.

Clearing his throat, he blinks a few times then replaces his glasses before Stan can notice how glossy his eyes look. He tries to stand, but the weight of Stan's arm around his shoulder keeps him in place - both because he's not exactly at his strongest at the moment, and because he just...doesn't want to lose that familiar, comforting weight.

Stan watches the floor, pretending, as you do, that nothing weird is goin' on at all while his brother tries to keep himself together. Just because they both mighta' got a little weepy once or twice don't mean they can't keep right on actin' normal about it. He swallows, and it's about when Ford doesn't make it up that Stan looks up and over at him. "Oh. You should probably, uh, first I gotta' find you somethin' to eat. Yeah. Keep your strength up and all that shit."

He stands hurriedly, and it's when his arm's sliding off Ford's shoulders and his hand's about to follow that he stops, hesitating. "I don't, uh. I don't guess you can walk all that way, huh?"

It's not that he doesn't trust you by yourself, Ford - or, well, it's not that he wants to say he doesn't. His voice is hopeful, too, 'cause he can't quite swallow down the idea that Ford will say 'yeah, of course!' and spring up and decide to follow Stan around for the next... For the next maybe-forever until it's safe to leave him on his own again. It might be that easy. You never know. Right?

The thing about Stan's question, the thing that will make it funny in hindsight but not in the moment present, is that he and Ford both wish he could give the same answer. Unfortunately for them both, things haven't gone well for them since...a long time, really, and they're not about to start now.

"I'll let you know when I figure that out myself." Ford replies, his tone as dry as he wishes his eyes were.

He makes a second attempt at standing up, and hopes that first time wasn't just a fluke. It takes some effort, his head still swims a bit when he gets onto his feet, but he manages it. Sure, at some point (he's not sure when) he grabbed onto Stan's shoulder to keep himself steady just in case his vision went spotty (which it does) and he blacked out (which he doesn't).

He waits a moment, blinks hard a few times until his eyes clear, then shakes his head for good measure.

"Alright - Alright, I'm good. I'm fine now."

He almost sounds sure of that.

"Yeah," Stan says, but the way he says it is slow and full of doubt, because there are times even Stanley's ability to bullshit kinda' starts to run out. Not many times, but some. Ford is up, but he sure as hell ain't fine. Food would help. He shoulda' got some food in here while Ford was asleep, he shoulda' thought of that, but no, he'd been too busy worryin' about not leaving for too long and now he sure as shit can't leave Ford alone, can't he? Not now that he's awake. More or less awake. Probably still awake enough to hold a damn scalpel. And, man, the guy really does need to wash some of that shit off.

"Yeah, I know. Come on, genius," he says, and starts to try and shuffle the two of them toward the bathroom where all this bullshit started. (It didn't start there, it didn't and he knows it didn't. It started long before that, with everything that Stanley coulda' done to stop it.)

The room, if they get there, is clean. Not as clean as it could be, because Stanley didn't want to stay away as long as it'd take to find the sorta' things he'd really need to get this out. But hey, it's clean, so long as no one searches the place. Said search, if it happened, would probably find the other thing Stan did: took every sharp thing, every thing even thinkin' about being sharp, out of the bathroom and the bedroom and hid 'em. In his car, if this pretend search ended up bein' that thorough. In his car, he knows all the good hiding places.

"You go ahead and sit on the tub," he says, as he starts trying to shuffle the two of them. "I'll start on your hair."

And if his voice is a little too determined to be normal there, well, it is normal. Giving what might end up amounting to a sponge bath to a fully grown man, that's... fine. If he don't give Ford a hint that it ain't normal, then it's normal, and Ford won't think about trying to get out of it. That's the plan.

The thing about Ford, the thing Stanley knows all to well, is that he has eyes like a hawk when it comes to things that are strange, weird, or abnormal. That said, Ford almost can't believe his brother even tried to slide something like this past him, because even while exhausted to the bone and in less-than-peak physical condition, he knows Weird when he hears it.

And this? Is weird.

"We're not five anymore, Stan." He sounds exasperated, but there's a touch of warmth in his tone that shows he appreciates the sentiment behind Stan's suggestion, even if he doesn't agree with the suggestion itself.

"Go wait outside, I'm not going to drown if you leave me alone for ten minutes."

But then, he doesn't think that's what Stan's worried about. No, Ford has a sneaking suspicion Stan has other reasons for not wanting to leave him alone, but he doesn't particularly want to think about that right now, and so he doesn't.

Or at least he tries not to.

Ford might sound a little amused, there. That's a good sign. It means Stan's got a little wiggle room to convince Ford about this, because someone decided to be a fuckin' hassle and not react like he was supposed to. He was supposed to go with it, because pretending everything is normal is sort of the one and only step of Stan's entire plan. His plan with gettin' Ford cleaned off, and with... with everything else. He keeps thinking about those calls he made, the ones back when Ford was passed out and he'd needed to know, he just needed to ask someone, and had been told by doctors and nurses alike that the 'mystery patient' he was callin' about oughta' be treated with, uh-

He keeps thinking about it.

"Can you just-" He stops himself, tucks the frustration back outta' sight, and tries again. "Work with me here. Two of us will make for that much higher efficiency," because when talkin' to a nerd you gotta' talk like a nerd, "and we'll be out in a flash, and then you'll be able to get back to napping. How's that sound?"

He'll try to set Ford down as soon as he can - not where he'd sat him yesterday, shit, he doesn't need to see Ford lookin' like this and sittin' there, but somewhere, so he can get out a little hand towel and start rubbing soap on it. If Ford cooperates long enough for Stanley to do this it might look like Stanley knows where every little thing in this bathroom is without even looking. That's because he does. You wouldn't think Stanley Pines is a cleaning kind of guy. He isn't. But it's amazing what a guy might do, when his only other option is to sit and count all the different stains his brother's blood is leavin' on the bedsheets.

...Higher efficiency?

Ford raises a brow at the wording, having not expected his brother to say anything quite so...articulate, for lack of a better word. It just doesn't sound right, hearing those words in that voice. Stan talks fast and knows how to spin things just so, but an academician he is not. Using words like that, vocabulary words that aren't quite his own, Ford can't help but feel like his brother is trying to sell him something.

He doesn't say this out loud, of course. He keeps it to himself, tries to quash the feeling down and write it off as paranoia. Stan isn't trying to manipulate him into doing what he wants, he's just trying to be helpful. Right? Right. Granted, those things don't have to be mutually exclusive, and-- you know what, no, Ford's not going to follow that train of thought anymore.

"I told you Stan, I'm fine."

To emphasize his point, he stands right back up after Stan sits him down and spreads out his arms, gesturing towards himself.

"Just wait outside, if you're really that worried."

If he's starting to sound a little frustrated, it's because he is. He understands that his brother means well, but Ford has his pride, and he's not keen on letting it be bruised any more than it already is.

It's almost a relief, once Stan realizes that he kinda' recognizes the look on Ford's face. A pain in the ass, because the idea of leaving Ford alone for that long makes him twitchy as a junkie goin' cold turkey, but familiar. He's missed that look. He's missed being with his brother.

Which shouldn't be a thought he's having just now, but he is. It should be a feeling he's had already, feeling like he's with his brother again. They've been under the same roof for, what, must be nearly a day.

But, yeah. Anyway. Recognizing that look means he remembers what always went with it, and Stanley wonders how far he can push his brother, here. Not far, he don't think. He hesitates anyway, shifting his weight from one foot to another and back again, looking torn.

"Look, just-" He backs up, opens the door, and stands there, gripping the doorframe. "Just yell if you need anything. There's nothin' wrong with it. Okay?" There ain't. There's nothin' wrong with it if Stanley says there ain't.

Then he turns, folds his arms, and leans against the wall outside the bathroom. Yeah, the door's still open. Gonna' make somethin' of it?

Speaking of familiar looks - Stan's waffling at the door makes Ford roll his eyes a bit, though the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth reveals the gesture for the show of fondness that it really is.

"Yes, Stanley, I'll call." He says flatly as he works on shucking off his tie. "Now, go on: scoot."

If Ford realizes how much he just made himself sound like their mother, he doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy focusing on the surprisingly challenging task of peeling off clothes that are caked on with dry blood, and stick uncomfortably to his skin. It probably takes him a little longer than it really should to finally get undressed and hop in the shower, but he hopes Stan doesn't fault him for the wait. Especially when he increases the wait tenfold by spending a good 30 minutes just standing under the running water with his eyes shut, because a long shower an absolutely horrid night is damn near a religious experience.

That, and if he keeps his eyes shut he won't have to watch the water turn the color of rust and spiral down the drain, which is nice.

After a bit, Ford finally gets to the actual cleaning part of taking a shower, and shortly after that Stan will be able to hear the water stopping, followed by the tell-tale sound of Ford trying in vain to dry off his untamable mess of hair. Even with a chunk of it shaved off, it still has far too much volume and retains too much water than it has any right to.

It's about at this time that Ford realizes he walked in here without any clothes, and that putting back on the ruined ones he just took off would entirely defeat the purpose of taking a shower. Damn. He was hoping he wouldn't have to ask Stan for help after all, but it looks like even that's asking too much.

"--Hey, Stanley? Do me a favor and grab me a shirt, will you?"

Stanley doesn't notice, either, how much Ford sounded like their mother just now, but he does notice how it relaxes him, only deepens that feeling of familiarity. Which is why it isn't as hard as it mighta' been to wait for Ford. Don't get him wrong, he does listen - the way things are going, hell, why wouldn't Ford slip and crack his head open, that would just round out the whole day. But he don't hear anything like that. By the time Ford calls for him he's actually kinda' zoning out, sitting on the floor by the wall and listening to the tiny splatting noises of water hitting tile.

"Oh, uh, yeah, sure." He grabs a shirt without really lookin' at it and then, after some consideration, pants too. Just as much consideration goes into the fact of Stanley's underwear drawer. It sure is right there, that drawer.

Nah. There are some things brothers just don't do. Ford can figure that one out on his own.

Then he walks into the bathroom, clothes bundled up in his arms. Then he stops. Then, not to be all melodrama or anything, then he doesn't notice at all when the clothes fall right to the floor.

Yeah. That makes it sound like he's just stunned by the oh so studley nerdbod in front of him, don't it? If only.

"You-" There are no words for this. What do you even- God help him, what do you even say?

"This ain't a new thing, is it?" Stan hears himself say, faintly. "God, and I thought- Who the hell did-" He wants to ask who the hell did this to Ford, needs to ask it, because the fist curled up at his side needs to hit someone. But he knows whose hand was holdin' the damn scalpel, or knife, or whatever it was, and knows that this is one thing that's way too obvious to deny. How do you defend your steady, sane, brilliant brother from the shit inside his own brain?

It wasn't a knife that did this to him, or a scalpel. That would have made things too neat, too easy, and most importantly of all; not funny. Now a fountain pen, that was hilarious to Bill. The irony of marking an author with a pen left him in stitches metaphorically, and Ford, literally.

But that's a story Ford doesn't like to get into. It's one he doesn't like to remember, to think about, to acknowledge the very existence of. And that's been working for him, so far. Just not thinking about it. Pushing it so far into the back of his mind that he doesn't even notice how his eyes avoid mirrors, or glancing down and catching a glimpse of exposed flesh.

Out of sight, out of mind. If he doesn't think about it, it may as well not have happened, right? Right.

Only, the problem with ignoring it - the problem with pretending so hard that there's nothing wrong - is that he can't trick other people's minds into just not seeing what he wishes wasn't there. This hasn't been a problem for him before, not since he's been holed up alone in his house for weeks, but now...

Well, now someone's around to see, and of course that someone just had to be Stan.

Ford goes stock still, cursing himself for forgetting, cursing Stan for seeing, cursing Bill for giving him something to hide. It's too late to try covering up, too late to try to save face. All he can do is stare like a deer in the headlights, realizing he's been caught in the act - though his act is less that of someone committing a crime, and more being the victim of one.

Something tells him Stanley would have preferred it if it were the former.

"Stanley..." He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and folds one arm over his chest to cover the worst of the scarring despite knowing it's far too late for that.

"I know what you're thinking, but this - it's not what it looks like, I swear. This wasn't me."

Well, it was his hand, yes, but he wasn't the one in control of it.

"Yeah?" Stan's voice wobbles as he says it, because he knows he shouldn't sound so hopeful there, he knows that. "Then wh-" He knows he should finish that word, too. Ask who. Get the details. Imagine that, a world where Stan Pines goes diggin' for the truth.

That world ain't this one.

"Then what, uh. Jeez, Ford." His voice has gone all soft, really talkin' to himself now. Because what does he say to Ford, at a time like this? He doesn't even know what to say to himself. "What've you been doin' all this time? You were supposed to be the good one. You were supposed to be- that's what made it all worth it. Knowin' you were out there bein' all, all brilliant and... and happy. And that- How old is that? How long ago did-"

He can't say it. Can't say how long ago did you. Ford said he didn't do it. He said.

This is not a talk Ford wants to be having. This especially isn't a talk he wants to be having with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, and yet here he is, having to do just that anyway.

He doesn't say anything for a minute. He just drags his hand down his face, then back over his head through his hair. He stares at the floor rather than looking at Stan, because it's a lot easier for him to look at the bloodstained hardwood than it is to see that look on his brother's face and know he put it there.

"...I wasn't joking earlier, when I said I was a bigger screw-up than you."

He glances up briefly, his hand moving to hang off the back of his neck in a clear show of discomfort as he finally looks his brother in the eye.

"I've made huge mistakes, Stan. You have no idea how idea how far this goes."

"Then-" Then tell me, no, he can't say that, because Ford actually might. Tell him all about them creatures no one else can see, the ones just like the monsters in all those old movies they used to watch as kids. Ford might tell him just who it is he thinks put those- jeez, shit, just who he thinks put that shit all over him, and every time Stan looks at it he needs to hit something and hit it hard, and he's not sure how well he'd be able to restrain himself.

So when he doesn't ask about it, that's for Ford's sake. Not his. It ain't like he don't wanna' know. He told his brother to share this shit with him and, and he meant it.

"Then put on your pants," Stanley says, picking up the now slightly damp pile of clothes and walking closer to shove it at him. "And get used ta' me bein' here. Like you said, I know a little somethin' about being a screw up, and together? There's no hole the two of us can't dig you out of. Not even if it goes all the way to China."

Being this close would let him get a better look at those, uh- those marks, if he looked at 'em. He don't. He looks into his brother's eyes, and from this angle and this close up the guy almost looks normal. Like Stanley always thought he would. "You just need a little foothold outta' this one. An' believe me, I know a little somethin' about digging holes."

He looks, all close and steady and insistent, into that very familiar pair of eyes. "You do believe me, don't you?"

Edited 2015-12-28 14:39 (UTC)

This is - well, it's not good, exactly, but it's okay. It's workable. Stanley isn't actively shouting and insisting he needs to go to the hospital, or worse, asking more uncomfortable questions he doesn't want to answer. He seems to be taking things in stride, which Ford hopes is a sign that he's finally getting used to this absolute shitshow that is his brother's life, and not just a finely-crafted veneer masking his internal panic.

But then, Ford knows better than to put too much stock into the former.

"I believe," He begins, as he gathers up the clothes shoved his way. "That this would make a nice Kodak Moment if I weren't half naked."

He knows damn well that he's dodging the question, but Ford is as socially awkward and body-conscious as he was when they were teenagers, and he really doesn't feel like having a deep, personal talk while he's stripped to the waist and covered in -

Yeah. It's. It's not comfortable for him, having this talk with Stan close enough to see things in full-detail. It looks worse up close, so much worse, and something tells Ford that his brother knows exactly how deep you have to cut to create marks like these.

He knows covering up isn't going to make Stan magically forget what's under his clothes, but damn it, they can both make an effort to pretend.

Stan looks into his brother's eyes for a moment, looking for something. But he can't push. If he pushes, this little idea he's crafting, the story that everything is alright here, is going to fly right the hell apart. Stanley knows a little something about shoddy craftsmanship, after all, and just how far you can push it. If Ford ain't giving this to him, he ain't getting it.

He turns away with a bark of what's meant to be laughter, and rubs at the back of his head. "Yeah. They don't sell them kinda' greetin' cards at Kodak, do they?"

When he stops at the door he holds onto the frame, just like he did last time, but unlike last time he doesn't look back. There's a big black screen between him and Ford, or there might as well be. The guy's earned a little privacy, alright?

"You, you feel up to goin' into the kitchen? Or are ya' about to, you know..." He hesitates over this next word, and then decides the best way to handle it is to turn it into a joke, turning his voice sly and amused. "Faint again? Just tell me when you feel a swoon comin' on, I gotta' have time to catch ya'."