goodguygrifter | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

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

"...Whose fault? Whose fault?"

His voice cracks at the end there, but he's too busy fuming with righteous indignation to care that his voice went up a few octaves in a way it hasn't since he was thirteen and puberty was kicking his ass up and down the stairs.

Ford shoves hard at his brother's shoulders in an attempt to shove him back down onto the bed, because he has not been this angry in a long while and so help them God, Stanley is going to sit down and listen.

"You're not my keeper, Stan! You don't get to take credit for my mistakes, you can't just--" He trips over his words but keeps going, to incensed to stop.

"You can't just disappear for ten years then come back into my life when it's already--a-after I've---"

God damn it, God damn it. Now he's got to blink hard against the stinging feeling in the back of his eyes, take a leaf from Stanley's book and drag in a breath to steady himself.

"You don't get to come here and tell me what I deserve when you don't know what I've done."

And there it is, the catalyst of his anger, the source of his frustration towards his brother for daring to place the blame for how his life turned out on himself: some not-so-small part of Ford genuinely believes that he's simply reaping what he has sowed.

Edited (typo) 2015-12-31 05:47 (UTC)

The shove makes Stan grimace, his expression going all threatening without even thinking about it. If this were anyone else - maybe even if this were just another conversation - he woulda' come back at that shove with a punch, and a hard one. But after baring his mistakes, making it so clear to Ford how he's failed him, all Stan does is let himself fall back on the bed, feels his arms tense but just uses them to catch himself on the mattress.

"You got one thing right, I am too late, too late by years. That's the thing. Whatever you done when I was off - you know, when I was uh, when I was away - you shouldn't of had to. Whatever you've done, it don't matter. I've done plenty a' shit too ya' know, real nasty shit, but you - you're different. You always deserved a better life, and you shoulda' had your brother there makin' sure you got it. Maybe I don't know the details exactly but I know that much, that's all I need to know. Come on, is it the blood loss talkin' or what? You never used to be this slow on the uptake."

Whatever you've done, it don't matter.

It don't matter

Ford can feel something twist inside him, twist and snap like a fractured bone. His brother, his stupid, hopeless, loyal brother is sitting there and telling him he deserved better than he got despite - despite how his own life turned out. Despite Ford being too hurt to speak up, too much of a coward to say anything to their father on their worst night of their lives. He could've, he could've said something - it wouldn't have made any difference, once their father set his mind there was no changing it - but he should've done it anyway. He should've done it but he didn't and Stan is here forgiving him for that, blaming himself for not being around, and--

And he has no idea. He has no idea how misplaced his forgiveness is.

Ford feels lightheaded, suddenly. There's a strange buzzing in his skull, like his head is full of static. He finds himself feeling unsteady on his feet, and so he reaches forward to take hold of his brother's shoulders for balance.

"Stan." His voice has gone quiet again, and there's a watery quality to both his tone and his eyes that belies just how distressed he feels at the moment.

"Stan, I nearly destroyed the entire world."

His fingers tighten their grip on his brother's shoulders, both to emphasize the severity of his words, and because he just really needs something to hold on to right now.

"You--you're not to blame for any of this. You're not the guilty party here. I-I know, I know you think things should have turned out differently for us, for me, but..."

He swallows hard, tries to ignore the stinging in his eyes. He's never said this out loud before, never wanted to admit it to himself let alone anyone else, but Stan needs to hear it.

"I've gotten what I deserve."

Stan meets Ford's eyes, and his expression is drawn and worried because Ford's tone is, Ford says it like it's something awful they oughta' be worried about. But the actual words, they're - what does he even do with them? There are a lotta' things Stan's had to worry about, and some far, far more than others, but I nearly destroyed the world is so far out from anything he's ever considered real that it's-

Well, he's been thinking about that old show a lot lately, The Twilight Zone, and he thinks that's only gonna' keep happening. Maybe Ford lives in the Twilight Zone. Maybe he thinks he does.

Stan's expression, his whole posture, is sort of frozen. Guys grab you on the street talkin' about the end of the world you shove 'em off and keep walkin, but your brother? Sayin' it real earnest, almost cryin' about it? Shit, what do you even say?

When Ford gets to that last part, though, then Stanley knows what to say. He don't think for a second about what to say to that.

"Don't you ever say that. Don't you ever say that," he says, and reaches out to cup the back of Ford's neck and try and pull him in. "Now sit down, right here next to me. I'm gonna' give you a pass for what you just said, because you look like you're about to faint and probably got no idea what you're sayin'. But I hear it again, and we're gonna' have words."

"Don't matter what kinda' mad scientist shit you did, or didn't do, or, or whatever. No one talks about my brother that way." He really focuses on Ford's eyes then, trying to get Ford looking back, and for a second Stanley almost couldn't be further from the guy who'd made that weepy confession a minute ago. There's somethin' here his brother needs protecting from, even if it's a small thing, and Stanley can do that. It's the most natural thing in the world to do it. "Huh? You hearin' me?"

Ford goes down without a fight, that tug on his neck throwing him so off-balance that he has to sit down next to Stan if only to keep from falling flat on his ass. Even if he had wanted to put up a fight and keep on standing, he wouldn't have been able to - his brother's grip is strong, and Ford hasn't been at the top of his game for...well, for a while.

It doesn't help that what Stan is saying, what he genuinely believes, is making something inside Ford's chest constrict so tightly he's afraid it's going to burst.

Even after everything that has happened between them, despite all of the hurt and the betrayal, despite the years of separation, despite never reaching out to offer help before selfishly asking for it - His brother is still here, defending him from harsh words just as he had all those years ago when Glass Shard Beach was still their home.

All at once, Ford feels as if the air has been knocked out of him. He tries to keep his face straight, tries to keep looking his brother in the eye, tries to summon up words to respond to his question, but he fails on all fronts. He looks away, and as he does his shoulders drop and his head bows as if gravity has increased upon him tenfold. He shuts his eyes, puts the back of his fist to his mouth and sucks in a deep breath as he stifles a sound that would have doubtlessly been pathetic if he didn't strangle the life out of it before it could leave his throat.

After a moment he blinks hard, forces himself to pull himself together, goddamn it and sets his jaw. When he speaks next its through gritted teeth, and he speaks more to the floor than to his brother.

"...Why can't you just hate me?"

That would make this - all of this - so much easier to bear.

"What?"

No, really. What?

Stanley hunches over, craning his neck in what's probably a useless try at meeting his brother's eyes, and the hand still on Ford's neck is something Stan doesn't even think about, let alone consider removing.

"Look, you did some stuff. To me. And before I understood, I mean, before I knew-" Before he knew, he means, just how bad things got for his brother here, how bad it'd got inside his brother's own damn head, although it seems too cruel to say so out loud. "I didn't always- look, I mean, I wasn't always thinkin' of you with a song in my heart, alright? But I never hated you. I don't know what you did to the world, but what you did to- I mean, it was gonna' be fine. I'd make it big and then we'd talk again and, and everything woulda' been fine."

Stan hesitates and when he talks again his voice is cautious, small and confused. "You really want me to hate you? Not just, just you think I should, but you really want that?"

"Of course not."

He can't help it that his voice breaks, or that he can't look his brother in the eye, try though Stan does to get him to look up at him. He just can't bring himself to do it, because he knows that if he does what little remains of his composure is going to crumble to dust, and there will be no repairing it.

"It's just. I could live with myself when I thought...I was so sure, and now - and now you're here and you're telling me I've been wrong, I've been so wrong this entire time, and--"

He swallows hard, pauses his rambling to catch his breath and steady himself. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, exhale, inhale...

Dammit, it's not helping as much as he hoped it would.

"...God help me, Stanley, how could I do this to someone who loves me?"

Shit, that don't sound as satisfying as he always thought it would. Not when he can still see some a' those scars, peeking up over the collar of Ford's shirt like his own failure constantly screaming up at him, not about to let him forget itself. Not when he's just sat here listening to his brother like this, all hunched over and breathing like it's the only thing he can stand to do with himself.

"Well..." Stan starts and then trails off, awkward, because he can't deny it, can he? Can't, won't, whichever. Saying his brother hasn't done wrong by someone who loves him is, well- Stan wouldn't go that far. He searches for something to say, and finds it.

"I guess we were both wrong about things we shouldn't a' been sure of." He ruffles Ford's hair, only very, very carefully, more than a little awkwardly, trying to find parts of scalp that haven't recently been sliced open and melted back together. The back of Ford's head, by the way, is still a goddamn mess. "Welcome to life as a fuckup, Sixer. I'd say you get used to it after a while, but, uh-"

Stanley laughs a little and the sound is gentle, so much as his voice can manage, and his tone is warm. "We can be fuckups together, huh? That sound like somethin' you can handle?"

Ford does not feel like laughing. In fact, he feels as far removed from "amused" as he's ever been. He hasn't felt quite this low in a long, long while, and he doubts anything will be able to improve his mood in the short term, or his opinion of himself in the long-term.

And yet despite himself, he can't help but let out a weak chuckle at Stan's words. His brother has always had a talent for that, getting him to laugh when he was feeling down - even and especially when he didn't want to. Even now, Ford still has a crystal clear memory of being thirteen and laughing through tears while calling his brother an asshole for ruining his perfectly miserable mood.

Oddly enough, he can't remember for the life of him what he had been upset about in the first place, but he remembers his brother's words and his comforting tone, and the great lengths he went through to get him to smile again.

Ford supposes there are just some things you never forget. He counts himself lucky that for Stan, one of those things is knowing how to handle his mess of a brother.

"...You and me, teaming up to make dad even less impressed with us than he already is."

He shakes his head, a wobbly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he wipes at his eyes. He still feels a touch miserable, but it's difficult for him to stay on the verge of tears when his brother's so damn good at giving pick-me-ups.

"Just to piss him off."

He huffs out a half-laugh, and finally risks lifting his head to look at his brother and meet his eyes. He knows he probably looks like a red-faced mess, but he thinks Stan has earned a smile for all his efforts. Even if it's just a small one, a weak little sapling of a smile.

"Think Mom would get a kick out of that?"

When Stan hears his brother laugh he smiles, and the look takes a few of those extra years off his face, at least until Ford mentions dad. Then his smile fades - not all the way, but a little - because he hasn't thought of dad in years. Well, he has, but he hasn't. Not like that. Not in terms of, you know, actually interacting with the guy, letting him know Stan's even alive.

But his brother is still smiling and so his own smile stays, more tentative now but just as genuine and relieved. It even grows a little as Ford's smile meets his, because he's smiling for his brother.

"Yeah," he says weakly, agreeing more because the thought seems to make Ford happy than because he knows what to make of it. "Yeah, I guess she might. Um."

It's important, sometimes, to have gotten rid of as many obvious visual cues as possible so Stan don't make a habit of biting at the inside of his lip anymore, at least not mostly. He does now though, for a second, because in that second he's on the verge of asking about dad. How the guy is, what he's been doing. But Stan just got Ford to smile, didn't he? And it's a great smile, not huge but there, which is more than he thinks his brother mighta' had in a pretty long time. A couple months, maybe, since that Fiddle-guy up and left him, right? Longer than that, maybe? He's not gonna' do anything that might make that little sapling of a smile up and wither away sooner than it's already going to, and he's definitely not going to do it just to make Ford talk about Stan's own problems. Ford's dealing with enough as it is.

"You know what else mom would want? For her kid to get some sleep." He slips his thumb under Ford's glasses, copying mom's old gesture, the way she'd use her own thumbs to wipe their eyes after they came to her about Crampelter or dad or, whatever, kid problems, after she'd told some far-out story to cheer them up and was about to send them off to bed. It'd been a trick, probably, for her to do it with those fingernails of hers, but Stan don't have to worry about that. "The kind that don't involve passin' out and sleepin' so long you ain't eaten for a whole day. How's that sound?"

Ford can't help but wonder, absently, if Stan realizes just how many habits he picked up from their mother. Most people would immediately draw the connection between the pathological lying, but for Ford, it's the little things that are more apparent - small gestures like the one he just made that anyone else would have overlooked. He certainly picked up her accent, something Ford had to actively try to not absorb himself growing up.

Maybe that's what's prompting him to smile, the particular sort of comfort one feels when taking refuge in the familiar. Nostalgia must be the reason why he suddenly feels at home in his own house for the first time in - maybe ever, now that he thinks about it.

Or at least, nostalgia is what Ford's going to blame. He's not about to admit that maybe, just maybe, he simply feels better when his brother is around.

"Heh. Sounds like you want me to go back to sleep before one of us starts crying again, that's what I think."

His wobbly smile turns a little more stable as he pauses to remove his glasses and swipe at his eyes with the heel of his thumb, just to wipe away anything Stan might have missed.

"You bet your ass I do." It's such a relief to hear this tone come out of his mouth, this friendly, easy tone, and to be able to mean it. It's been so long since he's had that with anyone, let alone with his brother, and he's sure it ain't going to last so the words might come out a little quick, a little more desperately cheerful than they otherwise might. His laugh is brief but loud, happiness and relief and the giddiness of seeing a bad time put behind him all mixed up into it, and the hand perched carefully over Ford's head slides down to fit around his shoulders.

"I've cried more tonight than I have in, shit, I think the entire year put together, it's gotta' be this place. Whatever you've been doin' is givin' this place some seriously fucked up dustmites."

He smiles at Ford a second and holds the smile, teeth worrying over the scars on the inside of his lip because this moment can't last, this friendly, easy moment just like things used to be, but if he can get things ending on a high note then, for a little while, everything will be perfect. "Seriously though, you look, uh. You've looked better. I'll have some food waitin' for ya' when you wake up next time, an' maybe then we'll be able to make you look like a halfway productive member of society."

A quiet, raspy chuckle works its way up from Ford's chest, the sound just one promotion away from actually sounding like genuine laughter. This is more weary than a real laugh, not quite as strong or amused, but it's warm all the same.

"Well, isn't that a nice way to say I look like hell."

He runs his hand back over his head through his still-damp hair to confirm that, yes, it is still a godawful mess just like it was when he first stepped out of the shower. He almost wishes he hadn't avoided looking in the mirror - he kind of wants to know how bad he looks right now. He pictures red-rimmed, sunken-in eyes, a mop of hair that looks like it hasn't seen a brush in a month, and an overall look of haggardness that permeates his very being.

It's a pretty spot on assessment, really. The only thing missing is the 5 o' clock shadow that a lot of women would go crazy for if it weren't attached to a guy who looks like he just escaped from a mental ward.

"...I really have looked better, I'll admit."

His hand moves from his hair to the back of his neck, which he rubs sheepishly as a sudden bout of self-consciousness overcomes him. God, he must look like the world's nerdiest mess. A human disaster. He gives Stan credit for not making a bigger deal of it before now; he's sure he must have wanted to say something. What, exactly, Ford's not sure, but he's guessing something along the lines of "When's the last time you ate", or "Do you remember what sleep is", or "What the fucking fuck Stanford."

"You, ah. You mind making sure I get up in a few? I don't want to make a habit of waking up and not knowing what day it is."

"A few what?" He smiles a little but doesn't push the joke, doesn't want to give Ford time to think he ain't takin' him seriously. There was a time when he took pride in that, his ability to annoy his brother out of absolutely any mood at all, but annoying him is a risk now. It feels like a risk.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll probably get bored soon anyway, not much to do around here 'cept read your nerdy books." He could sleep now maybe, now that things are good, now that they're better. But Ford obviously expects Stan to be up making sure he wakes up okay, so that's what Stanley's gonna' do. He gives Ford's shoulders a squeeze - hallelujah, a part of the guy he don't have to worry about breakin' if he touches it - then pulls back a little and gives him a little push, encouragement to lay back. "Go on. I'll be here when you wake up, yeah?"

It's weird to say that. After all this time it feels like a dream almost, that idea of keeping watch over his brother while he sleeps, Ford wakin' up, maybe talking to Stan a little. Just being here, expecting to be here later. It's weird.

He means it.

That gentle but insistent push earns Stan a fond eye-roll and a light bap on the arm, because Ford is not going to take being coddled lying down. He's going to do it while sitting up, then he's going to lie down, because he's emotionally and physically exhausted and this has been a very, very long day. (Never mind that he's only been awake for an hour or two at the most.)

"You'll have to be if you're going to wake me up."

Lying back, Ford props himself up on his elbows and raises a brow at his brother.

"You are going to wake me up, right?"

Something tells him Stan's just going to let him wake up on his own regardless of what he promises.

"Yeah, yeah." Stan gets to his feet and gives one of those elbows a light little slap. "You'll wake up, don't worry. Go on an' sleep already, come on. A guy might start thinkin' you don't trust him, or somethin'. I'll keep everything real quiet."

(ooc: sorry about length, I just figured there's not much to do here until he goes to sleep and also have been up for a while and also figured with where this is going next you won't need hooks here but if you do need some let me know and I can provide)

It was meant as a joke, but it gets Ford thinking regardless. It came up earlier, and he didn't know what to say, didn't know how he felt. But now, after everything that just happened, after they've cleared the air and bared their souls and made complete embarrassments of themselves, Ford feels a little more sure of how he feels now.

"Alright, alright, I trust you."

He waves his hand, trying to make that statement seem less significant than it really is, before turning on his side so that his back is to his brother, because if he keeps facing him they're going to have another Moment and God, is he too tired to deal with another one of those just yet.

"Just try not to burn the house down if you decide to try your hand at cooking, okay? I'm still paying off this mortgage."

His eyes are already closed as he speaks, and if Stan has anything to say in response, he doesn't hear it. Sleep rises up like a monster from the deep and grabs hold of him before he can even think to tell his brother goodnight.

-------

Stan never gets the chance to keep his promise. Not through any fault of his own, no, he can't be blamed for what happens. Neither of them expected Ford to wake up on his own, an oversight which Ford will be kicking himself over for the rest of the week, assuming he doesn't have a heart-attack before then and put himself out of both their misery.

It starts off innocently enough, at first. There's some tossing and turning, typical movements one might make in their sleep, nothing worrisome there. But then his breathing shifts, hitches, turns labored. Everything comes to a terrible, pained crescendo when a scream finally tears its way through his throat and he awakens with a jolt, bolting upright in bed as he hurriedly looks around in the darkened room with wild, red-rimmed eyes.

His breathing is worse now, his chest heaving like his lungs are starved for air as a cold sweat soaks his clothes and makes them cling uncomfortably to his skin. So much for that shower.

Stan doesn't think about the words as more than a casual phrase when he says them, he doesn't realize they might be a little too close to home until Ford says it and Stan hears I trust you. He stops in his tracks, stares, open-mouthed, at his brother's back. It's almost a relief when he realizes Ford's asleep, a guilty relief, because he may not have walked further than this room in the last, say, hour or so, but he is tired, in that way too much fear for too long makes you tired, only he ain't afraid this time.

Well, he is. But this ain't the same. This time he's relieved, too, worried in that old, reassuring sort of way that means there's someone other than his own self here to worry about. And tired.

He goes to the kitchen, just quick enough to get a can of the first thing he sees, a can opener, and a spoon, and comes back to set it all near the bed. He looks at the door a moment, but like hell is he going all the way to that guest room now. Like hell.

He settles himself on the mattress, leans against the wall, and there ain't no harm in sleeping now, is there? They're in the middle of nowhere, and he's been here a while and no one's come knockin' on the door. And he's right here. Stanley lets his eyes close.

-------

"Fuckin' shit!" There are worse ways to wake up than to a scream, even one of those raw, genuine screams that always stick with you, somehow, even if you don't know who made the noise or why, but not too many. Not very many at all, once Stanley looks around the room, remembers where he is, and realizes the voice that made that noise is his brother.

"Sixer?" The only parts of his brain that are awake right now are the instinct ones, all that fight-or-flight stuff jazzing up his system, and his first thought, one he doesn't question, is to put his hands on Ford's shoulders and try to pull him around so they face each other. "Hey, talk to me, what is it? What, what happened? Fuck, are you, are you okay?"

Ford dreamed often as a boy, but rarely did those dreams take a vicious, unhappy turn. He remembers how, on the odd occasion that they did, Stanley was always there to comfort him. Even though he was terrified of heights, he would climb up into the top bunk and tell some stupid joke to get him laughing, or simply sit there on top of the covers and just be there for him, like he always was. Like they promised they would always be.

Stanley is here for him now, just like he was back then, but his presence is anything but comforting. The sound of his voice, the feeling of his hands on Ford's shoulders - they send him jerking backwards, his shoulders slamming hard against the wall as he shoves blindly at his brother in an effort to push himself away from him.

Ford recalls seeing once, when he was young, a raccoon being struck by a car. The poor thing had survived the initial impact, but it had gone into shock. It simply laid there by the side of the road, eyes blown up wide as it panted rapidly through its teeth until finally its breathing slowed and it went still. Ford never thought he would find himself in the same sort of state - shaking down to his very bones, terror in his eyes as he struggles for air and chokes on the all-encompassing feeling of dread that accompanies knowing you're about to die.

It's a dream. It's a dream, It's a dream, It's a dream - He can't die here. He's going to be fine. He's going to wake up and be fine - He keeps telling himself this. He keeps saying this over and over in his head, keeps saying it because maybe if he says it enough he'll be able to believe it.

Bill can only kill him so many times with his own brother's hands before he eventually wakes up. He just has to hold out until then.

Stanley doesn't think twice about trying to catch hold of Ford's shoulders again because these are his brother's shoulders, that was his brother's scream, and all he knows is that he needs to help. He isn't thinking of those times when they were boys, because Ford's never woken up like this, he's never seen Ford wake up like this. He's never seen anyone wake up with a scream like that, not outside of a couple really bad trips he's seen, and outside of movies, but you never get that kind of scream in movies, that makes your heart thump hard and your entire brain just shut everything down except the need to do something. God, something.

"Jeez, Ford, it's, it's me, okay?" Stanley recovers from the shove - it didn't send him far - and moves closer, reaching out to try and bring them closer together. As long as they stay close everything's gonna' be okay, and he believes that without even a second to consider it, believes it before anything but the most basic parts of his mind have even had time to come awake yet. "It's me! Breathe! It was a dream, you're okay!"

Ford tries to move, to evade the grasp of the thing that looks like but is not his brother, but it's no use. His back is to the wall. There's no where for him to go. He's trapped, like countless times before he's trapped and it's going to start all over again. This little game Bill's playing, it's going to keep going on and on and on until he gets bored of it. He can keep this going as long as he wants - time is meaningless in the mindscape. Ford could die a thousand deaths in this place, while only a few moments pass in the physical world.

He wonders how long Bill's going to drag this out - a hundred times? A thousand? Ford knew he would be livid about the metal plate, knew he wouldn't take well to not having a vessel to play in anymore, but he never imagined he would take things this far.

Ford supposes this is just what he gets for being so foolish, for holding onto the childish hope that maybe, just maybe a shadow of the person he thought was his friend was in there somewhere, and that that person would just let him go.

Evidently, he was wrong. Again. Like he always was, always will be.

His shoulders tense beneath the hands that grip them, but he doesn't pull away. He simply tenses up, shuts his eyes tight, and braces for what's to come. He doesn't want to have to see it coming this time.

Stanley frowns. In the moment before Ford closes his eyes, he frowns.

"It's me," he says, but uselessly, it's his same voice but with all the hope dropped out of it, because Ford knew very well what he was looking at. Sort of. It ain't that dark.

"It's just a dream, you can snap out of it," he tries, because he's gotta' try. "Look, Sixer, l-look at me, okay? I, I can't talk to you if you don't even see me."

He catches himself shaking Ford a little and stops, looks at him a couple seconds like the right answer's just gonna' pop into his head, the right thing to say that will make all this go away. He needs to see his brother's eyes again. "This is an, an uh- episode, right? That's, that's what they called it, the uh, the doctors. But-but I, uh. I don't know what to-"

He doesn't know what to do, but not knowing what to do won't help Ford. Not knowing what to do don't help anyone, and talking about it definitely won't. It never has, he knows that, and so all at once Stan straightens up, the spine going back into his voice.

"That's fine," he says, steady and easy and moving to lean back against the wall next to Ford, letting his hands slide off and away from him but making sure their shoulders press together instead. "You don't have to look if you don't want. It's a great view in here, though. Or, hey, it might as well be, if you ain't going to open your eyes anyway."

"Do you wanna', uh, talk about it? I hear that, that's supposed to help." That's what all those shrinks do, ain't it? Stan's never been a shrink, but if he's gonna' stick around with Ford here it looks like he's going to need the practice.

He holds his breath, waits, but the moment he's preparing for never comes. Instead things take a different turn, they go all pear shaped and Ford's left sitting there breathing hard and wondering where the hell things are going to go now that Bill's gone off-script.

He feels the shoulder brushing against his own, feels the weight sinking into the mattress beside him. He opens his eyes, but doesn't look over. He doesn't dare. He simply sits there stock still while his heart hammers against his ribs and his breathing goes from fast and desperate to deep and shaky. He wishes he could say this was a sign that he was calming down, but in truth he's not any less horrified than he was when he was hyperventilating. All he's doing is dressing himself up as someone who's having a slightly less severe panic attack than the one he's actually having.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

His voice is quiet and just as shaky as his breathing.

"This is - this is low, even for you."

He could handle another death. He could deal with dying at his "brother's" hands, but this? This is just sick. Bringing about pain and fear is one thing, offering false hope and comfort is another entirely.

"What?"

Stan leans forward, too shocked and confused to be hurt and wanting to try and get a look at Ford's face, but he sits back before he can see much. He knows already how he's got to play this, and it makes him sick. He's got to talk to Ford the way he'd talk to one of those guys in some of those really bad apartments, the ones you have to just nod to no matter what they say to you, don't move too quick, and try not to make any sense outta' anything. Ford's not one of those guys. He's not.

He's not.

"Well, uh, that's fine. You don't have to talk, I ain't too invested in the idea."

You can't try to make sense out of this stuff, but that's when you're talking to other guys. That's for the guys so far gone that they don't even know what they're trying to say anymore, and never will. But Ford, he knows what he's saying. Ford's different. It's just Stanley who can't get with it.

"What, uh- Remind me. What is it I'm uh, doin' to you, exactly?"

Ford can feel himself bristing, his shoulders squaring as the rest of him draws inward. He curls in on himself a bit, feeling sickened and angry and still so very anxious, along with a cocktail of other things he doesn't care to put a name to at the moment.

"You know damn well what you're doing."

He folds his arms over his chest, wrapping them tight in an effort to get his breathing under control - it's a lot harder to let himself take those too-deep breaths when his arms are keeping his chest from expanding too far out.

It scares him, how much this feels like the real Stan. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised - Cipher had access to all his memories. Everything he knows about his brother, so does he. Everying thing except...

Except what happened after he put in the metal plate.

Ford looks up suddenly, feeling something small and dangerous well up inside of him. Something that hurts to harbor in his chest because he knows how very easily it can be snuffed out.

He risks a sideways glance at Stan, not wanting to dare hope it might really be him, but being unable to help himself.

"Wait. If you're--Stan would know. If you're him, you'd know."

That doesn't make any sense without context, but thankfully Ford is quick to fire out a question that makes things a little more clear.

"What was the last thing I said to you, to Stan, before I went to sleep?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

GOD that icon kills me

TOO MANY HAPPY PINES SMILES

no subject

casually takes three hours to reply

Shush the reply is beautiful and worth the wait

thank

Re: thank

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject