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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"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?"

His brother's breath is still shaking and that's hard enough, listening to Ford like that and knowin' he's got to play it cool, but when Ford wraps his arms around himself not reaching over and doing something about that almost actually hurts, gives him that same feeling in his chest you get when you wrap your ribs up a little too tight and know you won't be able to take it off for a good long while.

That feeling gets worse a second later. If he's him, Ford said. Ford doesn't even know if it's Stanley, his own brother, jesus, how far gone is he? Jesus.

His chest is tight, his jaw wants to clench, his gut feels like it actually is clenching, and bad enough that Stan's glad he ain't had nothin' to eat just recently. But Stanley Pines plays it cool, damn it. Stanley Pines is cool. For his brother, Stanley Pines can be unflappable.

"You said you trusted me. And then uh, somethin' about not burnin' the house down so you didn't want me to cook. An' then you went right to sleep."

Stanley wants to add something else, he's not sure what. Something comforting, something funny. He plays it cool. He plays it safe, and calm, and cool. You could say Stan is comfortable with risk, maybe even settled down and painting white picket fences with it, but he ain't takin' risks here. Not with this.

Ford watches, waits, tries and fails to not get his hopes up. He waits for the answer to his question, waits for his brother's eyes to turn yellow, waits for that dark, twisted laughter to bubble out from his chest and fill up the room.

He waits. He holds his breath. Then, his brother speaks to him. His brother speaks to him, and all at once a wave of relief comes crashing down over him with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs and make him forget how to fill them back up again.

All that air comes out in a deep, shuddering sigh as his eyes fall shut of their own accord and he slumps forward, his head bowed as he buries his face in his hands.

"Oh thank God." His voice is thick, watery. He repeats the phrase a second time for good measure, more quietly, then a final time in a near-whisper.

He needs to pull himself together, he knows. He needs to stop being so goddamn emotional about this and just suck it up, be glad that it's over for now and just get over it, but he can't. He just - he can't do it. He needs a minute, maybe a lot of minutes, to just get everything out of his system. It makes him feel weak, spineless. A nasty voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like their father is quick to remind him that he's sitting here crying over a dream like some sort of little kid.

He'll feel properly ashamed of himself later. For now, he's too damn relieved to pay mind to anything else.

Stanley realizes, watching Ford, that his own breathing's getting kinda' shaky too, and tamps it down. You didn't know? You couldn't just look at me and know?

He tamps those thoughts down, too, and after a moment - feels too long, like he hesitated too long and broke the old cool and easy face he's got on but hell, it's not like Ford will see, he's too far gone to see anything.

Okay. Put a hand on his back, good, and he can rub Ford's back a little too, that's something he can do. He knows how to do that. "That was, uh, it was a hell of a dream, huh?"

The cool and easy thing breaks a little again and because of his voice this time, because it wasn't just a dream, it wasn't, it was terror. Real, honest terror, the kind you feel if someone's out to kill you or-

Or if no one's in the room at all, just the guy you've known longer than you've even been alive. They said this, the doctors he called, and he's sounding like a broken record now even inside his own head but they did, they warned him, and he'd stopped thinking of it because Ford seemed so normal. He was fine when they went to sleep. He was fine.

Ford's crying now, Stanley thinks, he might be. He can't really tell, Ford's too hunched over for him to really see. His own chest is tight, too, still, like there's too much pressure on it, and it'd always pulled him in when Ford cried, back when they were little. When it happened Stanley always had to get closer, always had to do something. He can't do something now, can he? He can't do anything. He could have done something, once, when Ford was, before all this, but he didn't, and now?

Well maybe, maybe this is a one off. Ford seemed fine, maybe this is just, it's just a moment. He's just having one bad night. "Good thing that don't happen often, then you'd never uh, you'd never get any sleep at all."

That laugh he gives then don't belong here, not when Ford's- not now, but it's out before he can stop it, all thin and nervous because Stan knows a lie when he hears one, even if it comes from himself, even if he don't want to admit it.

It's hard, getting his breathing back under control. His lungs ache, his ribs are sore, and he still feels like he's not getting enough air, like he'll never get enough air, but he knows that's just what happens when you get so worked up you start hyperventilating.

He has to force himself to take deeper breaths, to hold the air in and let it go slowly even though his addled brain feels like it's being starved of oxygen. It helps that he's done this before, that he's figured out how to handle himself when things get--when everything's just a little too much.

He straightens a bit, one hand moving to his chest while the other presses against his diaphragm so that he can better gauge his air-intake. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale -

He realizes, absently, that Stanley is saying something to him. He doesn't quite catch all of it, but what he does hear is comforting. Not because of the words themselves, but because they're coming from Stan - the real Stan - and Ford is unspeakably grateful to have him here right now, even if he feels mortified that his brother saw what he did.

Ford can spontaneously combust from the sheer intensity of his humiliation later, though. For now, he's going to shut his eyes and sink back against the wall as his breathing finally starts to slow down and become somewhat manageable again.

He mutters a curse, just because it feels good to swear after all of that bullshit he just went through, then mutters second one just for good measure.

"Jesus Christ."

He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, holds it, then swallows hard and shakes his head, to clear it.

"It--it's never been that bad before." It's not clear whether he's talking to himself, or Stan, though it probably doesn't really matter one way or another.

It doesn't occur to Stan that his stupid questions were helpful just because he said them. He can't see that Ford's comforted, even a little. What he sees is that Ford has to press his hands to his chest just so he can breathe, he hears that it's happened before. Stan can take care of himself, he knows how to do that. Alive, ain't he? But his brother? He always thought he could. Stan always thought he just needed to wait, just wait a little while, and he'd see his brother again and he'd take care of him, just like he used to. Not that he'd need to, not after Ford became a professional nerd, got in tight with all them other professional nerds with their big brains and important jobs and stupid labcoats. That's how things were gonna' be.

All those times Ford used to cry Stan always kept cool, except when he got mad, but he never freaked out. He never cried with Ford, that ain't how you help. So when Stanley realizes that tight feeling in his chest, it's about to force something out and he don't know what, he just knows he can't find out here, not here with his brother still needing him, needing him to do something.

"You, you need water after all that, right? Dry mouth, and all that, I'll just- Yeah, I'll be right back, okay?"

And he's off, he's out, and it makes that clenching in his stomach feel worse, leaving Ford alone, but he shuts the bedroom door anyway, thinks he made some kind of noise before he did it but shit, he's out now, down the hall, stops in a doorway and leans against it and covers his mouth.

"I can't, I can't, he, he needs help and I, I- God, what am I gonna' do but fuck it up again? I'm gonna' fuck it up and he, he can't end up in one a' those places, they decide people are crazy an' they throw 'em in there and, God, Ford doesn't- But every night like this? I'm gonna' fuck it up again and he's gonna' end up in there but I'm all he's got and it ain't fair, it ain't FAIR!"

That feeling in his chest finally squeezes something out, a wordless whine that comes right on the heels of that yell and keeps coming out of him as he takes a few steps away from the doorway and sweeps everything off the nearest table and fuck, fuck, Ford is going to hear that, but he can say he tripped, can't he? He tripped and knocked something over, right. He straightens up, taking deep, quick breaths, wipes his mouth, turns toward the hallway again, still trying in a shaky kind of way to straighten out his story.

Ford doesn't get the chance to respond - Stan doesn't give him enough time to. One minute he's tripping over some lame excuse to leave the room, the next he's making a break for the door like the devil is on his heels. Ford watches him go, opens his mouth to call out to him and ask what's wrong, but he stops himself. He knows damn well what's wrong, and that's what makes him settle back against the wall rather than follow after his brother.

"Fuck."

It's not a word he says often, which is probably why it feels so strange on his tongue. He says it again, a bit more loudly, and then sinks his hand into his hair and drags it back over his scalp as he stares at the closed door and wonders what the hell he ought to do. He's gotta do something, right? Check on him, maybe, or try to apologize? No, it's probably not an apology Stan wants, it's assurance - something to give him some peach of mind about all of this.

The only problem is, Ford has no idea what to tell him. The truth is far from comforting, not that Stan would believe it, and Ford has never been good at lying to his brother so that option is out too. Frustrated, Ford worries his lip, sinking his teeth into the corner of his mouth as he tries to get his head in order now that he's finally starting to calm down.

It's not until he hears the tail end of that shout echoing through the hallway and passed the closed bedroom door that Ford realizes what he has to do. Spurred by the sound of his brother's distress, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and pushes himself to his feet, swaying a bit as all the blood rushes away from his head and his vision goes spotty.

He swings an arm out to balance himself and trudges onward despite the sudden vertigo, and makes his way towards the door just in time to hear that godawful clatter. Ford swears - something he's been doing a lot, recently - and picks up his pace. He swears a second time when, in his haste, he rams his knee right into a chair he had forgotten was there, and it's only because he remembers he's not wearing any shoes that he refrains from kicking the damn thing in retaliation.

He finally makes it to the door after that minor delay, but once his hand touches the knob he finds his resolve beginning to wane. Maybe this is a bad idea after all. Maybe he should just - just let Stan blow off some steam, or have a moment alone, or so whatever it is he feels he needs to do in order to not look at him like that anymore.

Ford shakes his head, dismissing that thought. He steels himself, sets his jaw, and takes a steadying breath as he turns the handle and opens the door to face whatever is on the other side.

"...Stanley?" His voice sounds smaller than he'd like, so he tries again, a little less meekly. "Stan, is--is everything okay out here?"

What an impressive sight he must be, Standing there in the doorway in a too-big sweatshirt that used to fit just right before stress killed his appetite, his hair going every which way, his face still a sickly pale save for the red splotches around his eyes.

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GOD that icon kills me

TOO MANY HAPPY PINES SMILES

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casually takes three hours to reply

Shush the reply is beautiful and worth the wait

thank

Re: thank

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