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

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.

"Fine!" He reaches out to lean against the wall and when he sees Ford his fist clenches, he feels his short fingernails scraping against the wall because all the anger he hadn't been able to let in earlier, because there's no one to use it on, because nothing he does with his fist is gonna' help Ford out of the shit inside his own head, it's sure here now, here the moment Stan sees him. Ford looks sick, damn it, he looks sick and starving and exhausted, probably because he is all of those things, all of 'em and more, Stan can see it even better in the brighter light out here.

"Fine, I tripped, go back to-" Go back to bed, go back to sleep, where the bullshit demon eats your eyeballs so you can't even see your own brother without that look in your eyes, that look of terror so big and deep there aren't even any words for it. After Ford woke up, before he closed his eyes - Stan's seen people look that way before, not at him but near him, and the first person to look him in the eyes like he's the one dishing out all that big, deep terror was not supposed to be his brother. It wasn't ever supposed to be Ford.

"Can you even sleep?" And suddenly he's pacing, flinging out an arm and stalking to the other side of the room. "Can you eat? You got all this food an' it don't look like it's been touched, you got dust on all the cans."

And back he goes to the other side of the room again, fast and scowling. "They can feed guys like you in those 'facilities', they got IVs and needles and beds with big thick straps on 'em, guys like you go into those places and they're fed and watered an' drugged up 'till they sleep real deep every night, an' guys with lotsa' letters after their names talk to 'em every day, an' when guys like you come outta' those places they ain't guys like you no more."

It can't be called pacing, what he's doing, because it's not straight back and forth so much as the path of an eightball shot by an excited kid who hit way too hard and sent the thing bouncing against every one of the walls without coming close to a single corner pocket. The kid here is his temper, he guesses, and the pool cue in this case is that feeling all tight and tighter inside of his chest. It's a science thing, isn't it, something about what happens when you put a lot of pressure into a very small space, what is it that happens after that? Ford would know. Maybe Ford would know. He's not sure how much of anything Ford knows, right now.

"I got none of that, no little IV tubes, no fancy drugs. I could get some, I bet I could fix you up real good, an' then sit here keepin' my brother stoned out his mind for the rest of his goddamned life! If it were me, well, it wouldn't be the shock of the century, would it, me endin' up like that, but you? You? It ain't fair!"

His spinning eightball path has him in front of a little glass-fronted cabinet now, weird-shaped things in jars filling all the shelves inside it, and he can't tell what they are but he bets every single one of 'em is part of some brilliant experiment with about a million pages of flowing, illegible notes stuffed in some filing cabinet somewhere. Hopefully those notes are good, because a bunch of bits of shattered glass all spinning out and landing inside 'em like that is probably enough to ruin any experiments. Not all the glass bit it, just the one side over by the part of the wooden frame he punched, but what's left cracks a little more when he hits that frame again and the noise out of his mouth is a wordless one, a noise of frustration and pain when that second punch sends the bigger splinters and a few slices of glass he didn't quite avoid digging even deeper into that soft skin between his knuckles. It hurts but in a satisfying way and he keeps grimacing, standing there and panting at the crooked cabinet frame, not saying anything because that feeling, the satisfaction and half-release of that awful pressure tightening inside his chest, that feeling's all he's got, and he wants to pretend it's going to last.

Edited 2016-01-06 12:51 (UTC)

What Stan's doing right now, the way he's moving - Ford's never seen a person do that before. He looks more like a cornered animal than his brother, like one of the more wild, vicious creatures that he's encountered in the woods since coming here. It's scary, seeing him move like that, seeing all that anger coiling in his fists, hearing it bleed into his words. Ford's never been scared of his brother before. He's never looked at him - when he knew it was actually him - and thought to himself, this person is dangerous. This is someone I should stay away from.

Well, he's starting to think that now, and he hates himself for it because this is Stan. He should know better than to ever think he needs to be scared of his brother. All that anger, all that pent up rage that's making Stan act like this - he doesn't have to worry about it being taken out on him. He'll never have to worry about that, because Stan would never -

The sound of shattering glass makes him flinch, despite himself, and Ford feels all those reassuring words he was telling himself beat a hasty retreat. He hangs back in the doorway rather than try to approach his brother, the fading echo of his dream still fresh in his mind. He grips the doorframe, unsure if it's safe to break the silence that follows Stan's outburst. Ford decides to risk it, decides that he's got nothing to risk in the first place because there is no risk because this is Stan. This is Stan, not - not him.

"Stanley, you're scaring me."

He bites his tongue, immediately regretting his words.

"You - you need to calm down."

Before you hurt yourself even more.

The words stop him short. Maybe nothing else coulda' done that - it ain't like he's on a rampage or nothin', he ain't like some a' those other guys, he's not, but all the same-

From anyone else it'd just be his cue to look around, hearing that, check the situation out a little. Reassess. From Ford, though? From Ford it's a shock, makes his eyes go wide and his whole body feel cold. Not that last bit, no, there will never be anything more annoying than 'you need to calm down' and he takes a slow breath, feels himself bristle a little bit, squaring up his shoulders and shifting his whole posture, getting ready like he'd have to if anyone else were saying that. But Ford don't mean anything by it. Ford ain't trying to goad him into anything, don't want to test how tough he is. Ford's seen him weak, Ford's seen him cry. More than once, for shit's sake.

So when Ford says he's scared, scared of Stan- god, this ain't some chick sayin' it just to keep a couple guys from wrecking her place. This ain't some guy tellin' him to calm down just to try and piss him off more. When Ford says all that, it's because he means it. God. He flexes his fist and does it slow, lets the feeling of the wood and glass shifting around in there do what it can to ease the awful, tight feeling in his chest that hasn't had a chance to really get out of him yet. And won't, either, he doesn't think. He can't let it out.

"Fuck," he mutters, turning finally and taking a look around at the shit he'd swept off the table, at the glass on the floor and the way the top half of that cabinet kind of looks like it's getting ready to fall right over. "I think I ruined your uh, your nice little room, here."

"I," he tries, eyes darting up toward Ford and away again. He's trying to figure out how to apologize for even being here in this nice little house, doin' what guys like him do.

"Don't belong here, do I?" Stan says it real quiet, not really realizing he said it out loud. Then his voice goes all cheerful, his face follows suit, and he takes a couple hurried steps to his brother. "I'll just get a broom, get all this up real quick. You go sit down and uh, don't worry, I'll be careful around your stuff next time, huh?"

He doesn't give a single second thought to the impulse to try and give Ford's shoulder a little bop with his fist, because that's just what you do when you joke. And that's what this is, no worse than a dog leaving a little mess on a nice carpet. No worries, no problem. No need to be scared of a joke, Ford, everything's just fine. Everything is cool.

Edited 2016-01-07 12:36 (UTC)

For a minute, Ford worries he misspoke. He watches Stan square his shoulders, bristle like he's a firecracker about to go off, and wonders if he ought to take a step back. But then his brother turns around, looks over the room he's made a mess of like he's only just now realized what he had done. Then he swears, looks shamefaced, and Ford lets out the breath he didn't know that he was holding.

Before Ford can get his brain to cooperator with him and come up with something to say, Stan is whirling back around towards him, radiating forced cheer like nothing happened, like Ford didn't just see him ram his fist into a glass cabinet in order to achieve some sort of violent catharsis.

That fist comes to bump his shoulder a moment later, but it doesn't prompt him to match his brother's smile with one of his own. If anything it makes his worried frown deepen as he looks from Stan's hand, to his face, then back again.

Then there he goes, trying to catch his brother's wrist so he can take a look at the hand in question - look at it and frown, and frown hard because it's not okay when Stan's the one bleeding.

"For chrissakes, Stanley. You tear up your hand and think it's the cabinet I'm worried about? Give me some credit here, I'm not that terrible."

Stanley's hand is still and his arm is, too. His fingers uncurl slowly but that's the only movement there is there and he stares at Ford's hand on his wrist, his cheerful look replaced by something much quieter, a little surprised.

"It's just a couple cuts," he says, all awkward, once he looks up. "Once it stops bleedin' all I need is some tweezers and somethin' to wrap it, then I'll be good to go. Your stuff, uh- Maybe not so much. Besides, you need-"

You need to sleep, he doesn't say, because the thought scares him, sets that locked-up feeling inside him to thumping hard at the bars of its cage, so Stanley doesn't say it.

"You oughta' sit down, get at least a little rest that way. 'Sides, all that glass, you'll hurt yourself."

There is another thought he doesn't say. That thought is, again, and the thought is so big just now in his head that he can't think to say anything else, it crowds everything else out. More than you already did. From the way he stares at Ford, jaw going tight, maybe he might as well have said it.

"I'll, I'll get that broom first," he manages, breaking his eyes away from Ford's face. Away from his head, his neck, hell, just Ford in general, 'cause is there really any part of Ford he couldn't imply that thought right now just by looking at? "You just take care of yourself, okay? I'll deal with all this."

There's a lot Stanley isn't saying. Not with his words, at least, not in any way that requires conscious effort. But his eyes - those give him away. The look he gives Ford when he says "you'll hurt yourself", the way his jaw goes tight as he stares at him, at what was done to him - it's not hard for Ford to figure out what his brother is thinking.

That feeling in his stomach is back, the horrible twisting in his gut that makes him feel like he's going to be sick. Maybe he is sick - not in his insides but in his head. Stanley certainly seems to think he is, and no one in the world knows him better than his brother. If - if even he thinks there's something wrong with him, then maybe something actually is after all.

Ford swallows against the knot that's formed suddenly in his throat, but he does not let go of his brother's wrist. If anything his grip tightens, just enough to keep him from pulling away because what he has to say next is important. It's important and goddamn it he's not going to repeat himself because he's almost entirely certain that if he has to repeat himself his confidence is going to waver and ruin any conviction his tone might have.

"Stan. I'm not going to fall apart if you take your eyes off me for five minutes. I've been dealing with this for months. That cycloptic sociopath is gonna have to try a lot harder than this if he wants to break me."

Months, not years. But he'd said this, this freaky floating eyeball hallucination shit started way before that, so this, this whoever it is Ford thinks is doing this to him, it's a new one. He's got to ask, don't he? A doctor would ask, get all the details. He ain't one and he never will be, but he's all Ford's got. And he's got to ask now, don't he? He don't get to let go of all this shit that's pressing all inside of him, he don't get a break to - to do something, anything, he doesn't know.

Well, that's how life is. Sometimes you don't get breaks. He got more of one than he'd deserved when Ford passed out after- after that head thing, and that didn't help anyway, did it? It just gave him time to figure out what he already knew, and didn't make it any easier.

He raises one hand and the wrist Ford's holding tugs at that six-fingered grip to come with, but Stan stops it. The one free hand he's got is enough to cover his face up, give him time to breathe, pull himself back together, god, he's never had to try so many times to put that face on as he has since he got here, the face of a guy who's got his shit together.

"Tell me about him," he says, letting the shelter of his hand over his eyes slip off and bring him back into the big, bad world again. He's got the voice on, too, the voice of a guy who's got his shit together, although let's be honest here, he should probably expect to freak out again in the next five or ten minutes, maybe fifteen if he's lucky. Well, gotta' try.

"Your sociopath guy. I mean, I still need a broom but uh, you can come with me while I get it, tell me all about him. It sounds like somethin' I need to know if I'm gonna' be, uh. You know."

Stan hopes he knows because the idea of using the phrase 'taking care of you' leaves a bad taste in his mouth, knowing like he does what it would really mean. He may have been angry when he talked about keeping Ford higher than fuckin' Mount Everest for the rest of his natural life just to keep him relaxed and safe but that's because the idea makes him want to scream. Just because he was angry when he said it don't mean that, that and staying two steps behind his brother for every minute of every hour of every day, isn't the only idea he's got.

If he wasn't sure of it before his brother covered his face with his hand like he was trying to make the whole world just stop, he is now: Stan thinks he's lost his mind. His own brother thinks he's gone insane, and the worst part - the real fucking kicker - is that Ford can't blame him. How could he? Any rational person would take one look at him and think "Ah yes, this person is a danger to himself and others, we should lock him up and throw away the key."

That Stan has somehow managed to hold out this long, pretending that things don't look as bad as they do - well, it's to his credit. But Ford isn't about to give his brother a medal for that just yet, not when there's still even a single doubt in his mind that he's not as crazy as he seems, that Cipher really is out there, just waiting for the chance to tear their world apart.

His hand tightens its grip on Stan's wrist once more, but this time it's hard, almost vice-like. It's the sort of grip that says 'just fucking try me' in response to being asked to let go.

"I need to show you something. Before I tell you anything I need to show you something, because I'm not going to waste my breath saying things you won't believe."

There's an edge to his voice, a hardness that borders dangerously close to anger - Ford supposes that's just what happens to frustration and fear when you throw them in the same pot and let them mingle for a while while you gradually crank up the heat.

It gets a little harder to let his brother keep a hold on him just then. At first it was nice because, hey, how long's it been since someone last touched him to try and help, just because they wanted to? How long since his brother did? But the moment Ford's hand tightens the grip becomes a threat, or feels like one, and Stan's fingers curl, he goes all tense again even before Ford finishes talking. If this weren't his brother he'd tug his hand away right now, and if this weren't his brother he'd refuse without a second thought. That's the kind of thing you hear from people before- well, before all sorts a' things, none of 'em good.

There's the tone, too, which along with what Ford actually says has Stan drawing himself up straight, eyeing Ford with a distant, cautious look.

The guy in front of him might lead him anywhere. The guy in front of him might do anything.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, alright. I got no place to be. Show me."

[Whatever firm, authoritative presence Ford might have had dissolves the moment Stanley agrees to see what he has to show him. He visibly relaxes, practically melts really, and looks so damn relieved that it's clear to see who's really got the upper hand in this situation. A confident man wouldn't let his shoulders drop like this. A man who knows he can force someone to do what he wants wouldn't let his hold on someone go slack the moment he was told what he wanted to hear.

Ford does both these things because he is decidedly not confident in his amount of control in this situation, and quite honestly he's amazed he's managed to weasel even this small amount of compliance out of his brother.

"Alright, good. Good. Get your coat, we, ah. We've got some walking to do."

And with that Ford lets go of his brother's wrist all the way and turns away from him, both to retrieve his own coat and to put some distance between the two of them before Stan can get the chance to change his mind on him.

Stan's wary look doesn't melt as quick as but it does melt, mostly, as he watches Ford head down the hall and, since he don't got the power to magically read his brother's mind, doesn't let the distance Ford's putting between them stay distant for very long. Even if he did, the idea of letting Ford alone even for a minute makes him feel all twitchy, the sight of him disappearing back into his room makes fear spread all cold through Stanley's chest.

"Socks an' shoes," he reminds his brother, leaning all casual in the doorway and nodding toward the nearest pair of shoes. Nothing wrong here, he'll just, you know, stay, not doin' anything but slinging his coat on and looking down to pick the bigger pieces of glass and wood out from his hand, dropping them one by one in a pocket. He pulls a face as he does it, both at the feeling and the way it makes a couple spots between his knuckles start bleeding again. And he's cutting glances at whatever his brother is doing, too, just tiny ones, but don't you notice that, 'cause he's obviously paying more attention to his hand. "So you know these woods pretty well, huh? Where we goin', just a little nature walk?"

When Ford disappears into his room, he gets more than just his coat. More than just socks and boots too, not that Stanley needs to know that. In fact, he's pretty damn sure his brother would completely lose his shit if he knew what else he was bringing with him, which is precisely why he doesn't tell him.

The weight of the cold steel feels heavy and oddly comforting in his hand. It's not ideal, but a Colt will do more to protect them from whatever they might encounter in those woods than the crossbow - which, strangely enough, he can't seem to find.

He tries to give his brother the benefit of the doubt and assume he had nothing to do with that, but even so he still finds himself concealing the gun behind the thick padding of his coat. He's not about to risk both their lives on the very likely possibility that Stan would take the gun from him if he knew he had it.

When he emerges from his room, he has a roll of boxing tape in hand. It's a poor substitute for gauze, he knows, but they've got to work with what they have.

"Not exactly." He says flatly, before tossing the roll of tape towards Stan. "Here, wash up before we head out. I don't want to have to worry about the both of us getting sepsis."

It's not a very good joke, he knows. He's sort of bad at using humor to be comforting, in case Stan somehow hasn't noticed by now.

"Yeah." He takes the tape, tries to pick a few of the smaller bits out of his skin, and gives up, heading into the bathroom - without even a flinch, because he's a guy who's got his shit together and a guy who's already cleaned the blood outta' this whole room, besides - to find some tweezers for at least some of the rest of this, and do a little brief rinse of his knuckles. There'll still be blood stains on Ford's tape but that's okay, that's one of those things you can get that sort of stain on and not worry about anyone asking questions.

"Been a while since I used this stuff," he says idly, coming back into the bedroom and finishing the last of the taping up. "Didn't think you'd keep on with the whole boxing thing."

And, hey, still an idle question, nothing to see here, Stan adds, "that sepsis thing. That's serious, huh? Something you'll get from your, um." And here Stan taps the spot on his head where Ford uh, did the thing, because hey, the longer he can go without mentioning exactly what it is Ford did in that bathroom that Stan'd cleaned so carefully afterward, well, the happier he'll be. Well, happy, as happy as he's gonna' get with any part of this. Thrilled, even.

While Stan takes care of his hand, Ford allows himself a few moments to try and get his thoughts in order. This is good, this is - okay, this isn't good, really, nothing about this situation is anything remotely resembling good - but it's something. It's better than it could be, all things considered. Stan is actually humoring him, giving him a chance to prove to him that he's not out of his goddamn mind after all. It's a chance few other people would have given him, and Ford is grateful for it, even if he doesn't say so out loud.

When Stan finally emerges from the bathroom, Ford looks up from his hands, which he had been rubbing absently together in an effort to dispel some nervous energy. He has a plan, but there are just so many ways for it to go wrong that he's honestly not sure whether he ought to take a chance on it after all. He's still going to, of course - he's already done so many ill-advised things that he probably shouldn't have done that this will just be another drop in the ocean if things go pear-shaped.

He just, you know. Doesn't wanna blow what might very well be his only opportunity to prove to Stan that he's perfectly sane. A little damaged, maybe, and admittedly pretty mentally haggard and emotionally strung out, but he feels those are all things that a perfectly sane individual would experience in his situation.

Yep, perfectly sane. That sure is what he is alright, no doubt about it. Especially no self-doubt, no sir-ee. It's Stan he needs to convince, not himself, okay? Okay.

"Oh, ah. Well. It can be, but--" He pauses, allowing himself to give into the sudden urge to change the subject. "It's nothing we really have to worry about. Now come on, if you're ready to go, then let's head out. Before it gets dark."

He turns to head out the bedroom door before Stan can protest, waving over his shoulder to beckon him to follow.

"Yeah," Stan says, following. He didn't really think about that 'once it gets dark' until they actually got outside, but as he looks around, up at the shadows up high in the leaves of all those tall trees Ford's got around this place, well, yeah. He's thinking about it now.

"You got a flashlight or somethin'?" He rubs the back of his neck, looking in the direction Ford is taking them, and glancing again up at the trees. For a guy who's spent as much time in cities as Stan has, this many trees in one place is - well, it's weird. "It's just, uh, when I was comin' here I was thinkin' this place reminded me of the woods in some a' them old movies we used to watch, you remember them? And it's not like I really think a freaky monster's gonna', uh-"

You ever put your foot in your mouth? Like, not even gradually, so you got time to get used to the taste of rubber and shoelace and whatever it is you stepped in a second ago and ain't cleaned off yet, no, the foot goes in all at once, complete with shoe. Stan's kind of familiar with that taste, and getting more familiar by the second.

"I mean, if anyone knows how to be prepared for that it's, uh, it'd be you-"

Jesus Christ's crunchy crap, Stan Pines you shut the hell up right now, shut it, no, just shut. It.

Stan shoves his hands deep, deep into his pockets and hunches his shoulders up high, his face a picture of misery. Yeah, he'll just, uh, just watch his shoes for a while. Yeah. Important to watch the ground when you hike, don't wanna' trip up on any roots or weird rocks or nothin'. Just, uh, for the rest of this little walk. He'll just do that.

(ooc: If this turns into a conversation that's cool, but if it doesn't you could probably assume after whatever Ford says (if he says anything) Stan might make the rest of the trip in silence and we can handwave them walking there?)

Ford doesn't answer Stan's question with words - instead, he simply gives his brother a reproachful look he probably can't see all too well in the dark anyhow, before turning his attention forward again. He knows these woods well enough that he doesn't need his eyes to know where he's going. Hasn't for a long time, in fact. But Stan, well, he's not quite as in his element here.

Sighing, Ford digs a small flashlight out of his breast pocket and feels around for Stan's sleeve, before pressing the flashlight into the palm of his hand. It's there, if he wants to use it, but Ford can do just as well without.

It takes them a while, a great deal of walking through the cold and biting wind, but eventually they come to a stop. Ford holds out his arm, barring Stan from going any further as they stand before an impressively tall pine tree.

"We're here." He cuts a glance over at his brother, does his best to swallow down the steadily growing feeling of nervousness that's coming over him.

"Before we go in, I'd just like to remind you that "I'm the world's stupidest genius" answers just about every question you're going to have."

Go in?

Stan's too in the whole groove of 'keeping his damn mouth shut' to say that out loud just now, but as he pans the flashlight up and down the tree, well, maybe his face says enough.

He doesn't want to ask, anyway. It'd be the final nail in a coffin already stuffed to the gills with 'em, if he did ask and his brother insisted this was it, that they were going inside a tree. And the longer he goes without asking, the longer he gets to live without hearing that final, awful nail being hammered into the idea that his brother's crazy might be manageable, still somehow might not be quite as bad as it seems to be.

But he's gotta' ask. He's got to say something.

"It's..." He moves the light over it again, trying to find something to say. "It's a very nice, uh. Nice tree. Very, um. Tall." Y e p. Yes sir-ee. That sure is a tree, alright.

Stan bites at the inside of his mouth again. If this is the only thing they came all the way out here to see...

"It's not what it seems." Ford supplies ever-so-helpfully, so his brother doesn't have to say the obvious and point out how completely insane he looks, talking about a tree like it's a diner they can just waltz right in and have a nice sit down.

But it's not a tree - or at least, it's not just a tree. As Stan will soon find out.

Ford pulls his sleeve back, just enough to reveal his watch. He squints at it, trying to find the right button in the dim light. He finds it in short order, presses it, then folds his arms behind his back and waits.

Thirty seconds go by before the ground beneath them suddenly begins to rumble and shake, the branches on the surrounding trees trembling as the unnaturally powerful vibrations work their way up from deep, deep below ground. The grass circling the mighty pine tree's base begins to quake then sink, only to reveal that beneath the snow and sod lied not soil, but a stairwell.

Once the hiss and whine of machinery dies and the ground beneath them goes still once more, Ford risks a glance at his brother.

"Like I said, it's not all it seems. Nothing here is."

So, does it go without saying that those are a long, long thirty seconds? They are. Not the longest of Stan's life, but maybe up there. Stan stumbles back with a surprised noise, because up to that point he'd been focusing on arguing with himself about just how long he'd wait here, paying exactly zero attention to anything actually around him.

He flails, waves his arms a little, just looks kinda' stupid all around, then stares at the steps in front of him, mouth open. He should be freaked, shouldn't he? He's got a feeling, kinda' that he should be freaked. "What the hell?"

Stan's eyes are wide as he walks up and peers down the steps, and a tiny little grin's somehow snuck its way onto his face. "This is... yours? This creepy hidden-stairway-into-nowhere shit? You built it?"

Stan maybe should be freaked, but what's in his voice is the furthest thing from that. What's in his voice is pride. Whatever this is it is weird, and it's creepy, and it's cool, and the grin Stan gives his brother then makes him look younger and more alive than he has since he drove into this place.

The look Stan gives him when the stairway opens, the pride in his tone as he speaks and grins like he hasn't in God knows how long - well, suffice to say, it makes that tight knot of anxiety in Ford's chest loosen enough that he can finally breathe easy again. He finds himself having to bite down on the inside corner of his mouth to keep from smiling himself, though a crooked little grin still manages to sneak through anyhow.

"Among other things."

He nods towards the stairwell, his mood considerably brighter now than it had been during their entire trek through the woods.

"Come on, there's more inside. And watch your step, it's a long way down."

He takes the lead, gesturing for Stan to follow by touching his arm lightly as he passes him by on his way to the stairwell.

"Yeah," Stan agrees, still grinning, and follows. He moves the flashlight all around the place as they head down, looking over the steps and the walls and even up above, once they get far enough in that the teensy bit of light from the outside world starts to disappear. "This musta' taken... I don't know, years. The construction's real solid. Did your uh, your friend, Fiddle... Fiddleston, did he help you with this?"

"Fiddleford. And...not exactly."

Ford's not quite sure how much he ought to reveal about how this bunker came to be. After all, he doesn't want to overload his brother's brain with hard-to-handle information, and something tells him informing his brother that he developed a machine which can create exact paper duplicates of living people would be a liiiitle hard for him to handle.

"Let's just say I have my ways, and leave it at that, alright?"

Eventually the stairway ends, and they find themselves on solid ground. Ford doesn't give his brother the chance to take in the sights, however, as he keeps up his brisk pace and continues on past the winding metal halls, the stockpiled supplies, the weapon cabinets and other assembled things one would expect to find in a fallout shelter. It's not until they reach the security room that Ford finally slows to a stop, then turns to give his brother a meaningful look.

"Alright, before we go any further I have to tell you that we're about to walk into what may or may not be a literal death trap of my own design."

He pauses a moment to let that sink in before elaborating.

"Don't worry, it's perfectly safe to pass through so long as you know the entry code."

"You know what?" The relief of not spending half an hour camped out by a tree in the woods trying yet again to pretend his brother is okay, the thrill of being here - seriously, this place looks like somethin' straight outta' the damn movies - it brings his grin right back.

"You know what, that sounds like fun. Bring it on. We can handle it, right?" He slaps at Ford's arm, honestly excited. "What did you make somethin' like that for, anyway? The hell of it?"

Ford tries to match his brother's smile, but his attempt falls short, and what he flashes instead is more of a grimace than a grin.

"Like I said, I've mad a lot of enemies, and even more mistakes."

If Stan wonders what he means by that, well, he can continue to wonder because Ford isn't going to elaborate. Instead, he steps down from the entry-tunnel and onto the floor of the security room, careful to avoid setting foot on the wrong rune. He turns back to Stan, holding up one hand to signal for him to wait.

"This'll only be a moment, hold on."

And then, with surprising speed and agility for a man who hasn't eaten in what's going on three days now, Ford races to the far corner of the room to press his hand against one of the many square tiles that line the walls, ceiling, and floor. It lights up under his touch - as does every other rune before the room begins to shift and close in on itself.

no subject

drama drama drama drama

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

That icon kills me

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject