goodguygrifter | (no subject)

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.

"Uh?" Stan understands as much as he needs to. He understands that this thing is going to cut him off from his brother if it closes up much more, so without thought he steps forward, slipping the flashlight into a pocket, and ducks under the squares that look like they're about to close up in front of the entrance of the tunnel. He, of course, is plenty agile thank you very much, but that doesn't mean he knows where to step. "Ford? Did somethin' go wrong?"

Goddamn it Stanley, you had one job.

Ford looks sharply over his shoulder, sighs roughly in frustration, and hits a second tile a little harder than is strictly necessary before side-stepping one of the shifting pillars blocking his path and making his way over to his brother. It's just his luck that the third tile is near him.

"Remember when I said this was a death trap?" It's a rhetorical question, but even so he asks it like he's asking if Stan recalls a particular episode of some old cartoon they watched as children.

"Because I'm pretty sure I explicitly told you this was a death trap."

"A death trap you're in." Stan says it like it's an obvious fact that Ford missed, frowns at him like he's confused about just why that might be. That's because he is. If Ford is in here, isn't it obvious Stan's got to be here too?

He looks around, ducking a shifting set of blocks and trying (and, of course, failing) to make anything at all out of all the different symbols. "You don't have to walk me through it or nothin'. I trust that big old brain of yours. Just tell me what to do."

Maybe he shouldn't, maybe Stanley shouldn't trust a single damn thing that comes out of Ford's head now, but this honestly does not occur to him. Up in the woods he'll doubt him, sure. In Ford's house, sure. Normal places. But this ain't a normal place. This place is new, and weird, and more than a little dangerous, apparently, and when it comes down to it? Well. Yeah. Old habits, and all that.

Ford side-steps yet another pillar, then ducks under another and nearly trips over a third before catching himself at the last minute. He frowns at Stan, not in the least bit happy that he's putting himself inside the literal death trap without so much as a second thought.

"A death trap I know how to navigate." He corrects, before kicking another tile with his boot, making it glow. "Unlike a certain someone who is standing right in front of the last pressure pad."

He gestures towards his brother, or rather, to the pillar closing in behind him.

"Press the tile, if you'd please, before we're crushed to death."

Funny, how he doesn't sound particularly alarmed despite how grave the situation is.

"This one?" Stan turns, steps out of the way of a couple of the weird moving wall things, and stretches to slap at the one he's pretty sure Ford meant. "There. That wasn't so bad. Come on, what other sci-fi alien deathtraps did you build into this place? I can handle 'em."

Stan doesn't sound too alarmed either - in fact, he sounds cheerful. He is cheerful. They haven't even done anything yet, but it's like - it's fun, doing this, it's so different from all the shit he's spent the last few days, hell, the last month, the last few years, dealing with. It's a relief.

Besides. This wasn't that deadly. No one squished or anything. Good news all around.

Things are starting to get a little tight now - Ford hurries his pace a bit, dodging this and that pillar as he makes his way over to Stan and grabs his sleeve.

"You won't be able to handle this one if we don't keep moving."

And he's not just saying that either - because even as he hits the fourth and final tile, which prompts the door on the other side of the room to open, the pillars keep closing in on them.

"Come on, hurry it up."

He doesn't let go of Stan's sleeve as he moves forward, stepping over one pillar and ducking beneath another. If anything, his grip tightens - he doesn't want Stan to fall behind.

Edited 2016-01-14 03:34 (UTC)

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject