goodguygrifter | (no subject)

Ford's bedroom hasn't been comfortable in his room since the nightmares started...and his feelings toward the rest of his house isn't much better. There's no safe place here. He's not sure if any place is safe for him anymore, not when he carries his mind with him wherever he goes.

"Stanley..." He wants to protest, to shrug his brother's arm off his shoulders and demand he leave, but something stops him before he gets much further than flinching back a little as that familiar weight settles over him.

"There's no time for this. I've gotten myself in serious trouble and I don't want you getting dragged into it."

Despite this mild protest and the obvious worry in his voice, he still allows Stan to lead him from the room with ease. Funny, that.

Luckily for him, the man guiding Ford now knows very well how to take an inch and make a few good miles out of it. And with luck, he knows how to take a token protest and make that work out for himself, too. The fact that his motives are mostly generous here does not make those skills any less useful, and Stanley does not think twice about using them. He walks them slowly through the house, looking for any change in Ford's manner as they pass the different rooms. If he does see anything - a softening of that tension, maybe, or even just a moment where Ford looks a little less worried - he'll try and lead Ford toward whatever made him do it.

"Then hurry up and tell me why you don't want me here. Then you can prove that whatever it is is right, like we agreed, an' then you can just tell me to scram."

He clears his throat. His comfortable, just-us-guys tone fell off a little at the end there. Or a lot. That's fine, that's okay. Keep talking.

"So what, you think I'm gonna' mess up whatever you got goin' for yourself here? Am I close?"

Unfortunately for Stan, his brother seems tense and on-edge no matter where they go. His shoulders are stiff, his bruised-looking eyes dart wildly about their surroundings, and his brows remain perpetually upturned with worry. Whatever it is that's bothering him, whatever it is that has him so scared to let Stan stay here, it's bad.

"Not even remotely." He replies flatly, turning his head to glance over his shoulder.

"I already told you, Stan, it isn't safe here. There are malevolent beings out there, creatures with unimaginable power. I've made enemies with one of the worst, and I wouldn't put it past him to hurt you just to spite me."

He stops short, refusing to be gently guided any further. Instead, he looks to the floor, his hand moving to feel whatever it is that's hidden inside his overcoat. After a moment of thought he sighs, and casts a wary glance at his brother.

"Stanley, if I show you something, would you try to keep an open mind? I'm not asking you to believe me, just..."

He trails off, realizing just how transparent that lie is. He is asking his brother to believe him, almost pleading him to. He knows full well how unreasonable tat request is, given everything, but even so. As much as he doesn't want his brother getting caught up in this mess, as much as he fears for his safety....he doesn't want to be alone in this. It's selfish of him, he knows, but goddamn it he's scared. He's at his wits end, he has no one else he can turn to, no one else he trusts.

What a sad state of affairs he's found himself in: a nervous, paranoid wreck who has no one he can confide in save for his estranged brother who he hasn't spoken to in ten years.

Malevolent beings with unimaginable power. Strip the nerd-speak off of that, what do you get? Drug lords, maybe. When Ford stops Stanley drops the arm around his shoulders but doesn't move back, just kind of frowns at him for a second.

"I do believe you. I believe you're in a lotta' trouble. And if- I mean, if you're worried about me bein' safe, I had dicks like that on my ass before and come out okay."

He shakes his head. "It's about time you actually showed me some a' this. Go on. Show me."

For a moment, Ford doesn't respond. He simply looks at his brother, as if trying to gauge how much he actually believes him, before his shoulders drop with a heavy sigh. His hand disappears inside his overcoat, and when it comes back out it brings a journal with it.

The cover is weathered, its pages yellowed and torn in places. He hands it to Stan before he can think better of it, before he can come to his senses and refuse to let him look at it.

"This is what I've been dealing with all these years."

If Stan cares to leaf through the pages, he'll find a series of sketches and observations - both of which become darker and more disturbing the further he goes on. It's not until he gets closer to one page in particular, however, that Ford begins to fidget, clearly uncomfortable. He crosses his arms tight over his chest, tucking his hands against his sides where they're safely out of view. It's an old habit, one he hasn't really indulged in since he was younger and less comfortable with his extra fingers, but given the circumstances he'll forgive himself for the moment of weakness.

It's not until Stan gets closer to a certain page that Ford tenses up, his eyes darting from the page to his brother's face, switching to one when he grows uncomfortable with the other.

It's a little while before Stan gets to that last point. He spends some time flipping through the whole thing first, and every time he stops to look at a page his eyebrows rise a little higher. This book couldn't be more different from the battered thrift-store copies the thing'd made him think of when he first took it. He keeps his mouth shut, flips through, and only starts to speak when he finds himself looking at a certain sketch - a sailboat, simply drawn and scribbled out. He glances up at Ford, then down at the sketch, and keeps on with the flipping.

And of course, once Ford notices that Stanley's reached That Page then Stanley notices, too. He glances up at his brother, then looks back down at it, and swipes a finger across a certain spot.

"Stanford?" he asks, carefully. "Whose blood is this?"

And there it is, the question Stanford knew his brother would ask, yet still hoped in vain that he wouldn't. He visibly recoils when Stan looks up at him, his shoulder's hunching as he averts his gaze and drags a hand through his hair.

"...I told you, Stan, I've made a lot of enemies here."

That's as close to a direct answer as he's going to give; not that Stan likely needs the clarification. The fact that he refuses to meet his brother's eyes or give a solid, definitive response to his question says it all. His lack of an answer is an answer in and of itself.

There aren't any enemies here. There aren't any drugs here, either, although Stan really hopes he'll find some, he really does, 'cause if there isn't any-

"Okay," he says, and for at least the second time since arriving here mirrors his brother's gesture without thinking about it, running a hand over his rough-cut hair and feeling the tail where it starts to get long at the back of his neck.

"Okay." The second time saying it he's steadier, he's brighter. He doesn't feel it but he sounds it, and that's the important part, isn't it? "Then we'll go somewhere that ain't here. I got some experience with that too, I know how to do it. I mean, it's not what we always- The car's not that bad. You might have ta' stay in it a few days, maybe if I move the vacuum... But, I mean, once I figure somethin' out, it'll be great."

His false cheer is partly gone again but not because of that awful threat Ford seems so fixated on. It isn't boogeymen - or even druglords, whatever the hell's goin' on here - that scares him. He reaches out again, wanting to put a hand on Ford's shoulders and press down until they unhunch a little. "Right?"

Edited (icon) 2015-12-01 18:11 (UTC)

Ford should have known this would happen. He should have expected this - he doesn't know why he hoped for anything different. Stan, bless him, just doesn't understand. He's still hoping for the best, he thinks there's a way out of this. He actually seems to believe there's a way things will turn out alright, that his brother isn't a dead man walking.

Ford appreciates the sentiment, but he knows it's nothing more than wishful thinking.

"Stanley, don't you get it?" He takes a step backwards, roughly shoving his brother's hands away before they can settle on his shoulders. "Nowhere is safe for me." His hands come up to his temples, his fingers tangling in his hair and digging hard enough into his scalp to leave marks.

"I can't run from Him because He's in my head!" His voice raises to a shout at the end, his fear and desperation finally spilling over into his words, unrestrained.

A half of a heartbeat passes before Ford realizes his mistake, and by then it's far too late. All he can do is go wide-eyed and stare at his brother in mute horror as realization dawns on him. Oh, God help him. God help him, he just said the one thing he never wanted anyone to know - Least of all his brother.

Luckily for Ford his brother, as well as probably the rest of the human race, does not really know that terrible fact yet because hearing a fact is one thing. Stanley has heard the fact. Stanley does not have even the first or slightest chance at understanding it.

Which is why he doesn't look like he doubts a single thing when he hears what, from his expression, Ford seems to think is the worst thing he could possibly have said. He doesn't doubt it, not even a tiny bit. That something is fucked up there in Ford's big old brain has been obvious from the start of this little skip through the roses. The yell itself does startle him, though, the obvious crack on the surface of a figure who has always been very rational and composed in Stan's mind.

"W-well," Stanley says, taking care to lower the hands - one half curled into a fist, one held out defensively - which he'd instinctively raised at the noise. There's a way to salvage this, right?

"Well. We'll make you a tinfoil hat or somethin'. How about that?" His right tone of voice is back now, the confident one, although not completely. It has maybe just begun to dawn on Stan that he's dealing with a man who may well think anything or do anything and he doesn't really know anymore what might or might not work to placate him.

Edited (grammar ) 2015-12-01 21:54 (UTC)

He can't do this. He can't. He doesn't know what he was thinking, letting Stan in here. He should have turned him away at the door - it would have been easier, then, to make him leave. Now that he's seen what he has, been told what he has---

Ford drags his hands back and over his head, completely destroying any semblance of neatness his hair may have once had.

"I'm not crazy, Stan." He sounds insulted when he says it, insulted and very quietly hurt. "I know how this looks, but I--I'm telling you the truth."

He takes another half-step backwards, unconsciously seeking to put distance between himself and Stan, as if that will somehow make this conversation any less painful.

"...Do you think I just made all this up in my head?" It's a rhetorical question, because he's convinced he already knows the answer. Unconsciously, he reaches to take hold of the front of his overcoat, just to have something to hold onto. He's not sure what he'll do with his hands if he doesn't anchor them down.

"I've seen things, Stanley. Things the human mind can scarcely comprehend let alone invent." He can't help but clutch tighter at his coat, seeking security, or comfort, or maybe just something to dig his nails into.

Edited 2015-12-02 05:11 (UTC)

Stanley holds his hands out, the same gesture he'd used when they'd been talking outside, silently asking Ford to hold on, wait just a second. He opens his mouth, and does a quick calculation.

Ford wants Stanley to believe him. He'd been trying to figure out what Ford wants out of all this, and now he knows. Can he do it? Not believe, really believe, of course not. But can he give Ford what he wants anyway?

Too risky. Ford knows Stanley doesn't believe him now, and trying to convince him again might end up with Stanley out on his ass, or worse. If he wanted to pull that one off he should've committed to it from the start. But there's one thing that might, just might maybe have a teensy tiny chance of working:

The truth.

"Look, I- I didn't mean it to make fun a' ya' or, or anything like that. It's just, you expect me to look at all this an' go 'yeah, yeah I ain't never seen a eyeball float in midair like that but hey, seems reasonable'. The truth is, Ford, I've seen this sorta' thing before, and it's never-"

The hand still holding the book rises and waves it a little. There are never actually boogeymen and bat monsters and all that shit. But that is a truth which Stanford obviously does not want to hear, and Stanley knows very well how thin the ice on which he now stands.

"But it doesn't matter. If that evil triangle guy climbs outta' your ear, or whatever, do I have to believe he's real to kick the shit out of him? And if he ain't- I mean, either way, you need me here. You need me to stay."

You need me to stay.

God, but isn't that the truth. It's not one Ford wants to acknowledge, not one he's willing to admit, but it's a truth all the same. He's at the end of his rope, and he has no one he can turn to - no one, not a single person in the entire world. There's no one he can trust, no one who would take him even the slightest bit seriously. Even Stanley doesn't believe him, not really, but at least he's not trying to convince him that what he's gone through never happened.

Ford supposes that's the best he can really hope for. It's certainly more than he ever thought he'd get.

"I..." He hesitates, his expression twisting as he glances around, as if looking for a way to physically escape this conversation. Or maybe he just doesn't want to meet his brother's eyes because he knows if he does, he'll give in.

"...I think you should leave, Stan." There's no backbone to his words, no force behind them. If anything, he sounds like he has to force himself to say what he does.

"I appreciate what you're trying to say, but I...I can handle this on my own. This isn't your problem, it's mine. I'll be fine."

He tries to flash a reassuring smile, make his tone sound confident and sure. The former is harder to do than the latter, but they both come across as equally forced.

This is good. It might not sound like it, but it's good. Convincing someone of something they already want - or at least, don't seem too opposed to - well, that's the sweet spot. That's where you wanna' be. It doesn't feel sweet because it's Ford, it's Ford, for shit's sake, and so much could still go wrong here. But it's good. He ain't out of the game yet.

"Well, I'm here now, right? And my tires, they've never done so good on snow, you know, so I gotta' wait at least until that situation clears up a little. And you agreed, you remember that? Just gimme' a chance. Give me time. I gotta' meet this guy, all these uh-"

He pauses. Gives the book another little shake. "You know. Them. I got to meet them before I can seal my end of the deal, don't I? You can't say you're gonna' give me a chance to prove I'll help you here and then just send me packin'."

"...Uh." He's got to ask. "You do, uh. Remember that. Don't you? We did a whole, um." He mimes shaking hands with empty air. "A whole thing."

The more Stanley speaks, the more Ford can feel his already-shaky resolve weakening. He should have known things would go this way. His brother was always a charmer; he had a talent for using sweet-talk to get his way, and damn if he wasn't good at the art of persuasion. Ford had always been very quietly jealous of that, his twin's ability to just...get people. Know what made them tick. Ford had never had much in the way of social skills, and after what happened with...him, Ford's come to realize that he is an absolutely horrible judge of character.

...Maybe none of this would have happened if he had had Stan around, back when this whole mess first started.

Ford shakes his head, wanting to dislodge that thought from his head before it can develop roots. He can't change the past. What's done is done. All he can do is try not to make the same mistakes in the future, though he's not so sure he can trust himself to do that. He's not sure if he can trust himself with anything, anymore.

But maybe...maybe letting Stan stay a while would help. Ford doesn't think he can possibly screw up any worse than he already has, but if he somehow manages it (which he wouldn't put past himself, at this point), then he'd have someone around to reign him back in. Like a fail-safe, a cautionary measure. If he screws up again, or if something happens to him...well, at least someone will be around to preform damage control.

That's what Ford tells himself, anyway. That's how he justifies allowing himself to be won over by his brother's words. It's practical, he tells himself. He's only agreeing to this so there will be someone around to stop him if He gets a hold of him and makes him do something terrible. It has absolutely nothing at all to do with any lingering feelings of sentimentality he may or may not have for his brother, and it certainly has nothing to do with the fact that this entire conversation has made him miss his other half so badly he feels physically ill. Perish the thought.

"Yes Stanley, I remember." He sounds like he wants to be annoyed, to feel insulted that Stan wasn't sure if he remembered their agreement or not, but he doesn't. Instead, he just sounds tired. Tired, and resigned, and just a little bit calmer that he did before.

"...If you're really so dead-set on staying, there's, ah. There's a spare room down the hall, to the right."

He releases his tight grip on his coat, his hand instead drifting to rub absently at his arm. All at once he feels sheepish, like a poor host embarrassed by their humble surroundings. God, but he really let this place go the last few months, hasn't he?

"Unless you'd rather stay in your car." He adds quickly, not wanting to sound too eager to have Stan staying in his house.

Too late, Ford. Any offer at all, no matter how grudging, would still make that huge, hopeful grin spread over Stanley's face. "Nah it's, uh, I'll give the car a rest for a while. Man, my own room, huh? That'll be weird, not hearin' you above me, doin' your nerd thing."

As he says it, as he's hearing the words come out of his mouth, Stanley realizes how weird they are. It's been, what- almost ten years, technically. It feels like a lot longer. Does Ford even want to hear it? Does Ford even give a shit about reminiscing, or does he just want to get on with business? Whatever kind of business he's got now, crazy nerd drug business.

Should he ask more about that? Keep tryin' to do what they agreed he came here to do? Or would a reminder that Stan doesn't really believe Ford's story just tip Ford's decision to let Stan stay in the other direction?

It occurs to Stan, belatedly, that he did not actually think this far ahead.

"I mean, uh. Of course we wouldn't be bunking anymore, it's been, uh. A while. You look good. Or, uh."

He takes a look at Ford. Ford's clothes, and the hair which just during the course of their conversation has been raked into about ten different strange and indescribable patterns. Stanley himself isn't exactly a pile of roses, he knows that, but just, it's just - all of Ford right now. Basically all of him.

"You look different. Got kinda' buff, good for you, man." He reaches out to take a swing at Ford's arm, grinning reflexively. You grin when you do shit like that, you just do, and you don't think about how little you now know the kid who was your other half for years and years. He doesn't even know whether Ford wants to hear any of this.

The idea that he looks good makes Ford take a look down at his disheveled self and let out a quiet, incredulous huff of a laugh. The sound feels strange, coming from him. He hasn't had a lot to laugh about these days. In fact, he's not quite sure when the last time he laughed even was.

Before he can dwell too long on this realization, he feels a familiar, fleeting pressure against his arm and looks up in surprise. Before he even realizes what's going on, or what he's doing, he finds himself reaching out to lightly thump Stan's shoulder with his knuckles. Tit for tat.

The gesture just sort of...happens, like an automatic response. It's just something he's hardwired to do.

"I look like hell." He corrects, though he doesn't sound too bothered by that. On the long list of problems he has, that one is pretty low on the priority scale.

"...But I don't have a mullet, so I guess I have that going for me."

"Ha, yeah." Stanley ducks his head, running a hand down over it. "You hang out with the guys I been runnin' with, you'd have one too." There are times - a lot of 'em, lately - where looking too clean cut makes people look at you funny. And chicks seem to like it ok, awful thing that it is, so where's the harm?

Stanley doesn't really want to explain any of that. Not the first part, anyway. He fidgets, shifting from foot to foot, pleased but still worried, too, not sure how to keep that good mood he and his brother have somehow got between them going. Bringing up business won't help, definitely. He saw too well how Stanford got when Stan got him talking about that. "So, uh. Whaddaya' do for fun around here?"

Unfortunately for Stan, his brother's idea of work and play are one and the same. That question brings his good mood to an immediate halt, replacing it instead with sheepish unease. Once again his hand finds its way to the back of his neck, rubbing nervously as he glances aside.

"...Investigate anomalies, mostly."

He clears his throat, his eyes wandering about the room as he stories to come up with a topic change.

"It's, ah. It's getting pretty late, Stan. You should probably get yourself set up in the spare room, try to get some sleep."

Sound advice, though Stanford's not about to follow it himself. He'd never sleep again if he could help it, but he can't, so he'll just have to settle for abstaining for as long as he's physically capable.

"Yeah," Stan says, although there isn't anything to set up in that spare room. When it comes to the whole setting up in a guest room thing, Stan generally doesn't. Not that he has no stuff, nah, there's plenty of stuff. Stuff he's gonna' sell someday, stuff he never will. Stuff he wants to remember. It's just that keeping all that in the car is better, it makes getaways cleaner.

Besides, he doesn't want to leave Ford just yet. The guy's only just agreed to let him stay. If he's left by himself too long, he might get too many chances to reconsider. No, Stan wants to hang around a little longer, and for more than one reason - still gotta' find out about these 'anomalies', too. Get a good look around the place. And, hey, so maybe the idea of leaving Ford alone long enough to give him that chance to reconsider kinda' scares the shit out of Stanley. A little. So fucking sue him.

"Yeah, maybe in a minute. Did you eat yet? What sorta' stuff you got in the house?" Quietly, Stanley congratulates himself. Dinner is a safe, neutral topic, an excuse to spend more time together, and an excuse to look through Ford's stuff all in one. It's perfect.

That question shouldn't be one Ford has to think about. And yet he does, which is...pretty telling, really. He blinks, brows furrowing slightly in thought as he tries to remember if he already had dinner. Or if he ate at all that day.

When he realizes the answer to those questions are no and also no, he grimaces a little, suddenly feeling sheepish. He's just gonna not answer Stan's first question. He's not gonna like the answer.

"Ah... It's been a while since I've been into town, so there's not much variety, but..."

He nods towards the hall to their right, before gesturing for Stan to follow him.

"Come on, kitchen's this way. You can see for yourself."

"Believe me, after the amount a' takeout I've had, boring food is a blessing." He stops a second, taking the kitchen in and picking out any likely hiding places. Then he begins to look through them, opening cupboard doors and peering into dark corners. "As long as it ain't too hard to make. You know my specialty? Good old number sixty-seven, house lo-mein, 'cause it's got all the weird shit in it. You get all your basic food groups in one, so long as you don't look too hard at it."

All this comes in a steady patter as he makes his way around the room. Stanley doesn't know shit about kitchens, but hot damn does he know how to search. "Is this all you have? You don't have nothin' stashed away anywhere, right?" He'll ask it no matter what food he does or does not find. And he is asking about food, you know. Of course he is.

The more he looks, the more Stan will find much of the same: canned goods, dried packaged foods, things that can last a long, long while. The last time Ford went out to get food was....he's not sure how many weeks, exactly, but he stocked up on non-perishables just in case he couldn't leave his house for whatever reason.

That said, there's a lot of canned fruits and vegetables, a lot of soups, a few bags of rice, lentils, barley, etc. No meat or cheese or milk, or even eggs. There's probably bread somewhere, though, if he looks hard enough.

"Why would I have to hide anything?" He doesn't quite like the way Stanley asked that question, but he can't put his finger on why.

"I don't take visitors. You're the first person who's been here in--" Months. "--a while."

"I dunno, some guys like to snack while they nerd," he says, sounding very casual and looking it, too, with his face more than half hidden as he peers deeply into a cabinet. "Hope you like, uh- meat? That is, meat from a..." He turns the can around, trying to look for the list of ingredients. He finds none.

"Meat," he declares, triumphantly setting two of the things on the counter. "From a can."

He begins to open a couple drawers, having already mostly figured out where everything's at and pulling out a can opener and a couple of spoons, and he worries as he does it. Just what are the two of them going to talk about in this touching family dinner? He has no fucking idea. What is there to talk about that isn't stuck deep into their own personal Pines Family no-fly zone? He does know he can put that potentially very awkward meal off for a little bit, though, and maybe find out who else might know something about all this shit. "That last visitor must have been somethin' special, if you never get any like that. Who's the lucky gal?"

While Stan rummages around his kitchen, Stanford pulls himself off to the side and leans against the far wall. He's too nervous to sit at the table, and so long as he's on his feet he can pace or walk around and find something to distract himself if he gets too jittery.

For the time being, he's planted himself against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked close and hidden from sight at his sides.

"He was a man, actually." He corrects, before going silent for a long moment as his mind wanders back to thoughts of Fiddleford.

They hadn't parted on good terms. Even after dismantling the portal, the man was left shaken by what he saw and he...didn't seem to be coping well, the last Stanford heard. He doesn't know anything for certain: he hasn't been in contact with the other man for months. All he knows is Fiddleford abruptly stopped taking his calls, which is as good a sign as any that he doesn't want to have anything to do with him anymore.

Not that Ford blames him in the slightest, after everything that happened.

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I am so sorry for this wall of text, oh gosh it wasn't supposed to be this long.

it is a beautiful textwall, I enjoyed it

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