goodguygrifter | (no subject)

Ford doesn't know if there is a god or if that god is merciful, but he is sure as hell grateful to whatever powers that summoned Susan right when he needed her most. He can't help but sigh with relief when she turns up at their table, his shoulders dropping as he slumps back in his seat and tries not to think too much on how close of a call that was.

"We are brothers, actually." Ford says with a weak smile. The woman is a little overbearing, sure, but she's a friendly sort, a good-natured person if he ever met one.

"Susan, this Stanley. Stanley, Susan."

He nods from one to the other, before reaching up to take off his glasses.

"The family resemblance is uncanny, I know." He jokes, because he feels it should be fairly obvious at this point that they're twins, and therefor pretty similar-looking by default.

"Huh," she says, and looks from one of them, to the other, to the one, and back again. She stares for a while, real close, and then says decisively, "I don't see it."

"So," she continues, getting out a little notepad and a pen. "Mr. Handsome, New Mr. Handsome? What can I do ya' for?"

It would have been funny, he knows, at one point. Once, a while back, someone really just not seeing how identical he and his brother are would have made him want to laugh. Now it just makes him want to squirm, like the whole world can see something he really wishes even he couldn't. Stan's pretty sure he knows what it is she saw: She looked at Ford with his square jaw and close set eyes and big weird nose, and saw his clothes, nice clothes, if pretty wrinkled and a little too big on his skinny self, skinnier than he oughta' be, and she sees the red rims that might as well be tattooed under his eyes. She looks at Stan, at his square jaw and close set eyes and big weird nose, and sees his cheap, stained, thin clothes and his belly and his long hair. Stan wonders for a second if he should maybe lay off the sci-fi and fantasy books he picks up now and then, when he can snag cheap old ones from a store or a library, because for a second he wonders if she looks at the two of them and sees all the years sitting right there between them, too.

But she's looking, and Ford is right here, so only shrinks back into the cheap booth seat behind him for a split second before smiling and setting one arm on the table to lean toward her. "Yeah, you got that right, toots, I'm the one with them rakish good looks," he says, and winks. And yeah, toots, what of it, he knows when a girl wants to be called toots and it works, because she gives a snorting giggle and waves her hand at him. "Stoooop."

"Alright, but only since you asked so nice. I'll have, uh... toast."

"That all, sweetie? Alright, well now, First Mr. Handsome, I'll take your order just as soon as you answer one very important question for me: Why didn't you bring that brother of yours out here earlier? Then I'd have had two of you to look at a long time ago!"

Ford raises a brow at Stan's lackluster order, wondering what in the world has come over his brother. That is the smallest, plainest, least appetizing thing he could have possibly ordered - either he's not hungry, or he's trying not to hurt his brother's wallet. Regardless of the reason, Ford isn't going to stand for it; if Stan won't order anything for himself, then Ford will just have to order for him.

...Right after he comes up with an explanation for why he never mentioned his brother in all the time he's lived here.

He shrinks back a bit, fumbling with his glasses as he puts them back on in an effort to stall for time while he thinks. He feels put on the spot, as he typically does at least once in every conversation he has with anyone who isn't family or a close friend, but oddly enough being used to the feeling doesn't make it any less unpleasant.

"Well, ah..." He steals a glance over at Stan, looking for help, when he finds himself being struck by a sudden pang of guilt.

"--To tell you the truth, Susan, I've been a better researcher than a brother, up until now."

He wants to glance to the side and give his brother an apologetic look, but he refrains. That would make it a little too obvious that things between him and Stan are still a little shaky.

"I called him up a few days ago, he decided to drop by the cabin to catch up, and, well, here we are."

He gestures between himself and Stan, smiling weakly. God he hopes that explanation is enough to placate her - he doesn't know what he'll do if he has to keep the conversation going. Maybe a subject change is in order.

"By the way - ignore what he said about the toast. He was kidding." He damn well wasn't, but Ford is quick to nudge Stan's knee with his own under the table to keep him from pointing that out.

"We'll both have a burger and fries. I'll take mine plain, he'll have his with bacon because he's a godless heathen."

He grins, swinging his arm out to lightly smack Stan in the chest with the back of his hand.

It's weird, hearin' that. He's almost glad Ford says it when someone else is here, and not even directly to him. If Ford told Stan just now, one-on-one, that he hasn't been such a great brother, Stan would have to decide whether getting to let out all that- well, all that stuff he ain't thinking about because he just got Ford back, and Ford needs him to stick around, and he's got no idea how much or little it'll take to rock this new and terrifying boat. Would letting all that stuff out for one very satisfying 'I told you so, I fucking told you, you bastard, you-' Well, that. All that. Would that be worth the risk?

Stan doesn't have to decide. Since Ford wasn't talking to him, he doesn't even have to think about it. Believe it or not luck does blow his way, sometimes.

It blows even more his way when Ford changes the subject and decides on today's meal for them, giving Stan's knee a nudge that also nudges Stan a little bit out of his own head. Stan only realizes once Ford does it that that's even what he ordered. That sort of thing's habit when he's strapped for cash, but Ford wouldn't know anything about that, would he?

But, hey, it ain't like Ford don't know plenty about other things. Other things Stan wasn't there to keep him from knowing.

Stan takes a breath. All this not rocking the boat stuff, even just in his own head, it's hard. The hand smacking into his chest helps, and something a little more real sneaks into Stan's grin as he flings out his own hand to try and thwap Ford back. "What, don't tell me you've been keepin' up with all of it, all this time?"

It's partly an honest question and Susan must get that because she says, "Two burger plates, one with bacon, coming right up! I'll just let you two catch up, but if you need anything, give me a holler!" and heads away without any tries for anything else.

"Thanks a bunch, doll!" Stan calls after her, and winks when she turns around to look at him, because he knows the value of keepin' on the good side of the staff, and besides, it just feels good, saying just the right thing and seeing a girl give him that kind of smile for it.

Ford takes the thwap to his chest in stride, accepting it as his due for being the first to hit Stan in the first place. Of course, once Susan turns her back Ford gives into the childish urge to shove Stan with his shoulder then pretend like he didn't do anything, because war has officially been declared.

"I've got to get back on God's good side somehow." He jokes, with a shrug. "After nearly ending the world among other things, I don't think he's very happy with me right now."

Ford settles back, making himself comfortable. He lets his head drop against the backrest, his shoulders drooping as his eyes fall shut, intent on giving themselves a little rest. It's been a long day, and now that they finally have a moment to just sit and breathe, it's finally catching up with him.

"...I really hope I don't have to tell you I was being facetious just now." He adds as an afterthought, just in case Stan somehow got it in his head that his brother was being serious.

"Oh, yeah," Stan lies. "Sure." A lot can change in ten years, you know? It's like he told Ford earlier, before that chick walked in. He just wants to know.

But anyway, he ain't thinkin' about that. He's thinking about waiting one second, watching Ford sitting there with his eyes closed, and waiting another second, and- yes, shoving at Ford's shoulder just when he's probably started to relax, oh sweet revenge.

"Hey, don't fall asleep just yet. That waitress likes us, but no one likes the customer enough to let 'em stay the night. Maybe I shoulda' brought the car after all, huh?"

Of course. Of course Stan shoves him right when he was starting to get comfortable.

Ford makes a startled, undignified sound before sitting upright, his eyes flying back open just so he can shoot a look at his brother. It probably would be more effective if his glasses weren't slightly askew - he fixes them, still frowning petulantly, but the moment has passed. It's too late to salvage the look now.

"I'm fine, Stan." He says flatly, before realizing that Stan has absolutely no reason to believe those words are true when they haven't been any of the other times he's said them.

He cringes a little, his hand moving to rub absently at his neck as he remembers just how much he's put Stan though these past few days - just how not fine his brother's seen him be.

"--I'm getting there." He amends, his voice a touch more quiet than it was before.

"Yeah? Yeah. Good." Stan leans back, rubbing his hands and looking for something to say to that. For something to say at all, really, that ain't along the lines of, 'fine for a guy who apparently had a real fuckin' reason to cut the back of his head open and stick a fucking metal plate in there' but he don't want to ask about that, he don't want to know. Not right now, not tonight. "So, uh. Is this really how you want to celebrate? Just sit here and eat a burger? Nothin' wild or crazy?"

Ford lets out a huff of a laugh before reaching up to rub absently at his eye. He doesn't look at Stan when he replies, not out of any desire to avoid eye-contact, but because his eyes want to close again and he's going to keep right on indulging them.

"Do I look like a "wild and crazy" sort of guy, Stan?" He asks, before pausing as he's hit with the realization that, yes actually, he probably does.

At least, he certainly looks like the "feral" type of wild and the "sincerely mentally unstable" sort of crazy. But he's neither of those things, Stan saw for himself, they proved it, so - so he can stop worrying about that now. He's not crazy. His brother doesn't think he's crazy. He just looks like hell, is all. Right? Right. Good. He can stop thinking about it now.

"Besides," He adds quickly, realizing he's let the silence drag on for too long. "I think we've both had enough excitement for one day, don't you? Unless you want another near-death experience, that is, in which case I know a few category 10 ghosts we can go harass."

"Ghosts, huh?" Yeah. That one he ain't surprised at. "Nah, I think a category 1 mouse fart would knock you on your ass right now."

Stan watches him, frowning. He hadn't really thought- but of course Ford would be ready to pass out after all the shit he's been through, even just today. Even just in the past couple hours.

And then, in the back of Stan's head, is the fact that he knows, he knows, what happened the last time Ford went to sleep. And the way he talked when Stan asked, it sounded like that wasn't just a one-off.

Okay, he thinks, and straightens up to rub at the back of his neck. Okay. He can deal with this and not talk about it at the same time, right? They don't have to talk about this today. This is supposed to be happy, for Ford. "Hey, next time she comes out we can get you some coffee too, huh? How, uh, how do you take it?"

Jeez, there's always something, ain't there? Right now it's the coffee. His own brother, and he don't even know how he likes his damn coffee.

"By the gallon." Ford replies flatly, only to smile a little after he makes the joke, thereby running his deadpan delivery.

It's nice, being able to joke with Stan again, being able to take whatever he says and turn it into something that'll get a laugh or even just a smirk. It's been a long while since he's had anyone to sharpen his wit against, let alone someone who he can confidently joke around with without worrying about crossing some sort of line.

But then again...it's been a long time since they've joked around. For all he knows, those lines have moved around on him. Just to be safe, he makes a mental note to avoid poking fun at Stan and keep all of his jokes focused on himself - at least until he gets a better idea of where they stand.

"That or injected straight into my veins with an iv drip, but something tells me they'll charge extra for that."

"Yeah, if that was on the menu I think Mom woulda' jittered off into space a long time ago." Weird, how easy that comes out of his mouth. It ain't like he don't think about Ma or anything, it's just that there's usually no reason to talk about her. Not like this, no one else would get it. He grins at Ford because yeah, that's nice, bein' able to do that.

"Here you go, fellas!" says the waitress, bustling out and setting their plates in front of them. "Anything else I can get for ya'?"

"Yeah, coffee for my friend here. A lot of coffee. Biggest mug you got."

"Coming right up!"

Stan starts digging into his food with big, quick bites before she's even turned back around to leave, the kind meant to get the food off the plate and into the person as quick as possible. "So," he says around his food, and he almost don't sound nervous about this question at all, because he's got the meal to focus on. "You uh, you talk to her lately, at all? Ma, I mean?"

By contrast, Ford takes the task of eating his food far more slowly - partly because he's actively trying to stay engaged in their conversation, and partly because he doesn't want to make himself sick. He knows what happens when you shovel down a mountain of food into a too-empty stomach and he's not looking forward to adding refeeding syndrome onto the long list of Shit That's Wrong with him.

So instead he focuses on the conversation, and does his best to resist the urge to make Stanley's eating habits look tame in comparison. He does a pretty damn good job, too, until Stan mentions their mother. Then he chokes on a fry and has to thump his chest a little so he can breathe again.

"She's fine." He begins, starting things off right by stumbling over his words. "She - she sounded alright over the phone, the last time we talked."

He pauses, looking from Stanley to the table as his gaze goes distant, his mind wandering as he tries to remember when that last conversation even was. He cards his fingers through his hair absently, as if that will somehow help jog his memory.

The longer he has to think, the more distressed he seems to get, until finally he sighs roughly and makes a self-aggravated sound, his head dropping back against the seat behind him as a hand moves to cover his eyes.

"...Remind me to call Mom when we get back to the house."

Stan's eating slows and his eyebrows rise as he watches his brother think it over. "Been a while, huh?"

He frowns, sets what's left of his burger down, and starts giving some serious attention to setting up a french fry fort in the middle of his plate. He's building the walls first, see, picking out the crunchy ones and laying 'em straight on top of each other, and so his words are very, very casual. If they weren't casual, would he be so focused on this? That's right. "You might not wanna' make that call while I'm around. I mean, I wouldn't want to, to, uh..."

He shrugs, a big, jerking movement, and frowns a little deeper when one of the fry-walls collapses. "Aw, man."

"That's okay," he mutters, hunching over his plate to better pick out a few sturdier fries. "Gentlemen, we can rebuild it. We have the technology."

Because, obviously, Stan's little project is the only thing important happening, here. And he can fix that. So that's okay.

Edited 2016-01-31 00:48 (UTC)

Just like that, Ford's hand drops from his face and onto the table as he gives Stan's statement the Look it deserves - namely a guilty sort of cringe that will have to stand in place of an actual apology, because Ford doesn't know what it is he ought to be saying he's sorry for, just that he feels he really should.

His eyes fall to the fry-fort instead of trying to meet his brother's gaze. He knows it's a cowardly move, but, well, Stan probably isn't gonna look up at him while they talk about this either, so it doesn't really matter. No harm, no foul. They can both be cowards together.

He picks up a fry from his own plate, casually adding it to one of the fort walls.

"Actually, I, ah. I think she'd be glad to hear from you." He focuses on the fort rather than Stan, taking a particularly long fry and laying it ever-so-carefully on top of the stack. Clearly this is a task that calls for his undivided attention.

"Hell, I think she'd be over the moon if she knew we were..." He trails off, knowing he can't keep pretending the fort is more interesting than the conversation they're both pretending they're not having.

He glances up at his brother, feeling five different kinds of uncertain, and searches his face as if he'll find the answers to all his questions written there if he just looks hard enough.

"...Are we okay, Stanley? I mean, are we - between the two of us, are things--"

Before he can finish the thought, Susan returns with a mug of coffee which - to her credit - is exceptionally large, just like Stan had asked. Ford blinks, accepts it with an awkward "Thank you", then hesitantly looks back to Stan, silently wondering (and hoping) that he pieced together his meaning on his own so that he doesn't have to ask it out loud.

Stan places a fry next to one of Ford's and then Ford asks that question and the fort will have to fend for itself for a while. Susan - because she really is a doll, Ford was right, Stan likes her - doesn't push it when Stan tells her he doesn't want any coffee, although he kind of does want some, a little. She just backs off with a little wink at them and goes to do whatever it is she's doing back there.

Then Stan sits back, rubbing his palms up and down over his knees. He could pretend, with that interruption, that Ford never asked, and he does think about it. He looks up at Ford, takes a breath, and looks back down. He could say yeah, too, and he really fuckin' wants to.

He doesn't know what to say, how to decide, so he doesn't. He just opens his mouth and lets whatever comes out come out.

"I missed you so damn bad, you know that? And I kept thinkin' about your, your degrees and your fancy college and your grant money and whatever kinda' place you set yourself up in, even when it got bad and I needed to hear your voice for just half a second, even then I kept thinkin' about it, and all that time you-" Stan finally looks up at Ford when he waves at him, gesturing to his face, the back of his head, pretty much at all of him. "You needed me even more than I needed you."

"Ha," he murmurs, eyes sliding right off of Ford and onto his plate. He takes a fry and stabs it into one corner of their little fort, knocking it half over. "All that time, it was on me. Wouldn't you fuckin' know it."

"But I'm here now." That dark, low tone gone as suddenly as it came, replaced by the look on his face as he looks up at Ford again, a look a little something like hope, or maybe fear. "I'm here and you're here and we're, ya' know, we're here together. So, I mean, yeah. A-aren't they? Don't you- I mean, ain't this- This is how you want things to, to be, right?"

The way Stan words things, the way he treats everything that's happened like it's soley his fault - well, it doesn't sit well with Ford. It sinks down heavy in his gut, drops hard like a stone and makes something in his chest twist unpleasantly. He's not sure what to call the feeling, other than bad, but if he had to wager a guess he'd say it was guilt.

"Well," He begins, only to pause to clear his throat before he can really say anything substantial. "I could do without the whole "begrudged by a dream demon" thing, but other than that--"

He shrugs, then favors Stan with a weak smile.

"Can't say I imagined things turning out this way, but...I'm glad they did."

He looks down at his hands then, watching as one plucks the decorative tooth-pick from his burger and sticks it in what's left of Stan's french-fry fort.

"I dub thee Fort Stan."

Well good, they can both sit here bein' guilty together. Guilt at not being here, and guilt at wanting, almost as much as he wanted to just see Ford again, to make him feel like shit. Real shit, he wanted to see his brother get down on his knees and fucking beg his forgiveness, and he never did get farther than that whenever he went there in his head because sometimes you just don't wanna be reminded every time you try to work yourself up into a good righteous snit that you can't even do a revenge fantasy right because those end with actual, you know, revenge, not all that other stuff he always tried not to think about too loud, even in his own head.

And he's still bitter, a little, it hasn't all gone away except now he knows, or at least has a good idea, just what his brother was doing while Stan was sitting to himself thinkin' all that shit.

But even with all that going through his head, Stan can't hear his brother saying that without a little smile coming to his face too, it just happens, he doesn't even think about it. The smile goes a little crooked as he looks down again, watching the toothpick-flag go in to the still-standing corner of their little project.

"It's not much of a fort," he mutters, reaching out to push at that fallen corner of it with the tip of a finger. Then he cuts his eyes at Ford, up and away, and if his voice is too casual, well, who's going to call him on it? He's just talking about a bunch of food, after all. "But maybe, uh. Maybe we could start to fix it up again, huh? You and me?"

They're not talking about the fort. They both know they're not, but Ford's not about to be the first one to mess up the good thing they've got going on here by actually directly saying what he means - something tells him they're already treading on dangerous ground enough as it is.

"I don't know, Stan. It's going to need a lot of work." Ford looks down at his brother's plate, his eyebrows raising as he appraises the mess.

He only pretends to think the project over for a moment or two before looking back up at Stan, and if his voice is a little more hesitant than it was before, a little less confident, well, hopefully Stan won't notice.

"But I think...I think we can salvage something from this mess."

He looks down suddenly, gesturing back to the sad pile of fries as if to emphasize that the fort is what they're talking about, even though they both know it isn't.

"I can't promise it'll be anything like it was, but it - it'll be something, at least. It'll be something."

"Something." Stan looks up at Ford, still looking kinda' scared because that don't sound good, does it? What he hears is something that sounds a lot like 'probably not'. "What kind of, uh. What kinda' something are we talkin', here? Are we turning this into a uh, a crappy little motel or a dive bar or a nice little timeshare condo or what?"

He picks up the burger again and he's eating without anything that even kind of looks like enthusiasm but if he's going to need a minute to think anyway, he's got to. All this food's in front of him and he can't let it go to waste. While he does he thinks about it, about just how far he can stretch this little metaphor-thing they've got working for them.

"'Cause I thought you wanted to, uh, make the whole fort up again. But now it sounds like you, like maybe you kind of, uh. Don't."

--Damn it, okay, maybe this metaphor thing isn't working out the way he hoped it would.

Ford looks down at his neglected plate, and finds that at he's lost his appetite. He settles for taking a drink of his coffee instead, before setting it back down on the table so he can use the mug to warm his hands. Rather than look back up at Stanley, he just stares down at his drink and rolls the mug a little between his palms, watching the liquid inside swirl around.

"I just don't want you to get your hopes up too high, Stanley." He admits quietly. "I know things are looking up right now, but because of my ah...situation, I don't know if I should commit to any long-term plans."

He risks a glance up at his brother but quickly loses his nerve and looks back into his coffee.

"I don't...I don't want you to be disappointed if something happens to me and the project falls through."

Stan looks up at Ford just then, his look all sharp and kind of disgusted, because Ford obviously don't realize when it's time to drop the metaphor thing like a hot potato. "Now you really do sound like you're buildin' a condo. I don't care about projects, Ford, without you there is no 'project'. That's why I'm here, that's why I skipped town with no money an' drove halfway across the country for you. I thought I'd never get the taste of gas outta' my mouth. If it's this one guy that's holdin' you back, okay, we'll deal with him. We'll put our heads together, kick his ass, and then... Then we can come back to this."

He doesn't like the idea of coming back to this. When someone's just said yes, when they're happy, that's when you seal the deal, the last thing you do is get 'em all convinced and then fuck off and give them time to think. He doesn't like the idea of that, leaving Ford all that time to think about it, only coming back to this once Ford don't need him anymore.

So he don't think about it.

"We'll take your guy out and then we'll talk, huh? We'll come back to it and just, just see what you think."

Maybe it'll take a while. Stan finds himself hoping it'll take a while, beating that guy, and hopefully doin' it until whoever - whatever, right - did this to his brother is black and blue. The longer it takes, the longer Stan can pretend to forget that you never ask to get paid only after the deed is done. Giving Ford what he needs and then going back and asking him for something? For this? Well, Stan can keep from thinkin' about that for just as long as he needs to.

Edited (dw told me it used the right icon darn it) 2016-02-01 09:28 (UTC)

Something about the way Stan says it, the way he thinks everything will be just fine once they kick the ass of the guy responsible for this clusterfuck of a situation - well, it makes Ford smile. It's not a happy smile, exactly. In fact, it seems more rueful than anything, but the fact that it's a smile at all has to count for something, right?

"Taking out Bill is a lot easier said than done." He says quietly, in an effort to let his brother down gently. "Believe me, I've tried."

He looks back down at his coffee again, then takes another drink. As much as he'd like to get some sleep, he knows what's going to be waiting for him if he does.

"Nevermind he's in another plane of reality where I can't even touch him, he's practically invulnerable to harm. One of the perks of being an ancient, supernatural being who can heal himself instantaneously."

If Ford sounds bitter about that, well, who can blame him?

Okay, so that's... not what he's used to. It still reads like something out of a book, or a really weird movie. It's still weird. But that's just details, right? When he first got here and thought Ford just got in bad with the local mob, maybe he wasn't wrong. Stan starts finishing off his fries, staring off into space because he's thinking about it. "A bully's a bully, Ford, don't matter if he's an Invincible Creep from the Eldritch Beyond or what. So he's too tough for you? I dealt with plenty of guys too tough for me, and I'm still around. You just gotta' figure out what matters to 'em. So this, uh- Bill? Really? Bill? Well, look, you just gotta' figure out what he wants."

Ford can't help but cringe, his shoulders tensing as he stares into his coffee and tries very hard to think of a way to break thinks to Stan gently.

"What he wants is to find a way into our world so he can rule it." He begins, absently tearing open a sugar packet and pouring it into his cup as he gives Stan a minute to let that information sink in.

"But since I've taken that opportunity away from him...I imagine what he wants most right now is my head on a pike."

He says it offhandedly, a little too casually, and it almost comes across like a joke. Almost being the key word, because as he speaks Ford unconsciously reaches to touch the back of his head, feeling the still-aching seam they welded into his skin. It's a little hard to take that statement as a joke when they're both well aware of the extremes Cipher will go to just to make him miserable.