goodguygrifter | (no subject)

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Well, Stan's been crammed deeper up the ass end of nowhere before, but that doesn't mean that creeping, uneasy feeling doesn't get worse the deeper he gets into this damn forest. It's dark, it's spooky, it's -

It's exactly like the kind of forest you used to see in those old monster movies, actually. The kind he and Ford used to sit in front of, enraptured, arguing over how many pieces the monster of the week was going to tear the ditzy teenage protagonist into.

Maybe it's not the forest that's giving him such a bad case of the heebie jeebies. He can admit that to himself now that he's almost there. His car rolls to a stop and he sits there while the engine ticks cool with his hands still in their old, familiar grips on the wheel. He gets out. He shuts the door.

"No problem," he mutters to himself, watching the door of that weird, creepy little cabin like he really is in one of those old movies and something's about to jump out and grab him. "It's only been nine years. And ten months. And fourteen days. And he doesn't even want you here. That's no, no reason to, to uh..."

The doorknob of that weird, creepy little cabin door is under his hand. If his hand moves a couple more inches, he'll open it. He'll open the door, and then he'll -

You'll what? he thinks to himself. You'll what, genius?

"Aw, shit," Stanley says, and takes one step back, and then another, still looking at the door like it's about to bite him.

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When Stan gestures towards him and points out that he's seen better days, Ford can't help but feel like he should be a little insulted. He should be, probably, but for some reason he isn't. Instead he's just a little amused, because yeah, he knows he looks like hell. Besides, he could use a little humor right now, even if it's self-depreciating.

But then Stan goes and turns the conversation back to Bill, and, well...its a sore subject. It probably will be for as long as he lives. Thankfully Stan has the good sense to not pry for information right here and now. Instead, he makes a not-so-thinly veiled attempt at getting him to finish his food.

Ford smiles a little, crinkling his nose a bit. "You sound like Mom." He says, not unkindly. "If you start calling me bubbeleh or ask me when I'm getting married I'm leaving you with the tab."

And would you look at that, he's actually picking at his food again. Seems like all he needed was the reminder - or maybe he's just doing it as a favor to Stan. God knows the poor guy could really use some of that load taken off his shoulders.

Stan's hands slide down off his face and he crosses his arms in front of him, hunching his shoulders up and giving Ford a small, nauseous little smile. Ford did that to himself for Stan, because Stan wormed his way in where Ford never asked him to be. It ain't like he didn't need to, he looks at Ford smiling at him and actually eating a little and he can't regret doing it, but the thought's still sunk into him, sitting all heavy and nasty against his insides. "Hey, no chance. You won't even tell me when you first made the beast with two backs with a lady, who knows how you'll freak if I ask you about wives."

If Stan wanted to get sprayed with coffee, well, he's found a great way to do it - just remind Ford about his love life while he's in the middle of a drink, and there you have it: an impromptu coffee shower.

Ford would really apologize for that if he weren't so busy coughing and sputtering and trying to hack up what little coffee he actually swallowed because, OF COURSE, it's gone down the wrong pipe.

He thumps his chest twice, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "Jesus Christ, Stan" and continues hacking up a lung for a moment or two before he finally clears the liquid death from his throat.

"Uh."

Stan helps by giving Ford a couple hard thumps on the back - helps, okay, this is helpful, it's absolutely not gonna' make him choke more - and waits until Ford's definitely not having a death by coffee moment before reaching for a bunch of napkins and starting to wipe his face off with 'em. "That really is a sensitive topic, huh? Really, Ford? Okay, yeah, yeah, I'll lay off, I just - would ya' mind givin' me a list of topics that's gonna' make you do that now 'cause I really didn't come all this way just to watch you choke to death in some diner."

Stan looks unhappy, asking that, too annoyed by the fact he doesn't even know how to tease his own brother to second guess the fact that he's just pointed out that very fact out loud, something which he maybe shouldn't have done.

"No, no, it's fine, I'm--" He pauses to clear his throat, swallowing hard to put and end to the near-choking business once and for all. "I'm fine."

He knows that by now that phrase has probably lost all of its meaning, coming from him, but you just can't fight habit. Besides, he actually is fine this time so - points for honesty?

"That was just a, uh. An unexpectedly colorful way to word that thing you just said."

It's not technically a lie; that really was a crude euphemism Stan had used. It's just that it wasn't the euphemism itself that made Ford nearly choke to death on his drink, but the subject it was referring to.

"Yeah, well, I'm a colorful guy. Too full a' color for you, I guess." Stan may not be sure how to tease his brother anymore but he can still ruffle his hair, damn it, so long as he remembers to only go for the top of the poor guy's head, and his guilt over all that is fresh enough that he does remember. "Come on, nerd, eat your dinner. You can catch me up on the parts of your life that don't make you squirm like I just asked you about your last prostate exam later. You ain't even finished your vegetables."

Stan picks up a fry and plants it right on top of whatever's left of Ford's burger, raising his eyebrows with a little grin. Potatoes and grease, that counts as a vegetable, right? It does in Stan's world, anyway.

The end result of Stan's hair-ruffling leaves Ford blinded by his own fringe, his hair sticking up every which way but particularly in his eyes. He makes a sound of protest, lets out a startled laugh despite himself, and winds up shoving Stan's shoulder with one hand while he tries in vain to smooth out the mess.

"Stan!" The tone hes aiming for is chiding, but what he manages instead is considerably more lighthearted. "Just because you have a terrible haircut doesn't mean you have to take it out on mine."

He reaches out, prodding his brother in the temple with two fingers, just because he can.

"What made you think that was a good look for you, anyway? Don't tell me it was a girl."

Man, that feels better than he thought it would. Hearing his brother say his name in that voice, laughing and poking at him, it makes him feel all filled up, all light. He smiles as he looks at Ford and thinks, not on your life am I tellin' you that. At least, not until he can figure out how to say it the right way. That ain't hard, though. Of all the questions Ford coulda' asked about him, that's an easy one.

"A guy, actually," he says, leaning back to rub at the back of his neck and scratch his fingers through the hair there. "A bunch of 'em. You ever seen a guy walk into a biker bar with a crew cut? Ha. We oughta' walk you into one, one of these days. We'd have to fix your clothes too, but hey, I still got my bikin' jacket in the car, could be a good look for you. What gives, though? You get to ask me about chicks, an' I ask and just get spit and coffee on my face? Yeah, I see 'ya', I see how it is."

Edited 2016-02-06 06:32 (UTC)

...A biker crew?

Somehow Ford isn't surprised Stan fell in with people like that. He had always been the wild child, the rebellious one. Hell, Ford's honestly surprised he didn't become the next Marlon Brando. He certainly had the jawline for it - they both did, but the "bad boy" look really didn't work as well on Ford as it did on Stan. It was probably the glasses - it was hard to look any sort of intimidating with glasses. And, you know, he supposed the sweater-vests and the fact that he radiated nerdiness probably helped too.

"Yes, I know, double standards." He says hurriedly, waving a hand at Stan as if to shoo away his mock-complaint. "I'm allowed to have those. Besides, I'd bet good money that your stories are more interesting than mine."

"Yeah? I don't know about that," says the nearsighted bad boy impersonator, punching at Ford's nearest arm. "I wanna' hear all about your, uh-"

What do people do in college, anyway?

"-your adventures in all things nerd, all them books and sweatervest parties and shit. I bet there's even some action, come on, you can't tell me you were a boring, goody-goody two-shoes of a student all the time. I know you better than that."

"Actually..." Ford begins haltingly, his hand coming up to rub absently at the side of his neck as he stalls his response. "I really was pretty boring."

He's just gonna pick up what's left of his burger and take a conspicuously well-timed bite to avoid having to go into detail, don't mind him. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, Stan, these are not the droids you are looking for.

"I actually went to college to learn, funnily enough." He grins a little, like this is all some big joke, before bobbing his shoulders in a light shrug. "There wasn't much time for anything else."

"Oh, uh." Stan's expression stays all enthusiastic and hopeful because he keeps it that way, a lot like an old grandpa realizing he don't got a single clue what it is his grandkids are interested in, and that they ain't about to give him a clue. All without realizing, he falls into the same topic all those nervous old out-of-touch relatives always do: tell me about school.

"Well in that case, uh. What kinda' stuff did you learn? Not that I'd get most of it, but uh, tell me anyway. What kept you busy all that time?" Besides being possessed, tortured, being driven to the edge of starvation and insanity. Back before Stan failed his brother by not being there. He didn't say so, but he really hopes the 'yeah, besides that' part is implied.

"Everything." He says without missing a beat. Judging by the way he nonchalantly takes another bite out of his sandwich right after, it's safe to say he's actually being serious. Or at the very least, he's not just pulling Stan's leg.

"Or, well, everything they offered that I had any interest in learning." He amends, with a sheepish sort of smile. Jeez, he had sounded pretty full of himself for a minute there, hadn't he? He really needs to work on that.

His sheepish smile soon morphs into a chuckle, and he busies himself with pouring some ketchup on his fries as he continues.

"I couldn't decide on a degree, so I wound up graduating with twelve of them." He shakes his head, like this fact is more of a funny joke about his own indecisiveness than it is a highly implausible accomplishment deserving of a few raised eyebrows.

Stan doesn't raise his eyebrows, and he doesn't think Ford sounds full of himself, not for a second. To Stan, as far as his brother is concerned, nothing could be more plausible. "Twelve? Good for you, man!"

Now this is cause for a celebratory shoulder punch, if anything is. Here, Ford, have one, and a big, pleased, proud look right along with it. "I always knew you'd blow all those stuffed shirts right outta' the water. How many guys were givin' you the stink eye over that one? I bet no one else did half that many!"

Ford returns that shoulder-punch with one of his own, out of reflex. He doesn't think about it, doesn't even seem to realize he's done it until he feels his fist connect with Stan's jacket. He lets out an awkward laugh, feeling inexplicably embarrassed by the old habit.

"I'll admit, I didn't do myself any favors by setting the bar so high for everyone else." He shakes his head, taking one last drink of his coffee before continuing. "People can't stand academic excellence without an apology."

Granted, he didn't have many friends to lose in the first place. Or really any at all other than Fidds - not that Ford's complaining, mind. He's only ever had one friend in his life, before college, and so having only Fiddleford for company was just fine by him. That was his normal. It didn't matter if the rest of the campus side-eyed him so long as he had at least one person who had his back.

"Well they can just suck it, huh? People gotta' get used to a guy as smart as you bein' around!" He reaches out to put his arm around Ford's shoulders so he can try to pull him close. "I mean it, Ford. Good for you. I always knew you'd do somethin' that crazy and great."

"What made you stop?" he asks, leaning back. "You decided you just wanted one degree for each finger or..." Stan pulls a face, suddenly looking worried. Can he make that joke now? He just wanted to keep askin' questions, keep Ford talking about his own life so he doesn't ask about Stan's, but he don't know if he can make that joke. Should he apologize? Should he pretend he never said it?

Oh, would you look at that, they're doing a side-hug thing now. Alright, Ford accepts this as his due for sitting next to Stan rather than across from him. He put himself in the danger-zone for hugs, and he's going to gracefully accept the consequences.

He's also going to gracefully accept that joke Stan looks so worried about having made, because Stan is the one who made it and so it's physically impossible for Ford to feel insulted. Had anyone else made the same joke, Ford might've been a little hurt, but Stan - well, Stan is the exception to a lot of things. No matter how harsh the joke, Ford knows his brother would never actually mean a single bad word about his hands.

"Honestly?" He begins, an amused grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I couldn't wait to be done with that place. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad for the education, but the entire experience was pure drudgery."

"Really? I thought you liked all that, uh..." Stan raises the hand not around Ford's shoulders and wiggles his fingers, letting that stand in for everything he doesn't know to fill that in with. "All that school, The Many And Bounteous Opportunities Of Academia or whatever. That's, uh, that's not what you wanted?"

The move makes his sleeve fall down a little, showing off those dark, angry looking circles, the world's worst hickies, that the thing's probably-suckers left when it tried to pull Stan into that tube with it but he doesn't notice because hey, it looks like that worry about his joke a second ago left an empty spot when it left for another worry to slide right in and take its place. "Was it, was the school you, uh... ended up in... was it really that bad?"

Hoo boy. They're straying back into dangerous territory again. Ford should have known it was only a matter of time before this happened.

He shrugs, his shoulders not making it very far beneath the weight of Stan's arm, and eats another fry just so he doesn't have to answer right away. Yeah, that sure is a fry alright.

"Yes and no." He admits, as he gives himself the excuse to look at his plate rather than at Stan by needlessly swirling another fry around in a mound of ketchup. "It was no Ivy League, but at least it got me out of the house."

He drops the fry, which by now is more ketchup than potato, then picks up another to start the process all over again.

"As bad as the dorms could be, even with the roaches, it was better than staying at home."

"Yeah, I, uh." Stan's eyes follow his brother's hands and he hunches his shoulders, biting at the inside of his mouth some more. He wouldn't know about that but he's not angry enough to risk losin' the fragile goodwill that's the only thing letting him stay here just to say so. He could be angry if he wanted to, if he thought about it, boo-fuckin'-hoo for the golden child with everything going for him who had to look at a couple lousy roaches once in a while, but the righteousness that drives all that out of him checked right the fuck out the moment Stan found out just how bad it got for Ford out here and without it, Stan's too afraid to even risk thinking about all that too hard. So he just doesn't, he just thinks about the weight his arm on Ford's shoulder and about not moving it, because if Stan moved it now it feels like he might lose something.

"I guess. You gonna' eat all that or are you just gonna' keep dressin' it up? Come on, I'm startin' to feel like I oughta' fly it toward your mouth makin' airplane noises." He uses that hickey-covered arm to pick up one of those abandoned puddles of ketchup-fry, wobbling it around in the vague direction of Ford's face. "Open it up for the ninteen-oh-seven Wright Model A, huh? You wouldn't want to miss that comin' into the station."

He's grinning a little, too, because hey, it's all jokes here, huh? It's all fine, they're all friends here. So far.

Ford rolls his eyes so hard that they almost go all the way back into his head, but he smiles as he does it - smiles the kind of smile that tries a little too hard to look like it isn't amused.

"Alright, now you're really acting like Mom." He says as he leans away from the ketchup-soaked fry and pushes Stan's hand away.

"Circa twenty six years ago."

He flashes Stan a wry smile before opening the front of his jacket, so that he can search one of his many inner-pockets for something. After a moment he finds whatever he's looking for and sets it on the table - it's a twenty dollar bill plus some loose change, enough to pay their bill twice over.

"This is probably a good sign we should hit the road. We're doing more talking than eating, and we can do that as much as we like on the way home without making some poor woman keep her diner open on a Saturday night."

It's Sunday, actually, but Ford...really hasn't been good at keeping up with dates lately.

Stan relaxes. It worked. This is gonna' be okay. Some people don't like it when he changes the subject like that, and as Stan thinks it he realizes he's been thinking of Ford the same way he'd think of any other schmuck he's gotta' live with for a while, trying to figure out what they're like and how much he can get away with. He oughta' know this, doesn't he know Ford like he knows the back of his own hand?

But you know what? Ford don't mind it when Stan changes the subject. That means Stan's got a little wiggle room for all those potholes scattered all over their conversations, and that means the good ship the Pines Brothers might not fall into one of those potholes and bust a tire just yet.

"Uh," he says, distracted from that last thought because he's got to spend a couple seconds staring at that twenty. "Let me out, I'll go get your change." That's what he gets for sitting in the booth first, he can't get up unless Ford lets him. "Then we'll head back. There's really nothin' else you wanna' do here, huh? Is this place really that small?"

"It's a backwoods, Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, Stan. The only thing else to do around here is drink, and I have enough alcohol to drop a horse back at the house."

It's meant to be a joke, but it falls flat near the end when Ford realizes that that...really isn't all that funny in hindsight. Especially now that Stan knows why he has so much alcohol around the house in the first place.

Welp. Now it's Ford's turn to change the subject abruptly and pretend like backpedaling away from his previous statement before they can dwell too long on it isn't precisely what he's doing.

"Don't worry about the change, by the way. It's fine, we'll just leave the rest for the tip."

"Yeah," says Stan, who hasn't left a tip that ain't along the lines of, 'that makeup combo would really go better with a red dress' in a while. Since his last big - well, medium-sized - break back what musta' been the better part of a year ago. "I'll just give it to her, okay?"

And there the twenty goes, right into one of his pockets. It's gone, just like magic. Well, okay, not just like, but he ain't going for the sticky-fingers magic trick thing tonight, not like that. Keepin' the way oversized tip Ford was happy to let go of in the first place, that's different. And besides, he ain't even gonna' do that until they leave, so. "You just keep workin' on all this food and I'll come back with a box for it or somethin'. We've gotta' keep it so you can put some meat on those bones, huh?"

Stan grins, reaching out to poke at Ford's ribs. You're finishing your dinner, Ford. Maybe not now, but you are. Stan is here now, and that means his brother's gonna' stop skipping his meals.

That poke to the ribs earns Stan a jolt from his jumpy brother, who in turn reaches out to gently slug him in the arm.

"What did I just say about you sounding like Mom?" He asks, before moving to slide out of the booth so that Stan can get out as well.

Once on his feet, Ford takes a moment to roll his his head and shoulders, one hand moving up to rub at his stiff neck. Being tense as a coiled spring for weeks on end does not do a body good. Neither does depriving oneself of food and sleep, but, well, there they are.