goodguygrifter | (no subject)

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.

"Well, maybe mom was on to something." Stan gives Ford a nudge with his elbow as he slides past, then heads toward the counter, calling out for the waitress as he goes. He leans on the counter, grins, she laughs a couple times, the cash register goes ding and the change goes right into Stan's pocket. And he does come back with a box, of course he does, because he meant what he said about Ford needing the food. Maybe having something around a little colorful than anonymous meat product made to last about a thousand years, the kinda' shit you buy just so you can forget about it, will make Ford actually want to eat a little, or something crazy like that.

"I'm serious, though, man." He says it casually, apparently focusing more on sliding all the food into the box than on what is definitely just casual conversation, Stan ain't sticking a toe into any of those dangerous, painful parts of Ford's life just yet. "I know we stopped bein' able to trade clothes back in junior high, but just my shirt would fall right off you now. Maybe you could use a little ma' out here in this little town, that wouldn't be so bad."

Which, hey, that would mean Ford needs Stan out here to do all that, make sure he eats and all that shit. It would mean he needs Stan. Which, hey, he's already agreed that he does, so Stan knows he's in the clear there. But hearing Ford say there's a reason he needs Stan, that there's something Stan can do to make sure he'll get to stick around? Well, that wouldn't be so bad, either.

While Stan goes and takes care of business at the counter, Ford takes a moment to take stock of himself. His head still hurts from the amateur surgery he preformed earlier, which isn't surprising - he's sore in various places from that unhappy scrap with the Shapeshifter, he's bone tired which has been his default state for the past few months so there's no real concern there - no, the only thing really worthy of note is the almost alien feeling of calm that's followed him ever since they left the bunker.

Despite his various aches and pains, he feels pretty good. Better than he has in a long while, at least, which says a lot about how he's been feeling as of late.

When Stan returns, Ford spares him a faint, tired smile and rubs at the back of his neck - both because he's feeling a touch sheepish, and because his neck has decided to go stiff on him.

"To tell you the truth Stan, I'd rather have you here than Mom." He glances over towards the door, looks out into the rapidly darkening horizon and silently calculates how quickly they'll have to move if they want to make it back home before the sun disappears completely.

"Don't get me wrong, I love her to death but she can be a little..." He cringes, then teeters his hand side to side as he gives Stan a knowing look.

"You know. Overbearing."

"Yeah?" Stan finishes with the food and frowns a second, thinking back about ten years, before heading toward the door. Over all that time he thought about Ma the same way he thought about Ford, sort of. When he's low, when things get - well, when things get hairy, when he can't help himself. When he thinks of mom he thinks of how loud and nasal her voice got, the way she'd jitter across the kitchen after downing a whole pot of coffee, the way her fingernails felt running through his hair. "I don't know, Ford, it's been, uh. It's been a while. Don't you ever feel like you could use a little overbearing, sometimes? Just... just for a minute?"

Stan holds the door open for Ford, waving absently at Susan and the last few flirts she's yelling at them before they leave. His eyes jerk toward Ford's face and then away, and he clears his throat. That's why his voice went all, all whatever it was at the end there.

Edited 2016-02-15 01:08 (UTC)

As they head towards the door, Ford finds himself staring out into the rapidly darkening sky rather than at Stan. He's just - you know, he's just calculating the speed at which the sun's setting so he knows how much daylight they have before they get stranded in the dark. He's not just avoiding looking at his brother while he speaks, of course not. Perish the thought.

"After the, ah...experiences I've had, Stan, I'm not really fond of being smothered."

He doesn't mean to, but he can't help but reach up and touch the back of his head, his fingers brushing against the angry red line burned into his skin. Once he realizes what he's doing he quickly pulls his hand away, only to move it back and pretend like he was just trying to fix his hair again.

Luckily - or not - for Stan, he doesn't know enough about Ford to know that, in a different conversation, Ford could also be talking about him. He just catches Ford's moving back up to the mark Stan melted into his brother's skin, and takes what Ford told him in that diner and makes a guess at it. "Yeah, well, somehow I doubt that asshole ever sat you down at the breakfast table for a honkin' big pile of pancakes. It's a different kinda' thing."

"Pancakes are simple, right?" he goes on a second later, quieter because he's talking mostly to himself. "I bet I could figure out pancakes."

Alright, that gets an amused snort out of Ford - he feels he ought to congratulate Stan for always knowing exactly what to say to cheer him up when he's feeling down, but there's really no way to say something like that without inviting an awkward silence to swoop in and make things uncomfortable.

Instead, Ford simply shakes his head at his incorrigible brother and tries (without sucess) to hide a smile.

"You're really not going to let go of the food thing, are you?" He asks wryly they leave the diner and step out into the brisk winter air. "I'll admit I've lost some weight, but not enough to necessitate you being let anywhere near the stove."

Stan remembers, back in the day, that puttin' a smile like that on his brother's face - especially when it ends up lookin' like he don't want to smile, but can't stop himself - that always used to make Stan feel like the biggest guy in the world, about ten miles tall. He ducks his head a little and gives Ford a smile right back, feeling lighter than he did a couple seconds ago. "Hey, I only got a place burnt down, uh, the once, or was it..."

Stan's eyes go unfocused and he holds up his hands, shifting his grip on the box of food so one can count off on the fingers of the other. He counts one finger, then two, then three- "Look, nevermind all that, I bet I can figure your stove out no problem. And uh, I know the food thing won't exactly solve all your problems, but it's somethin', you know?"

"And besides, a guy like you, you've got an extinguisher stashed some place, right? We're golden."

Ford honestly cannot tell if Stan is joking or not once he starts counting on his fingers. He'd like to give his brother the benifit of the doubt and assume he hasn't actually been responsible for burning down what looks like over three kitchens, but - well, you never know. For all he knows, Stan really is just that bad at cooking.

"I feel like I should preemptively ban you from the kitchen to save myself the headache." He replies with a snort. "Not to mention the repair bills."

As they head out down the road, walking side by side into the cool winter night, Ford can't help but wonder how they're going to make all of this work. Sure, they're joking about the domestic trials they may or may not face in the future, assuming they share a future together, but Ford cannot for the life of him imagine how they're going to reach that point.

It's not like - he can't just invite Stan to stay with him a while, that would be ridiculous. Stan's a grown man, they both are. They're reaching the age where they should settle down and get married, start their own families. They're nearly thirty years old for God's sake - that's too old to still be rooming with your brother, isn't it?

Ford can't help but wonder if it is, if he even cares that it is. If you had asked him before he and Stan left the bunker, he might not have even entertained the idea, but now...well, Ford's not so sure anymore. He hasn't been sure of anything in a long while, really. After everything that happened with Bill, his confidence has taken a heavy blow. These days, he can't seem to trust himself to make the right calls, to see the bigger picture, to notice the warning signs flashing past his eyes.

He just - he needs some time to think, to feel confident in his decision, whatever that ultimately is. Until then, well, he supposes it won't hurt to let Stanley hang around for a while.

It might be that it's a good thing Stan don't know that. He knows he's got to prove he's worth keepin' around, yeah, but knowing something is different from actually hearing it, and hearing that Ford's actually thinking it, even after what they talked about in that bunker, that would hurt. So it's probably good Stan's thinking about something else altogether.

"Hey, I never said it was the kitchens I got burned down. Mostly." Oops, shit, probably shoulda' let that stay a 'bad cooking' joke, shouldn't he? Well, it still can stay a joke if he grins just the right way. Ford probably can't see his face really clear with the light going like this though, can he? And hey, speaking of -

"You can find your way back in this, right? I mean, these woods are-" He gives a brief, deliberate shudder. "Creepy, ya' know? It'd be nice to get back without steppin' into another Monster Movie Monday Special, or whatever happens in places with all these trees like this."

Ford lets that comment about burning down more than just kitchens slip for now - like most things in Stan's life, Ford's not sure if he ought to look too deep into it. He's still unsure of where they stand, of what subjects they're allowed to bring up and what topics they'll have to put on the back burner until they patch things up a little better - give themselves time to trust each other with the ugly details of their lives that they can't bring themselves to put out on the table just yet.

He's not sure if he'll ever be ready to tell Stan that the things he's revealed to him so far -as awful as they are- are just the tip of the iceberg as far as gritty details of his life go.

"I know these woods like the back of my hand, Stanley." Which, considering Ford spends a great deal more time looking at his hands than the average person, is really saying something.

"So long as we stick to the right path, we shouldn't have any trouble. Unless we run into a gremgoblin, but at this time of the year we're more likely to come across a colony of eye-bats, which are practically harmless."

"Eye-" Stan grimaces, but that rings a bell, don't it? Kind of? Somewhere in the haze of stress and fear and the building need to bust something up that make up Stan's memory of the past couple days, he might remember somethin' like that. Not much, though. "I really need to look through that book again. All the stuff you got. Everythin' about that, uh, that Bill character, too. I mean, I'm not gonna' ask about all that, uh, other stuff. But I spent enough time tryin' not to think about that shit when you- I mean, when I- You know, and if we're really gonna' kick this guy's ass I think I gotta' hit the books a little. And uh, I'm kinda' getting the feeling all the books on this weird stuff were written by you, so, you know."

You do know, don't you? Hopefully you know. Stan is probably not going to be any clearer.

Oh. Well. That sure is a whole lot of stuttering and tripping over his own words Stan's doing. Maybe Ford can get away with pretending like he doesn't know exactly what he was getting at with all of that verbal fumbling--

...Or maybe he can just man up and give his brother a proper response because pussyfooting around the issue isn't going to get them anywhere.

"...You want to read my journals?" It's not really a question, more like a request for confirmation. "I...I don't know, Stan. A lot of what's in there isn't relevant to the - the Cipher issue."

That, and he isn't particularly keen on the idea of letting Stan take his good sweet time perusing the pages which catalog his slow decent into madness - or, well, maybe not full-blown madness. He doesn't feel insane, just...a little shaky. Not as stable as he used to be. But you know, that's to be expected, given the circumstances, and besides, he's been under a lot of stress lately. Anyone would crack a little under that sort of pressure, right? It's not - it doesn't say anything about him, mental-health wise. He's just been having a god awful time lately, and things just look a lot worse on paper than they actually are -

At least, that's what he's going to assure Stan if he actually does flip though those worn pages and see things that are...concerning.

"That don't mean I don't need to know about that too, I mean, the longer I stay here-" If he stays, that is, crap, all this walkin' on eggshells shit's gonna' fuckin' kill him. Stan makes a face at his shoes, then tries this again, this time in a way that ain't so risky. "But that's later. And they're your books, you know, so if you don't want me gettin' my dirty mitts all over 'em that's fine. But uh, some stuff I do need to know about. That uh, that Cipher Issue. You don't gotta' write me a novel, but you can't just drop 'angry asshole demon from the fourth dimension' on me and leave it at that, I'm gonna' need a little more if we're gonna' figure somethin' out. I mean..."

He looks over at Ford, seeing what he can see in the light. Not that there's much light, a lot less now that they're actually heading into the woods. Fucking creepy, he still thinks that and the way that, once you get surrounded on all sides by these trees, the light just sort of disappears, that ain't changing his mind at all. But he can see Ford's face, at least enough to remind him that this is a guy who lost enough blood to redecorate a small room not so long ago, a guy who can't sleep without seein' the same asshole who gave him all those scars Stan ain't thinkin' about, and something flares up all big and tough in Stan's chest right then, crowding out the frustration and the nerves for a second.

"Not now, it's been a hell of a day, you know? Sleep on it, an' tell me all about it tomorrow. That sound like a plan, four-eyes?" Stan isn't confident enough about this right now to elbow Ford like a part of him wants to, but some of that's there in his voice anyway, something a little less 'guy trying not to break all the eggshells of goodwill keeping him here' and a little more 'brother'.

Stan is right. He's right, and Ford hates it because that means having to admit that he's wrong, that he's being childish, a coward. His comfort isn't nearly as important in the grand scheme of things as making sure Stan knows what the hell they're dealing with here, in this impossible place Ford has learned to call home.

Rather than admit to this out loud, Ford simply smiles a little uncomfortably at the ground, the gesture somewhat forced, before leaning towards his brother a bit so he can nudge him with his shoulder.

"You realize that name applies to you too, right?" He asks, hoping Stan won't call him out on how blatantly he's changing the subject. "Or at least it would, if you ever wore your glasses."

He sounds fond as he says this, fond and a little chiding. He reaches up to adjust his glasses, not because he needs to but because they're the focus of the subject at hand and he just feels the need to play with them.

"Hey," Stan says, not about to say anything about the subject change at all because who's the big brother here?

Ford. Technically it's Ford. But, you know what, shut up.

"There's only room for one four-eyes in this relationship, an' that ain't me." It's weird to hear anyone even mention that. It's not hard to hide the fact that his eyes aren't great, at least most of the time, and really Ford is the only one who knows he even does it. Their parents could figure it out maybe, them and some of his old teachers, but Ford was the only one who ever thought about it.

"You got a lotta' secrets in that head, Sixer," he says, poking at Ford's temple. "You'd better keep that one to yourself, huh? You'll ruin my reputation." And, because timing is everything, the root of a nearby tree chooses that exact second to just appear in front of Stan's foot, probably because this creepy forest has a sense of humor and it was waiting for this moment to make him flail in a wild try at not falling on his face.

Stan is right - Ford does have a lot of secrets in his head, but as far as secrets go, the fact that his brother has eyes just as bad as his own is not one he feels the need to keep under lock and key. He's got far more dangerous, far more personal ones that need the vault-space anyhow.

Not that he feels like he can really be blamed for letting that particular secret slip, not when Stan makes it pretty damn obvious that his eyes aren't the best by tripping over an exposed tree root. (Granted, that says less about his eyes and more about how he keeps looking at his brother rather than where he's going, but whatever.)

Luckily for Stan, his big brother's got fast enough reflexes to prevent him from kissing the dirt - his upper body strength, though, leaves a little to be desired. A lack of sleep and nutrition will do that to a guy's muscles.

"What was that you were saying--" He begins, as he grabs hold of Stan's arm with one hand, and the back of his jacket with the other. "--About ruining your reputation?"

That's more than enough, muscles or not, and with Ford's help Stan gets himself up and steady again pretty quick, although he doesn't really think about the fact that maybe, since he's up and all, he don't need to keep grabbing at Ford's sleeve like he is. His mind's in other places. Look, he didn't even spill Ford's food. That right there, that's skills. "I was saying, your creepy forest's got it out for me. I think somethin's gonna' come out and tie my shoelaces together next. You really lived in this place for years? On purpose? Wasn't it weird?"

Edited 2016-02-24 22:32 (UTC)

True, Stan probably doesn't need to be holding onto Ford's sleeve, but then, Ford probably doesn't need to keep holding onto the back of Stan's jacket either. Point is, Ford won't say anything if Stan won't.

"Yes, yes, and...yes." Ford smiles a little, before glancing down at his free hand.

"Like attracts like, and all that." He adds a bit more quietly, before slipping his hand back into his coat pocket to keep it warm.

This weather is tolerable during the day, but once the sun goes down, things get far too chilly for his liking - which is precisely why he picks up his pace a little bit, so they can make their way back to the cabin faster. He doesn't want to have to stay out in this cold longer than he has to.

It looks a lot to Stan like Ford's hiding his hand just there, and Stan watches him do it with regret twisting up his face. "Look, I, I didn't mean it like that. You're not creepy-weird. You're not weird-weird, either. You're cool-weird. You're different."

Since they haven't let go of each other yet Ford takes Stan with him when he starts to walk faster, so Stan knows he ain't trying to get away from him. Maybe he's just trying to get to the house, so he can end this conversation.

Ford has heard that little spiel before - Mom and Stan, they always tried to use honeyed words to sugar coat the truth, make him feel better about himself. Dad, on the other hand - well, Ford could always count on him to tell the cold, hard truth, without having to wonder if he was softening the truth just so he wouldn't feel bad.

Their mother always hated it when he said it, she'd always say his name in a hard, indignant tone of voice and give him a sour look - but Ford knew, even as a boy, that his father was only speaking the truth when he said every man had their strengths and weaknesses, and that he ought to count himself lucky that he was clever because his hands weren't doing him any favors.

"I'm a freak, Stanley" He replies lightly, his tone oddly flat. "We're both adults here, you don't have to pretend like that's a good thing just to spare my feelings."

The hand on Stan's back tightens its grip a little as the ground underfoot turns rougher, harder to walk on. Seems he's preparing for the event that Stan accidentally trips again in advance.

"You're not-" There was a time, maybe, when nothing on Earth could head Stan off once he heard that word used on his brother, the other f-word, f-r-e-a-k. That grip getting tighter on the back of his jacket, though, right now that does it. Because you don't piss off the guy givin' you a place to sleep, not if you can help it - hell, not even if you can't help it - and there was a time, maybe, when Stan didn't know that little lesson so well.

But, shit, okay. Stan pulls his head back around and that weak, heavy feeling like he's about to sink right down into that tough ground underneath his shoes don't stop him from making himself look away from the tight grip on his back, and look at his brother instead.

Okay.

He's got that lesson now, sure, but maybe Stan never has been a very quick learner.

"You're not a freak," says Stanley, sounding hard and determined. "I don't care how much it pisses you off to hear me say it, I don't care if this is the last straw that makes you decide you're better off leavin' your deadbeat brother wanderin' around by himself in these woods for the rest of forever, there are only so many eggshells I can dance on for you, Ford. You don't get this one. You didn't get to call yourself a freak before and you don't now, you get me? Not as long as I'm around."

Stan lifts his chin, and doesn't realize his hands, the one wrapped around Ford's sleeve, too, are balled up in fists. It's kind of a bluff, that threat, stop it or kick me out for good, but a threat don't work unless you look like you're ready to deliver.

He's bluffed better. But hey, he's had bluffs like this work even when he does look like he's about to jump out of his skin with fear, so he stares hard at Ford, and he holds the look. He's not givin' in on this one.

Probably.

There's an edge to Stan's voice - it's dull, not quite as sharp as it would have been if Ford's words had come from anyone but him - but it's there none the less. Ford's not sure why that takes him off guard, but it does. Maybe he just wasn't expecting Stan to still feel so strongly about the subject, or maybe he's just gone so long without someone to keep him from feeling badly about his hands that it just takes him by surprise to have someone do it now.

Whatever the reason, it strikes Ford hard enough to catch him off guard and give him pause, his boots sinking into the fresh white powder at their feet as he gives his brother a confused, lost look.

"Stan." He begins, before going quiet for a moment or two, because he's really not sure what to say after that. "It's fine. I don't mind."

It isn't and he does, but that's not what he's supposed to say, so he stretches the truth a little. Or a lot. Or possibly entirely.

"We're not eight anymore, I'm not gonna go home and cry because someone asked if mom stood too close to a microwave while she was pregnant."

There's this bit - a three stooges thing, maybe, or maybe it's just one of those comedy classics - where one guy pushes against something heavy and pushes and pushes and groans and grunts and he just can't get it, and then another guy comes along and moves it right outta' the way and the first guy falls flat on his face. Stan never really thought about how weird that's gotta' feel until it happened to him just now. Not exactly, 'cause he's still upright and he's still got most of his dignity, but Ford was gonna' fight him on this, Ford was gonna' get offended or proud or something, and it feels like a brick wall Stan was just pushing against just went and disappeared.

It takes Stan a second to catch up with the fact that that's not happening, that things are okay, and he can recover this. He looks down toward his feet, hops a little as he trips over a root, and hopes that tripping for real will cover up the way his brain tripped up just a second ago. Caught off guard? No way, not Stan Pines. It's this forest, it's getting in his way on purpose, that's all.

Okay. Yeah. He can recover this, make things a little easier. "Maybe I will, you think a' that? If you keep callin' yourself names maybe I'll just stand here with big old tears rollin' down my face and you'll have to watch it. Have you ever seen a big man cry, Ford? It ain't pretty."

When Stan trips a second time, Ford is ready - the hand on the back of his jacket tightens its grip, holding him secure so he's in no danger of falling flat on his face.

And, you know. Maybe he just wants to have an excuse to keep his hand on Stan's back, between his shoulders. That's not a crime, wanting to be close to someone, wanting to make sure they're really there. So, you know. Shut up.

"...Does it really bother you that much?" He asks quietly, as they continue onward, one careful step at a time. In the distance, if they squint, they'll be able to make out the lonely silhouette of the cabin.

"I've been called worse things, you know." He adds, as if that will somehow make a difference. "The way I see it, I may as well just...beat everyone to the punch. It's better to hear it coming from me rather than someone else, isn't it?"

It's funny, how he doesn't seem to sound so sure about that anymore.