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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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.

And shit still don't go the way Stan expected it to. Ford was going to laugh, Stan mighta' made a dick joke, everything woulda' been back to normal. But Ford decided to take him seriously, to listen to him, and maybe that hand on his back is the only thing he's sure about right now.

It's weird, too, what it is Ford says once he does start listening. The words all fit together okay, but the sentence they add up to are so obviously wrong that Stan's got to squint at Ford a second to try and make sure his brother's for real. He hunches his shoulders against a little shiver, trying to get the collar of his coat closer to his neck 'cause this place is colder than he likes it, but one hand's got Ford's food and the other one's got Ford's sleeve and yeah, like he's gonna' let go of either just to pull his jacket up. He's got bigger stuff to be thinkin' about right now, anyway.

"If anyone says that shit, the only punch you'll be beatin' 'em to is mine." Stanley says this like their teachers back in school used to say the really simple stuff, teachin' Ford about E=Mc-whatever while Stan doodled a pair of tits over half his notebook page. It's a law of physics or somethin', every crack from some joker about Ford's fingers earns an equal and opposite broken nose straight from Stan's fist, or something.

"There's lies and then there's bullshit, Sixer, and you don't have to take either of 'em from anyone. Not from Joe Schmoe down the street who wants to make his rep pickin' on the cool kid, not from yourself, not even from me, if you don't wanna'. Look, you science types, you're all about, uh, findin' the truth, right? What is it you used ta' tell me about, um-"

Stan frowns at what might be a little house over there, maybe even Ford's little house, but what he's really doing is thinking back. He can't remember the name he's looking for, because of course he can't. "Some guy, bigshot scientist who spouted shit he knew was wrong just 'cause some bigger, badder guys told him to. It's like that. You know that theory's bullshit, just 'cause a couple other guys are morons is no reason to keep tellin' the whole world it's true. Especially since you know better. You got the brain cells to rub together, they don't, you gotta' educate 'em."

The more Stan talks, the more he goes on about how he shouldn't have to put up with people talking bad about his hands, trying to make him feel bad for the way he was born, the more Ford realize just how much he's truly missed his brother. The ache was always there, sure, but it was easier to ignore after a while. Time made it easier to compartmentalize all that hurt and regret and emptiness and bury it deep, deep down where he wouldn't have to think about it.

But now that it's all out in the open again, bleeding and raw like a fresh wound, he can't help but feel the most painful sort of nostalgic. He missed this. He missed Stan's colorful banter and long streams of consciousness. He missed how he used to always have someone beside him to counter the nasty things people had to say about his hands.

That's the rub, really. You can only hear something from so many different sources so many times before you start to believe what you're being told - particularly when there's no differing opinion to counter the one you're constantly hearing. Especially when you start to hear that opinion in your own voice, inside your own head.

But then, there's no opinion in the world that Ford values more than Stan's, and if Stan says he shouldn't have to put up with all the negative things he's had thrown at him about his hands, then maybe...

Ford shakes his head, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Why do I have the feeling your idea of "education" involves a knuckle-sandwich and a good chewing-out?"

"Ha! 'Cause you know me." Stan leans sideways to bump into Ford, grinning. Now they're back deep in familiar territory, and it's nice to be here. Here, Stan knows his lines. Not that he don't mean 'em, it's just nice to feel like he knows what Ford's lines are gonna' be, too. "You can take care of the chewing-out, I'll hand out those knuckle-sandwiches. Maybe that's why this shit's been gettin' to you - some guys are just too thick to learn the normal way, you gotta' remember that. Gotta' get through their thick skulls before you can teach 'em anything."

Stan can't really knock on his own head for this, since neither of his hands are free, but he shifts the box of food around enough to give his own forehead a little flick. "Believe me, takes one to know one. Is, uh-"

He tries to squint through the trees for a second, then sneaks a little glance over at Ford. It should be okay to just ask about what's over through those trees without makin' up some fake reason he wants to know. Like they said earlier, Ford's one of the only people in the world who knows that Stan can't see so well. Yeah, it's fine. "That's your house up there, isn't it? Not just like, a hill or a weird tree?"

That question, coming from anyone else, would be a perfectly innocuous one. Coming from Stan, however - well, Ford knew his brother's eyes were as bad as his own when they were children, but God only knows how badly his vision's degraded over the years.

Rather than give Stan a straight answer, Ford reaches up with the hand that isn't wrapped around his brother's back and plucks his glasses from his face - only to reach over and put them on Stan's instead. He's pretty sure the leg didn't go over his other ear the right way, but hey, he's doing this one-handed so he figures he should get points for trying.

"You tell me, tough-guy."

"Huh." Ford did miss Stan's other ear so the glasses hang crooked over half Stan's face, but Stan is too busy taking a slow look around, mouth hanging open a little, to care about that.

The hand holding Ford's food makes to shove the glasses up, a habit so old Stan'd forgotten he had it. They're not really any straighter after he does it, and he's still too wrapped up in what he's actually seeing to care. Not that that's much, really, it's still dark, and getting darker. "Huh. You know, now we're both gonna' trip and fall on our faces before we get there. You 'cause you can't see and me 'cause I ain't seen like this in- wow. Since Junior High, right?"

It's a good thing they're alone in these woods, or else someone might see the fond look on Ford's face as he watches his brother rediscover what having clear vision is like and call him out on it. Thankfully (hopefully) Stan is too busy actually seeing individual leaves on trees to notice the way he's smiling at him.

"Seventh grade. You thought you looked better without them."

And by that, he of course means Stan thought he looked cooler without them. He had an image he wanted to cultivate, and he wouldn't have been able to pull off the whole "Marlon Brando" look with glasses - or at least, that's how Ford remembers it.

"Which, considering we're twins, says a lot about how you think I look with them."

Before Stan can get the wrong idea and take him seriously, Ford makes a point to show that he's only joking by giving his brother a playful shove. He simply leans into him, pushing him a half-step to the side, careful not to shove too hard lest he wind up making Stan stumble over another root and faceplant into the snow.

No, Stan doesn't see the way Ford is smiling because he only looks over once Ford steps into him, giving a few quick confused owl-blinks as he focuses away from what's around (no more dark, spooky blurs, just leaves! Branches! That right there, that's a bird's nest, and he can actually tell! Would you check the fuck out of that,) and onto Ford's face. Which, of course, doesn't have any glasses on it. Those bags under the close-set eyes, the stubble, the face he sees is the face of a guy who looks like he's been kinda' down and out for a while and the whole look makes Stan shudder again. Or maybe that's just the cold makin' him do that but it's kind of spooky anyway, it feels for a second just a little too much like this whole reunion thing has just been Stan lookin' into a mirror and makin' up fairy tales in his head.

That's stupid, though. Ford's right here, and down and out or not he kind of looks happy - kind of looks happy at Stan, even - and Stan nudges his side right back into Ford's, tightening his fingers in Ford's sleeve and feeling a little better.

"Come on, man, you make it work. Can you imagine me wearin' these? I'd get the shit kicked outta' me the next bar I stopped at. But you, you got what it takes to back that whole look up, that's why you're the glasses twin." Speaking of glasses, they're kinda' starting to slip down his face, what with only being half on and all. He turns his head and tries to nudge them back up with his shoulder, because these things are way too expensive to let 'em fall off and end up stompin' 'em all to pieces in the dark.

Ford could amuse himself by watching his brother struggle to adjust the glasses on his face without the use of hands, or he could have mercy and offer him some help - the decision is a difficult one, but ultimately Ford's better nature wins over. With a snort of amusement, he reaches over to adjust that wayward arm and hook it over Stan's ear before he dislocates his shoulder trying to accomplish the same thing.

"I thought I was the scrawny twin." He says wryly, as the draw ever closer to the cabin. "I suppose I should consider that a status upgrade."

"Yeah, well, you are twelve times the nerd now. Maybe you earned the promotion." Stan blinks a few times, getting used to the glasses being on the right way. He lets his shoulders stay all hunched up, still pretty cold, and watches his brother watch the house. Then he talks, and at some point during that he starts watching his shoes instead. And maybe that bush. Fascinating stuff over there, over away from his brother's face.

"I know I kinda' said it already, but you've got some real shit done in ten years, you know that? I mean, we always knew you'd be a big deal one day, even if it never did happen the way I, uh- And even if it did go bad on ya' there for a while. The stuff you're doin' here, it's amazing. Incredible. I bet no one else in the world's even close to figuring this shit out."

The plan to just keep looking at other shit goes out the window near the end there, because it's all so cool - and scary as all shit, and cool - that Stan kinda' forgets he was trying to do that, grinning at Ford and trying for a second to flail before finding out that both his arms are busy. Then the grin fades, and he bites at the scars inside his mouth for a second before looking up at Ford through those big glasses of his. "The point is, uh. I'm proud of you, Sixer. You did good."

I'm proud of you, Sixer.

Well, there's a sentence Ford never expected to hear again - so much so that hearing it now stuns him a little, makes him go all wide eyed and quiet, blinking owlishly at his brother like he has to translate what he just said into a language he can understand.

After a minute he has to look away, his eyes falling to the ground as the arm around Stan's back wraps around his side and drags him in close in a one-armed hug.

"Thanks, Stan. Coming from you, that...it means a lot."

He means that, too. He's not just phoning it in because that's what you're supposed to do when someone says something like that - coming from Stan, hearing that his brother still sees something worth being proud of in him despite everything he's done - it means the world to Ford. Maybe more than that.

"Yeah?" Stan just looks at his brother for a second before it comes home to him how hopeful he sounds, how careful, and it comes home to him that he probably looks the same way, real obvious to any old schmoe who happens to be lookin'. Maybe it was that look Ford gave him, the wait to find out what that look meant, followed pretty suddenly by a hug. It was the surprise of it, is all. He clears his throat, the hand that reaches up from Ford's jacket to wrap around his shoulders coming a little late, but coming, all the same. "I mean, yeah, sure, any time. Not that you don't already know how cool all this shit is, but I guess the opinion of your ignoramus brother still counts for somethin', huh?"

That wasn't casual enough, was it, he thinks it might not have been and the laugh that comes after it is a little nervous. "It'll be nice to get back inside," not that he's changing the subject or anything, "it's gettin' cold out here. Don't you pack up shop and move down south for the winter, like sane- uh, reasonable folks do?"

Ford catches that little slip of the tongue, but he doesn't hold it against Stan. After all, what right does he have to take offense when he really hasn't been of the soundest mind as of late? Turns out getting on a demon's bad side will do a number on your mental health, who knew.

"With what money?" He asks, with a half-laugh. "Most of my research is covered by a grant, but everything else comes out of pocket, and I haven't been doing much freelance work lately for...obvious reasons."

He's just gonna clear his throat and glance away briefly to give the awkwardness in the air a chance to dispel a little, don't mind him.

"Honestly, I haven't taken on an outside project since Regan was elected, which should give you an idea of how many zeros are in my bank account right now."

"Uh..." Stan fidgets a little, focusing for a second on picking out the little sticks and things poking out from the snow cover, watching the shape of his car and Ford's porch get all clear and detailed way before he's expecting them to, generally making use of these glasses while he can instead of thinking too hard on the way he coulda' helped Ford with all those zeroes at one point. When was his last big break, anyway? Near the start of the year, maybe, he coulda' helped Ford out then. Thinking of what he can do for Ford now, money-wise, just makes him think of what he left behind to come here, the money he spent hunting his brother down and how it didn't exactly start out as his. It makes him want to squirm. Or it would, if he were thinkin' too hard about it.

"I could uh, maybe talk to someone about that, if you need a little somethin'. I know a couple guys in the area." It's true, if you keep your mind open about exactly what he means when he says 'the area'. If you keep your mind open, it just so happens that Stan knows a couple guys everywhere. "They don't even have to know you're involved, either, I could have it done in a couple days, real quiet."

...Oh. There's uh. There's a lot of things implied in that offer, a lot of things that Stan didn't have to say because Ford can figure them out well enough on his own. Something tells him Stan doesn't want him to know, though. He doesn't want him to know what sort of shady strings he'd have to pull to come up with fast cash like that - he'd probably change his tune, though, if he knew what Ford himself had done for a paycheck before.

"I'm not that strapped for cash, Stanley. I'm still being paid royalties for the last job I took - so long as Regan's in office, the checks will keep coming in."

He leans slightly to the side, giving Stan a little shove to lighten the mood.

"Besides, I could always extort some hush money out of his masters if I really need to line my pockets." He adds casually, you know, because there's nothing at all strange or questionable about that statement.

There's a slow grin creeping over Stan's face, like he ain't sure whether to believe what he just heard but knows he likes hearing it. He lets the grin happen, letting that weird, jittery feeling slip away too, that one he gets when he thinks about money, and his brother, and about that other life that feels like a long, bad dream when Ford's here beside him, grinning and joking and hugging like he did a minute ago.

"You're pullin' my leg, come on. The president of the U S of A, right? That Regan?" He pauses for a second to make sure he don't slip on the snow all over the porch steps, then smiles back over at Ford again. "Besides, are you sure that's not the sorta' thing where if you tell me, you're gonna' have to kill me? I'd hate to have to put you on your ass when you tried to come at me."

Ford hasn't laughed this much since - god, he doesn't even remember when. All he knows is that Stan's always known how to hit him right in the funnybone, and the chuckle that escapes him is tired but genuine.

"It's fine. Stan. No one would believe you even if you told them. Really, who's going to actually going to take you seriously if you tell them the president is actually just a puppet being controlled by a shadowy organization that's been running the country behind the scenes the entire time he's been in office?"

He says this all with an amused smile, like the very idea of anyone believing such an outrageous story is laughable, before fishing his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door so they can finally step in out of the cold.

"Though, honestly, I'm a little surprised no one's suspected anything before now. I mean, a Hollywood actor suddenly taking an interest in politics and becoming the governor of California? Seems a little strange, doesn't it?"

As usual when he makes Ford laugh, Stan's smiling before he even knows he's doing it. Not a huge smile but a proud one, 'cause he didn't set out to be funny just then but it was him who made Ford laugh, anyway, and it's surprised him every time he's done it, remembering just how good that feels.

"I don't know," he says, hunching up his shoulders and shaking himself a little when he goes inside, like he's trying to shake the cold off. "I just figured he was smart, takin' advantage of the way people liked him. That's what I'd do. Probably."

Stan walks up the hall, looking for a little table or somethin' where he can set Ford's leftovers down, but his pace slows when he gets a look at a certain room and remembers the mess he made there, his little tantrum that made Ford stand back and look at him like- Well, never mind just how Ford looked at him because things have changed since then, a whole lotta' shit has changed and it kinda' feels like when he was in this house havin' a freakout about Ford's future as a drugged up vegetable happened a lot longer ago than it actually did.

Now if Ford feels the same way, maybe Stan can block his view of that room when they walk past it and not remind his brother of his little, uh. The moment he had, back before he knew the real story here. Or, you know, part of the real story. To distract Ford a little Stan ducks his head, catching the glasses as they slip off and blinking hard a few times as he gets used to the way the world normally looks. "I guess you don't want me keepin' these but uh, thanks for not lettin' me fall on my face out there."

Edited (icon) 2016-03-24 01:36 (UTC)

Luckily for Stan, the little incident that happened in that room is far from the forefront of Ford's mind, so he doesn't even think to spare a glance its way as they pass it by. Instead, he's looking around at the messes he's made, at the state of disarray he's let his own home fall into. Now that he's got a clearer head than he's had in a good long while, he can't help but cringe a little at the sight of it.

God, he really needs to clean the place up a bit. Especially if he expects Stan to stick around for - for however long he decides he wants to stay before he gets tired of having to deal with all the trouble his brother's brought upon himself, his house, and anyone stupid enough to be anywhere near he and it.

Before he can think too hard on that, though, Stan pulls him out of his own head, like he always does, and Ford flashes a little smile at him in thanks.

"No, go ahead, keep them. That's not my only pair." He says, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"You have no idea how often I've had my glasses stolen by gnomes." He adds, as if that little detail was really necessary to explain why he would have more than one pair of glasses.

"Gnomes?" Stan raises his eyebrows at Ford, then remembers: Oh, yeah. Weird shit.

"I'm never gonna' be able to tell if you're pullin' my leg again, am I?" Stan's smiling as he says it, staring at the glasses in his hand for a couple seconds before slipping them into a pocket. "Thanks for these. I haven't had a good pair of glasses since, uh... Columbia, yeah, Bogotá, the guys were nice enough to remind me why I stopped wearin' 'em in the first place." He huffs a little, kind of laughing to himself for a second, then heads toward Ford's bedroom and looks for enough empty surface in it to put Ford's box of food down on.

"But I know these'll come in handy sooner or later. I can use 'em to read your Writings of the Weird, for one thing. Not that I, uh, was gonna' read those journals of yours before you gave me the okay, I mean, I know you're not sold on the idea that me tryin' to take all that in would do us any good. And I did say I'd give you a night to sleep on it anyway, so, uh. I know this is your show, it's your call where we take it next." He's sleeping under Ford's roof, eating Ford's food, walking around in Ford's life - so long as Ford lets Stan stick around Ford's got to feel like Stan agrees that Ford's got the final say in pretty much everything. Stan knows how it is. That's why he don't couch surf so much as he used to, cheap hotels are just easier. But this is Ford. Even if Ford were sleepin' in a potato sack under the stars, Stan would do what it took to stick around.

"And we don't gotta' decide anything now, anyway, we just got done celebratin'. You called it celebrating, anyway. Some day I'll show you what I call a real party." Stan imagines it for a second, Ford all dressed up under the lights, shakin' his little butt off to somethin' loud, and he grins. That's one hell of an image, right there.

After the day they've had, it takes everything Ford has to resist the urge to drop face-down on his bed and sleep for two weeks. Instead, he simply sits on the edge of the bed then drops backwards, arms splayed out as he shuts his eyes and lets out the long, tired sigh of a man who hasn't been glad to be home in a long, long time.]

[He missed this, being able to come home and feel even a little at east.]

"Why do I have the feeling your idea of a "real party" involves the contents of my medicine cabinet?"

He grins as he says it, feeling the tired sort of happy where everything just seems funnier than it actually is.

"Not that anything in there can really be used recreationally. Well, except for the Quaalude. And the Secanol."

Look, insomnia medication is really easy to abuse, alright. And you know what, shut up, he actually has legitimate prescriptions for those.

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Cue jokes about Arnold Schwarzenegger and history repeating itself here

ah'll be bachk, etc.

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