goodguygrifter | (no subject)

You need me to stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...Investigate anomalies, mostly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh." Stanley holds the can opener absently in one hand for a second, watching Ford get lost in his big old brain and deciding that the man probably hadn't meant that like it sounded.

"Well, good for you, that's what I say." There are ways to find shit like the identity of mysterious visitors out from someone, and those ways sure as shit don't include asking directly. Especially when it's Ford. Even more especially when Ford is still all jumpy like this. Stanley takes the can opener to the first can o' meat, or meat-like product, maybe, and watches himself open it while his voice, all casual and a little distracted-sounding, does its thing.

"You gotta' follow your bliss, or whatever it is them hippies usedta' say. I mean, I even bunked with a pillow-biter once, for a while. He was the sweetest guy ya' ever met. He got a little loud some nights," he adds, moving on to the next can, "but eh, you can't have everything. Good for you, not bein' ashamed of it."

He does look up at Ford once he finishes, expression maybe a little too intent, a little more watchful than he realizes.

The more Stan goes on, the more apparent it becomes that he has no idea why the conversation has taken the sudden turn it has. He feels like he's missed a transitional topic somewhere, but he's not quite sure---Oh.

Oh.

OH.

Stanford's eyes widen to an almost comical degree, his brows shooting up to his hairline as he finally puts the pieces together and realizes how terribly he had misspoke.

"He was my research assistant, not--" He pulls a face, not even wanting to say the word. "We were working on a project together. Also, he's married. And has a child. With his wife."

"Oh yeah," agrees Stanley, in the tones of someone remembering a little factoid he hadn't thought about in a while. If he seems not at all embarrassed at the little social boo-boo of congratulating his very straight brother on being a verified grade-a homosexual, it's because he isn't. Why should he be? It got him just the reaction he was hoping for, and he's too busy thinking about that info and where to take it next to consider pretending. "The school mentioned someone like that, some guy sharin' the grant money with you. It was some weird name the guy had, but, uh-"

He finishes opening the second can, sticks a couple spoons in - metal spoons, even, fancy - and holds one of them out toward his brother. "I don't really remember it. F-somethin'?"

Ford takes the can offered to him out of reflex moreso than any actual desire to eat its contents. He's too distracted by the little conversational hiccup that just took place to really remember if he's hungry or not.

"Fiddleford." He supplies the name readily, albeit in a quiet, almost somber tone.

"He's a buddy of mine from college. He was helping me with my research, working with me on a project, but, ah..."

He's not sure what to say here. Does he tell Stan how things fell apart, and why? Does he dare tell him what the project even was? He's not sure. It doesn't seem like something he ought to be sharing, at least not quite yet. He's already thrown a lot at Stan today, and the man's hardly been in his house for fifteen minutes. It would probably be a bad idea to tell him too much too soon. He doesn't want to overwhelm the poor man and make him think he's crazier than he probably already does.

"...I haven't really spoken with him since it fell through."

Ford may not feel like eating, but Stanley has no such problem. The stuff tastes... well, meat-like, as advertised, which is kind of more than Stanley was expecting. It ain't so bad. He eats quickly, chewing as he talks.

"Guess he's stayin' with his wife, huh? Unless they were only here for your science stuff?"

Fiddleford. That's weird enough to be a nickname, but even then it should be memorable enough that a few people in that little town might remember a couple things. And if he's not too obvious, Stan might be able to find out enough to track the guy down.

He's struck, for a second, by how wrong this feels. He's in the same room as fucking Stanford for the first time since he was a kid, and what is he doing? Fucking smalltalk. Smalltalk for a reason, sure, but it's nothing like anything he might or might not have played out in his head every now and then on the harder nights. But if he says the wrong thing, if he fucks this up- Yeah. Smalltalk it is. But smalltalk or not, Stan's still gonna' keep looking up at Ford every few seconds. He might be staring, even, but so what? That's not weird. The way his brother's been acting, he probably won't even notice anyway.

"He came down from Palo Alto, actually. Presumably he went back home, after we dismantled the...ah. Project."

He drums his fingers against the side of the can, too nervous to eat, to jittery to keep his hands still. This is all so weird, and not in the way Stanford usually enjoys. There's so much more they could be talking about, so much of each others lives they've missed and could be sharing, but instead here they are talking about inconsequential nonsense just to fill the silence.

It feels...wrong, somehow. Almost disappointing, like they're not giving this momentous occasion the bombastic participation it deserves. This is a reunion, after all. They should probably be celebrating or something, even if the mood doesn't seem right for it. Part of Ford is tempted to pop open a bottle of wine, though that's more to settle the gnawing, queasy feeling in his gut than out of any desire to celebrate his sudden reappearance in his life.

He shakes his head before that thought can develop roots, and distracts himself by prodding at the contents of the can experimentally. The last thing he needs right now is another drink.

"...At least I hope he did."

"Musta' been some breakup." Sure, Stan's parted ways with most of the guys he's worked with without a backward look, or even a backward twitch. Everyone understands it though, is the thing. No one he works with expects any different, and he don't expect it outta' them. Those science guys, though, he didn't think they were like that. Nerds are different. Nerds bond.

This Fiddle fuck musta' had a problem with whatever hole it is Ford's been digging himself into, but there's casual questions and then there's weird questions, and Stanley doesn't ask. No, the only way to go further with this now is to get a better look around the house itself, the kind of look said house's owner really shouldn't be around for.

But it won't hurt to talk for another few minutes, will it? He's reluctant to do it, call a halt to this when he can practically feel his twin standing there right in front of him. In the same room.

Stan sets his empty can aside, leans back, and wraps his arms around his chest. Starts tapping his foot. Glances up at Ford, then back down again, then opens his mouth and after a second closes it.

"Well, uh," he finds himself saying. "Guess I'll go set myself up in that room a' yours. Don't, uh, don't keep yourself up too long, huh?"

Ford wouldn't call what happened between himself and Fiddleford a "breakup", exactly. It was more like a catastrophic parting of ways that left them both irrevocably scarred for life. But hey, tomato tomato.

Once Stan goes quiet, it becomes painfully obvious to Ford just how very awkward this whole situation is - once upon a time, the silences between them were pleasant, companionable. But this...this is just uncomfortable. He doesn't know what he ought to say to fill the silence, yet at the same time he knows there's so much that needs to be said. He blames the late hour for his inner conflict - it's too late to be dealing with this shit.

Thankfully, Stan seems to be of similar opinion.

"I make no promises." It was meant to be a joke, a 'you can't tell me what to do, I'm older than you' sort of tease, but it falls flat at the end. Probably because Ford actually means it.

"If you need anything I'll be down the hall, third room on the right."

He sets down his untouched can on the nearby counter, his fingers drumming anxiously against his leg as he looks everywhere but in his brother's direction. He clears his throat again, unsure how to end this conversation when so much still needs to be said.

"Goodnight, Stan." He tries, figuring that's as good of a place to start as any. "I...guess I'll see you in the morning."

And isn't that a strange thought?

Edited 2015-12-10 03:14 (UTC)

"Yeah," Stan says, feeling something that's just close enough to deja vu to creep him out. I'll see you in the morning. Those words in that voice should be so familiar he doesn't even think twice about them. They aren't. They don't sound real.

"Yeah," he says again, and busies himself for a couple seconds pushing the empty can and its spoon toward the sink. Then there's no reason to hang around here and Stan bites the inside of his cheek, and shuffles out.

He does go to that spare room, to be fair. Even goes from the car back to it a couple times to give himself an excuse to listen for when Ford actually settles. It's weird, walking outside. There's no reason to be nervous, it's not like Ford's gonna' go to all that trouble and then lock him out. He keeps the door open, anyway, until he comes back in, having grabbed a couple pieces of junk to take back to 'his' room. Hey, look, he's settling in. This is how you do it, right?

And once he's sure it's safe, he snoops. Now Stan ain't big as some of the guys he's seen but he ain't small, and most people don't expect him to be able to sneak around so well. That's ok. There're some things people in general don't need to know.

Things get moved, searched through, put back. A couple times Stan swears, sticks stinging fingers in his mouth, and promptly wonders if he's just by accident got himself poisoned. But not once does anything Stan expected to find present itself.

He stands in the hallway, hands on his hips, and thinks, Well. Well, if I'm done lookin' anyway, why not? It's normal, right, to check up on your own brother? Wish him goodnight or good midnight or whatever-the-fuck time it is? Yeah. That's alright.

Stan pushes the door slowly, slowly open - and while the bedroom itself is exactly where Ford said it would be, Ford himself isn't. But there's another door nearby here, and this door's got a light under it.

Stanley stands in front of this new door, and eases it open.

(ooc: if he should do more than open the door here, let me know and I can edit)

It was a pity, really, that Stan mistakes his brother's silence for him settling in for the night. If he had their mother's intuition, then he'd know that when things are too still, too quiet, he should probably be worried. When her boys went silent on her, they were usually knee-deep in trouble or about to dive head-first into it.

It seems there are some habits you just never really grow out of.

He had retreated to his room, as he said he would, but he didn't make even the slightest effort to get some rest. Quite the opposite - falling sleep was the absolute last thing he wanted to do for as long as he lived, which incidentally wouldn't be long if he ever lost consciousness.

If Ford fell asleep, that was it. Game over. He would lose this harrowing battle of wills and his body would be forfeit until He deigned to give him back control. When and if that happened, who knew what sort of damage He could do to him - what horrible things He could make him do?

Ford knew there was no way things could end well for him. He knew right from the beginning, when he had to take all those measures to ensure He couldn't take over his mind during his waking hours as well. But returning to the dreamscape...it was inevitable. There was no way to avoid it. Once that bridge was made between his mind and His realm, he would be lost.

Unless...

Ford stared at the metal plate in his hands, wondering how things had gotten to this point. He never imagined he would find himself in a situation like this, steeling his nerves with a little liquid courage so his damn hands would stop shaking by the time he actually put his batshit insane plan into action. It probably wasn't a good idea, doing what he knew he had to do while severely sleep-deprived, but there was really no helping that. He had waited too long. Maybe if he hadn't put it off for so long, hoping in vain that some less drastic solution would reveal itself in time, he wouldn't be sitting here now- alone in the dark, nursing a glass of whiskey and praying to God that his hands stayed steady.

He couldn't put it off anymore: it was now or never. He wasn't the only person who who He could hurt now, and Ford would be damned if he let that son of a bitch get his brother too.

-------

...All things considered, that could have gone much better. Then again, they could have gone much worse too. Keeping his hands steady was hard; keeping himself quiet was even harder. He's somehow managed both with varying degrees of success, though he's ruined a perfectly good belt in the process. Those teeth-marks are never going to come out of it, and likewise those bloodstains are probably going to leave a permanent mark on his floor. And in the sink. And the wall. And his clothes. And -

God, he didn't really realize until now just how much blood had actually spilled out of him - was still spilling out of him, really. He's yet to seal up the incision, which follows right along his hairline. He has a cloth pressed up against it to stem the worst of the bleeding, but until he properly sutures it shut he'll continue leaking red into the sink he's hunched over.

He doesn't mean to delay it - he doesn't. The stitching will hurt no more than the incision did, so it's not a fear of pain that stays his hand. Rather, Ford finds himself given pause by a sense of relief so profound it staggers him and leaves him feeling foggy and dazed.

For the first time in a long, long while, the only voice in his head is his own.

And Stan's. His own voice, and now, Stan's. It should ring in his ears a little, anyway, especially since Stan is headed right to Ford's side as soon as he sees him.

"Holy Moses!" The words just come out. A couple guys have tried to laugh at him for that over the years, that phrase, but you know what, fuck them. And fuck whoever did this to his brother, too, but he doesn't have much room in his head for that kind of thought just yet. Right now, the only thing in Stanley's head is fear.

He's got one hand on Ford's back and one on his shoulder, and he's speaking before he even bends to get a better look at whatever the fuck it is going on on the back of his head there. "Ford! Shit, just, just move this hand, alright? Let me get a good look at it. Who the hell did this to you?"

Shit.

Ford isn't sure whether he thinks the expletive or says it out loud, but it doesn't matter - either way he's still cursing himself for not having the sense of mind to lock the damn door. He blames the alcohol. And the sleep deprivation. And the fact that he's never had anyone to lock out until recently.

"Stan--!" He sounds vaguely panicked, though there's definitely some shock mixed in there as well.

He tries to shrug off his brother's hand, to turn and take a step back, but his brother's grip is firm. Instead of retreating a few steps backwards as he desperately wants to, Ford instead reaches up to take hold of his brother's sleeve with the hand that isn't keeping a death-grip on the soaked-through washcloth pressed hard against his skull.

"Don't--Don't panic, this isn't--" He'd say "What it looks like" but to be perfectly honest he doesn't know what the hell this must look like to the outside observer other than a horror show.

"Goddamn it Stanley, you weren't supposed to see this."

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

it is a beautiful textwall, I enjoyed it

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