goodguygrifter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goodguygrifter) wrote2015-11-21 10:11 pm
goodguygrifter) wrote2015-11-21 10:11 pm
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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.
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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"Give me a chance," he says, turning to try and look into Ford's eyes, his voice slipping into that tone he's used a million times before, his voice earnest and open, his face honest. He means it, is the thing. He always means it, to big guys with baseball bats, to random strangers on the street. To his brother most of all.
"Please."
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It makes Ford feel a little sick, actually. A little sick, and a little irrationally angry because his brother has no right to be so goddamn forgiving, so quick to push everything aside and ask how he can help, when Ford hasn't done the same for him in...in a while. In a long while.
Sighing roughly, Ford drops his hand from his neck and into his lap where it joins its twin. He plays absently with a lose thread on the end of his sleeve, rolling it into a little ball then unraveling it, just so he has something to look at other than Stan.
"It's not that I don't trust you, Stan. I'm not...this isn't me trying to shut you out, this is me trying to keep you safe."
The words sound hollow even to his own ears, and Ford shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging up the corner of his mouth.
"No, it's not even about that. Not entirely, anyway. I just. I don't -" He cuts himself off, shaking his head as he abandons that sentence and tries again.
"We're you ever afraid, on the way here? Afraid that I'd...that I'd look at you differently?" He gnaws at his lip, tugging a little harder on that thread to test its strength, see if it'll snap.
"Did you ever worry that I'd...I'd find out something about you, something you never wanted me to know, and that I'd think less of you for it?"
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It gets worse, shit, how is Stan ever gonna' make up for- He shakes his head, not meaning to say no to Ford, just trying to shake off the thought, and looks down at his own clothes, stained and thin even though he got new ones from the car while Ford was sleeping. He thinks about that car, and about the moment when they were going out to celebrate when he realized that if he drove Ford would see inside that car, that Ford might see his whole life when he climbed inside it. He looks up at Ford, thinks about the way Ford don't seem like he can look at Stanley just now, and he takes a breath, and lets that honest tone in his voice stay honest. It ain't easy. It ain't like he's been lying before, or anything, it's just- This is different, okay?
"You say that like I ever stopped," he says, rueful, then smiling and breathing out a little laugh because making out like it's a joke makes saying it come a little smoother. "But I-"
I've done some shit, he doesn't say, some serious shit, because the conversation ain't about him and being honest is one thing, but try to tell Stan Pines not to take advantage of a thing like that. It's not about him, it's about Ford. "I thought you lost it, you know? When I got here? I thought drugs, you know, or maybe the way all those super geniuses you hear about losin' touch with reality, I thought maybe you just sort of... And I mighta' showed out a little, but that was never, it was never because I thought less of you. I was mad for you, not because of you. So, look, I don't know what more there is to all this, I got no clue what you don't want to tell me and I got a feeling neither of us are gonna' like hearing it. But, Ford - you're you. And you're here. And I'm here. That's- I mean, if we can do that, you know- "
He shrugs, his eyes sliding off Ford again so his face don't go all hopeful, so Ford maybe won't notice the hope that crept up into his voice too before he stopped himself going too far. Because if they can do this, be here like this after all this time, they can do anything, including talking about, you know. All that fucked up junk. Unless Ford thinks they can't. If Ford don't think so that's, you know. That's fine.
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"Well." He lets out another laugh-like sound, though this one is a bit closer to the genuine article. There's actually some humor in it, but its the rueful sort. "How about that."
He can't make Stan think poorly of him no matter what he does, it seems like. Even after - after all the shit he probably went through these past ten years, all the things that never would have happened if Ford had just gone after him, or tried talking their Father out of doing what he did, or - or something. Anything. If he had done anything at all, maybe he'd deserve Stan's undying loyalty. Maybe he'd feel like he had done something to earn having his brother here, having someone who still thinks the world of him despite all he's done.
Ford rubs absently at his mouth, feels the half-healed split in his lip from all his nervous chewing. Reluctant though he is to tell Stan the truth - the whole of it - he knows his brother is owed an explanation. He's owed it, he's owed that much.
"...Remember what I said earlier about nearly ending the world?" He asks, his voice quiet, guilt-heavy. "I wasn't joking. You didn't hear me incorrectly. That - that actually happened. I almost did that."
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Maybe Ford shoulda' gone in for that. You know, on purpose. Maybe if he spent the last ten years standin' in front of some lightning bolts or something with his arms all stretched out and cackling, maybe right now he wouldn't look so... so hurt. So beat down.
"Almost, huh?" He scoots a little closer toward Ford, and his voice would be cheerful if it wasn't so high pitched, trying for it a little too hard to get there. "If you're trainin' for the screw-up Olympics you're really gonna' have to step up your game, you know almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."
What is he even supposed to do here? You don't grow up in a beachside town without learnin' to swim but he's treading water here, it feels like, like if he stretches out he can't even touch the bottom. But he can make Ford laugh, can't he? Or, he can lighten the mood anyway. It's like stretching his toes out toward the bottom of the ocean, trying to find a foothold in all this world ending devil shit and not knowing the size of the wave that's coming but trying the doggy paddle anyway, and he does it.
"So, uh." He don't want to ask this, but Stan has always been the kinda' guy who flips to the end of a book hardly before he's started it, who could never wait for anyone else to tell a story before trying to run it to the finish line himself. If Ford is telling, he is going to ask. "I'm guessing this Bill- this devil guy, he had something to do with that."
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When Stan moves closer, makes that little offhanded joke, Ford can't help but smile a little despite himself. He still feels like shit, he can't not considering the circumstances, but it's nice to have someone in close proximity like this, telling him bad jokes to lighten his mood a little.
He leans a bit to the side for no real reason, just because he can, really, and hopes Stan doesn't read too much into how their shoulder's touch. It's just - it's a tired, thing, not a comfort thing. Yeah. A tired thing.
"He came to me in a dream." He begins, knowing full well how crazy that sounds out loud. "He told me he was a muse, and like a fool I believed him."
If he sounds bitter about that, bitter and ashamed and more than a little hurt, it's because he is.
"Not that I'm the first idiot to be tricked by Bill. He's been doing this for centuries, maybe for as long as humankind has existed. He's been in this game for a long time, Stan. A long time."
Somehow, that thought doesn't make him feel much better. Sure, it's somewhat comforting to know he's not the only person who bought the lies Bill sold them, but even so. He feels he should have known better, feels there were signs that he missed, things he ignored because he didn't want to believe that Bill was anything other than a friend.
"...I wanted to do something great. I wanted to change the world and make it a better place. Bill said he could help, and I believed him. I believed every word."
He pauses, teeth scraping along his bottom lip as he bites back a sardonic smile.
"And why wouldn't I? He was my friend. I trusted him. God, I trusted him so much, and the whole time he was just, he used me and he-"
Ford stops abruptly, cutting himself off with a rough sigh. He closes his eyes, taking a moment to drag in a steadying breath as he rubs tiredly at his bruised-looking eyes.
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And it does.
Having his feet under him, at least a little, means he almost knows what direction to go in, kinda' knows how to help his brother. For now, anyway, he knows how to maybe try and take that look off of his face. He knows just what to say. Stan slips an arm around his brother's shoulders, sits it there all friendly but light, cautious, ready to lift up at Ford's slightest twitch, and leans his face toward that familiar one like he's telling a secret. "I may not know much about, you know, any of this stuff you've been dealin' with, but you take the exploding Earth, end-of-times stuff out of it and, you know what? I, uh. I knew a guy. While I was, um, off seein' the world. And this, this sounds just like the sorta' stuff people used to say after he came through town. They trusted him, they trusted him to help, not to be some moneygrubbing skuzzball who just wanted to use 'em, you know? What you're sayin', I've heard it before. And it was, you know, it was never them. You know what ma used to say, you just gotta' know what people want, and they'll pay you by the minute so long as you keep sellin' it to 'em. This guy sold you, Ford. Whatever happened, he picked it out, he shined it up all nice and put it in your hand before you even knew your wallet was empty. But that won't fly, okay? Bein' around so long must mean he's gettin' senile, 'cause he picked out the one guy who was never meant to get touched by any of that. And he'll regret it."
That last part Stan says earnestly, calmly. It's part encouragement, part just fact, just what happens when some other guy comes in to territory that ain't his and touches somethin' he wasn't meant to touch. None of this was ever supposed to get to his brother. Not Ford. Ford ain't just some mark, and if this Bill character can't see that, well, bein' blind ain't gonna' save his ass. His weird, demonic ass. You know what, that is okay, that demon part, that is a-ok and Stan will figure out what to do about it just when he needs to. For now, there's more he needs to know and if he eases into it, maybe Ford will actually tell him this time.
"And you know, you said he's been doin' the same thing for centuries, if he's been tryin' for the same thing that long and still ain't got it, maybe he's got some weak spots after all. What he wants, that's a guy's real weak spot. We just got to look at what this senile devil weirdo wants, we gotta' find the right angle to look at it and we'll be golden."
And maybe if he don't ask, like he thinks he did earlier, back in that diner, maybe Ford won't avoid the answer. Maybe this way Ford will just tell him.
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Ford's not sure why he fixates on that part, why when he rolls them around inside his head the words kinda feel like a promise, like they've got certainty to them. The way Stan says it, he's not just telling Ford what he wants to hear. The way he says it, he sounds like he can actually make it happen.
Ford's never thought there was anything his brother couldn't do if he set his mind to it before, and he sees no reason to start now. If Stan says he's going to do something, that he's going to make something happen - well, that's really all the convincing Ford needs to believe it's even possible.
"He want's a lot of things, Stanley. Megalomaniacs usually do. Bill - it's not just one thing he wants, it's everything. Our entire world, control over all reality as we know it - he wants all of it. Total world domination is at the top of his list, though I imagine having my head on a pike is a close second."
He can't help but grimace, his hand moving to rub absently at his throat. He wonder if that's going to be his ultimate fate, becoming another disembodied, eternally-screaming head for Bill to pull out of the void as part of the world's most demented parlor trick.
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"Up his butt," he goes on, looking Ford straight in the eyes with the most earnest expression and tone of voice he can manage. "It's going straight up his asshole, Ford. Right up there." Once he's done he cracks a grin, rubbing a few little circles over Ford's back because, fuck, who's gonna' call him on it?
"And unless The Actual Devil is a whole lot kinkier than I wanna' know about, it's not gonna' be fun for him. Look, I've dealt with ambitious guys before, okay? I know this is a little, uh, above my pay grade, this world domination stuff. You just had to go and one-up me on that too, huh? But it's like - well, guys like that, they've always got plans. You just gotta' know what they are, that's all. And if you do, if you know how he's plannin' on gettin' the world under his thumb, or whatever, you got the power here. You can use it. You just gotta' tell me, too, so I can help you figure out how to kick his butt back where it belongs. No one else has to know, if you don't want. Shit, who would I even tell?"
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"A better question is who would even believe you?" He tries to wipe the grin off his face, but it stays stubbornly in place despite his best efforts to reign it in. He shakes his head, his eyes falling shut a moment as he lets out one last amused huff, before looking back to Stan, his expression a touch more sober.
"I'm not even sure you'll believe it, and you've just survived an encounter with a homicidal, shape-changing, extra-terrestrial life-form of unknown origin."
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He ain't rubbing Ford's back anymore but his hand stays where it is, and when he looks into Ford's eyes this time he looks worried. After all this shit, Ford's got no reason to keep someone around if they ain't gonna' make themselves useful.
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He's only quite for a few seconds (though it feels much longer than that) before he takes in a deep breath through his nose and releases it through his mouth. He's gotta psyche himself up for this - there's no way Stan won't look at him like a goddamn idiot after he tells him, he knows that, he's convinced of that, but at least he can prepare himself for it since he knows its coming.
"...Do you remember when we were kids, and I used to make you watch all those cheesy sci-fi movies about time travel and parallel universes?"
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Stan holds a hand in front of his mouth and wiggles his fingers like they're those rubber teeth he was talking about, grinning all hopeful. He's got good memories of those movies. Ford does too, don't he? Ford used to laugh back then, when they would sit together and Stan would joke about all this shit.
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Only, he's not so young anymore, not so bright eyed, and the part he's about to get to is hardly what he would consider "the best."
"The kind that inspired the Eye of Providence, actually." He replies dryly, before forcing a weak little smile for Stan's benefit. He might not be able to laugh for him, but he can at least do this.
"...And yes, you really should be picturing a cycloptic triangle right now. I'm not just saying that to be cute."
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It doesn't matter, though. He knows what Ford's getting at, and Ford needs him to understand this so he puts that other question aside, puts that unease and not-like-it-used-to-be right out of his mind.
"Huh. That ain't what I pictured. I was thinkin' at least some little horns, you know. That whole look. So uh, what kinda' sci-fi movie are we talkin' about? You mentioned, uh, time travel and uh, parallel whatever. Is that..." He shrugs, knowing it's a stupid question even when it's coming out of his mouth because whether the answer's yes or no, it's an answer that probably oughta' be obvious. He tries to make the question look casual, like he already knows the answer and just wants to check, and maybe kind of fails. A little.
"Did you mean that's, you know, the kinda' stuff we oughta' be looking out for? What kinda' sci-fi are we talkin' here, Star Trek or Twilight Zone?"
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He looks back to Stan after a moment, his fingers curling as he hides his nails against his palms. "Bill - he's not from this plane of existence. He has no dominion in our world, which is why he needs pawns, people he can manipulate or outright possess in order to accomplish anything on our side."
A sigh works its way up from his lungs, and his shoulders deflate a bit. Somehow, he manages to resist the urge to feel the metal plate in his head just to make sure it's still there.
"You already know he made one of me, but what you don't know is how close I came to giving him exactly what he wanted."
He swallows, his eyes falling back to his hands. He's not sure when he uncurled his fingers and started picking at the lint on his sleeve, but boy howdy that sure is what he's doing.
"...I made a portal, Stan. I broke every known lawn of physics and tore a hole in the very fabric of reality so that monster could crawl through it. And he nearly did. If I didn't-- if we hadn't found out where that portal really lead, if I didn't listen to Fiddleford and shut the damn thing down, we'd all be--"
He trails off, his throat suddenly tight. He swallows a few times, blinks his eyes until they feel a little less wet, then clears his throat and tries again.
"...Who'd have thought just one mistake could end the entire world, huh?"
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(And that's one weird moment, the one when Stan realizes that now, as far as the rest of the world's concerned, he's right beside his brother on the first train to crazytown. It's weird, yeah, but he don't regret it.)
But he's got a handle on Ford, anyway. He knows what to say to Ford, which matters way more than all that world ending shit. Right now, he knows what matters. "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades. You figured out the con and you stopped before it was too late, and me and you are here talkin' right now because of it. That don't sound like a mistake to me."
Stan leans close, putting a hand on Ford's back, and bumps Ford's side with his. "The world's still got a fighting chance, Sixer, 'cause of you. And so do we. You'll see."
He looks at Ford's face for a second and everything the guy's gone through in the past day or so might sort of be written all over it. Maybe that's just Stan's worry talking, but maybe his brother would fall over in a stiff breeze right now. Stan's kind of tired too, he hasn't got much sleep even when he had the chance, but that's nothing in the face of how tired Ford must be. "Maybe not if you don't get some sleep first, though. How, uh. How are we gonna' deal with that? With the whole, uh, you know. The dream thing?"
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The point is, when Stan tells him they've got a chance, that maybe things will work out in the end after all - well, Ford believes him. He believes him with all that he is because if he doesn't he might just start tearing up again, and Holy Moses he has done that enough for one lifetime, thank you.
Thankfully, before he can get all weepy and sentimental, Stan brings up an excellent point - the dream problem. And what a problem it is.
"Well, ah. About that." He begins haltingly, his hand moving up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, mindful not to get too close to the fresh wound at the base of his skull.
"Typically, you can only dream once you've entered the REM state, which means, theoretically, I should be fine so long as I don't sleep for more than ninety consecutive minutes at a time. Seventy, if we want to be careful."
He glances over at Stan, trying to see if he's noticed the very obvious hitch in this plan.
"The problem with that is, if you don't get any REM sleep whatsoever, you'll start hallucinating, having waking dreams - or you'll just pass out and stay out until you fall into REM sleep naturally."
He shrugs, trying to pass that little biology lesson off as a fun fact rather than the unfortunate reality of his situation.
"I'm fucked, basically."
He hardly ever swears - at least in front of polite company - but he hopes maybe Stan will get a kick out of him casually dropping the f-bomb like that. It's a small consolation in the face of such grim news, but, well, Ford's tired. It's the best he can do.
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"So, your choices are A) go nuts from not dreaming, B) spend every night having screaming, pants-shitting nightmares, or C) kill the fuck out of your liver?"
Stan chews at the scars inside his mouth, taps out a quick beat on his knee, thinks about it. They're not fucked, in spite of what Ford said, they ain't fucked so bad they can't get out of it, anyway. Stan believes that. It's got to be true, and so he believes it. Okay.
"Okay," he says. "Okay. That just means we gotta' move fast. We wasted enough time on this 'waah, are you crazy or aren't you, lady or the tiger, genius or the nutjob bullshit, I coulda' just trusted you- Okay, that ain't the point. The point is we can come back from this. Let's see, are there uh, any other devil, magic-Satan assholes running around in the Great Beyond? It ain't just one guy named Bill floatin' around fuckin' people up, right? So we find another one, maybe one he don't like, tell Bill we're callin' this other guy up to help us destroy the portal for good. How's that sound? Would he believe that?"
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There's no way to say it gently, no way to tell Stanley that he's trapped between a rock and a hard place that won't put a worried, desperate look on his face. He doesn't want to tell Stan he's already exhausted all of his options. He doesn't want to dash his brother's hopes, make him feel as helpless as he does, but he doesn't have a choice. His options are to either tell the truth or lie to spare his brother's feelings, and considering how Ford feels about lies, liars, and being lied to - well, that sort of narrows things down, now doesn't it.
"It's fine." He grimaces, realizing how completely unconvincing that sounds. "I'll figure something out eventually. Until then, I'll manage."
He moves his arm a little, elbowing Stan gently in the side as he flashes a tired smile. "Don't worry about it, alright? I'm a Pines, we're built tough."
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"No," is what he hears come out, and Stan's face doesn't do 'sneer' very well but it's trying, now. He sounds surprised, too, sounds almost disgusted, and he finds himself leaning away from where Ford elbowed him, and he slips off the bed, and he stands up, squares up and lifts his chin. "You know what, no."
"No, I'm gonna' worry, because you're sure as hell not doin' it. Everything I say to you, every time I try to figure some way to dig you outta' this hole you shoot me down, and look at you! You're just... You're just sittin' there takin' it! It must be nice! It must be nice to be able to just sit there and smile and let the shit pile up on top of you! I wouldn't know! You know where I'd be if I gave up like that, just, just for a second, just for a night? I'd be dead or stuck screaming in some dark little hole a hundred times over, 'cause no one's gonna' rescue for me! No one's gonna' come for me, Ford, 'cept the guys who wanna' shove me in the trunk of a rusty old car and ship me off to die! I don't get to sit there and just 'figure something out eventually', I gotta' stand up, 'cause not a single person in the goddamn world is gonna' stand up for me! But you, you get to just sit there and just wave away everything I wanna' do for you. It must be fuckin' nice."
The hands Stan keeps throwing out while he talks, while he paces, are shaking, and he turns and stomps one foot forward, leaning toward Ford and stabbing a finger down toward him. "But you know what. You get to do that. 'Cause I didn't go through all that shit to see you buried by this, not now. You stop shootin' me down, you stop gettin' in my way, you just sit there and let me take care of this, Ford, 'cause I'm goin' to. I'm gonna' get you out of this, even if I gotta' be on my own again to do it!"
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He doesn't want to fight Stan on this. He doesn't want to argue with him, try to talk sense into him. He just doesn't have the energy. But he has to, he has to because otherwise Stan will go off and do something stupid and reckless and get himself killed or worse, and if that happens Ford will never be able to forgive either of them.
He's too exhausted to shout, too emotionally drained to put any fire in his voice, any firmness to his words, but he tries. He moves his hand, tries to catch his brother's wrist. Not hard, not even securely - the gesture is less of a demand that Stanley stop pointing angrily at him, and more of a weak suggestion.
"I don't want to fight about this, Stanley." He begins, and God help him does he already sound like he's given in. "I know you want to help, but this is bigger than you. Bill isn't some schoolyard bully you can punch until he leaves me alone. If you try to hit him, he's only going to hit back even harder and I - I can't."
He pauses to swallow, his throat bobbing as he gets his shit together enough to finish his sentence.
"I can't let you get hurt trying to fight my battles for me."
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Stan stares at those six fingers holding onto his wrist. Breath shakes inside his chest and up his throat and then out and in again, and his own fingers go all loose and he stares down at his wrist. "Oh yeah? Since when." It doesn't sound like a question. That's 'cause it ain't one.
And Ford- Jeez, Ford really does sound like he's given up. It makes Stan want to be careful, kind of, but it ticks him off, too, it doesn't feel fair, and it scares the shit out of him and that ain't fair, either. So he stands there a second, probably a few seconds, staring at Ford's hand holding onto his wrist and tries to fit this new urge to be careful, not to push his brother too hard in case he falls over and shatters like glass, in with that urge that's always around to yell and to hurt somebody, maybe a lot of somebodies, to fight and fight and fight until he makes it.
"Yeah, I punched the shit outta' Crampelter, I punched the shit out of everyone - for you, even when you just wanted to sit down and tell 'em how right they were - but I can't just- I'm not stupid, Ford." He looks pained, saying that, maybe because the words kind of hurt coming out, and he swallows, and psychs himself up to keep talking. "I know I can't just hit my way out of this and everything'll be fine, I'm not, I'm not that-"
"Look, you wanna' know the difference? The difference is I need your help this time. I know when a problem's too big for me, Ford, you may not think I can even, you know, that I can even process that far but I- well, maybe I couldn't once, maybe I was a stupid kid who- But since then I ran away from things that, well I guess things that look kind of pathetic compared to all this, but, uh, fuck it, Ford, I know when to cut my losses, that's what I'm gettin' at. But I'm not gonna' cut and run here, for once. Not until you can too."
"So, you know what, you can give up, if that's what you want! You can sit back like you always did and let me hit him as hard as I can like I always did, 'cause that's all I know to do here. Or you can stand up. You know, take a nap, maybe start looking a little less like you been moonlighting as some giant baby's chew toy or whatever, then stand up, try to help me understand all this, stop tryin' to shit all over everything I try to figure out. 'Cause Ford, I know you didn't want me here, but you let me stay. Somewhere in there you musta' known you needed me, why would you of let me stay if some teeny part of you didn't want me to do somethin'? So I'm gonna' do somethin', and if you don't help me figure out what I'm just gonna' start punching. And I don't know what's gonna' happen after that but I guess uh, probably nothing good. Or you can stand up, and we can do this together. This is too big for either of us, Ford, I know that. You don't think I know that? But both of us-"
He stops trying to stare Ford down right then, feels his eyes slide over toward some bland, boring spot on the wall while he bites at the inside of his cheek. "I never forgot how it was, back when we were- We could do anything. Anything, you know, I- I never forgot that. I um, I forgot a lot of things about, about how it used to be. Like, the name of that one carny on the boardwalk who used to tell us those stories. And a while back I forgot, uh, I forgot what kinda' cigarettes mom used to smoke. But I never forgot that, how we- Look, I'm not talking out my ass, okay? Maybe this once I, I know what I'm talkin' about! Maybe this once you gotta' listen to me! When I say we can do this, don't just ignore me! Don't just wave me away like you know so much better! Just 'cause you always did doesn't mean I'm wrong now. I know this, Ford. I know this more than I've ever known anything. What have I gotta' say to make you believe me? To make you help me just, just this once, just you and me together one more time. I can't do this, Ford, and maybe you can't either, but we can do it, you and me. I know we can."
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When he finally stops, once he finally runs out of words to gut him with, Ford feels tired. Not the kind of tired he's used to, but the bone-deep kind, the kind that settles in your soul and makes your whole body feel too heavy to keep carrying around.
God, he needs a drink.
Stanley still wants to help. He still wants to fight for him, even after - he said it himself, he said it just now, he can't even remember what kind of cigarettes their mother liked, or what Mr. Dagget's name was. He can't remember because he wasn't around, because he didn't get to be, because his own brother didn't even say anything to keep him from losing everything and it doesn't matter that speaking up wouldn't have done a goddamn thing, at least he would have said something.
Ford takes in a deep, ragged breath. The hand that isn't holding onto his brother's wrist moves up to his eyes, to wipe them or cover them, it's hard to say.
"...I never should have left you that message."
His voice cracks a little, but he's so past giving a damn anymore that he doesn't even try to cover it up.
"I never - I never should have let you get involved in this. I should have turned you away at the door, I should have made you hate me, at least then you'd be safe from all this."
His grip on Stan's wrist tightens, and when Ford looks up at his brother his eyes are red and watery, but they know better than to even try to shed any tears.
"I don't want you to get hurt, Stanley. You've done enough of that, because of me, but I - God, I need you, I - I can't do this by myself anymore and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I dragged you into this, I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to say no. I - I'm sorry I--"
Fuck, there goes his throat, closing up on him. Even swallowing and dragging in a deep breath won't seem to open it again, so hopefully Stanley can make sense of the words inside the rasp that escapes him next.
"I'm sorry for everything."
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He's sitting close, too, so close he can feel Ford beside him, and it almost feels like he can feel all the misery and defeat rolling off of Ford, too, the way all that 'twin telepathy' bullshit says he oughta' be able to, the way he used to think maybe, you know, maybe-
It don't take a genius to look at the two of them and figure out all you need to about that famous twin mental connection stuff. God, what he wouldn't give to just beam his thoughts directly into Ford's brain.
"You know what I woulda' gave to hear you say that? Just, like, a week ago. When you invent that time machine you oughta' go back then, really make my day." He sighs. If Ford's hand is still attached to his wrist he doesn't make a single move to pull away from it. "Back then, it wouldn't of mattered if you were sorry for all the wrong things. But you're, what, sorry for needing my help here? You're sorry that me getting pulled into all this means I'm not safe?"
The laugh that makes its great escape outta' Stan then is a little helpless, a lot bitter. "You know what I want, if you're really sorry? Sorry for all the wrong shit, but still, you wanna' make up for it? Try listenin' to me this time. Ford, when I say I want to be here, what is it you're hearing? 'Soy un niño estúpidos que no pueden tomar sus propias decisiones'? Did I stop speakin' good old Ingles, is that the problem here? Or do you just not think that I can handle it, do you not trust me when I say that I can handle it? I may not be able to tackle this on my own, Ford, but I'd like to meet the guy who could do better."
Then the confidence shrivels up and disappears like it was never there in the first place and he stares at his lap for a second, bites inside his mouth at his scars. "There's, uh. There's stuff. Stuff I, uh, I could probably go the rest of my life without you knowin' about. But if, uh, if tellin' you about all the shit I've, uh- if that's what it'd take to get you to actually listen when I tell you that I'm an adult and I can fuckin' handle my shit, I'll do it. What's it gonna' take, Ford? What am I gonna' have to do before you start actually taking me seriously?"
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