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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"I... yeah," Stan says, instead of letting on that he's got no idea what that Eye of Providence shit even is. Would he have pointed it out before, as kids, when Ford said something had no clue how to understand? Stan tries to remember, and figures that he probably would have. Then he woulda' punched Ford's shoulder, probably, and called him a nerd, laughed a little.

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?"

"Both." Ford replies flatly, before glancing away briefly to look down at his hands. God, but he really needs to stop biting his nails. Out of all his stress-induced bad habits, he dislikes that one the most, if only because it makes his hands even more unsightly than they already are.

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?"

"Hey, I told you." And, yeah, Stan's still kind of struggling to ignore how far over his head he is, here, trying not to let on to Ford how there's no way he's smart enough to make heads or tails of this shit, trying not to think too hard about the fact that, hey, it ain't just Ford who'd get locked up in a second if anyone knew he believed all of it.

(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?"

If it were anyone else telling him all of this, Ford probably wouldn't believe it. Which, you know, you'd think it would be the exact opposite considering Stan's predisposition towards bending the truth. A stranger would tell it to him straight without sugar coating things, right? Well, maybe. Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't, but Ford doesn't really have to worry about that with Stan. He doesn't have to worry about his brother lying to him - he's never been able to. The guy could charm the pants off the pope if given half the chance, but he's never been able to work his magic on his own brother. Whether his conscience just gets to him, or Ford's just that good at reading him is up to debate.

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.

Stan don't quite get a kick out of it, at least, not the kind Ford wants. A kick in the pants, maybe. That kinda' brought it home - no matter what, Ford can't go on like this.

"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?"

"Stanley..." He sighs, his hand moving to rub at his eyes with a finger and thumb.

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."

It takes Stan a second, sitting there, looking surprised, for whatever feeling's working its way up through him to go where it needs to. He doesn't think about what it is, the feeling don't bother visiting his brain. It just goes straight up his gut and out of his mouth.

"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!"

This is the point where he'd feel anger rising up inside him, feel it boiling over and spilling out in the form of harsh he'd probably regret saying later on - if he could still feel anything other than tired, that is. Tired of fighting, tired off arguing, tired of trying to make anything go the way he wants it to. He feels like Sisyphus and his damn bolder, struggling and straining and getting nowhere, knowing for every foot he puts forward is just one more step he'll be shoved backward.

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."

(ooc: this little book of a speech just kind of happened, sorry XD if we need to work out a reason ford might not interrupt during all of it let me know and we can figure out something to edit into this tag, or something)

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."

Edited (i noticed way late that i used the same paragraph intro sentence twice aka i am a nitpicky word nerd) 2016-08-03 03:36 (UTC)

Stan talks. He talks a whole lot, and for the first time in a long while Ford lets him. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't interject with a protest or a correction even though God Knows he's got plenty of them to make. He just sits there, and he listens, and he lets his brother's words cut him deep and hollow him out like paring knives.

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."

"Well, don't that just take the wind outta' my sails," he says, all slumped over, turning to sink down and sit again beside his brother. "Asshole."

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?"

Edited (Code is hard on a phone) 2016-08-11 18:29 (UTC)

Ford makes no effort whatsoever to let go of his brother's wrist. Even as he sits down next to him, the mattress sinking under his weight, Ford's gentle grip doesn't falter. If that's weird, if Stan wants him to let go, he will. But until he says something about it, well, Ford's just gonna let his hand stay right where it is.

As much as he hates to admit to something so embarrassing, the contact helps a little, makes him feel grounded. It's harder to get lost in his own thoughts when he's anchored to the present like this, and the last thing Ford wants to do is be alone in his own head right now.

"Damn it, Stanley..." The words come out with a sigh so heavy it makes his shoulders drop, his posture sink. His whole body seems to deflate - whether from physical exhaustion or emotional fatigue is anyone's guess.

"I already trust you. If I didn't, I never would have let you through the door."

He glances down at his lap, his thumb brushing absently over the bump on Stan's wrist as he gathers his thoughts.

"...It's not you, Stanley." He begins softly, after a moment. "I know you probably don't believe that, but it's true. You don't need to prove anything to me. You don't need to convince me that you can handle all this. I know you can. It's just---"

He cuts himself off with a derisive, self-depreciating scoff and shakes his head at how pathetic he sounds to his own ears.

"The truth is Stanley, I'm scared. I'm terrified out of my goddamn mind. I wasn't afraid of facing Bill before, but now I've got something to lose and I can't -"

His voice cracks as his throat tightens to the point of pain, and so he trails off, giving himself a moment to swallow hard and regain what little he can of his composure. He can lose his grip on his emotions later, in private, if he absolutely has to, but he'll be damned if he can't keep himself together in front of his brother.

Reaching up with his free hand, Ford presses the heel of his palm to his eye and breathes deep, scrounging together every last bit of self-restraint he can muster. Then he breathes out a heavy, ragged sigh, and forces his gaze to meet his brother's. When he speaks, his voice is wet and raw like a fresh wound, and it sounds just as painful.

"...I just got you back."

The thumb running over Stan's wrist is weird, a simple, affectionate little gesture, and it unsettles the shit out of him, kind of. That's why he leaves it there. Well, that and as long as Ford's touching him it feels like Ford's here, like they're together like they should be and like everything else is like it should be, too, like maybe everything is the way it was, if he squints real hard.

But, you know, other than that. It's the way Ford's acting so vulnerable, so quiet, it's freaking Stan out, that vulnerable, quiet little gesture is freaking him out because it's not the sort of thing the two of them have ever done. It's not the sort of thing Ford would do unless he needed it. So, you know. Stan can deal with being a little freaked for a while longer.

So he watches Ford's thumb make that weird little movement over the bones in his wrist and it feels good to hear Ford say he knows Stan can handle it, but then he's right back to being freaked out again. Because another thing they never used to do? That's one, right there. How often did he used to hear Ford say he was scared? He'd go back over what he does remember of back then, try to figure it out, but he's too busy looking into Ford's eyes, those eyes he's seen in the mirror a million, million times, even all bloodshot and strung-out like they look now, those eyes he never thought he'd see again.

"So you, uh. So you wanted me back in the first place, huh?"

But then he realizes he said that out loud, and oops, and shit, and he runs over it with more words about as fast as he can, because maybe if he covers that question up with anything else Ford will forget to answer.

"Are you sure you got somethin' to lose, though?" Because it sounds an awful lot like Ford means Stan when he says that and it feels better, in a way he don't think about, to prove it wrong, Ford saying that, make sure they both know that at least some part of that is wrong. "'Cause it sounds like I got more to lose than you do if you don't face this guy, you know? Have you ever seen what happens to a guy when he stops fightin', Ford? Okay, so uh... Okay. You know what scares the shit outta' me? You. You do. Seein' that happen to you, it's like- I'd pull you into fightin' this asshole kickin' and screamin' if I could, but I don't think that's how this works, you know? You look an awful lot like you're givin' up here, like, like you already did somewhere when I wasn't looking, and uh-" And it's Stan's turn for his voice to shake, just briefly, on that last little filler noise, that scared little 'uh' that he shuts down as quick as it comes out.

"Don't make me watch that, Ford. Don't make me watch you go out like that, even if I, you know, even if I end up goin' right after. You gotta' do this- You gotta' do some of this on your own. I'm, I'm gonna' be here, but I can't pull your ass outta' this all by myself, not like when we were kids. Just this once you need, you need to help me. Or I'm gonna' lose you, and that, you know, that- Don't make me do that again, Ford, I can't. I came out okay the first time but this time I, I, uh- I think I got a lot more to lose here than you do, you know? If you just, you just sit here and let shit happen to you, I don't, I don't, um-"

If Stan was planning on some grand finale to his speech, he's got to abandon it for a second there. He can't think past it, past that possibility, that image of Ford sitting here looking all defeated until it swallows him up. And Ford's got to see it too, he's just got to. Stan's got to find some way to convince him.

At first, Ford thinks that question is rhetorical. Its answer is so obvious that he can't see how it could be otherwise. But then Stan goes on, he keeps talking, and that hollow feeling in Ford's gut turns heavy, sick with something just north of guilt and south of heartache.

I got more to lose than you do--

His brother's mouth keeps moving after that, but Ford doesn't hear what he says. The words meet his ears, his ears register the sound, but they can't make him pay any mind to it.

I got more to lose than you do--

Absently, in the little corner of his mind that isn't being preoccupied by those eight terrible words, Ford realizes he's staring. He probably looks catatonic, like his brain just went and crashed on him - and you know, maybe it has. Maybe this is it, this is the puzzle that finally stumps him, the notion that's so completely illogical that he just cannot fathom, even hypothetically, how it could possibly be true.

The math just doesn't shake out right, it doesn't add up. Stan, he thinks he has more to lose. He thinks losing his brother would be worse than his brother losing him. He thinks - good God, he thinks that wouldn't absolutelykill Ford, losing him forever, losing him to the monster he lost everything else to.

Ford isn't sure where to lay the blame for that; in Stan's value of himself, or in how much he's lead Stan to believe he values him. Either way, he's wrong. He's wrong and he needs to know he's wrong because he's not allowed to thinks things like that, he's not allowed to live his life thinking it wouldn't gut his brother just as much to lose him as it would the other way around.

He gives no word of warning before he acts, before he moves to wrap his arms around his brother and hug him tight.

"No one's losing anyone." His voice shakes a little, but his tone is firm, like maybe if he sounds like he believes what he's saying, Stan will too. "I'm not going anywhere, and you, you're not either, and we're gonna be fine."

He has to believe that. It's hard, God help him it's hard, but he needs to believe things will be okay in the end. If not for his sake, then for Stanley's. He needs to do right by him, he needs to make things right and he needs to make sure his brother knows that he's not something Ford can lose a second time and still keep on living. He can't do that if he's - if he gives up. If he doesn't fight back and get Bill's boot off his throat before it kills him.

That would be the worst thing he could ever do to Stan, let him suffer that loss, let him feel the devastating blow that Ford himself is terrified of being dealt.

"No one's going to take me away from you."

Stan straightens up at the surprise, going all stiff, and for a couple seconds his hands kind of hover over his brother's back like they don't know what they're gonna' find if they touch down. It's not like being hugged is some kind of first for him or anything, it's just-

His arms go tighter around Ford's back, his fingers go tight in Ford's shirt. His head hangs, he smells Ford's shampoo, he smells a little bit of, god, burnt skin, or is that just that, uh, 'overactive' imagination everyone told him he had as a kid coming back to bite him?

It's just that being comforted, if there's a first here that's it. Or it feels like it is. So Stan's head hangs and his brother's hair tickles his face and he says, kind of quiet, "Funny, sounds like you kinda' mean that." His voice is like Ford's voice, it ain't too steady either, but his voice ain't like Ford's, it don't sound much like he believes it. More like he wants to, he wants to, but you don't want to bet until you know you got a sure thing, at least when you bet the big money. And Stan might of been telling Ford how he knows they can do this just a minute ago and that wasn't a lie, alright, but this feels like a first and he can't bring himself to raise his head and straighten up and start trying to push Ford into believing with him just yet. He can't bring himself to really lean into Ford just yet either, though, to really lean forward against him, but you know, bets, big money. All that.

That's where Stan goes wrong, he knows that, people don't think he knows that but he does, sometimes. He throws himself into shit without figuring out how it's gonna' go down until he's run out of town because he throws himself into betting big money without really knowing. But he wants to, he wants to. Shit, it wouldn't take much.

He closes his eyes, trying to pretend he don't look as scared as he knows he does, if Ford turns his head, if he looks at all. And the truth is, the unbiased truth, is that Stan doesn't hear everything Ford wants to say there, but he hears some of it. He hears that Ford believes, or that Ford's willing to try and make sure Stan does, anyway, that Ford's going to try to take some of that weight. And what he hears, he wants that to be something he'll be able to bet on. He wants to bet on it now and, you know, maybe not just now, not just this once, maybe- Well, you know. Shit, he wants to. He wants something to push him there. It really wouldn't take much.

It's not funny, what Stan says, and yet Ford finds himself chuckling a little regardless. Leave it to his brother to make a joke during a serious moment - assuming that little offhand comment was a joke, that is. Stanley very well could have meant it sincerely, but if that was the case then that means Ford hadn't done a very good job of convincing him.

Well, they can't have that, now can they?

Ford can't exactly elbow his brother in the arm or slug him in the shoulder, not in the position they're in, but he can tilt his head to the side and bonk him in the ear, give him a little sideways headbutt.

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't. Between the two of us, I'm not the one who takes after Mom."

That might have sounded insulting, if said by anyone else, but there's no mistaking the exasperated fondness in his tone. Anyone else would have considered being a pathological liar to be a bad thing, but Ford - well, considering his raising, he's learned to think of it more as a personality quirk, a bad but mostly forgivable habit.

Stan huffs, taking it the same way. What do you know, one thing Stan's sure he can trust to mean just what it sounds like. Ma was just... Ma. That's all. She had moods. She had a big imagination, just like she always said Stanley did. She just liked games, that's all, and wanted you to play along. Stan had always been good at it.

"Come on, you know I only lie when money's on the line." It's one of those things you just say, it's a throwaway line just to have something to fill the talk in with. It's one of those things Stan just says, until he remembers that Ford ain't just any old guy who's known him for more than five minutes, Ford knew him before. Before a lot of things, apparently, because Stan realizes only after he says it that it wasn't always true, not for the guy he was when Ford knew him. The guy who came home and sat at the dinner table thinkin' about nothing more than the best way to crack his brother up by drawin' dicks in the mashed potatoes, that guy didn't give so much of a shit about money, did he? Not unless he was down in the shop tryin' to take care of some suckers for dad, talkin' some young couple into thinkin' their fancy family heirloom was worth less than half of what they wanted to get for it, something like that. If Stan ever spends too long in the same place everyone figures out that money's what really gets his motor running, everyone figures that out eventually. With people who know him kinda' well, it even turns into kind of a joke. The one in-joke that, in a really weird moment - maybe even profoundly weird - Stanley realizes that his twin brother, the guy who knows the most about him out of anyone in the entire world, might not get.

And there's a post-script on this profound moment of weird, one where Stan realizes he's not sure he wants Ford to get it. He doesn't want to give Ford time to think about it.

"You were never all that good at that 'fake it 'till you make it' stuff, though," and it might be kind of a distraction but he wants to say it too, means it so much his voice is heavy with it, with wanting to believe that what Ford said about nothing taking him away from Stan is a promise Ford isn't gonna' back out of. And maybe that awkward little headbutt thing Ford just did, that warm, fond move that made Stan feel all warm too, all warm and fuzzy and scared and all that stupid shit, maybe just the weird angle there means Ford wants Stan to move so he can give Stan a real slug on the arm or something but Stan don't move yet, he doesn't really mean to let go until the very last second, when he's absolutely got to back out or things will start to get weird. Things ain't there yet, are they? Stan can stretch it a little, he thinks. He's pretty sure he can stretch it. The grip he's got on the back of Ford's clothes doesn't loosen for a second. "So maybe you really, uh- So maybe we're really gonna' do this, huh? The Kings of New Jersey, back for just one more grand reunion show?"

"Mm. Well, I don't know about just one." It's funny, he meant for that to be a joke, a little teasing jab just for the heck of it, but he actually sounds...well, not hopeful, exactly, but something distantly related, something a few steps back and to the left.

Speculative. Yeah, that's a good word for it. He sounds like he's thinking real hard about something, like he's considering a new theory, or working on an unfamiliar equation, turning it around and around inside his head to get a better feel for it. He looks like he's thinking real hard about something too, but unless Stan decides to be the first to let go just so he can get a look at the thoughtful expression on his brother's face, he's just gonna have to picture it.

Not that that should be too hard for him. Ford still emotes the same way he did back in high-school - brows furrowed, one corner of his mouth pulled back in a quasi-grimace because if there's one thing Ford Pines can't stand, its not having the answers he wants, when he wants them.

Here he was, thinking he knew how things were going to end, thinking there was no way he was going to come out on top. He had resigned himself to it, the idea that he was damned no matter what, that there was simply nothing he could do. And you know, he's still not completely convinced he was wrong about that. There's nothing he can do against Bill, nothing he hasn't already tried or thought to try, at least - but he's not the only one trying anymore.

He's not sure how much of a difference it's going to make, if any at all, but it's something. It's a chance. A ghost of a chance, maybe, but its still more of one than he had before - and God willing, it might just be enough to get them through this.

"That's aiming a little low, isn't it? If we're going to shoot, we might as well shoot for the stars."

It hurts a little, trying to be optimistic. It feels like stretching a sore muscle, like he's taxing some untraceable part of him that's long since rusted over from disuse. He's gonna have to get used to that. If Stanley's going to stick with him for the long haul, the least he can do is try to convince them both they've got at least a snowball's chance in hell.

Stanley smiles.

He smiles and he forgets all about trying to be careful, trying not to let himself believe that Ford really wants him back, really wants to make this work, maybe for good. It's never been easy for Stan, trying not to believe things. He used to believe all sorts of things, when he was a kid. Later on the stuff he believed got kinda' different, but he always believed. He always did when it mattered, anyway.

So his smile lights him up and all his hard-won, hard-learned caution just kind of disappears like smoke, because even when he tries, Stan isn't really built to doubt. Especially not this.

"Great! So uh, um-" Still, Stan can't quite bring himself to ask about after, what happens after I've done what you needed me here to do, after we've taken this guy out, what happens then - But Ford probably doesn't want to think that far ahead either, and if neither of them want to talk about that, it's fine. His smile flickers for a second, but it'd take more than one stray thought right now to knock it off his face.

"So first we gotta' get you a good night's sleep, we'll figure somethin' out, and then, uh- Tomorrow's a brand new day, right, and all that crap? Tomorrow I'm gonna' tell you my ideas and you're actually uh, you're gonna' listen, and we'll figure somethin' out." He has to lean back now, look at Ford's face, see how he's taking it, but that's fine, Ford wants him to stick around and that almost, almost, would make any amount of distance between them okay. "That sound like a deal, or what?"

The look on Ford's face, the way he's taking things - it's probably not what Stan wanted to see. His brows are pinched, the corner of his mouth pulled back in a grimace.

"A deal? No, no I don't make deals."

At least, not anymore. Not since the last one he made came back to bite him so hard there's still chunks of him missing. Even with Stan, even with the one person in this big ugly world that he can still bring himself to trust, he just can't do it. He won't.

He can do something else, though. Something that hasn't been tarnished.

With a cautious, almost self-conscious sort of smile, Ford holds up his hand between them. He folds all but his last two fingers into his palm and is surprised by how naturally the gesture comes to him, easy as breathing, even after all these years.

"How about we make it a promise?"

Damn if that's something he ever expected to see again. He looks from Ford's hand to Ford's face and back again, but by the time his hand stops in the air somewhere in front of Ford's, the surprise on his face is something else. He looks kind of like he did right before the first time he ate cow tongue, a lot wary and a little grossed out, preemptively.

"What if I don't make promises?"

It just pops out, but it's what doesn't come out that really sends him backpedaling, it's the moment he realizes he almost said, at least, not with you that really puts that scared look on his face. Things are good, things are good for him and Ford now, why can't Stan learn when to just shut his fucking mouth?

"But I guess uh, the only thing I seen put you to sleep so far is cuttin' your own damn head open so I guess if this is you promisin' to get some shut-eye without that I can make an exception, haha."

So he holds his own fingers out too, ring and pinky, but he doesn't wrap them around Ford's, he just kind of holds them there with this hopeful grin, and bites at a scar on the inside of his lip.

Edited 2016-11-06 14:57 (UTC)

That first part throws him a little, sends him on a bit of a loop, but before he can stew too long in his own confusion Stanley goes and smooths things over, turns his slip of the tongue into a joke. (Or so Ford very generously calls it.)

His quietly puzzled look is quick to turn back into a smile, this one a little quieter than the one that preceded it.

"I'll try not to make it a habit." He replies dryly, before reaching out to hook Stan's fingers with his own.

It's strange, in a nice sort of way, how naturally their hands seem to fit together even after all these years. Sure, they've both got a few new calluses in unfamiliar places, and Ford's got the odd scar or two from various Fantastic Beasts that did not appreciate being found, but for the most part the gesture feels the same as it always has.

Just as he was the one to initiate it, Ford is also the one who pulls his hand back first - but not before jerking his hand every which way, dragging Stan's along for the ride in a completely necessary and not at all childish joy ride through the space between them.

Look, he doesn't make the rules, he just follows them.

Stan didn't know he was tense until he relaxes, but Stan's lucky again and the snicker that surprises its way out of his mouth helps him disguise his relief, lets him disguise the body language by leaning forward and nudging Ford's shoulder with his. "Okay, you definitely need some sleep."

And then, you know. Of course that dampens his spirits a little. Not a lot - not much could, now that he and Ford are - well, it'd be kind of stupid to jinx it by saying they're good, but now that they're something. Something better. But there's still the problem of Ford's dreams, the ones that drove him to do that whole... that whole head thing, that, in the first place and Stan goes right back to biting the inside of his lip, this time because he's thinking.

"Look, um, I might have something. I thought I uh-" And shit does he need some sleep too, because he was about half an inch from finishing that out with sold it all just now, "-used it up, but uh, if I did have something that'd make you sleep like a dead baby, would that work with the whole-"

He waggles his fingers around near the top of his own head. "-You know, extraterrestrial eating your brain while you sleep thing? Do prescriptions work on ancient evil? It'd at least give us time to think of something else."

For a moment, Ford looks curious, thoughtful, like he's wondering what Stan might possibly have and how it could help - but then he gives that question a little spin, turns it around in his head and takes into consideration everything he knows about Stan, and all the things he doesn't.

He blinks owlishly as his question answers itself, unable to decide how he should feel about the conclusion he's come to.

After a brief moment of consideration he decides he is both in no position to judge and also too tired to really give a shit. It wouldn't be the first time he introduced questionable substances to his system, legal or otherwise.

"...Are we talking downers or hypnotics?" He finally asks, despite being fairly certain he could be talked into taking horse tranquilizers at this point.

"Uh, I'll haveta' go see what I got." He shrugs a shoulder, this awkward, worried discomfort starting to slide through the gaps in his composure. For some reason Ford asking for specifics makes it worse, feels like they're kinda' sidling closer to the sort of shit it's important the brother who just accepted Stan back into his life don't find out about.

Stan stands, making it a little past the doorway before he realizes at least the second thing that's making this feel all weird is something he can maybe do a little bit about.

"Um, I wasn't gonna-" he lifts an arm up to lean his elbow against the wall, hoping the pause to change his posture will give him a second to figure out what it was he was gonna' say. "When I thought you were, you know."

He points a finger at his temple and winds it in a backward circle, which feels loads better than actually admitting out loud just how shitty a job he did at trusting his brother.

"I wasn't gonna', you know, actually use any of that stuff. On you. Just so we're clear. I just had it, you know. I just still had it. I- I wouldn't'a done anything with it. You, you know that, right?" He tries on a we're-all-friends-here sort of grin. 'Cause they are. Friends again. So that's good.