goodguygrifter | (no subject)

"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."

"I wasn't-" That last phrase is enough. It's plenty. It's more than he wants. Stanley opens his mouth. Stanley draws back. Stanley's eyes flick over to the sink, and over to the scalpel sitting there.

"Stanford Filibrick Pines!" That just comes out too, high and furious and panicked and nasal and god, he's never sounded so much like Ma but shit, maybe Stanford ought to be hearing her right now. Good thing she's not here, she shouldn't have to see this but shit, he wishes she was to help him deal with it. He's wished that a time or two over the years but never so much as he does now, with his brother bent over a sink saying 'you weren't supposed to see this' to him.

"What the shitting mother of fuck were you even- You know what, don't even wanna' hear it." He's closing one of his hands around Ford's wrist now, trying to twist the other around to grab the hand on his sleeve, and making every attempt at pulling both of Ford's arms away from whatever they're doing so he can fold them behind him. That kind of hold becomes instinctive after a while, when some crazy little motherfucker starts messing with shit he don't want you to notice.

"Have you ever seen the kinda' shit people do when they say people aren't supposed ta' see it? Do you got any fuckin' idea? Just show me this goddamn- What the hell is this, oy, fuckin'-"

If he is not interrupted, Stanley will continue in this vein. And if, after the initial rush of anger, that cursing starts to sound shaky, just a little? More than a little? Well, fuck, ok, Stanford is in no goddamn position to comment. Stanley continues to try and move Ford's hand and the fucking bloodsoaked rag and get a clear look, although the more little bits he sees the more he's sure he really, really doesn't wanna' know.

Ford has not heard his full name used in that tone of voice since he was twelve years old and tried to sneak an injured raccoon he was trying to nurse back to health into the house. Quite honestly, it startles the hell out of him - both because it's coming from Stan and because you never quite get over that deeply-rooted "oh shit" response that's associated with hearing your full name spoken in an outraged tone.

That alone would have been enough to throw him off, but toss in Stan's colorful vocabulary and the near-manic sounding panic in his voice and Ford doesn't stand a chance. Maybe it's the bloodloss, maybe it's the fact he hasn't slept in 5 days, or maybe it's the fact that Stan is stronger than him - whatever the reason, Ford finds himself unable to keep that wound hidden for long.

His hair is wet and matted down, blood dripping down his scalp, past the nape of his neck, where it soaks into his shirt-collar. The washcloth Ford had been using to cover it falls to the floor as he tries to free the wrist Stanley has in a vice grip, to little success.

"Stan, please, I can explain--"

...But can he, really? Can he explain things in a way that his brother will understand? He's not so sure, honestly. There's...really no good way to word what he's done, even if he has perfectly valid reasons.

The world pauses.

Or maybe that's just Stanley.

"Didja' take some bad shit an' decide you're in a show a' the fuckin' Twilight Zone? Is that what's fuckin' happenin' to me here?" Stan's cursing's getting significiantly less colorful now, and his voice is high and stringy. His hand drifts toward that little edge he can see underneath the spot that hasn't been stitched up yet, the unmistakable shine of metal. If he were ten years younger, he might try to grab the shit and pull it right off here. He is absolutely freaking out hard enough to do that. But isn't Ford just so lucky that Stanley ain't? Stanley ain't ten years younger, and you don't go pulling shit out of people like that, he knows this almost instinctively. And when they're bleedin' like Ford is, or was because maybe if they're lucky the blood has started to realize it belongs inside of Ford's damned stupid head instead of - well, yeah, with that blood and all, you especially don't just reach in and yank.

"Go on," Stanley says, and he's earned a fuckin' trophy, he's earned a goddamn medal, because his voice may still be a little too high there and it may still kinda' shake but it almost sounds calm, ya' know, like it might wanna' be calm when it grows up, even if it's a calm that might very well break into something sharp and nasty at the smallest wrong movement. "You do that. You explain it to me, you goddamn son of a bitch, and it'd better be damn good but first tell me - how to take that shit - out of your HEAD!"

Okay. Maybe he lost the trophy at the end there. But it's fine. It's all fine. Depending on what Ford says now, it's all gonna' be just. Fuckin'. Fine.

"Stanley you don't understand!"

If Ford didn't sound panicked before, he certainly does now. And not in the way one does when they realize they've fucked up BIG TIME and are now in a heaping load of trouble. No, this is the other kind of panic, the kind that makes your voice crack and your eyes blow up wide like you're staring down a semi barreling towards you at 90 miles an hour.

His hand abandons its futile attempts to free his wrist from Stan's grip, and instead moves to cover that glint of metal in his skull.

"I know how this looks, I know. I, it's just---please, Stan, I had to do it. I didn't have a choice, He would have killed you."

He's rambling, he knows. Not making any sense. He's not sure if that's the fault of the stress, or the bloodloss, or the heavy adrenaline crash that's making him feel like Stan's grip on his wrist is the only thing keeping him upright. Probably a mix of the three.

"Mosesmotheroffuck," he breathes it out all in one word because listening to Ford means he's started looking at Ford too, at the rest of him, not just at the metal and, god, all that blood, and Stanley looks at his brother's glassy eyes and sees him wobble like he's about to fall right over and "S-shit," Stanley whispers to himself, puts a hand on his brother's back and tries to lower him onto the closed lid of the toilet, trying to lean him so he doesn't fall right off and split his crazy goddamn head open. Again. Fuck.

"Just, shut the fuck up, okay, shut-" All that frustration, that panicked anger behind Stan's yell a second ago, it's like seeing Ford about to pass the fuck out was a push only it pushed him back, and Stan's right back to plain old panic again. He turns in a circle a couple times, hand over his mouth, and has no idea where to look.

"I need a needle, I need thread," he mutters, and of course he's talking to himself now, who the fuck else is there here to talk to? "Do you even sew? Shit, how the fuck-"

He spins back around to face Ford, bending and putting the side of his hand to the idiot's face to try and turn it upward, make Ford see and hear him no matter what the idiot's done to his own brain. "What the fuck were you plannin' on doing, huh? Just wishing it all healed up again? Do you have anything? Do you even have tape?" Panic makes Stan's voice all thin and wobbly again, except now there's no anger to take it anywhere and nothing to do with it, just stand here and try not to fucking lose his shit.

His shit might be lost already. Just like Ford's brain, which is probably dug out all in little bits hidden in that blood puddle over there. Ha ha. Fuck.

Edited (had to renew stan's paid thingy real quick so I could use The Icon) 2015-12-12 23:21 (UTC)

At this point, Ford feels very much like a ragdoll, the way he's being manhandled and moved around all over the place. Normally he'd mind, but at this moment in time he's almost grateful for it because fuck if he knows if he could actually get anywhere under his own power without stumbling and bashing his already-fucked head on something.

So, when Stan moves him around and makes him sit the hell down before he crashes, Ford's almost grateful. "Almost" being the keyword, because Stan seems to be having a nervous meltdown and guilt and alarm are taking precedence right now. He should have locked that goddamn door - he's going to be kicking himself about that for as long as he lives.

"Stanley--" He tries to catch his brother's attention, but his voice has gone quiet on him and he can't very well reach out to snag his sleeve when he's over there pacing like a caged animal.

He tries anyway, doesn't even make it remotely close to reaching Stan's shirt, and gives up after the one attempt.

Thankfully, Stan is a panicky bundle of energy right now, and he's quick to spin back around and take hold of his brother's face just to make sure he hears every last terrified word said to him. This time, when Ford reaches to take hold of Stan's sleeve, he actually succeeds. His fingers curl around the careworn fabric in an attempt to bring comfort to them both - to Stan, by assuring him that he's still here, still aware of what's going on, and to himself because...well, his brother's hand is a bit occupied right now and it's the closest thing to a lifeline he has to hold onto.

"There's a - on the counter, there's an electrocauter."

As it turns out, he did have a plan other than hoping the wound fixed itself, though it's probably not one Stanley likes any better.

"It's faster than stitches." He adds in explanation, as if that somehow makes the prospect of scorching his flesh closed any more palatable.

Stan's distracted for a second, almost like he's the one who cut his fucking head open because he doesn't really hear Ford's words at first, he's too focused on the fingers curled around the cuff of his jacket. Just, the way they look there. He breathes out.

Then he straightens and looks on the counter and - well, that was a moment of something almost like peace just now, almost like relief, Stanly realizes it now that the feeling's gone, running away with its tail between its legs and never to be seen again, and his voice jags up and down like he hasn't heard since he was about thirteen and trying to mask his wimpy new voice with his cool new smoking habit.

"An- I'm not fucking electrocuting your head back together! Or-or melting it or w-whatever the fuck, I, shit!" Here Stan starts throwing open the cabinets, opens the mirror, looking for something better. Anything. Anything would be better. Anything even the slightest bit familiar and useful. "I'd ask if you got a first aid kit, but it's probably got nothin' but a fuckin' big ass knife and a sign, 'good luck, f-f-fucker!'" The clumsy, trembling noise Stanley makes then can not really be called a laugh, and thankfully it ends quickly. He just needs to find something he knows, something that isn't Ford's crazy bullshit, and then he can stop that loose skin on the back of Ford's head flappin' around like that and everything'll be just fine. Just fine and dandy.