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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To him, hearing Stan laugh feels an awful lot like catching an old favorite on the radio only to realize that he can't remember all the words- which shouldn't discomfit him as much as it does, considering that's just what happens when you go without hearing something for over a decade.
Still, it's strange to Ford to think he would ever need a refresher to familiarize himself with a sound he feels he should know by heart, time and absence be damned.
"As a general rule of thumb, you should never mix prescriptions without knowing how they interact, so--"
He reaches out, aiming to casually swipe at one of Stan's hands and snatch the bottle away from him.
"Until I can verify I'm not inventing a spectacular new brand of poison, no. There will be no finagling, chemical or otherwise."
Despite shooting Stan down, he still offers him a small, amused smile.
"Besides, at this point I've racked up so much sleep debt it's a wonder I don't pass out every time I shut my eyes to blink."