goodguygrifter | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Stanley looks at Ford, eyes wide, opens his mouth-

But what? What? There's no magicking up some damn thread and like hell he's going to leave the fucking room to look for it and let Ford finish carving his own head up like a fucking turkey. So Stan, Stan'll just-

Ford knows what he's doing, right? That thought should make everything in Stanley rise up in a howl of pissed-off protest. He's got no idea, for example, if he's ever gonna' get all this blood off of his fucking boots. (It seems like a stupid thing to think about right now but that sort of thing can get you in a whole lot of trouble, sometimes.) But the thing is, ok, the thing is that Stanley is scared. He's goddamn scared, alright, and when it comes down to it Ford is his brother. Ford is the smart one, the one with the plan. When they were kids he heard Ford's voice so often, sure and quick and confident, telling Stanley just what to do and it'd gotten them out of so much shit.

That's the thing about panic. The thing Stanley didn't know, because until now Ford's never been nearby, never been even a shadow of a thought in his head, when he feels it. But the thing about panic is that you go with your first thought, you go with your instinct.

Ford's voice is confident, for all he also sounds like he sorta' wants to pass out right here. It's Ford's voice, and it expects to be obeyed. And Stanley is scared.

He picks up the cauter.

"Tell me how to use it," Stanley says, and all the panic and fear is gone from his voice now, tucked away somewhere safe and familiar where no one else can see it. The only thing Stanley's voice sounds now is determined. "I don't care how many fingers you have, none of 'em are steady enough to weld your stupid head back together."

He lifts his chin to stare Ford down, trying to look more like someone who will wait until the idiot in front of him falls over from blood loss, if he needs to, than like a little kid who sorta' wants to break down and freak out and scream some more. Stanley's got to be honest with himself here, he doesn't think he really succeeds.

For a moment, one sweet, fleeting moment, Ford thinks Stanley is going to listen to him. His brother picks up the cauter, and almost instantly Ford's shoulders drop with relief. It looks like it took a lot more energy than he had to spend to keep them squared, to make himself look firm and authoritative. (He picked up that habit from their dad, though God help the poor bastard stupid enough to point that out to him.)

Unfortunately, Ford's relief is short-lived because Stan just has to go and make things difficult again by insisting he be the one to use the cauter. Ford forces out a ragged sigh, his eyes closing for a moment as he drags a hand down his face. Absently, he realizes he hasn't shaved in a few days, judging by the amount of stubble he feels beneath his fingers. It's not a thought that's important right now, not in the slightest, but it's one that occurs to him nonetheless.

He wonders if that should worry him, not being able to keep his thoughts in order. It's probably not a good sign, him not being able to keep his focus like this.

"Stanley..." He wants to argue. He wants to, but he bites his tongue before he can do much more than say his brother's name in protest.

Stubborn as he is, even Ford knows he's in no condition to be doing this on his own.

"You have to plug it in, let it heat up. It's just like welding a seam."

Only, you know, with your brother's flesh instead of metal.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's how I thought it might work," he says, quiet and worried and not liking this, but long past the point of protesting. Nothing you have to plug in should ever be used on people, not like this, but- Shit. It's going to be fine. That thought's taken Stanley through a lot and it'll take him through this too. He always told himself he'd see his brother again, for instance, right? And that did happen.

That thought, the thought of what happened after that - whatever the fuck it was that led up to Ford sitting there covered in his own goddamn blood - sends a shudder through Stan and to try and cover up the fact, try and look like he's handling this as calmly as Ford is, he walks to the towel rack and picks up an old towel, bunching it up and putting a part of it under the faucet to get it nice and wet. He said he could handle this shit, whatever Ford got himself into, and he can. He can, see? Look at him, being all productive and handling shit.

"Bend over," he says with a hand on Ford's shoulder, trying to push his face toward his knees. "Normally I'd take a guy to dinner before askin' that but your food sucks." And what do ya' know, his voice there almost didn't shake at all. You know why? Because he's fine.

"An' don't argue neither, I need to clean all this- all this s-shit off before I can do what you want and melt the back of your goddamn h-h-head off." It's a good joke, he thinks, swallowing. On topic, even. Funny, funny joke. Great.

Stan will be happy (or perhaps deeply worried) to note that Ford does not, in fact, put up a fight when he puts a hand to his shoulder and forces him to lean forward. Instead he just sort of allows himself to be manhandled, because resisting in any way (physically or even just verbally) takes far too much effort, and costs more energy than he has to spend. And so down he goes, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as his head bows, giving Stan ready access to the ugly mess he made just above the nape of his neck.

"You say that as if I'm going to enjoy this." See, he can joke too - though his false-cheer sounds just as forced as his brother's.

Sure as he is that this needs to be done, prepared as he is for the hurt that's to come, he's not exactly what you would call okay with the situation. Actually, "okay" is pretty far from what he's feeling right now. "Anxious" would be more accurate. "In need of a stiff drink or twelve" would be even moreso. Something tells him Stanley is probably feeling much the same right now.

Alas, Ford can't really afford to thin out his blood anymore than he already has, especially not when a cursory glance around the bathroom suggests he has more blood out of him than in him. Still, he needs something to help him through this, something to keep him from thrashing around while his brother melts his open wound shut by searing his flesh together with what amounts to a glorified soldering iron.

Wording it like that, well. It makes Ford a little more uneasy about all this than he was a moment ago. It seems the closer it comes to actually happening, the less enthused he is about the idea.

Silently, Ford reaches forward to take hold of the hem of his brother's jacket. He's not sure why, he doesn't see how it's going to help make any of this more bearable, but he holds tight to it all the same.

"Yeah," Stan says, looking down at that hand. It's not a response to anything Ford said and he isn't sure why he says it, but it makes him feel better. "I- Yeah. Okay."

Washing all that blood off takes work. It takes a lot of water, too, and by the time he starts to get anywhere a bunch of little red water droplets are scattered over the toilet seat, almost puddling down there and probably soaking into Ford's pants. Whenever he has to take that damn flap of skin and push it up and hold it in place he starts breathing a little harder, a little faster, but the key here is to forget whose head this is. It's a head. The back of a head. Could be anyone's head. Who the hell would put fucking metal in their own-

Wait. Wait, okay, back up. Not going there. Fuck, not yet. "That's clean, ain't it? Yeah. Yeah, that's, that should do it. Just gotta' dry it and then, then we'll be in business, huh?"

Business. Shit, that's one way to put it. It's the back of someone's head, that's all.

"Your, uh. Your belt." Stanley stares at it, sitting abandoned near the sink. He stares at the teeth marks. "You want it back? I mean in- you know. Before I start?"

Much like the man himself, Ford's hair has seen better days. By the time Stan's finished rinsing off all the dried blood, his head is a sopping wet mess. It's sad, really, that that's an improvement compared to what it was before. He might be cold and soaking wet, but at least his hair isn't caked down with sweat and blood and the antiseptic he'd doused the wound with in a token effort to stave off a nasty infection.

It stings like a son of a bitch, but Ford doesn't let his discomfort show outwardly. His brother is reluctant enough to do this as it is; the last thing he needs is yet another reason for his hands to go shaky on him.

Once the wound is as clean as Stan is going to get it, Ford allows himself a brief moment to close his eyes and force out a shaky breath through his nose. The hard part isn't even over yet, and already he's exhausted.

"No, just--just make it quick."

The sooner this can be done and over with, the better. For both their sakes. Ford's honestly not sure how much longer he can keep himself awake; already his eyes feel heavy, and even though he knows he's probably soaking Stan's shirt, he just can't help but lean his forehead against his brother's middle for support. The task of keeping himself upright is steadily becoming too challenging for him, and it shows.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shitshitshit-

No. No, just keep going, it's fine, his brother's just about two seconds from passing the fuck out from blood loss and probably about to get one hell of an infection unless he sterilized the everloving shit out of that metal which, hey, he probably did since he's a crazy nerd but he's still a nerd, Stan's nerd, Stan's nerd who's about to pass out and die right the fuck here leaning against him because sure, fun with dead bodies, that's the kinda' wacky memory Stan needs more of-

Stop. Fuck it. Stop. Come on. Stan grabs the cauter quick, before he can start freaking out again, stumbles a little over the sudden problem of how to turn it the fuck on, hears a noise and figures he's done it, and sets it against the back of Ford- against the back of this random poor bastard's head in front of him, quick quick quick, before he remembers who this is. It goes about as fast as welding usually does, or it would if Stan welded at the speed of fucking light which, hey, to see some a' the things he's welded over the years maybe no one would be surprised, oh fuck the smell.

He's shaking by the time he finishes, shaking in his whole body but his hands are steady, maybe, he hopes, and there's a new smell sitting over the familiar blood-and-booze scent of the room, the smell you get when you melt your brother's fucking head shut over a plate of goddamn metal, and speaking of, oh god, "Ford?"

He leans back a little, cupping Ford's face and trying to tilt his head back because more than anything right now Stanley needs to see his brother's face. "Ford, buddy, speak to me. Please."

He doesn't make a sound. Or at least, he tries not to. Aside from the occasional sharp hitch of his breath, or a hiss of air sucked between his tightly-gritted teeth, Ford keeps quiet. Sure, he has to clutch Stan's jacket so tightly that his knuckles turn white and his hand starts to shake, but he doesn't cry out. That's the important thing. He keeps himself together because goddamn it, that's the only thing he can do to prove he still has some kind of control over this situation.

So what if his eyes are watering as he shuts them tight against the pain, so what if he's sweating bullets. So what if the acrid smell of burned hair and singed flesh makes his stomach sour and twist in on itself because dear god, he's being cooked alive--

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because it ends ~~an eternity~~ shortly after it begins, and he comes out of it alive and intact and everything is going to be fine. Just--just fine. He's fine. Everything's going to be okay now. He's going to be okay.

Stan's here, and he's not going anywhere, and he's - he's lifting his head up and making sure he's okay and he's going to make things okay and fuck fuck fuck Ford wishes his eyes would stop watering already, this is pathetic.

He hasn't cried in ten years. Not since - not since they both know when. It's been so long that Ford almost doesn't realize it's happening till he tries to speak but the words get caught behind the knot forming in his throat. He swallows hard, blinks harder, and reaches with a shaky hand to scrub roughly at his eyes, angry with himself for this embarassing display.

"...Sorry." For putting Stan in this situation, for getting him involved in the horrible mess that he made of his life, for the goddamned wetness leaking from his eyes that won't fucking stop. "I'm sorry, Stan, I'm--"

He's sorry for a lot of things, really.

He freezes for a second, caught even now, after that, in this awkward gap he didn't know was there between facts of life he never knew he counted on. Women crying, sure, that happens all that time, but guys? Well, in front of someone? More than that, it's his brother. Ford always knows what to do. He doesn't cry.

It's his brother, and he's crying, and Stanley draws back just far enough to find a couple good places to wrap his arms around his brother's stupid, skinny self and pulls him close.

"You'd better be," his head ducks toward Ford's and the words tremble out, and he pulls his brother even closer and breathes. "You'd goddamn well better be, you stupid son of a bitch."

He stands like that for a second, but if he holds it any longer all that 'having it together' and 'handling shit' that Stanley worked so hard to paste over top of himself is going to fly right out the window and god knows what he's going to be then so he finds himself pulling back, rubbing at his brother's shoulders.

"Come on now, buck up, I only barbecued ya' a little," and then he laughs a kind of laugh that knows it's about ten different types of wrong and not particularly funny besides, but can't quite help itself.

"Jeez, take a look at you, huh?" he finds himself saying right on the heels of that and realizes he sounds like Ma again, a little. What would she do here? What now? What the fuck now? Ford's not gonna' tell him. Fuckin' genius didn't plan this far ahead did he?

Stan stops himself right there. This isn't the time to freak out, it ain't the time to go there. Just when it will be time is a question he realizes he can't really face right now. What would Ma do? Well, Ford needs a shower, and Stanley ain't the cleanest guy around and he knows that but every part of Ford right now looks like it pretty much screams to be scrubbed for at least an hour. But, you know, then Ford would fall over and split his head open and then they'd be back to this again and Stanley, he, he-

Okay. She'd put him to bed. That's what she'd do.

"Come on," he says briskly, giving Ford's back a few quick pats as if that's all he needs to jolt away all that blood loss and shock and whatever the fuck else and get the man up and moving. To be fair, Stan does wrap an arm around Ford's back after he does it, and spreads his hand against Ford's side. He's not gonna' make his brother do it all on his own. "It's bedtime for you, buddy. Hop to it. Up-up."

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

In the back of his mind (the part that hasn't been scorched all to hell) Ford can hear a voice that sounds suspiciously like his father's telling him to suck it up and stop being such a little queer. He would be more than happy to follow such sage advice if only he knew what he was crying for in the first place - he genuinely has no idea why he's coming undone like this. It's just sort of a thing that's happening right now, probably because Everything is just happening so much and his poor overworked brain has no idea how to deal with it.

There's only so much stress and hurt and trauma a person can go through before they break, and after everything he's been through as of late, Ford is long overdue for a nervous goddamn breakdown.

Only, he's not so sure that's what this is. As much as he hates their existence on principle, these don't seem like the bad sort of tears - the kind that force their way from your eyes, unbidden, when the world just gets too hard to keep existing. No, these feel more like the other kind.

He doesn't feel like smiling, not when everything is still such a godawful mess, but he feels the corner of his mouth twitch anyway as he lets out a shaky, almost giddy sounding breath. The sudden realization that he's safe, that Stan's safe, that He has no control over him anymore - it knocks the air out of him, leaving him sitting there chuckling breathlessly like a goddamn fool while his eyes keep right on watering, because what else are they to do in the wake of such all-encompassing relief?

Distantly, he realizes he's being manhandled again, that his brother is pulling him close and holding him tight. Lightheaded and disoriented as he is, Ford recognizes the gesture for what it is and tells the quiet protest in the back of his mind to go fuck itself as he does his best to return Stan's embrace. He doesn't have the strength left in him to hold on as tight as he'd like, but given the circumstances he'll cut himself some slack.

This is...nice. This is good. Things are okay and pretty soon it'll be like they never weren't okay and they can put this clusterfuck behind them and Ford will never ever have to be afraid to close his eyes again for fear of them not being his own when they open again.

Stan's talking again, saying things Ford only half-hears, and for some reason it doesn't alarm him that he's having trouble registering words. He has his mind back, he has his freedom back, he has his brother back - as far as he's concerned all is right in his world. But then, his world is starting to go a little fuzzy at the edges and he has to blink hard as Stan helps him to his feet in order to get it to come back into focus.

"Sounds--" Wow, words are getting hard to say all of the sudden. "Sounds like a plan."

...Yeah, looks like he really didn't plan things this far ahead at all. Probably explains why he feels struck dumb that this impulsive self-surgery actually worked in the first place.

(ooc: I'm kind of assuming here that Ford would let Stan put him in bed, let me know if that isn't the case and I can edit. Also, if Ford would just pass out and sleep forever after this, we can do a timeskip if you want.)

Stanley lets his own brisk and bustle impression of a woman he hasn't seen in years move him out of the room just like he's moving Ford, giving Ford's back little pats that might or might not be more like shoves, not thinking about the fact that those little pats are leaving even more blood on his brother's ruined shirt because there's no time, gotta' get to the bed, flip the blankets out straight, fling 'em back, kind of half-pull half-shove Ford toward the mattress so he can ruin all those sheets forever, and, and tuck him in, right? He pulls the blanket up to Ford's shoulder but that's too close to the, uh- to his head, that'll sting, won't it? He pulls the blanket back down, and then he just stands there and stares for a moment.

"That's how this shit works, right?" Asks Stanley, to the back of Ford's head. It's not pretty, that head, and he goes on, not expecting it to give him much of an answer. "First you make sure they're warm and then you flip 'em on a side - wait, that's drunks, shit. There's, there's meat 'cause all that blood you lost, but-"

Stanley peers down at himself, watching whatever he manages to dig out of his pockets like he don't already know what's in there: everything he's got left after trackin' his brother's sorry and terrifying excuse for a message across the entire U. S. of A. "If you got some fancy invention that'll make red meat outta' one peso, some sugar and a buncha' pocket lint, then we'll really be in business."

Okay. Okay. What now? He's laying down, right, that's good. Isn't it? Well if it ain't they're both screwed, because Ford sure wasn't gonna' stand up for more than a couple more seconds anyway. He's warm, probably.

"Sleep. You need ta' sleep." That's it. Ford's doing that, more or less. Isn't he? Yeah. Sure. That's fine. And now Stan, Stan, there's, he can-

Stan looks around the room. Everything's in its place, at least as far as he can tell. That's it. That's all Stan needs to do, he thinks. A couple seconds after that thought the first heavy breaths start pumping themselves into his chest and he thinks, shit, I gotta' get somewhere private, but the last time he left Ford alone, the last time he wanted Ford to go away so he could search through his fuckin' house like a goddamn thief, then his brother, who's always been so capable and good at everything and, god, so smart, his brother had-

Stanley falls onto the edge of the mattress, feels it bounce under him, and the next heaving breath brings a sob with it which somehow escapes from around the knuckles he's got stuffed into his mouth. He tastes copper, thinks, oh, right, I didn't wash my hands, and then the sobs start comin' even faster than they usually do, maybe with every other big, heavy breath, and there's nothing to do now but wait it out so he just hunches forward and thanks his lucky stars Ford lost so much blood because hey, for all he knows if any of this registers with him at all it's probably just as this really weird dream. That's what Stanley will tell him, if- when, when he wakes up.

When, you moron, you sewed- you melted- you ought to know, you did it yourself-

Stan's shoulders start shaking then, too, about once with every other breath. Huh. Weirdly enough, it looks like that thought didn't really help.

Were he not on his last legs, Ford would have tired to say something reassuring, offer his brother a grateful word or some sort of confidence-building comment to ease his worried mind. As it stands, Ford really isn't sure how he manages to even stay conscious while Stan half-supports/half-drags him off to bed, so getting his addled-brain to try to formulate a kind word is a bit beyond him at the moment.

By the time he gets settled down, Ford is already slipping in and out of consciousness. He tries to fight it off, to stay awake and aware long enough to say something to Stan, but it's a battle he's losing right from the onset. He manages to hold on long enough to hear his brother say something about meat and drunks and something else he doesn't quite catch, before the world goes dark and he stops hearing anything for a while.

----

Twelve hours later (and three minutes, if Stan cared to count), Ford finds himself drifting back into the waking world at the slowest possible pace as if even his own brain doesn't want to have to power up and deal with his bullshit just yet. Unfortunately, neither of them really get a choice in the matter, and whether he likes it or not Ford has to wake up and face the mess he's gotten himself into.

He awakens to the sound of every single nerve-ending in his head screaming in a perfect, three-part harmony of fuck you, and immediately wishes he was - well, not dead exactly, but in some other state that would rob him of sentience until the god-awful throbbing in his skull fads to something bearable.

He hisses, groans, then curls his arm over the side of his head as he screws his eyes shut tight. Fucking hell, how does it hurt more now than it did the night before? Oh. That's right. He was sort of hysterical and a little drunk and under the effects of one hell of a stress-induced adrenaline rush.

God, he could use a drink right about now. The alcoholic kind and the regular kind, because acute dehydration is a bitch. He really should have tried to drink something before passing out, give his body something to replenish all the blood it lost with. Ah well - hindseight, 20/20, and all that.

Ford realizes (groggy though he is, and despite his brian's reluctance to do any actual thought-processing) that he should probably get up and stick his head under the faucet until his throat stops being so dry that it feels raw. Unfortunately, that requires actually moving which is a prospect he is just not up for just yet. He's not awake enough to try navigating through his own home with shaky limbs and a sour stomach, not by a long shot.

He just needs a minute or twelve, to get his bearings. Then he'll be good to go.

Looks like his brother is awake, kind of. Kinda' sounds like he wishes he weren't.

Good, Stanley thinks vaguely, swallowing and blinking up at the ceiling. It makes time go by faster, pretending you're trying to sleep. The blanket pulls underneath his back as Ford starts to shift around and Stanley takes a second to breathe, pull himself all together.

"Get a move on, lazybones," Stanley says, and thinks of high school, briefly. He hadn't been in any of the school plays but he'd snuck into their practice sometimes just to be there, because the kids in drama class were cool. Well, not cool, but none of 'em gave a shit, which everyone knows is pretty much the same thing. Stanley thinks, briefly, of what it'd sounded like whenever someone new came in for the rehearsals. They had the script right there so they always said all the right things, but there was none of the... Something. None of the something behind it. Oomph, he guesses. All the words were right, but none of the new kids ever had any clue what those words were supposed to mean, and none of them cared.

Stanley is saying, he thinks, all the right words. Fuckin' good enough.

"Up and at 'em," he continues to the ceiling, and sends out an elbow to nudge at the Ford shaped lump somewhere off to his side. "The sooner you get your ass movin' the sooner I get to find out if you got any coffee. If the answer's no I'll be givin' that fat head a' yours a whole new set of scars."

Stanley makes a point and a habit out of never regretting anything that's come out of his mouth. He tracks a crack over its familiar path up the ceiling to where it runs into a wall, and wonders whether to break that habit, now. Maybe. Probably. Probably it'd be okay, just a little.

That nudge to the ribs earns Stan a grunt of protest from his brother, who (in true "fuck off I don't want to get up yet" fashion) simply turns over and flips his pillow over his head as if that will somehow block out all of existence until he feels like dealing with it.

Then Stan goes and makes that well meaning albeit tasteless joke, and he has to uncover his head just so he can look over his shoulder and give his brother a squinting, bleary eyed look.

"Of course I have coffee." He sounds mildly irritated, as if offended that Stan even had to ask. His voice sounds hoarse, rough with sleep, like the words are scratching his throat on the way out.

"How do you think I've stayed awake the past five days."

Alright, technically it was a combination of coffee, pure concentrated dread, being in a state of near-constant alarm, and the occasional shot of adrenaline into his thigh when things got really bad, but still. The point is, he has coffee, which he will never drink again for as long as he lives because he has so much sleep to catch up on.

Sighing, Ford drags a hand up to his face and scrubs at his eye with the heel of his palm, resigning himself at last to the fact that he is unfortunately awake and that he should probably get out of bed and do things people do when they're awake. Like eat, and get a goddamn shower because between the cold-sweat and dried blood, he feels like a walking bio-hazard right now.

Stanley hears the noises of his brother slowly waking up beside him and thinks about how weird this is. It'd be a dream if it weren't so real. It'd be real if it wasn't so much like a dream. Stanley listens and doesn't think and finds himself wondering: Was he always like this? Was he always like this and I just didn't know?

He thinks back a second, trying to remember how long it'd taken Ford to get out of bed, before. Being sure of that part, at least, isn't hard. He hauls himself up, swings his feet onto the floor, and ducks his head, ruffling his hair to distract himself from the way his head kinda' wants to float off his shoulders and up out a window somewhere. On the drive here he had a few breaks for naps and that woulda' been enough but then - well, fuck, life got in the way, didn't it?

So. Life happened, and after that there'd been the about-a-day he'd spent sure as shit not sleeping, and now he's not so sure he's set up the right way to deal with the conversation that's coming. Hey, why not be fair; he probably never will be.

But, hey, it doesn't matter. There's coffee. If Ford can just up and decide sleep is for other, lesser mortals, Stanley can can do it too. "Five fuckin' days," he mutters, facing the wall rather than his brother and not sure just which of them he's talking to. "Sheesh. The crazy probably helps, don't it."

Stanley laughs low and bitter and stands up, stretches his back out and feels a scar or two pull at their regular places and speaks, probably still addressing the wall ahead. What was it he used ta' say? Yeah, Stan knows this one. His lines in this part go somethin' like: "Did you get lost in there, poindexter? I think your big, strong brother might haveta' dive in to the rescue."

Ford would take more offense to being called crazy if his brother didn't have every reason to believe that was the case. He knows, objectively, how this all looks. It's far more easy to believe that he's simply lost his mind and suffered some sort of catastrophic mental breakdown than it is to consider that maybe his frantic ramblings from before might hold some truth to them.

He can't blame Stan for thinking the way he does. Hell, after everything he was just put through, Ford has to wonder himself if he isn't a little less sane now than he was before this whole mess started. It wouldn't surprise him all that much, really. After all, sleep-deprivation is a form of torture and for the past however-many-days he's been doing it to himself. You probably have to be just a smidge unhinged somewhere to put yourself through that willingly.

Sighing once more (as that seems to be his primary means of communication at the moment) Ford props himself up on his elbows, then begins the tedious process of sitting upright and swinging his legs off the side of the bed.

"There are worse things than missing sleep, Stanley."

Like what would happen to him if he didn't.

Dragging a hand down his face, Ford takes a moment to remind himself just how badly he needs to shave, before pushing himself to his feet. He's a little unsteady, as what little blood he has left in his body all goes rushing to his head, but at the very least he stays on his feet.

He blinks against the black spots clouding his vision before glancing around the room, as if trying to remember where he put something. Before long something in his brain clicks, and he reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his wallet.

"Here." Hopefully Stan is a good catch, because Ford's just gonna carelessly toss the thing at him. "I need a shower. Go get yourself something edible."

Because while technically everything in Ford's kitchen can be consumed, that doesn't mean it's at all palatable.

Stan does catch, nonplussed, and takes a look inside the wallet, counting everything inside in seconds. Once that's done, though, he looks right back up at Ford because he can't believe what he just heard. He can't believe it.

"The- sleep? You think that's the worst thing goin' on here?" His mouth hangs open, because he's still working his way through that, that itsy bitsy little fact. That his brother - that any human being can be so fucking thick. His voice is rising slowly, sounding higher and louder, and he sounds like onea' them sitcom wives really workin' herself up to rip her hubby a new one because he threw his tighty-whities on her new flower arrangement, or whatever. But that don't matter. It really fuckin' don't.

"I called a couple loony bins while you were takin' your hundred year nap," he says, slipping the wallet into a pocket and thinking, yeah, guess that talk I didn't wanna' have is happening now. It's coming out of his mouth without him even thinking about it, and it's happening now. That's fine, it's just fine with him. "Told 'em I was a doctor callin' to consult. Know what they said? They said you're a danger to yourself and others, Ford. You know what happens when people start sayin' shit like that? You know where people go?"

That talkin' to the wall and not looking too close at Ford and sayin' all the right things shit, that plan's fucked off to parts unknown because there's a switch on Stanley's brain right now, one that switches his already scrawny self control right off and it feels like Ford went up to that switch and just fucking stamped on it.

"They go where I'll never fuckin' see 'em again! And that's if someone found you! If I hadn't walked in on you in that fuckin' bathroom you'd be-" It's meant to be a push a shove to Ford's chest because the idiot deserves it, because Stan is so goddamn pissed off, he is angry, but somehow his hands end up twisted all around in Ford's stiff, awful shirt, dried blood flaking off it over Stan's skin and he has to take a breath, swallow hard.

"You fuckin' son of a bitch. You didn't fuckin' th-think of that, did... did..." Stan's hands won't move from Ford's shirt and he stares down at them and swallows again, feeling big, heavy breaths moving through his chest.

Not for the first time in his life, Ford has no idea what he just did wrong. All he knows is that whatever he said must have been exactly the wrong thing, because suddenly his brother is grabbing a fistful of his shirt and looking like he's ready to throttle him.

"Stanley!" He sounds shocked, which he is, because his groggy brain is not awake enough to put all the pieces together and figure out how they went from zero to sixty in three seconds.

His hands move up to close around his brother's, as if to keep them from deciding to move up to his throat and strangle some goddamn sense into him.

"Calm down."

That's fucking rich, coming from him, but he's not sure what else to say - what can he say? What can he possibly say that will make any of this better? It's sure as hell not the truth, that much is apparent.

"I'm fine, I'm not--" Dead, lobotomized, a mind-slave to if not The Devil than certainly A Devil. "I'm fine. Everything is--things could have gone better but everything's fine."

Funny, how after you say a word a certain number of times it stops having any meaning. Ford's probably exhausted his use of the word "fine" for the next thirty years.

He hates that it works even a little, but Ford's hands over his do help. His brother's here, for the first time in forever he's here, and the reminder steals some of that precious anger away from him. It's gone from his tone now and from his expression and leaves whatever it is that's under there totally exposed, and Stanley swallows again. "You know what else they said? They said, uh, you can't be alone. People like you, they, uh. They seem totally normal 'till, 'till they, uh. Till they're cuttin' the shit outta' themselves in f-fuckin' bathrooms."

Stan sniffs, makes an effort to keep at least a little of his dignity together. He was done with that last night, it was stress crying, he got it out of his system. His fists are loose in Ford's shirt, and he keeps them there.

"You're actin' n-normal now but, uh. But it could, the second I turn my back, an' you wouldn't even tell me. You didn't even want me to know." This is the hard part, the very hardest and most confusing part, and Stan stares into his brothers face, trying to figure out what's goin' on behind there and failing, failing completely. "God, all of this. Just, all of it. Why didn't you just ask me for help? I'm your brother."

He can get through this conversation without losin' it. He can. See him doin'- uh, almost, almost doin' it? Stanley blinks hard a few times and clenches his jaw, taking sharp breaths through his nose. That's right. He is keeping a handle on his shit.

When Stan puts things that way, when he frames what happened in that light- well, Ford has to admit, it sounds bad. Real bad. Knowing what he does about what he was doing, what he had to do, it didn't seem all that...concerning, to put things lightly. It just felt like an unfortunate but necessary evil.

But Stan? He didn't know anything. Still doesn't, really. All he knows is his brother up and decided to carve himself open on a whim and damn near bled himself dry in the process and--

--and yeah, okay. Maybe Stan has every right to be so torn up about this. Maybe Ford needs to stop trying to dance around the truth and just - just tell Stan his reasons, explain why he really did what he did. Even if he doesn't believe him, even if it just further convinces him that he's lost his goddamn mind - his brother deserves an explanation.

"What--" He pauses, swallows thickly. Between the dry mouth and the growing tightness in his throat, it's hard to get words out. "What would you have had me say?"

He lets out a short huff of a nervous laugh, the sound more incredulous than amused.

"Well Stan, I've pissed off a demon and if I don't put this plate in my head he's going to take over my body and make me regret ever being born"? Is that it, would that have been better than trying to keep you in the dark?"

Oh, but there was probably a gentler way to say that, to make such a gut-punching reveal. So much for breaking things to Stan gently.

Well Stan doesn't understand it, but hearing it isn't much of a punch to the gut. It might be the opposite. It might be that it loosens something inside him. Not by much, but a little. It ain't like he don't know his brother's nuttier than a fruitcake factory, at least by now. What he hears is that Ford told him what's goin' on in his head, finally. Little late, but he did. Stanley takes a few seconds to swallow and to breathe and whadda ya know, it maybe comes a just that little bit easier. "Didn't you hear me? Use your ears, pointdexter. I'm your brother. Look at me. You think I pulled this face outta' a cracker jack box? No, you-"

He can't ask. But he's got to. He's got to, don't he? "You don't, uh. You don't trust me? Is that what this is? You didn't think- You didn't think you could count on me to even ask? You'd rather just-" Stanley starts to gesture toward the bathroom but stops just short of knocking Ford's hands off his to do it, and instead just gives a little twitch in that direction. "Do that to yourself? Than even talk to me?"

And there it is, an armor-piercing question if he ever heard one. Immediately, Ford wants to protest. He wants to push Stan in righteous indignation and ask him how he could even ask such a thing, but he doesn't because he realizes with no small amount of dawning horror that he's not so sure of the answer himself.

He feels sick, suddenly, like there's a ball of ice twisting around inside his gut. Of course he trusts Stan, of course he does - that's his brother, the person he's known all his life, the person he came into the world with. Of course he - how could he not trust him? What a stupid question, god, why would--

Ford realizes, absently, that he still hasn't answered his brother's question. He's just standing there like an idiot, struck dumb by the realization of just how fucking far he's sunk. He's standing there meeting the eyes that are an exact copy of his own and trying not to let his heart escape as it leaps into his throat because fuck, fuck fuck--

"I..." Alright, there's a word. He can do this. Just a few more and he'll have a full sentence. "I don't know who I can trust anymore, Stan."

Funny, how those words sound like an apology.

Oh, he thinks.

His grip on Ford's shirt lets go. His hands slide away. One hand twitches and he kind of wants to make a fist with it, kind of thinks maybe he should punch Ford now. Right in the face. Owes it to him, doesn't he, after that shit Ford pulled last night.

The shit he pulled before even talking to Stanley. Because he doesn't trust Stanley. And, gee, just fuckin' wonder why that could be?

His hand, half-curled, relaxes. He takes a couple steps back, lets his knees go loose, and sits heavy back on the bed. "Oh," he says distantly, to the carpet.

"Yeah, I mean. Yeah. It's, uh. Not like I have a great, uh. A great track record there, huh? I mean- I mean, it's the smart thing. There's, uh. A little joke I got. Only two types a' people trust Stan Pines: schmucks an' future schmucks. You may be nuts now, but I guess you're still smart. "

Yeah, that handle Stanley's keeping on his shit? Turns out that handle's gone. He musta' lost it somewhere. 'Cause if he had it, that sound he just made woulda' been a laugh. Stanley leans forward, takes a couple more rough, heavy breaths, and covers his face.

Edited 2015-12-18 03:09 (UTC)

Goddamn it. God damn it. This isn't - it's not supposed to go like this. This isn't how things are supposed to work out, things were never like this between them before. It's not - it's just -

Everything has gone so wrong, and Ford doesn't know how to fix it. He doesn't know how to make things better, so what fucking good is he. Being smart, being clever, having all the answers - that's what he does. That's his job. It's the expectation he's had to constantly meet every day of his life ever since he brought home his first A+.

But now - what fucking good is his IQ if he can't even use it to figure out how to make things okay again?

"Stan--" He reaches forward, wanting to put a hand on his brother's shoulder, to apologize, to do something, but he thinks better of it.

Instead, he draws his hand back, lets it hover hesitantly in the air as he swallows against the tightness in his throat.

"Stanley, please, you don't--I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Story of his fucking life: always saying the worst possible thing at the worst time.

"It isn't you, it's..." He hesitates, deciding to scrap that thought. "You don't know what's been going on these past few months, Stan. You don't know what I'm up against, what I've been through."

If his voice shakes a little near the end, well, that's his business.

"It ain't me, it's you, huh?" Stanley straightens up a little, swallowing and swiping the back of a hand across his eyes. "Hope that don't mean you wanna' see other people, 'cause I ain't leavin'. I don't care what kinda' demons an' shit are eatin' you up. Or if you don't trust me anymore, or, or how much you don't want me here."

He swipes his hand across his eyes again, defiantly, but it doesn't do any good. Fuck it. A wet face ain't the worst thing about this conversation, anyway. "Let me guess. What you been through has a lot to do with the kinda' shit the Twilight Zone wouldn't touch. Freaky shit no one but you's seen and no one would ever believe."

He looks up to scowl at his brother and then stops. Then he just plain looks at him. Blood dried all to hell over his shirt, bags under his eyes the size of a small city and, shit, he's probably about one good push away from falling over and passing the fuck out again. If Ford turned around, Stan knows the head he'd see would be at least one quarter bald.

"Sit down, you sorry bastard. I don't know what you been through but, I mean, that don't mean you can't tell me. You might not trust me and I sure as hell won't believe you but, um. That don't mean we can't still talk, right? We can, uh, we can at least- Can't we do that much?"

There's another question he really didn't want to ask. Another question he had to. 'Cause if they don't have that, well- well, they have to. Ford will sit down. Ford will talk to him. He just, he just will. And never you fuckin' mind it if Stan looks scared now, watching Ford. What's there to be scared of?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

omfg ford's hand on his jacket why do you hurt me in this way

Because suffering Stantwins is my asthetic

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Relevant icon keywords

no subject