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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...Higher efficiency?

Ford raises a brow at the wording, having not expected his brother to say anything quite so...articulate, for lack of a better word. It just doesn't sound right, hearing those words in that voice. Stan talks fast and knows how to spin things just so, but an academician he is not. Using words like that, vocabulary words that aren't quite his own, Ford can't help but feel like his brother is trying to sell him something.

He doesn't say this out loud, of course. He keeps it to himself, tries to quash the feeling down and write it off as paranoia. Stan isn't trying to manipulate him into doing what he wants, he's just trying to be helpful. Right? Right. Granted, those things don't have to be mutually exclusive, and-- you know what, no, Ford's not going to follow that train of thought anymore.

"I told you Stan, I'm fine."

To emphasize his point, he stands right back up after Stan sits him down and spreads out his arms, gesturing towards himself.

"Just wait outside, if you're really that worried."

If he's starting to sound a little frustrated, it's because he is. He understands that his brother means well, but Ford has his pride, and he's not keen on letting it be bruised any more than it already is.

It's almost a relief, once Stan realizes that he kinda' recognizes the look on Ford's face. A pain in the ass, because the idea of leaving Ford alone for that long makes him twitchy as a junkie goin' cold turkey, but familiar. He's missed that look. He's missed being with his brother.

Which shouldn't be a thought he's having just now, but he is. It should be a feeling he's had already, feeling like he's with his brother again. They've been under the same roof for, what, must be nearly a day.

But, yeah. Anyway. Recognizing that look means he remembers what always went with it, and Stanley wonders how far he can push his brother, here. Not far, he don't think. He hesitates anyway, shifting his weight from one foot to another and back again, looking torn.

"Look, just-" He backs up, opens the door, and stands there, gripping the doorframe. "Just yell if you need anything. There's nothin' wrong with it. Okay?" There ain't. There's nothin' wrong with it if Stanley says there ain't.

Then he turns, folds his arms, and leans against the wall outside the bathroom. Yeah, the door's still open. Gonna' make somethin' of it?

Speaking of familiar looks - Stan's waffling at the door makes Ford roll his eyes a bit, though the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth reveals the gesture for the show of fondness that it really is.

"Yes, Stanley, I'll call." He says flatly as he works on shucking off his tie. "Now, go on: scoot."

If Ford realizes how much he just made himself sound like their mother, he doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy focusing on the surprisingly challenging task of peeling off clothes that are caked on with dry blood, and stick uncomfortably to his skin. It probably takes him a little longer than it really should to finally get undressed and hop in the shower, but he hopes Stan doesn't fault him for the wait. Especially when he increases the wait tenfold by spending a good 30 minutes just standing under the running water with his eyes shut, because a long shower an absolutely horrid night is damn near a religious experience.

That, and if he keeps his eyes shut he won't have to watch the water turn the color of rust and spiral down the drain, which is nice.

After a bit, Ford finally gets to the actual cleaning part of taking a shower, and shortly after that Stan will be able to hear the water stopping, followed by the tell-tale sound of Ford trying in vain to dry off his untamable mess of hair. Even with a chunk of it shaved off, it still has far too much volume and retains too much water than it has any right to.

It's about at this time that Ford realizes he walked in here without any clothes, and that putting back on the ruined ones he just took off would entirely defeat the purpose of taking a shower. Damn. He was hoping he wouldn't have to ask Stan for help after all, but it looks like even that's asking too much.

"--Hey, Stanley? Do me a favor and grab me a shirt, will you?"

Stanley doesn't notice, either, how much Ford sounded like their mother just now, but he does notice how it relaxes him, only deepens that feeling of familiarity. Which is why it isn't as hard as it mighta' been to wait for Ford. Don't get him wrong, he does listen - the way things are going, hell, why wouldn't Ford slip and crack his head open, that would just round out the whole day. But he don't hear anything like that. By the time Ford calls for him he's actually kinda' zoning out, sitting on the floor by the wall and listening to the tiny splatting noises of water hitting tile.

"Oh, uh, yeah, sure." He grabs a shirt without really lookin' at it and then, after some consideration, pants too. Just as much consideration goes into the fact of Stanley's underwear drawer. It sure is right there, that drawer.

Nah. There are some things brothers just don't do. Ford can figure that one out on his own.

Then he walks into the bathroom, clothes bundled up in his arms. Then he stops. Then, not to be all melodrama or anything, then he doesn't notice at all when the clothes fall right to the floor.

Yeah. That makes it sound like he's just stunned by the oh so studley nerdbod in front of him, don't it? If only.

"You-" There are no words for this. What do you even- God help him, what do you even say?

"This ain't a new thing, is it?" Stan hears himself say, faintly. "God, and I thought- Who the hell did-" He wants to ask who the hell did this to Ford, needs to ask it, because the fist curled up at his side needs to hit someone. But he knows whose hand was holdin' the damn scalpel, or knife, or whatever it was, and knows that this is one thing that's way too obvious to deny. How do you defend your steady, sane, brilliant brother from the shit inside his own brain?

It wasn't a knife that did this to him, or a scalpel. That would have made things too neat, too easy, and most importantly of all; not funny. Now a fountain pen, that was hilarious to Bill. The irony of marking an author with a pen left him in stitches metaphorically, and Ford, literally.

But that's a story Ford doesn't like to get into. It's one he doesn't like to remember, to think about, to acknowledge the very existence of. And that's been working for him, so far. Just not thinking about it. Pushing it so far into the back of his mind that he doesn't even notice how his eyes avoid mirrors, or glancing down and catching a glimpse of exposed flesh.

Out of sight, out of mind. If he doesn't think about it, it may as well not have happened, right? Right.

Only, the problem with ignoring it - the problem with pretending so hard that there's nothing wrong - is that he can't trick other people's minds into just not seeing what he wishes wasn't there. This hasn't been a problem for him before, not since he's been holed up alone in his house for weeks, but now...

Well, now someone's around to see, and of course that someone just had to be Stan.

Ford goes stock still, cursing himself for forgetting, cursing Stan for seeing, cursing Bill for giving him something to hide. It's too late to try covering up, too late to try to save face. All he can do is stare like a deer in the headlights, realizing he's been caught in the act - though his act is less that of someone committing a crime, and more being the victim of one.

Something tells him Stanley would have preferred it if it were the former.

"Stanley..." He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and folds one arm over his chest to cover the worst of the scarring despite knowing it's far too late for that.

"I know what you're thinking, but this - it's not what it looks like, I swear. This wasn't me."

Well, it was his hand, yes, but he wasn't the one in control of it.

"Yeah?" Stan's voice wobbles as he says it, because he knows he shouldn't sound so hopeful there, he knows that. "Then wh-" He knows he should finish that word, too. Ask who. Get the details. Imagine that, a world where Stan Pines goes diggin' for the truth.

That world ain't this one.

"Then what, uh. Jeez, Ford." His voice has gone all soft, really talkin' to himself now. Because what does he say to Ford, at a time like this? He doesn't even know what to say to himself. "What've you been doin' all this time? You were supposed to be the good one. You were supposed to be- that's what made it all worth it. Knowin' you were out there bein' all, all brilliant and... and happy. And that- How old is that? How long ago did-"

He can't say it. Can't say how long ago did you. Ford said he didn't do it. He said.

This is not a talk Ford wants to be having. This especially isn't a talk he wants to be having with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, and yet here he is, having to do just that anyway.

He doesn't say anything for a minute. He just drags his hand down his face, then back over his head through his hair. He stares at the floor rather than looking at Stan, because it's a lot easier for him to look at the bloodstained hardwood than it is to see that look on his brother's face and know he put it there.

"...I wasn't joking earlier, when I said I was a bigger screw-up than you."

He glances up briefly, his hand moving to hang off the back of his neck in a clear show of discomfort as he finally looks his brother in the eye.

"I've made huge mistakes, Stan. You have no idea how idea how far this goes."

"Then-" Then tell me, no, he can't say that, because Ford actually might. Tell him all about them creatures no one else can see, the ones just like the monsters in all those old movies they used to watch as kids. Ford might tell him just who it is he thinks put those- jeez, shit, just who he thinks put that shit all over him, and every time Stan looks at it he needs to hit something and hit it hard, and he's not sure how well he'd be able to restrain himself.

So when he doesn't ask about it, that's for Ford's sake. Not his. It ain't like he don't wanna' know. He told his brother to share this shit with him and, and he meant it.

"Then put on your pants," Stanley says, picking up the now slightly damp pile of clothes and walking closer to shove it at him. "And get used ta' me bein' here. Like you said, I know a little somethin' about being a screw up, and together? There's no hole the two of us can't dig you out of. Not even if it goes all the way to China."

Being this close would let him get a better look at those, uh- those marks, if he looked at 'em. He don't. He looks into his brother's eyes, and from this angle and this close up the guy almost looks normal. Like Stanley always thought he would. "You just need a little foothold outta' this one. An' believe me, I know a little somethin' about digging holes."

He looks, all close and steady and insistent, into that very familiar pair of eyes. "You do believe me, don't you?"

Edited 2015-12-28 14:39 (UTC)

This is - well, it's not good, exactly, but it's okay. It's workable. Stanley isn't actively shouting and insisting he needs to go to the hospital, or worse, asking more uncomfortable questions he doesn't want to answer. He seems to be taking things in stride, which Ford hopes is a sign that he's finally getting used to this absolute shitshow that is his brother's life, and not just a finely-crafted veneer masking his internal panic.

But then, Ford knows better than to put too much stock into the former.

"I believe," He begins, as he gathers up the clothes shoved his way. "That this would make a nice Kodak Moment if I weren't half naked."

He knows damn well that he's dodging the question, but Ford is as socially awkward and body-conscious as he was when they were teenagers, and he really doesn't feel like having a deep, personal talk while he's stripped to the waist and covered in -

Yeah. It's. It's not comfortable for him, having this talk with Stan close enough to see things in full-detail. It looks worse up close, so much worse, and something tells Ford that his brother knows exactly how deep you have to cut to create marks like these.

He knows covering up isn't going to make Stan magically forget what's under his clothes, but damn it, they can both make an effort to pretend.

Stan looks into his brother's eyes for a moment, looking for something. But he can't push. If he pushes, this little idea he's crafting, the story that everything is alright here, is going to fly right the hell apart. Stanley knows a little something about shoddy craftsmanship, after all, and just how far you can push it. If Ford ain't giving this to him, he ain't getting it.

He turns away with a bark of what's meant to be laughter, and rubs at the back of his head. "Yeah. They don't sell them kinda' greetin' cards at Kodak, do they?"

When he stops at the door he holds onto the frame, just like he did last time, but unlike last time he doesn't look back. There's a big black screen between him and Ford, or there might as well be. The guy's earned a little privacy, alright?

"You, you feel up to goin' into the kitchen? Or are ya' about to, you know..." He hesitates over this next word, and then decides the best way to handle it is to turn it into a joke, turning his voice sly and amused. "Faint again? Just tell me when you feel a swoon comin' on, I gotta' have time to catch ya'."

Oh, thank god Ford wasn't so sure he'd be able to dodge that bullet, but thankfully Stan doesn't press him for an actual answer. At least, not for now he doesn't - who knows if he'll bring the subject back up later on. If he does, well, that's a problem for Future Ford to deal with. For the time being, all he has to worry about is getting dressed and covering up any evidence of what happened the last time Bill decided to pay him a visit.

Or most of it, at least. He should have asked Stan to grab him a turtleneck, or something with a collar - unfortunately for them both, what Ford has in his hands is a t-shirt. One of the very few he owns. God, out of all the things Stan could have grabbed, how did he manage to find the one thing that doesn't cover his neck?

"I'm not a damsel in distress, Stan." There it is again, that fond, exasperated tone.

"And you're no knight in shining armor. More of a rogue, really. Probably the scoundrel subclass if we really want to get technical."

Why yes, yes that is a reference to DD&D, and no, Ford does not expect Stan to get it. He's just thinking out loud, trying to fill the silence with nonsense and filler because he just...doesn't like when things go quiet between them. It's intensely uncomfortable, listening to the silence whilst being painfully aware that there's countless things Stan wants to say to him, and vice versa.

Once dressed, Ford passes a towel over his damp hair one last time before tossing it carelessly into the hamper behind him. He doesn't bother trying to brush the mess on top of his head - he knows better than to even bother with it right now. It's not like there's anyone around he has to impress - he's fairly certain Stan's opinion of him can't sink much lower than it likely already has, considering everything that's happened.

"Also, for the record? I didn't faint."

Clearly this is a very important correction to make, which is why he punctuates the statement by lightly bopping Stan on the arm with the back of his hand.

Stan's grin is surprised and genuine, at least until he turns it to Ford and sees- yeah. Yeah, he sees. "No, but I might," he mutters, and he's never been squeamish, he ain't about to start now. It's just that the blankets need straightening, that's all, and Stanley ain't the best at keepin' things straight and neat and all that shit so he's really gotta' pay attention to the way that he does it. Makin' a bed ain't for the faint of heart.

"You, uh, you never told me if you're hungry. Are you hungry? There's food." Food which Ford owns. He knows there's food. What else? Okay. Okay. "It really does help, believe you me, after, ya' know, for you to grow all that blood back. Don't wanna go takin' a dive facefirst into a briefcase of someone else's hundreds, haha, um."

That's no better, is it? Shit, he's usually better at distracting people than this, why is he so freaked? It's just a scar. It's just a scar. It's his brother's scar, and it was deep, deep, and it was carved into him.

"Okay," he says, very quietly, to himself. He takes a deep breath, says it again, and his voice shakes a little less this time. It's fine. It's all fine.

If Stan thinks Ford doesn't notice the way his smile fades when his eyes turn to his throat, he has another thing coming.

He notices. Lord, does he notice. How can he not? It's been so long since he's seen his brother smile - of course he would be painfully aware of anything that took it away. The damage has already been done, but Ford still finds himself rubbing self-consciously at the side of his neck anyway in a lame attempt to cover the dips and raised edges that have Stan so shaken.

He watches from the doorway as his brother tries to distract himself with mindless busywork, not wanting to get too close lest he give him the opportunity to catch another glimpse of the other-worldly writing carved into his skin. Ford tries to think of the positives, counts himself lucky that at the very least Stan doesn't know what those symbols actually mean. Something tells him if he did, he'd be far more livid than he is now.

Considering how shaken up Stan already is, making him angry on top of everything else is the last thing they need.

Awkwardly, Ford clears his throat, unsure what to say. Part of him wants to say something reassuring, to try to ease his brother's mind since it's clearly still fixated on...yeah. That. But at the same time, it's so much easier to just dance around the issue, to change the subject and pretend that everything is A-Okay.

It's not till he hears how shaky that second 'okay' sounds even after taking that steadying breath that Ford knows what choice he has to make.

"Come on, Stan, I carved my head open and you're worried about something that's already healed over?"

It's a joke, or at least, that's what it's meant to be. It's not all that funny, really, as evident by how Ford has to force some cheer into his tone as he says it.

"You think you'd be more concerned about the potential sepsis, not the cosmetic damage."

Oh, wait, shit. He took that a little too far - shouldn't have mentioned the possibility of infection and organ failure. Whoops.

Luckily for Ford - for both of them, maybe - sepsis doesn't mean the same thing to Stan that it does to him. To Stan sepsis is something doctors say on TV, and he is so used to dismissing it as meaningless PHD talk that the word doesn't really penetrate, and he is too focused on keeping his shit something almost like together to notice Ford's 'oh shit' moment on saying it.

He's too focused on other things, too. On the thoughts floating around in his head, dangerous ones, because the plaster of normal Stan's tried to put over all this is cracking. It feels like the truth is about to spill out from behind it, at least some part of the truths they've been skating over since he got here.

"I ain't worried about your pretty face." He glances back at Ford, then down, and then, "I shoulda' been there," he says, real quiet.

"Whenever that happened. Wherever it was. If I'd been braver, if I'd called- I had your number, same way I got your address. You need to call that school a' yours, tell 'em to up their security, 'cause it really blows."

He swallows and turns around to sit heavily on the side of the bed, looking up at the ceiling. "Back when you lived there, in your dorm. I had your number, and I'd call it sometimes when things got uh, got rough, an' I had enough change. But I couldn't- I couldn't. You always sounded, you sounded normal. You were never meant to know about that stuff. You, you were meant to go to college and wow everyone with your big old brain and change the world, and I'd- Once I could come back- Then everything'd be fine. It woulda' been, if I'd done my part. But I blew it. I blew it again. God, I'm sorry. It don't change nothin', but-"

His chest moves with a couple big, quick breaths, and for about the dozenth time in the past twenty-four hours his eyes are less than dry. It's got to be somethin' in this room, dust or something. There's no other reason two grown men oughta' have to tear up so much.

Edited 2015-12-31 00:02 (UTC)

There it is again, that horrible sinking feeling in his gut that's reared its ugly head every single time their conversations take a downward turn. It sits heavily in his stomach, twists him up inside till he feels like he's gonna be sick. How did things come to this? How did they reach the point where just being in the same room together inevitably broke one of them down?

Ford wishes he knew. He wishes he knew how to fix it, to backpedal and erase whatever steps they took that lead them to this point. But then, wishing doesn't do a damn thing to make anything better, and neither does standing there like a jackass because - big surprise - he's no more prepared to handle this situation than he was the last time it happened.

He doesn't know what to do and he hates it, because he always knows what to do. He's the smart one, the brainaic, the older brother. He's supposed to be able to make everything better but he can't because there's just no fixing this.

"...Stan?"

He finds himself taking a halting step forward, unsure what he plans to do once he reaches Stan, but feeling compelled to go to him all the same.

"You--you don't actually think any of this is your fault, do you?"

He swallows, dreading the answer despite already knowing full well what it is.

Stan barks something breathy and not at all amused, then sniffs and wipes at his face, and he's too deep in his own shit to think twice about what it means that Ford even asked. "If I'd been here, if I'd just had the balls to stay on the damn phone for more than two seconds, you think you would have-"

He turns to Ford then, his angry gaze flicking down to those scars and back up to Ford's face. He remembers then that they're pretending his brother didn't do this himself, that there's no terrifying shadowy enemy living inside his brother's own mind, and that pretense, at least, he can keep up a little while. If it lets him stay here, keeps Ford from gettin' mad enough to try and kick him out, he'll pretend. (Could Ford have done that to himself, though? Could anyone? He cut his own damn head open, so- Stan doesn't know. He doesn't know anything about just what it is his brother can do.)

"You think anyone would have got to you that way? It's my job to look out for you. That's what I'm good for. But I was too scared and now you-" He waves toward his brother's neck, his face twisted up in anger and pain. "You can't unknow that kinda' thing. Whatever you been through, I was too- I coulda' been there, if I tried. And now you, you can never unknow it."

Then he leans forward and puts his face in his hands and keeps taking those big, quick breaths because what else is there to say? Ford may be the one who's good with those big words and the stupid-complex nerd theories, but Stan thinks he's covered all this pretty well. He don't know what Ford's gonna' do, now that Stan's made him see all this clear, but whatever it is, it won't be too far off the mark. Whatever it is, he kind of doesn't want to see it.

"You could've--" Ford repeats the words, his voice quiet, hushed.

His brow furrow, his mouth working on words that get tangled up in his throat. He finds himself moving, crossing the room in a few quick, uneven strides. He doesn't know what he's doing when he reaches his brother, doesn't know why his hands are reaching for his shoulders and gripping tight.

"Don't." His voice is still hushed, though there's firmness there that replaces the incredulity from before. "Don't you dare put this on yourself."

He sounds angry now, though not at Stan. No, what he's angry at is something intangible, something he can't rage against physically so he'll have to settle for growling at his brother instead.

The hands on his shoulders make him tense, make his whole body tense, his back and shoulders and legs all ready to - well, ready for something, ready for whatever, ready to move, and his eyes are wide. It's his ears that aren't getting with the program, because the words, they don't fit.

Nah, he heard right, it's Ford that isn't with the program. "You don't get it. That's what I'm for, steppin' up to take the hits so you don't have to, you oughta' know that. I shouldn't of cared whether or not you'd even talk to me, I shoulda' just come. I thought you were safe with your degrees and your fancy grant, and look! Look how wrong I got it. You shoulda' had better than this, this creepy little shack in a creepy little forest dealin' with all this - whatever the hell this is, it don't matter, dealing with it on your own! You shoulda' got better than this, and you didn't, and whose fault is that?"

Stanley pokes at Ford's chest now, still breathing hard but tears forgotten in the indignity of his brother being so dumb about such an obvious thing. "I shouldn't have ta' walk you through this, pointdexter, you know this one."

"...Whose fault? Whose fault?"

His voice cracks at the end there, but he's too busy fuming with righteous indignation to care that his voice went up a few octaves in a way it hasn't since he was thirteen and puberty was kicking his ass up and down the stairs.

Ford shoves hard at his brother's shoulders in an attempt to shove him back down onto the bed, because he has not been this angry in a long while and so help them God, Stanley is going to sit down and listen.

"You're not my keeper, Stan! You don't get to take credit for my mistakes, you can't just--" He trips over his words but keeps going, to incensed to stop.

"You can't just disappear for ten years then come back into my life when it's already--a-after I've---"

God damn it, God damn it. Now he's got to blink hard against the stinging feeling in the back of his eyes, take a leaf from Stanley's book and drag in a breath to steady himself.

"You don't get to come here and tell me what I deserve when you don't know what I've done."

And there it is, the catalyst of his anger, the source of his frustration towards his brother for daring to place the blame for how his life turned out on himself: some not-so-small part of Ford genuinely believes that he's simply reaping what he has sowed.

Edited (typo) 2015-12-31 05:47 (UTC)

The shove makes Stan grimace, his expression going all threatening without even thinking about it. If this were anyone else - maybe even if this were just another conversation - he woulda' come back at that shove with a punch, and a hard one. But after baring his mistakes, making it so clear to Ford how he's failed him, all Stan does is let himself fall back on the bed, feels his arms tense but just uses them to catch himself on the mattress.

"You got one thing right, I am too late, too late by years. That's the thing. Whatever you done when I was off - you know, when I was uh, when I was away - you shouldn't of had to. Whatever you've done, it don't matter. I've done plenty a' shit too ya' know, real nasty shit, but you - you're different. You always deserved a better life, and you shoulda' had your brother there makin' sure you got it. Maybe I don't know the details exactly but I know that much, that's all I need to know. Come on, is it the blood loss talkin' or what? You never used to be this slow on the uptake."

Whatever you've done, it don't matter.

It don't matter

Ford can feel something twist inside him, twist and snap like a fractured bone. His brother, his stupid, hopeless, loyal brother is sitting there and telling him he deserved better than he got despite - despite how his own life turned out. Despite Ford being too hurt to speak up, too much of a coward to say anything to their father on their worst night of their lives. He could've, he could've said something - it wouldn't have made any difference, once their father set his mind there was no changing it - but he should've done it anyway. He should've done it but he didn't and Stan is here forgiving him for that, blaming himself for not being around, and--

And he has no idea. He has no idea how misplaced his forgiveness is.

Ford feels lightheaded, suddenly. There's a strange buzzing in his skull, like his head is full of static. He finds himself feeling unsteady on his feet, and so he reaches forward to take hold of his brother's shoulders for balance.

"Stan." His voice has gone quiet again, and there's a watery quality to both his tone and his eyes that belies just how distressed he feels at the moment.

"Stan, I nearly destroyed the entire world."

His fingers tighten their grip on his brother's shoulders, both to emphasize the severity of his words, and because he just really needs something to hold on to right now.

"You--you're not to blame for any of this. You're not the guilty party here. I-I know, I know you think things should have turned out differently for us, for me, but..."

He swallows hard, tries to ignore the stinging in his eyes. He's never said this out loud before, never wanted to admit it to himself let alone anyone else, but Stan needs to hear it.

"I've gotten what I deserve."

Stan meets Ford's eyes, and his expression is drawn and worried because Ford's tone is, Ford says it like it's something awful they oughta' be worried about. But the actual words, they're - what does he even do with them? There are a lotta' things Stan's had to worry about, and some far, far more than others, but I nearly destroyed the world is so far out from anything he's ever considered real that it's-

Well, he's been thinking about that old show a lot lately, The Twilight Zone, and he thinks that's only gonna' keep happening. Maybe Ford lives in the Twilight Zone. Maybe he thinks he does.

Stan's expression, his whole posture, is sort of frozen. Guys grab you on the street talkin' about the end of the world you shove 'em off and keep walkin, but your brother? Sayin' it real earnest, almost cryin' about it? Shit, what do you even say?

When Ford gets to that last part, though, then Stanley knows what to say. He don't think for a second about what to say to that.

"Don't you ever say that. Don't you ever say that," he says, and reaches out to cup the back of Ford's neck and try and pull him in. "Now sit down, right here next to me. I'm gonna' give you a pass for what you just said, because you look like you're about to faint and probably got no idea what you're sayin'. But I hear it again, and we're gonna' have words."

"Don't matter what kinda' mad scientist shit you did, or didn't do, or, or whatever. No one talks about my brother that way." He really focuses on Ford's eyes then, trying to get Ford looking back, and for a second Stanley almost couldn't be further from the guy who'd made that weepy confession a minute ago. There's somethin' here his brother needs protecting from, even if it's a small thing, and Stanley can do that. It's the most natural thing in the world to do it. "Huh? You hearin' me?"

Ford goes down without a fight, that tug on his neck throwing him so off-balance that he has to sit down next to Stan if only to keep from falling flat on his ass. Even if he had wanted to put up a fight and keep on standing, he wouldn't have been able to - his brother's grip is strong, and Ford hasn't been at the top of his game for...well, for a while.

It doesn't help that what Stan is saying, what he genuinely believes, is making something inside Ford's chest constrict so tightly he's afraid it's going to burst.

Even after everything that has happened between them, despite all of the hurt and the betrayal, despite the years of separation, despite never reaching out to offer help before selfishly asking for it - His brother is still here, defending him from harsh words just as he had all those years ago when Glass Shard Beach was still their home.

All at once, Ford feels as if the air has been knocked out of him. He tries to keep his face straight, tries to keep looking his brother in the eye, tries to summon up words to respond to his question, but he fails on all fronts. He looks away, and as he does his shoulders drop and his head bows as if gravity has increased upon him tenfold. He shuts his eyes, puts the back of his fist to his mouth and sucks in a deep breath as he stifles a sound that would have doubtlessly been pathetic if he didn't strangle the life out of it before it could leave his throat.

After a moment he blinks hard, forces himself to pull himself together, goddamn it and sets his jaw. When he speaks next its through gritted teeth, and he speaks more to the floor than to his brother.

"...Why can't you just hate me?"

That would make this - all of this - so much easier to bear.

"What?"

No, really. What?

Stanley hunches over, craning his neck in what's probably a useless try at meeting his brother's eyes, and the hand still on Ford's neck is something Stan doesn't even think about, let alone consider removing.

"Look, you did some stuff. To me. And before I understood, I mean, before I knew-" Before he knew, he means, just how bad things got for his brother here, how bad it'd got inside his brother's own damn head, although it seems too cruel to say so out loud. "I didn't always- look, I mean, I wasn't always thinkin' of you with a song in my heart, alright? But I never hated you. I don't know what you did to the world, but what you did to- I mean, it was gonna' be fine. I'd make it big and then we'd talk again and, and everything woulda' been fine."

Stan hesitates and when he talks again his voice is cautious, small and confused. "You really want me to hate you? Not just, just you think I should, but you really want that?"

"Of course not."

He can't help it that his voice breaks, or that he can't look his brother in the eye, try though Stan does to get him to look up at him. He just can't bring himself to do it, because he knows that if he does what little remains of his composure is going to crumble to dust, and there will be no repairing it.

"It's just. I could live with myself when I thought...I was so sure, and now - and now you're here and you're telling me I've been wrong, I've been so wrong this entire time, and--"

He swallows hard, pauses his rambling to catch his breath and steady himself. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, exhale, inhale...

Dammit, it's not helping as much as he hoped it would.

"...God help me, Stanley, how could I do this to someone who loves me?"