goodguygrifter | (no subject)

If Stan had any doubts that he made the right decision, they should be swiftly eliminated by the ungodly shrieking that the not-Ford bellows out when that glass hits its mark. The sound it makes - it's not human. That's not a noise that could ever come out of a person (even a person with glass cutting into their retinas.)

Which means that the hand Stan grabs does, in fact, belong to his brother. Who, by the way, feels a tidal wave of relief wash over him that's so all-encompassing he thinks he might just pass out again. He doesn't, because this is quite possibly the worst time for an impromptu nap, but damn if he doesn't wobble a little as Stan drags him along as fast as they both can go.

Behind them, the long shadow of the shapeshifter grows, its body morphing into something too hideous and monstrous to proper describe without ample usage of the most vulgar swear words known to man.

"That won't slow it down for long--" He means both the glass and the gun, assuming they can manage to pump a few bullets into it, but there's no time to elaborate. "--We need to force it back into one of the cryo-tubes."

"Really? When you do somethin' you really do it don't you, shit, okay." He grabs for the gun and eyes the shadow of the thing on the ground, his jaw tensing, steeling himself for it. He doesn't want to see what's making that shadow, he really doesn't, but if the alternative is being dead then okay, okay, he turns and fires off a shot he's almost sure don't hit anything, partly because his eyes keep sliding off whatever the hell it is that's in front of him, doin' it all kinda' on their own just to protect him from lookin' at it straight enough that he'll remember what it looks like later.

"Go turn it on, turn 'em all on! Come on!" He pushes Ford a little, turning every now and then to fire a shot off that might, if they're lucky, will make the thing at least stop a second to try and avoid getting hit. And he runs. He don't stop running, means to keep running in circles all around the damn lab room if they need to, just so long as it keeps them away from that- that thing, god, that thing, long enough to fucking kill it.

Their shoes pound heavily against the floor while behind them, growing ever closer, the shapeshifter follows on heavy, misshapen limbs. It lets out a harsh, garbled noise that somehow sounds gravely and wet both at once, like somebody decided to gargle coffee grounds then amplify that sound by a hundred percent.

It lashes out at them with too-long limbs, but it thankfully Stan's assault seems to be slowing it down - those shots he hastily fires over his shoulder, though they miss their mark, waylay the shapeshifter enough to keep it from breathing down their necks as they race towards the cryo-pods.

Ford is quick on his feet, adrenaline running hot in his veins as he slams his fist down on the side of the nearest pod, pressing the activation button harder than is strictly necessary to actually get the machine up and running. The pod's glass door opens with a hiss of hydraulics, a flood of mist spilling out onto the floor and chilling the air around them near instantly.

He moves to the next pod, throwing a concerned look over his shoulder towards Stan.

"We'll need to force it in somehow, wound it enough that it can't fight back!"

That means they're going to have to actually hit it with one of those bullets - whether Stan can bring himself to look at the thing or not.

Stan knows that, too. He knows, too, that he ain't gonna' magically get good at this thing in the next five seconds. "I hope to hell this is yours," he says, and tosses the gun at Ford. "Get behind all this shit, and keep shootin'."

Then he runs. Or jogs, anyway. It's not like he's got to go far.

"Heya', ugly," he says, standing in front of the pods, feet spread, chin up, facing the horror his brother kept down here - maybe even made down here - without flinching. "Ya' know, I'm just now remembering somethin' - I never did get to give you that kiss."

Ford thanks the Powers That Be that he's got good reflexes - he catches that gun rather than dropping it, or worse, fumbling and accidentally blowing his foot off. He's quick to turn around and level the gun on the monster chasing them down. He doesn't flinch at the sight of it, doesn't get that very human chill down his spine upon looking at something that just Should Not Be.

He's seen worse, far worse. The shapeshifter doesn't have a form in its repertoire that can scare him as bad as the things that have been floating around inside his head every night ever since he dismantled the portal.

Ford holds his breath, takes aim, and fires.

Green fluid sprays out the back of the creatures head, its body thrashing in agony as it shifts erratically, gaining and losing limbs and size without rhyme or reason. It staggers, lashing out wildly in the hopes of hitting something. A long, clawed hand swipes out at Stan, and a thick, lashing tail damn near takes Ford's head off before he ducks out of its way at the last minute.

"Now, Stanley, now! Before it regenerates!"

The claws rip at his clothes but he thinks he's okay, knows he won't know for sure until he lives long enough to check but it looks like he dodged back just fine, which is good, because if there were as many big holes in Stan's stomach as that thing woulda' left he'd just be left here with both hands buried deep in, jeez, what even is this, the goo that makes up the thing. It's tough and slimy under his fingers and he grips, pulls, and flings whatever he can toward the open doors behind him, has to let go to stumble back from another few claws but gets right back to it, doing this weird little dance where he needs to get close enough to the edge of this little pod to tuck and shove all these gross slimy edges in but not so close it pulls him in with it, which looks like the thing's new plan.

When it grabs hold of one wrist he yells, loud and scared, and hits at the... the thing that's grabbing him, because it sure ain't a hand, it's something he don't want to think too hard about. "Close the doors! Do it quick!"

For something that's just got the one grip on him it's strong and Stan's being dragged closer, his shoes leaving trails of rubber against the floor as he tries to fight it, leaning back and pulling at whatever's got him with his other hand, pulling back with everything he's got. Now Stan ain't in the best shape but he knows he ain't no joke when it comes to brawn - and he does loosen that grip, with all that strength of his, but not enough. Whatever it's got on his wrist is sucking at his skin, and it ain't letting go. The inside of that pod is cold, too, he can feel it, more now and more as he gets closer, sending goosebumps all over him. He leans back, watches his hand, his arm, his shoes, get closer and closer to that fucker's prison, watches while the hair on the back of his hand and the hair on the backs of his fingers, as that part of him passes some invisible boundary, all of a sudden all freeze solid. "Jesus! Jesus, Ford!"

It's a cry, that last name, more a wail than a word, and if he's gotta' have a last word he's glad it's gonna' be that one but shit, oh shit-

Ford's had nightmares like this.

Not of this exact situation, no, but the feeling - god the feeling is the same. That nameless sort of terror that comes when Death itself runs an ice-cold skeletal finger down your spine and tells you, with certainty, that you are going to die.

Only, in this moment it isn't death that he's afraid of. It's a kind of death, maybe not a permanent one but its a kind of death none the less, and it's threatening his brother. His brother who never asked to get dragged into this mess, who would have been safe from all of this if he had never brought him here, if he had never left him that damn message, if he had only--

There's a lot of things Ford could have done. Should have done. Funny how he realizes that only now, now that shit has hit the fan and his brother is being pulled into a goddamn cryogenic chamber designed to contain an alien lifeform, not a human being. Ford has no idea what it will do to a person, what it will do to his brother if he gets pulled in, and he doesn't want to find out.

He refuses to find out.

Closing the pod door and trapping the shifter inside should be his top priority, he knows that. He knows, even as he flips on the safety of his gun, that he's being foolish, selfish. He doesn't care. There are times when the smart decision and the right decision aren't one and the same, and for once in his life Ford doesn't give a damn that he's about to do something completely idiotic.

He runs, as fast as he can, faster maybe than he's ever run in his life and throws the gun hard at the cryo-pod, praying it hits its mark. He doesn't stop to see if it does - he doesn't think he could take his eyes off Stan if he tried, because right now the most important thing in the world is getting those fucking claws off his brother.

Ford runs, he prays to whatever diety that's listening that this plan works - not for his sake but his brother's, his brother who doesn't deserve any of this, who shouldn't even be here, and then he makes his move.

He puts everything he has into the tackle, using the full force of his body weight to shove Stan to the ground as hard as he's physically able. He shuts his eyes, feels the ground rush up to meet them as they land hard on the stone floor. He doesn't open his eyes to look behind them, too see if his plan worked. Instead he keeps them shut, he keeps them shut and he holds tight to his brother and refuses to let go because if this is how they're going to die--

It hasn't held true in over ten years, but Ford's never forgotten the promise they made when they were boys. If there was ever a time for him to make good on that promise, it's now.

Wherever they go, they go together.

Stan squeezes his eyes shut too but just for the impact, just instinctively, and when he opens them the first thing he sees is his brother's face. He breathes for a second, just breathes, staring at Ford with what might look like amazement, if anyone were looking to see it. Carefully, a little dazed, Stan reaches up and slowly pushes Ford's glasses back up his nose, makin' 'em straight again.

"Hey," he says, hushed, because the whole room's so quiet, it feels like if he talks too loud some kinda' bubble around them will break and the shitstorm will start its happy little rain back up again. "You can look now. We're alive. I think."

Well, sure, Stan hasn't exactly looked around to check. That feels like speaking too loud, like looking around and figuring out just what all's there is pushing it. And, well, that wasn't the first time he said a word that sounded maybe a little like the name of a certain four-eyed nerd, thinkin' it might be the last one he ever said. It is the first time he went to that place in his head and then opened his eyes and saw the face that matches it right here in front of him, the face of a guy who came, the face of a guy who saved him. "You came."

So excuse that awed expression he's still got, pardon the fuck out of him if he's gotta' maybe, you know, maybe take a couple minutes.

For a long moment, the whole world is quiet. Ford's not sure if that's a good or bad thing, but he's too scared of what the answer might be to open his eyes, so he keeps them closed.

But then he feels his glasses being pushed back up the bridge of his nose, hears his brother's voice filling up the silence with quiet, breathless wonder and he just has to look. He has to.

He takes a breath, opens his eyes, and the world doesn't end.

He looks down at Stan, sees that he's alive and whole and himself, and his vision starts to blur. He blinks against the tears welling up in his eyes, tries to find words, but he can't make anything out around the sudden tightness in his throat.

He lets out a huff of air instead, an incredulous laugh that makes him grin big and stupid and forget, for a moment, that the past ten years have ever happened.

"We made it." He sounds as relieved as he does disbelieving. "We - did you see that, we actually made it."

He can't help but laugh again, his eyes shutting as his shoulders shake and tears race each other down his face. Oh, thank God, thank God--

A laugh spills out of Stan's mouth too and the careful silence doesn't break so much as shifts into something hyped up and happy and relieved, and he doesn't even notice.

"We made it," he says, and leans forward until their foreheads are touching, wiggling around on the floor until he can bring both hands up to ruffle up the hair at Ford's temples. "You saved me, you and your big old brain. And your tackle. Jeez, where'd you learn to tackle like that? You could play for the big leagues, I swear, a guy as skinny as you are should not pack that big a punch."

He draws back a little, still grinning, but grinning a little quieter now. That giddy, 'I'm not dead, someone else might be but not me, not me' feeling ain't gone, but he's realizing he'll have to look up and around and check shit out in a second. He wants to stay here, here on the floor for a second, grinning at his brother. glad to be alive.

As always, Reality just has to come in and spoil things before they can fully appreciate the moment. Ford shifts, pulling away just enough so he can get a good look over his shoulder at the cryo-tube behind them and make sure - you know, make sure the Shapeshifter is actually in it, and not actually just looming somewhere just out of view, waiting to swoop in and disembowel them right in the middle of their kodak moment.

It's there alright, an expression of pure fury frozen on its face as its immobile limbs claw against the glass in vain. Ford can't help but let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging with the weight of it, before turning to look back at his brother and favor him with a small, lopsided smile.

"It wasn't all me, big buy." He makes a fist, reaches out and cuffs Stan's shoulder hard enough to make a sound, but not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt.

"There's not many people out there who can stare death in the face and punch it."

Stanley smiles at the floor and shrugs with the shoulder that's not pressed against the ground. "Hey, it's what I do."

"You know," he starts, thoughtful, and moves to sit up so he can turn a little, follow Ford's gaze to that thing in the tube. "You know, if that thing's real, then- that-that means, all them other things you-"

He stares at it, and thinks about the calls he made to those shrinks, all that time he spent thinking about that. He thinks of the search he'd done of Ford's house when he first got there. He thinks of the book, all those crazy drawings and the crazier writing all around them. He thinks of all that time lying in bed beside his brother, staring at the ceiling and smelling dried blood. The moment Ford woke up, looked at him, and didn't have a single goddamn clue who the hell he was looking at. He thinks of the image of Ford stoned out of his mind, face all empty, the endless grind of that all day every day, keeping his brother's mind empty so his mind would be safe.

All a sudden he's sobbing, staring at the twisted angry thing trapped in that glass tube and sobbing, covering his mouth and breathing in big, panting gulps. He's not facing Ford now but if he were, his face might be unreadable. Not blank, it's just that he don't know what he's feeling. He ain't sure, right at this very moment, and it shows.

Edited 2016-01-20 07:02 (UTC)

Ford is fairly certain that at this point, they've both done more crying in the past 72 hours than they have in all of the years they've spent separated. As cathartic and probably healthy as it is, though, Ford can't help but wish that it would just...stop happening. Not just because because he's tired of not having control over what his emotions are doing and how they make themselves known, but because - well. Seeing Stan cry sort of makes him feel like crying too, and damn it this is supposed to be a good moment for them.

Apparently sharing one good, uninterrupted moment of joy is asking too much.

"...Stanley?" His smile vanishes, his good mood going up in smoke as it's instantly replaced with concern. "Oh jeez, Are you alright? You're not hurt are you?"

He's not sure what he's doing with his hands. They're just sort of hovering at his brother's sides, unsure what to do with themselves, unsure if they'll find a wound hidden away somewhere if they dare to touch.

Hey, Ford. Ford, hey. Hey, Ford, hey. You know what you really want?

A big hug, a sudden hug, your brother turning and throwing himself at you, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing hard?

Well, good. 'Cause you got it.

"No I ain't," he manages, what he's saying still somehow kind of understandable between the gulping breaths and the tears and the laughing. "I ain't hurt, and neither are you. Your brain's fine, you're fine, you're gonna' be okay. You got any idea how scared I was? More than I ever been, and that's, that's really sayin' something. But, god, give me living nightmares about to eat my face off any day of the week, give me a whole world full of 'em, gimme a world full of anything, just-"

"Thank god," he says, and then, quieter, meaning it, "Ford. Thank God."

You know that thing before, about how seeing Stanley cry makes Ford want to cry too?

Yeah. Ford can only man the floodgates for so long before they burst, and Stan crushing him in a too-tight hug that makes his ribs hurt is the powder keg that goes and blows up the dam.

He blinks once, twice, then a third time, as if that will somehow keep the tears brimming in his eyes at bay, only to squeeze his eyes shut completely once he realizes how much that's not working. And, hey, if he hides his face against his brother's shoulder then no one will be any wiser anyhow, so he goes and does that before his eyes get too wet. Meanwhile, his arms circle around Stan's back, his hands gripping tight to his threadbare jacket as he takes a minute to just breathe and be glad that for the first time in a long, long time, it feels like everything is going to be okay.

Stanley stays like that a while, feeling his brother's face against his shoulder, feeling the pull of his grip on Stan's coat.

"I shoulda' believed you," he mutters, after that while. One arm kind of burns where the thing grabbed him, and when he shifts his arm he can see round, dark red spots under his sleeve, like big, angry, weird-shaped hickeys, but he's trying not to shift his arm too much anyway, because he don't really wanna' move away from this. He don't want to move away ever, but at the very least, he doesn't want to move yet. "But I've been around the world, ya' know? I've been a lotta' places. Seen a whole lotta' shit. But, man- I shoulda' known you knew better than me. I should of trusted that."

Ford doesn't notice those red spots blooming under Stan's sleeve - he's too busy wiping under his glasses in a needless attempt to make it look like he wasn't just crying like their mother during one of her soap operas. He'll notice it later, though, and ooooh boy once he does Stan had better be prepared for a whole lot of fussing.

"Stan, you were as skeptical as anyone in their right mind would be."

He gives up on trying to work around his glasses and instead takes them off, pocketing them carefully as he runs a hand down his face. He shifts, rolling over onto his back so he can just take a minute to lie down and get his bearings, let the adrenaline pumping hot through his veins run its course.

"You'd have to be stupid to believe me without any proof. You're a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them."

Stan watches Ford plop onto his back, then frowns at the tubefull of monster for a second. He'll be glad to leave that ugly, staring face behind him, and glad to never see it again.

"Yeah," he says slowly, awkwardly, because it feels awkward, hearin' that, and then he plops back beside Ford to stare upward. "But you always knew better than me, before."

Oops. Stan pulls a face at the ceiling, because just that word, before, calls more attention to certain shit than he thinks is really safe. Too risky, because where there's a before, there's always gonna' be an after. "No reason that shoulda' changed. Especially not now, I mean, you got a degree now and everything."

Well. Ford's put up with a lot of shit in the past 72 hours, but hearing his brother put himself down is where he draws the line. He raises his brows, turns his head, and gives Stan the most incredulous look he can muster.

"I also made a deal with an actual devil and nearly became the unwitting harbinger of the end times." He reminds his brother ever-so-casually.

"I might be book-smart, Stanley, but it seems like I don't have a whole lot of sense. Something tells me if our roles were reversed, you wouldn't have wound up being played by a malevolent supernatural entity older than our entire galaxy."

Okay, now that Stan has to be looking at Ford for. He props himself up on an elbow and raises his eyebrows, grinning down at Ford in a way that says he's only kind of sure his brother's joking. "And here I was thinkin' the enemies you've been talking about makin' was just you gettin' in bad with a big dealer or something. Shit. The devil? You're kiddin' me, right? So, uh, does that mean we have to convert now, or..."

"Not The devil, a devil." Ford corrects, before reaching up to give Stan a gentle smack on the arm for teasing him.

The fact that he smiles as he does this shows that there's no offense actually taken by Stan's words - somehow they've managed to fall back into old habits, gently ribbing each other as they banter back and forth, knowing all the while that nothing they say to one another is meant maliciously. It's funny, really, how quickly they've managed to pick back up on old patterns. And to think, it only took them a near-death experience and a few emotional breakdowns in order to get to this point.

"...Well, technically speaking he's more of a demon, but lets not get into semantics. The point is, he's an exceedingly powerful being of ill-intent who's been trying since the dawn of man to enter our world."

Ford shifts, pushing himself off the ground and into a sitting position. They have to get up off the floor eventually, but after the day they've had, they've earned a sit down.

"What he plans to do once he crosses over is anyone's guess, but I guarantee it's nothing good."

Stan grins, following Ford's pose again and sitting up. Teasing his brother feels good, making him smile like that, it feels natural, but all the same Stan's grin fades as he takes in the rest of what Ford's saying. Or, you know, tries to. There's so much, what with the devil thing and crossing over and 'entering our world' - what, from where? Space? That doesn't sound like the right answer somehow, feels like he's missing something simple, and his gaze kind of skitters away from Ford, landing harmlessly on the floor a little ways away.

"Uh, look-" Stan rubs his head, his hand moving down to the back of his neck and hanging there. "I know I'd have to ask about a million questions before I start to understand this shit even half as well as you do. And I know, uh, I know all this ain't exactly my area. But when I first got here you said you'd tell me what you were up against, really show me why you don't want me here. And now I seen it. Some of it, anyway. And I- Look, I'm good at the heavy lifting shit, and I know you could use a couple extra fists. And there's no way you don't need the backup. So if- i-if, if y-you, uh-"

Sheesh, this is worse than the moment he got here, standing in front of that cabin, staring down at that doorknob and trying to talk himself into turning it.

"If you wan-want, I-I- we could, w-we could, uh, if, if you- "

Yep. This is Stan's part of their deal, the end of his trial period and the moment, his moment to show Ford what he's got, really sell it- and that's it. That's the best he's getting. That and a vague handwave, one meant to show that they could, you know, that maybe they could-

Ugh. Shit. Probably best if he doesn't look up, isn't it?

Stan doesn't need to finish his sentence: Ford already knows what he's trying to offer. Were he a stronger man, he'd say no. Were he not so selfish, he would tell Stan to get the hell out of Gravity Falls and never come back. If he wasn't so damn scared of facing this alone, he'd push his brother away for his own safety.

Ford wishes he were any of these things. Even just one. Maybe then Stan would have a chance. Maybe then his brother could actually stay safe and sound and untouched by the unseen part of the world he was never meant to have any part of.

He really should tell him no. He should shove a plane ticket in his hands and send him all the way to the other end of the Earth, as far away from here as possible.

He should, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches out wordlessly and hooks his arm over his brother's shoulders so that he can draw him close.

"...After missing you for ten years, you really think I'd ever let you out of my sight again?"

Stan looks up as he's pulled in and the words send a smile spreading across his face, a smile with real joy in it. It's a smile with hope, too, those old hopes he buried a long time ago that are washing back up on the shore of Stanley's mind, the ones he's picking back up now without a second of doubt. "Yeah? Yeah! Alright!"

He punches at Ford's chest and he's maybe a little too excited to hold back as much as he should, but Ford won't mind, will he? Of course not. "That devil asshole won't know what hit him! You an' me? He don't stand a chance! Come on, let's celebrate!"

Somewhere in there he slung an arm around Ford's shoulders too, and he pulls on them now to try and get them both standing. "We can, uh-"

It hits Stan kinda' like stepping in the deep end before you're ready, expecting solid ground under your feet and finding only water, that he doesn't have the first idea what Ford likes to do now. He goes through Ford's old hobbies in his head, the ones he knows, but, but- Okay, that's fine, he can make this work anyway, you know? It's not such a big deal.

"We can do whatever you want!" The excitement springs back into Stan's face after less than a second, almost like it never left. "Let's make it your night, huh? Your choice!"

Ford doesn't mind the punch, no - it just pushes him back a little more than he expected, which is fine because Stan slings his arm over his shoulders a moment later and in doing so takes away any residual sting the excited jab might have unintentionally caused.

Ford sways a little as he and Stan rise to their feet, but thanks to the arm around his shoulders he doesn't have to worry about steadying himself - or bearing the full brunt of his own weight, which after the workout and near-heart attack he just had is a little more than he can bear on his own. Hopefully Stan doesn't mind if he leans on him a little - god knows that would be the least demanding favor he asked of him in the past two days.

"My choice, huh?" He chuckles, the sound tired but warm. "I hope you don't have your heart set on anything exciting, because I after all this I could really use a quiet night in."

Except his house isn't really the best place for getting R&R these days - not in the state it's in. Besides, Ford is starving and while the food back at the cabin is edible, it's not exactly palatable.

"...Actually, why don't we head out someplace, grab something to eat. Get me out of the house for a while."

And by that he means he might actually just rent a goddamn motel room for the night, just so they won't have to go back to the house. Ford doesn't want to have to face that place until the morning hours.

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Oh no that icon

and now have a dramatic one used for a non dramatic purpose

I cry

so do they

HOW DARE

you are so very welcome

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