goodguygrifter | (no subject)

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.

Okay, they're in good shape: Ford doesn't mind the punch, and Stan doesn't mind being leaned on. He even likes it a little, his brother leaning against him, counting on Stanley to hold him up. Nah, he doesn't mind at all. He just moves his arm down some, the better to support Ford's weight, and starts to lead them out away from all this without a look back. It says a little - not a huge amount, no, but a little - about how focused he is on his brother, on having him back, really having him back after all this time, that Stan doesn't for a second remember the gun they're about to leave behind them.

"Yeah! I'll drive!" That says something about how focused he is, too, that he says that and only thinks, shit, that means he's gonna' see in my car, a second after. Or maybe it says something very different, says he's used to having people in his car now and then, but not Ford. How much can Ford tell from one look? He's the smartest guy Stan ever met, that's always been true and it's always gonna' be, but is it the kind of smart where he'll get in Stan's car - dad's old car, or it used to be right up until Stan managed to get the inside to stop smellin' like that cleaner pop used to use - and see everything Stan's done in the last ten years?

"Or, uh, it's been a while since I had the whole nature experience," he says, trying real hard to turn something that might be 'worried' into something that looks like 'earnest'. "The real thing, I mean, like you got around here, with all them freaky tall trees. How far is town from here? I bet we could walk it, right?"

It's good that Stan doesn't think about the gun, because Ford doesn't want to have to explain how it got there. In fact, he doesn't want to talk about anything that would lead either of them to think unpleasant thoughts, which...really narrows down the list of things they can actually say to one another. There's not a whole lot of safe subjects for them to talk about anymore - it seems like everything inevitably circles back to old wounds and even older regrets whenever they let themselves talk for too long.

They'll have to work on that.

"We could." Ford replies with a nod. "I'd offer to drive myself, but an Ent made off with my car last week. Again."

Yes, Stan heard right - again.

"And before you ask, no, I don't drive a Ford."

He glances to the side, shooting his brother a knowing look. He hasn't heard one of Stan's dumb jokes in a decade, but he hasn't forgotten their usual patterns. He trusts that despite the years Stan's sense of humor has stayed relatively the same, and as such he ought to expect three key things:

1. Jokes that make him groan, typically because they're so bad they swing right back around to being funny.
2. Jokes that make him feel like a horrible person when he laughs at them despite himself.
3. Jokes at his expense, because as brothers they are compelled by their base nature to give each other shit at every possible opportunity.

That said, Ford's fully expecting to hear all of the above and every combination thereof as they make their weary way to town.

"Ha! Good one!" Stan grins as if that's the first time anyone's ever made that joke, looking proud of his brother for making it with no attention for anything in the rest of the crazy mad-science bunker as they leave it. It's amazing, all this, maybe the most amazing place he's ever been - he's seen bigger places, maybe even more impressive ones, in some ways, but even after the pissed-off jello monster from hell tried to eat their faces, this place still feels fun. It feels weird, and fun, and he wants to look in every little corner to see what's going to jump out at him. It's a feeling Stan hasn't had in a long time, he's had too much nasty little shit jumping out at him from too many nasty little corners, and he wants, maybe, to come back here some time.

But right now he doesn't even glance around at it, because it's them now, the Pines brothers are back, and unless Ford really wants to walk on his own Stan's gonna' keep his arm around him all the way up those steps. "Ents, though? Like, real ones, from them books?"

This is something Stan hasn't felt in a while, too. Wide eyed and awed, amazed, wanting to explore everything. Everything feels new. Everything, and the guy beside him, too.

"Heh. Not exactly, though Tolkien was on the right track."

As they walk, Ford goes on to describe the car-stealing tree-monsters that inhabit the woods, and how they differ from their fictional counterparts. He appreciates Stan's interest, but even more than that, he appreciates just having someone to share this knowledge with. There are so many things he wants to talk about, so many wonderful and terrible and amazing facets of the world that he alone has been privy to.

Now that he thinks about it, he can't imagine anyone he'd like to share these things with more than his brother.

-------------

The walk is long, but made easy by the conversation they share as they make their way out of the bunker and through the woods. By the time they reach town, a few stores have already closed, but thankfully Ford knows a place that's open late on weekends. Ford Turns up his coat collar as they draw close, and smooths down his hair in an effort to hide the ugly red line on the back of his head. He doesn't want to have to answer any questions the wound might provoke should anyone catch sight of it.

"Here we go. Susan's place." He looks sideways at Stan, offering him a faint smile. "The food's not the best, but the service is great. I think you'll like the owner."

He chuckles a little to himself, seemingly at some sort of private joke.

"I know she'll like you."

"Yeah? Why's that, you been turnin' on the charm or somethin', gettin' her used to that handsome face of yours?" Stan slaps at Ford's shoulder, grinning, then pushes open the door and steps inside the place. "She'll have to like both of us tonight, huh? Like I said, it's your night! You and me! Come on, you must be starving!"

Then Stan's face falls. Because, hey, he just remembered. Weird that he forgot, or maybe it ain't. "I, uh." He hesitates a second, hating this and hating what it's going to come out sounding like. He has to say it, though, so he does. "I think I mighta' left my money in the car."

He mutters it, because that owner, whoever she is, sure don't wanna' hear that sort of thing. It's not a great lie either, mostly because he hates saying it to his brother, of all people, too much to put any oomph into it. But what's he gonna' tell him? That he don't have any at all, oops, sorry, he just remembered? No way. He pats at empty pockets, habit when telling someone that sort of thing, and grimaces at Ford apologetically.

Stan has no need to look as sheepish as he does - Ford had no intention of making him pay for anything, especially not after everything he's done for him since showing up in this damned down,

Ford gives his brother a reassuring smile, coupled with a nod towards one of the booths in the back end of the diner.

"It's fine, I've got a tab." He glances around, checking to make sure Susan hasn't come out from the kitchen yet, before leaning forward and adding in a low, conspiratorial tone: "And to answer your first question - no, I haven't done anything of the sort. She just likes the jaw-line."

He grins, gesturing between Stan's face and his own.

"Hence why I think she'll take a liking to you pretty quick."

"Heh, yeah." Stan runs a hand over said line of his jaw, still looking a teensy bit sheepish but relieved, too, glad that Ford didn't look too deep into it and that he didn't mind. "That's come in handy a few times here, too."

"Speakin' of," he adds, sliding into the side of the booth that puts his back to the wall, "how do you even know how to use that jaw of yours to charm a woman? Does that mean you've been gettin' some practice in while I've been- gone?"

Stan's good, too, sometimes Stan's real good, because he does hesitate over how to say that, gone, but only a little, only barely, and he caps the sentence off by trying to wiggle an elbow in between Ford's ribs. "Or maybe more than practice? Ehhhhh?" And hey, he waggles his eyebrows too for good measure. It won't do for Ford to miss what he means, after all.

That elbow jab, coupled with the waggled eyebrows, earns Stan an embarrassed groan as Ford puts his face to his hand and drops his head back against the wall behind them.

"Stanley, we're in public."

Nevermind that the diner is pretty much empty, except for them. The point still stands - except not really, Ford just doesn't wanna talk about the spectacular mess of half-baked misadventures that make up his personal life.

Sure, he'll tell Stan all about the demons and the world-ending mistakes, but god help him if he has to tell him about his utter lack of experience in this particular area too, he's going to strongly consider learning how to spontaneously combust at will.

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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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at some point when they settle into going wherever they're going we can timeskip

Alrighty!

idk if it should be now or not, I'll ever so kindly leave that up to you XD

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