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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Ford hasn't laughed this much since - god, he doesn't even remember when. All he knows is that Stan's always known how to hit him right in the funnybone, and the chuckle that escapes him is tired but genuine.

"It's fine. Stan. No one would believe you even if you told them. Really, who's going to actually going to take you seriously if you tell them the president is actually just a puppet being controlled by a shadowy organization that's been running the country behind the scenes the entire time he's been in office?"

He says this all with an amused smile, like the very idea of anyone believing such an outrageous story is laughable, before fishing his keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door so they can finally step in out of the cold.

"Though, honestly, I'm a little surprised no one's suspected anything before now. I mean, a Hollywood actor suddenly taking an interest in politics and becoming the governor of California? Seems a little strange, doesn't it?"

As usual when he makes Ford laugh, Stan's smiling before he even knows he's doing it. Not a huge smile but a proud one, 'cause he didn't set out to be funny just then but it was him who made Ford laugh, anyway, and it's surprised him every time he's done it, remembering just how good that feels.

"I don't know," he says, hunching up his shoulders and shaking himself a little when he goes inside, like he's trying to shake the cold off. "I just figured he was smart, takin' advantage of the way people liked him. That's what I'd do. Probably."

Stan walks up the hall, looking for a little table or somethin' where he can set Ford's leftovers down, but his pace slows when he gets a look at a certain room and remembers the mess he made there, his little tantrum that made Ford stand back and look at him like- Well, never mind just how Ford looked at him because things have changed since then, a whole lotta' shit has changed and it kinda' feels like when he was in this house havin' a freakout about Ford's future as a drugged up vegetable happened a lot longer ago than it actually did.

Now if Ford feels the same way, maybe Stan can block his view of that room when they walk past it and not remind his brother of his little, uh. The moment he had, back before he knew the real story here. Or, you know, part of the real story. To distract Ford a little Stan ducks his head, catching the glasses as they slip off and blinking hard a few times as he gets used to the way the world normally looks. "I guess you don't want me keepin' these but uh, thanks for not lettin' me fall on my face out there."

Edited (icon) 2016-03-24 01:36 (UTC)

Luckily for Stan, the little incident that happened in that room is far from the forefront of Ford's mind, so he doesn't even think to spare a glance its way as they pass it by. Instead, he's looking around at the messes he's made, at the state of disarray he's let his own home fall into. Now that he's got a clearer head than he's had in a good long while, he can't help but cringe a little at the sight of it.

God, he really needs to clean the place up a bit. Especially if he expects Stan to stick around for - for however long he decides he wants to stay before he gets tired of having to deal with all the trouble his brother's brought upon himself, his house, and anyone stupid enough to be anywhere near he and it.

Before he can think too hard on that, though, Stan pulls him out of his own head, like he always does, and Ford flashes a little smile at him in thanks.

"No, go ahead, keep them. That's not my only pair." He says, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"You have no idea how often I've had my glasses stolen by gnomes." He adds, as if that little detail was really necessary to explain why he would have more than one pair of glasses.

"Gnomes?" Stan raises his eyebrows at Ford, then remembers: Oh, yeah. Weird shit.

"I'm never gonna' be able to tell if you're pullin' my leg again, am I?" Stan's smiling as he says it, staring at the glasses in his hand for a couple seconds before slipping them into a pocket. "Thanks for these. I haven't had a good pair of glasses since, uh... Columbia, yeah, Bogotá, the guys were nice enough to remind me why I stopped wearin' 'em in the first place." He huffs a little, kind of laughing to himself for a second, then heads toward Ford's bedroom and looks for enough empty surface in it to put Ford's box of food down on.

"But I know these'll come in handy sooner or later. I can use 'em to read your Writings of the Weird, for one thing. Not that I, uh, was gonna' read those journals of yours before you gave me the okay, I mean, I know you're not sold on the idea that me tryin' to take all that in would do us any good. And I did say I'd give you a night to sleep on it anyway, so, uh. I know this is your show, it's your call where we take it next." He's sleeping under Ford's roof, eating Ford's food, walking around in Ford's life - so long as Ford lets Stan stick around Ford's got to feel like Stan agrees that Ford's got the final say in pretty much everything. Stan knows how it is. That's why he don't couch surf so much as he used to, cheap hotels are just easier. But this is Ford. Even if Ford were sleepin' in a potato sack under the stars, Stan would do what it took to stick around.

"And we don't gotta' decide anything now, anyway, we just got done celebratin'. You called it celebrating, anyway. Some day I'll show you what I call a real party." Stan imagines it for a second, Ford all dressed up under the lights, shakin' his little butt off to somethin' loud, and he grins. That's one hell of an image, right there.

After the day they've had, it takes everything Ford has to resist the urge to drop face-down on his bed and sleep for two weeks. Instead, he simply sits on the edge of the bed then drops backwards, arms splayed out as he shuts his eyes and lets out the long, tired sigh of a man who hasn't been glad to be home in a long, long time.]

[He missed this, being able to come home and feel even a little at east.]

"Why do I have the feeling your idea of a "real party" involves the contents of my medicine cabinet?"

He grins as he says it, feeling the tired sort of happy where everything just seems funnier than it actually is.

"Not that anything in there can really be used recreationally. Well, except for the Quaalude. And the Secanol."

Look, insomnia medication is really easy to abuse, alright. And you know what, shut up, he actually has legitimate prescriptions for those.

"Heh." Stan slips his jacket off and throws it over the nearest chair, grinning down at his brother for a second. "That depends on the party."

And then the smile fades, because this is an opportunity to ask something he's been wondering, because Stan's gone through every part of this house he could get at a couple times over and the more he finds out about what Ford's life's been like while Stan was off doin' stuff like gettin' his glasses kicked off his face in La Distrital, the more stuff he kind of starts to put together. But it's the sort of stuff where he don't know for sure, can't, 'cause he don't know enough. When it comes to knowing about the sort of shit Ford's gotten deep into, Stan can only start runnin' behind him and hope he's lucky enough to catch up.

It's not somethin' he wants to bring up, not with Ford looking all relaxed like that, maybe even looking happy, but Stan might not get a better opening to ask, and never let it be said that Stan Pines lets any kind of opportunity pass him by. "All that stuff, your uh, sleep meds, and all that. Are those for, uh. You know."

Stan taps at one temple, then realizes that even if Ford does look at him and see the gesture, it sorta' makes it look like Stan's asking if those pills are for that crazy shit, and that's the last thing he wants to look like he's accusing Ford of, not ever again. "For Bill? 'Cause you could get some good money out of those pills, but not if you still need 'em. And if you do need 'em I can get more, you know. I uh, I may not know much about all this stuff yet but I could do that much for you."

If Ford is at all bothered by the mention of Bill, he doesn't show it. Or at least, he hopes he doesn't show it. He may have grimaced a little, reflexively, or maybe his brows sort of twitched downward for a second. He's not about to admit to doing either of those things if called out on it, though, so it doesn't really matter one way or the other.

"Yeah. Yeah, they were for Bill." He admits, with some reluctance. He cards a hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes despite the fact he still has them closed.

"I never actually needed them before he clawed his way inside my head and made a wreck of the place, but now that I actually have sleeping problems, I can't use them." He scoffs, the sound short and humorless. "I should've thrown them out months ago."

"Don't throw 'em out, not something like that." Stan moves closer and sits beside his brother, still looking down at him. "You got the room to keep 'em, they'll come in handy someday. And, uh, hey - take it from a guy who knows about wrecks, Ford, you ain't one. Your head's fine. You're just... Things ain't been goin' your way, that's all, but they'll pick up. They always do, huh?"

He reaches out to nudge Ford's shoulder with a fist - not hard, not a punch or even a thump, just a little nudge, slow and careful. With Ford's eyes closed like that Stan don't want to startle him or nothing, not when Stan's wondering just how long it's been since Ford got any sleep that don't come from the bottom of a bottle. Speaking of -

"I wish us normal guys could go inside people's dreams too. Then I'd really give that asshole the old one-two, make him let you alone for a real night's sleep, for once."

Ford doesn't open his eyes when he feels the mattress sink in next to him, he doesn't open them when Stan starts talking, trying to be positive and reassuring. He keeps them closed, right up until he feels that nudge to his shoulder. Then he blinks them open, tries and fails to fight off a weak smile, and turns his head just enough to look up at his brother.

"We're not eight anymore, Stanley. I don't need you beating people up for me." He says gently, with a note of fondness in his tone. "Believe me, if I could do it myself, I would."

He pauses, thinking over what he just said, and what Stanley meant. He realizes that he might have just come across as dismissive, like he doesn't even want his brother's help and feels offended that he even offered. He's quick to correct this potential slip up by adding, quickly:

"Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment. God knows I'd pay just about anything to see that one-eyed psychopath get taken down a peg or two. Or twelve."

"Twelve. Definitely twelve." Stan opens his mouth, about to tell Ford to go to sleep, and - well, yeah. They both know what's gonna' happen when he tries that, unless Ford decides to magic a bottle of 90-proof or whatever out from under that mattress. He frowns at the far wall for a few seconds because Ford might not like it if he pushes this, and he's worked too hard to prove to Ford that he's worth keepin' around to push his luck too hard.

But he remembers what Ford looked like when he woke up, when he looked at Stan like he didn't know who he was. Maybe like he didn't trust who Stan was. Something, something in that look that was on Ford's face, and all because of that guy he got mixed up with, it pulls at something inside Stan. It ain't right, Ford looking like that, some random asshole making him feel that way. Some random asshole Stan didn't even see coming, wasn't here to warn off, 'cause he was out - well, it ain't like Stan didn't have his own problems. But if he'd been braver, checked up on his brother a little bit more, maybe then - but no. No, when it comes to the guy ruining his brother's life, Stan don't know shit.

"How many of the books you got here talk about this guy, Bill? Any of 'em? Is there anything you got that can help me figure out how this guy ticks?" Anything other than you, he doesn't say. He doesn't want to ask Ford, and he doesn't want to see Ford's face while he talks about it. He don't want it, he thinks, only a little less than Ford don't want it. But Ford didn't seem to want Stan to read up on the guy earlier, so - well, shit, alright? He's Stan Pines. He's outsmarted schmucks in every country, he's been around the world and survived it. He can figure something out. He can.

He knew this question was coming, eventually. He knew it was only a matter of time before the need to know overpowered his brother's self-restraint and prompted him to ask something he knew he didn't want to talk about.

Well, the time's finally come, and Ford's no more prepared to deal with it now than he was when the thought first came to mind.

"Just the one." He admits carefully, after a brief moment of hesitation.

He moves to take off his glasses, just to give himself an excuse to not elaborate for a few moments longer. He examines the lenses, holds them up to the light, then breathes a puff of air onto them to fog them up so he can wipe away a few smudges with his sleeve.

The gesture is completely without point, since he doesn't even put them back on once he's finished - instead he sits up, gingerly, and sets them on the nightstand next to the bed. After that, he shrugs off his coat, instinct prompting him to move a hand to his neck to hide the scarring no longer covered by his collar.

"Most of what I know, I never wrote down. It's all up here." He admits, before reaching up to tap two fingers against his temple. His hand falls heavily to his lap a moment later, as does his gaze.

"Probably for the best, really. The last thing I want is for you to wind up trying to summon the bastard just to take a swing at him."

Which, he's not going to lie, sounds exactly like something Stanley would do.

Stan's eyes catch on those scars before he thinks about it and he looks away, fast. "Then I won't summon him," he promises easily, not thinking about it, just needing to turn Ford's doubt into belief. Belief in him. "I won't call him up and leave some shittalking message on his demonic answering machine either, whatever, if that's what you want, you got it. It's just, Ford, you said, you said we had a deal. You gotta' let me prove I can help you out here. That was the deal. How am I supposed to do that if you shut up tighter than Ford Knox on me whenever I start tryin' to figure all this horror movie BS out? How else am I gonna' make up for all this, Ford? It's like you don't want me involved, still, after all this shit. But you said you would, you said you'd give me a chance."

"Give me a chance," he says, turning to try and look into Ford's eyes, his voice slipping into that tone he's used a million times before, his voice earnest and open, his face honest. He means it, is the thing. He always means it, to big guys with baseball bats, to random strangers on the street. To his brother most of all.

"Please."

If Ford has one weakness - aside from validation - it's hearing his brother say that one little word that he never says unless he means it. It makes Ford's stomach twist a little, hearing that, knowing even after everything his brother still wants so desperately to help him.

It makes Ford feel a little sick, actually. A little sick, and a little irrationally angry because his brother has no right to be so goddamn forgiving, so quick to push everything aside and ask how he can help, when Ford hasn't done the same for him in...in a while. In a long while.

Sighing roughly, Ford drops his hand from his neck and into his lap where it joins its twin. He plays absently with a lose thread on the end of his sleeve, rolling it into a little ball then unraveling it, just so he has something to look at other than Stan.

"It's not that I don't trust you, Stan. I'm not...this isn't me trying to shut you out, this is me trying to keep you safe."

The words sound hollow even to his own ears, and Ford shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging up the corner of his mouth.

"No, it's not even about that. Not entirely, anyway. I just. I don't -" He cuts himself off, shaking his head as he abandons that sentence and tries again.

"We're you ever afraid, on the way here? Afraid that I'd...that I'd look at you differently?" He gnaws at his lip, tugging a little harder on that thread to test its strength, see if it'll snap.

"Did you ever worry that I'd...I'd find out something about you, something you never wanted me to know, and that I'd think less of you for it?"

Stan lets his mouth stay open a second, about to answer, while he thinks: Holy Moses, it gets worse? Worse than what Ford's said already?

It gets worse, shit, how is Stan ever gonna' make up for- He shakes his head, not meaning to say no to Ford, just trying to shake off the thought, and looks down at his own clothes, stained and thin even though he got new ones from the car while Ford was sleeping. He thinks about that car, and about the moment when they were going out to celebrate when he realized that if he drove Ford would see inside that car, that Ford might see his whole life when he climbed inside it. He looks up at Ford, thinks about the way Ford don't seem like he can look at Stanley just now, and he takes a breath, and lets that honest tone in his voice stay honest. It ain't easy. It ain't like he's been lying before, or anything, it's just- This is different, okay?

"You say that like I ever stopped," he says, rueful, then smiling and breathing out a little laugh because making out like it's a joke makes saying it come a little smoother. "But I-"

I've done some shit, he doesn't say, some serious shit, because the conversation ain't about him and being honest is one thing, but try to tell Stan Pines not to take advantage of a thing like that. It's not about him, it's about Ford. "I thought you lost it, you know? When I got here? I thought drugs, you know, or maybe the way all those super geniuses you hear about losin' touch with reality, I thought maybe you just sort of... And I mighta' showed out a little, but that was never, it was never because I thought less of you. I was mad for you, not because of you. So, look, I don't know what more there is to all this, I got no clue what you don't want to tell me and I got a feeling neither of us are gonna' like hearing it. But, Ford - you're you. And you're here. And I'm here. That's- I mean, if we can do that, you know- "

He shrugs, his eyes sliding off Ford again so his face don't go all hopeful, so Ford maybe won't notice the hope that crept up into his voice too before he stopped himself going too far. Because if they can do this, be here like this after all this time, they can do anything, including talking about, you know. All that fucked up junk. Unless Ford thinks they can't. If Ford don't think so that's, you know. That's fine.

Edited (italics nooooo) 2016-04-19 01:09 (UTC)

The sound Ford makes, it's not a laugh, not really. It sounds kinda like one, his mouth even twists up into a sort-of smile, but there's no real humor in it. If Stan pays real close attention he might notice the way Ford breathes a little funny right before he makes that sound, might notice the way he ducks his head and swipes at his eyes with his thumb real quick-like.

"Well." He lets out another laugh-like sound, though this one is a bit closer to the genuine article. There's actually some humor in it, but its the rueful sort. "How about that."

He can't make Stan think poorly of him no matter what he does, it seems like. Even after - after all the shit he probably went through these past ten years, all the things that never would have happened if Ford had just gone after him, or tried talking their Father out of doing what he did, or - or something. Anything. If he had done anything at all, maybe he'd deserve Stan's undying loyalty. Maybe he'd feel like he had done something to earn having his brother here, having someone who still thinks the world of him despite all he's done.

Ford rubs absently at his mouth, feels the half-healed split in his lip from all his nervous chewing. Reluctant though he is to tell Stan the truth - the whole of it - he knows his brother is owed an explanation. He's owed it, he's owed that much.

"...Remember what I said earlier about nearly ending the world?" He asks, his voice quiet, guilt-heavy. "I wasn't joking. You didn't hear me incorrectly. That - that actually happened. I almost did that."

Not for the first time, Stan thinks: My brother, the mad scientist. It's a little bit proud, that thought. It ain't like being the hero, the guy who saves the day and gets the girl and his name at the top of the credits at the end of the movie, but hey, people remember the mad scientist once those credits quit, and they sure as hell remember the monsters and shit that he made. It ain't a bad gig.

Maybe Ford shoulda' gone in for that. You know, on purpose. Maybe if he spent the last ten years standin' in front of some lightning bolts or something with his arms all stretched out and cackling, maybe right now he wouldn't look so... so hurt. So beat down.

"Almost, huh?" He scoots a little closer toward Ford, and his voice would be cheerful if it wasn't so high pitched, trying for it a little too hard to get there. "If you're trainin' for the screw-up Olympics you're really gonna' have to step up your game, you know almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

What is he even supposed to do here? You don't grow up in a beachside town without learnin' to swim but he's treading water here, it feels like, like if he stretches out he can't even touch the bottom. But he can make Ford laugh, can't he? Or, he can lighten the mood anyway. It's like stretching his toes out toward the bottom of the ocean, trying to find a foothold in all this world ending devil shit and not knowing the size of the wave that's coming but trying the doggy paddle anyway, and he does it.

"So, uh." He don't want to ask this, but Stan has always been the kinda' guy who flips to the end of a book hardly before he's started it, who could never wait for anyone else to tell a story before trying to run it to the finish line himself. If Ford is telling, he is going to ask. "I'm guessing this Bill- this devil guy, he had something to do with that."

Somehow, Stan always seems to know - without having to even think about it - how to make him feel better when he's down. Ford envies that, envies how easy he makes it look to be a good brother. He wishes that sort of thing came half as easy to him.

When Stan moves closer, makes that little offhanded joke, Ford can't help but smile a little despite himself. He still feels like shit, he can't not considering the circumstances, but it's nice to have someone in close proximity like this, telling him bad jokes to lighten his mood a little.

He leans a bit to the side for no real reason, just because he can, really, and hopes Stan doesn't read too much into how their shoulder's touch. It's just - it's a tired, thing, not a comfort thing. Yeah. A tired thing.

"He came to me in a dream." He begins, knowing full well how crazy that sounds out loud. "He told me he was a muse, and like a fool I believed him."

If he sounds bitter about that, bitter and ashamed and more than a little hurt, it's because he is.

"Not that I'm the first idiot to be tricked by Bill. He's been doing this for centuries, maybe for as long as humankind has existed. He's been in this game for a long time, Stan. A long time."

Somehow, that thought doesn't make him feel much better. Sure, it's somewhat comforting to know he's not the only person who bought the lies Bill sold them, but even so. He feels he should have known better, feels there were signs that he missed, things he ignored because he didn't want to believe that Bill was anything other than a friend.

"...I wanted to do something great. I wanted to change the world and make it a better place. Bill said he could help, and I believed him. I believed every word."

He pauses, teeth scraping along his bottom lip as he bites back a sardonic smile.

"And why wouldn't I? He was my friend. I trusted him. God, I trusted him so much, and the whole time he was just, he used me and he-"

Ford stops abruptly, cutting himself off with a rough sigh. He closes his eyes, taking a moment to drag in a steadying breath as he rubs tiredly at his bruised-looking eyes.

Edited 2016-04-28 02:02 (UTC)

Coming with that smile like it does, Stan knows damn well Ford's not leaning on him because he's tired. Not only 'cause of that, anyway. He just smiles back, though, kinda' proud, feeling his toes touch bottom for just a second before treading that water again, and he just leans against Ford just a little and listens. It's probably a good thing Ford keeps talking because Stan almost asks about that muse thing - he don't remember much about what those are supposed to be, something about hot chicks, right? Whatever, that's not the important part, especially once Ford goes on, once Stan has another one of those moments like he's getting his feet under him again. 'Cause the weird thing about all this shit, the shapeshifting and the actual-not-actual-devil and fucking leprechauns and shit, is that it ain't all weird. There keep being little moments when Stan thinks, that sounds just like-

And it does.

Having his feet under him, at least a little, means he almost knows what direction to go in, kinda' knows how to help his brother. For now, anyway, he knows how to maybe try and take that look off of his face. He knows just what to say. Stan slips an arm around his brother's shoulders, sits it there all friendly but light, cautious, ready to lift up at Ford's slightest twitch, and leans his face toward that familiar one like he's telling a secret. "I may not know much about, you know, any of this stuff you've been dealin' with, but you take the exploding Earth, end-of-times stuff out of it and, you know what? I, uh. I knew a guy. While I was, um, off seein' the world. And this, this sounds just like the sorta' stuff people used to say after he came through town. They trusted him, they trusted him to help, not to be some moneygrubbing skuzzball who just wanted to use 'em, you know? What you're sayin', I've heard it before. And it was, you know, it was never them. You know what ma used to say, you just gotta' know what people want, and they'll pay you by the minute so long as you keep sellin' it to 'em. This guy sold you, Ford. Whatever happened, he picked it out, he shined it up all nice and put it in your hand before you even knew your wallet was empty. But that won't fly, okay? Bein' around so long must mean he's gettin' senile, 'cause he picked out the one guy who was never meant to get touched by any of that. And he'll regret it."

That last part Stan says earnestly, calmly. It's part encouragement, part just fact, just what happens when some other guy comes in to territory that ain't his and touches somethin' he wasn't meant to touch. None of this was ever supposed to get to his brother. Not Ford. Ford ain't just some mark, and if this Bill character can't see that, well, bein' blind ain't gonna' save his ass. His weird, demonic ass. You know what, that is okay, that demon part, that is a-ok and Stan will figure out what to do about it just when he needs to. For now, there's more he needs to know and if he eases into it, maybe Ford will actually tell him this time.

"And you know, you said he's been doin' the same thing for centuries, if he's been tryin' for the same thing that long and still ain't got it, maybe he's got some weak spots after all. What he wants, that's a guy's real weak spot. We just got to look at what this senile devil weirdo wants, we gotta' find the right angle to look at it and we'll be golden."

And maybe if he don't ask, like he thinks he did earlier, back in that diner, maybe Ford won't avoid the answer. Maybe this way Ford will just tell him.

And he'll regret it.

Ford's not sure why he fixates on that part, why when he rolls them around inside his head the words kinda feel like a promise, like they've got certainty to them. The way Stan says it, he's not just telling Ford what he wants to hear. The way he says it, he sounds like he can actually make it happen.

Ford's never thought there was anything his brother couldn't do if he set his mind to it before, and he sees no reason to start now. If Stan says he's going to do something, that he's going to make something happen - well, that's really all the convincing Ford needs to believe it's even possible.

"He want's a lot of things, Stanley. Megalomaniacs usually do. Bill - it's not just one thing he wants, it's everything. Our entire world, control over all reality as we know it - he wants all of it. Total world domination is at the top of his list, though I imagine having my head on a pike is a close second."

He can't help but grimace, his hand moving to rub absently at his throat. He wonder if that's going to be his ultimate fate, becoming another disembodied, eternally-screaming head for Bill to pull out of the void as part of the world's most demented parlor trick.

"Hey," Stan says, putting a hand on his brother's back, "the only thing going on a pike is Bill."

"Up his butt," he goes on, looking Ford straight in the eyes with the most earnest expression and tone of voice he can manage. "It's going straight up his asshole, Ford. Right up there." Once he's done he cracks a grin, rubbing a few little circles over Ford's back because, fuck, who's gonna' call him on it?

"And unless The Actual Devil is a whole lot kinkier than I wanna' know about, it's not gonna' be fun for him. Look, I've dealt with ambitious guys before, okay? I know this is a little, uh, above my pay grade, this world domination stuff. You just had to go and one-up me on that too, huh? But it's like - well, guys like that, they've always got plans. You just gotta' know what they are, that's all. And if you do, if you know how he's plannin' on gettin' the world under his thumb, or whatever, you got the power here. You can use it. You just gotta' tell me, too, so I can help you figure out how to kick his butt back where it belongs. No one else has to know, if you don't want. Shit, who would I even tell?"

Ford is the very last person who would call Stan out on those little circles he's moving his hand in - partly because that's just something that's too embarrassing for either of them to verbally acknowledge, and partly because the most awful, snort-laugh bursts out of him and renders him incapable of speech. He slaps a hand over his eyes, his shoulders shaking as he kicks out a few tired chuckles that don't even bother to mute themselves. Normally he'd make more of an effort to pretend like that sort of humor doesn't amuse him, but - well, this is Stan he's dealing with, not some pretentious yuppie who'll look down on him for getting a kick out of a lowbrow joke.

"A better question is who would even believe you?" He tries to wipe the grin off his face, but it stays stubbornly in place despite his best efforts to reign it in. He shakes his head, his eyes falling shut a moment as he lets out one last amused huff, before looking back to Stan, his expression a touch more sober.

"I'm not even sure you'll believe it, and you've just survived an encounter with a homicidal, shape-changing, extra-terrestrial life-form of unknown origin."

"I trust you," he says, the warm, proud smile that comes over his face whenever he makes Ford laugh mostly fading out. He wants too much for Ford to know he means it; there isn't room on his face for anything else. "I'm done not trusting you, Ford. I told you, I shoulda' known better. If you say there's UFOs and, and that the devil's real and he's a con man named Bill, and uh, I don't know, the world's in danger and all that shit - well, you know I'm probably not gonna' understand any of it but you do. I trust that. I'm done makin' your life harder, Ford, I'm here to help. You gotta' believe me on that. I am."

He ain't rubbing Ford's back anymore but his hand stays where it is, and when he looks into Ford's eyes this time he looks worried. After all this shit, Ford's got no reason to keep someone around if they ain't gonna' make themselves useful.

Ford is damn certain that if he gnaws on the inside of his cheek any more, he's going to draw blood. He keeps doing it anyway, though, because it's a little less obvious than chewing on his lip, and he really doesn't want Stan to know how hard it is for him to think all of this over without looking as anxious as he feels.

He's only quite for a few seconds (though it feels much longer than that) before he takes in a deep breath through his nose and releases it through his mouth. He's gotta psyche himself up for this - there's no way Stan won't look at him like a goddamn idiot after he tells him, he knows that, he's convinced of that, but at least he can prepare himself for it since he knows its coming.

"...Do you remember when we were kids, and I used to make you watch all those cheesy sci-fi movies about time travel and parallel universes?"

"Yeah, and I'd make you watch-" Old movies, the real classics, a gray lady sweeping across a black and white ballroom in her poofy gray dress toward a guy all decked out in a suit made up mostly of ruffles, both of 'em singing at each other with their arms all stretched out. Yeah, Stan remembers. He clears his throat. "Uh, other stuff. So, some of your old nerd movies were more like nerd manuals after all, huh? Color me surprised. What kinda' space alien does that make Bill? One of those ones with jiggly eyestalks maybe, or rubber teeth?"

Stan holds a hand in front of his mouth and wiggles his fingers like they're those rubber teeth he was talking about, grinning all hopeful. He's got good memories of those movies. Ford does too, don't he? Ford used to laugh back then, when they would sit together and Stan would joke about all this shit.

This time, Ford doesn't laugh. Years ago, when life hadn't yet kicked him down a flight of stairs, he would have giggled like the child he had been and then punched Stan in the arm for interrupting right when they were about to get to the best part.

Only, he's not so young anymore, not so bright eyed, and the part he's about to get to is hardly what he would consider "the best."

"The kind that inspired the Eye of Providence, actually." He replies dryly, before forcing a weak little smile for Stan's benefit. He might not be able to laugh for him, but he can at least do this.

"...And yes, you really should be picturing a cycloptic triangle right now. I'm not just saying that to be cute."

Cue jokes about Arnold Schwarzenegger and history repeating itself here

ah'll be bachk, etc.

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