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…ironically, the person I will entrust the final of my journals to is the least trustworthy man I know. He is a thief and a charlatan, but a well-travelled one. I have recently received a postcard from him; he asked me to see him, and if I still believed in benevolent fate, I would take this as a sign.
Benevolent fate or not, however, the fact remains that the final volume is safest far, far away from me this place, and S has had nothing to do with me for upwards of a decade. If anyone can secure the journal, he can.
I will be setting off immediately once I bury this tome. The further the journal gets from the danger of my folly, the better.
Perhaps the mistakes of the past can yet be undone.
Perhaps he can still prove his worth to me.
All I can do now is go.
Stanford ducked his head as he turned and headed into the alleyway, his eyes flicking from shady doorway to shady doorway. When Stanley had sent word for him, he'd expected it was so he could rub it in Stanford's face how successful he'd become in the criminal underworld.
(Or perhaps, said the part of his mind that had never quite grown up, Stanley had come up with the monetary recompense their father had demanded and wanted to try and make his mistakes up to Stanford.)
The address on the postcard, however, told a different story.
…unless, of course, the movies had it all wrong and crime bosses held council in ratty, zero-star motels.
Stanford found his face reddening as he passed by a wide-open window into one of the motel rooms, and he made a point of averting his eyes and quickening his pace in an effort to give the occupants some semblance of privacy. The sounds of their activity followed him anyway, but he just did his best to ignore it.
Room 618 came up too fast and not fast enough at all. (Part of Stanford wanted to ask why in the world there were rooms numbered in the hundreds when he barely counted four dozen, but it wasn't the time for that.)
Thankfully, Stanley's motel room was blessedly free of the noises still half-audible from one of the neighboring rooms, otherwise Stanford might've just imploded on the spot. Instead, he swallowed and began preparing himself for what he was about to do.
"You haven't seen your brother in ten years. It's alright. He's family. He won't bite. "
With a suddenly-shaky hand, Stanford reached up and gave the door a knock.
Silence.
Frowning, Stanford knocked again, harder this time.
Just as Stanford was beginning to think the entire thing was, at best, a cruel joke on Stanley's part-
"WHICH OF YOU GOONS IS IT? IF I'VE TOLDJA ONCE, I'VE TOLDJA A HUNDRED TIMES! I'LL GET RICO HIS MONEY! "
The voice was rougher and a smidge deeper, and from the sounds of it, just as sleep-deprived as Stanford, but it was unmistakably Stanley.
Stanford's eyebrows shot up, and he knocked a third time. "I don't know who this 'Rico' is, but I highly doubt I count as a goon, regardless."
A shaky gasp was the only warning Stanford got before the door flew open, and the sight of the man before him nearly made him gasp, himself.
Long, near-matted hair in more of a mullet than even Fiddleford's.
Sweat-stained undershirt and boxers.
Unshaven five-o-clock shadow.
Dark circles under the eyes (normal, human, brown, not Bill's cat's-eye yellow ).
A baseball bat in one fist that clattered to the ground as he watched.
Stanley stared at him with wide eyes. "Stanford-! You…you came. "
"I did." Stanford said, and he would've said more were it not for the noises from the open window growing louder and causing him to cringe.
Stanley grimaced and stepped aside. "You, uh, should prolly come in. They don't stop for nothing once they get going."
" Spectacular. " Stanford muttered, though he hastily entered the motel room and shut the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment in relief as the noises grew quiet before daring to look around.
Stanley's motel room was lit a dim, dismal red by the lights outside, but it was plenty enough to see how much of the room had personal belongings in it.
…or rather, how little.
While it was just as messy and disorganized as the glimpse Stanford had unwillingly had of the room with the open window, there was an off-putting lack of anything Stanley-ish. There were a few boxes of various junk with his face on it, apparently under the "StanCo" brand, but even those were pushed to the side where they could be forgotten about.
Stanford didn't know why he was surprised. If he'd been the one to call his twin for aid, he doubted Stanley would be able to take the obvious signs of disrepair in his house in stride.
They'd both changed over the past decade, clearly.
Hopefully Stanley hadn't changed too much.
Oh, wait. Stanley was talking.
"So, I'm gonna be honest here, I, uh…wasn't exactly sure you'd come?" Stanley said, tapping his fingers together nervously. "But-! But this is good!"
Stanford sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress, selecting the one spot that didn't seem to have a Stain Of Dubious Origin on it. Almost without thinking, he said, "For the both of us, I'd wager."
Stanley's eyes widened and he stood up a bit taller, but his voice only jumped a bit. "Wait, really? Actually, back it up. What? "
Stanford stiffened.
He really didn't want to explain the intricacies of his folly to anyone, least of all Stanley.
So, instead, he said, "I'll get to that in a moment. Stanley, why did you send word for me? Your postcard wasn't exactly forthcoming with information."
"Well, it's…" Stanley started. He grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing, "…oh, you're gonna think it's stupid. I'm not doing so hot, Stanford. Things around here are going from bad to worse, and I don't think it's a good idea to stay here much longer."
"Does this have anything to do with this 'Rico' character?"
"Figured that out all on your own, didja?" Stanley managed a strained smile before it fell again. "Thing is, I can't go anywhere else."
Stanford blinked. "Now, when you say 'can't,' do you mean 'it is very difficult,' or-?"
"I mean I can't." Stanley insisted. "Nobody's buying what I'm selling anymore- literally! I haven't made a sale in weeks! And…I've made mistakes. More than just the one I know you're thinking of."
Stanford, whose mind had decided to remind him of a high school science project gone wrong, made a point not to let anything show on his face.
"I never had the courage to talk whenever I scrounged up enough money for a phone call-"
Wait. What?
"-but Stanford…" Stanley trailed off.
"…I'm tired. "
Stanford turned a half-confused, half-disturbed stare onto Stanley.
"I'm tired of running. From the law, from my prison 'buddies,' from, well…" Stanley's voice petered out, but then he cleared his throat and said, " M-my point is, I need a way out, but I don't know who to trust anymore."
Stanford's eyes widened.
That sounded quite a bit like his own situation, the mundanities of the current source of Stanley's misfortune aside.
Stanley needed to get anywhere but where he was now.
Stanford needed him to take the journal anywhere but where Stanford was.
Clearly, the separation their father insisted on had hurt them both in the long run, and as much as he was angry at Stanley for what had happened all those years ago, he would never have wished this upon him.
How could he tie the solutions to both of their current problems together in a way that would remedy the rift between them?
He shifted in place as he thought, and he felt a well-worn photo crinkle in his pocket.
That was it!
All this flashed through his mind in a fraction of a second, and he glanced up at Stanley. "You aren't the only one who's made mistakes in who to trust. I…I believe I may have a solution that will benefit us both."
Stanley blinked. "…what're you talking about?"
"I've been led astray as well." Stanford explained, reaching into his trench coat. "I'd thought the research I had been doing would help the world, but it turned out that it's far more likely to doom it. My largest project, in particular, could tear a hole in the fabric of our reality unless I can shut it down. It's my greatest achievement, but only in scale. I'd originally split the instructions for its operation across three journals for practicality's sake, but doing so has ensured extra security now that I know they must be hidden at all costs."
"Uh," Stan said.
Stanford withdrew the journal from his pocket and stared at it for a moment before continuing. "…do you remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?"
By the sudden intake of breath from Stanley's direction, it certainly seemed like he did.
Moment of truth.
Stanford lifted the book and held it out to Stanley, locking gazes with him to impart the importance of his next words. "Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as possible. To the ends of the earth. Bury it where no one can find it."
In the very next moment, the tension in the room grew thick enough he could taste it, Stanley's face fell from an expression of raw hope that hadn't processed in Stanford's mind until it was gone, and Stanford realized his idea, for lack of better phrasing, hadn't gone over well.
"That's…that's it? " Stanley spluttered. " That's your big 'solving both our problems' plan? You came all the way down here just to tell me to get as far away from you as possible in person?! "
"Stanley, you don't understand what I'm up against! What I've been through!" Stanford protested, leaping to his feet.
"No, no, you don't understand what I've been through!" Stanley countered. He took a step forward, hands clenched into fists. "I've been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! You think you've got problems? I've got a MULLET, Stanford! "
"You really think having an atrocious hairstyle can hold a candle to what I've had to face?!" Stanford spat.
Stanley laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "Considering I don't even know what you've been up to? Yes! " He threw his hands up in frustration. "For all I know, you're living it up in some fancy cabin in the woods, selfishly hoarding your college money because you only care about yourself! "
"Selfish? I'm selfish?" Stanford started, but before he could continue-!
"Y'know what?" Stanley said, snatching the journal from Stanford and storming for the bathroom door. "I don't know what I expected. You really need this damn book gone so bad? I got a toilet bowl with this thing's name on it!"
"No! My research! "
Stanford was tackling him before he even knew what happened.
They toppled to the ground with a thud, the journal going flying, and Stanford scrambled for it as fast as he could. Stanley tripped him up and bolted for the journal, grabbing it and clutching it to his chest in one hand. "You said I could have it, so I'll do what I want with it!"
"I should have known you would do this! I give you the chance to do the first wor-! " Stanford snapped, lunging again and grabbing onto the edges of the book that weren't covered by Stanley's hand or arm.
Stanley cut him off and fought him every inch of the way, the both of them slamming against the thin wall before he shoved off from it. "You want it back, you're gonna have to try harder than that! "
Their fight sent them all over the cramped motel room, with each of them missing as many blows as they hit and tripping over Stanley's garbage half the time.
One particular instance stuck out in Stanford's mind.
When it happened, they were on the floor in front of the bathroom door, with the dresser next to it. Stanley struggled to tear the book away from Stanford, gritting his teeth and saying, "It was supposed to be us forever! You ruined my life! "
Stanford grabbed onto the book and lifted his foot. "You ruined your own life!"
When Stanford kicked, he kicked Stanley back into the side of the dresser, knocking a heavy-looking lamp off the edge and sending it crashing into the back of Stanley's head. Stanley crumpled with a shout, and for a single, horrifying moment, Stanford feared he might not get back up.
"S-Stanley?"
The relief he felt at seeing Stanley move again was quickly overwritten by the sight of the empty expression on his face.
"Fine." Stanley said blankly. "You win. Just...go."
In the silence that followed, Stanford found himself unable to move.
He'd missed something huge when he'd had the idea that had led to their brawl, he just knew it.
The ringing in his ears only subsided when Stanley's eyes narrowed, only to return with a vengeance once he spoke.
"Hey, does it seem quiet to you?"
Stanford frowned and pushed himself upright, straining his ears for whatever had set Stanley on edge (besides himself).
Then it clicked.
The sounds he'd been so studiously trying to ignore had gone quiet.
Under his breath, Stanford whispered, "I thought you said they don't stop for anything."
"They don't. " Stanley replied, just as low.
There came a knock at the door, and an accented voice called, "Hola, Forrester. Anybody home?"
If Stanford had thought Stanley's previous crestfallen expression was off-putting, the way his face had gone deathly pale was downright horrifying.
"Okay, change of plans." Stanley hissed, grabbing Stanford by the arm and shoving him into the bathroom, pushing the journal into his chest as he did. "Stay put! "
"Wh-?! Stanley-! "
But the raw desperation in Stanley's eyes made him freeze.
It was the same desperation he'd seen on his own face in the mirror on his way down to New Mexico.
That brief moment of recognition was all Stanley needed to nearly-almost-slam the door on him (but not quite, as it shut with barely a click instead of a loud bang).
Stanford pulled himself together and reached for the doorknob, but he heard the outside door open and a pair of heavy footsteps walked into the room, and he froze.
"Hal, Hal, Hal, look at this mess." The man tutted. "You weren't trying to leave town, were you, mi amigo?"
"What? Of course not. You just caught me at a bad time, is all." Stan replied, as nonchalant as could be.
Were it not for the unadulterated terror Stanford had seen on his face, he might have even believed Stanley to be calm in the face of this new arrival.
But he had, and he didn't.
"Hal, I'm a very patient man." The stranger went on.
Stanford shifted in place to get a better look, and he managed to silently crack the door open the tiniest sliver.
The stranger turned to face Stanley, a genial smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes. "I've given you every opportunity to pay me back, hombre. I just can't help but notice there's no money here for me."
"I'm-! I'm working on it, Rico." Stanley deflected. "Just gimme a few more days-!"
Stanford pressed a hand to his mouth as Rico made his move, slamming Stanley against the very same wall the twins had hit during their own fight and snarling, "Where is my goddamn money? "
Stanley just gasped for breath, wild-eyed.
As quickly as it had come, Rico's rage passed, and he straightened back up, though he didn't let go of Stanley's shoulder. "Fine. I can see you haven't managed to do something as simple as repaying the debt you owe. There are still other ways for you to pay me back."
Rico snapped his fingers, and two burly men from outside descended on Stanley, essentially pinning him between them so Rico could afford to let go.
"This may be the first worthwhile thing you do in your life, Forrester." Rico mentioned offhandedly, turning for the door. "You'd best pray you perform well under pressure, or else your life may not be the only thing I take."
Stanford suddenly felt sick to his stomach, the words he'd almost said to Stanley just a few moments prior ringing in his ears.
In his mind, of course he knew Stanley was just a man like any other, with problems and a life of his own, and he'd known it for some time.
In the rest of him, however?
It hadn't really sunken in until just that moment, when he'd realized the depths of Stanley's trouble.
He did some quick calculations in his head, paying particular attention to them in an effort to avoid overlooking any important variables the way he had before.
Fact: Stanford was in trouble.
Fact: Stanley was in trouble.
Fact: Stanford's trouble was of the world-ending variety, and while it had great potential to affect the rest of their dimension, so far it only affected him. (And potentially the rest of his town.)
Fact: Stanley's trouble was of the crime lord variety, and while it had the potential to affect the rest of their family, so far it only affected him. (And potentially Stanford, were he to be discovered.)
Fact: Stanford needed help, but he had clearly gone about telling Stanley as much in the worst way imaginable.
Fact: Stanley needed help, but he had swallowed his pride and reached out to Stanford for it.
Fact: Stanford...may not have responded properly to Stanley's plea for help.
Fact: Stanley's need for aid was growing direr with each passing second.
Fact: Nobody was well-equipped to deal with the likes of Bill.
Fact: Stanley wasn't well-equipped to deal with the likes of Rico, but Stanford was.
Fact: If Stanford passed out, they were all in grave danger, and any hopes of getting Stanley away from Rico would be shattered in the face of Bill taking him over.
Fact: Stanford was running on two all-nighters, self-deprecation, and a bag of jelly beans, and his self-preservation skills were shot through long, long ago.
Stanford caught sight of Stanley's struggle as the two men at his sides held him in place and dragged him from the room, with Rico leisurely taking up the rear.
Conclusion: Nobody was getting taken tonight.
Stanford waited only until Rico and his men were beyond the door to make his move.
He slipped his journal back into his pocket, slunk to the door...
...and kicked it open, making all four men in the lot jump.
"I can't help but notice he doesn't want to go with you." Stanford said, his voice cold and brittle as ice as he slowly lowered his leg.
"Sta- op, bro, what're you-?!" Stanley burst, catching himself before he said Stanford's name out loud in front of the three people he clearly wanted to hide his identity from.
One of Rico's men elbowed him in the gut, cutting him off and making him wheeze for breath. The other turned to Rico and asked something in Spanish, though for the life of him, Stanford had no idea what. Maybe with some time and some paper-?
Whatever he'd said, it made Stanley go pale and Rico smile. "An excellent idea, my friend. Perhaps if we took this second Forrester as collateral, Hal might be more cooperative with us."
"No, no, Rico, you can't!" Stanley protested.
"He's right." Stanford said, focusing his mental abilities. "You can't."
Rico turned to Stanford in bemusement. "Oh? And what makes you think you can stop me from taking you both? You look like a weaker, more pathetic version of him! " He jerked his head back in a gesture to Stanley by way of explanation.
Stanford scowled, but only stood a bit straighter. "You seem to think that, simply because I appear less physically powerful than S- Hal, I will be an easy target."
"What, are you telling me you can put up a fight?" Rico sneered. "I knew Hal was a joker, but it seems it runs in the family!"
"It's not a joke." Stanford said simply.
He took a deep breath.
"Now, ohdyh."
The volume of his voice neither increased nor decreased, but it still blew Rico and his men back several feet without touching a shell-shocked Stanley, just as he'd intended.
Now visibly unnerved, Rico grit his teeth. "What sort of unholy power-?!"
"The kind of unholy power that will be the end of you if you don't leave Hal alone and forget you ever knew him." Stanford replied, striding forward in an effort to hide the new sway in his stance.
Rico snarled and leapt for Stanford.
"Iob dzdb."
Stanford struggled to stay standing as the words drained him of most of his remaining energy, but they had the intended effect of sending Rico flying back. Stanford kept his gaze locked on Rico's until the man disappeared into the desert horizon, then turned a hard glare to Rico's men.
Or rather, he would have turned a hard glare to Rico's men, had they not started sprinting the opposite direction in a panic, leaving Stanley on the cracked sidewalk.
Now with no one he needed to intimidate, Stanford let himself slump and stagger over to Stanley, who scrambled to his feet in time to catch Stanford as his legs gave out.
Oh.
Right.
Passing out was something that often happened after he used the Words he'd learned.
Passing out in front of Stanley was something he'd wanted to prevent at all costs- or, evidently, almost all costs.
Oh, this was very bad.
"Stanley, I need you to listen to me very carefully. " Stanford managed, gripping the front of Stanley's shirt with as tight a grip as he could before haphazardly shoving the journal at him. "Hide the book from me. I'm about to pass out and wake back up. Do not listen to a word I say once I do, and do not give me the journal, do you understand? "
"Stanford, what-?! "
" DO YOU UNDERSTAND? " Stanford pressed, as frantic as he could be with his vision tunnelling.
"Alright, alright, I understand!" Stanley relented, his voice going soft and fuzzy like a bad connection. "But Stanford, what are you even-?"
"Watch my eyes..." Stanford managed, his head lolling forward and the world going dim. "...'f they're yellow, he lies. "
" Stanford-? "
But anything else Stanley had to say, Stanford didn't hear.
He was out like a light.
Stan barely had time to shove the journal in the waistband of his boxers and think oh, shit before Ford's eyes shot open and he smiled.
(It was the same kind of smile that Rico had, that Stan had. Somehow, seeing it on Ford's face was way more surreal than seeing it on his own in the mirror.)
(Then again, maybe the fact that Ford had been terrified of passing out just seconds beforehand had something to do with it.)
(The yellow eyes he'd mentioned suddenly existing and looking inhuman and focusing on Stan's face sure didn't help, either.)
"Well, hey there!" Ford(?) said brightly, trying and failing to sit up. "Mind helping a brother out? My legs don't seem to wanna cooperate!"
"Uh, sure..?" Stan answered, warily drawing Ford(?) to his feet and stepping back slightly.
"Thanks, Stanley!" Probably-Not-Ford-Somehow chirped, giving him a mighty smack on the shoulder that was probably meant to be friendly. "By the by, I wouldn't have dropped any books around here, would I?"
Stan swallowed. There were a few ways he could take this turn of events:
- Ford had had a sudden change of heart about hiding his journal from himself. (Judging by the way Ford had been freaking out, though, Stan doubted it.)
- Ford had somehow managed to develop a split personality or something. (Given the way Ford seemed horrified of whatever this not-Ford character would do, the idea was already plenty scary on its own, but when he paired it with the actual magic Ford had just done…)
- Ford had gotten in too deep with something supernatural, and just like Rico, it was here to collect. (It would explain Ford's apparent sleeplessness and the paranoia that matched Stan's own. It would explain Ford's sudden about-face. It even meshed well with the memories of the Jersey Devil's existence that he was pretty sure weren't some kind of fever dream at this point.)
Of course, Stan could've just been dreaming the whole thing up. Ford showing up and yelling at him, only to save his ass when Rico showed up and need Stan's help with something they would have been all over as kids? That sounded like a pretty messed-up scenario cooked up by his big dumb brain.
Watching Not-Ford stumble around, giggling in a way that was nearly drunken but completely lucid, however, was something Stan couldn't stand for, whether it was real or not.
" Sooo, what's so important about this journal, anyway?" Stan asked, carefully keeping his back hidden from Not-Ford.
"Well, it's got a bunch of my research in it, y'see?" Not-Ford explained, an unnaturally-wide smile stretching his face. "And I've been sorta going back and forth for a while on whether I really need it, and I think I've made up my mind! I do!"
Stan nodded as if in thought. "You want me to keep a lookout for this book of yours, then?"
"Oh, would you? " Not-Ford beamed. "I'd be ever so grateful!"
Stan grimaced and started heading back into the motel room, guiding Not-Ford by the arm. "Please never say those words to me in that order ever again."
"What? 'I'd be grateful?' You sure?" Not-Ford pushed, grinning at him some more. "Seems to me like there's not really enough of that going around these days!"
Stan just pushed him none-too-gently into the motel room and sat him square on the edge of the bed. Once he kicked the door shut behind him, he crossed his arms and glared at Not-Ford. "Alright. Door's closed. What are you, and what are you doing to Ford?"
Not-Ford seemed taken aback, then he smirked. "You're brighter than you get credit for, aren'tcha, Stanley?"
"Flattery is gonna get you nowhere." Stan deadpanned. "Let's see. Ford goes full nerd wizard, collapses, tells me some shit that has me extremely worried about his sanity, collapses, and suddenly gets all smiley and friendly with me. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together."
"Maybe not, but it takes more than a ham-handed idiot who can't think further than his own selfish wants." Not-Ford shot back, leaning back on his hands and looking for all the world like he didn't care how dirty and dingy the mattress was.
Stan wouldn't rise to the bait, but Not-Ford's description was really specific.
"And at this point you're just saying whatever comes to mind that'll get me mad at Ford. Classy. " Stan rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall, uncrossing his arms so he could gesture with one hand. "Just spit it out. Whaddya want? "
"You're not half-bad at this!" Not-Ford praised. "You know what you want! Lucky for you, so do I!"
"And that would be…? " Stan coaxed, one hand reaching back behind him for the dresser and cracking one drawer open.
"I want Sixer's journals so I can finish a project we started together!" Not-Ford explained. "I'm sure you know how it is- you spend so much time on something with this numbskull that you think it'll be your shared thing, but he up and changes his mind for no real reason and expects you to just live with it!"
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Not only was that incredibly familiar, it was too familiar. Somehow, Ford had gotten mixed up with some kind of bodysnatcher conman that knew pretty much everything about them.
Because he just couldn't half-ass anything, not even getting tricked and manipulated.
Stan finished what he was doing with his other hand and carefully slid the drawer shut, still making sure all of Not-Ford's attention was on his face and the hand he wasn't being sneaky with. "And do you got a name or something? Clearly, you ain't Ford, and I highly doubt you've got the same name."
"The name's Bill!" Not-Ford said, offering a hand to shake. "Bill Cipher, friendly neighborhood dreamwalker, at your service!"
Stan looked at the hand, then at "Bill" using Ford's face.
The circles beneath Ford's eyes made a lot more sense now.
Instead of shaking Bill's hand, Stan turned to the dresser and pulled out his ratty jacket, slipping it on in such a way that the journal now hidden in its inside pocket stayed out of Bill's view. "I'd say it's a pleasure, but...nah."
"Shame." Bill shrugged and let his (stolen) hand drop. "Stanley, my point is, your brother here ain't exactly the most selfless guy in the multiverse. He's given us both the short end of the stick before. What do you say we team up and see how he likes being left behind while we go on to do great things?"
"You wanna know what I think?" Stan asked mildly, inspecting a stray thread at the edge of one of his sleeves.
"Of course I do! Not enough people know street smarts when they see it, and none of them know when to keep their mouths shut and listen!" Bill grinned widely.
Stan pulled on some sweatpants and zipped his jacket partway before shooting Bill an incredibly self-satisfied smirk. "I think you're a self-righteous prick who thinks I'm too stupid to see through a blatantly bad attempt to make me feel good about myself, and I think you're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm gonna go along with anything you got planned, especially after seeing what you must've been doing to my brother for a good few weeks by now."
This time, when Bill was taken aback, he didn't recover gracefully.
This time, when Bill was taken aback, he twisted Ford's face in a snarl and leapt at Stan, hands outstretched and fingers clawed. (Only in the regular human way, thankfully. Stan had been worried that being whatever-Bill-was would give him some kind of superhuman edge.) "GIMME THAT BOOK-! "
Stan dodged back and grabbed the lamp that had probably concussed him during his fight with Ford, and with a silent apology-!
THWACK!
Ford's body crumpled to the ground, and after a brief moment where Stan checked to make sure he was still breathing, Stan tossed the lamp aside, tied him to the headboard, and started packing the few things he'd want to keep on him over the coming days.
The next few minutes were quiet, but in an "eye-of-the-storm" kind of way. Stan found himself taking several deep breaths in an attempt to stave off the oncoming panic that threatened to overwhelm him entirely if he gave it so much as an inch.
Then Ford began to stir.
Stan froze, then set down the box of old shammies in his hands in favor of warily approaching Ford.
For what it was worth, Ford's eyes were the regular brown they should have been the whole time when he blinked them back open. He only stayed in that sleepy exhaustion for a moment before trying to jolt up in a panic, only to be tugged back by his restraints.
"Whoa, easy there." Stan held up his hands in a show of peace and stepped closer.. "Are you, uh...are you Stanford again? Because if you've got more than one supernatural whozit in your head, I think I'm gonna need something stronger than a lousy gas station coffee."
"Supernatural-? How much did he tell you? " Ford squawked, his eyes wide and searching as he stared at Stan.
"Woah, Stanford, relax!" Stan said, stopping in his tracks. " He didn't tell me anything. I figured out he was bad news from the start, okay?"
Something about that made Ford slump back against the headboard, visibly struggling to keep from breaking down. "You would, wouldn't you?"
Somehow, there wasn't nearly as much venom in those words as Stan would've expected.
He sighed and dropped his hands. "Look, Stanford, I've never heard of Rico holding a grudge after getting literally blown away like that, but I'd bet my car that he's gonna want to come back and make both of us pay. This 'Bill' jerk probably hasn't been leaving you alone for a while, either. Howsabout, instead of going our separate ways and inevitably getting picked off by our ridiculously-powerful enemies, we stick together? At least until we deal with all this. " For emphasis, he gestured to the window to the parking lot and at Ford himself in one motion.
Ford swallowed, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Ford nodded once. "Fine."
"Great!" Stan clapped his hands together. "So, where to?"
"The land of those who can move their arms." Ford quipped dryly.
Oh. Heh. Whoops.
Stan hurriedly untied him. "Alright, and then?"
"...Oregon."
Stan thought to himself, then glanced at the map he'd taped to the wall.
No accusing red X stared at him from Oregon.
"Oregon it is!" Stan declared, an unintentional cheesy grin growing on his face. "Hope you didn't leave anything in a hotel room, because once Rico gets his tail out from between his legs, we won't wanna be in the city!"
"Everything I brought is on my person." Ford said, straightening his trench coat, then rubbing at his forehead, right where Stan had beaned him with the lamp.
"Good. Let's grab some ice for your head and get moving."
"...your head, as well."
"I got a thick skull, I'll be fine."
"Considering I don't trust myself to not fall asleep at the wheel, thereby designating you the driver for the entire time up, I don't want the driver forcing his way through what could very well be a concussion."
"...point."