Uhhhhh. i wrote part of this.
Stanley sat, rubbing the residue of a terrible night's rest from his face, and contemplated his newfound independence.
It was an early morning in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey.
The sunlight dripped onto a dreary neighborhood street within, where a bright red El Diablo sat in stark contrast against the watery gray tones that surrounded it.
A figure huddled inside the vehicle, offering lone proof of life while the rest of the block held onto the last precious moments they had before facing the new day.
He was on his own for the forseeible future after the worst evening in the history of his stupid life.
All he had to his (now stand-alone) name was a duffle bag filled with clothes, a few toiletries, his wallet, like ten bucks cash, his car, and a mission from his ex-family: earn back the millions he cost them
That… was completely fine! Not to mention doable.
He'd been holding back to wait for Ford to get his fill of high school so that they could both have their names in the headlines anyway (he hadn't known high school wasn't enough to fill Ford).
What had he been preparing for all these years if he couldn't wrangle up a measly fortune? Treasure-hunting had been like the second thing on his list of future adventuring duties from the beginning.
…And everything would be fine again. Easy.
How hard could it be, really?
Considering how much junk washed up on the shore over the years, there was bound to valuables buried along the coastline as well.
They had never looked that hard as kids, since fixing the boat had preoccupied them, and everyone who lived around here were certified idiots (the tourists weren't even worth mentioning.)
All that potential gold was probably just lying around, waiting for Stan-- the only guy who appreciated piracy these days-- to find it! And when he did, and Pa took everything back and praised Stan as a hero, Ford would be real sorry for turning his back on THEIR dream.
Stan gave his face another rub for no reason whatsoever, and crawled from the backseat to the front, where he determinately started his car and drove to the nearest parking lot to the beach.
The sunset was casting long shadows across the mostly-empty parking lot as Stan Pines marched towards his car.
He fumbled with his keys for a moments, before yanking the door open, throwing himself inside and slamming the door shut.
Bracing himself against the wheel, he sat there, fuming. As he huffed out furious breaths, he mechanically lowered his head down to rest between his white knuckles and stayed like that.
His first day of treasure-hunting, of being on his own, had gone… not great. It hadn't been outright disasterous, granted, but after such a big loss the day before Stan didn't have a lot of emotional strength stored up to take the petty things with grace.
He sat there a while, until his grip loosened and his head no longer felt like it was going to pop open with emotion.
Halfheartedly, he then bat his hand around to lock the doors and flopped fully down onto the upholstery.
He felt embarrassed at his disappointment. He didn't exactly have any equipment for efficently combing the beach for rare and expensive finds yet, he knew he was in the baby steps portion of this marathon, but he had hoped to get SOMETHING, even if it wasn't much.
Turns out even that was too high an expectation.
He'd walked around with his gaze at his feet, slowly walking back and forth looking for lumps in the sand and digging the toes of his shoes around to poke at anything just under surface level. Then, he'd started to dig with his hands, carefully scooping up piles of glass shards and sand until he got a decent sized hole, before moving over a little to the left or right as the heat of the day strengthened.
Stan had started out that morning with good spirits.
As soon as his car was parked and he'd found some old pretzels in his glove compartment for breakfast, he'd walked over towards the boardwalk and his town's namesake.
It had been still slightly chilly out from the bit of night that was left in the air, and the empty dunes had a comfortable blanket of quiet to them. The familiar lapping of the waves and calling of sea birds had welcomed him onto the beach like a second home.
He had gotten deep in his little plot, and had felt pretty accomplished up until he had looked up to wipe his brow and realized he had miles of beach to work through, and had made progress on maybe five square feet.
Then he had thought about how many feet down in the dunes the treasure might've been if it had been buried by the tides years and years ago, and his pride was punched down with the fists of realism.
But being realistic never did anyone any good as far as Stan knew, so he had ducked his head back down and kept at it.
As the sky was finally lit by the full light of day, people had started to trickle out like the sand through his fingers. Just one or two, at first, but as the sun climbed with the temperature, there was a good smattering of jerks out to enjoy the weather and scenery.
He'd just ignored them and their glances, at first, until a particularly nosey lady had mosied up to him and his sand pit and asked him if he should be at school right now.
He had told her, no, he shouldn't, left out the part that he had unofficially dropped out, and marched off to find a more secluded place to ditch in peace.
Stan had managed to avoid the prying eyes of concerned members of the community for the rest of the morning, moving around when anyone got in judging range. He didn't make too much progress with his digging with how often he would have to abandon his work, but it was better than being badgered about his right to occupy a public space on a school day.
When the afternoon rolled around and children were let out to mingle with the adults, Stan had felt some relief. He had settled down and was hellbent on making a sizeable mark where he was before moving on in his own time.
As he shoveled away, however, the anxiety about being watched persisted. It was stupid, he decided, there wasn't anything he could get into trouble for. What was the worst someone seeing him could do?
Such reasoning flew out the window when he heard a familiar voice and had glanced up to see a group of kids from his (former) class.
Suddenly, his face was flushed with shame. Had they noticed him absent? No, that was dumb. What did he care if they did?
…But what if they had talked to Ford? What if they had asked him where he was? What if he had answered? Oh god, Stan could hear him now: "Stanley? Oh, he broke my science fair project and lost our family out on millions! Haven't you heard? Our father kicked him out of the house until he can make it up. He's probably out there panhandling at this very moment, begging on the street corner. Not that anyone's surprised, of course. Go ahead and spread the word, I'm telling everyone we've ever known!"
Well, maybe not, but if anyone had asked, he probably said something, and the thought of word getting out about his situation was enough to make his skin crawl.
Even if they didn't know today, by the time graduation rolled around and he still hadn't shown up, the picture would paint itself.
He gave it about a week of hookey before his classmates noticed him popping up in public and swarmed him like seagulls to a beached mackerel.
Stan didn't need sightings of him playing in the sand like a toddler making their way back to his brother.
People didn't usually come out this far, as the glass shards were much more plentiful.
He had abruptly stood and made his way away, the laughter at his back seeming louder than it should have.
Tomorrow, he should probably find a place out of town. At the moment, he had decided to try a whole new section of beach, and, in a fit of inspiration, walked the length of the shore until he saw the silouhette of the Stan o' War rise before him.
The past few months, every time he saw their boat, he was filled with a strong sense of relief and anticipation. It had been nearly a decade of expectations building up inside of them-- or, at least, in him. The ideas of escape, adventure, and happiness had been hammered and painted and sewn into every inch of the thing.
It wasn't exactly sea-worthy yet, but it was damn close, and with high school making it's last lap Stan had though she would become a full-time endeavor, and be ready to set sail by summer's end. He had been excited.
Ducking down past the entrance he had once punched open, Stan had brushed cobwebs from his eyes and scanned the dark tunnel. The air was damp and cooler in the abandoned mine and smelled deeply of salt and earth. His eyes roamed over to the wall.
Now, all he felt was sick.
He had avoided the ship's gaze, turning towards the dunes and the cave he and Ford had found her in. If most of a boat had washed up in there, there was a good chance whatever was on her had, too.
Swallowing the choking feeling in his throat, Stanley turned heel on the little cave. It would always be there tomorrow (or whenever it would be he could stomach it.) And there was always other treasure!
There, in faded and weathered permanent marker, was the collective signature of him and his brother. Because this was their tunnel. Which gave them their boat. Which was right outside. A relic that started of the best era of their lives. Which was over now.
...If only he could find it.
After spending literally all day crawling around in the open sun and working like a dog, all he had to show for his efforts was a sizable sunburn and a cut on the side of his palm from a particularly crafty glass shard. Certainly nothing that screamed, "I sure showed you!" to his estranged family.
It had only been one day, and his ultimatium seemed all the more ultimate.
He should probably find a better place to park, somewhere he would be less likely to be bothered as he tried to get some shut-eye. For that matter, he should find a drinking fountain or public bathroom to brush his teeth and whatnot.
Stan considered the roof of his car in the dim light, leather seats cool against his skin.
He wasn't exactly excited about spending another night in the Stanleymobile. It was cold and uncomfortable, and it felt demeaning. Just because he had lost his home didn't mean he wanted to live like it.
He should, but he wasn't going to.
The most he was willing to do in this mood was clamber into the back seat and throw on his jacket, stuffing his duffel bag against the door as a pillow.
Tomorrow, he would figure it out. For tonight, he was going to sleep, and not think about anything at all.
Tomorrow would be better. Probably.
He could steal some kid's sandcastle tools so he didn't have to dig with his hands. Drive to a part of the beach no one would recognize him. Look into getting a metal detector-- something like that would probably make this whole thing a breeze. Maybe get something better than shitty boardwalk food for lunch.
Some hours later, Stan was roused by a strange noise he thought he heard. He blearily parted his eyes and saw the hazy but familiar sight of a mattress poking out in between wooden slats above him.
Not feeling quite ready to break the comforting illusion, he let his eyes fall closed again, and slept.
Ford awoke feeling despondant and no better rested than the night before. His neck was stiff, his shoulder sore, and his skull was pressing uncomfortably against his brain matter. He sat up groggily and bitterly cursed everyone who ever said that getting a full night's rest did anyone any good.
He tried to massage the ache from his muscles as disdain for the upcoming day trickled through his focus. He certainly wasn't looking forward to the shame and isolation he was sure was in store for him. He hadn't been able to force himself to go to school yesterday after such a catyclysmal loss, and had only managed to get away with it from his father due to the fact he wasn't actually responsible.
Maybe he could stretch the grace for another class, at least.
As Ford moved to descend his bed, a familiar and VERY unexpected noise cut through his grumblings like a gunshot. He froze, disbelieving, as another slight snore rose from beneath him.
Snapping his head over the railing like a whip, Ford gaped down at the sight of his brother-- his very much kicked-out brother who had sped off into the night with spiteful promises two days ago-- out cold on the bunk beneath him without a care in the world.
Ford spluttered as Stan snoozed peacefully away, emotions rising with such speed and strength within him he thought he was going to be sick.
What the hell did he think he was doing?!
Before Ford could get his voice to break through the turmoil clogging his throat, their father slammed open the bedroom door with the worst timing known to man (for the second time this week), sending Stanley jolting bolt-upright in the bed.
"Stanford-" Filbrick started firmly, before registering the scene in front of him. He stared at his estranged son with the closest thing to shock Ford had ever seen on his father's face.
The three of them sat there in heavy silence, mouths hanging open, staring at each other for a single breath.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING BACK HERE?!" he bellowed as Stanley scambled onto the floor in a panic. "WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS?!"
The baby started to cry from down the hall.
Stan stuttered and stammered, looking around himself in obvious confusion. He was in his pajamas. Did he really sneak in just to sleep and think he would wake up in time to sneak back out again? What was the point of that?
Filbrick broke into motion, storming the span of the room in a few furious footsteps.
For his part, Stan began to edge around the perimeter, rounding the corner and then backing up wildly to avoid their father from reaching him.
Ford managed to hurridly descend the ladder to his bunk, reaching the floor to witness the confrontation at eye level.
Filbrick slammed a fist against Ford's desk before stepping towards Stanley again (who still hadn't gotten a full word out.) "Did you think I was JOKING WITH YOU?! That I was just playing around? I thought I told your sorry ass not to step FOOT in THIS HOUSE, UNLESS YOU HAD THE MONEY YOU LOST US! AND YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST OVERRIDE MY AUTHORITY, AND SNEAK BACK IN?!"
He seemed to notice Ford standing there. "Did you have anything to do with this?" he growled at him.
"No! I just- I had no idea!" Ford cried, holding up his hands in surrender.
"I told you to stay away from this idiot, I told you he--"
Stanley finally managed to get his tongue working. "I- I- I didn't sneak back in!" he said shrilly. "I was halfway across fucking town, I didn't come back!"
"Oh, so you're not right in front of my damn face?!" Filbrick yelled, rounding back onto his other son. The sheer audacity of Stanley's plain denial seemed to spur him back into action, and he stormed towards him anew.
Stan scurried away, backing into the hallway and away from filbrick's war path, shouting that he was innocent the whole time, like they couldn't see him standing there. It was frankly ridiculous.
In a daze, Ford followed after them.
"I want you OUT, and I want you to STAY OUT--"
"What the hell is going on out here?!" Caryn entered the din, crying baby on her hip. "Stanley?"
"Pa--" Ford tried to cut in.
"Filbrick, what is this--"
"--This bum tried to sneak back in the damn house, I caught him in the bedroom--"
"--I didn't fucking sneak back in, I was in my car--"
"ENOUGH!" Filbrick shouted, but Stan was already moving.
Ford was blocked by both parents as he watched his brother stomp towards the front door, shouting with his father the whole way.
The baby continued to wail.
Ford turned, and made it to his bedroom just in time for Stanley, yelling, to slam his car door for the second time.
This time, however, Ford watched him as he sped away.
