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Nov 20, 2015

Late at Night, Early in the Morning, Part 3: The Act

A/n: Oh my goodness guys, sorry this update took so long! I’ve been busy with personal stuff, but it’s done and it’s great and I am very pleased with it. It’s looking like part 4 will be around 2-3k, and should come out sometime next week. In the meantime, I’ll take a short break from LaNEitM to write some drabbes and fill some prompts, so send me whatever you would like! :)))

Link to: ( Part 1 ) ( Part 2 )

Tw for fic beneath the cut: drug ment, incest, ments of past abuse, adorable high-off-their-ass old men banter.

When they reached the top floor, Stan led Ford into the kitchen and asked him to sit at the table. He quickly grabbed everything from the counter and sat down next to his brother.

“Alright, Poindexter, now comes the next question. Do you actually wanna learn about this shit or do you just want me to get everything ready to go?” He looked over at Ford expectantly.

Ford’s momentary pleasantness soured as he frowned at Stan and deadpanned, “Like I said, Stanley, I’m not new to any of this. Honestly I could probably teach you a thing or two about the proper preparation of drugs.” Stan raised an eyebrow as he grabbed the grinder and popped the lid off the medicine bottle, grabbing a small-sized nug and breaking it up. “Is that so, Sixer?”

Ford rolled his eyes, “Please. I’ve traveled countless dimensions and experienced things even you couldn’t dream of. Comparatively, marijuana is one of the lesser drugs I’ve tried.” Stan paused placing the smaller buds into the grinder, taken aback at the new information. He supposed it really shouldn’t have affected him so much. He knew after learning about the capabilities of the portal that the universe, and all other alternate universes were infinite. There was no reason to not believe that there were other types of drugs even he couldn’t imagine. But Ford actually trying them? Stan’s heart panged as he dwelled on it. What kind of situation had driven him to give up his ‘focus’?

He thought guiltily of what he knew about Ford’s time in the portal that he had worked to piece together over the last few months. There was the time that he had caught Ford unawares walking from the shower to the basement and he had seen the blanket of scars and strange tattoos covering his skin. The time that he had holed himself in the basement, curled into a tiny ball when the town had celebrated the ‘beginning of the world’ with a fireworks show. And there were those countless tiny moments where certain things, like the sound of the washer on the spin cycle, or the smell of burnt rubber made his eyes glass over and his expression to go blank.

Stan had done enough research to know that in those moments Ford was shutting down every unnecessary function of his being to avoid a panic attack. He never mentioned these insights to his brother; and had done his very best to not pressure him into sharing. He even worked to support Ford in those moments of weakness without coddling him, which he knew would most likely set him off even more. When the firework incident had occurred, Stan had sent the kids over to Soos’s for the night, and had brought Ford down a glass of water. He had sat next to his hunched figure silently for nearly an hour before Ford uncurled and downed the water in seconds. He had nodded mutely at Stan as a sign to leave and he had obliged, pretending to ignore the tear tracks down Ford’s withered face. After the shower incident, he never questioned Ford’s fashion sense, and encouraged Mabel to sew Ford more turtlenecks. Heck, he even bought her a new pattern book for it. For everything else, he was cautious. He only washed clothes when Ford was downstairs. He eased the El Diablo into it’s spot in the driveway instead of screeching to a halt like he used to.

But this was the first time that Ford had willingly shared or even hinted at his time on the ‘other side’. Stanley schooled his tone to hide his curiosity as he recovered quickly, “Care to share?” he quipped, continuing to close the grinder and twist the top back and forth. Ford leaned his elbows on the table, steepling his twelve fingers.

“Certainly. Let’s see, there were collaxion crystals. Dangerous stuff; in order to take the drug, the crystals are crushed into a fine powder and snorted. I’ve heard that it could also be injected, but the survival rate of such an act was incredibly low. I’m not sure how to describe the equivalent on earth. The effect was intense, but short-lived. As if every nerve on your body was both on fire and ice-cold, and you suddenly have the urge to dance or move in some way. It also boosted the user’s charisma, much in the way that ‘liquid courage’ gives humans, well, courage. But the effect wasn’t restricted to the user. People in the direct vicinity of the user were also affected; they craved the company of that person, and were taken over by a need to dance, or -ah- move with them as well, if you catch my drift.” Ford paused emphatically, a small grin lighting his features before continuing, “But then there was-”

“Woah woah woah, hold it Ford. Yer sayin’ there’s a drug out there somewhere in the multi-whatever that doesn’t just make you want to screw other people, but they wanna screw you too?”

Ford frowned a bit in response. “Do you always have to be crass, Stanley?” Stan grinned broadly, opening the cache of the grinder and beginning to tightly pack the small glass bowl. “Hey, you know me Sixer. Once a lady killer, always a lady killer.”

“Yes, well, as far as I recall, the most your ‘lady killing’ ever got you was fruit punch on a rented tux and several trips to the movies alone.” Stan placed a hand over his heart, a mock-frown on his face.

“Sixer, you wound me. I had plenty ‘o time to improve the old ‘Stan moves’ -that’s trademarked now, ya know-, and let me tell you I’ve had my fair share of babes, alright?” He gave a small laugh, returning to packing the bowl. Ford’s eyes rolled at his response, then followed his movements as he continued prepping.

“You do realize that’s not the best way to pack a bowl, right?” Stan’s eyebrows rose in contempt.

“Is that so, Mr. ‘I never por-took.’ Tell me, Ford. Honestly this time. How much weed did you smoke in college? I know that... certain friends of yours were total stone-heads. So what’s the real scoop?” He grinned, pushing the bowl and open grinder over to Ford, whose face reddened in response as he took the offered items.

“Honestly? Probably once a month or so. I was quite serious about the focus aspect, it really did make coursework difficult to catch up on. But the experience itself?” Ford tipped the bowl back into the grinder, picking a slightly larger piece to gently place directly above the hole in the center before loosely packing the rest. “It was...interesting to say the least. Being high, for me, changes my entire thought process. Typically, my thoughts run in a coexisting linear fashion; similar to the lines of text on a page. When I’m focusing on something, I have the ability to pinpoint information on several different lines at once, taking what I need at will. When I’m intoxicated or under the influence of a drug, my thoughts mesh and weave together. It’s disorienting, to say the least, but it allows me to look at ideas and thoughts from a new and different perspective. In that way, I really did enjoy ‘toking’, as you call it. The side effects, however, mainly the recovery, were frustrating in every sense of the word.”

Ford finished packing the bowl, passing it over to Stan. “Does that sufficiently answer your question, Stanley?” Stan nodded. “Heh, yeah. I figured you got up to more stuff in college than you like to let on. ‘Supposed to be half the fun of it, really…” He trailed off, realizing that the conversation was headed in a bad direction, so he did his best to quickly turn it around.

“But that’s a hell of a lot of talk just to say you don’t like mental static, Ford.” He snickered a bit, picking up the packed bowl and standing. He motioned over his shoulder for Ford to follow. “C’mon. Don’t want the whole shack to stink to high heaven. It ain’t good for business. Trust me, I know from experience.” Ford rolled his eyes, standing to follow Stan. He’d prefer to not know the rest of that story.

They walked out onto the front porch and sat on opposite ends of the worn couch. Stan offered Ford the pipe. “Want the first hit?”

Ford took the bowl, gently cradling it in his left hand, five of his fingers gently curving around the body, his thumb pressed snug against the carb. “Light?” Stan dug around in his pockets for a moment before producing a small bic lighter. He sat back, watching to see if Ford was truly as experienced as he claimed. Ford sat forward on the couch, his knees bent in a perfect 90 degree angle, his back straightened for perfect posture. He flicked the lighter, and the small flame was gently lowered over the pipe… and the entire head of the green lit up. Stan moved a moment too late to stop him, and Ford pulled the burning pipe away violently, hacking up a lungful of thick, heavy smoke.

“The hell Ford, I thought you said you knew what you were doin’!” Stan scooted closer to smack Ford’s back a few times, handing him a pit cola from the cooler he kept stocked on the porch. Ford continued coughing, sucking in as much air as he stressed lungs would allow before they forced him to expel it again. “It’s b-been a -*cough*- while since I -*cough, hack*- smoked in th-this universe, Stanley! Have a little -*cough couch*- compassion, jesus.” Stan snickered as Ford began to calm down from his coughing spell. He took the bowl from Ford’s hand and checked to see if its contents were still intact.

Other than the entire green being singed, it was unharmed. Miraculously neither the copious amounts of coughing nor the rough jostling the loose bowl had received from Stan’s back pats had dislodged anything. He reached over to Ford for the lighter, who handed it over wordlessly.

“Well, Poindexter, you may have done more stuff than me in places I’ll never go, but that flattery bullshit will get you nowhere with Mary Jane. Nah, she’s a lady you gotta take your sweet, sweet time to know.” Stan sat back into the couch, bringing the bowl to his lips and cornering the left side with the bic. The moment it was lit, the bic flickered off. His thumb fluttered over the carb as he inhaled to slowly kill the cherry in the center, releasing it fully about two thirds of the way into his hit. When he sat the bowl down on the couch between them, only the tiniest wisp of smoke rose from it before ceasing. Stan exhaled his hit slowly, relishing the sweet-bitter taste of the ‘cookie’ strain.

Ford watched him gloat in silence, sipping his Pitt. When Stan was finished, Ford picked up the bowl and handed it to him. “Light for me.” He commanded without inflection. Stan quirked a brow and searched his face, finding a blank yet expectant expression staring back at him. Ford motioned for him to take the pipe again.

“Go on, then. If you really are as good as you say. Prove it.” His eyes narrowed and a his voice deepened on the last words as he leaned in towards his twin. Stan swallowed thickly as he took the proffered pipe and held it up to Ford’s mouth. God, that tone was so damn close to when they used to- but no. That was a lifetime ago, dead and buried with his name. He shook his head, determined to stay in the moment. And this moment was pretty great, so far. Ford was actually talking to him. For more than five minutes. And without fighting to boot.

He did his best to ignore the heat that had crept up his collar and reddened his neck (he was too damn old to be blushing like a teenager, goddamn it!) as he held the pipe up to Ford’s lips. He gulped as Ford took the mouth of the pipe into his own, his plump lips stretching to envelop it. He actually had to look away when Ford’s hooded eyes darted up to catch his own in a heated gaze. His lips moved a fraction off of the pipe and he whispered huskily against the glass, “Well? I’m waiting, Stanley. Are you going to show me how good you are at this?” Stan swallowed again, raising the lighter and gently pushing the pipe back into Ford’s mouth.

“Don’ try ta rush good things, Sixer.” He chastised quietly. Stan flicked the light and brought it down to the left corner of the bowl. “Pull.” He commanded. Ford did, drawing a deep and steady breath. Stan fluttered the carb again, making sure that the smoke Ford inhaled was a cool, steady stream. When he finally pulled back, he coughed once, but was able to hold the hit much better than before. Stan raised the pipe to his own lips, inhaling slow and steady. When the cherry had died he set the bowl aside again and leaned back onto the couch, allowing his head to fall back. He stared at the ceiling as he exhaled and watched the smoke rise in a plume against the rafters. As he watched the smoke move and weave in the air, he became aware that he was beginning to feel the effects of the drug. His backache was gone and his entire body felt loose and easy to move. His callused fingertips were suddenly more sensitive as they ran absently over the ridged fabric of the couch. Without moving his body, he turned his head to the side to stare at Ford. “How’s it going over there in nerdsville?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Ford was still sitting somewhat upright, though his posture had relaxed considerably. He had rearranged himself, pulling his left leg underneath him to half-lean against the arm of the couch. His right elbow was resting there, the hand supporting his face as he leaned into the position. His face was relaxed as well, a gentle smile on his face. His eyes were boring into Stan’s as he replied. “Oh, I’m quite fine, thank you Stanley. I believe I’m -ah- starting to experience the side effects.” His grin widened and a quiet laugh fell from his lips.

He hadn’t heard Ford laugh genuinely since he got him back. He wasn’t sure that Ford had done so at all. It was literal music to Stan’s ears; if that laugh was a record, Stan was certain he could personally make it go platinum. He smiled back widely and dragged a hand across the couch to push the pipe back to Ford. “Take your turn, Sixer. Just cause we’re feelin’ it doesn’t mean we have to stop.”

Ford gripped the pipe tightly in his wavering hands. This time he was able to corner it slightly better; though he did hold the flame over the bowl far too long for Stan’s liking. Honestly, lighting for that long and misusing the carb was such a waste. As the thought crossed his mind, he suddenly remembered that comparatively it wasn’t near the waste it had been back when he had first started smoking with Rico’s crew. Now, instead of having to blackmail, bribe, or overpay for mid-grade shit, he could literally pick some up near his local grocery store. He snickered to himself at the thought as Ford passed him the bowl, which Stan began to hit immediately. “What’s so Sunny, Fan?” Ford asked seriously.

Stan choked on his hit, laughing so hard he nearly dropped the pipe. He felt the hilarity of Ford’s mispronunciation down to his toes, every inch of his body filled with merriment. He coughed again, clutching his stomach and pushing himself back up on the couch, having nearly fallen off in his laughing spell. “Oh geez, Sixer that was fuckin’...” He broke down in giggles again, unable to finish his thought.

Ford’s eyes widened comically and he slapped a hand over his mouth in embarrassment. “Stan! I meant what’s so funny Stan!?” Stan grabbed himself a Pitt, chugging the first few sips to drown out the remains of his giggles. “S-sorry, Ford, that was just too good.” Ford frowned, sitting up as well to cross his arms. “You know that was an accident, Stanley. We’re both affected right now; you could have made the same mistake just as easily.” He huffed, looking off into the dark woods.

Stan sighed, reaching over to clap Ford on the shoulder. “C’mon now, don’t pout. I’m jus’ glad you’re having a good time. And there’s the bonus this stuff’s good for your anandamide deficiency.” He leaned back into the couch again, staring out at the woods.

Ford blinked over at him in confusion. “What the hell, Stanley?” Stan blanched as he realized his misstep.

“Sorry Ford, I know I agreed to keep my nose out of your business. I swear I’ll leave it alone from now on, scout's honor. Let’s forget I even said anything, alright? Jus’... Jus’ don’t leave?” He reached out desperately to grab one of Ford’s larger hands in his own. Ford looked down at his captured hand blankly before looking back up into Stan’s face.

“Why would I leave? I’m enjoying myself. This is the most time we’ve spent together since I came back without fighting. I’m not going to be the first to reinstigate that.” Ford glanced once over at his brother before turning to sit back on the couch. “Your statement didn’t upset me, Stan. It just surprised me. I’ve... never really seen you as an intellectual. It throws me sometimes when I realize that you now understand and can put into practice almost as much science and knowledge as me. Everyone always sold you short growing up, and I bought into that belief.” He sighed and turned his hand palm-up so he could squeeze Stan’s hand absently. “You deserve better than that. From everyone, but especially from me.” He stared forward resolutely. Stan glanced sideways at him, unable to read his expression. Coming down from the sudden intensity of the situation, Stan grabbed the pipe between them, handing it to Ford. “Your hit, Six.” he whispered.

Ford shook his hand free from Stan’s and took the pipe, lighting up again. Stan decided to break the somewhat tense air that had settled around them.

“I took a sample of your blood once.”

Smoke came billowing from Ford’s mouth as he coughed violently for the second time that evening. “What?” he demanded between hacks. Stan replied quickly. “Well I’ve been worried about you since you got back, Ford. I mean besides the health stuff, cause as far as I can tell, you’re still healthy as a horse. It was more about the small stuff. Little things I noticed, like how you don’t like the washing machine or fireworks. I know, I know, none of that stuff’s my business, but I care. I really, really care Stanford. I gave thirty years of my life trying to right my wrongs against you an’ it still isn’t enough. And that’s okay, really, I made my peace with that. But you still being hurt because’a me in ways I can’t help…” Stan held out a hand for the still smoking pipe. Ford watched as he took his hit, inhaling even after the cherry of the bowl died to draw the smoke deep into his lungs. “It’s damn near killed me.” He muttered out, his normally gravely voice even more so tinged with smoke as he exhaled the rest of his hit. He handed the pipe back to Ford before continuing.

“It started ‘bout two weeks after the rift closed, I guess. I started readin’ up on different stuff people experience after they’ve been through a hard time. Some of it was kinda familiar, my life hasn’t been a walk in the park either. But my experiences aren’t yours. I was going in blind. So… I took a small blood sample while you were asleep in the lap one night. Sent it off to this big fancy lab. And they told me you had anandamide deficiency.” He paused as Ford took his hit, waiting for him to get finish so that he could take his own. After exhaling the now bitter smoke, he mentioned, “That’s almost cashed, by the way.” before continuing his story. “Anyway, I didn’t do much else about it after that. Then a couple days ago, I caught Wendy and some of her friends outside the shack.” Ford frowned in contemplation, “The girl who used to work at the Mystery Shack?”

“That’s the one. She an’ her friends were smokin’ a roach right over there.” He pointed to the left of the porch. “I chased ‘em off, finished off their smoke-” he plowed through, ignoring Ford’s incredulous cry of “Stanley!” “-and passed out out here on the couch. Next day I went inside and did some research. Apparently, not having anandamide in you typically means your endocannabinoids aren’t releasing right or somethin’ like that. And the cannabinoids in pot can replace those.” He watched as Ford took in the information, humming a moment before responding.

“So you looked up all of this information, took a blood sample from me, paid to have it sent to a lab and analyzed, then looked into purchasing medication to treat the diagnosis you gave me?”

He turned back on the couch, drawing his left leg underneath himself again, his entire body facing Stan. Stan gulped, continuing to stare resolutely ahead. “Well, yeah.” He replied cautiously, waiting for the inevitable explosion. He opened his mouth to formally apologize for his actions when Ford’s strong arms suddenly wrapped around him. He sat there stock-still a moment before finally reaching up to return the embrace. He schooled himself to intentionally not breath in his brother’s scent, to not revel in this rare show of affection, for his heart to not beat out of his chest just for being in such close proximity to Ford.

And he may have managed at least one of those had Ford not turned his head slightly, his lips softly pressing into Stan’s neck, and muttered just loud enough for him to hear:

“Thank you.”

#LaNEinM #stancest #420stans #stoner stans au #stancestsincave #drug ment #I FINALLY FINISHED IT GUYS #almost 4 k #now its time for those delish prompts #hype train

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