Lost Boys

So Close

That-

I-

Just how much of a cold-blooded monster did Stan think he was?!

Well, obviously he thought he was enough of one to abandon him to die at the hands of a bounty hunter.

Ford was surprised by how much that hurt. And the little voice in the back of his head whispering that maybe Stan was somewhat justified in thinking that Ford cared so little for him was not making him feel any better.

For a moment all he could do was stand there, aghast, staring at his twin. Who, slowly, with hands that may have regained their mobility but were still shaky and uncoordinated, was reaching into his pack and pulling out a pair of pliers which he must have picked up from somewhere. In far more time than it should have taken him, Ford realized what Stan was doing: he took them in his left hand, and began trying to pull out one of the quills embedded in his arm.

With an annoyed sigh Ford stepped forward and bent down to take the pliers. Stan jerked away as soon as his hand closed around them, nearly falling over in his attempt to pull loose.

"Stanley, don't be stupid; you're just going to make it worse if you try to do it by yourself!" Ford protested, grabbing for the pliers again.

"Wow, try and be a little more condescending, I almost have some self-esteem left!" Stan spat at him.

"I want to-" Ford stopped himself, and managed to take a few calming breaths before amending, "I would like to help." He paused, and then added a soft, "Please."

Stan gave him a long, hard stare for a few seconds, while the fire crackled and the rain pattered down through the trees. Then, finally, he surrendered the pliers.

*********

Ford worked quickly, trying to be as gentle as he could get away with in pulling the quills out, but knowing that he couldn't afford to be all that gentle under the circumstances, and praying that none of them were nicking any major veins or arteries.

Stan didn't protest, not once; in fact, aside from occasional small grunts and a whitening of his knuckles when his hands tightened from where they were gripping his knees, he didn't give any indication that he was in pain.

When the last one was pulled free, Ford helped Stan pull off his red fleece jacket and vest (both of which were all torn up on one side now), and then cut free the remains of his new T-shirt so he would be better able to tend the wounds on Stan's shoulder.

Thankfully they had both somehow held on to their new knapsacks and the contents therein, and they included medical supplies. Ford sorted out the ones he needed, and got started cleaning and bandaging the wounds. He started with the shoulder-and gulped.

One of them, he noticed, had hit the burn mark. Specifically, it had gone right through the circle part, in a perfect bullseye.

Ford brushed his fingers over the edge of the-yes, technically you could refer to it as a brand-the brand without really thinking about it. Stan's back stiffened a little, but he didn't try to stop him.

"...You're lucky none of these went in deeper," Ford said at last, clearing his throat and getting back to work. "One of these could have pierced your lung if it went in deep enough."

"Mmm."

Silence lasted for a minute or two, before Ford spoke again.

"It wasn't just my project."

Stan didn't say anything.

"It was how you reacted when I confronted you. You-you acted like it was no big deal and we were just going to sail away together after-" He swallowed, forcing himself to calm down. Stan had said he was sorry. "The chance to get into that school was really important to me, and you acted like you didn't care at all about my feelings or what I wanted."