#i wonder what miserable self-justification circle he ended up in

[elisende]

Predators (2/2)

Characters: Halsin/OFC Rating: M Warnings: Attempted rape/noncon Words: 3330 Halsin knew so little it often shocked her.

She recognized, when she took him on, that he was unfledged. But his ignorance was vast and hungry.

Gods knew the boy had appetites. For knowledge, for every last scrap of food. For her body. She was not flattered: she knew she could be just about anyone, man or woman, elf or human--even a dwarf, he was indiscriminate.

Most of all, he was hungry for connection. She did not ask what had become of his people but trusted he would tell her in his own time.

He was not shy of speaking. Nor of asking, endlessly, about all subjects. What is the name of that bird, why is it called so, does it remain in the forest through winter or seek warmer climes? Why?

In desperation, she wrote to her Circle and a month later a moose trotted into the clearing laden with bulging packs of scrolls and a few codexes.

Provender for your mind, she explained. Halsin was dubious at first but his natural curiosity got the better of him and now he spent most afternoons curled up in the branches of a downy birch reading scroll after scroll, as insatiable a reader as he was a lover.

He wanted her every night, every dawn. He wanted her when she bent over the cookpot preparing their lunch and when they walked the woods. She refused him four times out of five and still they lay together twice a day. Dalia was exhausted but not displeased; he was an apt student in all things and by nature generous.

Her pupil’s progress in the six months under her tutelage was impressive even by her high standards. And true to his word, he’d given her no cause to regret her decision to teach him.

Yet he was still unformed. Still unconscious to the grace and nuance of nature’s dance. And still angry.

“Teach me how to take a wild shape,” he demanded one sun-washed afternoon in the clearing. Dalia, never idle, was picking through some useful herbs they had collected that morning in the woods, sorting them according to which she would dry, which she would distill, and which she would pack into oil.

“You are not ready,” she said, not looking up from the herbs in her lap. “You have the ability”--and he did have magic, wild magic, in him--“but without the proper discipline you could be overcome by the animal’s mind. More than a few novices lose themselves entirely in the transformation.”

He scoffed. “You still underestimate me. You’re not my mother or my nursemaid, so stop trying to protect me.”

She glanced up at him. He sat rigidly against an oak’s trunk, beetle-browed, ready for a fight. Hungry for one. Any number of retorts leapt to her mind but she allowed herself only a neutral hmm before going back to her herbs, bearing the quiet fury of his stare without further comment. The silence, when he stalked off into the wood, was sour with unspent anger.

He returned at nightfall with a roe buck slung over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Halsin said, and though his words were plain, she could see his self-recrimination in the taut line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. He’d simply turned his anger inward on himself. It was pitiful to see, like a falcon hanging from its jesses.

She nodded. “Your anger will be your downfall one day, left uncontrolled. But I accept your apology, any road.”

They made a stew with rosemary and juniper berries and a bit of wine that had lain unopened for decades at the bottom of Dalia’s trunk and miraculously had aged into a lovely vintage.

“Where is it from?” Halsin asked, looking wondrously at the dusty bottle. “I’ve never tasted such wine.”

And it was special, among the finest she’d had in her six centuries. Smooth and sculpted, full on the tongue, bursting with ripe black fruit. She hesitated before saying, “It’s an Evermeet vintage.”

He looked up at her, curious, but Silvanus be praised, he didn’t ask the question he’d asked so many times before.

Dalia gratefully changed the subject. “Hakka did whelp this year, after all.” She took another sip to savor the exquisite wine, then continued. “Four pups. She’s hidden them up on the ridge, in the little bluebell hollow.”

His eyes lit as they always did when discussing the forest’s wolves. He liked big predators, the great bear Sage notwithstanding--he still held a grudge for the scars that scored his brow. “That’s wonderful. Are they Thorn’s pups? She’s hiding them from Hatha?”

The wolves’ amorous entanglements were even more complicated than that of a wood elven village. Hakka and Hatha were sisters and bitter rivals for the affections of Thorn, one of the leading males in the pack. He was a young, brash hunter, uncommonly large. Dalia couldn’t help but see the resemblance and noted Halsin’s affection for the wolf with some amusement.

“Mm,” she agreed. Her head was already a little light from the alcohol. With wine this good, it was easy to overdo it. She set her cup on the table and turned back to the stew, scraping the bottom of the pot. “You’ve been most helpful with my work in this wood.” She smiled to see him glow with silent pride at her rare praise. But it was not empty: despite his ignorance, he was observant when he wished to be and had discovered much that she had missed.

“Your work won’t ever be finished, will it?” he asked softly. The firelight flickered in his eyes and with his wide, sensuous mouth ever so slightly open, she felt a heady wave that had little to do with the wine.

“No,” she admitted. “It won’t be. It’s an indefinite posting.” And one of her choosing, though she didn’t say so. She knew he could sense it.

“Why?” he asked, yet again. Always why. She sighed in frustration.

“For once, do not concern yourself with why,” she said, more sharply than she intended. She softened her tone with a gentle look, a touch of her hand. He didn’t push further.

They ate, finished the bottle between them, and lay together in the quiet of the glade through a gauzy haze of alcohol, beneath the spreading branches of a grandfather oak and the dim light of the stars. As Dalia slipped into her trance of sleep, she warned herself that such things couldn’t--wouldn’t--last. And ruthlessly quashed the feeling of sadness that followed.

*

Halsin rose early and once he was gone, Dalia lay on the grass with her eyes open, feeling a rare malaise. The birds sang as sweetly ever, but somehow there was less music in their voices.

Later, she would look back and wonder if it was an omen.

She was bathing in the stream when a bellow echoed across the glade. It came from the heights of the ridge above, distant but unmistakable. Halsin’s booming voice, roughened with rage.

Without thought, she pulled her robe on and grabbed the ax from the wood chopping block outside the hut. Its grip was comforting in her hand as she sprinted barefoot into the brush and up the side of the long, wooded hill.

She slipped through the brambles, eschewing the winding deer path to cut straight through the forest to the sound of her lover’s cry.

Other voices joined in. Human voices. More screams and the sounds of battle chilled Dalia’s blood. A wolf bayed. Fear made her fly the last hundred yards, heedless of the tearing thorns or lashes of tree branches. She emerged into the wolf’s territory brandishing the ax above her head, ready for any foe, human or beast.

But the fight was already finished. Two hunters lay dead on earth soaked red with gore, eviscerated, and beside them, panting, were Halsin and Thorn, his lupine counterpart. Both with death in their eyes and blood on their faces. It dripped from Thorn’s muzzle and Halsin’s strong hands.

“What have you done?” she cried. Halsin’s wide eyes met her gaze; he was still in the grip of his blood frenzy.

Then she saw the den: the wolf Hakka and all of her pups, throats slit. For their fur, perhaps; or maybe simply for sport. Humans needed no greater justification to kill a wild thing. Bereft of life, the pups looked thin and insubstantial, little more than furry rags. Hakka’s sightless eyes rested on them even in death, the young she’d given her life protecting.

She whispered a quick prayer to Silvanus, to absorb their bodies back into the earth to seed new lives in this forest. But even as she spoke them, the words rang hollow.

“They were laughing, when I came upon them,” Halsin said. His voice was thick with hatred as he stared down at the two humans. These, too, Dalia commended to the Oakfather, though silently.

“You have done a truly stupid thing,” she said, not even trying to mollify her tone. She felt a fury rising in her to match the boy’s. Beside them, Thorn growled; she stilled him with an outstretched hand and he whimpered, sniffed the corpses of his mate and pups.

“Two fewer miserable poachers in the wood? Silvanus himself would praise me. I’ve eliminated a threat to nature.” And infuriatingly, the wood elf truly looked pleased with himself.

“And what happens now?” she asked, her voice dangerously low.

“Now the wood is peaceful once more.” A blackbird cautiously resumed its song in a nearby tree and Halsin raised his hand as though his point had been proven.

“And when these men’s village mount a search? Will they see justice in this scene? Or will they see an outrage that demands revenge?”

Halsin opened his mouth but she pushed on, “Who suffers then? Not you or I but Thorn and his pack. At best, they will be driven off from their home. And at worst every one of them will be hunted down.”

“I didn’t--”

But her anger was still building. She threw her ax into the earth beside her. “It will not end there. Without any wolves in this territory, the deer will proliferate. They will strain the resources of the forest to its breaking point and many more will needlessly die. It will take a century for nature to right itself, all for a moment of satisfaction, of righteous anger.”

She looked directly into his eyes. There was no remorse in them, though some doubt. “You’re a traitor to nature, not its defender. You are not one of us. I was wrong, to think I could teach you.”

Halsin’s hands became fists. He might well have broken and tried to hit her. But instead, he screamed a wordless howl of rage and despair that rang across the hillside, stilling the birdsong.

Dalia turned her back on him, her failed pupil, and on the pathos of the young wolf mourning, and walked slowly, stiffly back down to the glade.

She did not expect she would see him again in this life.

*

Time could mend any wound; Dalia had lived long enough to know the truth of that.

She went about her days in rote, knowing through wisdom hard-won that she would once again appreciate the sun’s warmth on her skin, the taste of a wholesome meal, the sound of the stream’s unending flow. But even as she tried to take heart in the inevitability of healing, a small voice insisted that she had lost everything. Again. That life was little more than an exercise in losing all that mattered, concluding with her own mortal end.

Those thoughts mostly came in the dusky evenings when she sat alone at the hearth (she could not bear to sit at the table where they had shared their meals) and the fire died to back ashes for lack of motivation to rekindle its flames.

If she had dreaded his coming to her door, begging her forgiveness, she need not have worried. For he did not come.

But a moon after the killings, she returned from a walk deep into the forest where she’d helped a colony of bees find a new home--the most mundane tasks gave the most pleasure, these days--and found other visitors in her glade.

Instead of striding over to greet them, she watched from behind the grandfather oak. They were five: all strong human men, well-armed. Though that didn’t necessarily mean trouble. The humans often went armed into the wood, fearful as they were of its denizens. Of nature’s power outstripping their own.

Her hut door was open and it was apparent they were waiting for someone inside. Heat rose in her at the thought of unseen hands rifling through her things.

Against her better judgment, Dalia stepped out from behind the tree, drawing herself to her full height.

“Why have you come to my glade? And why do you trespass in my abode?” She glared between them, doing her best to look intimidating but not an immediate threat. Their beards hid their faces and made them all look the same. Or perhaps they were related--all humans looked alike, to her, particularly the men.

“Two of our own went missing in this wood,” said the taller one with the grey beard. She pegged him as the leader; humans usually organized their social and political structures around seniority.

“They’re not in my hut,” she said coolly. The men glanced between one another, doubtful. “I’ve not cooked them for breakfast if that is your worry.”

“She has a witchy look about her,” said one of the younger, yellow-bearded ones, as though she were not present.

“I reckon she’s a hag in a fair disguise,” said another of the young men, looking her dead in the eye as he spoke. He made some gesture of religious protection.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. But she was already evaluating her combat options, weighing her chances. They were just looking for an excuse to attack, she could sense. But she had little chance against five of them--and more, perhaps, inside. They were skilled hunters with good weapons: spiked greatclubs, crossbows, a city-forged longsword.

The greybeard smiled a smile that didn’t reach his chilly blue eyes. Death was in them, and grievous violence. “Have you seen them, lass, or nay? We would like to know.”

Dalia struck first, for the slim advantage that surprise might grant her. Vines leapt from the earth to ensnare the two young hunters closest to her as she ducked behind a fallen tree for cover from the volley of arrows that followed.

They shouted to the men inside and her heart sank when three emerged from the hut. She would not survive a fight against eight, even with all her magic, even with the wood itself to aid her.

But nor would she surrender.

She took the shape of the wolf, fire burning in her marrow as her bones snapped and bent to the canine form. Her thoughts became simpler yet more exigent. The wolf mind was made for bloodshed.

Emboldened by their numbers, one of the young hunters was already sneaking around the edge of the fallen tree. She tore his throat away in a thrilling rip, the wolf relishing the sensation of hot blood gushing from the severed flesh in her mouth. Another she took with a swipe across the gut. A third managed to slash her hip with his sword before she downed him. And then an arrow caught her between the ribs and she collapsed into the grass, reverting to her elven form.

The pain was not so acute now and that was a mercy. But her horror--the horror born of a sentient imagination--was far worse as the remaining humans loomed over her.

It was not difficult to imagine what was on their minds. Torture, rape, death. Perhaps in that order.

As they argued with each other over some triviality, she struggled to crawl away but the greybeard hunter stopped her with a kick to the arrow sticking out of her side. She cried out as pain radiated through her body, nearly stealing her consciousness away from her.

The greybeard’s hateful face loomed over her again. “Tell me,” it said. “Where are they, witch?”

So they had decided she was a witch. The druid took a shuddering breath that sent shards of icy pain through her chest.

“Dead,” she said. Her words were watery from the blood that had begun to fill her lungs. “Not by my hand.” The greybeard snorted; he didn’t believe her.

“Where? I’ll give you a quick death.” His blue eyes looked earnest; so earnest, it could almost be true.

She told him about the bluebell hollow on the ridge, the sheltering briars. He nodded, satisfied. Then motioned to the other men. So it was to be rape first.

Dalia closed her eyes, searching for any final measure of fortitude or magic. But she was drained of everything, even resolve. The sky seemed to be growing dimmer, though she knew it to be only midday. She was dying, she recognized distantly. Along with her sorrow and dread of what was to come, she felt something like relief.

Then the bear entered the glade. It was no bear she recognized, not Sage or one of his kin that ranged the unpeopled southern reaches. It was a great bear, though, and towering more still for its rage; it blotted out the sun when it stood on its hind legs and let out a roar of fury. It swiped the skin from the face of the man on her back, tearing him from neck to navel, showering her in the warmth of his blood.

Weapons were useless against him. Gasping beneath the weighty corpse of the hunter, she watched as the bear gored and slashed his way through the remaining five hunters. The greybeard, last to die, foolishly begged the beast before succumbing to its snarling teeth, red-tipped as bloodied daggers.

There was something familiar in the set of the bear’s shoulders and when it turned to her, she could see it in his eyes.

“Halsin,” she said. Even speaking his name filled her body with relief. Peace.

The name summoned him back to himself. Her apprentice shifted back to his shape and ran over to her. “I can heal you,” he said, even though they both knew he couldn’t.

“One day,” she said, grasping the foresight that came to her, unbidden. “You will be a great healer. But not yet.”

His features twisted in grief. “I’ve failed you again, then.”

“Never,” she sighed. She was powerless to resist the shuddering cough that sent a rictus of pain through her dying body. “Nature claims us all back, eventually. Today is my day. I am ready.”

Halsin bent over her and wept. He made her as comfortable as he could and settled her on his lap next to the stream so she could listen to it as she faded away, still looking up at his face as she departed the mortal realm for one of spirit and air.

*

Her amber eyes became sightless and Halsin closed them for the last time with the brush of his hand. He felt an emptiness that seemed to be shared by the whole wood, which had gone silent save for the senselessly burbling stream.

He would bury her, in the coming days, beneath the grandfather oak that had so often sheltered them, to feed its roots with her blood and bone and magic.

And when he arrived in the Circle at Dancing Falls, some months later, no one would question his haunted eyes, his quiet fury, his knowledge and skill in the ways of the druids.

Halsin would be just another novice, albeit a precocious one who could already take a wild shape. A bear, whose rage returned with every transformation, bringing him back to the glade, to the locus of his greatest regret.

[apathetic-revenant]

k got more Weirdmageddon thoughts

(same disclaimer as before. no idea if this is relevant to anyone.)

this is the Stan and Ford edition.

obviously at the time everything goes down their relationship is not in a great place. all throughout Weirdmageddon Stan is pretty pissy at Ford and keeps bringing up how he bears a lot of responsibility for what happened and questioning how much use Ford is actually going to be in defeating Bill. he’s so angry that he’s still demanding gratitude from Ford even at an incredibly crucial moment that decides the fate of the world. he acts resentful of the attention and prioritizing Ford and how everyone is ignoring his role in bringing Weirdmageddon about in the first place, even though at that point prioritizing Ford is a matter of basic practicality since he’s the only one that has the knowledge to defeat Bill.

there are some layers here, I think. 

so here’s a thing: that I can recall, and that we see, between the initial conversation in A Tale of Two Stans and that moment in Weirdmageddon Part 3, Stan doesn’t push Ford for a ‘thank you’. obviously he’s not getting on real well with his brother during that time but he’s not hounding him for gratitude or apology. he acquiesces without argument when Ford says he’s throwing him out of the house at the end of the summer (yes, it’s Ford’s house, yes, Ford absolutely has the right to want it back, but Stan has nowhere else to go). he recognizes that Dipper and Ford are good for each other (at least in some ways) and lets them hang out under the caveat that Ford doesn’t get Dipper into trouble, which of course he does but that’s beside the point. Stan’s obviously got a lot of resentment towards Ford in the latter half of season 2 but it’s sort of quiet resentment. he’s not really trying to affect a change in Ford’s behavior towards him until that last moment.

so why does it all come to a head right then? could just be that it’s been building up for a while and ready to blow, and that’s obviously a very tense situation all around, and while I think that definitely had something to do with it I think also the events of Weirdmageddon really hit Stan in a sore point that was about more than just Ford being treated like the more important twin.

because from Stan’s perspective, Ford’s not just being treated like a hero and the guy who’s gonna save the day, etc, etc. he’s also being forgiven for his mistakes in a way that Stan is not, and never has been.

between the two of them, both Stan and Ford could be said to bear some responsibility for Weirdmageddon. Ford of course was the one who initially summoned Bill and built the portal, while Stan reactivated that portal to bring Ford back at great risk and cost. (of course, the person who’s actually responsible is Bill, but why put the blame where it rightfully belongs when we can have angsty family fun time.) they both made mistakes but they both had good(ish) reasons for that and they both tried to rectify them. but all that Ford will acknowledge to Stan is the mistake. that he, Stan, screwed up. now to be fair almost destroying the universe is a pretty big deal and I’d say Ford has justification for being a bit upset about Stan intentionally running that risk. but Ford doesn’t say “I understand why you did what you did but I wish you hadn’t because it was horribly dangerous”. he doesn’t say “I wish you hadn’t done what you did but I acknowledge that it would never have gotten to that point if I hadn’t also made mistakes.” he just says “you screwed up.” we know that Ford feels pretty horrible about his mistakes with Bill and he certainly suffered a lot for them, but he doesn’t communicate that to Stan.

then Weirdmageddon rolls around and once again, no one’s bringing up Ford’s role in it. granted Ford’s role in it isn’t exactly all that widely known, and also there’s no point in going on about it because the practical issue is that we need Ford to be alive and we can harangue him after the apocalypse is over, but from Stan’s perspective it must be hard not to see that as everyone glossing over Ford’s mistakes once again.

and that has got to be a sore point. I don’t think Stan’s resentment towards Ford really has all that much to do with Ford being the Smart twin or the Better twin. Stan has a really low opinion of himself and for a lot of his life he seems to pretty much accept that Ford is better than him. which is of course super unhealthy, but I don’t think it’s what drives that resentment. I think what bothers Stan most of all is that Ford is forgiven when Stan is not.

Stan made one very small mistake in a moment of anger and it cost him everything. he lost his whole family, his home, his future, his dreams, and had to live an absolutely miserable existence for ten years. his family wouldn’t forgive him that and even Ford wouldn’t forgive him that. and it’s worth pointing out that that mistake cost Stan way more than it cost anyone else; Ford didn’t get into his dream school but it doesn’t seem to have deterred him from doing what he wanted all that much, whereas Stan…well, you know what happened to Stan. but despite that Ford still doesn’t forgive Stan for what happened or even acknowledge that it was an honest mistake ten years later (although to be fair to Ford he was pretty preoccupied at the time). then Stan spends thirty years trying to bring Ford back and again, all he gets is more blame. when Stan wants Ford to thank him, I don’t think it’s just about wanting gratitude, wanting a “well done!” and a pat on the back, I think he wants Ford to just acknowledge that not everything he did was bad. that he screwed up but he also did something right. because that’s what Ford gets. Ford gets second chances but when Stan screws up no one will let him forget it.

this is, of course, an incomplete view of the situation on Stan’s part (then again, ‘an incomplete view of the situation’ could be the Pines family motto); like I said, he doesn’t know, at least at the time of Weirdmageddon, how much Ford has paid and is willing to pay for his mistakes. but I think it’s a view that has something to do with Stan’s attitude during Weirdmageddon, of why he’s so pessimistic about their chances with Ford’s plan because he knows that Ford can make mistakes and why does no one ever see that. and when it comes down to it he wants Ford to say thank you before he’ll take part in the plan because dammit all he’s ever been called, all he’s ever been allowed to be, is a screw-up, and now he’s literally part of a circle of chosen ones prophesied to save the world and he’s still being treated like nothing more than a screw-up and I think in that moment he’s saying, alright, you want me to be a part of this, then either I am worth something in which case you can bloody well acknowledge that for once, or I’m not in which case this plan is never going to work anyway so why are we bothering. 

(that is, of course, a terrible moment to bring that up. but you know what? I’ve snapped and stopped acting like a reasonable person from way less stress than the literal end of the world. so you know, I’m not sure I can entirely blame Stan (or Ford, for that matter) for flipping a gear at the wrong time after being in mortal peril and seeing horrific things and being beat up and exhausted for like a week.)

and you know, in a lot of ways, I think you could say the exact same thing about Ford, that his resentment comes from what he sees as Stan not owning up to his mistakes. when he calls Stan out for breaking his machine Stan basically shrugs that off and brings up something important to him. I wonder if things would have gone different if Stan hadn’t said the whole “hey, silver lining!” thing at that moment, if all he’d done was apologize sincerely. (note that I am not saying that that means what ultimately happens is Stan’s fault, just that he unintentionally exacerbated Ford’s anger right then.) Ford makes some big mistakes with Bill but he suffers a lot trying to undo them and then his brother just screws it up all over again and he wants Ford to be grateful? why can’t he admit that he did wrong by starting the portal again? 

both brothers make a lot of mistakes and they’re willing to do a lot to fix those mistakes but because of their terrible communication skills they never actually say “I’m willing to do a lot to fix my mistakes” so they just hate each other forever. 

and the thing is that their approaches here are kind of inverse. I think Ford thinks of his mistakes in a very personal way. like he screwed up, he trusted Bill, he was an idiot, and he beats himself up for that but he doesn’t really think of it in terms of like, how does that affect the people immediately around him. he thinks of it on a big scale-how he’s put, like, the entire universe in danger-but not in the sense of, I hurt these individual people. we see that with Stan but also kind of with Fiddleford and with the kids, especially Dipper. Ford’s self-centered not so much in like a “I genuinely think I’m the most important person ever” way, more in a way of genuinely being oblivious to the effect he has on people around him. Stan is the opposite: he’s got low self-esteem out the wazoo but he kind of just accepts that as a basic fact of the universe and carries on, he doesn’t like spend a lot of time crucifying himself for it if there’s something more important to do. but he’s sensitive to the people around him and how he’s affecting them (most of the time) and he’ll do things to try to fix that, even if not necessarily very well, but he doesn’t see the big picture as much which is why he risked so much to bring Ford back. you could say that in terms of recognizing their mistakes and their impacts on others, Ford is far-sighted and Stan is near-sighted. 

but I think that all comes to a head when Stan offers to get memory wiped to defeat Bill. because I think that’s the point when Ford realizes, really finally realizes, how far Stan is willing to go to fix things. up until then I don’t think he really got how low Stan’s self-esteem is, how much he’s willing to sacrifice. like we know that Stan sacrificed thirty years of his life to bring Ford back and we know that he was willing to fake his own death-he basically wiped out his own identity and figured well, it never did anyone any good anyway. but Ford could easily see that as Stan just wanting to take advantage of his brother’s good name and better position in life. we know Stan thinks of himself pretty lowly but without much perspective on that Ford could just think, he’d rather be a deadbeat than put any effort into making something of himself. on the surface Stan seems like he has an absolutely huge ego and Ford, being Ford and quite frankly terrible at reading people, could I think very easily buy into that, especially after forty years apart. (Headhunters is the perfect example of this; we see Stan seeming to just have the ultimate ridiculous ego trip over this wax statue of himself, and then later you find out about him and Ford and you realize…)

but in that moment? when Stan offers to swap? he knows. he knows that Stan is willing to make the ultimate self-sacrifice to save the day. he knows that Stan actually does think so little of himself that he considers the total loss of everything that makes him him to be no big deal. he knows that Stan is truly and utterly willing to go the utmost to fix his mistakes. but by that point there’s nothing he can do with that information except to effectively execute his own brother. 

and, at that point, they kind of swap perspectives. Ford is only seeing the small picture, the danger to the kids and Stan, and he’s willing to do something big and ridiculous and threatening to the whole world to prevent it. Stan sees the big picture, everything that’s at stake, and he knows he has to do something to fix that but ultimately his fix is on a pretty small scale: not a big prophecy, not a world-changing deal, just a short, simple con and the loss of one person. 

and afterwards? they both have new perspective. they both understand that when the chips are down both of them are truly willing to sacrifice everything. they both have a bit better understanding of the scale of their actions. Ford, especially, because not only did he gain perspective on what it’s like to lose a brother by your own hand, he gained perspective on Stan’s true character. so it’s significant that Ford is the one to reach out and try to fix things on a small scale, not a world-saving scale, not a cosmic scale, just a person-to-person scale. he validates Stan in the best way he can, he makes it clear that Stan is important, because not only did he not realize that but now he knows that Stan didn’t realize that either. 

what they end up doing is, I think, an important compromise between their two perspectives. they’re both acknowledging the things that are important to each other. Ford’s accepting the smaller scale of things, he’s not trying to be so important anymore, he still wants to carry on doing what he loves but he’s not trying to solve the fundamental secrets of the universe. he’s finally okay with the smaller perspective. and he acknowledges that while Stan’s dream might not be big in the way that his was it’s still important. and Stan is perfectly happy to let Ford nerd out as much as he wants as long as he doesn’t let it take over everything.

it took them almost seventy years but they got there in the end. 

[towardmyself]

told kate to only watch that david foster wallace movie if she wanted to get really mad and then i thought about it again for too long and it made me really mad or The Final 3% or The Other Terror

(TW suicide)

jesus christ, david and i mean that too yknow 

hanging from some stupid railing  leaving behind all your questions  all stuffed inside you  messy and bursting 

if you are the kind of ghost who can watch movies  don’t watch that one they made  with Jason Segel and Jesse Eisenberg Jesse spends the whole time asking  you stupid stupid questions   and Jason’s fine he played the part they gave him it’s just that what they gave him was the you that you didn’t choose i know you know what i mean  i saw it alone, as i do, in that town that always makes me particularly content and i left the theater hot with anger i walked around a lot that warm night  cursing the circle jerk of miserable dudes who think you some messiah  cause i mean at the end of it what is a messiah but justification  for certain behaviors 

they left out the really bad parts of you  but i bet you wouldn’t like that either  they left out the ugly the obsessive the dangerous  the fearful  all the adjectives associated with your claws with mine too left out the part about the marks  in everything we’ve both let go left out all the horrid that comes  with being so fucking devastated  and always trying to not be

i bet you’d like that episode of House where the dude comes to the hospital  with a gun, demanding answers  no one has given him  you’d see him breathe at the end, David hands cuffed behind him  (he didn’t kill anyone that day but almost) you’d see the way Greg looks at him both as hungry for answers as we are it would make you feel understood  and you’d hate yourself even more for it anyway David don’t watch that movie you’d find some way to come back  further confirming the messiah theory only to kill yourself again only  you’d be clearer this time jump off some skyscraper  right after making sure that in this ‘final’ manifesto  you tell them all, in all caps I AM NOT THE JUSTIFICATION FOR YOUR MISERY  I AM NOT THE REASON  YOU STOP TRYING TO BE BETTER DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA HOW HARD I TRIED TO BE BETTER YOU SELF RIGHTEOUS PISSBABIES  

some think you are the wise old fish they’re the least of my concern  some think you are the fish who asks or the water itself or the air above it or the air trapped within it any way you’re an answer  to something and god and i know how badly  you never wanted to be anyone’s  answer 

i mean jesus christ, David and i do fucking mean that in that stupid Fucking Movie they talk about the other terror Jason as you delivers that part with excruciating melodrama  it’s almost convincing too like Jason put 100% of himself  inside that monologue    but there’s none of that missing three like the tennis or the glee club or the catholicism   or the grad school  or any of the other ways you  tried to be full before  the rope  and the patio and the body stuffed with questions

anyway David i just want you to know i found a way to love the world  the way you wanted to love it with a real and honest “yes” every time i wonder if i do  and i gotta be honest, D i don’t know if it’s better that spine itching loneliness  is still here that mid chest ache  is still throbbing  and maybe it’s comforting to you  to know that the answer is  still a question  to know that the truth is still some kind of fever dream  to know that some girl  decided pretending to be good is just as good as being good but she still feels like a monster she still leaves claw marks  she still thinks of Diogenes  with his lamp in the daylight  looking for an honest man and  smiles, thinks of you  and everyone using you to justify  their hatred and disgust with everything and instead she smiles at the cashier she gives the asker what they seek when she can and it’s never enough  and it never will be  but jesus fucking christ, David and i mean that,  no one has any idea what you meant  by the water thing and  no one has any idea that that’s the point you look at the chaos everywhere and always and you call it something and you come up with an answer any answer  that makes this world livable  and you say it over and over  this too is water this too is love this too is hope this too is grace this too is joy this too is what i can give you and you hold onto it  as viciously as you can, David as viciously as anyone  can hold anything  and when the questions boil  under your skin  you cook pasta in them  you add broccoli  and butter and parmesan cheese and it is not enough it is never the hundred  there is always that other terror breathing hot on your neck and then, David, you laugh you turn away from the window  you laugh right at that  burning  you laugh  you laugh  you don’t let them make you  the reason for their apathy and then, you fucker, and then, David you live at least that’s what i would’ve told you at least  that’s what i tell myself at least  i will tear every one of those  pissbabies out of their romance with your misery i will not let them get away with  this seething self righteous angst at least  i will throw all of me back  into the building i promise  and jesus christ, david i mean that