The only semblance of relief came one day when the two of them had been at a port gathering supplies. Stan had wandered off on his own, promising that he’d return with supplies in hand at six sharp. Five hours of panic and imagined doomsday scenarios later had Ford finding Stan holed up in a bar somewhere, laughing amongst foreign cigar smoke and heavily accented grumblings as he threw down yet another perfect hand of poker.
Ford had been livid and Stan’s admittedly impressive pile of winnings was doing little to console him. The two packed up and were out the door quickly, foreign jeers painting the picture as a lover’s spat only adding to Ford’s ire. The ensuing lecture had been harsh, making short work of Stan’s grumbled excuses and indignence as Ford laid out every possible danger. It finally ended in Ford jabbing a finger into Stan’s chest, growling out “So help me, if we were still kids—“
He stopped. There was a tense, heavy silence.
“What?” Stan finally broke it with a growl. “You gonna finish your sentence, tough guy?”
Ford swallowed. He took a deep breath, shaking his head, then fixed Stan with a glare. “Be more careful, Stanley, or so help me you will regret it.”
The response was a confusing mixture, his brother abruptly going ramrod straight, his breath catching… then he shook his head as well, hands clenching into fists. “You’re not the goddamn captain, asshole. You ain’t the boss of me.”
Ford had simply glared at him in such a way that Stan’s voice actually faltered a bit at the end. Then the author scowled, turning and stomping toward the deck. “I suppose you’re right,” He muttered.
The door shut on the conversation but of course the pressure remained.
Because everyone loves some Stancest spanking drama, right? No, just me? Oh well.