Dr. Stanford Filbrick Pines, PhD (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mviw) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2017-04-18 11:04 pm
mviw) wrote in entrancelogs2017-04-18 11:04 pm
[OPEN] & [CLOSED] "Am I awake? Is it that time again? Wasn't it already then?"
Who: Ford & Stan; Ford & Fiddleford; Ford & YOU?
Where: VARIOUS PLACES
When: 4/18-19
Rating: Preemptive PG-13 for language and heavy themes (chiefly PTSD).
Summary: For the first time in his life, Stanford actually reaches out to people for help.
The Story:
OPEN TO ALL: THE LIBRARY
[There is little more comforting for Stanford than the unconditional embrace of knowledge, gently bound in books stored in tall shelves organized in orderly rows.
He's found a corner in the library, tried to settle there, but his mood directs him to restlessly wander the quiet aisles with his nose in the pages of a book. He glances up to watch for any obstacles in his path--wouldn't want to run into anyone or anything, of course.
Still, the knowledge so freely offered brings no actual warmth, nor does it truly guard against what worries him. As Ford wanders, his eyes scan the aisles and look weary; his appearance, generally ruffled.
One thought continues to make its presence known in his head, always drifting back from his conscious periphery like an unwelcome bit of dust: Bill is back. He's back, and although Ford hoped his absence would be permanent, he knew he wasn't lucky enough for that to be true. Bill's reentering into Wonderland still fell like a heavy blow--heavier than even Ford anticipated. He wonders why it's affecting him this way when this time he hadn't even been the victim.
He hadn't been hurt. Mettaton had done all the fighting.
What do YOU have to worry about? You're fine, you're unscathed. Why are you letting this drag you under?
Some questions can't be answered by reading hundreds of books, unfortunately.
Wandering the library, Ford is very much an old owl making the rounds among the trees of shelves. He tries in vain to find solace between numerous pages.]
CLOSED PROMPTS BELOW THE CUT...
FOR STAN:
[There had been a panicked call from Alphys and several distressing conversations following that. By the time Ford and Alphys had even really prepared anything to help Mettaton, the robot didn't even need help. Ford wondered if Stanley even saw the mess on the network.
Did it really matter?
Ford had already told his brother and his best friend about Bill being conspicuously absent from Wonderland. And now this. And Ford, trained in the art of revenge, had fallen so readily back into the chaotic fold.
He knocks on Stanley's door that evening rather unceremoniously.]
Stanley.
[... Funny how things turn out. Six months ago in Wonderland, he wouldn't have thought of coming to Stan for something like this. He would have collected himself into his figurative stronghold until Stan would inevitably pry him out again.
Now, Ford can hardly stand the thought of spending another moment alone, isolated.
What a luxury to have his brother as a constant, like when they were children.
He knocks again.]
Hey, Knucklehead.
[Stanford needs to hold himself together. He can't do it alone. Not this time.]
***
FOR FIDDLEFORD:
[It's been about a day since that incident with Mettaton. Ford has been awake since the day before. Quite restlessly, his feet carry him down the hall to another hopeful refuge come mid-morning--straight to Fiddleford's room. He isn't entirely sure what he plans to accomplish here, and he asks himself, Am I overthinking this? But he already knows the answer:
Probably.
Stanford knocks. He's so exhausted, he leans against the wall near the door frame.
Ford may as well be a blanket where someone has pulled enough of its thread until the solid shape unravels, leaving holes and an empty attempt at being what it's meant to be.
He tried burying himself in calculations for his theories on Wonderland--that only lasted him six hours. He tried working on more inventions, but every single design and idea he scrapped.
Maybe... it was at the point that he realized he'd lost pleasure in doing what he loved most that he'd laid his pen to temporary rest and went to see his colleague down the corridor.
Maybe he wanted a little gentle familiarity and a reminder to stay strong that wasn't abstract thought.]
... Fiddleford? It's Stanford...
Are you there?
Where: VARIOUS PLACES
When: 4/18-19
Rating: Preemptive PG-13 for language and heavy themes (chiefly PTSD).
Summary: For the first time in his life, Stanford actually reaches out to people for help.
The Story:
OPEN TO ALL: THE LIBRARY
[There is little more comforting for Stanford than the unconditional embrace of knowledge, gently bound in books stored in tall shelves organized in orderly rows.
He's found a corner in the library, tried to settle there, but his mood directs him to restlessly wander the quiet aisles with his nose in the pages of a book. He glances up to watch for any obstacles in his path--wouldn't want to run into anyone or anything, of course.
Still, the knowledge so freely offered brings no actual warmth, nor does it truly guard against what worries him. As Ford wanders, his eyes scan the aisles and look weary; his appearance, generally ruffled.
One thought continues to make its presence known in his head, always drifting back from his conscious periphery like an unwelcome bit of dust: Bill is back. He's back, and although Ford hoped his absence would be permanent, he knew he wasn't lucky enough for that to be true. Bill's reentering into Wonderland still fell like a heavy blow--heavier than even Ford anticipated. He wonders why it's affecting him this way when this time he hadn't even been the victim.
He hadn't been hurt. Mettaton had done all the fighting.
What do YOU have to worry about? You're fine, you're unscathed. Why are you letting this drag you under?
Some questions can't be answered by reading hundreds of books, unfortunately.
Wandering the library, Ford is very much an old owl making the rounds among the trees of shelves. He tries in vain to find solace between numerous pages.]
CLOSED PROMPTS BELOW THE CUT...
FOR STAN:
[There had been a panicked call from Alphys and several distressing conversations following that. By the time Ford and Alphys had even really prepared anything to help Mettaton, the robot didn't even need help. Ford wondered if Stanley even saw the mess on the network.
Did it really matter?
Ford had already told his brother and his best friend about Bill being conspicuously absent from Wonderland. And now this. And Ford, trained in the art of revenge, had fallen so readily back into the chaotic fold.
He knocks on Stanley's door that evening rather unceremoniously.]
Stanley.
[... Funny how things turn out. Six months ago in Wonderland, he wouldn't have thought of coming to Stan for something like this. He would have collected himself into his figurative stronghold until Stan would inevitably pry him out again.
Now, Ford can hardly stand the thought of spending another moment alone, isolated.
What a luxury to have his brother as a constant, like when they were children.
He knocks again.]
Hey, Knucklehead.
[Stanford needs to hold himself together. He can't do it alone. Not this time.]
***
FOR FIDDLEFORD:
[It's been about a day since that incident with Mettaton. Ford has been awake since the day before. Quite restlessly, his feet carry him down the hall to another hopeful refuge come mid-morning--straight to Fiddleford's room. He isn't entirely sure what he plans to accomplish here, and he asks himself, Am I overthinking this? But he already knows the answer:
Probably.
Stanford knocks. He's so exhausted, he leans against the wall near the door frame.
Ford may as well be a blanket where someone has pulled enough of its thread until the solid shape unravels, leaving holes and an empty attempt at being what it's meant to be.
He tried burying himself in calculations for his theories on Wonderland--that only lasted him six hours. He tried working on more inventions, but every single design and idea he scrapped.
Maybe... it was at the point that he realized he'd lost pleasure in doing what he loved most that he'd laid his pen to temporary rest and went to see his colleague down the corridor.
Maybe he wanted a little gentle familiarity and a reminder to stay strong that wasn't abstract thought.]
... Fiddleford? It's Stanford...
Are you there?
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