Chapter Text
When his father had demanded Stan come with him, he'd expected the worst. The feeling of dread had grown when he'd forbid Ford from coming with them, pointing his brother to the stairs. He'd exchanged looks with his brother and knew they were both thinking the same thing: what had Stan done now? The thought followed him to his father's car, anxiety cranked up when an old shoebox was placed in his lap.
His grades were in the toilet as usual, barely passing thanks to copying Ford's homework. He'd stolen a few candy bars from the local store but he was sure no one had seen him. He'd long since broken his last pair of glasses so it couldn't be that and it wasn't like he could really break his braces, not for lack of effort on Crampelter's part though. Maybe old man Samson had finally figured out that he'd been filching tools and stuff to fix the boat from his beat down old hardware store? Oh Moses, was that it?
His fingers tighten on the edges of the shoebox as they drive to park in a sandy parking lot on the beach; he can count the steps to where the Stan O War is sunk into the sand. Oh god, it was finally going to happen. Their dad was going to destroy their boat and they'd never get out of here. Shit, why had he stolen those tools? Shit shit shit.
“Stanley, there's a reason I brought you here.” His dad's deadpan voice cuts through his thoughts. He grips the steering wheel, the sunbaked leather giving out a muffled creak. “You're fourteen now and it's time you start acting like a man. That's why we're here.” And with that he's getting out of the car.
Stan gets out too, hugging the shoebox to his chest; whatever is in it feels heavy. “Is this about my bar mitzvah again?” He knows his dad was mad about the Groucho glasses but he'd still passed. Technically. And with very little cheating, thank you very much; just the occasional look at Ford who'd been mouthing the words. “I told Rabbi Bachman I was sorry.”
He can see a muscle twitch in his dad's cheek. “No. Give me the box.” He opens it once it's in his hands and sets it on the hood of the car. “This stays under the counter at all times; it's not a toy for you to show off to your little friends, you hear me?”
Stan doesn't have friends to show things off to, aside from Ford of course. But he doesn't correct him, especially when he finally sees what's sitting in the bottom of the box. It looks like a pistol from the westerns Ma likes to watch with a box of bullets next to it. Stan swallows, something heavy and wriggling climbing up the back of his throat. “Dad?”
His father picks the gun up and puts it in Stan's hands like it's just something one does. “My dad taught me how to shoot when I was your age and I taught Sherman how when he was your age. Now it's your turn to learn.” He taps the chamber, “We’re not leaving here until you are a decent shot.”
It's heavy and the metal is cold, it nearly slips in his sweat-slick hands. Stan doesn't like the weight of it; all he can picture is the way the cowboys fell from their horses with a bang and a puff of smoke. He knows they got up when the filming stopped but in the movies they’re dead. “Sh-shouldn't Ford be here too then?” Maybe he can postpone this forever. At the moment he can't think of anything he wants less than to be shooting a gun alone with his dad.
“This isn't about Ford. Your brother is brilliant but he can't even throw a punch, Stan. He's better off focusing on something important he can actually do. This is a man's weapon.” He grabs the back of Stan's neck with one hand and scoops up the box of bullets with the other. He guides them just a fair distance from where the parking lot ends and points to a mostly broken wooden fence that is supposed to mark the end of the asphalt and the start of the sand, though the sand has long blown past it. “Aim for the middle post and pull the trigger.”
It takes effort to not let the gun shake as he steps up, carefully aiming the gun towards said post. There’s a bump at the end of the barrel, is that what he’s supposed to aim with? He guesses so and lines it up with the top of the post. The trigger is firmer than he imagined it would be and it seems to fight him when he pulls it.
There’s no puff of smoke but there’s definitely a bang, so much louder than Stan was expecting and it nearly makes him drop the gun when it jerks in his grip. He fumbles and hugs it to his chest on habit. “Shit!” he yells.
He flinches when his father’s palm finds the back of his head with an audible smack.
His dad grunts, “Aim again and don’t drop it this time.”
He hates the weight of the gun in his hand and his ears are ringing slightly from the bang. “Dad, I don’t—”
“Do what I said, Stanley. We’re not leaving until you hit that post.” He says it with the finality he always uses to threaten them and Stan knows that he’ll be standing here until dawn if he doesn’t do what he’s told.
BANG
Miss.
BANG
Miss.
BANG
He clips the very top of the post three to the left of the middle with that one and lets his hands fall in front of him. The ringing in his ears is louder and his hand is starting to ache a bit from how the trigger resists being pulled. Frustration is bubbling up to fight the unease of the whole situation. “Dad, c’mon, do I have to do this?”
His father has taken an unimpressed stance with his arms crossed over his chest as he watched his youngest fail to make a single shot. “Yes. Aim again.”
“Dad, I don’t want to do this.” He tries with a huff.
“Aim again, Stanley. That’s an order.”
Stan grits his teeth and tightens his hold on the gun if just so he doesn’t throw it like he wants to. Instead he lifts it back up once more and tries to aim to the right since his one hit was so far to the left. He pulls the trigger and this one hits two to the left, a little further down but still not the target. He takes another shot and hits that same post, the wood splintering and cracking from the second bullet.
His dad lets out a bland sort of noise and extends the box of bullets to Stan. “Reload and do it again.”
“What’s the point? Just add this as another thing I’m bad at!” he tries to shove the box back to his dad. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to learn how to shoot. “I don’t like it and I’m not gonna get it so let’s just go home!” it feels like he keeps getting called on to give an answer he doesn’t have just so the rest of the class can snicker at him.
“Stanley, I gave you an order.” There’s a dangerous tone creeping into his father’s voice.
Stan’s face burns, heat digging into his cheeks and the back of his neck. “Why are you even doing this? Who cares if I know how to shoot? I’m not even allowed in the shop half the time so what does it matter if there’s a gun in there?”
There's a hesitation, an awkward stretch of silence where Stan is almost entirely sure he’s going to get his hide tanned, and then his father reaches a hand towards him and he clenches his eyes shut for the blow. Instead his father’s hand closes on Stan's shoulder. “Listen, Stanley. You're...hell, you're a screw-up.” He looks up but his dad is impossible to read, though he at least doesn’t seem angry. “Most of the time it seems like all you can do is lie and leech off those around you. The direction you're going, you're not going to make anything of yourself.”
The words are nothing new but they still dig in, little barbs that drag Stan's shoulders down. “Thanks, Dad.” He bites out as his only defense. He can't punch those words away, not like what people say about Ford. “I’m a good-for-nothing, I know.”
“Let me finish.” The hand on his shoulder cuffs him on the side of the head. “You're not good at much but you are good at fighting and I know you care about this family. No matter what, you’re still a Pines. That's what this gun is for: protecting our family. So that's why you have to learn this. So I can trust you to keep your mother and brother safe if I'm not around. You understand that?”
His gaze goes back down to the gun in his hand then to the splintered post then back to his father. The idea of actually shooting anyone twists his stomach but the knot eases just a bit if he adds his ma or Ford to the equation. “Dad, I can just use my boxing—”
His dad holds up a hand. “Sometimes you can’t fix things with a punch or a pretty word, Stanley. Sherman is out of the house and I’m getting older. Ford’s smart but he’s not a fighter.” he takes the gun from Stan’s hands, effortlessly popping the barrel out and slotting bullets into the chambers. He spins the barrel and puts it back in place with a snap of his wrist. It’s held out to Stan then, his father frowning. “Can I trust you to be a Pines man and protect them? Because if not then there’s no point in you coming back home with me.”
Stan stares at the gun for a long moment before nodding. “Okay. Yeah. You can trust me, Dad.” He takes the gun and takes aim once more. He’ll get some knuckledusters, like the gangsters in the movies. He’ll get better at lying. He knows he can protect everyone with that but if he has to, he can shoot. If his dad trusts him to be the protector, Stan can do that. He never wants a gun to be the answer but he’ll do it. For Ma, for Ford, for Dad.
BANG
Miss.
“Aim again.”