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Stan fishes another can out of the case at his feet and sticks it between his thighs, unopened. He leans back into the worn couch and takes in a deep breath of crisp autumn air, ripe with the sweet smell of fallen leaves, then lets it all out in a satisfied sigh.
The moment stretches on, endless and perfect. A chilly breeze rustles through the trees, warning of the winter to come, but the sun shining down out of the wide blue sky warms the air enough to keep it comfortable. The can wedged between his legs sits cool and patient, waiting for him to open it. He's worked up a nice buzz, the kind that makes everything go soft and stretchy and pleasant while he's sitting but will probably have him stumbling when he stands up. And for once, for the very first time in longer than bears thinking about, there's nothing else to be done, no impossible task sitting on his shoulders, no running stopwatch in the back of his mind counting down every wasted second he could be – should be – spending in the basement working to fix his mistake and bring his brother back -
- because his brother is right here beside him, sipping his own can of cheap beer and staring out into the woods looking distant.
They aren't competing, exactly, but Stan takes a peek over at Ford's collection of empties anyway just to see how he's measuring up. They've worked their way through about half the case, more or less evenly. Ford's arranged his into a cube, all lined up and neat, while Stan's are bunched into an unorganized crowd on the other side of his feet.
“Nerd,” Stan says fondly under his breath. He watches the awareness that he'd spoken slowly come over Ford's face – a drawing in of the brows, a blink, a twitch of the mouth, and then a little shake of the head as Ford's mind comes back from wherever it had been.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, it's nice out, isn't it?” Stan picks up his newest can and pops it open, holding it out for a toast.
Ford raises his eyebrows skeptically, but taps his can against Stan's. They drink at the same time. “It is lovely,” Ford says once he's finished, leaning forward to carefully stack the empty can on top of the nearest corner of his cube. “Not even the infinite wonders of the multiverse can compare to the simple beauty of a central Oregon autumn. Although,” he adds thoughtfully, “the star-showers off the moon of Sarcopia IV did come close, and -”
Stan groans theatrically, sliding down in his seat. “Yeah, yeah, you've seen wonders the likes of which mortal minds cannot fathom, blah blah – the hell is a star-shower, anyway?”
“Well!” Ford says, straightening up, in that voice of his that suggests the only thing saving Stan from sitting through a fifteen minute slideshow on the subject is the fact that there isn't a projector on the back porch. “The name is somewhat inaccurate, as is the case with many natural phenomena first observed thousands of years ago and evaluated through a more primitive understanding of the world -”
God, Stan has missed this. He sags back into the couch and drinks and lets the wave of his brother's words wash over him, nodding and interjecting the occasional mmhm or yeah? where needed. Even after forty years apart, the rhythm of Ford's lecturing is still familiar enough he only has to half listen to do that.
The sun has sunk out of sight behind the trees, the sky gone all pale dusky purple straight above and rich burgundy at the edges of the horizon. The shadows of the trees reach like huge fingers across the clearing. With the sun gone, the chill in the air is much more pronounced.
There's one beer left in the case. Stan snatches it before Ford can. Ford isn't paying attention, but it's the principle of the thing. The cheap brew tastes all the better for being flavored with triumph.
“Should probably head in,” Stan remarks, though he makes no move to get up.
“Mm,” Ford says absently. Then, after a moment of silence, he turns and fixes Stan with an intent look, hands folded together under his chin. The fading twilight turns his face grey, deepens every line and wrinkle, makes his eyes into pools of shadow. “Stanley?”
“...Yeah?” A thread of nervousness works its way into Stan's guts. Whatever Ford's about to say, he looks serious about it, and when Ford gets that look it's even odds whether or not it'll be something Stan has any desire to hear. Right at that moment, he can't think of anything serious he wants to deal with. Mostly he wants to finish his beer, go inside, take a piss, and spend the rest of the night watching bad television made hilarious by his blood alcohol level.
“Do you remember -” and Stan goes tense, because whatever it is, he might not, and he's gone this whole week without forgetting anything bigger than where he'd kicked his slippers off the night before - “Ma's egg salad recipe?”
Stan opens his mouth. Stan closes his mouth and turns that sentence over in his head to make sure he'd heard it correctly. Just to make sure, he sticks a finger into his ear and makes a show of cleaning it out. “What?”
“Ma's egg salad,” Ford says again, just as intense as the first time. “Do you remember how she made it?”
Stan can't help it. All that built up tension has to go somewhere, and it erupts out of him in the form of disbelieving laughter. He bends double over his lap, head resting in one palm, shaking with it until finally it peters off. When he looks back up, Ford is wearing a look of affronted dignity that makes Stan think of nothing so much as a cat that just very publicly flubbed a jump. That provokes another fit of giggling.
“Yeah,” he says, finally, once he's gotten control of himself. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure I do.” There are things missing still, Stan knows. Some of them he can feel, blanks in places blanks should not be, but other times he only realizes he's forgotten something when it comes back to him.
Ma's egg salad, somehow, still seems to be there. Just thinking about it brings up a flash of remembered sensation, not one single memory so much as every memory rolled into one – standing on the tiled kitchen floor in his sock feet, the counter with the Formica peeling up at the corners and his Ma standing next to him, smelling like cigarettes and lavender perfume, all her golden bracelets clacking together and glinting in the light every time her arms moved, watching the eggs roll around in the pan and peeling the shells off once they'd boiled, putting in an extra spoonful of paprika while her back was turned – she'd made it for just about every occasion, birthdays and holidays and anniversaries and just when she felt like it, and ever since he'd been old enough to fetch things she'd had him in the kitchen beside her helping and learning.
“Why d'you ask?”
“Obviously,” Ford says stiffly, “because I want to eat it.” More wistfully, he goes on, “No one in the multiverse knows how to make a good egg salad. Believe me, I've looked. Mayonnaise isn't nearly as universal a constant as you would believe, and neither are what sort of eggs people habitually eat -”
“Okay,” Stan says, holding up a hand, “don't really want to hear about the gross alien shit you've had to eat. I get it. You want some good old fashioned earth egg salad, buddy? I will make you the fuck out of some egg salad, come on.”
So saying, he stands, taking a moment to let the world stabilize itself around him. Ford rises and – without visible difficulty, the asshole – strides to the door ahead of him, boots clumping against the wooden porch. Stan follows after him, trying to make each cautious heavy step seem deliberate rather than an attempt to keep from staggering.
“Do you have real mayonnaise?” Ford asks on their way to the kitchen, in a tone that suggests he isn't hopeful about the prospects.
“'F course.” Stan is less sure than he lets on, but while he would – and does, with some frequency – swear up and down that there's no difference between generic and name brand in 99% of cases, there are some things a man simply cannot compromise on. “What do you – what kinda – who do you think I am, Ford, honestly? I'm hurt. Next you're gonna be asking if I've got real eggs.”
There's a period of thoughtful silence, and then Ford asks, “Do they have artificially manufactured eggs in this dimension? Because on the planet Xeres in Dimension 76^C -”
“No, we just have regular eggs from regular chickens. Shut up and get me the eggs and the mayo from the fridge. And uh -” Stan squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember - “the mustard, and – is there an onion in there? Get me out an onion if there's an onion in there. Lemon juice?”
“There's no lemon juice,” Ford informs him. “There's...well, I'm not sure what else this could have been, so I suspect it used to be an onion, but you should probably just chop a new one.” He backs out of the fridge and turns, holding up a baggie full of a chunky liquid in which float strips of what, indeed, had probably once been onion.
Stan coughs into his fist. “Yeah, uh, I'll just – yeah. New onion.”
He bustles around the kitchen, dipping first into the spice cabinet – paprika, salt, pepper, and dill – and then looking unsuccessfully for the onions. First he tries several successive ground-floor cabinets, and then, after riding out the dizzying head rush from all the bending and straightening back up, the oven. That's more muscle memory than anything, but it works – inside are five potatoes and two round white onions. Stan stares at these for a moment, wondering just what thought process led his past self to choose the oven, of all things, as tuber and bulb storage, then shrugs and grabs an onion.
All of that gets dumped onto the table next to the ingredients Ford has set out – neatly arranged as always, the mayonnaise and mustard flanking the carton of eggs. The onion rolls nearly to the edge of the table, coming to a wobbling stop just short.
“Boil the eggs for me while I get this onion, would ya?”
Ford clears his throat in a way he probably thinks is diplomatic. “Are you sure you should be handling sharp objects right now?”
Stan pauses in the act of pulling a knife from the block, and frowns across the kitchen at his brother. “What? What're you trying to say?”
“It's just that you are, ah, somewhat inebriated -”
“I have a couple beers and you think I can't use a knife?” Stan turns and plants his fists against his hips, knife clutched in one hand. “Seriously? What are you, my mom?”
“A couple – there were thirty-two in that case, Stanley -”
“Yeah, and you had half of 'em, so what makes you more qualified, huh?” They stare each other down across the table. Ford opens his mouth, one finger sharply upraised, then closes it again, brows drawing thunderously in as he tries to come up with a reason that isn't because I drink more than you. Stan regrets having said anything, because they've been dancing around that conversation since Ford came back and he absolutely doesn't want to have it right now.
“That's what I thought,” Stan says before Ford can dredge anything up, before the silence can stretch out too awkwardly long. “Put the damn eggs on the damn stove and then you can watch me chop, okay, and if I cut a finger off you can say I told you so all the way to the hospital, alright?”
Ford accepts this with ill grace and goes to sulkily boil the eggs. Stan turns his attention to the onion.
Cutting it proves to be slightly more difficult than he'd anticipated. The damn thing just keeps moving under his hands, and yes, okay, so his coordination is a little off – that doesn't mean anything. He'll be damned if he's going to ask Ford for help. It's a point of pride now, especially when Ford comes to hover pointedly at his elbow and watch him fumble. Just because Ford can walk in a straight line and still use five-dollar words doesn't mean he's any less drunk - although it does occur to Stan that if either of them has to lose a finger, Ford's the one with extras.
He gets the onion minced without incident, shooting Ford a smug look as he gathers the tiny little onion chunks into an untidy pile. By then the eggs are ready to be peeled, and that they can do together. It becomes a contest to see who can get theirs peeled faster, which ends when Stan fumbles his right onto the floor. It bounces and rolls under the oven, forcing Stan to get down onto his hands and creaking knees to retrieve it.
He wipes it off on his shirt, earning a disgusted exclamation from Ford. Rolling his eyes, he goes to rinse it off, and by the time he comes back Ford's got the rest of them done. To make up for the earlier argument, he lets Ford chop the eggs. This Ford does with geometrical precision and perfectly steady hands, just to show off, Stan is sure.
“Alright,” Stan says, and cracks his knuckles showily. “Watch the master work.” He gathers the eggs and onion mince into the bowl, picks up the jar of mayonnaise, and then pauses and puts it down, because somehow he managed to forget to get a spoon. “Uh – get me a spoon, would ya, Sixer?”
“Yes, master,” Ford says, and goes to fetch a mixing spoon, which he presents with a sardonic flourish. “Are you going to use any measurements?”
Stan snatches it out of his hand. “Egg salad is an art. All's I need is my ingredients and my instuition. Intuition. Instinct. One of those.”
“Instuition,” Ford repeats solemnly. “I see.”
Stan hits him with the spoon. “Keep that up, see who ever makes you egg salad again.”
He picks the mayonnaise back up and squints dramatically between it and the bowl, then scoops half of it out onto the eggs. The wet squishing sounds it makes when he stirs it in make Ford pull a face, so of course what can he do but stir as slowly as possible to draw it out? Finally, though, it's as mixed as it's going to get.
“And now,” Stan booms in his best TV announcer voice, putting the spoon down and picking up the spices, “the master chef puts the final touches on his creation – a pinch of pepper – a sprinkle of salt – a dash of dill – and the ultimate finisher – paprika!” A cloud of red dust flies up into his face when he shakes in the paprika, and he only narrowly manages to avoid sneezing into the egg salad. He tucks the bowl under his arm and stirs the spices in with fervor, then drops the bowl onto the center of the table and steps back, arms spread. “And voila! I present to you – the most perfect egg salad ever made by man! Feel free to applaud.”
Ford offers a single dry clap.”Marvelous job, Stanley. Very...artistic. Now I believe we just need the bread?”
They both glance at the table, conspicuously free of bread. Stan begins scanning the counter and shelves, with no luck. Ford opens every cupboard he can find, with similar results. He even opens the fridge again, just to make sure. Out of sheer desperation, Stan looks in the oven, but finds only potatoes and the lone remaining onion.
“How do you not have bread?” Ford asks, feeling around on top of the fridge.
“I have bread!” Stan snaps. “Of course I have bread. Who doesn't keep bread in their kitchen? I had a sandwich yesterday, probably.” He cannot, at this exact moment, remember what he ate yesterday, but there were surely carbs involved.
There isn't any bread in the cupboards, even in the very back of the lower ones that Stan hardly ever uses. There is no bread on the counter, no bread on top of or inside of the fridge, no bread in the freezer, and no bread hiding behind anything else.
“Okay,” Stan says finally, after he's circled the kitchen twice and looked everywhere they've already looked. “So I'm out of bread. That's fine. We don't need bread. We just need something that's like bread. What about crackers? I'm sure I've got crackers.”
He does not have crackers, either. Nor does he have any chips, except for one-third of a bag of ancient barbeque potato chips, which they unanimously decide is completely unsuitable for the task at hand. Stan is divided equally between suggesting they just eat the damn egg salad out of the bowl and trying to figure out if he can make bread, when his third useless peek into the refrigerator turns up a half-empty package of tortillas. He grabs them and turns, thrusting them towards Ford with a triumphant laugh.
Ford is not as impressed as Stan feels like he should be. “You're suggesting, what, we have egg salad burritos?”
“Sure! 'S practically a breakfast burrito, people eat those all the time. Totally normal food thing.” Stan slaps the tortillas onto the table. “Come on, I know you've eaten weirder shit. You wanna sit here eating it with a spoon instead?”
“Well, no,” Ford admits, “that's a level to which I'm not yet willing to sink, no. Fine, alright.”
Fifteen minutes later, Soos walks in on the two of them discovering the logistical challenges of eating an egg salad burrito when neither of you is sober enough to entirely remember how to fold a burrito.
“Ford's fault,” Stan mumbles, mouth full, dribbling egg salad down his chin. “Want some?”